Cole had been ordered to go upstairs, so… Being who he was he obeyed the command. He grabbed a towel from the banister, more than likely not his towel but that didn’t seem to matter to him at the time. He grabbed a hold of it having peeled his sweaty vest from his back and dropped that in a puddle in his wake. The shower was running; Roland had left the door a whisper of a fraction open so the steam slithered through the gap.
Cole calmly tossed the towel over his shoulder and thought about what he was about to do for a good few minutes before leaning up against the door and letting it open under his weight.
Mauricio realised that he’d been holding his breath. It was, beautiful. There was no other word for it. The way the sun glinted from the tiny crystals of snow, and refracted through the long, fragile spines of ice that hung from the generous eaves of the ski-lodge, the deep valleys and the sweeping, snow covered hillsides edged by proud dark arrowhead pines- it was completely mind blowing as views went. From the minute that Mau had opened the envelope containing the tickets, at the end of a particularly sumptuous home cooked meal courtesy of his boyfriend (not the cook… for once), it had literally been a whirlwind of excitement and romantic gestures that had escalated to the point of overwhelming.
Was he pacing? He was pacing wasn’t he, the leather soles of his shoes clicked brightly against the wood flooring of the hallway as he dodged various people bustling around him carrying trays of food, and boxes of clinking wine bottles. Nerve wracking just didn’t cut it. Had he over planned? Had he forgotten anything? Derren’s mind reeled, literally spiralled out of control as he attempted to keep up with his PA rattling off messages from her notepad as she, herself, tried to keep up with Derren’s feverish marching. He patted his breast pocket, his phone pinched between the point of his shoulder and the shell of his ear:
“No Kirsten, I said green… Green on the gate, green and white on the tables…” Derren literally face palmed. His palm impacting his nose, squashing it flat and then dragging its path over his features accompanied by that hollow growl of a sigh.
Mirrored glass- you’re not supposed to actually know people are watching you through it but there is this odd, cold sheen of a feeling pricking away against the tensed musculature of your shoulders and a weird twinge of nerves every time you go to make an incision. In some ways he wished that they’d just flick the switch so it became two way- but the college consistently insisted that Emmett and his colleagues worked in the manner in which they normally would with a cadaver, and indeed through the whole necroscopy procedure. Ok, an ancient and very grand word for something that was quite frankly deemed by some to be a career path that would bring even the strongest of men to their knees. Well, to look at Em you’d think he’d flake out, but really? Not even the most putrid contents of an incised cyst could turn his stomach. No matter how closely resembling of cottage cheese the contents, or how green and dissolving the tissues. So, with the beady eyes of over forty students locked onto his every miniscule movement, and the heat from several bright mobile halogen lamps drawing sweat across his brow, Emmett studiously ignored the faint scribbling of pens against clipboards and just… got on. Natural. Normal. Habitual. Like clockwork.
An invariable hiss of white noise raged through the otherwise still of evening. Even the warm, orange light cast from streetlamps that flickered with uncertainty barely reached through the sheets of ice cold water that fell and rebounded once colliding with the bitumen. The drains sung with running water, the curbs drowned beneath a silt laden rush of effluent. The rain was relentless. The sky held every colour of a fresh bruise, dropping frigid drop after drop to slam against already sodden, goose pimpled skin.
Saturated; he was soaked through, the grey of his t-shirt clung, near transparent to the broad expanse of hunched shoulders. His jeans darkened a shade with water that dripped steadily from the hems and soaked into the tops of sodden shoes. Nonetheless he perched, stooped against the onslaught of downpour, propped by the cold and unforgiving bonnet of his car.
“…what do you want me to say, Hm?”
The crackle of Drew’s deep, resonating baritone was low, weary to its end. His words were undeniably spoken softly around the heel of a hand. The formation of calloused fingertips cradled a deeply furrowed brow. Somehow, despite all that… it was menacing, and uncharacteristic. This Drew was entirely alien. Something that Joanna hadn’t seen for a…very long time. It made the woman flinch subtly in her stance.
Drew watched as she wrung her hands over and over, and rubbed her arm from wrist to elbow nervously as she eyed the back of the sofa. It was obvious, blatantly so- Drew couldn’t look at her, that he’d turned his back on her the minute he’d walked into the lounge to find Sophie cuddled up with Jared on the sofa. They were snuggled under Jared’s crocheted blanket in front of a Disney film, both sleeping peacefully despite the din coming from upstairs. His whole form seemed to stiffen to marble, with the broad expanse of his shoulders and back providing a formidable barrier to any form of conversation that may materialize.