Drowsiness was quickly creeping up on Stanley’s overworked mind, the bread dough that he was kneading summoned a wall - a mental block, if you will - to keep his racing thoughts from calming themselves (it was practically polar to the experiences of others that he’d heard of). Work had ended hours ago, he wasn’t even in the bakery, and yet all that he could think of to do was to bake more. Perhaps it was the pressure of being one of the more largely acknowledged hunters of Villeneuve after the tragic passing of Gaston - a much more taxing assignment than was generally acknowledged - or, more likely, it could’ve been the persistent nagging from any girl that he spared a glance towards to consider some sort of relationship with them. Of course, he wasn’t able to just flat out deny their approaches. The suspicion in an action like that could cause a brand new influx of rumours for him to deal with, which he was definitely not prepared for nor would he be able to handle alone.
“Shit,” Stanley pounded his fist into the lump of dough and growled; he was well aware that Lefou was dozing in the room adjacent (it was, after all, Lefou’s home), but the thought of any of his ministrations being jarring enough to draw someone from a slumber hadn’t crossed his mind until he felt pressure along his back. From behind, Lefou was leaning on him, slinking his arms around Stanley’s gently shaking frame as a gesture of comfort. Accompanied by a clenched jaw, the taller of the two men let loose a sigh in frustration, though it had less flame than it would’ve without Lefou’s soothing murmurs. An affectionate hand had chastely slid from his waist and towards his arms, and then even further towards the (withdrawn) fist that had been used to abuse what was left of the bread dough - there, expert fingers traced over the tiny, white scars that’d been left from years of miscalculated swings of the fist and self-defence.
It was relaxing, almost, which was a bit surprising to Stanley. He typically shied away at any notice of vulnerability, but something about how gentle and nurturingly his lover’s hands grazed over his scars slid a blanket of neutrality - comfort, even - across Stanley’s previously wild mind. No longer was he thinking of the lady that he’d caught whispering and pointing at him at Market earlier that week, or about how many more kills Gaston would’ve been able to achieve compared to him. No, the only thing that dared to occupy Stanley’s thoughts at that moment was the innocent sensation of Lefou’s fingers rising and falling amongst the divots of the scars and knuckles that littered his fist.
