“ stop fussing— this isn’t my blood. ” || blitz @ stolas! || @diresang
Stolas' hands were trembling. Frozen in mid-air, reaching out toward Blitz in a mix of shock and fear that was not quelled by the insistence that the blood covering him wasn't his own. It brought to light a very real fear that what Blitz did for work was actually dangerous. Of course he'd always known there was risk to it, but he'd never really seen it, been touched by it. Not in any visceral way. Not like this.
"I-I'll get a t-towel." His voice is far from confident. He's shaken and stuttering and he wishes he wasn't. He wishes he could be steel-nerved. Brush these things off the way Blitz seems to. Maybe it's because he's gotten use to it. Or maybe he's had a much harder life than he's ever shared with him. Stolas doesn't know.
He pauses at the linen cabinet in the bathroom. That's right. He didn't know. He didn't know much at all. Nothing about the background of the man he had professed to love. He knew him as he was and of course what he liked in bed and liked to spend time with him, but his day-to-day, his daughter, his family, his history-- he was only just beginning to grasp the beginnings of real understanding of Blitz's life. And in this moment, with that blood, with his own anxiety, he wasn't sure he fit into it.
Grabbing a washcloth, he dampened it in the sink before stepping back out into the open floorspace. He's holding the cloth in both hands, they haven't stopped trembling, and as he nears blitz he holds the cloth back and says gently--
