Sunday, 17 March 2019 The Library of Verona Around noon Closed for @henryzhxng
His entire body still hums with aches and a low grade fever when he clatters loudly into the library on Sunday, far later than he usually rolls around. It had been a bitch and a half getting here, he’s still clumsy and loud on the crutches and apparently no matter how beat to hell and zoned out you look, people on public transportation are not your friend. The eyes on his back once he’s inside are making his skin crawl, drawn by the clacking of his crutches and swiftly averted when he raises a brow at them, only to return once his back is turned. Bearing witness to the infallible Battista Tahan’s weakness.
One head fails to turn as he limps past. A semi-familiar dark head of hair, slumped over a desk scattered with papers. He shuffles closer, the man doesn’t twitch. Pulling up a chair takes entirely too much effort, leaves him a little winded and feeling vaguely ill, but it’s a relief to sit down, slouching just a little bit before the rigid line of his shoulders is pulled taut once more.
Battista tilts his head, raptor-like, and decides that perhaps the best option for waking Henry Zhang would be… not touching him. He doesn’t feel like getting stabbed again. Last he’d heard, the little Zhang had a head injury-- and at the very least, it was cruel to let a man sleep in such a position. The neck cramp he’d wake with would be something awful. Mercifully, his hands don’t tremble when he reaches out and pushes some of the papers around on the desk, pulling one out from under Henry’s cheek and setting it carefully off to the side with a quiet, “Zhang, wake up.”
