"Trystan," a beckon rang stern and disapproving down the hall, clipped and resonant. He looked away -- back to the man who had bought him -- and with nary a care or hurry his attention rounded back upon Liam, smile faded to an expression far more familiar.
"Wait for me." A demand, punctuated by a pressure of his finger upon Liam's lips, insisting acquiescence rather than an uttered promise. With touch severed -- a hand extended between them in a moment of tearing away -- he stalked back to the man at the end of their shared space, led into darkness by a hand on the small of that impossibly-smaller back.