Re: Log: Seven/Liam
The sound of footsteps and the door closing made their way to where he was on the bed, face-down with his face buried against the mattress. He had no inclination to move, to even lift his head from where it had landed in order to find out who it was who had entered. The voice that drifted down to him moments later was familiar in a way that itched at the back of his head, but he couldn't put a name to it easily. Not yet, no, not yet. For a few more long moments, he simply stayed where he was, breathing in the scent of fabric softener that clung to the comforter before he rolled himself over onto his back with considerable effort. Blue eyes blinked, staring up at the ceiling, and then with a sigh, he sat up, swinging all the way forward until his head was between his knees, the room swaying around him like a pendulum, every throb in his head going in time with the movement. Palms found his face, pressed against the hollows of his eyes, and it took a few more moments before he could manage to stand, teeter-tottering for a moment until the world semi-righted itself and the pain his head throbbed to a point he could tolerate it.
One hand was still pressed against his face, heel of his palm against his left eye, when he stepped out into the hallway, the position one that he could take in the man standing near his desk. Liam didn't say anything for a long moment, taking in the figure instead, tall and familiar, a sight that pulled at something deep within but not one he could name easily.
The only thing on the desk of interest was the typewriter, something that had stayed with him, an origin he couldn't remember but something he knew was precious and important. "It was a gift," he finally said, voice even and easy despite the pain. They weren't the words of someone who was familiar with talking to others any longer, a little held back and reserved.