Quinn thinks for a moment before turning around and walking back over to Calder.
"It happened at the mill," he says, as he gives him a smile. "Just a slip. Nothing worth worrying about."
Calder watches him, still half-asleep, still trying to decide if that answer fits. Quinn doesn't rush him. He lets the silence sit, not trying to be threatening to Calder.
"It looks worse than it is," Quinn adds.
Calder nods slowly.
"…okay."
Quinn gently ruffles Calder's hair before adjusting his covers and making sure he is comfortable.
"Get some sleep, don't worry about me."
Calder stares at him for a moment before nodding and shifting in bed, already almost asleep.
"Night, Quinny."
"Night."
Quinn hums and steps out, closing the door with care, easing it into the frame until the latch settles without a sound.
Quinn stands in the hallway for a moment taking a deep breath before heading back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Quinn leans against the door as he looks around the room, there is a lamp burning low in the corner, its soft glow reflects off the mirror. Quinn shifts and hangs up the towel before walking to the mirror, pushing back his hair as he stares at himself.
The face staring back is still his—and not.
His hand slowly moves to his face, touching a scar as he stares into the mirror.
He traces it slowly, his fingers gliding along the bridge of his nose then to his cheek where he begins tracing another scar.
The marks are old, belonging to the previous owner of the body, same with the stories and reasons behind them.
Quinn exhales through his nose, then touches the scar he received from his fight and chuckles. He stares for a moment before reaching for the bandages on his body.
He gently pulls on the edge of the bandage on his abdomen, slowly lifting it before giving it a few faint tugs to loosen the adhesive on the edges, the cool air hits the wound sharply causing him to grit his teeth as he throws the bandage in the sink.
He breathes for a moment before he looks down where the bandage once was to examine the wound. The stitches along his abdomen are tight, black-threaded, pulled clean through angry skin. There's bruising spreading out from them in dull shades, yellowing at the edges as the wound has begun to heal.
He hums to himself before angling his body to the mirror and beginning to take the bandage off of his shoulder, the same process ensuing before he puts the bandage in the sink and runs his fingers along his shoulder as he stares into the mirror to examine it.
He sees teeth marks stitched closed in uneven lines where his flesh was torn, the skin looks strained along the edge of the stiches.
I am lucky to still have an arm, if it bit my bicep, they would've needed to take it off.
He shakes away the thought as his hands drop and he bends over, lifting his pant leg and unwrapping the bandage, the stiches are smaller and cleaner and the area is still tender but there is nothing more to note.
Quinn straightens slowly and rubs the back of his head before he begins to undress, quickly making sure the door is locked before he continues, piling up his clothes in the hamper before getting into the shower and slowly turning it on.
Warmth spills over him in a steady sheet, soaking into his hair, running down his shoulders, tracing over his body before it falls to the floor.
For a moment, he just stands there with his eyes closed.
The day begins to loosen its hold in small ways—the smell of iron, the stale press of sweat, the lingering weight of other people's spaces. It all starts to wash away, carried off in thin streams at his feet.
His shoulder's lower slightly before he begins to wash himself, this is the closest thing to quiet he's had since waking in this life and he plans to enjoy it.
He tilts his head forward, letting the water run over the back of his neck, down his spine—
—and his hand slips
His fingers brush the stitches on his abdomen and pain swells immediately.
Quinn sucks in a breath, body tightening as he leans forward, one hand bracing against the wall as water continues to fall around him.
"…right."
He stays there for a moment, letting the pain fade away.
He slowly straightens again and begins to more carefully wash himself, being mindful of his hands.
When he finishes, he shuts the water off and stands in the fading heat for a moment, silently enjoying the fading warmth before he steps out where the air feels colder.
He grabs a towel and begins to dry himself methodically, pressing the towel rather than dragging it across the stitched areas. He quickly finishes drying himself and wraps the towel around his waist before grabbing the bandages out of the sink and exits the bathroom.
He walks through the silent hallway and enters his room, shutting and locking the door behind him then stepping in and tossing the bandages in a bin. He then stretches and undoes the towel, patting himself dry one last time before putting the towel in a basket and going to his dresser.
He quickly pulls on a pair of boxers and leaves the rest for later, the fabric light against his skin as he moves around his room. The space is quiet as he walks around looking at things before his attention finds the desk and moves him over to it.
Quinn sits, the wood solid beneath his forearms as he looks over what's there. Books, papers, small things arranged with a kind of quiet intent, not messy but not organized either.
Did he not know how to organize?
He sits there for a moment simply staring at everything before he begins searching through things. If he's expected at the school—if this life has rhythms he hasn't fully stepped into yet—he needs to understand them before they catch him off guard.
He finds schedules, loose notes and names that mean nothing to him but seem important.
His brow tightens slightly as he works through it all, trying to piece together patterns from fragments out of reach.
"You don't work Sundays." He says to himself, the only thing he knows for sure.
But knowing isn't the same as understanding.
His hand pauses over a drawer then pulls it open. Inside, tucked beneath a few folded papers is a worn notebook, clearly older than everything else he has found.
His fingers hover for half a second before picking it up.
He brings it up onto the desk, the cover rough beneath his thumb and for a moment, he doesn't open it, he just sits there, staring at it, as if the act itself will change something.
Then, he silently opens it.
Little Announcement
TNTWM will be going on a month-long hiatus as I am struggling with writing the next chapter. For my few readers please be patient with me.