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He grabs your hand feverishly, as if he's ached and prayed to make some sort of contact with you, he the crashing ship and you his anchor. Just feeling your palm pressed against his, is enough to keep him from collapsing.
He pushes past his brothers, ignoring the pouts and dissapointed groans coming from the women that'd been pawing at him before your arrival.
He holds you close to him as he uses one of his broad shoulders to coax the same pair of flimsy double doors his blonde haired brother had come from, open.
He feels like he can protect you this way, like it's the only way he can possibly make up for what's just happened, what he was trying to protect you from so desperately. When you are nuzzled to his side, he feels whole again.
You nearly trip when you feel a sudden drop, the decline letting you know that there is a staircase below you, though you do notice it's less rickety than the bar itself, not that it makes a difference.
He grabs your sides with his hands, soothing your worried gasp with a "You're alright, I got you."
Those words alone want to make him slam his head into the wall, he feels foolish for even speaking them, with the whole predicament you're in now.
They comfort you though, so does the scent of peppermint and smoke that seems to be stuck to his clothing, maybe even his skin. It's not him, not at all, but it's oddly nostalgic.
Your eyes have become so adjusted to the darkness, that when he pushes open a door and hallway lights beam through like its been generated from heaven itself, you nearly hiss like a vampire trying to avoid the sun's unforgiving rays.
You blink, letting him silently guide you through the quite nice corridor of whatever this place is.
As you two round the corner and he opens a new door, revealing a neat, lavish room, you realize that wherever you are is actually really nice, more so fitting his look than the juxtaposition of the bar upstairs.
It smells of him in here. The old him. Spicy, warm, like autumn air. You always loved burying your face in his shoulder when hes gave you piggy backs during cold fall hikes, inhaling the heavenly aroma that seemed to waft off of him.
"Sit." He gestures to the king sized bed, covered by Raven colored covers, pillow slips a matching shade. The whole room is quite rustic, neat and clean except for the jacket he's just slung to the floor after removing it from his body.
The only reason you comply without scolding him for his snappy tone of voice, is because yoy know you're going to be granted an explanation.
He sits in a chair aroung five feet away from you, lengthy fingers running through his oak colored hair as he rests his elbows on his knees. You notice how his chains dangle from his clavicle, and you wonder for a fleeting moment, when he started wearing jewelry.
