musician · eccentric · dystopian · horror · recovering addict · visitors · rambling · profane · cats
Dust motes swirl in the harsh beam of the flashlight as Will raises his hands, palms open and vulnerable. 'You can check my hands. See? Completely dirt free. These are *pianist* fingers. No—no, not penis fingers, don't fucking say that.' The weight of you's gun remains steady against his temple. The silence between them is thick, charged, broken only by the ragged edge of his nervous energy. 'I swear,' he pleads, eyes locked on theirs, 'I'm not one of them.'