turps

The fight was over quickly. There weren't that many tentacled horrors - eight or so, enough to take down two humans, and probably take out a single Fianin, especially if he was trying to protect someone. But two Fianan? Not a challenge, particularly since Frank fought like a berserker, like he was possessed.

Bob bounced a little on the balls of his feet, the fight humming through him. That had actually been fun. He looked over at Frank. The smaller man was leaning against the wall; head tipped back, eyes closed. He was a mess, completely saturated in blood. //Figures.// Bob thought, with a wry grin. //Not that I'm much better.// He looked down at his pants and grimaced. //I liked these jeans too.// A whimper had him looking up, sharply at Frank.

Frank was staring at his hands, flexing his fingers. Bob could hear his breathing speed up, could smell fear and panic rising.

"Frank?" He said, trying to keep his voice gentle.

Frank looked up - wide-eyed, Bob knew he wasn't seeing him. Then he was gone, wet footprints on concrete the only indication he'd been there. Bob leaned back against the wall. Ignoring the itch of drying blood and slime on his skin, he stared at the bodies slowly dissolving around him. Under the saline reek of the corpses, he could smell Frank. The familiar scent //smoke/sweat/hotel soap/hair dye/laughter// was intensified, imbued with the musk/fur/night scent that denoted Fianan.

//I never noticed. I would have noticed, if it had been there, if he'd been...//
"Oh. FUCK." And he took off down the corridor, following the scent trail of the newly Shifted.
~~~

Bob followed the familiar scent trail through the concrete maze of the venue. Drying smears of blood and slime mark the path. Bob tilts his head, eyes darting across grey walls as he follows. Around another corner, though a set of double doors and Bob is assaulted by the reek of urine and disinfectant. Long practice stops him from covering his nose - the last thing he needs is the scent of slime caught in his sinuses for the rest if the day. Its dark, unlit, but he doesn't need much. The light from the open door shines on a crumpled mound of paper towels piled up by one of the end sinks. Bob takes a deep breath - grimaces - and follows the mingled scent of blood and raw panic around the corner.

The bathroom's dark, but even if he were human, he'd still be able to find Frank.

Loud rasping gasps for air draw him around the corner. Frank’s wedged in the corner farthest from the door, curled up in a tight ball of soaked denim and pale, inked limbs, wet dark hair and rapid heartbeats. Bob cautiously walked forward, bare feet quiet and careful on approach. He squatted down well outside of Frank's personal space. Reaching out, he brushed fingers against Frank's arm. Skin twitched under his fingertips and Frank cried out, the sound a blend of whimper and sheer despair. Something in Bob flinched back at the sound, before snarling. //No. Not acceptable.// He leaned forward, muscles in thighs and calves compensating for the action. He wraps fingers around a slender tattooed wrist.

"Frankie..." His voice is a low burr of sound in the darkness. The flesh under his grip shivers but Frank doesn't respond otherwise.

"FRANK." There's a bit of a growl in the name as his fingers tighten.

Bob sees a brief flail of fingers in the gloom //flash of moth wings in firelight// and then stillness. He growls outright and tugs. "Iero, don't you dare pussy out on me."

Hazel eyes snap up and meet his own. "Fuck you, Bryar. Let me have my fucking breakdown in peace."

“No.”

~~~~