[Already standing within the cafeteria, Markus' eyes flicker across the entrees being served, and he's pretty sure there's not going to be donburi here for Noctis. But there's some kind of parmesan crusted fish, and a whole refrigerated section of items that might qualify as desserts, so he deems the task easy enough to fulfill.]
I’ll see you in a few minutes.
[True to his word, Noctis doesn’t have to wait terribly long. The line was minimal at best, and Markus is in no mood to linger. It’s easy enough to find 303 and — his presence heralded by a light knock at the door before it opens — he steps in, carrying a thin plastic bag holding a bottle of water, the aforementioned fish in a styrofoam carry-out container, and a little plastic cup of jello with a clear lid, the contents jiggling blue inside.
As opposed to Noctis, Markus does seem to be sporting a few dramatic bruises on his face. They’ve swollen and begun to turn color since the young man saw him last, plastered along his jaw, and one of the height of a right cheekbone. His lip is still a mess, but at least he’s made an attempt to clean it — an injury that Noctis should at least recognize as nothing new.
He steps in, in that purposeful way that is trademark of an android and a man who is heinously sore, any other bruises or injuries well-hidden beneath clothing. The door shuts softly behind him, and he assesses Noctis (his face; all the scrapes and reddened skin), coupling it with a plain greeting—]
no subject
I’ll see you in a few minutes.
[True to his word, Noctis doesn’t have to wait terribly long. The line was minimal at best, and Markus is in no mood to linger. It’s easy enough to find 303 and — his presence heralded by a light knock at the door before it opens — he steps in, carrying a thin plastic bag holding a bottle of water, the aforementioned fish in a styrofoam carry-out container, and a little plastic cup of jello with a clear lid, the contents jiggling blue inside.
As opposed to Noctis, Markus does seem to be sporting a few dramatic bruises on his face. They’ve swollen and begun to turn color since the young man saw him last, plastered along his jaw, and one of the height of a right cheekbone. His lip is still a mess, but at least he’s made an attempt to clean it — an injury that Noctis should at least recognize as nothing new.
He steps in, in that purposeful way that is trademark of an android and a man who is heinously sore, any other bruises or injuries well-hidden beneath clothing. The door shuts softly behind him, and he assesses Noctis (his face; all the scrapes and reddened skin), coupling it with a plain greeting—]
Hey.