[It's not like Arthur's doing much better, really. He's just got a lot more experience in schooling his reaction. He's had to practice his cool, emotionless face since he was a child. He's well versed in keeping his movements small, shoulders stiff to keep the shaking from rattling down his arms and hands, that special kind of stillness that doesn't give anything but cold, sullen silence.
The only real tell that he's struggling to keep it together is how many attempts it takes to light the lighter.
It's only after he takes a deep, long pull of his cigarette, lets the bitter, tarry smoke coat his lungs and tongue, exhales it out his nose so he can think about anything besides blood, that he finally seems to settle a little. Only a little.]
I'm not upset with you, John. I'd like to make that clear, you- you didn't do anything wrong, whatsoever.
no subject
The only real tell that he's struggling to keep it together is how many attempts it takes to light the lighter.
It's only after he takes a deep, long pull of his cigarette, lets the bitter, tarry smoke coat his lungs and tongue, exhales it out his nose so he can think about anything besides blood, that he finally seems to settle a little. Only a little.]
I'm not upset with you, John. I'd like to make that clear, you- you didn't do anything wrong, whatsoever.