Arvid Troelsen dropped his bag on the bench. Its old hide smote wood that had seen its fair share of backsides. His leathers creaked as he settled down beside it, arms crossed, ankles crossed, legs stretched out before him. He closed his eyes, and rested his chin on his chest. His reddish stubble rasped against his jacket.
A few seconds later, pale blue eyes blinked open again, to stare directly at the only other occupant of the terminal. A young man, patchy stubble, hair bordering on shaggy, sat upright across the aisle. When their eyes met, the young man licked his lips nervously. His palms pressed against torn jeans that had dirt rubbed into the dirt.
The young man looked away.
“Don’t even think about touching my shit,” Arvid rumbled. “You touch my shit, I’ll fuck you up so bad, nine months from now, you’ll be givin’ birth to a bastard demon of pain.”
“And I’m itchin’ to fuck somebody up.”