Eoin's gaze remained opaque. There was a readiness in his body that differed from its prior sunken hunching. It was directed outwards and towards the priest, who did what Eoin wanted to see: He made something tangible possible. Washing his clothes, providing a bath, all that was mundane, didn't cost him a penny -- but it meant that Eoin would stay around the rooms of the curate. Every act of kindness and charity raised Luc's investments towards his promises. In the deep dark valley wound a path through the trees towards the summit.
"Aye, I'll be with ya in a minute, Luc," he answered and he watched the tall figure of the priest dig around for a change of clothes and then leave towards the washroom. Alone in the chamber, Eoin picked the last morsels from the plate. He stood up and made a round through the room, intensely scrutinizing the table, the made-up bed, the books and the small bits and pieces that told of Wynn's life. There was no attempt to touch or take anything, but it was all taken in through his eyes and stored away in murky depths for unknown purposes.
The correct door showed itself to him by the steam that wafted through the crack. Eoin slipped inside and looked around. He lingered on the tub filling with proper running water from a tap, then got stuck on the image of the priest standing by the bath. No cassock, just shirtsleeved. Eoin snorted: "Ya know what's funny, Luc? Yer lookin' like just a man."
He walked over to a washtable with a stool, where he started undressing. He did so defiantly, letting his ragged coat fall to the floor. His trousers hung loose around his hip, only staying up at all thanks to suspenders. There was a gap through which the cold winter air liked to slide in and lewdly bite him in his most soft and tender flesh. So he wore a wrap of some torn-off fabric piece slung around as a makeshift belt to prevent it. This too was discarded. Towards the state of his drawers the priest wouldn't have needed to give any worry. There were none. Eoin did not remember how he lost them.
Eventually, he was stark naked. He slunk by the priest without an attempt to cover himself. He got into the tub. The feeling of hot water on his skin reminded him that he had once been half-decent and owned simple comforts like a tin-bath with hot water.
Eoin put his arms on the edge of the tub and turned his body to look up at Luc Wynn. His eyes shone with wariness and a sort of cheeky joy. "Yer goin' ta scrub me back, Luc?" he asked.
"Aye, I'll be with ya in a minute, Luc," he answered and he watched the tall figure of the priest dig around for a change of clothes and then leave towards the washroom. Alone in the chamber, Eoin picked the last morsels from the plate. He stood up and made a round through the room, intensely scrutinizing the table, the made-up bed, the books and the small bits and pieces that told of Wynn's life. There was no attempt to touch or take anything, but it was all taken in through his eyes and stored away in murky depths for unknown purposes.
The correct door showed itself to him by the steam that wafted through the crack. Eoin slipped inside and looked around. He lingered on the tub filling with proper running water from a tap, then got stuck on the image of the priest standing by the bath. No cassock, just shirtsleeved. Eoin snorted: "Ya know what's funny, Luc? Yer lookin' like just a man."
He walked over to a washtable with a stool, where he started undressing. He did so defiantly, letting his ragged coat fall to the floor. His trousers hung loose around his hip, only staying up at all thanks to suspenders. There was a gap through which the cold winter air liked to slide in and lewdly bite him in his most soft and tender flesh. So he wore a wrap of some torn-off fabric piece slung around as a makeshift belt to prevent it. This too was discarded. Towards the state of his drawers the priest wouldn't have needed to give any worry. There were none. Eoin did not remember how he lost them.
Eventually, he was stark naked. He slunk by the priest without an attempt to cover himself. He got into the tub. The feeling of hot water on his skin reminded him that he had once been half-decent and owned simple comforts like a tin-bath with hot water.
Eoin put his arms on the edge of the tub and turned his body to look up at Luc Wynn. His eyes shone with wariness and a sort of cheeky joy. "Yer goin' ta scrub me back, Luc?" he asked.
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