He was the type to lean over the edge of a chair, an elbow gouging an impression into the leather, while his eyes fixed on the conversation coming from the mouth of his brother. He separated people from their views and with his shoulders pulled tight, his posture that of a hunter waiting to get the next word in.
His hair stuck to his face, trailing down across one eye, caught his eyelashes and thick brows. His meticulous personality didn’t extend to grooming; besides shaving every time he felt scrubby and brushing his teeth once a day, he didn’t pay attention. His hair was clumped together right now, greasy, and up on the back of his head in a rubber band once would use to bind a stack of letters together.
His voice was gruff, scratchy, from years of smoking. Sometimes he whispered things to himself and thought he sounded “seductive,” but really never believed it. His tongue wet his lips while he listened, pained. He remembered to project his voice or otherwise he sounded mousy. He could never seem to make it a habit though. His vocal cords just seemed to travel through his nose as much as his throat when he talked, giving him a nasally sound. He was almost noticed it the most when he was meeting someone new.