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Sometimes, he's surprisingly quiet.
When he's not constantly spewing expletives at every passerby, be they human or troll (but never carapacian--the Mayor is too precious to yell at), you always find him in the commons. He sits on the couch in a particular way: one leg folded under him, the other dangling off the edge, not quite reaching the floor. A novel about as thick as your arm, the title different (and strangely lengthy) every time, rests in his lap. He never notices you when you first walk in.
Naturally, though, when you walk into a room, you expect everyone present to acknowledge you in some way or another. So you sprawl out on the open space next to him, as obnoxiously as you can, and put on a perfectly straight, seemingly relaxed face. This is so that, when he finally glares at you in a fashion that practically screams "what the actual fuck, Strider", you appear impossibly nonchalant and irritatingly unresponsive. And when you don't glare back at him, which he somehow still expects you to do, he scoffs and looks back down at his book.
You lean back, tuck your arms behind your head. Your face is faithfully directed onward, but that doesn't stop your eyes from wandering.
The first thing you notice about him is his hair. It's not short, but it's not terribly long. Each lock seems to stick out in a different direction and, in some places, at absurd yet natural-looking angles. (You swear you once saw a perfect right-angle, but no one believes you.) It's jet-black in any light, from any perspective, and you think it might be soft, like cat's fur. You have yet to test this theory. His horns, small and rounded, stand out against the darkness with their distinct orange-yellow ombre.
His face is the next contender, though it's a photo finish. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn't have the kind of default expression that suggests a desire to murder and disembowel everyone he sees. Quite the opposite, in fact--it's strangely peaceful, sound and thoughtful (especially before he knows that you're in the room), but noticeably tired all the same. His eyebrows don't furrow, except when he gets to an intriguing (or maybe unexpected, or confusing, or whatever) passage and has to re-read it. His eyes, a lackluster gold with irises that have the beginnings of a scarlet hue, are often squinted in concentration. You suppose that, with all the reading he seems to do in this room, which is about as well-lit as the basement of a third-rate horror movie, he's probably in desperate need of glasses. His eyes scan from left to right, dart back to left, and move right again, at a pace that can only be rivaled by your sister. His nose is small, and it wrinkles when he finds a typo. His lips are always moving, always mouthing the words as he reads them, always frowning at sad parts and smiling at happy ones.
His skin is a warm kind of gray, maybe because of his blood color. There are no imperfections that you can clearly notice, save for the deep frown lines near his mouth and the prominent bags under his eyes. (The cost of leadership, you presume. Aside from the death of several loved ones.)
His turtleneck, about three sizes too big, bunches at the ends of his sleeves and at the hem. You wonder if he alchemizes them like that on purpose. The collar is large and loose, and sometimes he hides his face behind it when the air conditioning kicks in. You think it's almost endearing when he does that.
His sweatpants are gray and cottony, nothing too special. He wears black sneakers with white soles. Sometimes you think about asking him why he always wears the same outfit. Then you remember that you and just about everyone else on the meteor does exactly the same thing, so you think better of it.
In general, you observe that he is very small, and he is very gray, and he is very tired. And maybe that's why you like to look at him, during times like these--because he's usually a half-pint overflowing with rage and noise, but when he fizzles out, he's just... this. He just wants some time alone. Some time where he's allowed to be small and gray and tired, instead of big and red and angry. And, you think, that's a side of him that's very important to acknowledge. (Not exactly a side that's very important to surveil, but you do it anyway.)
So you look, and you look, and you look. You take the time to realize that, yes, he's a dense ball of unbounded vexation, but he's also kind of sad, and you suppose that makes him all the more interesting. (Of course, you can't look much longer. Even your best shields can't protect you forever.)
At the end of some unknown chapter, he eventually closes the book and glances up at you again. Sometimes he catches you staring at him, and other times you're quick enough to look away. Usually he says something akin to "why are you even here" or "stop gawking, dumbass", but he never sounds annoyed, doesn't try to. He sounds more worn out than anything else.
You always expect something crass, something facetious, to fly out of your mouth before you can re-evaluate it, but you typically just shrug and grin. Worst-case scenario, you say something only slightly embarrassing (see: "really cute", under "you're just"). Either way, he rolls his eyes, mutters some derogatory remark undoubtedly directed towards you, and cracks his book open again. Rinse and repeat.
He shifts his position, though, and consciously, invariably, leans against your shoulder. You can't help but laugh.