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Eobard held the hoodie close, breathing it in.
It even still smelt like Barry.
He clutched his prize in glee. This was one of Barry’s baggier clothes, not typical for him, certainly not something he would have ever worn before Flashpoint, but it would fit Eobard so much better than the shirts he had collected over the years that he’d always ended up stretching before the nice comforting Barry smell faded and ruined any hope of giving them back unnoticed.
Those were rarely items he could reasonably wear anywhere except to sleep, and he did that so rarely when not in Iron Heights and forced to.
But this.
And to think, Barry had just left it on the bus without a glance back.
Eobard pulled his prize over his head, pulling his arms into sleeves that fit this time, and wrapped his arms around himself in glee.
If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was Barry holding him.