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Summary
“Still,” Aldo continues, settling into the comfortable rhythm of a good gripe, peeling the black shirt off his shoulders, “if it had just been five minutes later, we would have already -”
Thomas’s hand landing on his shoulder and gripping like a vice startles him into silence. “Thomas?” he says in inquiry, craning his neck, trying to see his friend’s face over his shoulder. “What -”
“Is that a tattoo??”
Oh. That.