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Summary
Zodyl rolls up his jacket sleeves and tucks the bunches of it above his elbows, then reaches for Fu’s wrists. At the first touch, Fu expects himself to flinch, and yet he doesn’t—his shoulders drop, his fists unclench, and he curls himself up a little bit smaller.
“Let me see,” Zodyl says softly, but the command remains. It feels good in Fu’s head, all warm and fluffy, so he relaxes his body and mind and allows Zodyl to tug his wrists into view. He tuts at the sight, thumbs at his crusty palms and drags his thumbpad up to finger between his knuckles. A thumbnail digs into a sensitive bit of flesh, and Fu yelps. Fresh tears spring to his eyes and gather at the corners and cling to his lashes, threatening to fall.
“Hush. None of that,” Zodyl chides. He scratches again and Fu watches as flakes of dried blood fall into the water to disappear. “What have tears ever gotten you?”