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Summary
"Where does it go?" Varka's warm hands on his shoulders again, drawing him closer until he collides with heat and fabric and a strong, sturdy body beneath. Flins' eyes stay open. His gaze sticks to the azure of Varka's coat. "Where does all that hurt go, if we can't see it?"
Inside, he supposes. Inside his cold, aching chest, where his flames aren't enough to burn it away.
Finally, Flins shuts his eyes, fingers hooking in fabric, mouth pressed to Varka's shoulder behind layers of fabric. Fool, he thinks again, and imagines himself biting down. Varka has never seemed to know not to get so close.
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Flins' body doesn't carry his scars. Varka is the first to see that, and, perhaps, the first to care.