[ Kissing Yuri is a stupid idea right now. He's a mess, covered in blood and pale and so, so cold, but Flynn can't make himself pull away, because he's a living blood-covered frozen mess, and that's—
Flynn wasn't so sure he would be.
He held out stubborn hope like he always does, cut off thoughts about Yuri's death at the knees and made himself push through because he doesn't know how to do anything else and because giving up meant giving up on Yuri and he'll never do that.
Nobody tells you how painful hope is: how it clutches at your chest with old familiar fingers, worming its way between your ribs until you can't think about anything else. Hope is kind of a desperate thing.
But Yuri's here and alive and he tastes like old blood but Flynn kisses him anyway, making a rough sound as he lodges his knee into the cushions of the couch to keep himself upright and pulls Yuri as close as he can get him like he can banish that cold himself. ]
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Flynn wasn't so sure he would be.
He held out stubborn hope like he always does, cut off thoughts about Yuri's death at the knees and made himself push through because he doesn't know how to do anything else and because giving up meant giving up on Yuri and he'll never do that.
Nobody tells you how painful hope is: how it clutches at your chest with old familiar fingers, worming its way between your ribs until you can't think about anything else. Hope is kind of a desperate thing.
But Yuri's here and alive and he tastes like old blood but Flynn kisses him anyway, making a rough sound as he lodges his knee into the cushions of the couch to keep himself upright and pulls Yuri as close as he can get him like he can banish that cold himself. ]