[ Yuri is looking at him like he's never gotten a gift before in his life, which Flynn knows very well is... pretty much true. The Lower Quarter wasn't rich enough for things like presents: Hanks would celebrate their birthdays with food and a party, but he never could manage to scrape together enough of anything for presents until they were eighteen and joining the knights, leaving the Lower Quarter for the first time since Flynn arrived.
Yuri had gotten a little choked up then, too, and Flynn had looked away while Yuri hid behind a curtain of hair and pretended he wasn't misty-eyed. Flynn had gotten gloves, thick leather things to protect him from the cold because "you can't fight without your hands," and armor polish to go along with them with instructions to keep him and Yuri both looking neat and smart. They had, after all, been representing the entire Lower Quarter. Flynn had taken the duty solemnly like a weight settling on his shoulders, the first of many, only to promptly fail because Yuri was too lazy or too careless to clean his armor, and got annoyed at Flynn when he did it.
But that was a long time ago, and Yuri has been through hell and looks like it, clinging to the blanket like it's a certain kind of armor, and Flynn should—help him clean up, get him more water, try to fix whatever is making his skin and his teeth look so strange. There is so much he should do, and still he makes the selfish choice to breathe Yuri's name, quiet, strangled, and reach forward to pull him into a tight hug. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He's said it already but he needs to say it again, pressed into Yuri's skin, soft and damp. He's so cold. He smells terrible. Flynn doesn't care. ]
no subject
Yuri had gotten a little choked up then, too, and Flynn had looked away while Yuri hid behind a curtain of hair and pretended he wasn't misty-eyed. Flynn had gotten gloves, thick leather things to protect him from the cold because "you can't fight without your hands," and armor polish to go along with them with instructions to keep him and Yuri both looking neat and smart. They had, after all, been representing the entire Lower Quarter. Flynn had taken the duty solemnly like a weight settling on his shoulders, the first of many, only to promptly fail because Yuri was too lazy or too careless to clean his armor, and got annoyed at Flynn when he did it.
But that was a long time ago, and Yuri has been through hell and looks like it, clinging to the blanket like it's a certain kind of armor, and Flynn should—help him clean up, get him more water, try to fix whatever is making his skin and his teeth look so strange. There is so much he should do, and still he makes the selfish choice to breathe Yuri's name, quiet, strangled, and reach forward to pull him into a tight hug. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He's said it already but he needs to say it again, pressed into Yuri's skin, soft and damp. He's so cold. He smells terrible. Flynn doesn't care. ]
I'm sorry, Yuri.