“Nowhere near as much as you, I’m sure,” Seven exhaled with a glib laugh and rolled his eyes. His right leg was useless and his left could do little more than drive a knee into an unyielding side. It was a futile effort; the hard sole of his remaining boot caught the lip of a leather belt, shuddered past to scrape at Victor’s thigh, and then fell back comfortably against his chest.
Seven’s brow beetled and his lips slackened into a defeated pout. “I don’t have to learn from experience to know what danger is—you don’t need to touch fire to know that it burns you. You can feel that it’s hot.” He had been able to weave his life-essence into protection for as long as he knew Victor, and yet he had told no one else. The words were hard to come by; he sucked at his lip. “I don’t know what my limits are, because I will not stick my hands in the flames.”
Hands. He still had his hands.
White fingers scrubbed their winding trails down Victor’s sides, hoping for him to flinch. “You were the one to bring up danger in the first place, Victor Lark!” More often than not, Seven was content with a laconic pet name—Vic, typically—but relished in pronouncing every syllable when he knew it would earn a rise from his companion. His smile had returned; he was brimming with satisfaction when discomfort or surprise provided an out and his leg was freed.
Gangly thighs wrapped the bulk that kept him on his back; he pushed with his arms and wrenched loose Victor’s steadied grip on the roof below; they heaved sideways, and farther, until Seven managed to pin his bird beneath his palms and between his knees, shoulders pushed to hot shingles.
“I’ll even read the book to you myself, if you want.”
Seven’s brow beetled and his lips slackened into a defeated pout. “I don’t have to learn from experience to know what danger is—you don’t need to touch fire to know that it burns you. You can feel that it’s hot.” He had been able to weave his life-essence into protection for as long as he knew Victor, and yet he had told no one else. The words were hard to come by; he sucked at his lip. “I don’t know what my limits are, because I will not stick my hands in the flames.”
Hands. He still had his hands.
White fingers scrubbed their winding trails down Victor’s sides, hoping for him to flinch. “You were the one to bring up danger in the first place, Victor Lark!” More often than not, Seven was content with a laconic pet name—Vic, typically—but relished in pronouncing every syllable when he knew it would earn a rise from his companion. His smile had returned; he was brimming with satisfaction when discomfort or surprise provided an out and his leg was freed.
Gangly thighs wrapped the bulk that kept him on his back; he pushed with his arms and wrenched loose Victor’s steadied grip on the roof below; they heaved sideways, and farther, until Seven managed to pin his bird beneath his palms and between his knees, shoulders pushed to hot shingles.
“I’ll even read the book to you myself, if you want.”