[ It's funny how used to it he's become. Embracing other men. Even platonically, it wasn't done back home. What if someone interpreted it as something more? What if someone noticed how comfortable he was, that he might long for a gentle touch instead of a pat on the back, like a woman, like some sort of fairy. This was only for lovers, behind closed doors. And even then, it was a danger. Too much intimacy was a weakness. It softens the mask, encourages cracks.

But it's become so easy here, to share the warmth he's always had, to cry on someone else's behalf. Someone still frail, malnourished, smaller than he'd realized before he'd gotten his arms around him. Tim's tall enough to tuck him into his shoulder, run a hand down the back of his head, calming motions. ]

Thank you for trusting me. It can't be easy. [ Doing it, remembering it, talking about it at all, much less to a man he's known for a week. ] I'm sorry. For everything you went through. You don't deserve that, nobody does.