For a moment, Flint is still in the face of this invitation. His is a steady, heavy hand, and his inspection of Marcus's face has a certain unflinching quality. It's as if he's measuring something—not the man opposite him, but the effect of his own place here in the tent. Judging if he has been heard. Watching for some brittle edge. What I know, I do means, and whether there isn't some cruelty to demanding to be given this leeway and then moving into it the moment Marcus offers the space.

Only that when he moves, the trajectory is inevitable. He could no more peel his wrist free and refuse him than he could traipse back to his own tent without getting rained on. Marcus asks and he eventually answers. It's a pattern they're working themselves into.

In the narrow tent, Flint shifts in across the bend of Marcus's knee. Clumsy. A little too big for the space. He stinks of rain and wet leather and shoe polish. Despite the stolid shape of his presence at the foot of the bedroll, by the time he gets as far as kissing Marcus there's something crooked and relieved in the shape of his mouth. Please do, actually, give him this. He walked across the camp not certain he'd get it.