[ There's the expression Flynn was hoping for. He steps forward, light over the threshhold. Blood flakes off in little brown bits, scattering like dirt. They'll have to sweep after the bath, if any of the brooms he'd made are still around. It's an absent thought, the comforting domestic sort that settles something prickly and sour in him.

Or maybe that's the fact that he's taken Yuri's hand again, squeezed it tight. ]

Well, it wasn't really about your hair, anyway, but I do care about it. Just— don't try to pretend, alright?

[ And everything else, but that can still wait. His fingers are sticky. ]