[ There is a sort of cold shock to Yuri breaking down against him. Flynn doesn't get to see him like this: he doesn't get Yuri's ragged edges, no matter how much they tell each other in the quiet of night, no matter what fears nip at their heels. It hurts the way it hurts to open a wound: a clean, clear pain and a sense of purpose rushing into the gap. Flynn presses his face into Yuri's damp hair, spreads his palm wide between the wings of his shoulderblades and holds him there, bearing up under his weight so Yuri doesn't have to hold it up at all. There's nothing to say. Yuri won't appreciate words right now, not the state he's in, and Flynn doesn't have anything to offer except for himself and the shower spray. He pushes a kiss against Yuri's temple, lets it linger there. ]
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