"No," says John, in a hurry to soothe him, but there's still a crease of discomfort between his brows. He keeps frowning at the bit of bone, tracking its movement between Pal's fingers. "Don't worry about it. Cows are overrated."

He finds that he means it: fuck cows, honestly. The headache has built to an ugly heat in his sinuses, and he sniffs ungracefully, reaches up to smudge away blood on the edge of his wrist.

"Reminds me of something." Here he slants a humorless smile at Pal and tips his wrist to show the blood, which might be interesting or might just be gross. At least it isn't still running; for whatever reason, his nosebleeds end as soon as they've started. "Not very comfortable, that."