Ache is the proper word for this feeling. It strains until it feels like it might burst, wraps tight around his chest until he can barely draw breath. But on the outside? Nothing. Everything's still, calm, illuminated by the cold lights overhead, twinkling indifferently down.
York beckons, and Locus follows. He slots into that space left open for him at his side and, as if out of habit, his arm slides around his back to anchor him close.
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Ache is the proper word for this feeling. It strains until it feels like it might burst, wraps tight around his chest until he can barely draw breath. But on the outside? Nothing. Everything's still, calm, illuminated by the cold lights overhead, twinkling indifferently down.
York beckons, and Locus follows. He slots into that space left open for him at his side and, as if out of habit, his arm slides around his back to anchor him close.