Braka's grip tightened as though upon loosening it he might lose his friend.
Thran remained frozen near the door, torn between his earlier retreat and the scene now unfolding without him. He rubbed the back of his neck, his blush deepening as Braka's uninhibited sobbing filled the small cellar.
"You two are making a scene," he muttered, though there was no real bite in it.
"Then join it," Braka shot back, not lifting his face from Kael's shoulder. "You know that you are just as glad."
Thran opened his mouth to protest.
Then he closed it.
His throat had gone tight in a way that had nothing to do with his cracked ribs, and for a long moment, he simply stood there, jaw working, fighting a battle he'd clearly already lost before it began.
"...Shut up," he finally muttered, and crossed the cellar in three long strides, lowering himself carefully — mindful of his broken arm — into the tangled knot of limbs and relief and quiet, hiccupping sobs.
