He glanced at Yuuri, noted the way he touched his face, how he cupped his side. Yuuri spent so much time fretting over Faustite and not enough time getting his own injuries tended to. Misha didn’t even need to ask; he doubted Yuuri let anyone at the medical facilities look him over, probably pretended he hadn’t been hurt at all, beyond what was obvious.
Misha let out a heavy breath, rustling his own bangs.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he added. “I know you were just looking out for me. It was kind of cute, to be honest.”
With one of his customary bright smiles, Misha hopped up onto his feet. “Speaking of General Jet, I’ve got gossip to tell you about him being there. There was almost major drama. General versus General. It would’ve been epic. But!” Misha wagged a chiding finger at Yuuri. “Not before you get your injuries taken care of. Let me go save Lev from the camera and make us some hot chocolate, and then I’ll tell you all about it if you let me play doctor.”
Did that sound weird or suggestive?
Eh, Misha didn’t care.
Guine
