charisuArthur's hands had always been rougher than they looked. Before taking on carpentry work during Agusty's summers, before he swung a sword in his sister's name for the war effort, and before he first laid eyes on a tome for sale at a secondhand shop, Arthur earned his bread by knocking heads with his small fists.
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Hawk was well aware he could not change the past much less another's but he could not help but think, with the heat pressed against his back and a calloused hand under his nightshirt stroking lower and lower before forming a fist, that perhaps he could do without the planned clinic's remodeling after all.
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