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falling, force of gravity

“Let me?” Yang Rong asks as he tries to strip Noah of his jacket. He frowns when the younger man shakes his head and huddles himself by the wheel of the truck, unwilling to be touched. The colonel has a med kit out and is insistent on dressing the surface wound. He crouches down beside him and clicks his tongue. “Noah, since when have you become this fussy? If I recall correctly, you were always adamant about covering up every little papercut on your body. Be good and let Rong-ge clean it up, hm?”

“No,” he replies. “It is healed.”

“It has healed in a minute?”

“…Mn.”

“Amazing.” Yang Rong compliments him – it drips of amused pampering – and then he leans forward with a slight smile on his face. “Show me.”

“…” Noah buries his head into his arms, ignoring the painful strain of his shoulder. He is determined to not let Yang Rong touch him.