Chapter Text
Valery has never cared for his own scars: pock marks on his face; a small burn on his wrist from a lab accident; a few miscellaneous others, borne of clumsiness mostly.
Valery likes Boris's scars. He does not ask where they came from--only kisses them in the heart of the night, traces his tongue up and down. The one on Boris's left leg, running all the way up his thigh, is deep. If one looks closely at Boris, one can detect a slight limp, hidden carefully with years of practice.
Their scars are old. They are old men now, older than this city. And if this city has stolen some of what little time remained for them, it has given back to them tenfold--given to them what some may never discover, even in a hundred years of life.
When it is time for the two to part, Boris takes a knife from his pocket. Without words, he hands it to Valery. Boris's skin is thin and fragile, so it will scar easily. He bleeds profusely, though it is just a small cut. When they have bandaged it, Valery hands the knife back to Boris. He carefully removes his shirt, and shows Boris where, in turn to cut.