"They're done with us, Mika." He doesn't have any visible scars, not anymore. Bertie cleaned up his face and now all the burned and broken skin is hidden under his clothes. But that doesn't make him okay. His right hand is all wrong, fingers pulled into constant numb curves that refuse to relax under Mika's touch. His left is fine, but they both shake uncontrollably.

"They don't want us. They don't want us." His voice goes calm with the repetition, acceptance and distance and the feeling of exhausted resignation. "Gods get bored easily. We were only ever toys for them."

His hands keep pulling at his fur, but it's just a distant pinprick of sensation. An anchor, like Mika's hands are. Something to keep him from slipping completely away.

"They don't love us. We were just an amusement to them."