Mirko's leg only bothered him at times. The metal joint and supports that kept his flesh-and-blood foot attached and functioning had been implanted by one of the best doctors in the world, and it hadn't failed him yet. As far as scars went, there were far worse ones to have.

But it did ache at times, during bad weather or after walking for too long on hard surfaces. He could not manage to travel the distances he once had in his youth. A cold winter in the streets- wartime, huddling with his cousin in warehouses, icy gunmetal pressed against his skin- he did not think he could weather now.

This was fine. Mirko wasn't at war anymore.

At the market, shopping, brown paper bags of apples and French bread and fine cheeses. Mirko's leg was sore today, and for no good reason, he thought it didn't show on his face or in his walk but it must have because Martín looked him up and down, tutting, and directed him to a seat on the veranda of a nearby café, which he took with a surprisingly hefty sigh of relief.

"We'll rest a bit here," Martín said matter-of-factly, and his hair was blonde from the summer sun, ruffled a little by the wind, and he looked very pretty. "I fancy something to drink. Read the menu for me, will you? I can't see it from here."

Of course, the café menu was written out on a blackboard in green and yellow chalk, propped up above the main window. The colours would be bad enough for Martín's fractured vision, nevermind the distance.

"Of course," Mirko replied with a smile.