"I didn' intend to," Faelan answered, hands still on the button of his jeans. Harry stared at him, a flicker of something unusual in his eyes that could have been...desire?
It was crazy, impossible, and a bloody terrible idea, but instead of stepping backward as he intended, his feet carried him forward until he was only a foot away from Harry, able to feel the heat radiating from him and the smell of alcohol on his breath. He studied the man's eyes, wondering what he saw when he looked at him.
"I look older 'causa the scars," he said quietly, breaking eye contact to look down at himself. He traced one finger down a long slash-mark that had marred his chest and stomach since he was thirteen. "Makes me all wrinkly and gross."