The pressure on his fingers is comforting, if a bit hard. Then it becomes harder. And harder. And then, before easing completely, there's a sudden jerk, like when you're falling asleep and it seems as if you are stepping off a cliff.

The crack sound of small broken bones isn't too loud, and Ranuccio pales visibly, a rush of air leaving his lungs, a muffled gasp of pain kept inside more by habit then conscious choice.

A few minutes go by, before the colour comes back to his face, as he keeps petting Clay gently with his other hand, trembling just a little, a drop of sweat running along his neck.