Brooklyn hisses as his cheek scrapes on the brick face he's being shoved against, and he wriggles a little bit, so that when Harlow lets him go, he turns rapidly and grips him by the shoulders. He reeks of sweet things, that hot-baked summer grass, some heady, musky nonsense. Arcadia, the taste-smell of it thick in the back of Brooklyn's throat.

Something happens in Brooklyn's expression. He's normally so well guarded about things, the mirror he's been for so very long making it hard to show what's happening underneath. It's a rapid set of shifts. Concern. Confusion. Concern. Harlow has had the faintest hint of Brooklyn's Keeper on him as long as they've known each other, but the marks of that place are apparent under everything else.

He lifts a hand and brushes his fingertips on Harlow's cheek.

"...shit."