[ Dante curls in on him and Wolfwood presses into the comfort of it; they both smell like blood and foul things, gunpowder and masonry and ichor, but Wolfwood doesn't care as he pushes up on his toes to rest his face against Dante's shoulder, fingers digging into the larger man's coat as they press together and Wolfwood can all but hear the thoughts ringing in circles in Dante's mind.

he breathes out, slow, eyes lidded. ]

Makes sense to me. I'd pretend to be the strongest person I knew, too, if I needed to be anywhere but in my own skin.