For Alfred, it isn't just explosions. Gunshots. It's fireworks and slamming doors, things that catch him off-guard and paint his world in a flash of too-bright colour. But for the moment, he keeps it to himself, just twisting the cotton in his hands. His bare chest rises and falls heavily for a few moments, and he feels like he'll pass out, his ears ringing.

Thomas is a dark blue, his voice something paler, he smells like cigarette smoke and it's comforting in its way. And his taste, the taste of Thomas...he can't quite put his finger on it. Perhaps like sweet liqueur, fruity but with bite under the surface. Not spiky like cherries, but smooth, burnt...

He glances up at his face again, "I...have a condition. I'd prefer if you didn't tell anyone about it. Not until I can rendezvous with my unit."