It smelled of blood, to be more precise. Old and new. His own, and Max's, mixed together in the sand. Of bodies cramped together.

(Sweat and dirt in his nose as he drifted to sleep.)

"I ain't exactly had time to rinse out my socks," he groaned softly, as much humor as he could manage, head on his arm. Eyes closed, fatigue dragging at him. The hand Max had squeezed twitching and tucking against his chest, fingers curling around the thick knot. "Picky, picky...."