In its slender whiteness, your brow does not conceal
That infinite shadow from which light will spill,
And yet, dear one, what a strange love I feel.

Marcel Proust


Balfour Spectre might well have been a manifestation of the reaper, trailing newly polished shoes down the hospital corridors - a clean-shaven figure all in black. He was dressed for a funeral; a child's funeral. Little Chardonnay of a family acquaintance down in Cornwall had passed away in the late hours of Sunday night and he had accepted the obligation from Knox to attend on behalf of the clan. It had been a rushed affair getting ready that morning and Balfour's slicked back curls were still damp from the light drizzle that had fallen at the burial.

Granules of sand crunched underfoot. He had apparated straight from a walk along the shore with the deceased's mother, offering private condolences against the backdrop of the gloomy coast.

Yet for all of London's overcast sunshine, the grey clouds of the south better resonated with him this afternoon. Last evening had been spent ambling in the tunnels beneath Mihai's home in St. Alban's with the man himself and Dietrich: all three of them in a haze of gillyweed as the Obliviator ran his mouth off with relationship advice that could have made Ira Almasy blush.

Return the favour. Don't trust him again. Suck it up. Hurt him. Not all of everything he heard had come from either wizard. He has consulted his own mind on the matter, uncertain of what all this secret-keeping meant to their relationship.

Balfour's head still throbbed from the near sleepless night, even as he followed a figure in green entering the ward - catching the door with the tip of his rosewood cane. It secreted his wand beneath the plain silver hilt. Anyone would feel old carrying such a thing but Balthair had stressed on the heirloom, if he wasn't going to be wearing the clan tartan in formal dress.

The doors swung close behind him.

Unconsciously frowning, the wizard first threw a cursory glance around the ward, picking up on the hectic silence that seemed to surround St.Mungo's of late. And then his eyes found Johann propped up in bed.

A weight lifted of his chest that he'd hardly known had been there at all, and Balfour tried not to acknowledge how much he'd been wanting to see his partner's face since yesterday morning. More than that. More than want, but a great need. He had told himself to keep an emotional distance during this visit but all notion of cautioning flew promptly out the window, and he approached the bed in long strides.

"You idiot." Balfour tucked the cane under his arm, taking Johann's hand tenderly and with restrained affection - the other man looked deeply tired and he didn't want to hurt him by accident. He opened his mouth to say something else but hesitated, lifting the sallow hand to kiss it in greeting instead.

Monday was never the kindest of days in a week, Johann acknowledged, but this one had been pretty unkind. There had been more shrouded forms to leave the ward, more admittances to replace them. The bed beside him was still vacant, though the sheets had been stripped and replaced not long ago, as if she hadn't been there at all. Cruel, very cruel that someone else should be taken away from his most recently acquainted cousin. Cruel, whoever or whatever was behind this flood of patients.

He closed his eyes to rest them. Both tired and emotional from what had happened earlier that afternoon. He had been little consolation to his own family, but in retrospect, glad he had been close so Sasha had not been entirely alone. He would make a special effort to keep in close touch with him as soon as he could leave. As one who was to survive this, he felt overly fortunate, given the haphazard situation that had landed him there. If he hadn't been so stupid, if he wasn't so weak-willed to fight his reliance, he wouldn't have added to the burden. He wasn't just taking headache potion like some of his ward fellows who were ill. He didn't deserve to be so fortunate, they did. Jacoba did.

The doors bumped open once more to the ward. Traffic had kept him oddly fascinated once awake and coherent. He likened it to the movement of people in the atrium at the Ministry on a morning. Only now he did not like to watch, because each entry and exit of more than a healer had been another person caught up in this horrible mess. Across the ward was a young boy, Timothy, his parents had not wanted to leave his bedside. He should have been excited about Christmas, not laid up in a bed barely moving. As another of Hollingbury's patients, Johann hoped for all their sakes that he pulled through.

Something, a noise, he wasn't sure, but he felt compelled to open his eyes. A familiar presence. A glance about his nearby surroundings picked out Balfour, dressed more formally than he had ever seen, as if in mourning. He looked deadly serious, and Johann's heart picked up from resting to nerves. For as much as he had hoped and longed that Balfour would visit, he feared what the situation now was between them.

Balfour's approach on spotting him in return was swift. Johann's heart shot to his throat but there was also a mixed feeling of joy beneath it on seeing the other man. He had not just decided to abandon him, not that he believed Balfour would do such a thing, but he had worried on the morning as soon as he had got his head round the events of the past 36 hours.

"You idiot."

A mere colleague uttering those two words to him in work would risk vitriol worthy of his late father, but the way in which Balfour spoke, the affection behind them, the lack of a curse between the two words or a clout across the top of his head suggested the anger, if it was there, was simmering beneath and restrained in public. He blinked slowly at the kiss to the back of his knuckles and offered no resistance.

"I am," he agreed, voice still hoarse, "more than than an idiot for what I have done to you, Balfour." He attempted to clasp Balfour's hand with his own, encourage him closer so he did not have to raise his voice so much to let anyone else overhear, "I can only begin to apologise," his eyes did not leave his lover's as he spoke, sad and reproachful "for my stupid mistakes that have needlessly hurt you."

He drew breath, gaze dropping for just enough time to blink, "I owe you an explanation, if you'll listen, but I understand if not. You owe me nothing."

What had Johann done to him? Balfour was not entirely certain if it was the act of concealing the truth that hurt most or the fact that everything between them prior to it was beginning to mean the world to him. Still meant the world to him, or he would not be here in a state of ambivalence. Odin. Even underneath the confusion he was all concern and restlessness.

"You owe me nothing."

That wasn't true. He could not say why but he felt like he owed Johann everything, every good feeling. It tempered his anger far too easily and frightened him - to know he was susceptible, in very real danger of falling completely for the other wizard. Balfour studied Johann's eyes, searching and finding the genuine remorse in them until their gazes shifted.

He sighed ponderously and released the hand, tapping the cane in a no-nonsense attitude.

"Well, then. Move over won't you." Balfour leaned against the bed and nudged its sickly occupant to the side as gently as he could as he brought his long legs up to rest against the white sheets. "Been on my feet all morning." It was a snug fit - shoulders pressed together, arm sliding beneath the other to save space - but should passing Healers have disapproved of him inconveniencing a patient, he was more than happy to level them with a glare that halted Hippogriffs in their tracks.

The cane came along; he laid it across their laps and avoided glancing straight at Johann, afraid of what he'd feel on looking upon him whilst speaking. Nothing inspired fear so much as knowing that his heart had already made up its mind irregardless of bruised egos,  emotion.

Balfour took his lover's hand again, squeezing it.

"Before you explain. I only.... I only want to know if there is something I did. Or didn't do..." he stared hard at the white knuckles and grappled with thoughts taking form in his mercurial chest. "... to make you feel like you couldn't tell me about the sleeping potions." Balfour had gone over it in his head, had wondered if he'd been unclear in their affections. Did Johann not think he could be trusted? Did he think their relationship was some dalliance, unsuited to these problems?

His brow tensed and he drew breath to speak again, only to find it caught in his throat. There was a burning sensation behind his eyes that Balfour wanted to ignore - it had threatened him many times since their early morning at the hospital.

When he did finally manage the words, they sounded strangled and wounded. "I care very much. For you, I mean.. I'm sorry I couldn't -" he paused to bite the inside of his cheek tryingly. "- I couldn't be of use." Balfour's ears burned and he adamantly refused to look up, eyes still fixed on the sight of their intertwining fingers.

A faint smile broke out on Johann's face for the request to budge over. Even though his stomach muscles protested fiercely to the movement, still smarting from all the vomiting and the thrashing about, he obliged as swiftly as he could. He watched Balfour swing his feet up onto the covers and cross his ankles beside Johann's feet beneath the covers.

"Been on my feet all morning."
"Have you?" The question didn't press for an answer, posed as more of an acknowledgement instead, a knitting of his brow at the thought Balfour had been running around putting out (quite possibly real) fires.

He was more than tempted to lean a little against Balfour's right shoulder, relieved he was there, and his face creased a little, causing him to blink quickly to try and stop himself. Johann frowned at the cane out of lack of recognition for it, the fingertips of his right hand tentatively lifting to touch it and thinking better for the moment.

Left hand was enclosed in Balfour's right, providing a squeeze just before he drew breath to begin, only the other wizard pre-empted him. Johann glanced up in confusion, and followed Balfour's gaze to their hands as he listened in silence.

The bottom of his stomach dropped at Balfour's acknowledgement of the sleeping potions - plural. He knew, now whether it was Arcturus, or his own ranting, or his mother, or even the blue log that was propped on the table beside him. He couldn't answer, like Balfour, fighting back an emotion.
"I'm sorry I couldn't…"

Johann swallowed audibly and tilted his head back, as if trying to stop the tears from breaking, but it was pointless.
"I am so sorry Balfour, it's all my fault. I should have told you, I should have told you from the start. No, no it's nothing you have done, or didn't do, or who you are, or what we are. It's me. I …" The words were tumbling out thick and fast, his voice as uneven as a teenager's when it was breaking between his sore throat and the fact there were tears running down his cheeks. He drew a shuddered breath and wet his lips.

"I care for you very much too, and that's why I couldn't." He raised his right hand to his lips a moment to stop himself from going down that trail of thought and exhaled, looking to Balfour, even if he did not return the gaze.

"Do you remember the night we met?" Of course he did, "you asked me'Out of curiosity, when was the last time you slept?'" Johann quoted, his memory had been anxious to preserve the memory of it all through the haze of margarita, "And I misunderstood, but when I realised I told you 'not since Monday' and it was 'with a little apothecary help'? That was as far as I got to the truth."

Johann drew breath and swallowed noisily, his nose a little bunged up from crying. He applied a tension to Balfour's right hand to indicate he wanted to continue, "I was scared I would lose you before I had even got to know you. That this gallant, free adventurer of a man would find me unattractive for my cowardly reliance. I know - I know how stupid that is given where we are, and how shallow that paints you, but with each passing day I couldn't face the risk of spoiling what has made me the happiest in all my years."

Johann screwed his eyes shut and leaned his head against Balfour's. His right hand reached across to grasp at his lover's jacket in the crook of his elbow. "It is not a reflection on you, but of me and my own shortcomings, and I would do anything to change it."

He didn't trust himself to look up just yet, the restlessness in his gut dissolving at the knowledge that it hadn't been anything between them keeping Johann from disclosing his truth. The alternative was marginally more reassuring but the tenor and feeling of the other man's voice forced him to finally drag his gaze away from their hands - pausing only momentarily at the base of Johann's pale neck to remember what Ira had said.

Return the favour.[1]

"I care for you very much too, and that's why I couldn't."

Balfour's eyes flickered to meet the brilliant blue of his partner's, and he felt the strength leave him at the sight of tears. How could he return the favour? The intentions strayed through his mind, glimpses of notions. Of agreeing that yes it's all your bloody fault, of well you clearly don't care enough, of not saying anything at all to the onrush of words. Coldness.  And each thought hurt. They hurt him more than he imagined they could ever hurt Johann. How could he even think to return the favour?

His hand clasped the other tightly in revulsion of the very idea, and as the only response he could summon to the confessions tumbling from Johann's mouth. Balfour let go of the cane he'd been gripping and reached to brush the back of his hand against the tearstained cheeks, frowning with the focus it was taking not to let himself cry as well.

It was a sharp, heady shock to hear their words from Le Masque repeated ad verbatim, surrounded here by the hushed walls of the dismal and sombre ward. The memory was clear in mind but not as accessible, certainly not with so great a precision as Johann recollected.

That did it, really.

Balfour swore and drew back his left hand, pressing the heel of it to his eyes one at a time. He felt the hot, stinging tears fulfil their threat. The weight of Johann's head pressing against his own made him snuffle back an untimely whimper and he tried not to think about what they must have looked like - these two grown men, weeping in a hospital bed in the middle of the afternoon.

"Damn it." He bit down on his lower lip, keen pain bringing him out of the sentiment for a second. "Johann." Balfour's voice was coarse, inundated with a sense of soft chiding. "My Johann. Happiest in all your years?" Gently, he turned his head so that their temples were inclined. They weren't quite looking at each other and he was fine with that, with the gentle pressure of bodies leaning into one another and Johann grasping him.

The tears ran their course without resistance, softened by a fondness hat Balfour could not entirely repress. "I make you happy?" he whispered - only half asking, unexpectedly warmed by this earnest divulgence.

In a steadier tenor, the wizard seized a moment of courage within himself to grope for the right words. "We are not going to lose one another over this. I am here for your shortcomings, as much as I am for our good days." He ran his thumb over Johann's knuckles soothingly. "And I consider it a privilege to be at your side in these hours."

Balfour wanted to say more. Wanted to let him know that he didn't think there was anything cowardly about what Johann had done, and that God, yes, just seeing the other man lifted his heart in a way he can't ever remember feeling before. But words were useless. Pathetic, weak little things compared to how he wanted Johann to understand him.

"Just. Please." He swallowed, fumbling for a pleading tone. "Let me help. I only want to be here for you. I'm not going anywhere." It didn't matter how much glowing vomit was involved. Balfour was going to see this through.

1.	[Dec 5th] Reflex (Snapshot)

"… my Johann. Happiest in all your years?"
"More than." Johann echoed in a croak, both hands still seizing Balfour with a trembling grip, leaning against each other.
"I make you happy?"
"Yes, blithe, ecstatic." Johann nodded softly, matching his partner in volume and tone as best he could with his tender throat.

He was sure Balfour knew this, had observed it often enough when together. How the moment the other wizard came into view, how Johann's expression relaxed, thoughtful frown lines easing. His whole vocabulary and tone shifted entirely at the end of the working day on spending time with him. Terse interactions for deadlines during the day faded away as if they had never happened. But he realised, perhaps foolishly, that for all he observed Balfour before his lover observed Johann, that his partner might not do the same.

Sometimes, Johann forgot that most people were not intrigued to the point of obsession over the ebbs and flows of others. It meant nothing less of them to him, on the contrary, they were sympathetic to the emotions behind the mere expressions that he analysed.

Balfour could read the smallest changes in the temperament of beasts, the finest simper of a dragon's respiration to avoid the discontinuation of his mortal life. Well, at least Johann liked to believe he did, in reassurance when letters returned with bloodspots.

He gave Balfour time to reply as he clung, eyes still pressed tightly shut in belief that if he let go, Balfour might escape.

"… I consider it a privilege to be at your side in these hours." Somewhat amazed, naively disbelieving that another could ever appreciate him 'warts and all'. Balfour didn't yet know how deep this went, but now perhaps he had an insight. For whatever he did know, Johann still owed him a proper explanation.

He looked up, too close to properly read Balfour's expression, but conscious the other man believed he could never find suitable words to clearly express his feelings to another. From all that Johann had ever heard, he was able to express himself beautifully enough.

"I'm not going anywhere."

At the assurances and declarations, Johann let out a noisier, sudden sob and gave his lover a tight squeeze before he sat up a little and wiped at his eyes, letting go of Balfour's jacket at last.
"Thank you. I am an idiot for ever doubting it." He shook his head, observed Balfour properly and acknowledged the other man's tears, expression softening.
"The pair of us? Oh… my." His fingertips, already salty from his own tears, extended to Balfour's tear stained left cheek, wanting to say yet more apologies over making him cry, wanting him to look properly at him in return. He pressed his lips to Balfour's. They both tasted of tears, but he didn't care what Balfour tasted like when he kissed him. That wasn't the important part.

"I will need your help, when I am home, however long that will be, now I'm back with the land of the living. I will explain everything: what it is," he gestured to the log on the bedside table, "why, when, who… no more secrets. I promise." He shook his head firmly and winced.

"Had you not been there, had I been on my own, we might not be able to have have this conversation," he added grimly. "You saved my life, and as much as I would yours, I hope I never have need to." His eyes welled with tears, and he blinked them away, gesturing to the next door bed the other side of Balfour. "A few hours ago, I saw a friend, practically a member of the extended family, pass because of the poisoning. They were only trying to treat her. So as much a I am more than grateful you saved my wretched backside, I cannot wait to be out of here, and back home with you."

He lowered his head to Balfour's shoulder and deeply sighed. He'd missed this smell. The hospital was constantly scrubbed clean and filled with all manner of astringent smells. It hung on to some of his dearest friends, Hannah, Arcturus, Elixa, but he could not abide it on himself. Balfour smelled of deep reassurance, of curling up together beneath soft bedclothes, of Whiskey, smoking, familiar aftershave and shaving cream. Of home. Wherever Balfour was had become home. So for this sombre, tearful visit, he felt he was there, especially if he closed his eyes.

It felt like a bizarre, incongruous thing to feel elation - considering their setting.

But Balfour, although he knew well that they were deeply affectionate with one another, could hardly be expected to repress how he felt on being unequivocally informed of his effect on Johann. Blithe, ecstatic. A confirmation of everything he felt within himself, mirrored in his partner. He made a sound of confirmation; a little rumble in his chest, hum in his throat. "You make me happy too," was all the wizard could manage without being altogether carried away by feeling, although he said it confidently. Devoted.

His heartbeat flitted nervously at being caught failing to stifle tears, and then smoothed into a steady rhythm as Johann kissed him. Salty. An inane thought bubbled in his chest:t least they weren't both smeared in glowing blue vomit. Balfour found that he was smiling gently when they pulled away, and his gaze peered concernedly from beneath matted, half-lowered eyelids at the face that had ensnared him so completely.

A death?

Everywhere there was death. The threat of it to Johann's life. The funeral this morning. Ira Almasy, who towed the reaper in her wake, and who would appear an omen through reveries if he dreamt at all in sleep. And the dying lights in the eyes of those who surrounded them now. Hospital beds, deathbeds.

"I'm so sorry." Balfour tightened his hold of Johann's hand sympathetically - made anxious by both the news of his loss and the reminder that they might have lost him. "I want you home as well."

Though he had not spent much time at Atreus since their landlord had ceremoniously drugged tucked him into bed, he knew there to prevail an atmosphere of absence in that home. Unsettling memory of a rushed departure. He kissed the other man's forehead, shifting slightly to allow the head of curls a comfortable space on his shoulder. Nestled next to one another they could almost be back in the living room, dozing in the sputtering heat of a live fireplace and sheltered against the frigid winter.

He laid his spare hand on the rosewood cane and allowed for a moment of that shared, sweet silence.

"I read some of your log before you were knocked out. You mustn't remember." His voice was matter-of-fact, though his face fatigued by emotion. Balfour suspected that much of that unfortunate evening was lost to Johann's usually impeccable memory but he felt that there was a mutual quality to the phrase no more secrets. At least in this case it might be fulfilled. "I missed you badly too. When you were in Aruba. I've taken a few days from work to stay at home, if that's alright."

It wouldn't do to overwhelm him with attention. Breathing space was important for recovery, as with creatures. He tilted the cane sideways to ensure it didn't roll off their laps, and then reached around Johann's shoulder to rest his arm there - fingers playing with the ends of his lover's dark hair. Dark thoughts, too, someplace in there.

Balfour very briefly considered asking if Johann recalled (or meant) what he had said, that he loved him. It didn't seem right to enquire now. Too selfish a reassurance for a soul not yet in need of it. "We'll get through this," he said instead. "I'm here for as long as you want me to be."

The gentle kiss upon his forehead before Balfour accommodated Johann's weary head upon his shoulder dislodged a tear which ran down his pale cheek and dropped onto the funeral outfit below. He closed his eyes and after a moment he felt his heartbeat ease, anxieties fade and voices lose their bite.

"I read some of your log before you were knocked out. You mustn't remember." Balfour spoke after a moment. Johann's eyes flickered open again and he made a vague hum to confirm he did not. He couldn't remember anything particularly coherent other than his fear of being out of control. "I missed you badly too. When you were in Aruba. I've taken a few days from work to stay at home, if that's alright."

In surprise, Johann lifted his head, and looked round to observe Balfour at close range, blinking. His expression surprised, touched at the notion. The fact Balfour had read the log was by the by. He had always intended to permit it when he finally plucked up the courage to explain. It was the news that they both had felt the same for the compulsory distance from Johann's Ministry trip, and that he would arrange to work from home touched him.

"Of course it's alright." He croaked, lifting a hand to wipe another tear that was forming, unable to quite keep a hold of his emotions. "It's more than alright, I … I was four and a half thousand miles away on a Caribbean island drenched in sunshine miserable because you weren't there with me." He nudged Balfour gently with his hand to emphasise 'you' and shook his head, shifting to let his lover encircle him with an arm. "To know you'd be close by means an awful lot to me, darling." The gentle caress of his hair helped to further calm his anxieties.

"We will." Johann confirmed to Balfour's reassurances, "Forever?" He queried without hesitation, looking up. "Call it an addictive personality," he suggested with a shrug, "but I can't see how life works without you now you're in it." He let out a little sigh and resolutely wiped one eye and then the other. It was hard to stop now he'd started, so relieved was he to see Balfour and hear he'd be there, fears hopped to jump out.

"Anyway," he spoke a little more resolutely, voice evening out, "It won't be forever if I don't sort myself out when I'm free of here." As he spoke he glanced between Balfour and the ward before them, eyes almost regarding the comings and goings but not really seeing them, gaze falling short about the length of the bed they were sharing. "The day before I took you to Morocco, I was told I might not last another eight months if I didn't get things under control." He blinked hard, grip between their hands trembling slightly, "And then I go and get hellebore poisoning..."

Johann's face creased and he tried to force his face straight and be brave. When Balfour was there, he always felt braver, but his head was such a mixture of conflicting thoughts, it was hard to keep a grip. "I'm scared Balfour," he whispered tensely, "I've never wanted 'forever' quite so hard as I do now with you." He looked to his lover and blinked hard, wiping tears from his face, sniffing, "I'm sorry, I'm a mess. I shouldn't say things."

He felt himself colour at the surprise in Johann's expression, but the sharp outlines of his lover's face seemed to blur for a moment and so he paused to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his funeral robes. There was no helping it. They were, neither of them, the sort who could repress the emotion when faced by it in the other.

"To know you'd be close by means an awful lot to me, darling."

Balfour smiled a little at this and thought of how good it felt to be here even in spite of their circumstances - to simply exist in Johann's vicinity, to be able to touch him and feel him, some dream or nightmare too heady to be true. He glanced down when he felt the other man look up. Addictive personality. It was a streak of dark humour. His fingers leaving the  ends of the curls, absently reaching into them at the nape of Johann's pale neck.

Their nerves were frayed still, he knew, and an eternity of this hardly sounded like sufficient time to appreciate each other. "Forever." Balfour confirmed in a softer voice than he had used before. "Longer, if you wanted." Why would anyone give this up for any amount of time? What he felt could light stars. Collapse them.

But the change in Johann's tenor was cause to frown. He forgot to breathe for a second and squeezed the hand in his, sensing its slight tremble as if it were his own and seeking quickly to calm it, even as the words trickled through with ice cold clarity. Eight months. Eight months. It threw a wrench into the clockwork of his mind - every other thought gave itself up to the singular fear that the danger was far from passing, that his lover was tethering on some perilous ledge of the great unknown.

"I'm sorry, I'm a mess. I shouldn't say things."

He snapped out of the vague shock and leaned away from Johann's head, gripping his curls tightly as he tried to meet more tearful eyes. Balfour stared hard and with his lips pressed tightly together. If not for the tenderness in his gaze, it might have been a reproachful look.

"Don't. Don't apologise for saying things like that." He paused to swallow back a sniffle, blinking away the wetness in his eyes. "Christ. Eight... no, seven months? I can't... that isn't..."

It wasn't enough time. With forever lingering insufficiently on the horizon, how could that be enough time? Balfour realised that he had trailed off without finishing the thought, and he relaxed his grip with forced self-possession. One day a dragon will do as it did to Spectres before him and he might die in a way that refused estimation. Days, months, years. Right now however, he was willing to risk hoping to survive the probability.

And he blamed Johann entirely for such hope. It was completely unfair that death would knock at this door instead.

"I'd like forever, too." Balfour finished abruptly before he released Johann's hand to turn it over, thumb running down the reddened palm. He didn't look away from their locked eyes. "If you're a mess then you're my mess, don't you know?" His weepy eyes crinkled slightly at the sides in affection. "We'll do whatever it takes. It... um. It scares me too."

Terrified him, really. Few things genuinely did and if he were anywhere but the ward Balfour would have been tempted to light a cigarette. He drew closer down to Johann, gently kissing the tip of his nose. Better than tobacco. "I won't lose you," he said quietly.

"… that isn't…"
"No, it isn't." Johann agreed, voice sounding less like himself by the moment with his tears. He shook his head and swallowed.

He felt so incredibly guilty. This was what Arc had warned him about, all over again. As it had been with his mother, and just as bad if not a hundred times worse with Balfour. His pain was hurting them, the thought he might not be there in the near future was awful. It was petrifying, and he hadn't been able to cope with the thought at the time. He'd ignored it as best he could, because ignoring it was easier than dealing with it and acknowledging it. But now he'd lost even more time. It could be too late for all he knew, so he would make each day count.

"… then you're my mess," Balfour's explanation let loose a heh with a lift of his shoulders, a mix of amusement and adoration for his lover's strength in this dark moment. If he could be anyone's mess, past his own, then he would be Balfour's. There were no better messes.

He wished there were no mess at all, though, but he'd brought it to them both. There was nobody else to blame.

"And I don't want to go." He assured Balfour softly, bumping foreheads, breathing unsteady, "but if you're there, I promise you, I won't let go."



End