There had been moment there, unsteady but comforting, where Larry had thought he might just be able to hold himself together despite the bald and ugly face they were two suddenly staring down. The center would hold, maybe, just this once, the denial of the past couple of weeks gone sluggish but still serviceable. It told him he was okay, that he was a Zen fucking master, and that the reunion in the bar notwithstanding, he could be something solid for somebody else for once in his miserable life.

The last thing Larry had ever wanted, though, was forgiveness from Nick Andros, regardless of where the fault actually fell.

He was weeping then, too, a desperate and interminable helplessness welling in his chest, pressing against his lungs and squeezing the feeble muscle of his heart, a physical pain that he wished came from anger so that he might have some hope of channeling it some way other than grasping onto Nick's thin shoulders and just fucking holding on for dear life.