[The hurt is -- a tangible thing, like a slow-healing bruise, like a cracked rib, like something crushed deep at the heart of who Koby is. He hadn't thought there was any innocence left in him, not after what he's lived through, not after Alvida. But there had been, because that's what pulses with grief and confusion and hurt, that part of him that insists it's not fair and it's not right when the world shows it, again and again, that there are no easy choices. That he's going to hurt people while trying to do the right thing. That they're going to hurt him.

And yet, still, this: Quentin's arms around him, Quentin's lips pressed to his nose, his face, Quentin's voice in his ear. Quentin says there's no good left and then makes himself a liar by existing.

Koby's so tired it aches, but he still frowns, still slips one leg over Quentin's hips, slides so he's straddling his boyfriend, hands on either side of his head.] I wouldn't. [Firmly, a touch stubbornly, with that clogged note that speaks of how often he's cried this month.] I wouldn't leave. And I'm not sorry.

[One hand finds the shape of Quentin's cheek in the dark, lit by his eyes, his voice, by the electric blue of his magic, even limited as it is. Koby cradles his face, leans in closer, forehead to forehead.] If it meant I could be with you, I would do it all again. Not -- my friends being hurt, I hate that, I hate it, but -- all this hurt. All the times I've cried your shirt snotty this week. I'd do it all again.