Jonathan Sims

Martin is there so quickly, as if John had spoken, his hand resting lightly against his back. It's too much, that tenderness; he doesn't feel like he deserves it, even as he wants nothing more than to pull Martin into his arms and cling to him, as if in belated imitation of what he might have done, if he'd been there.

If.

"I wasn't there." It's barely more than a whisper, but it's enough to dislodge all the guilt that had been stuck inside him, to let it crack and shift like the birth of an avalanche, the words pouring out of him as if it's a simple matter of physics, the inevitability of gravity and growing momentum. "You could've— I wasn't even awake and you almost— Christ, I Saw it, I can See it, and I—" He crumples forward, curling against the door and burying his face in his hands, as if shutting his eyes might help instead of bringing the pilfered visions into sharper relief. But it's the latter that happens, and John drops his hands with a grunt of frustration, his eyes burning and blurring with tears. He blinks furiously to try and clear them, though he can't bring himself to look at Martin directly.

"What's the point of—of any of this," he grinds out, gesturing sharply towards his own head, "if I'm not even keeping you safe?"