My knees gave out.
I felt myself falling, felt Sebastian catch me, felt us both sink into wet grass while I came apart in his arms like something that had been held together with wire and will finally giving up the fight.
And he held me.
Didn't try to shush me or tell me it would be okay or any of the useless platitudes people offered when they were uncomfortable with someone else's grief. Just held me. Let me break. Let me bleed out years of poison I'd been swallowing to stay functional.
I cried like I hadn't cried since I'd dug Anya's grave with hands that refused to stop shaking.
Cried for the girl I couldn't save. For the man I'd become trying to make up for it. For all the years I'd spent alone because being alone meant no one else could die on my watch. For every wall I'd built and every connection I'd refused and every moment of warmth I'd turned away because warmth meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant loss.
Sebastian's hand moved through my hair. Gentle. Steady. Anchoring me in the present when all I wanted was to drown in the past.
“I've got you,” he murmured against my temple. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You can break. I'll hold the pieces.”
“You should?—”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“Sebastian—”
“Shut up and let me hold you.”
So I did.
I shut up and let him hold me while I fell apart. While rain washed blood and tears and eighteen years of pretending into the grass. While thunder rolled overhead and roses bloomed pale in darkness like ghosts I'd spent my whole life running from.
I don't know how long we stayed there. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours. Time felt different. Slippery. Like we'd stepped outside normal reality into some pocket where grief was allowed and breaking wasn't weakness and you could fall apart without disappearing completely.
Eventually the tears slowed. Turned into shuddering breaths. Into silence.
My face was pressed against his shoulder. His shirt was soaked through with rain and tears and everything I'd been holding back. His hand still moved through my hair in slow, steady strokes. Patient. Infinite. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to spend it right here holding me together.
“I am sorry,” I managed. Voice wrecked. Unfamiliar in my own mouth.
“For what?”
“For falling apart. For being?—”
“Don't apologize for being human.” He pulled back just enough to look at me. Rain streaked his face. Made him look younger. More vulnerable. More real than anything I'd ever held. “Don't apologize for having feelings in a world that tried to beat them out of you.”
“I am supposed to be professional. In control. I am supposed to?—”
“You're a person.” His hands framed my face. “A person who's been through hell and is still standing. That's not weakness, Viktor. That's the strongest thing I've ever seen.”
I searched his face. Found nothing but honesty. No pity. No disgust. Just acceptance so raw it hurt to look at directly.
“I do not know how to do this,” I admitted. “How to be close to someone without destroying them. Without failing them the way I failed her.”
“Neither do I.” His smile was small. Real. Sad in the way that comes from understanding. “But we can figure it out together. Make new mistakes instead of old ones.”
“What if I fail again? What if?—”
“What if you don't?” He leaned closer. Close enough to kiss but not quite. Waiting. Giving me the choice even now. “What if this time, it works? What if we both make it through whatever's coming? What if choosing to try is enough?”
“Statistically unlikely.”
“Fuck statistics.” He closed the last inch. “I'd rather live one real moment with you than a thousand safe ones alone.”
