"Yeah," he says, and scrubs a hand down his face, smooth skin with a hint of stubble and twisted, wrinkled stuff that won't ever be stubbled again. He doesn't know what the fuck to say to this. He's not even sure what the fuck he thinks, what the name is for the feeling that's wringing his guts out like an old towel. Except fear.

But fear is such a constant now. It's almost background.

"I kinda... dunno if I even wanna know," he mutters, knowing how stupid--how suicidally stupid it is once it's out. But if he doesn't know what to say, the truth seems like at least a place to start from. And that much is true.