I'm not used to this, [ heine says, the words muffled against kaveh's hair. ] I'm not used to—to being cared about. To letting myself be cared about.

[ he holds kaveh close, for once letting himself relish the simplicty. to hold someone and to be held—it's the kind of thing that heine two years ago would have scoffed at, would never have wanted. on the good days that heine, the one whose ascetic lifestyle of self-deprivation left him starved of human contact, is someone to whom this heine feels no connection. (there are bad days, still, and often. but the good days are more.)

he makes a noise that's half amusement, half just raw emotion. ] But I'm not going anywhere. I promised, and I'm one hard-to-kill bastard.

[ he promised twice: once in the half-drunk darkness with his and badou's hands clasped together between them, once in the bitter light of evening after a screaming fight. heine had meant it both times, but it was the second time that now feels like a tattoo on the inside of his ribs, indelible, something he can never erase.

what heine wants to say is that it's okay, or that he's okay. but it isn't, and he's not, but he's trying, and he hopes that kaveh can feel that. ]