The resounding answer lies in a kiss, familiar and wanting. It's sweet, sweeter than anything that has come before, and as he once spoke long ago on an off-white couch in a lonely motel room, he could drown in it. He could learn to absolutely love it.

Except there's liquid stinging his eyes, trailing slowly down his cheeks.

Neil pulls his head back, abruptly breaking contact. Dark eyes close to the world. Palms move upward once more to press against his eyelids, and he thinks he should pretend. Make believe he isn't soundlessly crying about a stupid kiss, about a rape, about a regret he can never undo, no matter how he fucking wishes he can. He's twenty-four. He's just a shitty kid. He can't even control his own damn reactions.

Let alone his own life.

"I'm fine," he speaks immediately, calmly. "Ignore me. This will stop soon."