It felt like an hour before Imani finally stepped out of the room. His were the first eyes she met, her gaze a steely, feline thing. Jaylin could never read what was behind them, and he felt now more than ever that he needed to. She gestured him forward with the crook of that pewter-ringed finger, and Jaylin rose from his seat.

"Make it quick. I've given him desert pearl," she told him as she drew him toward the door by his bicep. "A rare flower that numbs our pain like an opioid. It should be kicking in soon, so speak slowly." Then Imani opened the door, just enough for Jaylin to step inside. It shut softly behind him, sealed him into the silence.

Quentin laid there, watching him through black lashes and half-mast eyes. Lids so heavy, he hardly looked awake. So red around the edges, so dark beneath. "I'm sorry," he said. "It wasn't supposed to go like that."

Jaylin couldn't look at him, not for more than a second. He felt the tears hit his eyes, and they gathered so quickly, he couldn't do much to blink them away this time. So they fell and he gasped in the sadness that they brought him.

He'd been counting down the seconds until Quentin woke—but standing in front of him, seeing his suffering. The sweat at his brow and the ridged, jagged way his chest moved, hard graveled breath that made Jaylin's lungs ache themselves. It felt so awful to see him like this. A broken, blackening thing. Though most of his wounds hid beneath the sheets, the one on his shoulder still shown and the darkness was beginning to shroud around the bandages, clustered on the skin like storm clouds. He was dying and though Jaylin tried not to think the word, it struck him again and again and again. Dying. Dying. Quentin was dying.

Quentin gestured him close with two curled fingers, and moving toward him felt like wading into dark waters. Jaylin eased carefully into the bed at his side, mindfully even of the strong arm he laid on, before he realized it hadn't been damaged by bullets. Quentin felt like glass and Jaylin was so afraid of putting another crack in him, so he laid there, careful not to put any pressure on his body. Nervous even to rest a hand on his cheek—but Jaylin did, because he needed to feel him.

Quentin shut his eyes to the touch, let his head turn to the side so their faces were only so far apart. "I saw Anna," he said.

For some reason, Jaylin smiled. Hot tears sliding down his face, he smiled at the thought of Anna. "What did she say?"

"That I could leave with her."

"But you didn't?" Jaylin asked.

"Of course I didn't." His eyes opened slowly, like the light in the room was too much. And Quentin reached out for Jaylin's face, wiping the wet from his cheek. "I couldn't."

"Good," Jaylin said. But his lungs hurt and his eyes burned, and it came out in a tiny whisper that he could hardly hear himself. "Stay here," he told Quentin. "God, please stay here."

The tears fell harder and he hated them, because he couldn't see Quentin's face. But he could feel that strong arm beneath him curl around his lower back. Again, with his knuckles, Quentin wiped the tears from beneath his eyes.

"I'll be alright, Jaylin." He said it with so much certainty, so little fear. God, Jaylin wanted to cling to that sound and float away. "I'll be just fine."

"Imani said—"

"I know what she said. We'll figure it out."

Jaylin couldn't help but slide in closer. Imani would come in and pull him away at any second. So he shifted forward until he could rest his forehead against Quentin's, curl his fingers comfortably through his hair.

There was an easier way about his breath. Jaylin assumed the Desert Pearl must have started working, because that grin of his bloomed wide and brilliant, and with that smile, Quentin said, "We still have to throw a TV into the ocean."

And if he wasn't certain by the sound of pacing footsteps that his time with Quentin was nearly over, Jaylin would have cried again. But then he wouldn't have been able to see that beautiful smile, those warm brown eyes. So he took a breath and ran his fingers up through Quentin's hair, down the broad back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," Jaylin said. "I was the one they wanted. I'm the reason—my existence is the reason you're sick."

Quentin watched his eyes with that steady gaze. Jaylin felt the arm that laid beneath him move, Quentin's thumb brushing beneath his shirt to the bare skin of his back.

"Your existence," Quentin said, quiet in the space between them, "is the best thing that's ever happened to me."