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Thorne listened through Lucas's words, wondering what this man must have been going through. His eyes lowered, and finally, he closed them and huffed, an animal sound. And then he rolled, his body slow and languid, and pushed up and away, so that he straddled Lucas for a moment, hands coming to rest on the back of his neck. He looked down at him, his expression shifting and shifting still until it was odd and dark and - quiet.

"You do that." His voice rolled, thunderous. "But don't ******** yourself over by hiding yourself from the world because you're afraid of hurting others. That's what life is. That's what humans are made to do. You don't need to be a monster to accomplish that."

He let his hands fall,raking his nails against the flesh of Lucas's stomach, up to his collarbone before the touch drew away. He closed his eyes and pushed himself to his feet, limber and rippling with something strange. Like he was running through the motions of a dreamer. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something else entirely.

Maybe it was that he wanted to scale the wall that he felt between them, the one caused because of this monster living in Lucas's bones and the ghosts haunting his. He looked out at the window. He had grown tall enough to scale most of them. His eyes lingered on the dying light. How had one small event led them to this?

"Of course I do," he said after awhile, his eyes turning back to Lucas. He felt the drying sweat against his skin, the places where the blood crusted. He pressed his hands to his neck, the scar, the ink. "I don't pretend otherwise. But you don't save yourself by being alone." Hypocrite, a voice whispered. The painter ignored it and studied his hands and the splatters of color, vivid and bright against the darkest parts of the ink.

Thorne glanced at Lucas, and his eyes were more focused than before, sharp and indelicate and cutting. "I'm not someone you broke, Lucas. You aren't the cause of what happened today." Unbidden, the false-memory curled in his head, and he thought of what could happen in the future. But that was just - just the future. Just something that no one had set in stone.

"Whatever happens, crazy s**t, the world falling, remember that."

Thorne watched the way Lucas moved, his mind reveling in the details of it, hungry to focus on something new. Something present. His lips curved into a sharp smile, the edge of something else. He stepped forward into Lucas's space, the way he had the first night and bowed his head.

"Don't undersell yourself." His eyes flickered, searching, before he hummed a low note in the base of his throat. "You're handsome, and infuriatingly kind, and sometimes I wonder what you see looking this way." He tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. "But I want you to understand. I was better, once. I might have been good for you, once."

He closed his eyes, savoring the touch. There was a soft shudder through his body, like an animal caged, when Lucas thumbed at the scar at his neck and rested his hand on his shoulder. His smile twisted on his lips and he opened his eyes again to the words. "I can't," he said, and then, softly, "I don't know how."

Because if he'd stopped fighting the real battle, the one in his head, the one that woke him up at night, - well, he wouldn't be here at all.

He sighed out, a sound like something unwinding and being released, when Lucas's mouth ghosted his scars.

But then he moved forward, catching Lucas's shirt gently in between his painted fingers. "You as well," he said. And leaning forward, let his lips ghost over the corner of Lucas's mouth. "Two way street," he said against him. And then he released the man and stepped past him.

And something felt like a knot in his stomach, something felt like poison or hope or anxiety in his veins. The door closed behind him and Thorne felt his entire body wind, as though waiting - waiting for another boot to drop.