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After Melvin had left, Horace had spent a lot of the night dithering. His room was clean, at least, but he hadn't been able to sleep. Going out would mean having to curtail the desire to go see where Jan was and frankly, Horace was too afraid of that. So he'd stayed in his room and laid on the bed and pretended to sleep. Until he'd gotten a text. One of his friends had been on infirmary duty had seen Jan there.

He didn't forget their fight, didn't forget his worries, but it was more important to make sure Jan was okay. Horace pulled on his shoes and ran to the infirmary, smacking into no less than three people on the way. This included Hattie, who at least received a stumbling apology. Question ran a never-ending circuit in his mind - had America hurt him? Had something else happened? A training run gone awry, a... a... Honestly, Horace had no idea what could have happened, although he would have guessed that maybe Jan and America fought like he and America had. But, he thought, the idea bile on his tongue, why would they fight at all when Jan was so quick to bow to her wishes? Horace shook his head.

He slowed once he entered the infirmary. They'd told him exactly what bed Jan was in and he yanked the curtain aside. "Jan, are you okay? Did America hurt you or something?" he nearly wheezed out, reaching for the chart at the end of the bed.

Out of everything, he really didn't expect ice crotch. Horace reread the chart, emotions flickering across his face: confusion, betrayal, hurt. Was it worse or better than the things he'd imagined? He looked up at Jan, who seemed as calm as always. The bruise on Jan's temple worried him, but he quashed the feeling. His fingers slowly curled into fists before he stretched them out again. Horace looked back down at the chart, reread it.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "How did this happen?"

"I know the conventional method!" he snapped out. He pulled out his phone, debated texting Melvin, tapped something out, then sighed instead. His hands ran agitatedly over his thighs. "Yeah, sure it explains some things, I guess. But it doesn't explain why you went to go ******** her." Horace was trying to be calm, to figure out how most people reacted. Really, he just wanted to walk the ******** out and not come back.

If she had just kept away... The words tickled his ear - the things he'd not quite wanted to realize. It would be so easy to blame everything on her, to say it was all America's (or golem America's, in this case) fault. But Horace couldn't. Jan had a problem, and Horace had been ignoring it because the last time he'd brought it up had ended in... in Jan being podded. Even the ******** shoes... There had never been any doubt in his mind that Jan would have slept with America and the thought, the fact that he had been so certain and right made him queasy. Jan's 'curiosity'. He looked down and took a quick breath. He was never going to be enough.

"I'm not sure you even want my help," he said softly, and looked up at Jan. "Do you know what it means - my help in this? It means getting rid of her things, it means probably some form of weird monitoring... it means-" Horace stopped. He had to try, to accept, to hold out because if he did, he'd be happy. Maybe he would even deserve happiness by then. There was a part of him that wanted to scream at Jan, ask him how the hell wasn't he strong enough to resist America, ask him if Horace's feelings even mattered. "It's... it's not just curiosity."

His hands shook and, noticing it, Horace curled into fists again. He stared at them, feeling bitterness rise in his throat - a familiar taste. "Or, since she is far more important to you than I ever will be, you can just keep ******** not-really-America."

I even tried to enlighten you-

He froze, a stricken look passing over his face. Jan may have told him he was important, but he'd not shown him, not when it came to America. She was like some candyfloss cocaine dream and Horace was... Horace was nothing so alluring or addictive. He was nothing, after all, even if he wanted so, so much. His fingernails dug into his palms sharply. At least Jan had admitted that he needed some sort of help. He'd take that, and he'd accept it, because he had to, because he hadn't tried hard enough. Because he needed to not be so ******** weak.

Even so, Horace's face crumpled when Jan spoke. "Is it wrong to want our relationship to be more important to you than a pair of her shoes?" He pressed a hand to his eyes and removed it quickly. Although misery was clearly written on his face, he would not cry. "I-I'm sorry, I just... I don't know what to do. I love you, but it hurts. And you don't seem to care or to even think before doing something that would hurt me."

"What do you want to be?"
"Loved," he said. "Thought of. Not left behind."
Nothing safe.

He dragged the chair over until it was touching Jan's bed. "I know you're trying-" He didn't know. "I'm sorry, I-" A part of him wanted to jump up, to yell out 'is this your ******** best?!' But he didn't. "I'll try to help, but I don't think I could handle it if you slept with her again - real or the golem." It was silly, but he felt he had to specify. There was a hollow growing in his chest, something deep that sucked away everything and simply left him cold. Horace leaned over, resting his head on the bed, arms folded up underneath, although he didn't turn his eyes from Jan.

Horace immediately tensed when Jan stiffened; it was the calm before a storm, a danger signal he'd grown aware of, even if he was usually too upset to act in reaction to it. That tenseness stayed with him even as Jan relaxed, and through his talk. He didn't comment on the shoes further. Horace knew Jan was different, but he couldn't shake the certainty that even if he had stayed, there would have been another night Jan went. Another afternoon. And, if it had been the real America, Horace would never have known - Jan wasn't stupid enough to come visit him while smelling like her. For once, when Jan said this, he still knew it wasn't his fault that Jan had gone to America - was it?

"I'm sorry," he said eventually, and let everything drop.

"Is there anything I can do to help with the pain?" he asked, because it was a safe thing to say. He reached up and captured Jan;s hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the fingers. Because that was a normal thing. "How long will you be here?" Another normal question, and he was concerned about Jan - he loved him even as Jan hurt him. There was still a large part of him that wondered if everything could be better if he could take Jan from this island, set up somewhere nice. It wasn't quite a white picket fence dream, but it was shamefully close.

His jaw clenched. "Yeah. I already told Dawson. The main question is why she was replaced instead of simply killing or kidnapping the real version. I find it hard to believe that we would be the first to figure out the golem-ness." Lifting his head, he fumbled around for his phone. He was still unhappy, and he thought, that with Jan, unhappiness was more common than not. He just had to turn it into happiness, then. "Do you have your phone? I think I accidentally deleted Edith's contact info."

"I told Dawson nothing of you or the whys. I only warned him that America was false and he should be careful." Horace looked just as offended as Jan. "Of course I value you! Dawson is my friend and I know he hangs out with America - I didn't want him to get hurt. I'm not going to talk about your and, by extension, my personal business if it does not need to get brought up. I wouldn't do that to you!" He didn't particularly want to ever have to tell someone 'oh hey, I know America's not real because my boyfriend cheated on me and slept with it and got ice crotch'. He could imagine Dawson's oddly pitying look, or Jordan's quieter concern. He wanted none of it - he just needed to be stronger. Horace straightened up fully and laid his phone next to Jan's side.

"You can read it, of course, if you wish. I didn't think warning someone would be wrong as long as I kept the personal details out of it." He frowned and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the ponytail holder. It fell into his lap and he snapped it around his wrist.

His fingers reached out and fiddled with the cloth near Jan's thigh. "I'm sorry," he sighed. Jan felt like a minefield sometimes. They both set each other off so easily. He was never sure how; he always felt like he as being reasonable, getting angry only over things that mattered. Jan must feel similarly. "I was only thinking of how to prevent more people from getting hurt, although I hadn't planned on telling anyone else." Most of the people America hung out with regularly... well, Horace didn't care for them. He tried to lean in for a kiss, for reassurance, although he didn't know if Jan would let him. Small physical things always made him feel better: touches, kisses, it didn't matter.

"Do you think that's why Taym and her broke up - because he found out, possibly in the same manner as you, that she had been switched?" Horace kind of hoped Taym had stick his d**k in the ice trap. However, Horace didn't think he could just go ask for medical records without giving a reason. And 'I want to see if Taym's d**k fell off' was not generally an acceptable reason.

He took his phone back, ignoring the buzz that meant someone was texting him. "I mostly like them. I like talking to you, to people when they aren't around. And while it's not moderated, they can be useful for spreading information quickly."