It's not what Dimitri expected. Not the contact, nor the quiet, accepting sympathy. People usually argue with him, when he bares this much -- try to tell him it's not his fault, or that the dead are gone, or that they wouldn't want this, or some such. It's ... nice. It's nice to feel like someone understands.

His forehead drops onto Darcy's collarbone. All the tension uncoils from his shoulders, and he only holds back the wet sting around his lashes with his reluctance to reset Darcy's honesty timer. "I'll try," he says. It's all he can promise. "If I can avoid mirrors, I ... should be alright."

He swallows. "I know. Both the living and the dead ... I need to live on to do them any good. But it's hard to ... it's hard."

There's more he could say -- more that churns, and festers, and burrows into the cracks and crevices of his mind -- but it won't do either of them any good to dwell on. Darcy's already gone above and beyond for him. Dimitri should -- he wants to, really he wants to -- sit up, and tear himself away, and reassure Darcy that he's fine; it was a momentary lapse, but he'll be alright -- but it would be a lie, and he'sso starved for comfort, and he should know better but it can't hurt, how much can it hurt? To sit here with his eyes closed, and breathe, and let Darcy be the one to step away.

" ... I'm sorry," he says quietly. This time, it's not an apology. "If you understand where I'm coming from ... I'm sorry. No one comes to understand these things for any happy reason."