[The lightness draws him from that quiet reverie, and his attention turns itself wholly onto Cy, an unconscious part of him glad to be fished from the painful steep of nostalgia. He steps in, pressing lips to the curve of the man's jaw where stubble grazes. The tactile sensation is grounding.]

That's not the only reason. I don't like the thought of you living that way.

[No matter the differences of nature, of becoming — he sees the constellations of loneliness in Cy, too. To have lived so long, losing everyone who ever mattered, until even the grains of that memory were wiped by time.]

You take care of me well. [The words are a murmur, resting his cheek against Cy's shoulder.] But I want to do the same for you.