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Dimitri pauses mid-sip, his eyes narrowing at me over the rim of his glass. “What are you talking about?”

“Your shirt.” I gesture toward his chest. “There’s a massive stain on it.”

A scowl snaps across Dimitri’s face. “Don’t remind me.”

“I have to look at it, so I want an explanation.”

Dimitri sets his glass down, glaring at his own chest as if he’s considering putting a bullet through it. “Kento spilled his drink all over me when he came by to see Rei last time.”

I arch an eyebrow. “And the terrifying Dimitri Morozov doesn’t know how to throw away ruined clothing?”

“I can’t throw it away,” Dimitri snaps. “Rei bought it for me. You think I’m going to toss it and break his heart?” He scrubs at the faint dark ring with a thumb.

I blink, the corner of my mouth twitching as I remember telling Kento Dimitri ruined my favourite coat. I guess this may be my fault.

“Tragic,” I say smoothly, leaning back against the cushions. “Have you considered crying about it?”

“Shut up,” Dimitri mutters, picking his whiskey back up. “Next time Kento steps foot through the front door, I’m pouring a full bottle of vintage scotch over his head.”

“I’d pay cash to see you try.” I joke, except the threat slipping into my voice suggests my sense of humor has taken a rather homicidal turn. If he touches Kento, I might just rip his head off.

I glance at Alexei again. He hasn’t moved much. He used to terrify people by walking into rooms. Now he looks weak.

It hurts more than I expect.

Probably because Alexei’s always felt indestructible to me.

Not physically. I know better than anyone that everyone bleeds. But in structure. Presence. He was always the one thing in a room that never bent. Dimitri erupted, I snapped, everyone else performed their little neuroses and violences around us, and Alexei simply was. Solid. Cold. There.

Now he looks like someone slowly fading in plain sight.

Dimitri follows my gaze and goes quiet. Eventually he gets up to refresh his drink and starts arguing with someone on the phone in the doorway about security rotation.

That leaves me with Alexei. I sit there, listening to Dimitri’s muffled irritation from the hall and the tiny crystalline clink of Alexei finally picking up his glass only to set it down again untouched.

He glances at me as I cross the room, but says nothing.

I drop down onto the couch beside him and, because subtlety’s never been my strongest virtue, wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean into him.

“Have you slept?”

“A little.”

“Eaten?”

His silence is answer enough.

I click my tongue. “Alexei.”

“I’m not hungry.”

I press my lips together.

I hate this part. If he were angry, I could maybe fix it. If he wanted someone killed, I could help brainstorm. If he needed a body hidden, a house burned, a doctor bribed, any of the practical monstrous little services love seems to require in our world, fine. Easy.

But his slow internal collapse while someone he loves worsens in a bed he can’t fight for them from is making me helpless.

I can’t stab grief. I can’t peel back his ribs and manually force his heart to keep functioning correctly while everything around it rots.