[ Even now, even after having had his body carved into and then seared shut, it’s not they’re gonna kill me — no, Ian’s still thinking about Mace first, and it makes him want to kiss the quiet anguish right out of that perfect mouth. Replace it with lips and tongue and teeth, until even the memory of it melts away like a bad dream.

His other hand continues washing away at whatever part of Ian he can reach, but the arm around his waist tightens, as if Mace can protect him just by holding him like this. Shield him from whatever the fuck is headed their way. The knowledge that he can’t — that if and when it comes down to it, he probably won’t be able to do a single goddamn thing to stop it —

That he can’t reassure him, I won’t let that happen, or I’m gonna get you out of here —

Mace swallows. But his voice stays steady; grows even steadier, because he means what he’s about to say next. He’d heard certitude in Ian’s voice alongside the heaviness of despair, and he needs to at least try to combat it, even if he won’t succeed. ]

Then you close your eyes.

[ He doesn’t know if it’s the water, or if it’s something else making them damp, but the sight of it is cutting into him worse than any shard of glass or scalpel. ]

And you stop your ears, if you can. And you go someplace good inside your head, until it’s over. [ Another kiss, swift and clumsy, to hide what saying all of this is making him feel in turn — and then he presses their foreheads together, their noses touching, his lips twisting with something wistful. ]

Here, maybe. If it’s good enough to stay in. Ian, Ian, listen to me.

[ If dying meant he’d be able to get Ian out of this place, he wouldn’t give a fuck; he’s pretty sure he’s dead already, and to have been brought back long enough to know what something like this feels like to have, it’s fucking worth it. But he can’t make that trade. He can’t make reassurances he has no hope of keeping. The one thing he can promise, though: ]

I’ll see them in hell first.