[Peripherally, he knows the other boy is looking at him now, but this time his own gaze remains determinedly averted. He's a child, uncomfortable and not replying—not immediately, at any rate—shoulder drawing back, elbow lifting, wrist intending to pry loose, but he's not pulling back as hard as he could. No, even he's trying to prevent himself from freaking out. His other fingers fit themselves into the bed, pitiable prevention in pulling Miyuki's hand away from between his legs.

For a full minute or nearly, he's lost in his own world, deliberating with himself, looking as though he really may cry again and trying to fight it. And within that minute, he strains, and forces himself to stop.

But, finally—and this time the fogginess to his eyes does pool into saline, and droplets rush to the soft point of his chin:]

If I can do nothing else but let you touch me, all I'll think about is how Claude is supposed to be here, that he should've come much sooner than this, that I'm letting you do it, that he's left me here. And, then I won't— I can't...