Horst feels his heart seem to deflate in his chest with a small, painful flop. He can hear the exhaustion, the resignation in Johannes's voice, and he thinks: it really has been a year for him, hasn't it? He never sounds this insecure, this lost, when he's got someone to comfort him. This is how he sounds when he's locked himself away alone too long with his research. With his fear. With his guilt.

Horst rests a hand on his shoulder. "That was the Sword of Damocles that fell on you after all," he argues softly. "It was always the game. He didn't want to see you squirm. He wanted to destroy you by showing you your own irrelevance. The joke wasn't the game, it was the surprise ending."

He has the urge to gather Johannes in his arms, to stroke his hair and soothe him like a bullied child. Johannes, unfortunately, is not most bullied children. That sort of thing will never work for him. Instead, Horst forces himself to look manfully off into the street.

"There's no one I know who holds life more precious than you, Johannes. But the one thing you never figured out -- the one thing that I think was harder for you to believe in than the damned ridiculous idea that death was conquerable -- is that it's never too late to change your tune. You only get one life. You don't have to bury yourself in it from age ten."