It takes a few seconds for him to force his fingers to release the cup, cramped with tension, coiled like claws. When Quentin holds him, he crumples, clings, hides his useless face.

"We weren't. I was trying. But I didn't, I swear I didn't. We have to stop. You don't understand, he's my lieutenant, we have to stop." His voice sounds - not calm, but not properly broken either, an urgent middling distress that doesn't match the way he shudders, the way hot wet tears soak the fabric of Quentin's shoulder. He had a long time to practice controlling his voice, when he was just a ghost.