[Oh.

Each word is precise and falls like glass. The simmering anger he had a hold on slips out of his grasp as he just. Listens. Watches the walls damming up Jonathan Sims crack and a flow of the wretched place he's in tumble out.

God it hurts to listen to, but he does. Each and every word, shifting through them, and the odd pang of strange, almost jealous twist some of it gives. That. That goes aside for a moment.]

...

I think...

I think the worst part of relationships is that we don't get to decide what we are to other people. It should line up, though, yeah? But no, it doesn't actually matter how shit you feel about yourself. Martin sees you, for all of your flaws, and decided you're worth it. HAS for at the last year and, probably more. You don't actually get a say.

[His voice remains quiet, a simple intensity to it.]

All you get to decide is what he is to you. Whatever that is? God, whatever that is, beg him for it. Take your damn pride and set it on fire, and make a gift of the ashes.

Because he has no measure of his own worth either.