[ The steady crackle of the fire blurs into Hannibal's voice, a counterpoint to the liquid rush of his heartbeat. Krouse shifts on the couch, arching his back slightly as a feeling of glossy emptiness swells up inside of him. It pushes out, stretching him to a thin, tremulous surface tension, a soap bubble clinging to the rim of a wand dragged through the air.

He sinks back down, the tiny shift immense in his perception. When he breathes, it ripples through him in a wave, then keeps rippling - out into the room, into everything he can feel with the brush of his power, but more than that. ]

No.

[ He still can't tell how Hannibal is looking at him, but it doesn't bother him anymore. He blinks slowly, fleetingly fascinated by the glide of his own eyelashes. ]

It wasn't like that. [ A barely there smile blooms on his mouth. ] She didn't love me back. I don't think she even really liked me.

[ That's what codependent means, doesn't it? Two people tangled together by so much love they can't come apart. It wasn't like that. He was the one who was all reaching vines, and she only let him cling because she had to. ]

It's okay. I didn't need it. I don't. And she was right. It was my fault.

That's why I had to fix it.

[ When he blinks this time, he lets his eyes stay shut. His power keeps touching things, but he isn't sure what they are. He only feels their weight, the hum of their relativity. ]

Have to. [ He swallows a mouthful of nauseous spit. ] Is it supposed to feel like this? It's...different. Not fog.