Slowly, Bariyan's arms closed around Martin's back. His palms flattened against the boy's shoulders, cold and numb, unable to feel the solidity of him -- unable to confirm his existence through his touch.

But Martin's voice resonated in his soul.

Bariyan went rigid and dragged Martin in, his head bowed against Martin's shoulder, shoulders pulling in tight for one short moment before releasing, the entirety of his being snapping, the very structure of him threatening to collapse as he clung to Martin. And he wept.

He'd spent so much time here chasing after Martin. Staggering in Martin's footsteps, just a week ago, following the trail of blood and death and violence, exhausted to the bone. Trying to find Martin whenever he lost himself in his own misery, those times when he had refused to stay in his room and disappeared into the streets. Calling for him when the Initiative called for them, always anxious to keep him out of their reach, to protect him. Always. All the way back to the very first: when Martin had wandered out of the city and wandered further, so far, all the way up north. He was only a stranger to Bariyan, then, only some nervous boy who did not deserve to be here. No responsibility of Bariyan's. Yet-- yet he had gone after the boy, all the same. Where are you?

And now: the answer.