Charlie's shaking from the shoulders to the hands, already wet-eyed but trying to squash it, suffused with shame. Yes, even shame for crying, and isn't that almost comically absurd? After every fucking thing he's done. Maybe it still exists because it's an easier kind of shame, a smack round the knuckles and bed with no dinner kind of shame, a shame that doesn't make him want to walk out into the snow and go to sleep.

Arthur's words, and the choke in Arthur's voice, make it harder to hold onto self-control because of how true they are. Truth is too fucking much for him. It so rarely does anything other than hurt. The people he's known, who've died - the people he hasn't known, who he's killed - all the people in between - they deserve a better memorial than him. Than either of them. But he's seen enough to know that the world doesn't run on what's right or deserved.

Small sobs begin to force their way out of him, choked-off, and he lowers his face further like there's still a chance that he can hide it.