“Why does it matter what I think?”

“Because you’re my brother,” Illya said. “You know me better than anyone else ever will. And if you look into my heart and only see evil there then that’s all there is. I can’t change it. I can’t—” He made an aborted movement, like he wanted to throw the chair across the room. But instead he just gripped it tight, his knuckles turning white.

“It’s not my job,” Anton said in a low voice, “to tell you what you are. You want to be better? Then be better, Illya.”

Illya just stared at him for a moment, his golden eyes wide. For the first time in what was probably years, he didn’t have any slick words or careful deflections.

“It’s late,” Anton said abruptly. “We need to focus tomorrow. I’m going to sleep.”

He left Illya by the dying fireplace and strode down the hall into the room he and Jude had chosen.

Jude was making up the bed as Anton entered. He looked over his shoulder as Anton pressed the door shut behind him.

“Is everything all right?”

In a few short strides, Anton crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Jude.

“Maybe a foolish question,” Jude said, and Anton could hear the smile in his voice. “Are you all right?”

“Probably not,” Anton admitted, pulling back to look at Jude’s face, half smiling and a little concerned. “But I’m a lot better now. Illya…”

Jude’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry that we need his help.”

Anton shook his head. “I thought after all this time, and everything he did to me, I wouldn’t care so much.”

“He hurt you,” Jude said. “That doesn’t just go away.”

“No,” Anton agreed, looking away. “But it’s also that … I told him he couldn’t earn my forgiveness, but I still wanted him to ask. It’s not that I want him to suffer like I did. I never wanted that. I only ever wanted him to…”

Jude guided Anton’s face back toward him. “To what?”

It was something Anton had buried so deep, he’d thought it was gone. But staring at Jude’s bright green eyes, resting his cheek against his careful palm, he knew that it had always been there, growing in the spaces of his starving heart. “To love me. Still. Even now. And I hate that I want that from him. It’s pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic,” Jude said, cupping Anton’s face with both hands. “It doesn’t make you weak, wanting to be loved. You taught me that.”

Anton pulled him close again, tucking his face into Jude’s neck.

“You don’t have to forgive him,” Jude murmured. “But you need to forgive yourself for still loving him.”