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Summary
He’s practically just a kid, is all that you can think. But saying anything to him in this moment could make him pull the trigger, whether it be at you or himself. Not that you could speak, anyway. Not that you want to. After you’ve chased Henry Letham down subways, empty streets, dingy cafes where the light flickers enough to make your head throb, all you want to do is hear him out.
Keep him talking, keep him alive.
But God—it’s so hard, right now, because all he keeps telling you is that all he wants to do before he kills himself is suck you off.