[L knows, in a general sense, what is considered a normal expectation for a family, a friend, or a lover. His experiences have been abnormal, and he's aware of that too, but his ability to compare the two only extends as far as a particular charged boundary with barbed-wire wound around the humming perimeter. Somewhere on the other side of that, perhaps, is health and peace that would permit him to love Myr, openly, "in every way."

For now, it stands, as it did when he was twenty-five, or fifteen, or five. It burns and slices to reach past it even just to hold Myr's hands this way, look in his sighted eyes, entertain a pleasant notion that may never come to pass. It's the kind of thing that they can hope and pray for, but not plan for, and in that sense, it's still a fantasy, and therefore wholly safe. Even if the confession is out in the open, they both know what they can and can't have, and there is therefore no loss.

A net win, truly, and the bee is an appropriate symbol. The sweetness of honey, the looming threat of a sting.]

I do know it, Myr.

[The same way he knows the boundary that exists between his experiences and what's reasonable to expect in a life, the people in it.]

And I'll keep saying so. To the extent that it isn't annoying or repetitive, or...

[Pining. If it's a prayer, or a hope, then it's reasonable to assume that both of them only have so much control over it. He closes his eyes, enjoying the warmth of Myr's forehead against his own, having dipped his neck lower to make the contact possible with their height difference.]

For all the chaos, and the death... it was a good dream. I'm grateful.

[It's multilayered, perhaps even referring to multiple points in time and people. He loved the sense of acceptance and belonging with the true fae, just as he loves the sense of acceptance and belonging with Myr, now.]

I wouldn't be opposed if it lasted a bit longer.

[Before he wakes up alone, to process and consider all of this.]