Even now, Paul wants to say of course. He wants to say always, he wants to say never. He wants to say all the impossible words that signify the negation of chance, or change, the ones that fix the world to a shape that cannot be held however much a person wants it to be.

He thinks, as if he's remembering the moment even while he's living it, that maybe this is part of what it means to grow up. The metamorphosis and the imago, the turmoil of recreation.

"I still want you to be my sensei," Paul affirms, his fingers seeking the seams of Johnny's (not so fleeting, it turns out -) as he stays leaned in, "But you don't have to say that you'll always be there, or that you won't let me down. It isn't..." he shakes his head, uncertain of his words, speaking anyway "...that's not what I need from you."

"I need you to try not to make the same mistakes." It feels worse to say what he needs than what he wants. A want can be done without. A need drags his eyes down to their clasped hands and puts all the childish nervousness back into him, and maybe he doesn't know anything about growing up. Maybe all he knows is that he needs something to change for the better. He needs to know that anything can.