John exhales, a barely-there brush of air that doesn't catch. He raises his head, as Paul speaks, to regard him. Takes in the lines of his hands, of his eyes, the weight on his shoulders and the thin cant of his smile. It's another glimpse of the familiar, sun through the clouds.

It answers the question he hadn't asked: whether Paul got his crown. Whether it ruined him. Whether they were always going to be the same, in the end, clawing among their separate ashes for anything like satisfaction.

"Whatever it costs us," he echoes, bruised and low. It sounds almost like an apology. "There's never any going back."