Paul gives him a comforting little shake of the shoulders, all easy friendship. John shuts his eyes like a flinch, as though he's been hit. There is still an awful tensed confusion in his brow, in the miserable set of his mouth.

"Seriously?" For a moment it's unclear which bit this is in reference to, but he presses on, with rough-edged incredulity: "I can give you ten billion reasons."

Something hard solidifies in the slant of his shoulders, the tensing of his arms in Paul's embrace. He twists his fingers into the sand like a knife in a wound.

"The past can't be undone. What's it worth, if you can just—" and here he makes an aborted little gesture, sharp and open, as though sweeping clutter off a table. "There's no righting this. There's never any righting this. There's just finishing it."

He subsides back into silence. The ash whispers down. He is still wound tight as a cornered animal, and still he does not leave Paul's arms.

"I'd like to do at least one thing right." Here is the horrible twist of levity again, that familiar near-grimace to go with a joke. He looks Paul in the eye, as though the black-hole burn of his own can be the punchline. "High bar, I know. Personally, I think that ship sailed a myriad ago. But I don't need another boat trip."

There isn't any hesitation: only that same tight exhaustion, scraped raw.

"There's no undoing any of it. Not what I am, and not what she is."