[If Kaworu were to wobble, Paul is there to steady him, his hands still light and certain on his arms. He tamps down the urge to brush at the proliferation of tendrils on Kaworu's cheeks, shivering and twisting as they grow.]

That's farther than most people get.

[He can't tell if he fixes a small smile at one corner of his mouth, or if the effort is a misspent twitch. Kaworu might as well have reached out to tap, feather-light, on a faultline of Paul's own; all of this does, and he sings like glass.]

They're shades of a spectrum, but all of one color. Do you remember when we talked about catharsis?