[If there's one benefit to the last six months or so of Prior's life, it's that he takes his pills (unlike his berries) unsugared. There's very little left brutal enough to shake him for long - the world is brutal, and so help him if he won't still stare it down.

There's something sharp about the look he gives Byerly. There could be many ways to fill the space after his words: questions, sympathy, disbelief, denial.]

Then good.

[In truth, this is where he might make the smallest movement, barely turn his head, and kiss Byerly. There are enough reasons to want to: an easy distraction or simply a natural way to convey something that can't be put into words forceful enough to have meaning. Except that he might taste pity there, from someone who refuses his end despite all its whispers of being the easy choice - but knows too well exactly how desperate one has to be to wish for death.

Except for that, and a small tangle of other things that catch and keep him in place. He almost matches Byerly's breezy tone, just so.]

If life must be nothing but a series of fuck-ups, let me be grateful it extended to that. I wish you copious disappointments, baby, there.