Jag was exhausted, coming down from being drunk, had an itchy neck wound, and a mountain of guilt. Their touches, their kindness, only made it all worse in that moment. It wasn't all right, and it wasn't him he was worried about. Tears sprang to his eyes and he looked to the side, trying to blink them back, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He needed a few long seconds before he was able to look back at Val and hope his voice wasn't too choked up when he spoke.

"I'm not cursed, I'm just a wanker."

How could he expect him to focus on how happy they'd been that night, when he'd fucked it all up since? It had been pure him, too. The same sort of bullshit he'd pulled with everyone who'd got close.