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He pulls you close. Buries his face into your neck and fists his hands in your shirt. The ache in his chest is like a bleeding wound. Gaping and raw and- he needs you. Please. He needs you.
Your hands skim over his arms, his shell, his head. Softly. Gently. Like he's some precious thing. It sends the whisper of a shiver through him. When you speak, it's all he can do to just. Hold on a little tighter.
"You know I'm not real, right?"
As if he needed the reminder. As if the last time he saw you isn't permanently ingrained in his mind. As if he doesn't see your limp body and blank expression every time he closes his eyes.
"I know," he whispers into your skin. "Just a little longer. Please."
You don't respond.