A breath, drawn sharp between his teeth. For a second, two, he forgets Jo is here, though distantly he's aware of her moving. His pulse thunders between his ears. He digs his nails into the rough ground until the pain reminds him where he is.

Fuck. Since when did he grow so quickly overwhelmed?

(Since a day or two ago, if he's being honest. Since he dreamed of fire, consuming, and a desiccated flower. And as he lifts his hand to wipe it across his mouth, a single wilted petal flutters, unnoticed, crumbling to dust.)

He pushes himself upright—not standing, but leaning against the cobwebbed wall behind him. His head tips back. He heard. What she's asking, he heard. There's just not an answer to give as for why. Not one that isn't obvious. As for what happened—

He wishes to touch on that even less.

"What does it matter to you?" His gaze slides towards her. Not angry, just tired. Exhausted. "So you can search for new reasons to justify your contempt?"