[For a moment, he imagines how this will go. That they’ll enter the living room, see proof of two people having once thrived in this apartment in neat little pockets all around, making the absence of Connor hang over their heads all the more stringently, like the point of a blade ready to fall. Markus would have to broach the subject, not hover around it like it was a fire that would burn him to touch, would have to stand straight-backed, look Fitz in the eye, and tell him that Connor (friend, partner, lover, the balancing half of him) is gone.

It was a risk inherent in them all, disappearing without a trace, leaving others behind. A reality that any of them might be surprised with someday; and so Markus would shape his words to form a quiet understanding of this, all to lead up to the point: he’s fine. Don’t worry about him, he’ll be all right, he’ll pick up and move on because he has no choice and it’s all he’s ever done.

But Fitz dislodges all of that with a singular gesture — a hug, caught tight around his shoulders, empathy bond going alight between them, sharing, sharing. (Markus is the deep sadness of loss and frustration. Fitz is calm, controlled steadiness that threads through him and anchors him to the spot, a net that gathers up all those emotions and makes Markus face them fully. Makes him feel safe enough to let his own middling sense of control slowly unwind.)

He’s still until he isn’t. Until a hand comes up to return the gesture, a single arm wrapped around the other, fingers gripping weakly into the fabric of his shirt. Markus’ head lowers, his voice a soft register.]

Sorry. I... [He what? Words string together haphazardly in his head.] Thought it’d be easier to deal with it on my own for a while, we’re all so busy, and it’s not fair to dump this on anyone else.

[“This” being the emotions bubbling through to the other side. “This” being Markus’ own problems, always better ignored in favor of the bigger picture.]