He lets silent tears roll across his face onto Ben's shirt and just lays there, listening to his heartbeat, to his breaths, pays more attention than he should to the easy rise and fall of his chest. The tiniest parts of living that say he is alive.

"I fucked up," he mumbles quietly and a half-scoff, half-laugh that has no mirth in it escapes him. "I always fuck up." he mutters miserably. "I am a fuck-up." The more time passes, the more evidence he sees of pieces of his future in the older versions of himself running around the house, the more convinced he's becoming of that exact fact.