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[ He looks down, not when Charles calls his name, but when he reaches out to him again, the touch warm even through the fabric of his shirt. There is an easy familiarity to it, easier still now that it's the third time Charles does it, but it feels just as sweeping as the first. Almost as if he's drawn from reality to some alternate state of existence. The people around them don't vanish entirely, but it all feels like a blur around them, his mind no longer focused on that.

There's something of a flat stare at that, but he supposes he deserves that. Would deserve worse, really, if Charles wasn't so deeply forgiving.

He almost makes a callous joke — it's not like there are any presidents around here — but he's silent instead, letting the last words fall between them, sink into him for a moment, before his mind is capable of forming the right thoughts crossing his mind. ]

I don't want to wait for the end.

[ He doesn't want to wait until they don't have another choice but to be on the same side again. Doesn't want to live a lifetime of antagonism and resentment, only to realise in the last moments that it was only time wasted away fighting each other, when they should have been by each other's side. ]

I want to do better. I don't know that I can promise that I'll succeed, but I can promise that I'll try.