It's that same assurance. Mark won't push, so Huvrye has to make the decision himself.

(Because historically he's been so good at making decisions. He's definitely never gotten the people he cares about hurt or killed. It's fine.)

But then Mark keeps going, talking to him like-

What Huvrye wants is enough.

-like he's a person. It sinks in, brushes against the awful, powerful little crystallization of thought he'd had during their last conversation - that Huvrye had buried rather than open that yawning pit underneath himself - and it ignites.

He's not a person. He knows that about himself. But Mark doesn't, and Mark keeps talking to him like he is- like he gets to make his own choices in life- like he really can leave everything behind-

Would Mark still be talking to him like that if he knew?

He wants to think so. He wants to hope so. But if that's not the case, he loses this friendship, and he can't stand the thought-

So then what? He lets the lie go on, builds a friendship on an assumption that isn't true, and feels this awful acidic burn in his chest every time Mark treats him like he's a person? How long until that poisons everything? How long until it burns him to the ground? He can't bury it again - he had barely managed it the first time, and now it's worse; is it really better than getting the worst over with now? At least if it all collapses, he'll know, and he'll have time to heal.

(Not that he ever heals from this kind of collapse. Maybe it'll be better this time; it'll still be his fault, but at least Mark will be alive.)

His shoulders are hunched and his head bowed, like he's curling in on himself, trying to protect himself before the pain comes, never mind that it's already here. "No," he manages. "I brought what I am with me. I don't get to change that."

He's telling him. He's telling him, and he stands to lose him as a result, and now it's too late to stop.