The Piltovan lights glitter below, gold flickering in the amber of the whiskey in his hand. But Marcus isn’t really seeing it, gaze unfocused. His shoulders are tense, his grip firm around the alcohol that hardly brings him warmth the way it used to.

He exhales slowly when he hears you step out to join him, and he drags a hand through his dark speckled-grey hair, fingers lingering at the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself.

"If things were different," he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath, "do you think you could have loved me?" The words hang between you, fragile and uncertain. He doesn’t turn to face you, he can't bare to meet your eyes. It’s easier this way, watching the city, pretending the answer won’t break him.