Gideon lived with Felix's outbursts for years. They no longer have quite the impact they once did--not after he found the strength to leave them behind. He watches as Felix does his best to get hold of himself, waiting for what the man wants to say.

As it turns out, it's something that kindles that mild irritation into the beginnings of real anger. He knows what Felix is trying to tell him--or he thinks he does, anyway--but the way he says it leaves his throat burning with invective he can't voice. It took his death, took his being out of Felix's life entirely, for Felix to understand anything. Just in time for him to become a devoted lover to someone else. Someone unearthly beautiful and powerful, willing to put on courtly manners and probably social at parties. Someone with a tongue, no doubt someone without any qualms about Felix's preferences in bed.

All those years, he'd been willing to give Felix nearly anything to help him. And the only thing that worked was giving up his life--so that he could make up for his behavior to someone else.

He looks at Felix, hard, before scratching out a reply. It's a pity I didn't think of dying sooner. You might have avoided the trouble of exile.