He took her face into his hands. A face that was beautiful because it was strong, with eyes the wild kind of green.

"It was never me," he accused her, "All this time. All those centuries. You never cared about me at all."

She had always been too proud to be a liar. And so she said nothing. Nothing, because she wouldn't lie to him, but was at least kind enough to realize that the truth would destroy him. But silence was enough. Silence was a hot spoon to his insides, scooping him out.

"Nothing," he repeated, sinking his fingers into the flesh of her shoulders, stooping to rest his forehead against he breast, "I was nothing to you."

She's warm, through the shirt. He wants to push until the fabric tears, until there's nothing left between them, and he wants to crawl inside her and he wants to swallow her whole, so then she wouldn't be able to leave him, as she always does and always shall. Because Hungary has always been honest. And in honesty there lies a terrible sort of cruelty.

"Not nothing," she says softly, into the side of his face, to his temple. Her fingers fist there for a second, gripping his silver hair and pulling him into her before she abruptly lets him go. His scalp aches in a way that's real, and painful. She'd pulled too tightly. He wants her to do it again.