Wallace looked down at the man sprawled, not neatly, yet not inelegantly, at his feet.

His immediate bodily reaction was to place the man in his arms and cradle him but an overwhelming repulsion struck him at even a light touch of hand to shirt; he clung desperately to that small notion that Steven had simply passed out from exhaustion and contact would make the real instance finite, unbreakable.

Carrying with it what seemed to be both the burden of responsibility and past memories tormenting him, his arm dragged slowly outwards to touch the other man's face, the fingertips closing together briefly to steady them.

Fingers met skin, and the blue-haired man flinched slightly, as though his friend's body had sent out a kind of electric impulse. Wallace pursed his lips slightly before allowing himself to touch the other man, more confidently this time, and a wave of emotions passed through him; he had seldom touched his friend – Steven was simply not an uninhibited person – and it felt too personal, as if he were invading the man's personal space, and Wallace wanted madly for his companion to wake up instantaneously and berate him for doing so, to snap him out of his stupor.

His fingertips drifted to the man's neck and Wallace was visited again by that fleeting hope that Steven was still alive, that if he could simply locate an audible, albeit faint pulse from the man, he would not have to worry any more, because his friend would be there to support him, to comfort him.

Wallace could feel his own heart beating uselessly as he leaned over Steven, dejected, and he was struck by the sheer nature of his living, breathing body; how the seemingly irrefutable man could be broken like a china doll by the mere concept that he no longer had a heartbeat, while Wallace kneeled there, broken emotionally by everything that had progressed yet being forced to endure the state of physically being.

The entire force of the situation seemed to land now, as his hand moved to the man's right shoulder and gripped it unconsciously, his other hand cautiously moving underneath Steven's left arm and holding the material. And Wallace was crying now, barely registering that things were happening around him, the tears that he had not cried for what had to be years now trickling down his jaw line, threatening to spoil the image that he presented day after day. Wallace shook them away furiously.

Removing his hand from the man's shoulder, Wallace pushed back Steven's hair from his eyes and frowned slightly; they were still the same. It was incredible how even as his best friend lay, inert, he could give the sensation that he was peering into Wallace's very soul.

He removed his hands altogether, appearing entirely at a loss of what to do; the responsibilities he had to carry out now seemed meaningless as he stared at Steven's form, mentally studying every fine detail about his friend, his eyes drifting to the metal cuffs he wore around his arms; he guiltily tried to suppress a smile as he remembered when he had first asked Steven about them and his own reaction upon hearing the answer.

The realisation hit him suddenly.

"I wish I hadn't left it this late," Wallace whispered softly, letting the man's hair sift through his fingers.

He kissed Steven's forehead lightly before slowly lifting him into his arms.