[The feel of Set tensing against him, pushing back just a little to put that small bit of distance between them, twists an unhappy knot in the centre of Liem’s chest. He is rigid now, wound tight and still against the warm body that is even now pressed against his back. The sharp, brittle quality in the god’s voice pulls Liem’s lips back from his teeth in a silent snarl. The trembling that occasionally breaks the stillness of his person seems suddenly to reflect that violent undercurrent, tremors hinting at some explosive pressure, deeply buried.

He hates this—hates disappointing someone who had come to him for understanding, hates crumbling apart and revealing all the weakest and most selfish parts of himself, hates his own pitiful humiliation at having wished for something Set was never, even from the beginning, prepared to give him—and hates that Set must witness all of it.

He hates it almost too much to speak, and instead drags in a harsh, shuddering breath as Set talks about his worth. As though that isn’t the problem; as though he hadn’t wanted, just once, foolishly, to be valued independently of what he might have to give.]

The care I have laid at your feet was never meant to buy your affection.

[He gave it because he could, because to him, that is what love is. And he gave it without expecting repayment; only the pleasure of making someone dear to him happy.

Of all the things to make into currency, this seems like the very worst.]

I am weary of love that must be measured by what I have to offer.

[It is the easiest love to find, he has discovered, and it has kept him from starving—but after too long it begins to taste like ash.]