[ if asked, he wouldn't be able to explain fully why the quips bother him so — he has heard many, now, and each time there has been an itch under his skin, a sense of wrong that octavian should try and make light of his state of being, for... what? so others not be uneasy? no, the wrong is on everyone else — why should octavian be anything different, try and put them at ease, when it is everyone else who should accept him, who should recognise that his state is a terrible thing to be and yet necessary; we do what we must, he'd said when they met, and he still thinks that, now —

but like this, octavian need not be anything else than himself, as he is — a marvel, really, with his singularly beautiful mind, with his quiet not-quite-chuckle, his sense of humour, the way he listens and understands like no one else. why would he ever want him to be anything else? why would he need anything else?

though the touch against his face, fingertips tracing his cheek and jaw, settling to rest somewhere against his neck — yes, that touch is appreciated, and viktor glances down again, almost abashed for a moment, the touch unfamiliar and yet something he feels he wants to get used to. ]

Yes, [ he says, finally, after a pause, ] That is what it is... a choice. I like that. That this is — intentional. Not fate, or a cosmic force, or whatever else people describe it as, but us, choosing.

[ choosing each other, specifically. ]