[ once again, he tilts his head into the touch, almost instinctively so, like any time octavian's fingers touch his hair or face or any part of him, all he wants to do is to lean into it, to feel as much of it at once as is humanly possible.

and maybe octavian doesn't know the precise feeling, but he does certainly know something similar — perhaps better than anyone else in this whole place, which is why everything he says matters more to viktor than anything coming from anyone else.

like grief — yes, an apt comparison, for it is grieving except for yourself, for the injustice, the pain, the lack of choice... all of it. ]

You believe I will grow used to it? If I die enough times, here? [ because yes, he believes the terror would recede, if he didn't have to be afraid of dying over and over again, but like this? he chuckles humourlessly. ]

What would that be like? Oh, another month has passed, time to die again. [ a pause, and his expression crumbles. ] No, I cannot do that.