So he does. He scoots next to her and clings, sobbing softly into her shoulder.

The universe is immense and terrifying, and most of all, it is lonely. At this moment, he feels that he has no one in all words and all times but a baby kestrel, and even he has moods of wildness, and will not be clung to. He feels his isolation in terms of a lifetime, not just a night or a month or a moment. He feels in himself the tragedy of the unwanted bulge in his mother's belly, the strange small child who could never fit in, the drunk who'd spent his share of evenings in the gutter, the anonymous face at the end of the universe.

It had all seemed to be going so well. He had made friends, or thought he had, but he had seen few of them in weeks. He had a lover who seemed to only ever be willing to give half his heart or less, but oh, how Miniver loved him. And oh, how useless it was to do so. But he wants him so badly now, wants just the two of them in their room, loving, reading, it didn't matter, being as they were. And he wonders if it can ever be like that again.