Jack did wish, so very much, that he could simply lock Glen in and soothe away all of his hurts.

Everything had been a downward spiral since Lacie's death, leaving Glen as wispy as the hint of lilac that dusted the inner chambers of his bedroom, pale and ghostly over otherwise strong crimson fabric and deep, darkly stained rosewood. Gone was the ethereal, but confident tea rose, red rose, white rose – nothing but slips and hints remained.

Jack hated to see Glen drifting so.

He wished, deeply and desperately, that he could drag Glen to his piano and beg him to play – anything, everything, to drown himself in music that had previously seemed to bring life to his soul.

Glen would have none of it.

"What good is music," Glen dismally told him, "if there is no one to write it for?"

Write it for me, Jack had wanted to scream, had wanted to beg – because oh, god, did he wish Glen would live for him. What good was he if he could do so little for his friend, his lover? And ah, did he love Glen – did he want to see Glen happy – did he want to see him consider smiling again, with a bird on his head in the lightness of spring by the lake, roses in full bloom and the pallor of lilac a distant thing.

"Please," he had said instead, and rather than placate him, Glen had merely turned away, locking himself up within his mind where Jack had no chance of reaching and fixing him. Of fixing anything.