[ Though Harry has his mouth open to fire back, the sound of John's laughter shuts him up so fast that it's like being slapped. A stricken, wide-eyed expression pours over his face -- a question in his eyes. Something like: is John Marcone really getting misty-eyed and nostalgic in front of me? And in the meantime, he's got two hands on his drink like it's the only thing left to anchor him, because a shiver just ran down his spine and maybe he might fly apart if he lets go. ]

[ How many things did he give up? Harry's unable to pose the question (not that he expected an answer), because by the time he thinks it, it's time for another round of queries-without-answers, and he's leaning in to John's presence carefully. Trying to assert himself, use his own imposing height to overshadow the other, but he's just not able to look down on Marcone.

Where are the scales at? Where, indeed. ] Let's just say that neither of our hearts is going to be lighter than the feather. You'd agree to that. Weigh us and measure us and damn it all because I was never good with numbers, and you have an entire accounting department to handle yours.

[ If anything, those scales have been tipped in John's favor that night. There are no small feats or little graces between them. It's saving each others life, turning to each other when they're cornered, pinned down, faced with immeasurably odds. And it's what John's made of himself, wound so tight about his throat that even Harry, oblivious as can be, can see them choking him. Maybe that's the thought that breaks him, because he reaches out for John's neck, eyes focused on some distant horizon as he does so. Fuck, what was he doing? ]