Damn it, he should not feel guilty. This was not his fault, and the bed that Jim had made was his own. (Actually, it belonged to someone else, and it was going to be a long, long time before Nathan could unsee that.) But he still made a little noise of distress before he shut the door again.
Fuck.
The sound of his fist hitting the wall wasn't a pleasant one, but the pain did expel some of that horrific, sick clench in his gut. Nathan stood there, head hung, counting to ten, trying to remember how his lungs worked.
Finally he turned and looked at Jim, rasping voice sounding like he'd been broken and torn into pieces and scattered, like he couldn't remember how to put himself together again. "Just tell me this, okay? Don't argue with me, don't give me some shit about how I should know, because right now, I honest to God don't. Just... Truthfully, Jim, do you still love me? Do you still want this? Or is this some fucked up way of breaking things off with me?"