Despite the violence behind the touch, Harlow wanted it, welcomed it. The contact was a relief, despite the pain of John's steel grip. He wasn't a ghost, he was there, crushing Harlow's skinny wrist in his hand. It was like touching flame to a puddle of gasoline for Harlow. It was terrible to realize that for him, nothing had changed. He still loved John in the worst way.
If he hadn't already resolved to never let John see him cry-- a vow he'd made to himself a long time ago, when John's words would sometimes cut him a little too deep-- he might have started at those words. And maybe the hurt showed, maybe it was too clear in the cool blue of his eyes, but he didn't shed a tear. It was the most terrible thing he could feel-- for all of Harlow's stubborn refusal to acknowledge his feelings for John, they had always been there, and there was very little that could effect him more than the thought that he abandoned someone who mattered to him more than anyone else ever had. He knew Adelaide was nearby, and he almost felt guilty for asking her to come along. What was happening between them was intense and terrible, and Harlow hardly wanted to watch it himself.
"I screamed for you," Harlow whispered on a growl, eyes locked with John's no matter how awful it was to look at him. "I looked. I walked away from blood and entrails. You were dead. Everyone was dead."