[He doesn't mean to-- he thinks he should keep pulling away, keep retreating-- but Gregor is so hungry for touch and reassurance after a lifetime of carefully dispensed, considerate contact that he can't bring himself to cooperate with his own better judgement. His hand spasms closed around Miles's, gripping it, and he needs that burning loyalty and acceptance as badly as plants need light to live. His whole being strains toward it automatically, the link widening slowly again in automatic welcome.

Usually, Gregor is careful to keep the real depths of his loneliness from Miles. Especially lately, since he's developed these feelings, he's kept it locked down in the corner of his mind he doesn't show him. But now it is a yawning void of desolate isolation, pierced with gratitude for those who puncture it.

He can't deny the justification behind that anger, he can't. But it's so hard to pit it against his old fears, which have had so long to entrench themselves, and have found such fertile ground in his mind, roots spread throughout. Sorry-- I'm sorry. It comes out like a gasp, with his physical breathing ragged. Not even sure what he's sorry for.

You...] I know you don't like men, [he says out loud, roughly.] And I can't-- be your test. I can't. I don't just want to hold your hand, Miles-- you don't know what I want. [The shame associated with his desires creeps upward out of that pit of loneliness, grabs hold of his throat, and is hot and thick enough to smother him.]