“no one had ever looked at Arseniy Popov and thought: “yes. you. i want you”. he had spent his life making himself small, making himself useful, hoping to be tolerated. and then Anton had arrived, all golden and bullish and impossible, and had looked at Arseniy as though he were a sunrise. as though Arseniy were the one bright thing in a dark room. and Arseniy, who had catalogued every rejection, every sneer, every disappointed glance his whole life long, found himself suddenly unable to breathe for the sheer, terrifying, magnificent weight of being wanted. not for his magic. not for his usefulness. just for himself. and it was the most terrifying magic he had ever encountered. and he would spend the rest of his days making sure Anton knew that the wanting was entirely, devastatingly mutual”