[ No matter how brief or slight that touch may be, it's a gesture — a bridge, some gentle, meaningful tether to help Little find and ground himself just a tad bit more. It's so... easy for him now, to lose himself — it's become easier over these long months since what happened back in their world. If he once was a more resolute man in the face of horrors, it's practically stripped from him now. He crumbles. It's difficult, at times even impossible, for him to stand upright again when it's like this, at least on his own.

But he isn't on his own right now, and although he still wishes John would slip back into bed for that man's own sake, another part of Edward can't help... being glad that he's here with him. That human need for closeness, to not be alone.. even he isn't exempt. It means something, when he feels so small and childlike. An offer for tea. A touch upon the shoulder. The sounds of movement, of the kettle on, of the fire crackling, of the creak of John's footstep when he returns. Warmth, and living things. He isn't alone in the darkness, and even if it's what he deserves, he can't help being grateful for the fact.

(And he remembers a time, not so long ago, before Irving's arrival here — as the new year was drifting inwards, and a darkness practically subsumed Little. The result of this place and its... supernatural presence, yes, but everything it stirred from him, every guilt and horror and dread and ache, all of those things were pre-existing. It was so easy to fall into that lonesome, heavy place. And it was easier because he was alone here in this cabin; he'd sat in the darkness on this very couch, not eating, not moving, for... days. People sought him out, came to find him, but this is... different. He's not starting out alone at all. There's someone there.)

So, while it may only be tea, as Irving points out, it's— so much more than that. Little can't possibly convey his feelings on all of it to words just yet, so he only smiles thinly — but his eyes soften as they hold to John's, staying there for a few long beats before he finally exhales again and looks back down, as though holding eye contact is a feat in itself.

What Irving offers next is just that — an offer. A choice, not a demand, and every ounce of his being wants to flinch away from telling this man what he'd done (and there are so many other things he's done that Irving doesn't know of), but it's been some days since it happened, and he can't... breathe. It occupies so much of him, presses against his ribcage, a relentless ache against his heart. He can't breathe from it, from this knowledge. From the need to confess it, not to seek forgiveness, but just so that it's known. So that those who look to him with any ounce of.... respect, who think of him with any goodness, can see the truth. He's terrified of what will come from it, but— ]

I've done something, John.

[ And there it is, there it starts. Little can't bear to look up at him, eyes fixed to the floor, body leaned over a bit, hands trembling as he keeps them draped in his lap. It's still hard to breathe; every word comes out tense, strained, and he gives another odd, soft gasp inbetween them here and there. ]

When it was all.. happening. The violence, the— bloodshed. Miss Marsh was being attacked by a young man. I came upon it. She couldn't even cry out for help, he was— he was going to kill her.

I shot him.

[ All of it sounds so unceremonious once finally voiced. How can mere words convey it? The loud blast, the body thrown backwards with such force. The bleeding parts of that boy, forever unmoving. ]

I killed him. He— he's dead. I've killed someone.

[ He lowers his head miserably, neck craned forward, eyes disappearing behind unkempt waves that sweep downwards, concealing his face more. ]

I don't know what to do.