Hawke hasn't heard this from Chris before. He's cried on him a little, after Martin vanished, but the thin pained sounds and gasping sobs are gut wrenching. He doesn't let go of Chris' hand but does lay back, freeing his other arm from underneath himself to gently lay in Chris' curls, holding steady as he can while everything bleeds through.

It's not as steady as he'd like.

Eyes squeezed shut, Hawke tries to swallow back the lump still jammed in his throat, eyes prickling in a way that has nothing to do with ocean salt. They're still here, he tries to tell himself, but that is cold comfort when here is both the blessing he wants it to be and a curse that's doggedly eating at them but won't let them die. Little pieces go missing every time the Creator gets his claws in or Veracity's radicals act up or they try to do literally anything that isn't bend over and take it. He feels smaller than he was before. Diminished.

It's the people that help. It's Chris' that helps, even like this. Even wracked with pain and mourning. Hawke curls his fingers in Chris' hair as tightly as the other hand in his and squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of sorrow that rolls over him. It doesn't stop the tears, nor the stuttering in the rise and fall of his chest, but that's alright.

It's alright.

"I've got you," he tells Chris, a little brokenly but no less sincere. "I've got you."