"Thank you," he says quietly, an edge of something reverent and stunned in his tone.
He gets it. All at once it makes sense, why John weighs the term love like an anchor made of glass. Why he says it like a word from a book never meant to be read aloud. It's a purer thing than Edwin could have imagined before feeling it, recognizing it; a willingness to do beautiful and terrible things to make someone happy and keep them safe.
He loves John. He loves Jedao. He likes a lot of other people. But love, love is...
"You don't... You don't need to be jealous of Arthur. There's no reason at all for you to be jealous of him."
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He gets it. All at once it makes sense, why John weighs the term love like an anchor made of glass. Why he says it like a word from a book never meant to be read aloud. It's a purer thing than Edwin could have imagined before feeling it, recognizing it; a willingness to do beautiful and terrible things to make someone happy and keep them safe.
He loves John. He loves Jedao. He likes a lot of other people. But love, love is...
"You don't... You don't need to be jealous of Arthur. There's no reason at all for you to be jealous of him."
He squeezes Jedao tight.