Andrealphus has Christopher backed against the wall.

Perhaps Andrealphus is beautiful, but he isn't showing it too well today. His delicate, androgynous face is twisted in a rictus of rage. He is hunched over the small Archangel, his breasts hanging down, his legs splayed, knees inward, so he can bend over and threaten so. He looks twisted, broken, as of course he is.

"I said, not like this," Christopher said, clearly, and put his small arms around Andrealphus. "I know," he said, as Andrealphus froze. "You're lonely. It's been a long time since anyone would hold you. You left your parents behind so long ago, and never quite grew up, right? One of the lost boys. And it's so empty. So tired. So lonely. You sell your body to get by and it's never really what you wanted."

Andrealphus was silent.

"You can cry, if you want," Christopher said, comfortingly.

What Andrealphus ended up doing wasn't crying at all, but pain aside, Christopher thought his point had been made.