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Eobard held Barry in place as he kissed him, moving into him fiercely, insistently, with a hand wrapped around Barry's tie and his other hand on Barry's throat—Eobard needed to hold him closer still, hold Barry with his jaw caught between fingers and thumb so that Eobard could feel the beat of Barry's heart against his hands, that measured but increasing pulse. Barry was melting into his touch, but it wasn't enough; Eobard tilted Barry's head so that he could kiss him more deeply.

Barry cried out, quietly, the sound muffled against Eobard's mouth—

Eobard closed his eyes.

He saw everything in a flare of light, a flash of memory:

There was a wall of impenetrable glass before him, and a variety, a parade, a sequence of eyes staring back at him. Each with their own story, their own tale of woe, you killed me, and are you expecting me to feel sorry for you, and finally a last anguished why to top off all the rest. They meant to leave Eobard behind that wall of glass, hundreds of feet beneath the city streets. They meant to bury him alive. Forget about him.

Déjà vu.

It was the same mistake, an identical sin. Because from behind that wall of glass, Eobard had pulled Barry towards him—not with his hands, not then, but with his words—and proffered a confession of pride and love made obscene by the memories that lived behind both of their eyes, by the knowledge found there, by the realization of a shared anger, if not quite a shared grief. And while with perfect hindsight, Eobard would eventually see that moment as the acute psychological torture that it was, he had then been driven by an insane desire to share some gentler emotion—as a defrayal of costs, perhaps, as a recognition of debt. As a sop to Barry's pride, saying, Don’t worry, Mr. Allen, I deceived myself, too.

Eobard kissed Barry, gasping, almost choking on the memories—

He refused to confess to any of it.

Telling Barry that he was loved, it wouldn't be a kindness.