[ The silence while Leander just looks at him, chin tilted down, eyes moving along his body in a meandering path as he wraps himself in that fabric, into that shape, so familiar—this silence is a long and heavy one. The blood streaked down his nose and mouth and chin (and elsewhere) has darkened; he's listing to one side; his blinks are slow and uneven, eyes threatening to roll with each. But he's still awake.
The urge to tell Isaac to stop touching things in the room comes and goes. He'd have been okay with it.
His own clothes—his shirt's going to dry, and peeling it free of so many scabs will be... unpleasant. Sluggish, he plucks at the fabric, sticky fingers holding a delicate shape. His mind finally catches up to the question; he nods.]
no subject
The urge to tell Isaac to stop touching things in the room comes and goes.
He'd have been okay with it.
His own clothes—his shirt's going to dry, and peeling it free of so many scabs will be... unpleasant. Sluggish, he plucks at the fabric, sticky fingers holding a delicate shape. His mind finally catches up to the question; he nods.]
I can try.