[he can't reply, with that finger there, holding his lips shut as securely as stitches. instead he merely pulls his hands back, holds them up by his head. surrender, plain and simple. if he cannot have his speeches, he must yield, though there's something like mirth there - silencing him? it would never be a permanent thing.
mirth, and the faintest traces of sorrow. (there is always sorrow there, buried under everything else. the bedrock he was built upon required it.)]
[The gesture seems to appease Andersen. He drops his finger, and rolls away so he may, once again, be on his back. The room feels as if it's spinning. He closes his eyes once more and, through the Bond, Dantes may feel an overwhelming sense of relief at shutting out everything in sight.]
Then rest. Unless you have some pressing deadlines to meet.
[Dantes lowers his hands, the relief a little contagious, and turns onto his side to close his eyes. this discussion drained him some when he'd rather linger in the mellow high, and he knows he'd be utterly useless trying to get work done in this condition. his bed's comfortable, and it's not cold - there's the concept of trying to get the blanket up for them, but that's a thought if they get chilly.]
You need the energy to berate me for my life choices later, after all.
[with a sigh, he pulls himself up some, enough to grab the the quilt folded at the end of the bed and bring it up, drawing it over them both. there. that should be better, and the warmth will soothe him still further as he settles back down, shutting his eyes again.]
[He can't remember the last time he'd been so close to someone. And for it to be with Edmond Dantes, of all people? It sounds closer to a comedic script than something real. Yet here they were, side-by-side, just close enough to hear each other breathe. For better or for worse, they were indeed friends.
After a few seconds of silence, he moves his head so it may rest on Dantes's arm. Just to make himself comfortable enough to sleep.]
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mirth, and the faintest traces of sorrow. (there is always sorrow there, buried under everything else. the bedrock he was built upon required it.)]
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I'm exhausted.
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[Dantes lowers his hands, the relief a little contagious, and turns onto his side to close his eyes. this discussion drained him some when he'd rather linger in the mellow high, and he knows he'd be utterly useless trying to get work done in this condition. his bed's comfortable, and it's not cold - there's the concept of trying to get the blanket up for them, but that's a thought if they get chilly.]
You need the energy to berate me for my life choices later, after all.
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Do you intend to do something stupid so I can scold you? You're more of a masochist than I thought, Dantes.
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[there's a feeling of relaxation on his end, an undercurrent of ease that's not often present.]
...are you cold?
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Just a bit.
[He's not.]
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[with a sigh, he pulls himself up some, enough to grab the the quilt folded at the end of the bed and bring it up, drawing it over them both. there. that should be better, and the warmth will soothe him still further as he settles back down, shutting his eyes again.]
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After a few seconds of silence, he moves his head so it may rest on Dantes's arm. Just to make himself comfortable enough to sleep.]