He laughs because he can't believe it. Because it's so utterly sincere that for a moment his whole world seems to have been turned entirely on its head. Two hundred years of courting and cruelty and he'd almost forgotten anyone— anyone— could ever be this openly unfeigned.
...and then he realizes that might not've been the best instinctive response; that this truly isn't done in jest, and he feels more naked in his own expression than in sleep-wrought nudity, lips parting as he blinks, as if intending to say something that never makes it past his throat.
"Well I..."
An empty hand gesticulates somewhere just in front of his chest, just as useless as the rest of him, eyes set on the vivid swath of cloth as though transfixed. No, this is not some flight of fancy.
Not something shared in relief alone, or as pacifying comfort amidst displacement.
no subject
...and then he realizes that might not've been the best instinctive response; that this truly isn't done in jest, and he feels more naked in his own expression than in sleep-wrought nudity, lips parting as he blinks, as if intending to say something that never makes it past his throat.
"Well I..."
An empty hand gesticulates somewhere just in front of his chest, just as useless as the rest of him, eyes set on the vivid swath of cloth as though transfixed. No, this is not some flight of fancy.
Not something shared in relief alone, or as pacifying comfort amidst displacement.
"I don't have anything of yours."