[ His eyes pursue the gesture, tracking closely how the boxer's fingers cage his hand, his lips press against it, the warmth of Wriothesley's breath in contrast with the slightly cooler temperature of his body. As he speaks, the muted chatter and churn of clockwork brings his mind back to that moment in the dark depths of the Alchemist's tower, the old man's body cooling in his arms, the loss carving out a hollow in him that he wasn't sure would ever recover.

But he did, he thinks. And Wriothesley will. But, for now... ]

You don't have to do this. [ The hand he had kissed moves to cradle his cheek, ] I'm not the one hurting.

[ What the puppet asserts may mean putting on this cavalier performance, in case it's for his benefit. When he was tasting the bitter draught called grief, it was Gemini who had told him it was all right to not be all right, words echoed now, months later, by his friend now. Points of cool metal — his prosthetic hand drifting up the back of his neck and pushing through his hair, the pet of his steel digits a more eloquent expression of his affection than the subtle, poignant concern in his steady stare. ] Be sad. I'll stay with you. [ However long it takes.

He tips up his chin, seeking to press a kiss, chaste and sympathetic, to the plane of his brow. ] You take care of everyone, let me take care of you this once. Will you, my friend?