A child of the night knows no fear: Solitude is no stranger to him. (Born of Purgatory, born of fear, born of darkness –– companionship is something foreign to him.) –– –– –– –– –– He’s may be lonely, he may be hurt. He doesn’t know how to vocalize it, though.
“Sheik~!” Emil’s voice near sang for the other. Calling attention to blonde hair and green eyes swirling with joy at the presence of a tanned individual. Loneliness, hardship. These things did not seem to cross the young face for a mere second, and instead crossed forward, hands pressing against knees.
“I didn’t expect to see you t-today! I hope I’m n-not interrupting any business planned.”
––And there, a sound reminiscent of a sigh. ”…M-my apologies.” (Was he shaking a bit? Perhaps. Would he do his best to hide it? Of course.)
It’s a rule. You [ never ] lie to Emil. Not when you’re upset. Not when you’re his friend.
He notices the trembling fingers, hidden by bandages notices the attempt of an apology, trying to hide away what should be embraced.
So his hands reach, collecting trembling digits within his own, a smile, so soft and understanding touching his lips to let the other know he does not need to tell him anything.
Because he will be there anyway. "Neh, neh! W-what’s a friend for, if n-not this?“ And there was his smile again. Hands a comfort to embrace the assassin with, to let fingers steady themselves silently.
