( the urge is there, to shake his head--to reassure that there's no need to take care of him, that he's not even deserving of it, really. to be considered something special: that's the kind of desire that he would want for his brothers, for them to be someone's special thing, for them to be treasured, and loved, in a way different from the way that he loves them. there's no way to express that in words that won't get him scolded--he can tell that much, at least, by the emphasis.

so his gaze drops down to their hands, and then sidelong, slightly, to the mildly too-long edge of palamedes' other arm, the little tips of tentacles that he can see, and then back up again. )

I'm nothing special. ( he can say, at least, can admit without trouble--calmly, quietly, as reasonable as he thinks he can be. still: ) But I would like it if I could be.

( a sea of fascinating strangers, in a world that doesn't make sense, in a place that will probably be the last place he sees--maybe, or maybe not. he hasn't figured that part out yet. but amongst all of them, he doesn't know if he can be that selfish; he doesn't know if he can consider himself special enough to be the one standing here, receiving those words back.

with a faint squeeze to his hand, and a small, almost pinched smile-- )

I don't understand this feeling, but I like it. I like...wanting to be cherished, by you. It feels good to think I could be, but I don't know if I should be. Do I deserve something good like that? Mm. I don't know.