[It's not not charming, the pout— but it's overridden by the distraction of touch ghosting over that tentacle, setting that newly-aware, different part of his senses alight again. The tentacles in Choso's hair curl tighter before withdrawing, trailing after him as they make the brief trek to the bed.

Seated, Palamedes turns to draw one leg up on the bed, facing Choso with his chin resting on his knee. He reaches out with the tentacle again, curling around Choso's wrist, snug and secure.]

It doesn't bother me. Truth over solace, which is to say, I would rather know than turn away. Technically the "solace" refers to lies, but...

[He holds up his hand, stopping himself. No, not the time.]

Never mind. Tell me.