Trystan was still, allowing Andrew his ministrations and gentle gestures. His eyes were still redrimmed from tears spilt beside a fountain that had spouted all evidence away, half-lidden and sick with a looming crash -- one that would not be pretty or comfortable.
Corpse-cold fingers traced the edge of the cushion beneath him, his eyes fixed upon Andrew and every move he made. There was a lack of trust muted in that fixation, but still he made no motion to escape; he was tired, and Andrew's hands were impossibly warm.