Slowly, Dylan reached out his free hand for the blanket, curled his fingers around one corner of it - careful not to make contact with Henri - and pulled it to his chest at an equally subdued pace. It would be the first time since last week when he had run off to Mac's for company and a shoulder to cry on that he would take rest on a piece of furniture actually meant for sleeping. And indoors, too, that was important. He twined the blanket around his shoulders and pulled it tight over his chest. A small amount of relief followed and he began to feel himself thawing - literally, not figuratively. The kind of hospitality that Henri was offering set Dylan's teeth on edge, he couldn't, wouldn't accept anything as true altruism; maybe that was why Mac had so spooked him, as well, with his talk of worry.
"It d-doesn't matter what it is-" He said, allowing some of the cold to chatter its way up from his throat to the tips of his teeth, "I'm just hungry, thirsty." And he missed Dave, missed him like a hole had been punched in his heart, but Henri couldn't help him much on that front. He shuffled obediently into the kitchen, dragging his backpack along with him, and when he sat, he pulled the blanket a little tighter around him and began to lightly roll his fingers over the table. "I-" He began, his voice thick with emotion, "Dave's dead. Heroin killed him."