[It's easy like this, to speak with a light tone as he squeezes Art's hand, easy to ignore the way he'd slowly lost hope Art would ever wake, the way his chest is constricting now, the two parts of him fighting inside him, one wishing to pull away and turn away because there is a nagging truth at the back of his mind he refuses to give voice to, the other wishing to not let go of Art's hand, to pull him closer--
so he does neither. Instead, he hums, for some sound to fill the silence that falls between them, that surrounds them, because right now, he can't face the thoughts looming in his mind that the silence pushes forward.
Still maintaining the light tone, he continues, like this is nothing but a casual, unimportant conversation.]
You were lucky, Art. The weather hasn't... been real good, lately, but you missed that. 'M glad you did, it wasn't somethin' you woulda wanted to be awake for.