Touch, familiarity, he was starved for the sensation. In another place, another time, maybe he would have remembered the bad along with the good, but now he was simply drinking in the attention and the touch that was kind on the outside.
Lips pursed for a moment, kissing the pad of a finger that brushed his lower lip, eyes heavy and hooded for a moment before he looked back up. Nothing was said for a moment in answer to that question, instead thinking, trying to remember, to piece together things that flew apart with a mere breath. "Never left." Not really, no. He had left Gotham, but he was still here, trapped in the hotel's nightmare that never seemed to end. Home was a long way from here, the humid heat of a Mississippi night with the fireflies glinting in the night sky, and he couldn't even remember the place he was from, really. It was a dream had long ago, faded into dusty grey and sepia tones.
His fingers played over the back of Trystan's hand, trailing and drawing pictures with the tips of his fingers, lips pressing again to a fingertip, chapped and dry.