"Please don't." He wishes he could make it wry, back to normal form, don't get those soppy emotions all over him. But it comes out more hushed, weaker. Don't talk or he might not know what to do, how to answer. He thinks if Enoch tries to apologize to him he'd probably lose it, some way or another.

He wishes he were warmer. It was different when he held another of his own kind, where their mutual cold stillness was itself a kind of comfort just by merit of being mutual. But Enoch is alive and human, and, God, that changes a lot. He feels almost old in his arms, fragile.

"Don't talk. Let it come and pass."