( he knows better than to reach out and touch it--knows better than to lift up a hand, strum his fingers in as though any of this belongs to him. this isn't his place, and more than that, this isn't something that he understands; he watches, eyes trailing from where esikko's fingers touch, to the way the blood moves, to the strange feeling, almost like a chill that settles around them. it makes him want to shrug further into his hoodie, but he's already warm, burning up beneath the fabric; he's listening, despite the way his gaze lids, a little, as he watches.

the suits connected, like arms and legs. opposites, branching out. which would put something else as the heart, wouldn't it? something else at the center. the house itself, maybe, if it can be some kind of entity like that. a bizarre thing.

the flowers look familiar, but he doesn't want to admit to that. there's a press of his lips together; it's easy to stay silent, easy to be patient, but as esikko lets the information leak, so does his body: a flicker of his gaze finds that little nosebleed, dribbling down to curve over his upper lip. )

Somewhere in between? Not alive, and not dead either? ( quietly--one arm lifts, a sleeve that rubs, lightly, across esikko's nose, smearing the blood there, staining it over his sleeve. )

Isn't that true for most of us? ( it isn't a challenge, like he knows better: but more trying to map the information together. ) How are we alive, here, if we're still alive back home all the same?