The silence was almost odd; once they had gotten back to the bedroom that Xerxes had been using during his time in the mansion, the man had not stopped talking. In a way, Liam mused, it was as though every thought he’d accumulated in the six months he’d been stuck in this place had been stored away somewhere and come pouring out of him all at once. And once they’d started coming, they’d kept coming, and all Liam could really do was hold onto him and listen and make mental notes of the questions he had, because there was no way he was getting a word in edgewise just then.
He’d managed to make him eat and he’d managed to get him to take a drink of water on occasion, and finally the chatter had slowed down and stopped entirely as Break dozed off, curled up around a pillow with one kitten under his arm and another rolled into a ball right on top of his head. The room itself screamed of his presence -- fabric and yarn everywhere, strings of prisms in the windows, stars sewn to the canopy of the bed --
He needed time to think.
So he left a note in a journal book Break had been keeping -- “Gone to the kitchen; yes, I’m really here” -- and left quietly, in search of a snack. At this time of night, he expected to be quite alone in this endeavor.
[Private to easilyflustered.]