[He's wringing his hands together as he slowly circles around to the other end of the couch, his tail hung low behind him. Everything in his posture is tense and small, uncertain and wary. Stolas folding himself into a tiny little owl envelope on the other side of the couch makes him ache something terrible, and he wants to walk over and pull his hands from his knees and rearrange him, tell him to take up space, tell him to sing into a microphone about how much of a motherfucker Blitzø was, again--]

[--but he doesn't.]

[He just stands there and wrings his hands, slowly climbing up onto the couch and sitting on the arm of it, hugging his own elbows and leaning against the back of it.] You know what, Stolas. You said it yourself, if-- if we're gonna be trapped here together... Least we can do is talk things out. And-- [He sits up, hands splayed in a starkly submissive gesture.] I don't want you to feel trapped, okay? I don't have to stay here, if you don't want me to, I just wanted to make sure you settle in okay. I don't-- you don't have to see me at all, if y'don't wanna. [Well, this started off great.]