Mentally cursing himself to snap out of it, Christophe knew and had accepted that he shouldn’t have expected any other response, so he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t turning on his heel and heading for the door; instead, he was quiet for what was really only a couple of seconds but that felt like hours when it occurred to him that, as some kind of cherry on top of the situation, he swore he could feel a single tear threatening to show up: ‘over my dead body’ crossed his mind. Blinking it away, Christophe nodded, breaking his silence, “No, no, God cursed me with that talent. I can’t drink gin without going around wanting to hug people,” he scrunched up his nose in disgust as if he’d just admitted something, but Gregory knew all about that one already as Mole had ended up a sentimental mess who would go through a book’s worth of compliments if he got the hugs he wanted after a bottle of that stuff.
“I can’t handle gin,” he repeated, “I can’t run and think at the same time, which makes any situation I’ve gotten out of a fucking miracle because, oh, yeah, my coordination doesn’t extend to any situation above ground, so when I’m running I’m just looking at the ground, planning the next step. And God, ew,” sticking out his tongue, Christophe was aware that he was rambling, but he also knew that there was no way that he’d ever be able to explain himself over text instead without blowing up Gregory’s phone with a string of messages that was a million short messages long, “I always think I’m having a-” shaking his head, he wondered if Gregory was still close to sending Elizabeth after him, “shit, I mean my heart feels like it’s trying to train for the fucking world Olympics all the damn time. All the time! All the time, just from talking to-” leaving out the last word, he motioned a hand toward Gregory instead, the dark of the room doing nothing to hide the red tint across his cheeks.