"Restless, yes. My hands rarely stay still when there is nothing to occupy them, so I pace or fiddle with whatever is at hand, a pen, a book, a glass of water. I am not much for binding books, though I appreciate the discipline it offers; poetry, philosophy, and literature are better savored than constructed. Warm beds for strangers? Hardly. I tend toward cold showers instead, a habit less charitable, more honest, I suppose. Keeping busy, even with trivialities, is the only way to quiet certain thoughts. It works sometimes, less so at others. I wander the margins of rooms, linger on passages of a poem in my head, contemplate arguments I will never voice, or notes I will never write. A far cry from heroism, perhaps, but it keeps me from drifting entirely."
When Hasan said that his hands rarely stay still without something to occupy them, Théodore's eyes glanced down to the cigarette in one of them. His own taking a final drag before tapping out the last of the ash from the butt of it and snuffing it out. Arching a brow at how Hasan explained the preference to cold showers. Half of his lips tugging up into a smirk, "You never..." he hummed in thought, lingering as his hand went to Hasan's, "warmed a bed with strangers?" he chuckled as his thumb brushed across sofly, "Not even acquittances?" and nodded along, "Why not voice them? Write them?" Théo asked in a whisper, "I promise I won't tell a soul, if I should be so lucky enough to ever hear these things. Read them."
