[ It was two glasses of rosé. He's easily lead in this somewhat inebriated state, though, and doesn't resist the journey to the couch. Nor does he pull back when they've sat down together, when Gil is cuddled up against him and holding his hand. Not immediately, anyway.

He looks out over the robust gathering of people, all talking and eating, all ostensibly having a good time. ]

I'm glad. We're at war. There are more important things to worry about, but people ... they need more than worries if they're going to survive. If I can help ease their suffering in any way, then I'm grateful ...

[ He trails off. The wine has loosened his thoughts, made them permeable; they collide and fragment as he tries to catch hold of them, to go on. But no: something else comes to the fore, now. He glances down at Gil's hand in his, at the warm press of their bodies.

He murmurs. ]

I've allowed you to become entirely too forward with me.