[ It's not a boiling hot vat. Idiot. He doesn't want to boil Sampo alive, he wants his skin to have some color to it again and to leech the grave pall that's hanging on his pale skin from him soaking himself in ice water for thirty minutes. The chill offends Gilgamesh's delicate desert-born sensibilities.

Sam collapses in against him and Gilgamesh breathes out again, habit more than need, and his arms hold no less tightly, though his hands are... gentler. He cups the back of Sam's head, tipping his own to rest his cheek against the taller man's temple, his other arm looped around Sam's air craft carrier shoulders as he strokes his fingers through the other man's blue hair in a soothing motion. ]

The tree cannot bend. It's not in its nature. It doesn't know how.

[ How long has it been since he's hugged someone just to bring them comfort? He understands embracing in the midst of carnality, but it's not often that people look towards his touch for reassurance or care. He pays no attention to the water soaking his jeans and making them heavy, turning his face to press his lips to the temple he'd been idly nuzzling against. ]

I'm here, fool. I have you. I won't let you be taken, even if it's yourself trying to do the taking. You have my word.