Yseult sits back to observe this pose with a shake of her head. "You used to survive perfectly well despite going months on end without hearing my voice," she reminds, knees squeezing his sides and knuckles pressing ticklingly into the bottom of his ribcage. "I think you'd live."

She stops poking and sets hands on his chest, no real weight leaned onto them--he's meant to still be healing, after all--and rubs fingertips into the cotton of his shirt. For a moment there's a pause, a shift in the air like she might turn suddenly serious, but then she smiles instead. "I'll remind you of this moment when we're here together every day for years and you grow sick of me."