Noah looks like mist for a second, one shape sliding into another as he rolls onto his back and holds the bottle up above his face. When he hands it back, Ronan frowns at it. He takes a sniff from the top. It smells like Kool-Aid.

Pushing himself up, Ronan reaches to set the bottle on the shelf above the bed then settles in next to Noah again, still watching him carefully.

He doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't know half the shit that's happening anymore, feels constantly wrong-footed. He almost misses the pain across his nose, the bruise Krem put there because then at least he looked like he felt, like there was a truth in his face for everyone to see - bruised and battered and angry.

Now he's just back to looking like the wrong version of the Ronan they left behind.

"You're making friends," he says and it manages to come out as an observation, not an accusation, even as he swallows back the bitterness of words he won't speak. The, 'You're moving on without me,' and 'I'm not ready,' and 'I've been missing all of you for six fucking months.'