[ His words don't seem to leave Michel, who grows very quiet and still, stiller yet than their surroundings which is honestly quite a feat. This mansion of his lies tucked away south of Paris amidst fields and forest, the crystal-blue lake nearby strangely loud in comparison to the rest. It's lonesome out here, if not exactly lonely, and with lonesomeness comes the quiet of empty spaces. Timm adores it, though he can't say he'd ever expected to. He's lived most of his life in the gutter, surrounded by the noise of others. Here, with Michel, the air is easy to breathe.

And somehow, the quiet has immersed itself within it.

He waits the other man's silence out, sipping his juice again, what's left of it. The porridge goes down one spoonful after the next, his stomach growling a little in response. His body doesn't take any comfort in getting fed, as it were; he's fine with that. One step at a time can still be motion forward and he's not anxious to get anywhere in particular anyway.

When Michel speaks again, he sounds faraway for a moment. Timm tilts his head sideways and shrugs, gesturing at Michel with the now-empty spoon. ]

I mind. Don't tell me I can't.

[ He puts the spoon down and frowns. ]

That's a lovely image, Michel. Not as Poe as you'd think or expect of the subject matter but then again, that's all very you.

[ He smiles at the other man, gentler; gentle actually comes a lot easier to him than most people expect. ]

You make things softer, somehow. The edges, less painful. I wonder if maybe this is why they are lost to you in places that ought to revive them. Life, after all, is the opposite. The porridge is, always, passable. It's nothing more nor should it be so don't concern yourself with that. Try a small tint of aloofness, instead - if you dare.