Irahl's distant hopes of hunting down a shirt become considerably more distant as most of Vincent's body bonelessly pours across the mattress. He is in fact surprised when he isn't flopped into in the process.

He isn't a particularly empathetic person, but there's something about Vincent's sigh that resonates with him. Maybe one of those stunted, unacknowledged things hiding in his blood flickers to life a little bit, recognizing and reflecting the sense of peace that he is supposed to be attached to. Whatever it is, seeing Vincent so purely contented pulls at him.

As tipsy as he is, it's hard not to smile to himself over it. He hardly even minds that there's a hand kind of aimlessly reaching toward him.

"Left," he says, with Vincent on his right.