[Sad as Nikolai's attempt to recover may be, Brook neither comments on it nor raises a brow. It's obvious, of course, even to someone as bad at reading people as he is. Pretending not to notice is either a rare and stunning display of understanding on Brook's part, or just the opposite. The natural non-reaction of someone who doesn't care.

A beat passes between Nikolai's gesture and Brook's answer. The red room's destabilizing warmth and noise makes it weightier, perhaps, than it would be otherwise. Brook glances carelessly away.]

...Okay. But since I'm the only other one here, I'd have to carry your passed-out body back out. And I don't think you want that. ...Even if it's for art appreciation.

[Once more, he is a toothpick. A single, slender strand of bleached silk. In a reasonable world, Brook would be profoundly squished under the healthy muscle on Nikolai's frame. He'd have to be joking, talking about porting him out of the room.

It'd be embarrassing for Nikolai, after all.

Another red-tinged, discombobulating half-second passes, and Brook takes Nikolai in again: the pinched fear in his face, his taut posture, the brittle levity he's offered. The room's lighting makes it impossible to judge his color, but Brook guesses it isn't good. He really shouldn't be in here.

Oh, all right. If Brook's here, he might as well try to make use of his presence and throw the guy a bone.]

It's hard to talk in here. Want to get out?