"Meaning you tend not to rely on anything but yourself and the unreliable nature of man," Ishiah muses, carefully avoiding the brunt of the weight in his words, even though they're strongly felt. He'd like to be a guarantee at some point, someday. But doubt reads so easily in Robin's eyes.

Pausing to let Robin sift through the rest of his thoughts, Ishiah carefully releases Cambriel, who leaps to the floor with a pitiful meow, before reaching out to close his hand around the crook of Robin's elbow in an effort to bring him closer. There are a slew of words that slip out from Robin's mouth, but frankly, frankly, the majority of them aren't necessary. (Although he files away the thought of the apartment and cash, wondering what the mechanism is for offering those to incoming individuals.)

He tugs again, trying to turn Robin around so that he can press the line of Robin's spine to his own chest, wrap around the puck protectively. "It's Christmas," he says, enunciating every word. "I'll stay here to help you at the bar. Just give me a menu and let me know what types of liquor are roughly equivalent to what we have back home."