Carlisle emits a quiet sigh as he keeps his eyes on his partner, trying to read him in the silence that follows. Glacius' features may be alien, but they are familiar to Carlisle, who has spent so many moments studying his face, following the curves and angles with his fingertips, memorizing the musculature through touch and sensation. Given his intimate knowledge, it isn't hard for him to watch Glacius' expression and realize he's not helping as much as he'd like.

It's different than in his church: there, he would listen to the troubles and confessions of his congregation with a sympathetic ear, comfortable with the distance between himself and the heart of the matter. He could play the neutral party well enough; to try to comfort another when he was hurting himself was far more challenging. His natural inclination is to feign polite indifference, to keep himself at an emotional distance. That's his job as clergy, his duty.

But what is his duty as a friend? As a partner? He wishes he knew as his eyes fall, his hand tightening around Glacius' in his grasp.

"You needn't apologize," he murmurs, feeling inadequacy creep up his neck, weighing down his shoulders. His brow tightens, shoulders stiffening as he does his best to steel himself against his insecurities.

"Tell me," he continues, his voice quiet, but with a soft undercurrent of urgency, "what is it I can do for you in this time? What is it I can do to help you?"

He asks because when he looks within, he finds he doesn't know, despite all they've been through.