Wrathion frowns at the squeeze to his knee, but lifts a hand regardless to cover Anduin's own.

"No," he admits, "I had little appetite for it."

Slowly, he lets his fingers twine through Anduin's. His skin seems so pale, compared to his own. So fragile.

"I have little now," he admits. Most likely he should eat something, and it help he supposes -- yet nothing feels appealing. The warmth of Anduin's hand, though, that does have appeal. His fingers flex, then tighten their grip.