Anduin flexes his fingers in Wrathion's hand, shifting his thumb to stroke against whatever skin he can find. Allowing himself to linger for a few moments longer in the touch, offering his companion whatever gentle reassurances he can through that touch alone, before at last he forces himself to stand.

"Come," Anduin says. "I am certain we have something that will do."

He tugs gently on Wrathion's hand, for despite his change in position, he still has not let him go.