Anduin frowns as Wrathion speaks. At the sound of his voice, steady though it may be, and the hold he has on him. Fingers curled tightly into the back of his vest. Gripping his hand so tightly, as if... As if Anduin himself is all that is keeping him grounded.

He squeezes his fingers on Wrathion's in return, tightens his arm around his companion and simply holds him for a long moment. Tipping his head aside, resting it against the side of Wrathion's own, rubbing slow circles in Wrathion's shoulders as they stand together.

"We could just go to bed, if you would rather," he says, softly. Food is a nice idea, but it will take time to prepare, and there is a fragility in Wrathion, just now, that worries Anduin. Dead whelps. Wrathion has told him something of his own past, but Anduin knows he does not know the whole truth of it. Of the suffering he has endured, and the memories of it that linger even now. And perhaps he never will. But he can be there for him, supporting him. Holding him.

He has been on his own for so long in this. But Anduin hopes he understands he is not anymore.

"Tell me what you need."