[Funny how there's so many different types of laughs, and Sayori's run the gamut in just these last few minutes. Self-deprecating, bittersweet, flustered, relieved . . . And Mista laughs too now, awkward and clumsy but quiet enough that it's just for her, so if he's gonna be embarrassed it's only with Sayori. Which is fine.]

We did it. [He . . . wants to hug her, but then he realizes he's already kind of doing that. Wants, absurdly, to press his forehead to hers and close his eyes and just relish in her presence, in the fact that she's breathing; but his torso won't bend that way without complaint right now, and anyway it'd be weird, he thinks. He's pretty sure.]

[Instead, he corrects himself.] You did it, mostly.

[Knightly or not, it was Sayori's nightmare. She's the one who had to wake up from it. If he helped . . . then he's happy. He's just happy, that's all.]

[Belatedly, he recognizes his own pain, now that the adrenaline has begun to pass. Ducking his head to poorly hide a wince of discomfort, he glances around for somewhere to sit and catches on a whorl of root jutting up from the ground. Good enough. He moves that way and crouches to set Sayori carefully against the tree.]

It's nice, [he agrees, reluctantly pulling his arms away only to kneel in front of her and push her hair back from her face, all muted fussiness. Cinque rubs its face against her hair, content and relieved, and Mista tries to shoo it with absolutely zero success.] Get out — Jesus, sorry — I can carry you again later, if you want. When we're out of here.

[If his ears go red at the suggestion, that's coincidence, probably.]

Okay if I clean you up a little bit?