[ Tidus appreciates the attempt to follow the joke, a chuckle hummed in his throat that tugs at his lips. He puts a hand over the sweets that haven't been squished by Inigo and sends them away back into his arms band, no appetite in him for them. Real food from the kitchen might be an idea (if there was any), but he might be compelled to get up for any later. It's comfortable still to be laying here with Inigo, though--

though he catches where his hand moves towards his lower stomach, and guilt stabs him (the irony). Tidus looks away, shuts his eyes, and whatever Inigo's saying gets half-lost in the guilt left over. ]

I... yeah, [ he breathes. And despite what feels right, wrong, he opens his eyes, grabs that hand by Inigo's stomach and squeezes it tight in both of his. ]

Inigo, I...

[ I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But this isn't a place he should go into again, spilling out apologies and tears until his throat grows raw; they've already been there, with and without words spoken. And yet his throat tinges, his eyes blinker a little wetter.

Calm it, he tells himself. Breathing, one, two, three. One, two, three. ]

Are you still looking forward to your birthday? [ ah ] We need to go through the stuff we got later. I wanna save one of those pens for Rol.

[ He asks, talks, grabbing for any subject out of the air. Something positive, something good. ]