Huaisang starts to rise, falters, and falls back on the couch. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his own unsteadiness, Huaisang rises more steadily on his second try, smoothing down his clothes and drawing himself up with elegant stubbornness. Arrangements have been made, he has what he needs. He tells himself quite sternly that he can manage to walk without collapsing.

"Thank you, Mr. Hands," Huaisang says, perfect polite composure in his increasingly fragile shell. There's just a moment for it to shift, so that his veneer changes from 'competent elegance' into something else. His teeth bite down on his lower lip and his chin drops. His shaking returns and intensifies immediately, and he looks painfully young and helpless, a lost boy who just wants to be told what to do. It's so much more like how he has always seemed, though with all the cracks of his grief and anxiety showing through now, and his eyes glance up like he's looking for guidance and approval, for just a moment before he looks down again, meekly allowing himself to be led downstairs to the car. He speaks not a word further, aside from a timid greeting to the assistant and another murmured thanks to Mr. Hands, and his eyes do not lift again.