Koumyou isn't sure what he's expecting when Devero finishes signing, or when he closes the gap and pushes his device into the priest's thin hands. Not even meeting Koumyou's questioning gaze; back to the beaten hound.

"I'll try," he promises only, to that swiftly-retreating back. Only once Devero has collapsed onto his new seat, does Koumyou look down at the thing in his hands, starting to read to the muffled sounds of weeping.

He has to read it twice, and then a third time. It's a lot. Not so much the flattering bits -- though that's pretty new, too -- as what's in between. Taken in combination with his silence and now his weeping, across the room.

"Devero," Koumyou doesn't even mean to say it out loud, but there it is. His heart hurts for the other man, for the pain he's enduring.

He doesn't even know where to start, with all of this. Where the hell can he start with it? He can't brush this off with a joke, or by acting the fool. No spear-like single sentences of profound, blink-and-you-miss-it wisdom are going to encompass all of that.

"...I'm not going anywhere."

Maybe that's a good start.