Even when tired, weak and depressed he has the energy to fiddle around and grumble in some way, away from your arms

"It's alright , give me a break," he mutters, frowning, pulling his t-shirt over the new wounds all over his body. What he probably wanted to say sounded like something along the lines of, Please stop worrying about me. You don't have to be here and I don't have to make your life any harder.

He feels guilty for always making you watch him like that after every full moon, and this time he tried to show you he was okay. He didn't last long, though, as he slid to the floor on unbendable legs, leaning back against the mattress in the shrieking shack.

He swears under breathe. "I'm sorry," he finally mumbles as blood from fresh wounds stains the clean T-shirt you brought.