His worry combats his appreciation, however. That Dirk would even put forth the effort, that he is actively trying, in his own way, to make this work. He could run away. He could try to break this off, to avoid the taxing emotional cost of going against that which one is accustom. The siren song of the familiar, regardless of its potential self-destruction and promise of isolation.

It is a testament to Dirk's own feelings for Emet, feelings he refuses to put to words, but his actions speak loud and clear. He is not so insecure that he requires Dirk to utter such loving thoughts and feelings. He is far too wise and learned of a man to fail to realize that words are merely a shortcut for communication, but they are far from the only means. Little would he deny someone their native tongue, figuratively speaking.

As Dirk mashes into his shoulder, pressed firm to his body with the weight of Hythlodaeus to the mix, he breathes out a relaxed and affectionate sigh, nestling his nose into Dirk's hair. His arms holding them both, firm and warm, as his eyes slip closed for a moment to bask in the adoring gesture. Allowing the three of them this moment of peace and affection.

One beat.

Then another.

An emphatic squeeze of his arms, then he releases them, but not before, "now, what was this about a show, hm?"