Things never felt the same in the Fade. Blades had their cuts dull, falling from a height merely stunned him awake. Even the most bone deep agony was oddly removed for all that it was and wasn't actually happening. But warmth- warmth he's missed.

Warmth he needs.

And warmth Fate offers by being close enough for him to lean into and against. There is nothing like the smell of leather and the beat of a heart under his ear, the texture of cards under his hands. He reaches for the offered card, attempting that same twirl. He's mastered that one, he thinks-

Time is a funny thing in the fade. But he thinks he has it. Manages a rough sketch that lacks it's usual grace.