His brows pull heavy around a concerned frown, even as he experiences a sharp wave of guilt in the wake of Waver's words. They made us wear collars, like dogs. Because all of that, the forced control, his own overt subjugation, he'd liked it. Had worn a collar anyway, one still tucked into his pocket now, removed after he'd been picked up on that moon and had been subject to concerned questions, to looks. Duplicity, in many respects, had suited him, a place he'd almost felt he belonged and there's a sick slide of feeling in him at that, because whilst he'd wanted it for himself, it's not something he'd wish on someone who didn't hunger for it.

There'd always been that cognitive dissonance, his own giddy enjoyment tainted by the overt suffering of others. His own enslavement he could revel in yes, but he never has been one to passively accept the mistreatment of anyone else.

He's on the verge of drawing Waver in for another - swifter, firmer - hug when the younger man draws gentle away, rubs at his watering eyes. He lets him go instead, though he keeps a gloved hand on his shoulder, squeezes. Tries to convey something of reassurance.

"I'm sorry. That things got so much worse, that I wasn't there," would there have been much he could have done? Maybe not, but he could have tried, "but we're out of it now, eh? And this place it uh, it seems very different. Much less restrictive. It's going to be alright."

He'll make it so, if he can.

"Listen, let me get you a drink, maybe something to eat. We can find a quiet corner somewhere, catch up."