Robin has seen meditation, and this does not look like that.
"Libra! …Libra?"
His eyes are closed. He's sitting with posture as though in prayer. Yet, it must be deeper; there is no response. Even a hand upon his shoulder, a gentle nudge does not wake him from his stupor. Robin waits, uncertain. Maybe just another minute of presence will bring him around.
She remembers their portrait sessions. Perhaps one day she should try again; perhaps it would help to take this moment to do what she does best in preparation. A study. A deep brown gaze traces the lines of his face, contours more like. Softer, fairer features and sunken cheekbones. He frown and furrows, and the corner of his eye twitches, and after that motion she also notes the fists clenching upon his thighs. Unrested and heavy, everything about him drags down. She may not know his story so far, but she knows what it is like to feel burdened.
He puts on a good act, then. So full of light and love, so blindingly devout in great acts… that she had not noticed any of this before.
He is sad.
And he is l.
Robin also knows what it is like to feel alone, and how intense of a pull is sometimes required to remember you are not.
Fingers reach out to draw over the lines she envisioned before, each taking a side to comb through fine, golden hair. Her own face pulls closer in the motion, disbelieving what she feels the need to do, but not enough to convince herself to stop. Hands hold him as though he were the holiest they've known. He is. They keep him secured in place; while lips which so often ask questions press into ones which do their best to offer divine answers. No romantic twist enmeshes them together; no sensual slide begs teasing permission to further passions. The kiss is as chaste as it is insistent. In quite an intimate call to attention, she remains, there with him, until he remembers himself and the acceptance of new friends.