What the hell's happened to Marky? His shirt more closely resembles a burlap sack than a knit and it looks like it's been caught and torn and torn in more than a few places. Bloody and looking like it's been bitten by a giant moth...

No, not a moth. Not a moth at all.

Marky's sudden movement jolts him out of his thoughts and even his surprise at being called by his actual name. It's instinctive he tries to backpedal from the great wall of meat the comes flying at him. If not for the embrace of those hard arms, Grayson would have probably fallen right on his boney arse.

"Jesus, Marky, what--"

He's just a little boy, isn't he? A giant, homophobic little boy.

And Grayson's not wholly sure what he's feeling right now. Confusion, disdain, worry, relief... and plenty more. What he does is lift his free hand and pat between the other's shoulder blades, rubbing his back a little before shaping his hand around Marky's shoulder from the back. There there.

"There now, alright... You're hurting me."