[Kid, you're going to be the death of him. And the death of yourself. His hand moves up to drag down his face with some measure of irritation--or something very close to it--before getting up again to walk over to the couch where Eichi is sitting.]

Didn't I already tell you to stop saying shit like that.

I'm not worried.

[And yet, he's offering out that now ungloved hand out to the sickly kid, to help him up.]

You should have said this ten minutes ago instead of chattering on. Sometimes I swear your poor heart doesn't deliver enough oxygen to your brain.