Is he -- what? Is he okay with all of this? With this thing suddenly in his hands -- but not his hands-hands, that have finally found his lap, between his stomach and thighs, and the black of Victor's shirt, Victor under it -- that everyone else in the world would be appalled Victor could even be made to ask that by him. If Victor is okay, if Victor is too much.

Which of those answers, to the second question,

bouncing so fast and so hand on every floor and wall in his head, is even the worse answer.

That no, it's not too much, because it can't be, because it's Victor, and it doesn't make sense that it's happening, but he doesn't want to let go, even when he has already. Or yes, because shamefully he doesn't know how to do, be, say a single thing that is expected of him. Doesn't seem to be able to hold anything straight, aside from when he can't think at all.

Which is a little terrifying to acknowledge. Some absolute loss of control, of himself. Even if it was with Victor. Even if he trusted Victor. Trusting Victor wasn't the problem. (Even if maybe it was, too. How much of a fool is he?) His shoulders just settle low with a too long held breath quiet out his nose. "I'm okay. It's okay."