[ for all his prodding of mon, calling him soft, when he leans across the table to him, all noiz does is bring a finger up to press at his lower lip. ]

You can say you're anything. [ he presses in with his ragged nail, curious of mon's responses, and whether or not there's anything solid under that pliable exterior. ]

Would it matter to you if I were disappointed? [ that would be strange. to care about noiz's opinion. ]

Whatever happens after I die doesn't matter. We'll all die. Someday.