The Tangle they’re just little pink plastic bags

He frowns as the child stirs, gaze fixed on him even as his husband finally arrives to the scene. Hey, uh — don't move, He says gently, and it seems the boy listens, or simply gives up. Either way, it's definitely better for him. He's starting to feel a little more secure about the situation before Midar speaks — and then all he can feel is irritation. At least keep it — him from dying. He snaps, gaze flitting briefly to him before it returns to the boy. His tone falls into something more neutral with his next words, almost clinical. He looks half-drowned — but he's breathing at least. Might've hit his head on the way here. Can you find some shelter for us, and poppies — you know what those look like, right? The flowers. At least, he should, given how many times he's needed the damn things. He doesn't wait for an answer, though. Instead he moves tentatively closer to the child, leaning down to clean the wetness from his fur if he allows it — or, at the very least, to test his responsiveness.