(aggressive, jonas thinks. he minds himself with a hitch of his shoulder when noctis reaches out to him to prevent him from toppling over. it's appreciated and he's grateful, of course, for both the side-hug and the magic flask that feels like a hot shower of radiation for his hands, but...

is this safe? these things explode, don't they?)

Uh, thanks.

... You don't mind if I ask you how you're going to go about that, do you? I'm doing the body math here and it doesn't check out; I'm bigger than you. (later, he'll have time to reflect on how big of an asshole his initial observation of noctis makes him sound. born in another world—one that lacks any special ability beyond telling others "mercury is in retrograde" and expecting them to hum knowingly—jonas can't see past their difference in size. given the situation and how dire it is, he doesn't expect either of them is going to give a shit after getting off the ship.

hurt feelings are better than becoming flotsam just because they put their faith in an overinflated ego.

and then jonas speaks.)

I've got no idea how I'll get down, but I think if we fashion a rope ladder or, like, some kind of pulley system— (cradling the grenade to his chest like it's a swaddled baby, a panicked brain works overtime to come up with a plan.) Just... Just give me a minute to... to noodle this over for a sec.

(😑)