For as much as Marius likes to spend his spare time losing himself in other people's words, he has never once considered the possibility of himself being an author's creation; the thought has never crossed his mind. If it ever were to, Marius would not know what to make of it, apart from incurring an existential life crisis. "Someone must have," he ponders, gathering the coffee into the pot and turning it on. "I don't know how I'd have survived, otherwise. I remember...bits and pieces." Odorous smells; sludge dripping off every inch of his body, including his gaping wound. The feeling of a broad shoulder digging into his stomach. Footsteps resonating through his still, half-lifeless body.

He looks up from getting the milk when Rat makes his statement; considering what he remembers of the sight of Rat's back, and from what Rat has told him of his own life, he shouldn't be surprised that the other man knows what it is to be shot. But it catches him off guard, nonetheless. "Yes, it does," he replies. "When were you shot?"

His blush only increases at the remark; his hands make themselves busy pulling mugs, sugar, and utensils from his cabinets. He wonders if he can still be considered virtuous, with how clearly and often he recalls Rat's hands. His mouth. "Duly noted," he replies, beginning to put together their drinks with a tremor in his hands he hopes is barely noticeable.