And when Arthur feels a hand on his arm, pulling away, he immediately fights it, yanking back with surprising strength in his overly skinny frame and a sharp, "What the fuck are you--?"

He didn't expect his hand to get pressed against someone's arm, and he falters at the sheer unexpectedness of it - when he feels the same arm curl around his own to press a hand into his shoulder, he still tenses up again, but it's easier to- to let it happen, he supposes, because- why else would he use this much contact, so much effort when he's obviously blind and not just say something without a reason?

The sound of the chair scraping when it's tugged makes his head flick down towards the sound, and he'll let his hand be moved, and when he finds it a small "Oh-" of surprise escapes him, and with- still a little difficulty, admittedly, he sits down.

And immediately that's pressure off of his sense of space, less crowded because he's suddenly somewhere permanent and stationary and still, where he can't get thrown around like a fucking soccer ball, and suddenly it's so much easier to breathe.

"That's- th-thank you," he says softly. And once more, with more sincere relief, "Thank you."