"No, I don't imagine you are," he murmurs, almost but not entirely to himself, as he takes in the torrent of words, the tripping and fitful flow of information and conjecture, the seemingly rambling consciousness, an almost constantly meandering stream, but Justin is used to this, to the extraction of meaning from chaos, reading the underlying current in the chaotic eddies and ripples at the surface. His smile shifts subtly, a slightly off-center quirk of his lips, meeting Henry's gaze without a hint of challenge, simply quiet amusement.

He doesn't bother to answer the questions that spill towards him out loud, simply works his way through the obvious motions - a brief shrug, a slight tip of his head, a nod of acknowledgement as he settles at the foot of the bed, his back and posture straight and steady, even without touching the frame - a rarity these days in most hotels, with most beds not even bothering to have more than a headboard - suddenly seeming perfectly at home on the same bed that Henry was lounging on, despite taking up very little of the occupied space.

"Nothing I planned in advance," he replies easily, his gaze shifting to the side. "I thought I'd follow your lead today, Mr. Ghersinich." Even, casual, off-handed - a gracious host putting a guest at ease, as though he had an inherent right to step into that role, regardless of the setting - but there is a glitter of interest in his otherwise limpid blue eyes. "I have to say, it's not often that I find myself in this position."