Capochin listens, taking a slow breath in, and letting it out in even less of a hurry. A drive to action, hollowed out... Yes, he knows that feeling. He can empathize. His wasn't hollowed, but instead rotted in his chest and became something awful. But he still understands.

"Well, just 'cause they don't mean nothin' to you doesn't mean they don't mean anything. Some people still care about what you do. So." He pats Pyotr's arm. "If you don't wanna keep 'em safe for you, do it for me. Some miserable old fart who don't get to paint no more."