[ Despite his previous inclination, there's a part of Gorgug that regrets it when the hand leaves: a hand and gesture that doesn't belong to him, and that he doesn't get a say in what it does. Which is why he won't say anything, but briefly, when nothing else happens, it feels like acceptance. So should, and does, the cereal that comes to sit on the nightstand beside him in view from his pillows.
It's just a different kind. The sort that is likely the reason that Gorgug continues to watch Fabian, wanting to say something to him, in this peace and silence of a room that allows Gorgug not to think about the world outside it.
Fabian's not mad at him. He doesn't blame him. And Gorgug can't return to apologies he's already given, though they feel like the only words he should ever be saying, still. So he stirs, inching his head back to look at Fabian better with both of his eyes, his lips pinching together with words he hasn't yet decided (I missed you; I missed everyone); when there's something more important in the room than food, or even himself. ]
...
[ But he can't do him justice.
He fails to find it, the perfect words, the perfect expression, and so he does instead what Fabian wants him to do: eat, even if he's not hungry. His body disagrees with his shuffling to bring himself to sit up, his hands helping to hoist himself upright. The bed creaks underneath, but does nothing more as Gorgug exhales, sits with his head handing slightly. ]
...Thank you, [ he slips out, as he reaches to take the bowl in his hands. Sitting it on his lap, hands taking their spots around the bowl and on the spoon. Gorgug's been eating even through the infection, but all this-- everything feels foreign. His own body feels foreign, detached from some parts of himself, but Gorgug doesn't know which.
He takes a bite, and chews slowly. Slower than he chews most bites except for when the Bad Kids are in front of people they want to impress, until the point that Gorgug forgets himself and starts doing more swallowing than chewing.
He then asks after a couple more bites, ] Is everything okay?
no subject
It's just a different kind. The sort that is likely the reason that Gorgug continues to watch Fabian, wanting to say something to him, in this peace and silence of a room that allows Gorgug not to think about the world outside it.
Fabian's not mad at him. He doesn't blame him. And Gorgug can't return to apologies he's already given, though they feel like the only words he should ever be saying, still. So he stirs, inching his head back to look at Fabian better with both of his eyes, his lips pinching together with words he hasn't yet decided (I missed you; I missed everyone); when there's something more important in the room than food, or even himself. ]
...
[ But he can't do him justice.
He fails to find it, the perfect words, the perfect expression, and so he does instead what Fabian wants him to do: eat, even if he's not hungry. His body disagrees with his shuffling to bring himself to sit up, his hands helping to hoist himself upright. The bed creaks underneath, but does nothing more as Gorgug exhales, sits with his head handing slightly. ]
...Thank you, [ he slips out, as he reaches to take the bowl in his hands. Sitting it on his lap, hands taking their spots around the bowl and on the spoon. Gorgug's been eating even through the infection, but all this-- everything feels foreign. His own body feels foreign, detached from some parts of himself, but Gorgug doesn't know which.
He takes a bite, and chews slowly. Slower than he chews most bites except for when the Bad Kids are in front of people they want to impress, until the point that Gorgug forgets himself and starts doing more swallowing than chewing.
He then asks after a couple more bites, ] Is everything okay?