[ the good thing about falco is that he’s an open book— his features collapse all at once that’s as easy to read as pictures get as he turns himself back around, hand absently on his neck: sadness, shame, worry and guilt. he just doesn’t voice it at first, letting his eyes drift away from jun to the grass and build up on a silence that spoke louder. it’s the same response you’d expect from asking a kid if they’ve taken the cookies from the cookie jar. maybe. if the kid was especially sorry and thought they were going to hell for it. ]
There was . . . Something. A few days ago. [ he rubs his arms. ] I just didn’t tell anyone.
no subject
There was . . . Something. A few days ago. [ he rubs his arms. ] I just didn’t tell anyone.