[He'll find it a little mortifying later, just how much of that first comment he doesn't actually hear in the moment. But after a second, words register, and the buzzing in his ears suddenly stops, leaving him thrumming with defensive energy and unpleasant thoughts, most of which are... admittedly not about Itachi whatsoever. His head snaps up and he looks confused by the apology — as if he hadn't expected it, because he hadn't — until his expression slides into contrition.
The strange little man clears his throat, steadying his breaths and taking a moment to count backwards from ten — in German, always in German, because Illia's voice has always been the anchor to the routine.
Should he apologize? He feels like they'll all start gagging on how much he's shoving it down their throats. Sorry this, sorry that. Sorry sorry sorry. He's gonna have to change his nationality to Canadian if he doesn't watch it. His lips thin, and he looks disappointedly at his plate, knowing he's not gonna be able to eat anymore of this right now. It's cool. Everything's cool; he'll eat it, he swears.]
It's fine. It's — I'm just...
[Something. He's something, right now.]
Don't apologize to the guy who was crying like a baby under the counter.
[His point is — he's not really fit to be conversing with in the first place. Not that he was particularly any good at controlling his temper before this, and yeah, he would've probably ended up in a one-sided shouting match before, but he also feels like the room doesn't have any air in it right now, and that's just not right. He logics this out: you're not well, go back to your room, Mr. Geiszler.
Picking up his own plate with hands that still feel kind of funny, he stacks some of the smaller bowls on one side of it, clears his throat.]
I shouldn't really be out here right now, so — I'm gonna take this to my room, but, uh. Thank you for making it. Again. That was — cool of you. And it tastes great. [He gives a short bow, because he's lived beside and among cultures who practically thrive on bowing, and it comes easy.] Seriously, it's really good, so-
[Is this a precursor to him fleeing a scene he feels thoroughly discomfited by?
no subject
The strange little man clears his throat, steadying his breaths and taking a moment to count backwards from ten — in German, always in German, because Illia's voice has always been the anchor to the routine.
Should he apologize? He feels like they'll all start gagging on how much he's shoving it down their throats. Sorry this, sorry that. Sorry sorry sorry. He's gonna have to change his nationality to Canadian if he doesn't watch it. His lips thin, and he looks disappointedly at his plate, knowing he's not gonna be able to eat anymore of this right now. It's cool. Everything's cool; he'll eat it, he swears.]
It's fine. It's — I'm just...
[Something. He's something, right now.]
Don't apologize to the guy who was crying like a baby under the counter.
[His point is — he's not really fit to be conversing with in the first place. Not that he was particularly any good at controlling his temper before this, and yeah, he would've probably ended up in a one-sided shouting match before, but he also feels like the room doesn't have any air in it right now, and that's just not right. He logics this out: you're not well, go back to your room, Mr. Geiszler.
Picking up his own plate with hands that still feel kind of funny, he stacks some of the smaller bowls on one side of it, clears his throat.]
I shouldn't really be out here right now, so — I'm gonna take this to my room, but, uh. Thank you for making it. Again. That was — cool of you. And it tastes great. [He gives a short bow, because he's lived beside and among cultures who practically thrive on bowing, and it comes easy.] Seriously, it's really good, so-
[Is this a precursor to him fleeing a scene he feels thoroughly discomfited by?
Maybe. Nobody else has to know.]