[ They're looking at each other. The moment once Mister LaRusso's sitting on the bed, after Robby's stood long enough with his hands on his shoulders and is sure he won't topple and takes a step back--they see each other. Eyes that look so pitiful with their surrounding decor, the bruise with its ugly discolouration, the unshaven mess of Mister LaRusso's jawline; and yet it's his gaze, struggling as it is to hold properly, that affects Robby the most.
He casts his own away, sideways, lips parting to a tongue that licks across them. He shuffles a step back, and the words he'd like to say don't come.
And before they might think to, the man is falling forward. ]
Mister LaRusso--...
[ So Robby starts, but the name falters as he sees it's not falling--it's Mister LaRusso going for his shoes, the things he saw him trying to struggle a second with. He hurries a ] Wait, [ as his hands this time reach for his elbows, an elbow, in a pausing gesture while he kneels. Mister LaRusso can't argue, can he? He can't move as easily as he can, Robby untying the laces and pulling off the footwear, or at least getting the knots undone so they can be peeled off easier.
He won't even look up. Mister LaRusso doesn't need him to look up(, and looking down is so more comfortable. It's where his shame sits). ]
Just rest. [ He gets back onto his feet, seeing Mister LaRusso's form without settling onto it; lips that pinch together, a throat that swallows, a brain that wonders what Mister LaRusso would be saying if he could speak. If he was thinking clearly.
He should get him water, but water depends on a person being conscious enough to receive it. Mister LaRusso's slipping (falling) onto the bed, and he has to look to see his state. See how conscious he is, if his eyes are closed or opened, if maybe he should speak now, ask him if he wants anything.
But he meets his gaze again, and it's a look he doesn't want to read into. His own drops once more. His fingers flex at his sides. ]
...I'm real. [ He thinks. He's as real as Mister LaRusso is right now, he's sure, but what amount of real a person can and can't be--Robby doesn't know. He isn't sure in this place.
He just knows that he might not be the person Mister LaRusso wants to see, and wonders if he should admit as much; start the conversation that needs to be had between them. But like every other instance he's had, every other opportunity: ]
...Just rest. [ He wraps his fingers into fists, loose and weak. ] Nothing's gonna happen, so- it's alright.
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He casts his own away, sideways, lips parting to a tongue that licks across them. He shuffles a step back, and the words he'd like to say don't come.
And before they might think to, the man is falling forward. ]
Mister LaRusso--...
[ So Robby starts, but the name falters as he sees it's not falling--it's Mister LaRusso going for his shoes, the things he saw him trying to struggle a second with. He hurries a ] Wait, [ as his hands this time reach for his elbows, an elbow, in a pausing gesture while he kneels. Mister LaRusso can't argue, can he? He can't move as easily as he can, Robby untying the laces and pulling off the footwear, or at least getting the knots undone so they can be peeled off easier.
He won't even look up. Mister LaRusso doesn't need him to look up(, and looking down is so more comfortable. It's where his shame sits). ]
Just rest. [ He gets back onto his feet, seeing Mister LaRusso's form without settling onto it; lips that pinch together, a throat that swallows, a brain that wonders what Mister LaRusso would be saying if he could speak. If he was thinking clearly.
He should get him water, but water depends on a person being conscious enough to receive it. Mister LaRusso's slipping (falling) onto the bed, and he has to look to see his state. See how conscious he is, if his eyes are closed or opened, if maybe he should speak now, ask him if he wants anything.
But he meets his gaze again, and it's a look he doesn't want to read into. His own drops once more. His fingers flex at his sides. ]
...I'm real. [ He thinks. He's as real as Mister LaRusso is right now, he's sure, but what amount of real a person can and can't be--Robby doesn't know. He isn't sure in this place.
He just knows that he might not be the person Mister LaRusso wants to see, and wonders if he should admit as much; start the conversation that needs to be had between them. But like every other instance he's had, every other opportunity: ]
...Just rest. [ He wraps his fingers into fists, loose and weak. ] Nothing's gonna happen, so- it's alright.
[ He's never told such an obvious lie. ]