[ Robby might've left. No, he definitely would've: to let the man get some rest in peace, while he stayed in the living room, checking in now and then to make sure-- what, that Mister LaRusso's still there? Breathing? Okay? All of the above, really. In this place, he would have that fear: that the body he helped bring all the way to this apartment, feeling his weight, hearing the sounds of his harsh breathing--that it amounted to nothing. His bed would be empty, Mister LaRusso gone.
It's a rational fear in this city. Isn't it? It has to be.
But Mister LaRusso shifts, he attempts to speak, and the effort to move--the possibility that he might try to get up--makes Robby look at him than at the view of his sneakers. Watching the clumsy attempt at speaking, his own throat feeling as if it's closing up itself to witness. A brain that fails to figure out what it is the man wants to say, but then he's leaning, shifting, reaching.
--The phone? A momentary thought, one that comes with his hand (luckily) circling around his front to feel for his pockets, figuring out which side it was on. It means, briefly, his hand is close--it means it doesn't get to touch his jacket, when instead Mister LaRusso grabs it. A touch of skin that's startling despite the strength that isn't there.
He stares down at it, a confusion in his features that he looks back over at Mister LaRusso with. But he sees there, the request looking right back at him, and Robby stands speechless; maybe bracing, for some change in the expression that throws accusation at him instead.
It doesn't come. He closes his parted lips, just for a second. ]
I'll stay. [ He's not sure where he'll stay, but a look over and, oh, right. He reaches out with his free hand, but doesn't tug himself away from Mister LaRusso's grip, towards the chair by the small desk stuffed in the corner. ] See? I'll be there. Then as soon as you wake up, we have panadol if you need it. We can talk.
[ Well, one of them will do the talking--but he's not correcting himself on that. ]
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It's a rational fear in this city. Isn't it? It has to be.
But Mister LaRusso shifts, he attempts to speak, and the effort to move--the possibility that he might try to get up--makes Robby look at him than at the view of his sneakers. Watching the clumsy attempt at speaking, his own throat feeling as if it's closing up itself to witness. A brain that fails to figure out what it is the man wants to say, but then he's leaning, shifting, reaching.
--The phone? A momentary thought, one that comes with his hand (luckily) circling around his front to feel for his pockets, figuring out which side it was on. It means, briefly, his hand is close--it means it doesn't get to touch his jacket, when instead Mister LaRusso grabs it. A touch of skin that's startling despite the strength that isn't there.
He stares down at it, a confusion in his features that he looks back over at Mister LaRusso with. But he sees there, the request looking right back at him, and Robby stands speechless; maybe bracing, for some change in the expression that throws accusation at him instead.
It doesn't come. He closes his parted lips, just for a second. ]
I'll stay. [ He's not sure where he'll stay, but a look over and, oh, right. He reaches out with his free hand, but doesn't tug himself away from Mister LaRusso's grip, towards the chair by the small desk stuffed in the corner. ] See? I'll be there. Then as soon as you wake up, we have panadol if you need it. We can talk.
[ Well, one of them will do the talking--but he's not correcting himself on that. ]