It's not the direction Robby had thought about going; to the kitchen table, but for the second he seems unsure, Robby relents, lets himself be guided to the chair and sitting down in it without fuss. There's one guy who's doing enough of that.
And a good boy jumping on his lap. He's gotten used to his company--and gotten over his reluctance--to rest his hands around him, like a small, fluffy source of comfort. It's just nice, having his arms around something. The feeling of a weight the omen can give him, despite its otherwise smoke-made being.
(But he's always been better about hiding his smoke, compared to a certain other omen.)
...but having shisa there might be more comforting, for the reasons that the omen joins him than for what Robby figured he was there for. The kitchen feels too much like an open space, or maybe that isn't the reason alone that Robby finds himself hesitating from telling the truth. A truth he hadn't wanted Mister LaRusso to know for a good reason; something he worries that might seem childish the moment he says it, stupid--because why did he let something that would never matter hold him back?
Robby stares at the kitchen table as he tries to find his voice. He decided he would tell him--so he swallows down his doubt and opens his mouth.
"I never talked about the bond again because... because of the same reason I never gave a straight answer about you seeing me like a son. I mean-- I worried," he looks at Mister LaRusso briefly, ever so quick, "that you just missed your family, or everything would mess up somehow."
Like it did, he thinks wryly. Well, he couldn't avoid that, even if it didn't mess up the way he had imagined.
"But..." He stops, curls his fingers into the bed of the omen's fur. "But I liked it, living with you. Laying in bed together, helping you cook... it was fun. Really fun."
Those times, they already felt like a family. I already saw you like a dad. but how can he admit to that to where his confession is going? Putting them side by side, not sounding like a freak who can't tell the difference.
It makes him fall silent again, struggling to find the means to say what he wants to, express it in a safer way. But there is none, he finds.
Eventually, all he can do is spit out:
"Sometimes, I liked you more than as a dad. ... I always did."
fool, pumpkin patches are BIG!!!!!
And a good boy jumping on his lap. He's gotten used to his company--and gotten over his reluctance--to rest his hands around him, like a small, fluffy source of comfort. It's just nice, having his arms around something. The feeling of a weight the omen can give him, despite its otherwise smoke-made being.
(But he's always been better about hiding his smoke, compared to a certain other omen.)
...but having shisa there might be more comforting, for the reasons that the omen joins him than for what Robby figured he was there for. The kitchen feels too much like an open space, or maybe that isn't the reason alone that Robby finds himself hesitating from telling the truth. A truth he hadn't wanted Mister LaRusso to know for a good reason; something he worries that might seem childish the moment he says it, stupid--because why did he let something that would never matter hold him back?
Robby stares at the kitchen table as he tries to find his voice. He decided he would tell him--so he swallows down his doubt and opens his mouth.
"I never talked about the bond again because... because of the same reason I never gave a straight answer about you seeing me like a son. I mean-- I worried," he looks at Mister LaRusso briefly, ever so quick, "that you just missed your family, or everything would mess up somehow."
Like it did, he thinks wryly. Well, he couldn't avoid that, even if it didn't mess up the way he had imagined.
"But..." He stops, curls his fingers into the bed of the omen's fur. "But I liked it, living with you. Laying in bed together, helping you cook... it was fun. Really fun."
Those times, they already felt like a family. I already saw you like a dad. but how can he admit to that to where his confession is going? Putting them side by side, not sounding like a freak who can't tell the difference.
It makes him fall silent again, struggling to find the means to say what he wants to, express it in a safer way. But there is none, he finds.
Eventually, all he can do is spit out:
"Sometimes, I liked you more than as a dad. ... I always did."
Even back home.