Robby watches the bowl, the hands move at work, but he can't look up at Mister LaRusso's face. Like he knows--he knows he's not looking at him, as if the weight of the silence, small as it might be, speaks everything to him. Without the other needing to express anything, and why should he need to? When everything that's occurred between isn't that far back in history, and spilling blood--why did he think to bring it up at all in the first place? Why would he do that?

It's not alone why Robby starts to rub at his fingers, sliding them around his wrist and switching the process over to his other forearm; it's a reminder, a tick, of the feeling of his being held together, a way to help it stay that way. A habit from his corruption and recovery.

And psychological, maybe, but he does stop when his dad speaks up. Looks over to him, his hand clasped around his arm; his own expression is uncertain, even in the face of the smile looking back at him, the ease of the tone used.

How much of it? There's a certain amount needed, he thinks, to make the liquid (is there a problem with coldbloods doing this? Robby doesn't remember anything, but--), but he could give plenty, couldn't he? He should bleed for this. His mouth opens a little too early as he still thinks about what to say, a small breath that feigns a lighter mood as his gaze flicks away, and then back onto his dad.

"We can use the clippers. As much as you want." He smiles back, lips falling in that way. The remark easy, careless; nothing weighty to it, though his mind is buzzing at the thought: wouldn't this make things right? Shouldn't he let Mister LaRusso do to him what he did first?

Even though he can hear a voice inside him, static and distorted. A single No from his omen that doesn't speak outward.

(But wouldn't it be right?)