[ Normally, yes. Of course he'd bristle. A teenage boy's pride is truly one of the most insufferable qualities known to mankind. But lucky for the both of them, Gen's tired enough that his desperate longing for some familiar creature comfort far outweighs his desire to guard his wounded pride. So.
Once Ciel slides the plate of sandwich halves forth, Gen huffs a quiet exhale before slinking into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him; she might notice that his gait is a little awkward as he acclimates to the shift in his body's center of balance. And while he favors simply leaning against the countertop as opposed to actually taking a seat (so far), he takes up one of the sandwich halves without hesitation, looks it over for a moment, then takes a modest bite. ]
... the sauce is too weak.
[ So he says, but that ungrateful comment is made as more of an observation than a complaint, words spoken at a low mutter. And at any rate, he barely waits a moment after swallowing to take another bite, much bigger this time. Even if the sauce is a little weak, it's more than close enough to what he's familiar with that he'll gladly take it.
Gen eats in silence for a few moments. Though he offers no further comment, his posture alone says plenty about how much the food is helping to soothe his frazzled nerves -- some of the tension drains out of his shoulders as he chews, his next exhale coming slow with relief, and he closes his eyes as he swallows. Licking crumbs off the corner of his mouth, Gen looks at the half-eaten remains of his sandwich for a moment before speaking again, his voice quiet. ]
Why d'you do this shit for me, anyway.
[ Not just the food; not just this sandwich, and not just the familiar dishes he's periodically spotted left in the pantry. What he's asking is basically, 'Why do you care?' ]
no subject
Once Ciel slides the plate of sandwich halves forth, Gen huffs a quiet exhale before slinking into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him; she might notice that his gait is a little awkward as he acclimates to the shift in his body's center of balance. And while he favors simply leaning against the countertop as opposed to actually taking a seat (so far), he takes up one of the sandwich halves without hesitation, looks it over for a moment, then takes a modest bite. ]
... the sauce is too weak.
[ So he says, but that ungrateful comment is made as more of an observation than a complaint, words spoken at a low mutter. And at any rate, he barely waits a moment after swallowing to take another bite, much bigger this time. Even if the sauce is a little weak, it's more than close enough to what he's familiar with that he'll gladly take it.
Gen eats in silence for a few moments. Though he offers no further comment, his posture alone says plenty about how much the food is helping to soothe his frazzled nerves -- some of the tension drains out of his shoulders as he chews, his next exhale coming slow with relief, and he closes his eyes as he swallows. Licking crumbs off the corner of his mouth, Gen looks at the half-eaten remains of his sandwich for a moment before speaking again, his voice quiet. ]
Why d'you do this shit for me, anyway.
[ Not just the food; not just this sandwich, and not just the familiar dishes he's periodically spotted left in the pantry. What he's asking is basically, 'Why do you care?' ]