Re: Third Class ; Dining
Maybe it was that he didn't remember how to feel awkward, to feel discomfort in the actions of others, so when she stared upon him, he simply looked back at her, silent and unmoving, waiting until she had looked away before he shifted to sit in front of her. His legs were folded in front of him, long fingers settling in the cradle he had created, folding together. "You're welcome," he said in response to her, remembering enough to be polite, to say the right things even if he didn't completely understand why he was doing or saying it.
As she turned away to clean her face, to wipe the tears from her cheeks, the lost boy gave her privacy, looking down instead at his hands, examining clean nails and long fingers, focused upon those until she spoke again. He looked up, puzzlement upon his face at her words, not remembering his question for several moments. And then he recalled, a nod coming, and because he didn't know enough to lie either, to say the things that some people might say in polite conversation, he pursued her answer with curiosity.
"What's wrong?" It was him pushing a door wide open, unknowing what might lay beyond it, and he did so without fear or worry about what price might be paid for the answers to such questions.