Ainsley clearly heard the slight noise of pain that was made, but he ignored it. The last thing Mason probably wanted was coddling, and Ainsley was hardly the type to do so anyway. He merely kept his eyes on the cooking meat and let the kid compose himself and finish the task.
His eyes did flick to his friend briefly at the utterance of that phrase again, but he just as quickly dropped them back down to the stove. "We can," he said, ignoring the hated words. "We don't have to, and it's not quite the same thing as when we were alive . . . I mean. Our senses are sharper, so everything tastes either better or worse than it did before, but at the same time, the enjoyment of it is dulled a little, because we don't need it."
He shrugged then, and turned off the flame. "But I still like it, sometimes." Maybe because it made him feel normal again, if only for a minute or two. He carried the pan over to the old table acquired from the kerbside, and split the rashers between the two plates, putting the odd piece on Mason's, knowing the kid needed to eat.