Ira had no idea how much time had actually passed until Staas was composed enough to extricate himself from the hug, scrubbing apologetically at his face. Ira wouldn’t hear of that, though, and discreetly followed the other man’s unsteady path to the kitchen.
“No. It’s okay.” His voice was emphatic and a lot less wobbly than he felt inside, Staas’ misery playing over in his mind even as Ira watched him try to clean himself up. There was a sharp moment of silence, so awkward and sorrowful that he couldn’t stand it and barely thought before stupidly asking, “Anything else I can do…?” He pressed a ragged thumbnail against the side of his finger. “Tissues, or tea, or…?”
Petty as it was compared to Staas’ grief, Ira felt guilty that he’d brought such a painful subject up, even if he couldn’t possibly have expected what had happened. And perhaps the outburst of tears was actually long overdue, not that it was exactly a happy thought. As badly as he wanted to, Ira knew that he couldn’t fix things for Staas. But he could do his damndest to try and give the other man whatever comfort he needed, for now.