[Something gnaws at him - lingering questions, uncertainty, what if it's just him? - and he keeps drawing circles with the fry, eyes on the streaks of ketchup he leaves on the plate. From the corner of his eye, he can see people in fine clothes, or - clothes that used to be fine, but are torn and falling apart now. Maybe it's just him. Maybe it's all in his head, just his, and if that's the case...
He drops the fry, running a hand over his face.]
No. [It's a bad lie, but what if he's losing it? He's supposed to be strong, and steady, and not remind Stiles of the time he thought he was losing it.]
no subject
He drops the fry, running a hand over his face.]
No. [It's a bad lie, but what if he's losing it? He's supposed to be strong, and steady, and not remind Stiles of the time he thought he was losing it.]