[He notices, in a distant way, that his fingers are shaking, that his knuckles are white against the table. There is something unholy about this, wrong, and he's trying to cling to that, because it's easier to be confused and uncertain about the ramifications of meeting someone after their death than to succumb to the bittersweet joy he feels at the lie that is the sight of Bruno alive in front of him.]
[With perfect precision (even while trembling), he picks up his napkin and wipes the spilled coffee off the table, looking anywhere but at Bruno. He folds it neatly and lays it beside his mug, presses his lips together, takes another sip.]
You died, Bruno.
[This is almost enough to make his voice shake. Almost, but not quite. He looks up at last, offering a smile that is at once incredibly sad and wholly inappropriate, which doesn't reach his eyes. Then he stands abruptly and begins to cross the room to the counter, for something to do.]
Sit. [In tones that imply he is quite used to being obeyed, now; he can't help it, it's easier than allowing himself to be taken care of.] I'll get you something to drink.
no subject
[With perfect precision (even while trembling), he picks up his napkin and wipes the spilled coffee off the table, looking anywhere but at Bruno. He folds it neatly and lays it beside his mug, presses his lips together, takes another sip.]
You died, Bruno.
[This is almost enough to make his voice shake. Almost, but not quite. He looks up at last, offering a smile that is at once incredibly sad and wholly inappropriate, which doesn't reach his eyes. Then he stands abruptly and begins to cross the room to the counter, for something to do.]
Sit. [In tones that imply he is quite used to being obeyed, now; he can't help it, it's easier than allowing himself to be taken care of.] I'll get you something to drink.