[ Roman tracks Eiffel's moment with his eyes, refusing to join him in the float fest--fuck space, man, it's never been a good thing for him--and in a rare occurrence, actually shuts the fuck up. He even resists the urge to tell Eiffel he's wrong about the general populace versus the one percenters. How he's positive that Kendall just didn't fall asleep in his pool and fell in, that it was on purpose, that his entire family is fucking miserable. It seems like Eiffel's going somewhere with this, anyway.
So instead, he listens. To his credit, he lasts a few moments actually looking Eiffel in the eye before he feels too uncomfortable and settles for concentrating on the other's unruly blond curls instead.
He doesn't know shit about space, but there's something he does know about: loneliness and isolation. Not physically, not on the other's level, but the feeling of being trapped with only yourself rings true, just a little bit. Even if Eiffel's is clearly a more drastic situation. ]
Yeah, but like... [ He's digging for something positive or reassuring. Anything. He can't pick at his nails and he can't use his hand to tug on his ear, both his go-to nervous ticks, so he settles on gnawing at his lip. ] ...You made it out, right?
[ Three months. The span of time looms over the entire conversation, heavy in its weight. ]
cw mentions of possible attempted suicide
So instead, he listens. To his credit, he lasts a few moments actually looking Eiffel in the eye before he feels too uncomfortable and settles for concentrating on the other's unruly blond curls instead.
He doesn't know shit about space, but there's something he does know about: loneliness and isolation. Not physically, not on the other's level, but the feeling of being trapped with only yourself rings true, just a little bit. Even if Eiffel's is clearly a more drastic situation. ]
Yeah, but like... [ He's digging for something positive or reassuring. Anything. He can't pick at his nails and he can't use his hand to tug on his ear, both his go-to nervous ticks, so he settles on gnawing at his lip. ] ...You made it out, right?
[ Three months. The span of time looms over the entire conversation, heavy in its weight. ]