They had, admittedly, forgotten to breathe, and take his suggestion seriously.
Finally and blessedly quiet when he starts to answer, Iago scribbles a few shorthand notes while they listen. They hold the journal close to their chest and hunch over it protectively, keeping it's already nearly illegible contents to themselves. Bernard already thinks them a fool, he doesn't need to know that their riveting commentary is little more than a stream of consciousness,
' experience helps. he remembers. brag.
hair maybe. comfort? ←revisit. try this
bnrd is looking at me like im stupid. again. he always looks at me like im
less than ten million questions. no questions- '
When he looks over them during the lithe reach above his head, Iago's stills, feeling too small, heart rabbiting, hit by the sudden urge to bolt - a frequent habit of theirs, brief bouts of panic in which they're convinced of some sudden threat. It dulls to its usual murmur after a few moments. Another page is quickly flipped to, given another tally mark among many others, and then turned to their current page again seamlessly. They like to keep track of things. Those little habits.
Bernard's obvious, incredulous comment irks Iago, despite their equally obvious comment to evoke it. They scowl into their pages and rub that spot on their chest again with one hand,
of course i have a family
They mirror him when he sits, preferring him when he's not towering over them anyway. Iago starts studying him once again while he answers their last few inquiries, noting the shift in his demeanor with as much curiosity as wariness. The discomfort is obvious and the seat he takes looks more defensive than causal.
Their notetaking dwindles until their pen merely sits on the page, slowly bleeding a splotch while they're distracted by his tail.
They wonder if they're supposed to say something now too. Something comforting. They don't think he'd appreciate if they offered to comb his hair right about now.
And kindness isn't something that comes too naturally to Iago. The best they can do is bite back a sigh when they tuck their pen away like a bookmark and put their journal to rest in their lap, letting him talk unrecorded.
They hope they remember to ask him their names.
When he says it hurts, they open their mouth to excitedly ask ‘where?’, comparing notes, but clench their jaw so suddenly that they feel a twinge. Attentive eyes turn sharp and cold in a blink,
“Don't say that.”
They grip their book, the book that he hates, and force their voice level again, light, looking past his shoulder instead of trying to burn that hole he wished for into his head with their glare, “Be careful what you wish for or you'll be as annoying as I am."
A corner of a page is sacrificed for them to tear at, “And disappointed to find it does little to alleviate that pain. Seems all it does is make it more confusing."
A quick pivot, "You didn't mention their names.”
