[ Alberto freezes in his spot, canvas sail and fishing net with all its bullshit woven in both draped over his head as he finally budges the window, which he's not opened for... weeks. Maybe even a month or more, starting from all the rain before it turned to snow. He hates that too. He wants nothing more than to go outside and play in the snow... Just as soon as he'd started feeling like he was getting good at this human-ing thing, cooking good food for himself, making this cool space his own, taking care of a pet by himself — just as soon as he'd started feeling like he was good at taking care of himself, good at being by himself, at long last — Mother Nature smacked him in the face and it was wet and cold and hard. But mostly wet.
He manages to tug the window open just as Della starts fumbling for her words, a gust of cold air entering the room when he does. He'd go about fulfilling his half-baked window plan with the sled, but then she asks him to tell her what she did wrong...? And it freezes him. He lets his gaze fall to the floor at the pile of crap he just shoved gracelessly by his bare feet, unable to look at her, and his expression darkens as he listens to her, frozen mid-action. Being told the last thing she'd want to do is hurt him...? No adult's ever said anything like that to him. He imagines no adult's ever even thought that about him. Maybe not even Massimo.
But what no adult has ever, ever told him... is that they're trying their best. And struggling. That they did wrong. Adults don't say stuff like that. Hell, if anything, that's usually Alberto's line. But hearing her plead that she swears she's trying her best, it tears his gaze away from the nothings at his feet on the floor that his eyes had been vacantly stuck on, and he looks to Della with the most complex, bewildered, pained, stunned expression he's worn since he found himself in this world, probably. He's not even sure what she's talking about, exactly — trying her best to be his friend...? So emotional — over him...? But it doesn't matter in a way, because... adults don't say things like that to him. He's never encountered such nuance and parity and vulnerability, never considered this kind of role reversal before — not with his dad, not with Massimo. And it's chilling his blood there by the open window, as he lifts the sail and fishing net curtains away from himself, to stand and stare at her more clearly, frozen in shock anew. ]
Wha—...?
[ He has no idea how to process this. He's never had to comfort an adult. Likewise, though— he's not about to fess up with the truth at the core of all this, either. He's certain of that much. Conflict knots his brow as he stares at her, mouth opening to find words he immediately fails to find, tries again in a false start, then straightens up and turns to face her head-on, arms hanging limply at his sides. He slowly leans his back casually against the open window, cold biting at his under-dressed shoulders and spine beneath his T-shirt, legs resting against the now-empty windowsill not so much for comfort, but almost unconsciously to support himself, as he finally manages at least one simple truth. A truth that maybe he doesn't have to explain — that can just be... taken as truth. ]
Signora Della... ...I just don't want to get wet in the snow.
omg i'm living for this
He manages to tug the window open just as Della starts fumbling for her words, a gust of cold air entering the room when he does. He'd go about fulfilling his half-baked window plan with the sled, but then she asks him to tell her what she did wrong...? And it freezes him. He lets his gaze fall to the floor at the pile of crap he just shoved gracelessly by his bare feet, unable to look at her, and his expression darkens as he listens to her, frozen mid-action. Being told the last thing she'd want to do is hurt him...? No adult's ever said anything like that to him. He imagines no adult's ever even thought that about him. Maybe not even Massimo.
But what no adult has ever, ever told him... is that they're trying their best. And struggling. That they did wrong. Adults don't say stuff like that. Hell, if anything, that's usually Alberto's line. But hearing her plead that she swears she's trying her best, it tears his gaze away from the nothings at his feet on the floor that his eyes had been vacantly stuck on, and he looks to Della with the most complex, bewildered, pained, stunned expression he's worn since he found himself in this world, probably. He's not even sure what she's talking about, exactly — trying her best to be his friend...? So emotional — over him...? But it doesn't matter in a way, because... adults don't say things like that to him. He's never encountered such nuance and parity and vulnerability, never considered this kind of role reversal before — not with his dad, not with Massimo. And it's chilling his blood there by the open window, as he lifts the sail and fishing net curtains away from himself, to stand and stare at her more clearly, frozen in shock anew. ]
Wha—...?
[ He has no idea how to process this. He's never had to comfort an adult. Likewise, though— he's not about to fess up with the truth at the core of all this, either. He's certain of that much. Conflict knots his brow as he stares at her, mouth opening to find words he immediately fails to find, tries again in a false start, then straightens up and turns to face her head-on, arms hanging limply at his sides. He slowly leans his back casually against the open window, cold biting at his under-dressed shoulders and spine beneath his T-shirt, legs resting against the now-empty windowsill not so much for comfort, but almost unconsciously to support himself, as he finally manages at least one simple truth. A truth that maybe he doesn't have to explain — that can just be... taken as truth. ]
Signora Della... ...I just don't want to get wet in the snow.