Fic: Acceptance is a Four-Letter Word (part 5, figure skating RPS)
Title: Acceptance is a Four-Letter Word (part 5)
Author: thefrogg
Beta: lindra
Disclaimer: Never happened, never will, and I don't own these people. Although sometimes I wish I did.
Warnings: weirdness (as if that's unexpected with me as an author), angst
Summary: Johnny Weir refused to let go of his Olympic dreams, despite age and injury. Five months before the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, he stopped talking to anyone outside his coach. Now he's in Sochi early, and the rest of his generation of skaters are determined to find out why the last of them still competing has gone missing in spirit, if not in body.
Stéphane lets Tanith back in at her quiet tap-tap-tap on the door, peeking through the peephole before opening the door. She slips through with a quiet thank you and a sigh, and he can see the anger's gone, replaced with an odd mix of bleak despair and determination.
Oddly, she has the room service menu from her room in one hand.
"That hungry?" he asks with a raised brow. "Johnny is still sleeping, it has not been long enough to count as a nap-"
Tanith brushes past him, reaching over Johnny to hand the menu to Evgeni. "Tara told me what to get him. I figure it'll take a while for them to fix it, so we might as well order and let him sleep until it gets here."
"Something wrong with him? Beside the obvious," Evgeni says, brushing his free hand over Johnny's shoulder.
Johnny doesn't stir.
Tanith can't look at them, any of them, and stares down at the carpet, at Johnny's phone in her hand, at the black screen of the television. "Tell me he's not hurting," she whispers finally. "Please. Tell me he's not, he's not-"
Stéphane can't stand it anymore, and goes and wraps himself around Tanith like a warm Swiss blanket; he braces himself as she lets herself fall, leaning into his body. "Shhhh. It is okay. I do not know for certain, and I do not wish to wake him to ask. But there are no scars, there is no sign of his injury in this form, I looked very hard and find nothing." He meets Evgeni's gaze over her shoulder as she shakes in his arms.
"He laughed, Tanith," Evgeni says, his voice sounding strained. "He laughed, and I see him smile. Real smile, not fake smile like for camera. I do not see pain in him."
Tanith sniffs back tears, resting her hands over Stéphane's wrists. "I-good." She starts to peel herself out of Stéphane's embrace. "Do you know what you want?" The sudden normalcy sounds forced, brittle, and Stéphane can't leave it alone.
"Tanith." Stéphane's hands dig into her shoulders. "What does Tara say?"
"She says he hurts too much." She pauses to breathe, harsh and uneven. "Too much to eat, too much to keep food down when he can, too much to sleep, too much for the meds to help. Just. Too. Much." And she pulls herself away, almost jerking herself out of Stéphane's grasp, turning to the desk and the menu for Johnny's room.
There is more, things she's leaving out, but Stéphane can't bring himself to ask.
"Then this is good thing," Evgeni says matter-of-factly.
"It'll let him eat and sleep, now, like this, but the rest?" She sighs and collapses into the chair, picking up the pen. She doesn't look up as she continues, "He's spent two years learning how to manage the pain, what happens when he shifts and it all comes back?"
Stéphane and Evgeni share a look of concern and confusion, listening as Tanith's pen rasps across paper.
"Perhaps…perhaps this is like the stories? He is not, what you call, werewolf, but…" Evgeni speaks tentatively. "Perhaps this will let him heal? I think it, perhaps, unwise to risk without that."
The pen clatters to the desk; Tanith buries her face in her hands. "Don't. Just-"
"What else did Tara say?" Stéphane finally asks.
Tanith's breath comes out a thin whine. "She-they have to take his skates away. He never did anything, but, but-they have to take his skates away."
Surprisingly, the awkward tension suddenly dies away.
"Is not surprise. We take them off for him, in the beginning. Is too big risk." Evgeni shrugs, as if the unspoken Johnny's suicidal is no big deal.
"He was paralyzed in the beginning. He couldn't move from hurting so much, it wasn't-"
"Was it not?" Stéphane interrupts. "You were there, you saw him. No one thought he could."
"You did." Tanith's eyes are sad, guilty.
"He needed hope. That, I could give him."
Tanith's silent, staring down at the menu and its glossy pages for several seconds before whispering, "Hope hurts."
"Is easy to give up. But we skate. Everything hurts. Does not mean we give up." Evgeni shrugs again. "We ask after lunch. Find out how we help. Here," he says, holding the menu out to Stéphane.
"They have burger and fries, yes? I will have that. Johnny needs to eat, I do not need to keep girlish figure so badly." Stéphane smiles sweetly as he takes the menu anyways. "Oh! Pie! With ice cream, yes, please."
"Gag me with a spoon," Tanith mutters under her breath, but it sounds like she's trying to suppress laughter, even if it is a bit on the hysterical side, and the subject of Johnny and his problems is shelved in favor of calling room service.
At least, until Evgeni tires of listening to Tanith argue and clarify and repeat herself and confiscates the phone. Tanith shoves a battered piece of paper under his nose and jabs a finger at it until he nods, already speaking rapidly in Russian.
All Stéphane can understand is Evgeni's name and Johnny's, and a handful of words he's heard too many times not to misunderstand - the ubiquitous yes, no, please, thank you most of them know in more languages than any of them consciously realize after touring and traveling worldwide for most of their lives.
Evgeni finally hangs up the phone. "That. Is a lot of food." He sounds breathless with laughter.
Tanith shrugs, hugging herself, but doesn't answer.
Stéphane blinks. "What did you order for him?"
"The menu. Minus a few things." Tanith's back to sounding half-dead.
"Ah." Stéphane can't find words for a long moment. "Yes, that would be a lot of food," he says finally, taking a seat on the second bed.
For the next little while, there is sporadic talk of inconsequential things, until the phone rings and Johnny flinches awake, wide-eyed and confused.
"Were you expecting-" Tanith starts, then stops as Evgeni picks up the receiver before the phone can ring again and speaks briefly (yes, thank you).
"Lunch?" Johnny asks, quiet and groggy.
"Yes, my friend, lunch comes." Evgeni pats his shoulder again, then looks thoughtful as Johnny starts shoving at the pillows supporting his upper torso. "Problem?"
"Can't eat like this," Johnny says, laughing sadly. Half a dozen pillows wind up piled carelessly on the floor.
"Here," Stéphane says. He unfolds a trash bag that had escaped his bed-making and holds it out flat, sliding it under Johnny one arm at a time. "Can you hold yourself up long enough?"
Johnny shrugs, a motion that involves his entire body. "I'll have to. I can't shift back now or I'll have to start all over again."
Stéphane wants to ask what he means, can see the ache of it on Tanith's face, on Evgeni's, but there is a knock at the door, and then they're juggling trays and steering carts of stacked, covered dishes through the pillows Johnny's shoved to the floor.
Lunch is a fascinating mix of savoring food they don't allow themselves under normal circumstances and watching Johnny sort through appetizers and entrées and salads, soups and sandwiches and desserts (which all have a tiny bite taken accompanied by a soft pornographic moan). Most dishes get tasted; a few get put aside untouched; the chosen half dozen or so are devoured with a dedicated enthusiasm that is almost scary to watch, the dishes scraped clean.
"Johnny?" Stéphane starts warily as Johnny makes his way through his second salad. Tanith glares at him for the interruption, but it's too late.
He glances up, mouth full, and nods at him to continue before swallowing.
"I-" do not mean to suggest anything, Stéphane wants to say, but catches himself, knowing that the qualifier would only do just that. "Be careful you do not make yourself ill," he says gently.
Snorted laughter interrupts him, and Johnny reaches for his water, downing half the glass before answering. "My stomach is at least three times the size of yours in this form. Which is a good thing, because I lose about a pound and a half every time I shift." He shrugs again, flipping his tail, and goes back to his salad.
"I did not mean…Wait - shift, as in one way."
Johnny makes a noise of disgruntled displeasure, holding up a hand to keep Stéphane from saying more. "Can I finish eating before you start interrogating me?" he asks softly, hiding his eyes.
Stéphane feels his face heat. "Yes, yes, of course. Eat, I will be very quiet." He smiles nervously, pressing one finger over his lips.
Johnny goes back to his salad, but the mood is already broken; he looks nervous as he finishes his salad, and seems to fold in on himself as he picks out another entrée - salmon fillet with some kind of white sauce and mushrooms - and a bowl of potato leek soup. The chocolate cheesecake - with fresh strawberries rather than raspberries - is eaten painfully slowly, tremors running down Johnny's body with each conspicuously silent bite.
Finally, the fork is set down, the empty plate put aside, and Johnny carefully folds the trash bag in on itself; he flinches when Stéphane takes it gently from him, balling it up and tossing it in the garbage.
Johnny's face down on the mattress, one arm hanging straight off the side of the bed, when Stéphane turns around. "Johnny?" Stéphane looks at Evgeni, at Tanith, and only gets shrugs of confusion and concern.
Johnny mumbles something unintelligible into the mattress before propping himself back up on both arms, shaking his whole body like a dog shedding water. Then, awkwardly, he strains forward, reaching down and wiggling his fingers as if that would bridge the gap between his hand and the pillows he'd discarded.
"Here, here, do not go falling out of bed." Evgeni leans down from the other bed and starts tossing pillows at Johnny until he's half buried in them, just a shock of damp black hair and a too-pale arm sticking out of a pile of fluffy white.
Johnny folds his arms around the mass of pillows, not bothering to dig his way out or stuff them beneath him and prop himself into what had to be a more comfortable position (at least, from what Stéphane could see of the curve in his spine). His knuckes turn white through the thin skin of his hands, and the sound of his gasping sobs? Laughter? Something, is almost muffled into silence, to be betrayed by the shaking of his body.
Stéphane circles the bed, moving the bucket out of the way so he can lay down next to Johnny at an angle, shoving his shoulder up against Johnny's arm. His fingers brush Johnny's wrist, and he rocks back as Johnny jerks upward, head clearing the linens, and starts shoving the pillows beneath him. "Johnny." Stéphane manages to catch one before it flops to the floor, and Johnny's hand as they flutter past. "Johnny. What is wrong?"
Johnny shakes his head, peering at him through water-sheened eyes. "I just-I haven't been able to-" Johnny stops, mouth working, obviously struggling for words, then sort of crumples and collapses down on the oh-so-untidy pillows. It's not like him - wasn't like him from before the accident, but Stéphane knew all too well how much Johnny's had to learn to compromise.
"Tara said the pain made you nauseous," Tanith offers quietly from her perch on the other bed.
Johnny laughs again, dissolving into painful hiccuping sobs before going quiet.
Stéphane looks up at Evgeni, then, crowding closer, rubs Johnny's back.
After several minutes, Johnny sniffs. "I have, I have a pain scale," he says, as if it should explain everything, and perhaps it would, if Stéphane knew as much as Tara, or Galina and Victor. "You've seen the upper end," he whispers. "But. Um." He sighs gustily, and scrubs at an eye with his fist. "Zero would be, like, a normal person? Not an athlete, no old injuries or whatever. One would be, well. The hip, the foot, all the aches and pains of the injuries that never quite healed properly because I was skating on them," like an idiot, just like all the rest of us would have, Johnny doesn't say, but they can hear it just the same. "Two. Um." He bites his lip, glancing sideways at Stéphane, then over at Evgeni. "You, before the knee surgery. Retirement-level chronic pain."
"That-two?" Evegni blinks and lets out vicious-sounding curse at Johnny's nod.
"Three is-three has pain-induced nausea."
They wait for him to continue, and wait, and finally Evgeni says Johnny's name, verbally poking and prodding gently, implacably.
"I normally consider myself lucky to get through my day under a five. This is, this was," and he stops, peers down at the carpet and takes a deep breath before continuing. "If I could have gotten away with not eating for the last two-plus years, I would have. It's not. I don't have to keep myself from eating anything any more, it's more a matter of making myself eat."
"Johnny," Tanith says, shocked and breathy. "Never-?"
Johnny shakes his head. "Last time I didn't feel nauseous - before, like, now - I was too strung out on painkillers to care how much my leg hurt."
"And painkillers suppress your appetite," Tanith says.
"Are you still hungry?" Stéphane hears himself ask, buying time as he comes to realize that all the energy - emotional and otherwise - that Johnny has had to put into just functioning isn't needed now, that it doesn't have another outlet, that it's bleeding off in other ways. And now he understands why Tanith was glaring at him earlier.
Johnny turns to look at him squarely and doesn't answer, searching his eyes, his face.
Stéphane keeps his expression carefully neutral, concerned, nonjudgmental.
"If I don't pass out, probably in a couple of hours. Maybe sooner, I don't know. I haven't eaten like this, in, in," and he dissolves into quiet tears again, burying his face in the pillow.
Author: thefrogg
Beta: lindra
Disclaimer: Never happened, never will, and I don't own these people. Although sometimes I wish I did.
Warnings: weirdness (as if that's unexpected with me as an author), angst
Summary: Johnny Weir refused to let go of his Olympic dreams, despite age and injury. Five months before the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, he stopped talking to anyone outside his coach. Now he's in Sochi early, and the rest of his generation of skaters are determined to find out why the last of them still competing has gone missing in spirit, if not in body.
Stéphane lets Tanith back in at her quiet tap-tap-tap on the door, peeking through the peephole before opening the door. She slips through with a quiet thank you and a sigh, and he can see the anger's gone, replaced with an odd mix of bleak despair and determination.
Oddly, she has the room service menu from her room in one hand.
"That hungry?" he asks with a raised brow. "Johnny is still sleeping, it has not been long enough to count as a nap-"
Tanith brushes past him, reaching over Johnny to hand the menu to Evgeni. "Tara told me what to get him. I figure it'll take a while for them to fix it, so we might as well order and let him sleep until it gets here."
"Something wrong with him? Beside the obvious," Evgeni says, brushing his free hand over Johnny's shoulder.
Johnny doesn't stir.
Tanith can't look at them, any of them, and stares down at the carpet, at Johnny's phone in her hand, at the black screen of the television. "Tell me he's not hurting," she whispers finally. "Please. Tell me he's not, he's not-"
Stéphane can't stand it anymore, and goes and wraps himself around Tanith like a warm Swiss blanket; he braces himself as she lets herself fall, leaning into his body. "Shhhh. It is okay. I do not know for certain, and I do not wish to wake him to ask. But there are no scars, there is no sign of his injury in this form, I looked very hard and find nothing." He meets Evgeni's gaze over her shoulder as she shakes in his arms.
"He laughed, Tanith," Evgeni says, his voice sounding strained. "He laughed, and I see him smile. Real smile, not fake smile like for camera. I do not see pain in him."
Tanith sniffs back tears, resting her hands over Stéphane's wrists. "I-good." She starts to peel herself out of Stéphane's embrace. "Do you know what you want?" The sudden normalcy sounds forced, brittle, and Stéphane can't leave it alone.
"Tanith." Stéphane's hands dig into her shoulders. "What does Tara say?"
"She says he hurts too much." She pauses to breathe, harsh and uneven. "Too much to eat, too much to keep food down when he can, too much to sleep, too much for the meds to help. Just. Too. Much." And she pulls herself away, almost jerking herself out of Stéphane's grasp, turning to the desk and the menu for Johnny's room.
There is more, things she's leaving out, but Stéphane can't bring himself to ask.
"Then this is good thing," Evgeni says matter-of-factly.
"It'll let him eat and sleep, now, like this, but the rest?" She sighs and collapses into the chair, picking up the pen. She doesn't look up as she continues, "He's spent two years learning how to manage the pain, what happens when he shifts and it all comes back?"
Stéphane and Evgeni share a look of concern and confusion, listening as Tanith's pen rasps across paper.
"Perhaps…perhaps this is like the stories? He is not, what you call, werewolf, but…" Evgeni speaks tentatively. "Perhaps this will let him heal? I think it, perhaps, unwise to risk without that."
The pen clatters to the desk; Tanith buries her face in her hands. "Don't. Just-"
"What else did Tara say?" Stéphane finally asks.
Tanith's breath comes out a thin whine. "She-they have to take his skates away. He never did anything, but, but-they have to take his skates away."
Surprisingly, the awkward tension suddenly dies away.
"Is not surprise. We take them off for him, in the beginning. Is too big risk." Evgeni shrugs, as if the unspoken Johnny's suicidal is no big deal.
"He was paralyzed in the beginning. He couldn't move from hurting so much, it wasn't-"
"Was it not?" Stéphane interrupts. "You were there, you saw him. No one thought he could."
"You did." Tanith's eyes are sad, guilty.
"He needed hope. That, I could give him."
Tanith's silent, staring down at the menu and its glossy pages for several seconds before whispering, "Hope hurts."
"Is easy to give up. But we skate. Everything hurts. Does not mean we give up." Evgeni shrugs again. "We ask after lunch. Find out how we help. Here," he says, holding the menu out to Stéphane.
"They have burger and fries, yes? I will have that. Johnny needs to eat, I do not need to keep girlish figure so badly." Stéphane smiles sweetly as he takes the menu anyways. "Oh! Pie! With ice cream, yes, please."
"Gag me with a spoon," Tanith mutters under her breath, but it sounds like she's trying to suppress laughter, even if it is a bit on the hysterical side, and the subject of Johnny and his problems is shelved in favor of calling room service.
At least, until Evgeni tires of listening to Tanith argue and clarify and repeat herself and confiscates the phone. Tanith shoves a battered piece of paper under his nose and jabs a finger at it until he nods, already speaking rapidly in Russian.
All Stéphane can understand is Evgeni's name and Johnny's, and a handful of words he's heard too many times not to misunderstand - the ubiquitous yes, no, please, thank you most of them know in more languages than any of them consciously realize after touring and traveling worldwide for most of their lives.
Evgeni finally hangs up the phone. "That. Is a lot of food." He sounds breathless with laughter.
Tanith shrugs, hugging herself, but doesn't answer.
Stéphane blinks. "What did you order for him?"
"The menu. Minus a few things." Tanith's back to sounding half-dead.
"Ah." Stéphane can't find words for a long moment. "Yes, that would be a lot of food," he says finally, taking a seat on the second bed.
For the next little while, there is sporadic talk of inconsequential things, until the phone rings and Johnny flinches awake, wide-eyed and confused.
"Were you expecting-" Tanith starts, then stops as Evgeni picks up the receiver before the phone can ring again and speaks briefly (yes, thank you).
"Lunch?" Johnny asks, quiet and groggy.
"Yes, my friend, lunch comes." Evgeni pats his shoulder again, then looks thoughtful as Johnny starts shoving at the pillows supporting his upper torso. "Problem?"
"Can't eat like this," Johnny says, laughing sadly. Half a dozen pillows wind up piled carelessly on the floor.
"Here," Stéphane says. He unfolds a trash bag that had escaped his bed-making and holds it out flat, sliding it under Johnny one arm at a time. "Can you hold yourself up long enough?"
Johnny shrugs, a motion that involves his entire body. "I'll have to. I can't shift back now or I'll have to start all over again."
Stéphane wants to ask what he means, can see the ache of it on Tanith's face, on Evgeni's, but there is a knock at the door, and then they're juggling trays and steering carts of stacked, covered dishes through the pillows Johnny's shoved to the floor.
Lunch is a fascinating mix of savoring food they don't allow themselves under normal circumstances and watching Johnny sort through appetizers and entrées and salads, soups and sandwiches and desserts (which all have a tiny bite taken accompanied by a soft pornographic moan). Most dishes get tasted; a few get put aside untouched; the chosen half dozen or so are devoured with a dedicated enthusiasm that is almost scary to watch, the dishes scraped clean.
"Johnny?" Stéphane starts warily as Johnny makes his way through his second salad. Tanith glares at him for the interruption, but it's too late.
He glances up, mouth full, and nods at him to continue before swallowing.
"I-" do not mean to suggest anything, Stéphane wants to say, but catches himself, knowing that the qualifier would only do just that. "Be careful you do not make yourself ill," he says gently.
Snorted laughter interrupts him, and Johnny reaches for his water, downing half the glass before answering. "My stomach is at least three times the size of yours in this form. Which is a good thing, because I lose about a pound and a half every time I shift." He shrugs again, flipping his tail, and goes back to his salad.
"I did not mean…Wait - shift, as in one way."
Johnny makes a noise of disgruntled displeasure, holding up a hand to keep Stéphane from saying more. "Can I finish eating before you start interrogating me?" he asks softly, hiding his eyes.
Stéphane feels his face heat. "Yes, yes, of course. Eat, I will be very quiet." He smiles nervously, pressing one finger over his lips.
Johnny goes back to his salad, but the mood is already broken; he looks nervous as he finishes his salad, and seems to fold in on himself as he picks out another entrée - salmon fillet with some kind of white sauce and mushrooms - and a bowl of potato leek soup. The chocolate cheesecake - with fresh strawberries rather than raspberries - is eaten painfully slowly, tremors running down Johnny's body with each conspicuously silent bite.
Finally, the fork is set down, the empty plate put aside, and Johnny carefully folds the trash bag in on itself; he flinches when Stéphane takes it gently from him, balling it up and tossing it in the garbage.
Johnny's face down on the mattress, one arm hanging straight off the side of the bed, when Stéphane turns around. "Johnny?" Stéphane looks at Evgeni, at Tanith, and only gets shrugs of confusion and concern.
Johnny mumbles something unintelligible into the mattress before propping himself back up on both arms, shaking his whole body like a dog shedding water. Then, awkwardly, he strains forward, reaching down and wiggling his fingers as if that would bridge the gap between his hand and the pillows he'd discarded.
"Here, here, do not go falling out of bed." Evgeni leans down from the other bed and starts tossing pillows at Johnny until he's half buried in them, just a shock of damp black hair and a too-pale arm sticking out of a pile of fluffy white.
Johnny folds his arms around the mass of pillows, not bothering to dig his way out or stuff them beneath him and prop himself into what had to be a more comfortable position (at least, from what Stéphane could see of the curve in his spine). His knuckes turn white through the thin skin of his hands, and the sound of his gasping sobs? Laughter? Something, is almost muffled into silence, to be betrayed by the shaking of his body.
Stéphane circles the bed, moving the bucket out of the way so he can lay down next to Johnny at an angle, shoving his shoulder up against Johnny's arm. His fingers brush Johnny's wrist, and he rocks back as Johnny jerks upward, head clearing the linens, and starts shoving the pillows beneath him. "Johnny." Stéphane manages to catch one before it flops to the floor, and Johnny's hand as they flutter past. "Johnny. What is wrong?"
Johnny shakes his head, peering at him through water-sheened eyes. "I just-I haven't been able to-" Johnny stops, mouth working, obviously struggling for words, then sort of crumples and collapses down on the oh-so-untidy pillows. It's not like him - wasn't like him from before the accident, but Stéphane knew all too well how much Johnny's had to learn to compromise.
"Tara said the pain made you nauseous," Tanith offers quietly from her perch on the other bed.
Johnny laughs again, dissolving into painful hiccuping sobs before going quiet.
Stéphane looks up at Evgeni, then, crowding closer, rubs Johnny's back.
After several minutes, Johnny sniffs. "I have, I have a pain scale," he says, as if it should explain everything, and perhaps it would, if Stéphane knew as much as Tara, or Galina and Victor. "You've seen the upper end," he whispers. "But. Um." He sighs gustily, and scrubs at an eye with his fist. "Zero would be, like, a normal person? Not an athlete, no old injuries or whatever. One would be, well. The hip, the foot, all the aches and pains of the injuries that never quite healed properly because I was skating on them," like an idiot, just like all the rest of us would have, Johnny doesn't say, but they can hear it just the same. "Two. Um." He bites his lip, glancing sideways at Stéphane, then over at Evgeni. "You, before the knee surgery. Retirement-level chronic pain."
"That-two?" Evegni blinks and lets out vicious-sounding curse at Johnny's nod.
"Three is-three has pain-induced nausea."
They wait for him to continue, and wait, and finally Evgeni says Johnny's name, verbally poking and prodding gently, implacably.
"I normally consider myself lucky to get through my day under a five. This is, this was," and he stops, peers down at the carpet and takes a deep breath before continuing. "If I could have gotten away with not eating for the last two-plus years, I would have. It's not. I don't have to keep myself from eating anything any more, it's more a matter of making myself eat."
"Johnny," Tanith says, shocked and breathy. "Never-?"
Johnny shakes his head. "Last time I didn't feel nauseous - before, like, now - I was too strung out on painkillers to care how much my leg hurt."
"And painkillers suppress your appetite," Tanith says.
"Are you still hungry?" Stéphane hears himself ask, buying time as he comes to realize that all the energy - emotional and otherwise - that Johnny has had to put into just functioning isn't needed now, that it doesn't have another outlet, that it's bleeding off in other ways. And now he understands why Tanith was glaring at him earlier.
Johnny turns to look at him squarely and doesn't answer, searching his eyes, his face.
Stéphane keeps his expression carefully neutral, concerned, nonjudgmental.
"If I don't pass out, probably in a couple of hours. Maybe sooner, I don't know. I haven't eaten like this, in, in," and he dissolves into quiet tears again, burying his face in the pillow.