Shoulders tense up when the man begins to speak, Claus bracing himself for whatever reaction will follow.
It...isn't what he expects. Not at all.
Instead of the myriad of possibilities buzzing in his brain, the stranger keeps speaking to him normally, not a hint of hostility or mocking in his tone or words. Instead it's inquiring, asking about his thoughts.
That's...new.
Slowly, Claus lifts his head to look at the musician, taking note of where he's lowered himself to sit and relax in the shade of the trees.
Silence stretches as the ginger processes the predicament he's in, or lack thereof. He waits, waits for a shift in demeanor, a change.
It doesn't happen.
The rustling of the trees in the breeze occupies the silence left in the absence of music.
The stage is Claus's.
He finds himself frozen.
He trails off, unsure of how to even explain his thoughts.
Because the truth of it...his thoughts...
Shame rolls through Claus's system, dredging up an emotion he'd not felt in years; a special kind of frustration buried beneath the ashes of an old, forcefully smothered hatred.
He can't say it.
He can't.
Claus's blue eye twitches when he feels a sharp pain in his right shoulder, in the junction where his arm meets his torso. Now? Really? Of all times?
His expression shifts from concern to annoyance. Now isn't the time to worry about meaningless things like that. Not when someone is expecting an answer out of him. The urge to answer itches and scrapes at his insides, a familiar feeling of wrongness setting in.
"I want to root for William Tell..."
Maybe it's easiest to simply explain what happened rather than why.
The why can remain buried.
He takes a breath.
"But I'm not...supposed to."
The confession is clunky and leaves a vile taste in his mouth. It eases the feeling clawing at him but leaves him in utter disgust.
He hates it.
Hates how this is the way his mind thinks.
How he feels the urge to argue with himself.
