[ Damian mentally checks out at the thirty second mark, staring straight ahead and steadily making his way through the bag of plantains, giving a grunt of acknowledgment every so often in a half-hearted attempt at politeness while the other rambles on.

He was never like this as a younger boy. Damian was quiet, serious, inquisitive but reserved. He didn't play with other children. He has no clue how to handle other children. So he lets Diarmuid talk. ]

An impressive array. [ Even if half of them are imaginary.

He doesn't-- want to think that, maybe, the others would be upset. Damian is always fiercely independent, at odds with everyone around him, stand-offish and quick to judge; his shows of affection, of trust, are brief and rare, though more frequently seen towards the end with his Father, with Grayson.

They should be glad he's gone. They should be laughing at his grave, and he should be spitting mad about it. Not this -- this ache, that he can't place, at the thought of them genuinely mourning him.

He swallows, hard, bothered more than he should be by the boy's words. ]

It changes nothing, either way.

[ Sighing hard through his nose, he holds the bag of plantains out to Diarmuid, brusque and businesslike. ]

This is a large serving. Help me finish, or it will go to waste.

[ As if he wasn't playing keep-away five minutes ago. ]