[ the compliment doesn't sit so well on him, dismissed with a grunt as it is, Guanshan still unable to bring himself to address what went unspoken: I looked for you. he watches the precise nature of this task as he forks too many green beans in his mouth, strands poking out of lips before gnashing teeth, residue of garlic butter staining one cheek. ]

[ smart he may not be, but he is a good listener, hears the things between those statements: I did some things I had to do and got over it. his chopsticks jab at the meat between fine, sharp fish bones as he ignores the reflex that attempts to beguile him with an image of it. ]

Mo Guanshan, [ he relents like a tooth pulled. when there's nothing agitating that unpredictable fire in him, Guanshan is quiet and reticent, a boy of few words unable to fit the volume of his deep emotions. after some moments of utensil-scraping plate, he inches himself carefully towards a limelight: ]

Don't think too much about it. The chef said I could use it here'n there, so I would'a cooked anyway. [ gratitude would sit on him as well as compliments do; better to diffuse it early. another beat where he's obviously weighing his words carefully passes, and then: ] You helped me. I just don't have that many skills.

[ maybe now each of them will have a clear conscience. ]