[He barely even noticed the two scramming from the couch when he chose the seat. His mind busy as it is, but he does notice how Persian shows that small amount of affection. He's not as familiar with felines, but he gets it. He does have his own Liepard who has done well to socialize him to the affections of cats, after all. No expert like Nanu, still.
He takes a few more moments of silence before taking a sip from the coffee. It results in a look of disgust and snort of surprise at how bitter it is. It's a wonder he didn't drop it or spit it. Instead, he resigns to the initial drink, swallowing it like he was swallowing lead. If there was any question on whether or not he was still sleepy before, he's certainly awake now.
Finally he brushes the hood off of his head, leveling a look at Nanu that's more serious than what's natural for him, but that's the nature of this whole thing, isn't it?]
I'm shit at this, Nanu.
[He admits freely, not even knowing where to start, but knowing he needs to. Nanu's doing him enough of a service harboring him like this, he can't also lead the conversation that's entirely for his own benefit. With a quick inhale (something made a little hard with his swollen nose), he settles back against the couch, letting his hands settle in his lap, cupping the mug there as he tries to decide if he wants to suffer it further, or ask for a metric fuck ton of sugar.
Finally, he speaks again:]
What's wrong with me, huh?
[Which is a question that's akin to opening Pandora's box, but... here he is, asking it all the same. Of course, the question isn't meant so generally, but Guzma's never been good at specifics.]
no subject
He takes a few more moments of silence before taking a sip from the coffee. It results in a look of disgust and snort of surprise at how bitter it is. It's a wonder he didn't drop it or spit it. Instead, he resigns to the initial drink, swallowing it like he was swallowing lead. If there was any question on whether or not he was still sleepy before, he's certainly awake now.
Finally he brushes the hood off of his head, leveling a look at Nanu that's more serious than what's natural for him, but that's the nature of this whole thing, isn't it?]
I'm shit at this, Nanu.
[He admits freely, not even knowing where to start, but knowing he needs to. Nanu's doing him enough of a service harboring him like this, he can't also lead the conversation that's entirely for his own benefit. With a quick inhale (something made a little hard with his swollen nose), he settles back against the couch, letting his hands settle in his lap, cupping the mug there as he tries to decide if he wants to suffer it further, or ask for a metric fuck ton of sugar.
Finally, he speaks again:]
What's wrong with me, huh?
[Which is a question that's akin to opening Pandora's box, but... here he is, asking it all the same. Of course, the question isn't meant so generally, but Guzma's never been good at specifics.]