[ Oh. Oh, he supposes he waltzed into that just like he found himself waltzing into the way, and there's that little voice again. It whipsers that he deserves this, feeling humiliated, stumbling on his words so the other can snap them up and greedily feed on them. Credence's lips press into a thin line, throat still dry, and he's just thinking of opening his mouth to say something when the other leans forward.
It's instinctive to flinch and lean back. Not to step away, because that would mean more punishment than he'd already get, but to keep his distance with a slight twist of his back. The other smells like cigarettes and something else, something he can't quite place, but that doesn't matter. Not after the suggestion, and Credence hopes he can some how scrape himself off from the metaphorical pavement. He clenching his fists as tightly as he can, balling them up tightly to ground himself, he tries to keep his voice even. It almost works. ]
I don't mean to be rude, but I--I don't want to be made fun of.
[ That has to be what this is. Either that or this whole thing isn't real, and--
--wait, did he call him queer, earlier? Does he know? He knows. Somehow, somehow he knows. ]
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It's instinctive to flinch and lean back. Not to step away, because that would mean more punishment than he'd already get, but to keep his distance with a slight twist of his back. The other smells like cigarettes and something else, something he can't quite place, but that doesn't matter. Not after the suggestion, and Credence hopes he can some how scrape himself off from the metaphorical pavement. He clenching his fists as tightly as he can, balling them up tightly to ground himself, he tries to keep his voice even. It almost works. ]
I don't mean to be rude, but I--I don't want to be made fun of.
[ That has to be what this is. Either that or this whole thing isn't real, and--
--wait, did he call him queer, earlier? Does he know? He knows. Somehow, somehow he knows. ]