[ He and Henry usually opt for the path of least resistance when it comes to food — aka there's a lot of bags of chips and heat up burritos involved in their diets. An actual homecooked meal sounds.. really nice, really, even if Peter isn't able to convey that as adequately as a typical person should. He's just— stunned, still, always a little bit lost.

But he's starting to ease back into reality when he lets the boy into the home. Seeing how nervous Diarmuid seems to be, how he has to breathe out in order to coax himself down. Peter's thick brows knit slightly. ]

I— understand that.

[ Then, after a beat, there's an attempt at reassurance, soft and careful: ]

It's okay. It's just me and Henry here.

[ No one else. No one who would hurt him. Peter moves towards the kitchen, which bears the mark of two teenagers who clearly aren't concerned with keeping things anywhere near pristine: a small stack of dirty dishes piled in the sink, some stale toast left on the counter. ....Peter thinks he might have had toast two days ago. ]

I can do that for you. [ Playing the part of house host is so new for him, but he won't let the boy with the busted arm finagle with bowls. There are some clean ones that he finds, setting them on the table. After a moment's pause, he fishes out two bottles of water as well, his movements still awkward and stiff and a little nervous himself. He stands there near the table, fingers fidgeting at his sides uncertainly—

— and his stomach gives a loud, audible growl, one that surprises him. Despite his mind floating away so often, his body still remembers what it needs. Clearly Diarmuid's delicious-smelling food is calling out to him and his stomach's calling back. For the first time in......a while, Peter laughs slightly, a soft breath of a sound, head dipped as he gives his lip a chew. ]

— I guess I'm hungrier than I even realised.