[ Michel shakes his head slightly, chin tilted in that very distinctive way of his, telling Timm it's nothing and, inadvertently, it's familiar. In this house, very little comes unexpected and Timm has come to love it quickly, the quietness of it. Of Michel, with his little tray, stuffed full of breakfast items, some of which Timm might even consider ingesting, aside from the porridge which is a given on any day. He drops his brush into the paint bucket on the floor with a loud plop and brushes down his paint-splashed trousers, the material hanging loose around his hips because Timm's skinniness has long since gone beyond pragmatically pretty and into something that looks rather more like impending death. He's holding on, though. Like Michel, the quiet has a nurturing effect on him.

Well. Maybe it's mostly Michel, really, with his mothering ways.

Timm strides over to the table and takes a seat in his designated spot, crossing one leg over the other. The porridge is bland. It's nothing special to anyone but him because it so happens to be the only thing he can eat, comfortably without regrets. He grabs the small bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. ]

Intelligence and knowledge don't always go together, you know. Perhaps I'm simply in a constant mood to be stupid.

[ He takes a small spoonful and swallows it quickly. Down, down, down it goes. The taste - nutty, milky, not salty - barely even registers. He eyes the pills on the table a little forlornly, then decides to ignore them for now. ]