Cerulean Cape where the moon is made of gold

Her reaction was layered and he was surprised by the animism of her body. Just as he'd suspected, she did not speak. If it was by choice then it was an odd one, but he appreciated the silence all the same - if not (and he was coming to the conclusion she could not speak, not that she did not wish to) he hardly pitied her. His own voice had never brought him goodness, only harm. Perhaps she was safer with her blanket of silence.

A thin smile crept across his face but there was no emotion. He felt cold. An absence. The weight Screech had felt during the storytelling session had not lifted. Forgetting about the meal for the time being, he crept towards the happy figure of the dancer and then, mimicking her, spread out on his belly and shyly reached his limbs out for her. Screech didn't touch her but he came close, and then rested his chin on his forelimbs.

A moment later, as he sighed deeply to himself, he murmured more words.

Your family is... Nice. That was an understatement; they had welcomed him on a whim and he had been swept up by their charm. He didn't know what to say about their kindness and the best he could do was let a weak compliment slip. Maybe he wanted to say more — his mind was focused on the Caldera after all, and the family he felt he lost — but he was still not ready.

I liked your dance, he said next, and found he could not look at her afterwards, becoming oddly bashful.