Broken Boulder the sweet far thing

Those russet eyes were flickering on and off, to and away, like lightbulbs in an air raid. Any other day, he would've found this amusing, maybe even charming. But he was too tired to feel much of anything. Everything felt so far away. Now he'd give anything for sleep.
What a skittish guy. Taylor could yell something now, really yell something, and he could have a heart attack. He imagines a gravestone. The epitaph of it reads: Here lies ___. Died of fright. He supposes that there are worse ways to die.
With nothing to do, he sits down, crosses and uncrosses his legs, tries to get that nervous energy back into his hands. He watches him tongue the food to one cheek and speak out of the other. Taylor thinks he's too tired to smile, but he manages one anyway, fighting gravity.
A characteristically long pause later, Taylor answers. Sort of. We have a claim, but it isn't official, I think, he raises an eyebrow and congratulates himself inwardly at not messing the process up. What's your story?