He doesn't even wanna look at Jay. He doesn't wanna think about what he might see there - disgust, or contempt, or the kind of defeated, crumpled look to him, like the one he got the night Tim tore into him in that parking lot, snarling about how he knew about it, and he never said a thing. Jay's sort of sadness is the opposite to Tim's, the howling, outraged veneer that lashes out at everything to stitch together what's broken inside. Jay's silence simply takes on a new weight, his shoulders a little lower, his shape a little more shrunken, he's eyes a shade more downcast.

He doesn't need to see it to know it's what's happening.

"Sure," Tim says tonelessly, looking fixedly at the wall. "They didn't really feed me in there."