Trowa doesn't interrupt Hiruma while he speaks, just listening; he folds his arms over his chest and watches the back presented to him as though it would do something interesting if he stared long enough. Unfortunately, it doesn't, and so he is already well and truly settled into the stare by the time he's glared at.

It throws him, as do the words that go along with it--not having expected it, he can't prepare for it, and so is forced to lean back a bit, the visible eye widening in surprise.

People never talk to him that way. Most don't really try to challenge the things he says or the way he behaves; they skirt around the edges and play word games at best, or poke and prod but stay at the surface. Actively presuming to tell him what to do is... well, it just doesn't happen that often. Of the five who would, three are missing and one he doesn't remember. The other is not really speaking to him at the moment.

A couple of slow blinks, and the so-called wise young man is just another bitter, lonely teenager.

He sits down in one of the chairs at the desk, not about to test whether or not he'll be allowed back on the bed yet, and blows some of his hair out from its place covering the right side of his face.

"...I'm sorry."