[ Alberto looks a bit shocked and confused at first when he hears the trills of Dela's laughter, not understanding why at first, but hearing her praise — comparing him to "most kids," like he's out of the ordinary, someone else telling him he's amazing... It softens into a more genuine smile than the smirk he wore before. He already agrees about the value of failures, to try, try again, but he'd also learned this from just having... ample free time, excess energy, and no one around to help him figure anything out. But he does have a particularly strong aversion to life feeling dull. The comment keeps the smile on his face, listening closely now.
But her next remarks twist that knife far more successfully than anything else she's said to try to guilt him about this shoplifting shit. Him getting hurt doesn't count as someone getting hurt, in his mind; he's on his own. It's on him if he scratches himself falling or scrapes himself up running around, cuts himself jumping off a cliff — that's just rough and tumble, that stuff just happens. He's never gotten himself seriously injured. He doesn't think about the chances that much; the risk always felt worth it, even if he never did it again. Most bruises left him undeterred.
But when she draws attention to the fact that he doesn't even know what this stuff is, and neither does she, having been here much longer than him... that seems to be the kicker. He grabbed this stuff because he doesn't know what it is. It causes him to lower his gaze guiltily, looking obviously reflective, like his tail's between his legs. It takes him pause to respond, but glances up at her again when he speaks, at least still enough wind in his sails to make eye contact regardless, self-defense still intact in his tone. ]
...I like random stuff — especially when I don't know what it is! Why do you keep talking about my "freedom?" I'm fine...!
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But her next remarks twist that knife far more successfully than anything else she's said to try to guilt him about this shoplifting shit. Him getting hurt doesn't count as someone getting hurt, in his mind; he's on his own. It's on him if he scratches himself falling or scrapes himself up running around, cuts himself jumping off a cliff — that's just rough and tumble, that stuff just happens. He's never gotten himself seriously injured. He doesn't think about the chances that much; the risk always felt worth it, even if he never did it again. Most bruises left him undeterred.
But when she draws attention to the fact that he doesn't even know what this stuff is, and neither does she, having been here much longer than him... that seems to be the kicker. He grabbed this stuff because he doesn't know what it is. It causes him to lower his gaze guiltily, looking obviously reflective, like his tail's between his legs. It takes him pause to respond, but glances up at her again when he speaks, at least still enough wind in his sails to make eye contact regardless, self-defense still intact in his tone. ]
...I like random stuff — especially when I don't know what it is! Why do you keep talking about my "freedom?" I'm fine...!