[Gepard remains relatively stoic and somewhat stern - at least, as stoic and as stern as he can while having a fucking amazing dinner and feeling full and warm and happy (feelings that he's suddenly oh so aware that Figaro/Ringo/Name-o hasn't enjoyed for quite some time, probably) - up until the point that Figaro compares whatever-it-is to an illness. Or a curse. That's when Gepard can feel his face slip, a bit. He stares at Figaro, and then glances down to his food.

It's delicious food. His fork plays with a bit of meat, moving it back and forth for a moment, chewing his lip and unaware of that as he thinks. Then, Gepard glances up again at Figaro.]

I'm sorry to hear that.

[What else can he say? He has more questions, like how is Figaro so sure that he's the only one, what had happened to him, how had he acquired this...condition? But, they can wait.

For now.]

That can't have been easy to adjust to. How have you- [He hesitates, and Gepard wants to scoot closer but he can't - there's a table in the way - but he leans towards Figaro ever so slightly. The fucking table is in the way, for-

Actually, probably the table being in the way is a good thing to prevent whatever-that-was that he wanted to do. That bit of meat he had been playing with gets shoved into Gepard's mouth. Chew, bite, swallow.] If others know about your...condition, something would have happened. I would have heard about it. The Silvermane Guard would have been called in. How have you hid it for so long...?