Gerard kneels, letting the back of his clean, stiff coat drag against the dusty soil, gently setting one hand on his son's shoulder. His other hand hesitates, before brushing a wisp of hair away from the child's face. His face is stern but his lips struggle to form the appropriate shapes, as he searches for an appropriate vocalisation.
For a while, they remain in silence. Eventually, he tilts the boy's head up, concerned blue eyes reflected by a tiny version of his own. His voice is soft, barely audible, "It's all right. I will not tell."
Gwendal shakes his head and shuffles his feet, cringing as the sting of his injury sets in. Spots of blood soak through his trousers at the knees. His small hands are speckled with dots of rust -- tiny scrapes inlaid with tinier pebbles, working their way deeper and deeper as he clenches his fists in defiance.
"No," he mouths, "I do not want to." He moves his head furiously from side to side, muddy hands reaching to right his loosened ponytail, when -- he meets his father's understanding eyes, and he begins to cry.