[ Death has granted him some measure of release, though it's a little like a kite cut by its string—aimless and in a dangerous wobble at all times.
(Though the Dimitri that Sylvain knew really probably was better off dead.)
He sighs quietly. ]
That's precisely the sort of thing I don't want.
[ Dying alone is better than dying alongside the people you care for. But he understands the sentiment—the closeness they share is still a comfort. It's enough that he can see the melancholy in Sylvain and dislike it as much as he shares it.
He reaches for a mug full of warm, scarlet tea, pushing it towards him. Bluntly, in a way that he often only is to Sylvain, ]
no subject
(Though the Dimitri that Sylvain knew really probably was better off dead.)
He sighs quietly. ]
That's precisely the sort of thing I don't want.
[ Dying alone is better than dying alongside the people you care for. But he understands the sentiment—the closeness they share is still a comfort. It's enough that he can see the melancholy in Sylvain and dislike it as much as he shares it.
He reaches for a mug full of warm, scarlet tea, pushing it towards him. Bluntly, in a way that he often only is to Sylvain, ]
You look different.