[His hand is kept prisoner by that firm, persistent hold. Dimitri finds himself staring down at their joined hold. It has been so many years since he's touched another living person without the intent to kill. Naturally, his mind drifts into the dark and twisted thoughts of how easy it would be to grab, clutch, and snap that slender wrist, barely any application of strength to feel it give beneath his superior power. Yet as soon as this occurs to him, he feels sick. He does not want to hurt the professor. An illusion or not, a ghost of the dead made temporarily tangible—it's real enough for now.
As though fearful he might accidentally hurt Byleth, he tugs his hand loose with noticeable abruptness. It closes into a fist at his side.]
No. [Dimitri bends to collect the clothing and armor he had shed to feel the cold, left in a bundled pile on the stone. He won't burden the professor with this. If he winces at the pain that lances across his chest from the inflamed wound, it's easy to mask.] Nothing.
[Then he sweeps past Byleth, shoulders slightly hunched and head down, headed for the stairs that will return them to the warm inner halls of the monastery.]
no subject
As though fearful he might accidentally hurt Byleth, he tugs his hand loose with noticeable abruptness. It closes into a fist at his side.]
No. [Dimitri bends to collect the clothing and armor he had shed to feel the cold, left in a bundled pile on the stone. He won't burden the professor with this. If he winces at the pain that lances across his chest from the inflamed wound, it's easy to mask.] Nothing.
[Then he sweeps past Byleth, shoulders slightly hunched and head down, headed for the stairs that will return them to the warm inner halls of the monastery.]