[ Pull himself along the thread. Tug it through the eye of a needle and sew his lips into the right shape, so that the tremor of a laugh becomes a smile. Like stitches, to hold the shape until it sets. Smile like a scar.

Which, really, is too morbid for him. Melodramatic.

About as melodramatic as thinking, as he turns back, looks back, looks at Hilda who is and isn't his Hilda, who pretends not to notice his brief severity and holds out her hand, who isn't crumpled and broken in the spreading pool of her own blood — as thinking, it doesn't make sense to feel haunted. Not really.

Not when he's the ghost.

An outright groanworthy sentiment, one that can have no foothold in him, and one without any sense in a place like this. They might as well all be ghosts. None of them belong here.

So Claude looks at her hand, recovering quick. Slowly for him, perhaps, in that he'd not bounced back immediately. But he raises his eyebrows at the insinuation, mouth pulling past the thread to curve lopsided and sharp into his cheek. ]

Hey now, why am I responsible for Teach's bad behavior?

[ To his mind, it should be Edelgard. To hers, the Claude that Teach had chosen. Dimitri, too, would be appropriate.

Nothing to do with him.

Nothing, except her hand and the simple hold of her eyes. ]

Besides, if you've figured it out, you don't need me.

[ But.

Her hand, her eyes, and if he was a ghost (again, stupid), what else to do but haunt? Claude shakes his head, glances skyward, and reaches for her hand. ]

Buuut, I did say when we get there. Just, not on Teach's behalf.