[ He's only had access to a very small cross section of Claude's life, but in the blink Sylvain had lived it he had known his aspirations, understood his resolve as if it were his own. That determination lingers past the suffocating fear and dread, and Sylvain's own consciousness reframes it as feelings of awe. Claude runs toward his problems while Sylvain is first to dash the other way, to let his frustrations fester and resign himself to a future that can't be changed. Claude is the embodiment of the "what if" Sylvain too often asks, but never puts into action.

He remembers casually asking him, some cars back, why he'd left Almyra—without considering everything he had risked to step foot in Fódlan. That he still risks by simply existing in his own skin, and will continue to so long as their world stays the way it is. It's flooring to think on, and desperately lonely.

He doesn't know what he can say that won't come off as patronizing, or pitying, or simply impulsive. He offers a quiet smile instead, deceptively easy for all the thoughts rattling loudly behind his skull. ]

...You've really got your work cut out for you, huh?

[ Let me help, he's so close to saying, though he can't be sure which version of himself wants to. He has no idea what would actually qualify as 'help' either.

Regardless, it's Claude who reaches out first this time, quite literally. Sylvain's brows shoot up to his hairline when he feels a hand on his shoulder. This is... not really them at all. It's painfully awkward. He doesn't squirm or anything like that, but he does level Claude with an amused look. ]

I thought you were done playing therapist. You gonna give me a massage or something?

[ He gives his hand a friendly pat and returns it to him with a chuckle, his smile crooked. A Sort-of-Handshake-but-Not-Really. ]

No need to thank me, but I am gonna bank on that big brain of yours to get us out of here.