[Palamedes considers that— being here, versus being back in, well. A room. That choice is obvious. Idly he realizes he's stopped endlessly crying, but the low hum of dread that sits in his stomach, afraid of letting go of Viktor, is still there. Well, then-]

I would make a few changes, [less torment and more Camilla, for starters,] but I think I'd rather be here, too.

[He studiously avoids thinking that's selfish of him when there were clearly things back home that needed his help, despite everything, and it takes a hefty dollop of effort, but. Hmm. He can curl his fingers in the back of Viktor's shirt and savor the feeling of lips against his, and yes, he's going to allow himself to choose not being dead in a ghost room as the better option.

Progress. He lets out a huff, halfway amused- stubborn! Wow! Maybe! Yeah.]

Don't be sorry; I think it's beginning to pass, anyway. I'd have told you all this eventually, [although perhaps with a more distinct lean towards the magic and not the, hm, unreality problem, but he's not about to give Trench any credit for the push.

He thinks for a moment, quiet.]

I kept it together in there for Camilla, and for the Ninth— and I know how it sounds, but I don't mean it as some form of- of obligation, one or the other, my thing or theirs. I didn't think I had a thing; I couldn't allow myself to conceptualize it until I got here. It turns out, I have a thing.

[Possibly even several!! He wrinkles his nose and squints, like, ew- such oversight. Terrible showing from past-Palamedes. Then he relaxes again, nudging Viktor lightly in the hip, affectionate.]

Do you want me to promise? I do; I'll come to you.