"I don't--" He cuts himself off. I don't want a new usual, I want the old one feels whiny and, worse, impossible. He swallows it, annoyed with himself, before Terui's description lands on him.

It's completely apt. He's had to make up anecdotes, invent things for Philip to be busy doing at school, to share with Queen and Elizabeth, Santa and Watcherman. They're lies he can't bring himself to rectify, but the fact that he has to shake off the miasma that's been slowing him down every minute of every day if anyone is paying attention lays as heavy and odious as his grief.

He nods, silently, when Terui moves. "I know," he says, because that's all there is to say to that. "And... thanks for that." That it's not quite enough is obvious. He won't say it: it's not their faults, and he doesn't blame them.