[Despite how each of those words feels like a physical blow (how could he have been so blind?), Sycamore is quick to respond.]

I don't care if it would be easier. I refuse to do that again.

[That part he's been holding is quickly returned to the pile, so he can grasp one of Lysandre's shaking hands within his own; chroma be damned.]

Call me naive if you want, I probably deserve it. But I'm not going to sit here and let this opportunity we've been given be wasted on tired fantasies. I've had enough of it, Lysandre. I...

[At some point he'll be capable of eye contact, but now is not that time; instead, he'll focus on how their hands are linked. It's a good distraction from how ragged his voice has become.]

...I have you back, and I....

[...]

...I have missed you so much. The man, not the king or the chosen one or...whatever other stupid title I gave you.