There's enough dull, droning buzz in Ravus' head at this point that he knows he's missing words here and there. Noctis cuts himself off, but Ravus was braced for more, and the lack of that added noise to process is such a relief. The sharp cut of his shoulders slumps into an exhausted slope, even as he practically curls around the younger prince.

Ravus feels the words more than hears them. The sentiment of what could have been, and Ravus can't lie and say he hasn't had dreams of a life not wasted in the blood and dirt of a traitorous existence. Fantasies he's pushed away time and again, refused to let them hurt him. Refused to lose by not playing that game at all. Even if Lunafreya's forlorn wishing for just one more glimpse of her dear friend was a reminder of the broken pieces Ravus had been cutting his hands on for years.

But he should stop bleeding on this, he thinks. He's liable to make it Noctis' problem if he keeps letting the thoughts vibrate endlessly in his head. So much noise. Too much. It's easier to lay his cheek against the mess of dark hair, and rumble a low, affirmative sound until he trusts his voice to be steady.

"I know how dearly she missed you as well. I... I tried not to let such thoughts in as best I could. Distractions. Longing I could not channel into any means." Cutting out all the parts that didn't serve his goal, that didn't let him cling to the narrative of his hatred.