Dimitri opens his mouth ... then closes it. If he needed to apologize, SecUnit would have said so. If breaking the crayon was a problem, SecUnit would have said so. There's 'trusting people to set boundaries', which Dimitri is still getting used to, but this is an entirely separate degree of comfort -- familiar, and a desperate relief to settle back into. He doesn't have to explain himself; he doesn't have to apologize or perform niceties; he can just ... sit here in the quiet, wind ruffling his hair and skirt, and try again.

He wouldn't have thought to use the side of the crayon like that. It can't break when he puts it on its side. And he can sort of scribble out the forms of the landscape below, though his hand shakes and he can't make the paper match what his eye sees.

" ... this doesn't look right at all," he says, wrinkling his nose, but he's not giving up.