The snap of Yotsuyu's fan startled him out of his anguish- for a moment, categorizing the sound as a potential threat- and hands dropping, weaponless, body tensing to flee.

Recognition bloomed, and with awareness came crushing self-consciousness.

"Yotsuyu," he breathed, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and traded a brief look with Hendrik only to find the man looking at him like he was something foreign and incomprehensible. Perhaps he was.

But for all that the tangle of roiling emotions had tempered, it was far from gone. There were a thousand words he wanted to say- every one of them full of doubt and self-recrimination- warring with propriety. He closed his eyes and gave his head a violent shake.

"Nothing, I.."

It just felt like he was splintering apart from the inside out. All he wanted was to go back and dance, and keep pretending that nothing more than the music and changing hands of his partners mattered. But still his title haunted him, and Hendrik's utter conviction threatened to break him.

Hair falling forward as his head bowed, Eleven's teeth tugged at his lower lip. His fingers curled into his other sleeve, voice quieting to a whisper.

"..Sorry."