Glenn visibly stiffens when Zechs starts to undress, but pretends that he doesn't notice, brow furrowed and gaze wary all over again as he looks over the scar tissue.

He feels sick at the words. He doesn't know what those scars look like. How they've mangled his body and his ability to fight - he could tell while he was riding Moralta that his ability to fight is incredibly hampered. Sure, his little brother is older than him now, stronger, faster. There's no way he can break the gap between their abilities with his body in this state.

Even if he had his sword, he's not sure he'd be able to do what he loves anymore.

He fidgets harder with the collar of his shirt, as if something about his own skin or clothes irritates him, tea forgotten on the table. The glimpse this affords Zechs of the scar tissue wrapped entirely around his throat is mercifully neat. That was a quick death, even if the rest of it wasn't.

...He can't let himself break down here. Not with anyone seeing him. His hands shake as he uses the table to help himself stand up.

"I should-- go. I-- thank you for the use of your shower. And the tea."