There's no occasion in the world Seiya looks forward to more than a visit to his mother.

The one hangup he'd really had about leavin' home was the idea of leavin' her behind-- it ain't like his mama's incapable of takin' care of herself or anythin' like that, of course, she's fine at that, but she's always been the one shinin' beacon of support he's had in life, the one steady beam keepin' his mess of a life together. Leavin' home meant leavin' the one place that offered him any kind of real compassion; he'd be wanderin' out of the bubble Setsuna Maeda had tenderly maintained for years, the one meant to shield him from the heat of others' hatred, out to a world that would dig into him with bared fangs until he learned to bite back.

But he knew then the very same thing he knows now; ultimately, all of this, from the huntin' and the brawlin' to the chasin' after old traces of someone he's never known, is for her, always and forever for her.

If the world demanded he bite, then by every god above and below, he'd bite.

Still, it's inevitable that he winds up missin' her no matter what, no matter how many times he splits the skin of monsters, no matter how much he inches closer to his goal-- letters and gifts he sends by mail are nice and all, but nothin' compares to the joy of gettin' to actually see her, gettin' to see her weary smile light up like the sun lights up the moon, gettin' to lean down and give her a hug that he hopes conveys twenty-four years worth of love and gratitude just right. And what better excuse for a visit is there than the onset of Hearth Day celebrations?

It ain't the day proper or anythin'; nah, Seiya still ain't too sure about what he's gonna spend Hearth Day itself doin', but it's not too far off, and celebratin' throughout the whole month ain't exactly unheard of. Besides, he'd rather drop by a few weeks early than wait until Hearth Day to pay his mama a visit-- especially when the timing means he has the excuse he's been waitin' for to introduce another particularly special person to her.

It's just a matter of waitin', now.

Seiya sits by the edge of the pond he used to play by when he was still little, back when he'd trip over his own damn feet 'cause he'd be movin' too fast, tail thumping against the cold earth as he slides stones over the thin shroud of ice coverin' it up. Not quite as fun as skippin' 'em over normal water, but it's better than doin' nothin' while he waits for Cyran to make his way out here to the edge of the Bamboo Forest Seiya once called home.

Of all the oddballs Seiya's crossed paths with in his journey, Cyran's been one of the more frequent subjects of his letters to home-- they'd met on odd terms, sure, and they sure as hell had been through all sorts of wild things together, but despite the awkward first meeting, the elven man had quickly proven to be one of the kindest, most genuine people Seiya had ever met, even if there was that unmistakable sadness lurkin' like the shadow of a sea monster beneath the surface of his soft smile and silvery eyes. They'd fought each other, fought for each other, and fought to survive side by side, and, well... that ain't the kind of thing a man forgets easily.

So it's only natural that his mama would ask questions about Cyran-- about the kind man who'd shown her son such grace and compassion when both things were so foreign in their world-- and when the chance had presented itself... well, of course Seiya had arranged to drag him out for a visit! It just made sense.

He ain't sure how long he spends tossin' stones, but his ears twitch at the distant sound of frost-sharp earth crunching beneath footfalls, and he perks up on the spot. Seiya blinks, brow furrowed as he glances through the lines of the bamboo trees, searchin' for a familiar sign-- and as soon as he catches sight of that familiar silhouette approachin', his whole face lights up.

"Cyran! It's real nice of ya to drop by," he says earnestly, eyes shining with unfettered joy, with eager anticipation, a permanent smile twistin' up the corners of his lips. He quickly jumps to his feet, leavin' the pile of small stones forgotten in the frost-kissed grass beneath him. "How've ya been, old man? Ma's been reeaaaaallly lookin' forward to meetin' you-- says it's about time."

The longer Cyran spent in the Crescent Isles, the more he understood its beauty. His own trips to the island nation in the past had been… less than pleasant, though none as turbulent as the last time he’d set foot here, the night of the Red Rogue. The day he’d gained a fierce ally and loyal companion in Seiya, only to have his heart ripped out from his chest when he learned exactly who his true target was.

Gods, he’d been so close.

If only he’d been able to -

But no, he could no longer afford to dwell on the what-ifs. The truth of the matter was that Marlow had been here, right under his nose, and he’d been none the wiser, stealing away with gleeful abandon. Oh, it opened up old scars - the ancient, aching, festering wounds on his heart that had collected much like Seiya’s own trophies. Served to remind him what a failure of a father he truly was, that while he paraded around helping others, there would always be the one child he could never save. Not yet.

But Cirice had invited him to visit her homeland, Shingetsu, for a Hearth’s Day festival, and Cyran couldn’t find it in himself to refuse. The bad memories that lingered in the back of his mouth were secondary to making sure that Cirice was happy and healthy, and he was more than happy to meet her parents, who had sat him down and humbly requested one small thing of him…

Godfather.

A title he felt entirely unworthy of, if he were being honest, but one he had accepted nonetheless. It felt like a cruel joke, almost, the compassion and care that Lyleth and Seto had given to him. Perhaps if they knew of his shortcomings and failures, the children he had not been able to protect, they would not make such a request. But he could not deny them this, not if he had the power to ease their worries and watch over Cirice as he’d always done. But the title hung heavy on his mind, even as he parted ways with Cirice and made his way to the mainland for his second visit.

It had been far too long since he’d seen Seiya, really. Since Winter’s Crown itself - far too much had happened since then that it felt like an entire lifetime. There had been letters exchanged, as much as Cyran could keep up with in his travels, and Seiya’s own monster hunting exploits. But a true meeting, not one carried out in abandoned tea houses in the Bamboo forest while being hunted for sport by Madam Seriko’s - no, Marlow’s - mercenaries, was long overdue. He longed to make sure that Seiya was alive and tangible and well, and that he hadn’t accrued any more dire injuries since their last meeting. And… there was another reason he was nervous for this particular visit.

Seiya’s mother had requested to meet him.

Cyran was not sure what to make of this meeting. Truth be told, he wondered if this request was made to admonish him for what had transpired this past winter, or perhaps put a face to the name of the sketchy figure that had fought her son and befriended him all in one night. If that was the case, Cyran supposed he deserved her judgement either way. But Seiya had seemed so happy to extend the invitation, so Cyran couldn’t find it in himself to say no.

And so, that was how he found himself traipsing through the Bamboo Forest once more, where Seiya had directed him to in his last letter. His floral patch was firmly secured over his right eye, as usual, but the rest of his attire, for once, matched that of his locale - it had been a more casual outfit that Cirice had helped pick for him in Shingetsu. Despite the calm stillness in the air, Cyran felt a bundle of nerves as he walked. Yeux and the Shadelings had taken residency on his shoulders to keep him company as he walked, though they slumbered away now. The closer he got, Cyran forced himself to take a deep breath. The freshly-reopened wounds felt especially raw when he spotted Seiya, slipping stones at a nearby pond. Another deep breath. Even with the anxieties and the old pains… he truly was happy to see Seiya again, above it all. That was the most important.

He made sure to telegraph his approach, stepping on twigs and making noise so Seiya wouldn’t be startled. The young man whirled around, delight and adoration sparkling in his eyes - for Cyran? - before pulling himself up to his full height.

“Of course.” Cyran replied, pulling the taller man in for a hug. “I would never pass up on the chance to see your home and meet your mother. Did the two of you have a good winter’s crown?” He asked, concern crinkling at the corners of his eye and showing off his worry lines, not particularly helping the old man comment. “And did you get my cloak in the mail? It’s rather chilly… are you okay in this weather?” He asked, pulling off his own cloak and offering it to Seiya. “Here. Wear this while we’re outside.”

In the midst of his mounting lecture, he’d nearly missed that he’d been asked a question. Cyran flushed, quieting as he tried to formulate an answer. How… had he been, truly? So much had happened since they last saw one another. And Cyran had not come out of it all entirely unscathed.

“I am alright.” He replied, honestly. “Busy. I very much look forward to a break with you and your mother.” He said, a smile growing on his own face. “And yourself? Not too much danger in your travels, I hope?”

The light already shining in Seiya's eyes burns all the brighter as soon as Cyran approaches, not hesitatin' for even a moment as he steps forward to lock his arms around Seiya in a warm, compassionate hug. It's a foreign kind of greeting, really-- the only other person in the world who says hello to him this way is his mama--, but it's the kind of foreign he'd like to get used to. Cyran's arms are warm as they find their place around Seiya's form, his palms gentle as they settle in place over his skin, and Seiya doesn't hesitate for a second to wrap his arms around Cyran in turn, pullin' him in close for a tight hug, though he's extra careful to mind the unearthly strength that thrums so readily through him.

He takes a good moment to relish in it before leanin' back a little, takin' his chance to look Cyran over-- Seiya has to bite back a chuckle at the way worry emphasizes the age in those silver eyes. Cyran doesn't exactly look his age or anythin', but it's moments like these when concern lights a fire in his heart that reminds Seiya that he's got a good couple of centuries over him, and he carries those years of memories and emotion in the corners of his eyes.

"Still, I'm real glad ya came around," he says, his smile never once showing any signs of fading, his tail wagging in quick motions behind him. "She's been dyin' t' meet ya-- I spent a good chunk of Winter's Crown ramblin' about you-- oh, yea, though, it was a great time. Any time I get to spend with her is always great, but seein' her face light up over the stuff I brought home for her was the best part."

It's no exaggeration, either-- there's a lot of stuff to look forward to with any holiday, from good food to good wine and good energy thrumming through the air, but the best part of festivals like Winter's Crown is the opportunity to get his hands on gifts that he knows will make his mama smile, even if it's the sort of stuff she'd never dare voice her desire for aloud. She's never been good at sayin' it when she wants somethin', too wrapped up in what the two of 'em need to let herself long for other treasures, and so Seiya's had to get real good at watchin' her when they go out to shop. There'll be this telltale look in those indigo eyes of hers, a moment of yearnin' before she schools her face back into the usual serene smile she wears-- Seiya's a natural at recognizing it, at makin' quiet plans to snag whatever she's yearnin' for to bring to her later.

He has Cyran to thank for the fact that he'd been able to afford the stuff his mama'd been longin' for this year. Seiya doesn't think he'll ever forget the way such heavy emotion had washed over him as Cyran pressed all those Solars into his palms, genuine compassion flowin' through his every word as he said he wished to give him a good holiday. Mama had been blown away when she heard that one.

The softness that'd settled into her voice when she'd asked to meet this kind and generous man Seiya'd met ain't somethin' he'll easily forget.

"Oh, I sure did!" Seiya perks as soon as Cyran mentions the cloak he'd sent-- it was a neat piece of fabric to be sure, enchanted to be capable of servin' as a shield. He ain't usually all too fond of wearin' a shirt, but the cloak's nice as hell and warm, to boot-- it's safely folded up and stored away with all his other stuff, at the moment, but Cyran doesn't know that, and he sure ain't hesitatin' to toss his own cloak Seiya's way. It's hard not to chuckle a bit at that. "Hey, hey, you don't gotta do that if ya don't wanna-- still, thanks."

Just 'cause he knows it'll bring a smile to Cyran's face, Seiya pulls the borrowed cloak over his bare shoulders and relishes in the gentle warmth of it, an easy smile sittin' on his face as he turns to start walkin' down the path. It's a leisurely pace, unhurried, somethin' to ensure that Cyran can follow along beside him while they talk.

"Yea, I'd bet you've been busy," he says with a nod. "Ah, nothin' too crazy, really. A few odd encounters here and there, but nothin' that'll turn your hair gray. To be honest, I've been playin' it safe since Winter's Crown. Say, how was your holiday, while I'm thinkin' about it?"

He didn’t mind that Seiya squeezed perhaps a touch too tight, because it meant that he was still here, getting to give Seiya a hug in the first place. They stood there for a moment, both happy to reunite with one another, before Cyran immediately started on his worried tirade.

“I’m happy you invited me.” Cyran said, warmth in his voice. “I was already here in Shingetsu visiting Cirice, so the invitation was more than welcome. I’m happy to spend some time in the Crescent Isles and get to meet your family.” He flushed a bit as Seiya described that his mother had been… looking forward to meet Cyran, of all people. “She’s really looking forward to meeting me?” He flushed, oddly bashful for a moment. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting her too. She sounds like an absolutely wonderful woman.” She’d have to be, to raise such a kind and thoughtful kid.

“Ah… you two had a good Winter’s crown! I’m glad to hear it.” It brought him joy to know that Seiya had, at the very least, enjoyed his time with his mother, and was able to give her what she properly deserved. He had a feeling that Seiya was a good kid from the moment the young man claimed he needed the money to ensure that his family had a good holiday, and it was nice to see that Cyran’s efforts to help that happen hadn’t gone to waste. He listened to Seiya speak while he helped secure his cloak around the young man, patting him on the shoulder when he was done.

“I want to.” He said with a kind smile. “You are ever-so-used to dealing with these things yourself… as if you are so unmovable that not even the cold can bother you. But you need to know that you’re young… it’s okay not to constantly be this pillar. You are human, and you always have my support.”

With one final movement, he made sure his own clasp was secure, and that Seiya was properly warm.

“Unwaveringly.”

The two continued their walk through the bamboo forest, the shadelings peeking through where they were hiding on Cyran’s shoulder and his hair to give Seiya a curious look. They had been a gift from the young man himself, ones that Cyran greatly enjoyed having them around. They were docile little things, and Cyran had gone through great lengths to do research on yokai names to name each of them after a different type. His favorite was inugami, who was currently debating hopping from Cyran’s shoulder to Seiya with the others, all of whom were excited at the prospect of someone who felt familiar to them.

All four eventually decided they’d had enough of Cyran and began to nestle on Seiya.

“I think they like you.” He laughed. “Thank you for sending them to me, by the way. They’re wonderful.”

He hummed noncommittally. “Busy enough. Work has kept me busy - as has the orphanage. I’m happy to get to take a break in all of the pandemonium. But my holiday was okay… aside from - well -“ He hesitated to speak about Marlow, but Seiya had been there when Cyran learned the awful truth about who he’d been stealing from. Who he’d been so close to, without knowing.

“… Well, aside from what I learned.”

It’s a bit weird to see Cyran get all bashful over Seiya mentionin’ that his mama’d been lookin’ forward to meetin’ him, like it’s some big surprise or somethin’– what, didn’t he just say he’d gone and visited that Cirice girl on Shingetsu? Is the thought of someone bein’ excited to see him such a foreign concept to him that the mere idea of it makes him get all nervous? Ain’t he got someone in his life who looks forward to seein’ him come home?

That’s the one thing Seiya’s always looked forward to the most after a journey, whether it was a trip out to the next village for groceries or the grand search he’s been out on lately, his own test of his merits against what the world had to offer: the promise of his mama being there in their same old cottage when he stumbled through the door again, her eyes twinklin’ just because she was happy to see him, even if she did chide him gently for whatever little scratches or bruises he might’ve brought home with him. Even if they didn’t have much else, Seiya’s always had the certainty of his mama’s love, the certainty that she’d be there waitin’ for him at the journey’s end, excited to see him whether he’d been gone for a minute or more moments than they could count.

Maybe Cyran’s just not used to a stranger bein’ so excited to see him– maybe that’s all there is to it, but still, there’s somethin’ kinda sad about even just the idea of not bein’ used to that. It’s just one more of many things Seiya’s startin’ to piece together about this man that makes his heart ache.

His hand lingers against Cyran’s shoulder maybe a minute longer than it should.

“Yea, she is!” he affirms with a nod, before his voice softens, his eyes soften, all the sharpnesses of his face and body and otherwise ebbing away like seafoam. “And yea… she is.”

He still can’t help his own bashfulness as Cyran insistently clasps the cloak in place, settling it correctly on his shoulders, his voice firm and soft all at once as he speaks of vulnerability, of the cracks that form in even the most shatterproof of structures, of all the bricks it takes to compose the strongest walls. Stuff like that always gives Seiya pause– he ain’t the best with talk like that, with the idea of lettin’ himself be a man before he’s anythin’ else, but… he can get where Cyran’s comin’ from, at least. Seiya ain’t the sharpest claw on the beast, but he knows his limits, in the end.

“Hey, hey, I ain’t all human,” he half-laughs, tryin’ to lighten the mood a bit, even if it ain’t really that dark to begin with. “‘Less humans started growin’ tails and I didn’t know ‘bout it. Still, uh… thanks. Means a lot.”

His sheepishness starts to melt away as they continue walkin’ down the familiar road through the bamboo forest, fadin’ right into straight up joy as soon as the little shadelings he’d sent Cyran pop up and start makin’ themselves comfortable on Seiya’s own shoulders. He can’t help beamin’ in pride a bit at that, even moreso as Cyran proclaims that they seem to like him, that he thinks they’re wonderful, and if his tail starts waggin’ a bit at that, it ain’t anybody’s business but his own.

…Still, he can’t help the way his expression darkens all over again when Cyran brings up how their last venture had ended.

“...Ah,” he murmurs, glancin’ down at the dirt like it’s somethin’ he ain’t seen before. “Yea, uh… I’m still real sorry about that. I… I wish I’d brought it up sooner. Really, if I’d’ve known, I would’ve– I might’ve– I– yea.”

It was not that Cyran had a poor estimation of himself, so to speak. He strove to value things exactly as they were to him - where family was a priceless thing, something he could not afford. Though it was something he’d always wanted, the concept seemed too nebulous for him to truly fit in. Yes, Cyran thought his own estimation of himself was quite fine. An outsider, an observer who’d not truly fit in to any role he’d tried. He’d failed his own daughter, and had only flitted from place to place ever since. He did the best he could for the young ones who depended on him knowing that they would one day go off and build their own homes. Always moving forward - Cyran, left behind.

That was fine with him.

That was just fine.

Nevertheless, it was for that reason that Cyran was so surprised to learn that Seiya’s mother was actually excited at the prospect of meeting him. He’d helped Seiya during Winter’s Crown with no expectation of a continued relationship or any notion of returned kindness. And yet, Seiya had proven to be a wonderful companion. Fiercely unapologetic for who he was and his love for the most precious person in his life; and he wanted to include Cyran in these things. Evidently, both of them did. 

They did not have to. He’d been on the opposing side of conflict with Seiya at one point. He’d been a stranger, just a man doing a job.

Seiya, stubbornly, would not let him remain as such. 

The assertion that Seiya was not all human, with such a deflecting laugh and a half-hearted attempt at hiding his own emotions from the sincere concern, was not a surprise. Though the topic had not come up last visit, Cyran knew. Knew as well as he knew the ups and downs of his own children, the things they recoiled from, the things they did not want to acknowledge.

“That’s just your blood; I don’t care about that.” Cyran said calmly, firmly. Refusing to let the subject drop until Seiya understood just how good he was. “It is easy to listen to the nature that sings in your blood, to obey what you believe is already written in the stars. But you, young man - you worked hard not to become the very thing you despise. Your mother gave you humanity, and you fostered it, and refused to let it die. And the result is the young man with such an irrefutably kind human spirit, whom I am honored to spend Hearth’s Day with.” Cyran hummed. “That blood is a part of you. There is no denying that. But it does not dictate who you are.”

There. Now his cloak was settled. When Cyran was done, he gave Seiya a satisfied pat on the arm before following the young man into the bamboo forest. He was rarely around these parts, so he stuck close to Seiya, footsteps silent while they spoke casually. It did not escape his notice that Seiya’s tail started wagging while they spoke of the nobiagari. He felt at ease, in the silence of the woods. There was peace here. Cyran hummed, pausing in step momentarily as the subject of Marlow came up once more. He had a feeling it would eventually, but it hurt all the same. But the dejected expression on Seiya’s face forced him out of his own miserable self-pity. 

“Don’t apologize.” Cyran offered Seiya a serene smile, forcing himself to calm. How could he allow Seiya to think that this - any of it - was his fault? “It was a simple miscommunication. I thought I was doing a job to handle someone else. You had no idea of my… situation. It was unfortunate, but to no fault of your own.”

He slowed to a stop then, a question on his lips that he was not certain he wanted to ask. Cyran bit his lip before reaching out to wrap a hand around Seiya’s wrist. A gentle touch, a vulnerable one.

“Seiya? How…” He swallowed, throat thick with lead. He shouldn’t ask. But he needed to know. No matter how much the answer ripped his heart asunder. “How was she?”

Seiya can’t help the way his eyes almost– almost– start gettin’ misty at Cyran’s words, his voice devoid of any traces of insincerity when he insists that he doesn’t care one bit about what’s in his blood, about the dark star that left its mark on him the night he was born, about the destroyer’s lineage spun into every cell of his body like constellations are woven into the sky, allowin’ no room for any argument about any point he makes. He’s got that look on his face while he talks, too– the kind where he ain’t angry or nothin’, he’s not scowlin’ or fixin’ to yell, but the softness in his face is lined with solidity, an insistence that he ain’t gonna take “no” or “but” or “however” for an answer.

In the time he’s known Cyran, Seiya’s figured out a lotta stuff– they’ve fought each other, fought side by side, set each other up for critical blows and set each other up for an out. He’s seen the way Cyran fights and politely averted his eyes for the finishers; he knows Cyran knows a man’s weak points better than a fish knows freshwater. He hits with precision, without hesitation– seems that applies to emotional weak points, too.

There’s a lot he’s still gotta tell Cyran– a lot of thoughts he’s havin’ trouble puttin’ to paper, or even just speakin’ aloud. There’s the implications hangin’ in the air, sure, but Seiya gets choked up every time he tries to mention the name Kamui, the Inu no Ouji, the man he’s supposed to call his father and the mess he left behind– worse so every time he thinks of mentionin’ the other, smaller details, the star hangin’ over him and the dust in his veins, the hunt he’s on and the fact that he ain’t sure if he’s got what it takes to really take a life if it’s necessary. But even without all that knowledge, even with just the dark threads of implication alone, Cyran’s capable of weavin’ a picture and gently tearin’ it apart, insistent that Seiya can and should build somethin’ other than what the world told him to.

The man really is unlike anyone he’s ever met.

“...Gods above, Cyran, you’re gonna make me cry,” he laughs, rubbing at one of his eyes as if to punctuate his point, though that toothy grin never once drops from his face. “Mama’s gonna have questions if I walk in the house with a red face, y’know– ah… seriously, though. Thanks. That, uh– that means a whole lot. More than I got the words to say.”

And still, as much as Cyran’s softer words make him want to cry, all his words about there bein’ no need for apology regardin’ the whole… Marlow thing make him want to cry even more. But Seiya manages not to, maintainin’ at least a semi-neutral expression as Cyran insists that it wasn’t his fault or nothin’, just an… unfortunate situation, which is certainly one way of puttin’ it. It ain’t wrong, but he feels like “unfortunate” kinda undercuts just how awful it all really was.

And then he’s askin’ how she was, and…

…well. That’s… hard to answer.

“Uh… well, I ain’t sure how she is normally,” he begins, starin’ at the way Cyran’s hand gently locks around his wrist. It barely goes the whole way ‘round. “First time I ever met her an’ all, but, uh… She seemed… stressed. Mostly stressed. Can’t tell if it was ‘cause of me or ‘cause of somethin’ else but both times I talked to her it seemed like her nerves were pretty fried. Second time was worse than the first. First time ‘round she was just kinda… cold, I guess.”

Seiya can’t help the way he murmurs half of his answers; it feels wrong to lie to Cyran, but it feels bad to tell the truth, too, so he opts to awkwardly work his way through it, his voice subdued and awkward and laced with undertones of guilt. He knows that ain’t what he wants to hear. Who the hell would want to hear that their daughter seems like she’s in hell?

“...sorry,” he says quietly, still not liftin’ his gaze. “I. Yea. Sorry.”

There was an extended silence between Cyran’s reassurance and Seiya’s reply. Long enough that Cyran might have made the assumption he’d overstepped his own bounds or said something presumptive, if it weren’t for the glossy sheen in the young man’s eyes, the moon’s reflection simmering in Seiya’s gaze. Cyran resisted the urge to reach up and wipe at his cheeks, to wish the melancholy away; that was such a horribly intimate gesture, and no matter how close he felt with the young man already, Cyran was not his father. That was not his place. Instead, he settled for resting a hand on Seiya’s arm while Seiya stumbled over a stilted thanks. His touch was cold, calloused. Hands that ought not have provided comfort to Seiya, who knew all too well what they were capable of. Seiya had not shied away from his darkness. Was it not only fair, then, that Cyran give him all the light he could?

In the end, parental instinct won over, and he produced a handkerchief from the shadow in the palm of his open hand, the shade cast from swaying bamboo stalks and leaves playing against his form dancing and coalescing to his command.^[1] When it took solid form, Cyran got on his toes, gently dabbing at Seiya’s cheeks. “Now, we can’t have that.” He clicked his tongue, gentle. “The last thing I would want is to worry your mother before I’ve even had the chance to properly introduce myself.” He cracked a smile, the corners of his one visible eye crinkling at the action, another subtle sign of his age. So rarely did his centuries show, save in the moments his face pinched, with worry, fear, fatigue, melancholy. Joy was the rarest one, such a foreign, fleeting emotion. Though it was safe to say that he was certainly feeling so now.

Yes, he was. Joy, and contentment. That’s what this was.

Even the dark stormclouds that loomed over the conversation had only put a small damper on it rather than diminish it entirely.

Seiya could not bring himself to meet Cyran’s gaze, for a moment - the question, a loaded crossbow, the answer a bolt that threatened to pierce his heart. It was not difficult to see that Seiya was burdened with some measure of guilt for what had happened. And there was a sort of downtrodden look on his face, in the downward tilt in his ears, that said the answer was not an especially pretty one.

He was right.

Cyran’s grip slacked on Seiya’s wrist, uncertain.

“I… do not know how she normally is, either.” He whispered.

And the worst part, he thought, was the nagging sensation in the back of his mind, the surety that Seiya was not lying to him, but he was certainly not giving Cyran the entire scope of what he’d seen.^[2] There were secrets hidden in the pockets of his words, a deep vein of… something that Cyran could not imagine. Did he even want to? Did he want to press, and learn exactly what kind of hell his baby was in? To know the depths of the truth he’d not wanted to acknowledge for so many years, and shrug off the single veil of comfort he’d ever placed over his eyes?

Even more importantly, in that moment, was the realization that Seiya cared so damn much that he’d made himself uncomfortable with white lies just to prevent Cyran from getting upset.

“Okay.” The assassin drew in a shuddering breath. The action, a vain attempt to bring life back into his lungs after this revelation had stolen it from him. That Marlow, his Songbird, was no longer able to sing. He’d… expected this. Cyran had always known there was a possibility that after his absence, her childhood would not be a happy one. Gods, he’d tried, but with every failure to extract her from his home, he was only left with the comfort that the Fenastra manor was the best place for her, anyways. A place where she would be safe, with no want for food or clothing or shelter the way she would have been if she’d lived with him. Still. Hearing that she’d been stressed and cold only brought to mind old memories that had grown dusty on the shelves of his mind, lessons and punishments and a cold, uncaring face framed by billowing, white hair.

Another breath. In, out.

“Never apologize to me.” Cyran insisted in a firm, no-nonsense voice, only the tremble in his hands as he shoved them in his pockets betraying his mounting horror. Seiya didn’t need to see that. Seiya needed him to be strong right now, needed to see that he was okay. So Cyran would be okay. “Nothing that happened was your fault, do you hear me? How could I ever be upset with you for taking up such unpleasant work for something as kind as wanting to give your mother a good holiday? If there is anyone to blame, it is me. I should have been more thorough in my investigations, rather than take the information I’d been given at face value. I should have -“

Well, there was no point in worrying about would haves and should haves. If they could go back and change the past to have everything they wanted, Marlow would be standing here laughing along with them rather than being the subject of this awful tension. But that just wasn’t possible. He could wish on all the stars in the world for Marlow back, but he’d grown weary of wishing. And more importantly, he’d miss the chance to spend time with the star in front of him. Cyran shook his head, continuing his walk forwards. The shadows he’d manifested stayed behind.

“I’m sorry if she lashed out at you in any way.” He did not know this new Marlow, but he knew his own father damn well enough to hazard a guess what might have happened between them. “Seiya, I… did not come from the most pleasant home. In fact, calling it a home is generous. Some time ago, I had to leave, for reasons that were not my choosing. Marlow was left behind. It’s been ten years by now since I saw her last. A decade of her life I missed. And here I am now. Robbing her and getting her in trouble with my father.”

He laughed.

“I wish that you could know her as I know her. And I wish she could know you as I know you. Perhaps, if things were different, but… it’s okay. I promise. I’m here with you now. Let’s not stain the present with the past, okay?”

---

1. Summon: Possession
2. Insight Rune

A quiet, watery laugh spills from Seiya’s lips as soon as Cyran conjures a handkerchief out of quite literally nothin’, shadows convergin’ and coalescin’ in his palm until they form the shape of one of those little linen squares, only for the older man to start usin’ it to dab away at the glassiness in his eyes and the small traces of tears on his cheeks. It’s sweet– real sweet. It’s one of those gestures his mama would do for him when he was still real little and would come home cryin’ over whatever way the world had ended for him that day– whether he’d tripped over the old stones leadin’ to their cottage outside while he was playin’ and scraped his knee up, whether they’d been out of his favorite snacks at the markets, whether the kids in the next village over had thrown pebbles at him again, whispers of “monster” he didn’t yet understand on their lips.

He leans down a little bit to make it easier for Cyran to reach, a tiny smile pullin’ at the corners of his lips, his face all warm with the contentment that comes from bein’ cared for, from bein’ treasured, from all the little bits of love mortal hands can deliver. Seiya would be lyin’ if he said he didn’t like physical affection; there’s something so wondrous about how much love can be carried in the palm of a hand, about all the words the trace of a fingertip or the brush of skin can say without a word bein’ necessary. He ain’t a poet or nothin’, but he’s pretty sure that’s what poetry is– the silence of love, the sparks of happiness a pat to the head or a squeeze to the hand alone can give, the way somethin’ like the brush of a cloth against his cheek can almost make him forget the blank space Kamui tore open all those years ago.

It’s… a little hard not to wonder when the last time Cyran got to do somethin’ like this for Marlow was– when was the last time he got to brush away her tears, or comfort her when she got that stressed? Did he know it was the last time, then? Is there anyone ‘round in her life, now, that’ll pat her head in congratulations, hold her hand in quiet consolation, deliver that silent love with touch alone? Does anyone stand by to ease her stress when it overflows? Does he even have a right to wonder?

Seiya bites his lip, careful not to let his sharp teeth puncture his skin– just lets one of his fangs sit there, the sharpness enough to clear his head of all the questions runnin’ through it, enough to anchor him to the moment. He shouldn’t be thinkin’ about all that, about things he can’t get answers to, about things that’ll haunt him; he knows better than to do that.

He doesn’t have the power to do anythin’ for Marlow right now, and that’s… alright. He has to be alright with that, ‘cause it ain’t somethin’ he can change.

Instead, he has the power to be here for Cyran.

“...I could say the same thing to you. Y’ain’t gotta be sorry,” Seiya says softly, his voice achingly sincere as Cyran insists he’s never gotta apologize to him and then says he’s sorry in two different breaths, urgin’ Seiya not to feel guilt only to take his daughter’s possible sins onto his own shoulders as quickly as he can. “You can’t help the life that got thrown at ya, or the people who brought ya into the world, or the things those people do. That’s… their choice. I’m so– I… It sucks that… that stuff that wasn’t your fault led to somethin’ like that.”

He sharply inhales before awkwardly pattin’ Cyran’s shoulder, unsure of what other comforts he can possibly offer.

“...maybe things’ll change someday,” he says, his voice low, hushed, a quiet thread of hope sewn into it. “Maybe the Marlow you remember’ll get to come back someday. Maybe I’ll get to know her. Just hang in there and hope for it, yea?”

Seiya offers one more broad, bright smile and a squeeze to Cyran’s shoulder before nodding in quiet agreement, some of the guilt slowly ebbing away from his expression.

“...Y-Yea. We ain’t too far out from Ma’s place, now, anyway.”

“I have everything to be sorry for.” Came Cyran’s quiet reply. His gaze was so faraway that it was difficult to tell exactly what he was referring to. Perhaps he didn’t know exactly what himself. All the mistakes he’d made in his life, if he’d had to quantify them, would add up to a thousand apologies that he should have uttered. He knew the comfort that Seiya was trying to offer - that there were certain things in life one couldn’t control. Though Cyran was all so acutely aware that behind every snowballed incident, an event one couldn’t control, there laid a string of circumstances that led to that point - a singular moment in which Cyran could have made a difference. Oh, he could not count how many nights he’d spent tracing through the last few years of his life in the Fenastra household looking for where he’d gone wrong. The choice he had made to influence all the ones he didn’t.

Cyran offered Seiya a small, wobbly smile at the reassurance. He’d long since given up at wishing and hoping. But wouldn’t that be nice?

He knew he shouldn’t show emotion in front of someone who was depending on him in some capacity - Cyran was old hat at compartmentalizing and even more versed in the art of concealing his emotions behind a veil of cold indifference, a defense mechanism that had always worked for strangers who did not care to know him better. But Seiya was no stranger, and there was only ever one person whom Cyran could not shield his emotions from. That little piece of him who was suffering so much, somewhere else in the world. He’d never wanted that life for her. He’d always… he’d always hoped that things would be different. A prime example of why hoping got you nowhere. Your wishes were only revealed for the silly fantasies that they were. And now Marlow had been roped into the family business, and Cyran was doing his best to hold his crumbling pieces together into someone he so desperately wanted to protect. Even from his own grief.

- But he would not spurn the sympathetic words of his dear companion, not when Seiya had offered them so earnestly, knowing how much this meant to Cyran. Seiya was a bright star, one who shined not out of the absence of darkness, but despite of it. He was not naive to the ways of the world. He’d seen it’s grotesqueness and still had room in his heart for hope and wishes. What a beautiful thing it was, that he wanted to share it with Cyran of all people. Cyran’s own hopes were wane, but… maybe there was still room within the layers and years of fatigue to hope. If only for Seiya.

“I don’t know if we can ever go back to the way things were - or if that child can come back.” Cyran began, hesitant. “But gods, I would love the opportunity to meet the woman that she is today. To show her that she is so very loved no matter who she is.” He was rambling now, Cyran was aware, but there was always one thing he’d been passionate about, even in his youth, since he’d ever had an acute awareness of the concept and just what an absence of it there was in his life.

Fatherhood.

It had always been a joy to him, to lend what little he knew to those that needed it.

“But that is always what I have found beautiful about raising a life. Watching your child grow and flourish and getting to know them at every stage of their development. It’s a joy, getting to give them a piece of your heart and watching them run with it. I may not have fully raised her, but she will always have that spark of me, and I have to trust that. And know that I will do whatever I can in my power to give her the happiest life I can. The same goes for, well… all of my kids, really.”

He stopped, glancing at Seiya with a thoughtful look on his face.

“But you didn’t ask to listen to me preach. In any case, thank you for indulging me my question.” Admittedly, it had been weighing on his mind ever since he and Seiya parted ways on Hearth Day. Despite his best efforts to shut out the would haves and should haves, he just couldn’t stop himself. At least he knew.

Marlow was safe. For now.

He fell silent the rest of the way to Seiya’s home, breathing in the crisp air. Winter was still just beginning to transition to spring, and though there was a bite to the air, everything felt still and quiet - a pocket of the world untouched by people. If he focused he thought he could imagine a young Seiya dancing through the bamboo poles and chasing butterflies with wild abandon. The thought brought a smile to his face.

“So did you grow up here, then?” He asked, what he hoped was a mild question - though he was distantly aware of the fact that Seiya likely had not had the most pleasant childhood, a byproduct of his blood, but he wanted to know more about the young man. They’d exchanged letters back and forth so it was really difficult for Cyran to say Seiya had felt like a stranger ever since that second meeting in these very woods. Regardless, he still enjoyed listening to Seiya speak. He carried himself with so much life and passion that it almost made it easier for Cyran to love life, too.

It’s a weird thing, listenin’ to Cyran speak so fondly about bein’ a father.

Seiya doesn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, doesn’t quite know what happened between him and his daughter, him and his family, what crack in the earth formed the canyon between them, but he knows that Cyran had to leave, and somewhere in the jump, Marlow got left behind, but it never had anythin’ to do with how much or how little he loved her. He doesn’t know how Marlow feels about her father, doesn’t know about whatever tore the two of ‘em apart, doesn’t know anythin’ about any of this, but with every single word he can hear the anguished yearning in Cyran’s voice, see the fragility in that smile, in his eye, feel the desperation to go back, to turn back time, to take back somethin’ he can’t, and– and–

And though Seiya doesn’t know the first thing about what a loving father’s supposed to look like, he’s pretty sure Cyran’s the perfect template.

It’s selfish, really, to think about his own dad right now– to think about the fact that he hardly remembers what he looks like outside of those sharp pink eyes, to think about the fact that he’s never heard the man’s voice, to think about the fact that most of what he knows about the man has been taught to him in patchwork stories in reluctant whispers and shreds he’s had to piece together by himself. But Seiya can’t help it– can’t help but hold the Dog Prince up in his mind next to a man like Cyran and see all the ways he falls short, see just how brilliantly Cyran shines in every possible way in comparison. Cyran hasn’t seen his daughter in ten years– a blink of an eye to an elf, to a yokai, to any long-lived sort– and yet it’s like he feels every minute of every hour of every day, like he hasn’t gone a second of any of it without missin’ his daughter.

Seiya’s sure his own dad tries to forget him every chance he gets.

He takes a deep breath, bitin’ back all those old feelings, that anger buried so deep inside of him he’s sure it’s been there before he knew its name, and meets Cyran’s eyes, somethin’ soft and sad and sweet all tangled up together in his gaze all at once. He can’t decide what he’s feelin’, if it’s envy or respect or some other thing, some mix of many, but it’s not somethin’ he wants to dwell on right now, anyway.

“...Whether you get that chance or not, Cyran,” he begins, voice comin’ out quiet, strained. “I think she’s real lucky, and… and I hope you get that reunion someday.”

The silence that comes after is a relief. Seiya spends most of it ironin’ out the roughness in his throat, calmin’ the tempest stirrin’ up in his blood; he ain’t too far gone, ain’t quite losin’ himself in all those nastier feelings, but they’re there, and he ain’t gonna let them ruin the day. So he stays quiet, lets the cool air and the soothing mist of the bamboo woods wash over him, lets the comforts of his home tame the fire that threatens to eat him alive, and by the time they’re only a couple of minutes out from his mama’s cottage, the feelings of anger are just ghosts on the wind.

“Eh? Oh, yea– born and raised,” he says, blinking back to life as soon as Cyran asks his question. “Mama’s a native islander, too. I don’t think she’s ever left the place in her life– I didn’t get ‘round to it for a while, myself.”

Seiya’d like to change that, someday, but he knows it’s a ways off; his mother’s awful busy where she is, and she ain’t too keen on leavin’, but maybe sometime she’ll consider goin’ to see some other part of the world, when it’s actually an option for her. The world’s never been overly big for either of them, though, and while Seiya was never content with that, she always was. It always guarantees that she’ll be in that same cottage waitin’, though, at the end of whatever journey he goes on.

He doesn’t bother knockin’ when they get to the door– he’s lived here his whole life, after all, and there ain’t much point in doin’ it. He slips the door to the side, beckonin’ for Cyran to follow along behind him as he steps past the threshold into the modest, oft-repaired cottage, and calls out the same way he always does:

“Hey, Mama– I’m home.”

There’s the sound of somethin’ being set down– probably textiles, couple’a needles–, followed up by a few soft, padding footsteps, and after a few moments, a familiar face emerges from the little hallway to the side– a woman just approaching middle age, hair as pale as cherryblossoms and eyes like the night-dyed sea, a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and her hair twisted back and out of the way, a few wisps escapin’ and sittin’ around her face, just barely obscuring a few old scars on her cheek. Her whole face lights up as soon as she sees who’s in the doorway, a bright smile sittin’ on her face as she steps forward, standin’ on the tips of her toes to fling her arms around Seiya.

“Seiya–! Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you…” she says, her voice soft, warm, comforting as it’s always been. She squeezes her arms around him in as tight of a hug as she can manage before loosening her hold, turning to dip into a proper bow as she addresses Cyran. “You– You are Cyran, yes…?”

“Yea, Mama, this is-- that's Cyran.”

Setsuna glances him up and down for a moment, silent, assessing, before she speaks again.

“...My little star was right. You do have very kind eyes. Ah, make yourself at home– forgive the mess, I’ve been working on a commission– do you want some tea? I can make tea.”

Cyran was no stranger to the expression that danced across Seiya’s face, a sour note he’d likely not intended to share. But as he was in all aspects of his life, Seiya was brutally honest, and felt every single emotion that beat in his heart the way a candle burned through a wick and left behind nothing but a pile of hot wax. The kind of feelings that touched you so deep in your soul that they irrevocably changed you as you carried them. Cyran knew little about Seiya’s youth. He had but fragmented pieces of a bigger puzzle - a demon’s blood in his bite and a human’s fury in his bark. A mother who’d imparted on him morals and compassion and most importantly a love that would never die. And a father who had given him nothing but a legacy of blood.

The bitterness was something Cyran recognized far too well.

It was a hard learned lesson, for a young adult to come to grips with the knowledge and understanding that a father was not the beacon of stability and compassion you’d hoped they could be. But that was not the poison; no, it settled in your bones when you spent your entire life thinking that coldness and indifference was how a father was supposed to behave, only to have that reality shattered when you saw real fatherly love and realized that you’d never really had that at all, had you?

Cyran had wanted to be different. When you were born with the innocent compulsion to place your beating heart into the hands of your rock, your world, and they dropped it like they’d never truly wanted it in the first place, you were the one left alone to pick up the shattered pieces, or to leave them there so their jagged ends could cut anyone else who tried to get close in the aftermath. Cyran had been the one to stubbornly scoop up the pieces until his palms bled, and put them back together so they resembled the shape he thought a loving heart ought to look like. So when Marlow was born and it was his time to hold her fragile soul, he would never drop it, never fracture or hurt it. And he gave her his in turn.

But it had taken him a long time to reach that point. It had taken decades - centuries - to cycle through hurt and demanding and rage to figure out why he’d never been good enough until he realized that it was not on him to live up to his father’s standards. Lormundel’s love was an impossibility; his approval, conditional. Why wouldn’t he want to be better? If not for himself then the people who depended on him. If not for himself then those who needed someone else to bend down, roll up their sleeves, and say - let’s do this together to those still piecing together fragments. No matter how many other cuts he accrued in the process.

Oh, how in that moment he wanted to bend down and start picking up Seiya’s pieces, too.

… But he did not know if he was wanted, no matter how much Seiya seemed to enjoy his company. All he could do was keep his mouth shut when Seiya offered him hoarse reassurances of reunion; he’d gone on too much, it seemed.

Cyran could not lie - the realization he’d come so close to his baby ached. But he couldn’t let that ruin what was supposed to be a good day. Elves had a tendency to live in the past. Ancient creatures were so terribly fond of clinging to the antiquity that had put them on their pedestals, and why would they not when life seemed to pass by in the blink of an eye for his people? Cyran refused to live like them - untouched by the events unfolding around him until they were little more than a fond memory. He wanted to live in the present.

He wanted to live with those that cared about him.

“Ah, these are old wounds I’m picking at.” He insisted, though there was warmth in his voice - though chilled by his surroundings, how could he not feel cared for by the young man who’d invited him out here, listened to his troubles, arranged this entire meeting so Cyran could get to know the most important person in the world to him?

(And what did it mean that Seiya was so excited for it?)

“I don’t mean to complain like I have nothing in my life now.” Cyran murmured, the words feeling thick on his tongue like they did not belong there - he wanted to speak them into existence all the same. “Though i’d not planned to spend my life traveling, it’s not for nothing. There are always kids who’ve taken to the road that need guidance and support, and if I can be that for them - for anyone - then it will have been worthwhile.” He offered Seiya a weak smile. “And it gave me the chance to get to know you. I wouldn’t change any of it for the world.”

Thank goddess for the silence that ensued, for Cyran was not sure he wanted to hear the reply; a quip about his sentimentality or how odd it was for him to say such a thing when they rarely knew one another in the grand scheme of things. A consequence of his odd glass heart, he supposed. It was terribly easy for others to seep in through the cracks.

It was much easier for him to speak about little things. Seiya’s family had come from here, their roots as deeply intertwined and ever-growing with the earth as the surrounding bamboo. He hummed, watching mist curl lazily across the ground, the last remnants of the midwinter chill curling into spring. “It’s always nice to have a place to return to.” He murmured, as if in accordance with Seiya’s inner thoughts, and remained silent as Seiya continued his pilgrimage home.

It did not take long for them to reach his home - at least, what Cyran assumed was Seiya’s home, based on the way he entered. With the eagerness of someone who was about to embrace the warmth of kin. Cyran paused, lingering in the doorway; he slipped his boots off, setting them down gently in the dirt. Though he rarely advertised it, Cyran’s mother was Shita Eodum-Taiyang, from an affluent family in the southern Isles. It was likely her connections to families in the area that Marlow was able to negotiate a deal with Madam Seriko. Nevertheless, there were some traditions and niceties he’d been raised on, especially when it came to manners. He would respect their home for as long as he would be allowed in it. As he followed Seiya, the assassin shrugged off his cloak, glancing upwards as an unfamiliar woman stepped into the hall.

She was not especially tall, but anyone would look slight in comparison to Seiya. Her eyes sparkled behind rounded spectacles, as if the stars themselves had granted her a wonderful wish in the form of her son’s homecoming. She knew he’d been coming, of course, but Cyran was intimately familiar with the feeling. He could only smile softly as mother and son reunited, exchanging words of affection; an outsider looking in, but that did not bother him. He merely waited until Miss Setsuna noticed him. She dipped into a low bow, one Cyran reciprocated with the rigidity of someone who so desperately hoped they would make a good impression. He nodded when Seiya confirmed he was the man that she’d evidently been waiting to meet.

“It’s lovely to finally put a face to the name, Miss Setsuna. Seiya speaks so fondly of you I feel as if we’ve already met-”

You do have very kind eyes.

Well that certainly was not a compliment he’d expected to receive today. Cyran blinked, taken aback by the sincerity with which she spoke, and the implication that her words were an assertion that Seiya had spoken first. He blinked, surprised by the sudden sting in the edges of his eyes - such an embarrassing lapse in composure, wrought from the simplest and kindest words.

“I - um - housewarming gifts.” Cyran blurted, holding his hands out as a small colorful paper bag manifested in his hand, containing two items - one, a bottle of wine, still dusty around the edges, from a volcano vineyard near Mount Drakolt. The other, a small painted vase depicting cranes dancing with lions, one he’d found at a market stall and thought fitting for such a fierce and protective mother. Holding it out to her, Cyran stammered, still trying to regain his speech but failing miserably, as he often did when confronted with the kindness from others.

“I am, uh, so very grateful for you and your son’s hospitality. This is for you both - as thank you for welcoming me into your home and allowing me to spend the holidays with you.” Then, quieter, “You’ve raised a wonderful son, ma’am. It’s been a pleasure to know him and an honor to meet the woman who taught him as such.”

Cyran could not say he hadn’t expected more of a grilling, or a stern talking to or an interrogation - but Setsuna was nothing but inviting, as if he’d visited countless times before and she was welcoming an old friend rather than a stranger. He tilted his head, perking up at the mention of a commission. “Are you an artist, then? And yes, tea would be lovely, thank you - if it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

There’s somethin’ kinda funny about how quickly Cyran’s tune changes.

He’s a wise man– he’s clearly seen a lot of the world, seen a lot of what it can do to a person, been made familiar with the roughest and most unforgiving parts of the land and the people who call it home, and he’s reaped the lessons that come with all of it. Every word he speaks has a lesson sewn into it, whether he realizes it or not, and Seiya’s pretty sure that most of the time, he ain’t aware of it at all– that tends to happen with longer-lived folks. They see so much and experience the world in all its shades so quickly and vividly, and there’s a kind of wisdom in that that none of ‘em really see. As the years and people start passin’ him by a little faster, as the world changes and he doesn’t, Seiya’s sure that he’ll wind up like that himself– at least a little bit.

Still, his point stands; Cyran’s smart, and wise, and he knows the weight of his words, and so it’s no wonder he’s a natural at makin’ his tone fluid, subjects shiftin’ like water over stones. He leaves his sorrow, his hesitance behind at the crossroads and picks up gratitude instead, spinnin’ a speech about the meaning he’s found in guidin’ others– the meaning he’s made in helpin’ the lost find their way, and how there ain’t an ounce of regret to be found in it.

A man like that ain’t a common thing.

The thought lingers at the back of his mind as he watches his mama speak to Cyran, watches ‘em exchange introductions and pleasantries and other such things, watches Cyran stammer around words and fumble for the items he’d brought as gifts, watches the man try to regain the smooth, practiced calm he’d maintained so effortlessly earlier. That, too, ain’t common– wise men can be found anywhere in the world, up on their mountaintops and hidden away in their valleys, offerin’ wisdom as freely as a well offers water, but it ain’t easy to find one who hasn’t sold his soul to the heavens, one who still remembers that blood runs through his veins as readily as knowledge.

Oh, how Cyran baffles him. Seiya ain’t sure he’s ever gonna be able to fully wrap his mind around the places Cyran’s kindness was forged in, ain’t sure he’ll ever get how a man as skilled at takin’ a life can build one up with equal ease, but he doesn’t really need to understand him to care for him. He doesn’t need to understand him to appreciate the way Cyran’s kindness makes his mama’s expression go soft around the edges, all the tiredness in her eyes leavin’ in one quick motion.

“That was incredibly thoughtful of you,” she says, her smile warm as she dips into a low, grateful bow, pale pink hair sliding down over her shoulder before she straightens, plucking her glasses from her face and moving to help lighten the load in Cyran’s hands. “Thank you, very much– you did not have to do such a thing, but we both appreciate it deeply.”

Seiya’s quick to pluck the housewarmin’ gifts Cyran had brought from his mama’s arms, not wantin’ her to have to worry about where to put ‘em or anythin’ when she’s already made up her mind to be a good host– he can see it in her eyes, the calculatin’, the quiet musin’ over what she needs to do and get in order to make Cyran feel at home in their humble cottage. He ain’t takin’ much off of her plate, but it’s somethin’, and anythin’ at all is always a start.

“Mama, I can get the table settled if ya wanna start the tea,” he says quickly, already steppin’ past her so he can find someplace to set the vase for now. It’s up to her where she wants to put it for real, but he figures she doesn’t wanna stress over decoratin’ right now. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh, if it’s no trouble,” his mama says, her voice as soft as ever– but she doesn’t quite scurry off to get to work on tea just yet, lingerie’ for a moment longer in the entryway with Cyran. “...Thank you, truly. I cannot claim too much responsibility for the man he’s grown into– he keeps surrounding himself with wonderful influences, like yourself.”

…Okay, well, she ain’t entirely wrong about Seiya findin’ good influences, but his mama’s lyin’ through her teeth about not bein’ able to claim responsibility for the guy he is today. Half of what he does is for her, after all– he’s not sure who he’d be if he didn’t have her kindness lingerin’ in the back of his mind, in the forefront of his heart at all times. She’s probably just tryin’ to be humble, but really, it’s just a silly claim. Not that he’s gonna say nothin’.

“Oh, not quite an artist, at least not in the sense I’m sure you’re imagining– I’m a seamstress,” she says. “Clothes are my canvas of choice… ah, but I won’t talk your ear off. I’ll go get the tea started– Seiya, dear, do keep Cyran-san company–!”

“You got it, Mama,” he calls idly, watching fondly as she starts off to go get somethin’ together– he ain’t sure if they’ve got a lot in regards to snacks, but he’s sure she’s gonna try and get somethin’ resemblin’ a traditional tea layout together. Regardless, he looks to Cyran and gestures for him to follow before walkin’ a short distance into the next room and sittin’ down by the low-set table, pattin’ one of the spaces there to indicate he should join him. “Hah, that was awful nice of you. Didn’t have to bring anythin’ like that for us.”

Centuries of solitude and grief had left Cyran a rather lonely observer of the world. A consequence of his upbringing; where saying little and seeing much was the key to survival. He collected everything he saw and heard and touched and committed it to memory. Even the smallest details may help him years later when he least expected it. Even the briefest of moments mattered. With each passing year, the cycles of blooming spring to fall to winter to spring again, each waxing and waning of the moon, each second arriving with more brevity than the last, granules of sand ticking through an hourglass, each life stolen and each year that stretched before him, Cyran only learned to value the memories he forged even more.

And yet, through all of those infinities, the kindness of a stranger was what he was the most unfamiliar with.

He was aware of the irony.

They do often say you become the person you needed when you were younger.

It was perhaps for that reason that Madam Setsuna’s gentle words left Cyran unsure what to do with himself. Hatred and disdain, he could steel his heart to. Indifference was as familiar to him as the shadows. Yet, even just a compliment and gentle thanks from a woman who only knew of him from the stories told from her son; the way she treated him like the most esteemed guest… it meant something.

He moved to hand her the package while she plucked rounded spectacles from her face. There was no doubt, watching the two flow around one another like water, that Seiya was her child. But it was the eyes that gave it away. In the quiet melancholy of their gaze, like they just barely hadn’t given up hope that the world could be better than it was.

“I didn’t bring anything out of obligation, I assure you.” Cyran was slowly beginning to regain his composure, though the tips of his ears were still slightly pink. He smoothly pivoted to hand Seiya the gifts, who swooped in to relieve him of the burden before Setsuna could. “But because I wanted to.” Admittedly, in part due to the fact he’d been alight with nerves at the prospect of making a good impression. He understood the intimacies of being an overprotective parent. If he’d been in the same situation, he couldn’t say that he’d be as kind to any stranger with dubious intent his daughter brought home.

He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how many times Setsuna had been burned by life; the nature of her son’s birthright, the starlight in his veins, this secluded home away from people… yet she’d still made space for him, simply because he was Seiya’s friend.

Introductions made, the family set off to ready the house in a flurry of activity. Seiya set off to the kitchen, with Setsuna not far behind. Cyran squared his shoulders, ready to follow. “How can I help?” But Setsuna lingered, a moment - the softness of her voice gave him pause. Cyran’s throat felt tight as she thanked him again with all the grace and humility of someone who had everything to do with the man Cyran cared for dearly.

All the easier for Cyran to care for her, too.

He offered her a wobbly smile. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Please don’t discredit yourself.” Should she let him, he would move to grab her hand and give it a gentle squeeze - a single, soft reassurance in words he could not convey so eloquently. “From one parent to another, our children carry more of us than we ever want to admit. Your son could travel the world and meet the most influential people in the world and he would still carry you everywhere he goes. It’s only taken a single meeting with you to see that.”

Cyran let out a quiet laugh, a soft sound in the back of his throat. “By all means, please. I’d love to hear more. Just - I don’t wish to hold you up while you clean, do you need any help…?” But she’d already whisked away to whatever matter she had to take care of, Seiya returning in her stead. Cyran followed Seiya into a sitting room of sorts, unable to stop from gazing about the abode curiously. There was so much love here it was difficult to believe that it could all be contained in these four walls. He ran his hand along a table, so absorbed in taking in his surroundings that he almost missed Seiya patting the seat next to him.

“Oh!” Cyran blinked, making his way next to his friend and sitting cross-legged on the floor. He shook his head and waved a dismissive hand as Seiya tried to insist the same thing Setsuna had only moments ago, laughter a low, quiet rumble in the back of his throat. Like mother, like son. “Please, like I told your mother, I wanted to. It means a lot to me, that you’ve opened your home. You didn’t have to do that, either. And yet, here we are.”

Two lonely people fumbling towards common ground.

“And you two have a lovely home here.” Cyran spoke after a moment of thoughtful silence. “I don’t suppose you need me to tell you to cherish this place and the people in it, even when you go out and about to travel the world and… fight monsters and all you kids do for fun.” His words were heavy with the gravity of it all, but his tone was light; spending time with people who were so effortlessly welcoming tended to have that effect. Then, quieter, “And I’m grateful you’ve given me the chance to be part of it, no matter how brief.”

Ah, but he was getting melancholic again. Cyran reached over and pinched Seiya’s shoulder lightly. “So, your mother is a seamstress and you still go galivanting around without shirts? It’s so cold this time of year, you need to cover up more!”

Seiya ain’t sure whether it’s sad or sweet that Cyran seems so damn flustered over some basic human kindness.

He can see it in the other man’s eyes, in the flush still stirrin’ in his ears; he’s downright baffled over how easily he’s been welcomed into their home, over his mama’s kindness, and really, Seiya can’t blame him all that much. It’s jarrin’ to come in from an unforgivin’ world, one that doesn’t care for you or anythin’ you’ve done, and be met with nothin’ but unconditional kindness and a warm smile– it’s somethin’ Seiya’s experienced a dozen times, every time he’s paid his mama a visit since he left for the first time.

It’s rare. A lotta people out in the world don’t care much for where you’ve come from or what you’re there to do, and nobody’s gonna bend over backwards to give you a place to settle. You’ve gotta earn it, out there, prove yourself, and if the world doesn’t care for what you’ve got to offer, you’ve gotta force your way along all the same. Seiya’s dealt with men and monsters, seen a thousand faces and dealt with a thousand grievances in the time that’s passed since he left home, and every time he’s felt that quiet rage festerin’ in his heart, that thought that maybe the world ain’t worth much– and every time, the feelin’ has died when thrown against the force of his mama’s kindness.

She’s a bit too kind, really. Bit too welcomin’ and forgivin’ of people who don’t deserve it.

Cyran deserves it, though– deserves to feel welcome. To have someone be kind to him.

Seiya leans forward a little, bracin’ his elbow against the tabletop and lettin’ his chin rest on his hand, warmth sparkin’ to life in his eyes as he looks to Cyran. It’s real nice to see him relaxin’ a little, even if it is undercut by some clear anxiety, that sense of not knowin’ what to do.

“I do cherish it,” he says, a smile pullin’ at the corners of his lips. “I’ve lived here my whole life. Don’t matter where I go in the world, ‘cause I have here to come back to– and we’re both happy to have ya here, too. Nothin’ has to be brief– I’m sure both of us wouldn’t mind you visitin’ more.”

It’s hard to know what to say, really– Seiya ain’t sure of how to ease that sense of sorrow still weighin’ on Cyran, lingerin’ in his eyes. But not knowin’ somethin’ has never stopped Seiya from tryin’ to do it, so if he has to blindly fumble through a way to make Cyran feel a little better, a little more welcome, then he’s gonna do it.

His openin’ fades a bit, though, as Cyran reaches over and gently pinches his shoulder, already commencin’ with the gentle nagging over his choice in lack of apparel, and… well. He’s gotta laugh a little at the irony of it.

“Hey, hey, it ain’t like the cold’s too much to deal with,” he laughs, perhaps a little sheepish over it. And really, it ain’t a big deal– he’s survived the Frost Gale without a shirt, so he can survive anywhere else, too. “I wear shirts sometimes, ain’t that enough? ‘S more comfortable without ‘em, and most of ‘em don’t fit me– and I ain’t gonna ask mama to waste fabric.”

Seiya knows his mother probably wouldn’t like hearin’ him say that, of course– she’s always insistent that nothin’ is a waste when it comes to him, and that she’d prefer not to worry about him goin’ cold, but oh well. He can still hear her rummagin’ about, workin’ on makin’ tea, fussin’ about how to help Cyran settle in properly– it ain’t like she’s gonna hear him say it.

“Really, you ain’t gotta worry so much about me,” he insists, his smile not droppin’. “Did appreciate the sweater and the cape thing, though. That was real nice of ya.”

“Oh? A sweater?”

Seiya startles a little at the sound of his mother’s voice, especially in that tone– the tone that indicates she’s curious, lookin’ for an opportunity to tease him about somethin’. He can’t help the way his face flushes, embarrassed in advance for the lecture he may or may not get.

“Yea, mama, a sweater.”

“I see you’ve finally decided to consider dressing properly for the elements–”

“No, mama, I don’t need to–”

“Yes, you do, and I’m glad someone else agrees with me,” Setsuna says, eyes glinting a little impishly as she glances over to Cyran, all warm and kind even as she sets a tray of tea and a plate of dorayaki down on the table, carefully pourin’ out cups, movin’ to take a seat beside them both after it’s all set in place. “Another thing I can thank you for, Cyran-san– I’ve been fussing over him for ages. He decided he had no need for shirts in his teen years–”

“Mamaaaaa–”

“And ever since, it’s been like pulling teeth to persuade him back into one,” she sighs, but it’s not a bad sigh. “Oh, well. Children are children.”

“Mama!”

“Shh. I raised you, I’ve earned the right to tease you a bit,” Setsuna says, still smilin’, and… well, Seiya ain’t gonna argue with his mother. “Oh, feel free to eat as you’d like– I can always make more snacks if you’re hungry. I do hope it’s good.”