There it is, he thinks, peeking at Ei Sei over the rim of his tea cup.

They've been friends for years, but Ei Sei has always kept his distance, claiming the difference in their stations as a reasonable excuse. Koshun never agreed—in his eyes, they were both orphans with mothers who protected them to their ruin and fathers who couldn't care less. They had the same teachers, ate the same food, slept under the same roof ("Only because you made it so, Koshun-sama," Ei Sei lamented). Ei Sei was achingly familiar, more family to him than any of his half-siblings, whose own families have shielded them from the estranged Ka boy.

All of this is to say that despite Ei Sei (stubbornly, stupidly) always standing five paces away, Koshun knows him. Even now that he's more relaxed than he's ever been (especially so in the year since they met Jusetsu), seated across him with his back slumped against his chair, nursing a cup of tea with a free hand. His other massages his temple as his eyes are closed—a long-time tell that he was mentally preparing a lecture for Koshun, a tell that would always and only ever remind him of Ei Sei if anyone else did it.

But then he opens his eyes, and there's that look. When he opens his mouth to lecture him, there's that tone. He tilts his head in the same way as he finishes his argument. And even though Koshun has only known her for a fraction of the time that he's known Ei Sei, he sees her—all the little bits that she somehow shares with his best friend who is miraculously also her brother, who is his only tie to her now that she's left their home to explore the world.

"Oi, Koshun-sama." Ei Sei huffs—something he's always done, but how did Koshun not notice sooner that she did the exact same when he annoyed her? "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Deluding yourself." Ei Sei moves to stand, taking his and Koshun's cups with him to rinse in the sink. "We aren't that alike."