Aqua sat on a bench, watching Ruby chase birds across the park grass. The ice cream cone in his hand had begun to melt, vanilla rivulets running down the side and onto his fingers. He didn't notice. His attention remained fixed on Toshiro and Ai, standing by the playground equipment, their heads bent close in conversation.
Something about their silhouettes against the setting sun sparked a memory. Not from this life, but his previous one—Gorou Amamiya, standing beside a hospital bed, talking quietly with a colleague while their patient slept.
Aqua remembered dying. The knife had slid between his ribs with surprising ease, almost painless at first. Then came the burning, the weakness, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as he collapsed. His last thoughts had been regrets—research unfinished, patients abandoned, no family to mourn him.
Then darkness. Then light again, and Ai's face hovering above him, exhausted but radiant.
"Are you okay?"
Aqua blinked. Ruby stood before him, her own ice cream smeared around her mouth, concern etched on her small face.
"I'm fine," he said, straightening. "Just thinking."
"Your ice cream's melting."
He glanced down. "So it is."
Ruby plopped down beside him, her legs swinging, too short to reach the ground. "What are you thinking about?"
Aqua considered how to answer.
"Stars," he said finally. "How they look different from Earth than they would from space."
Ruby nodded sagely, as if this made perfect sense as playground contemplation. "Toshiro knows lots about stars."
"He seems to."
Across the park, Toshiro laughed at something Ai said, his head tilting back. The sound carried on the evening air. Aqua studied him carefully. Throughout the day, he'd been cataloging observations, building a profile as meticulously as he once had with medical patients.
Toshiro Kagami: orphaned young, raised in the system. Like Ai. Like himself. The symmetry hadn't escaped Aqua's notice.
"He makes momma smile," Ruby observed, licking her ice cream. "Like, real smiles."
Aqua turned to his sister. "You think so?"
"Uh-huh."
She wasn't wrong. Ai had been different today—more relaxed, less vigilant. The constant tension she carried in her shoulders had eased. Even her laughter sounded different.
"Do you like him?" Ruby asked.
Aqua turned his attention back to his melting cone. "He's acceptable."
Ruby giggled. "That means yes."
"It means I'm reserving judgment."
But that wasn't entirely true. Toshiro had been passing tests all day—tests Aqua hadn't even realized he was administering until he saw the results.
Test one: How he treated Ruby versus Aqua. Most adults gravitated toward Ruby with her outgoing nature and easy affection. They spoke to Aqua as an afterthought, uncomfortable with his serious demeanor and advanced vocabulary. Toshiro had engaged with both of them equally, adjusting his approach without condescension.
Test two: How he handled questions. Rather than dismissing Aqua's inquiries as precocious showing-off, Toshiro had responded thoughtfully, admitting when he didn't know something rather than fabricating answers.
Test three: His behavior toward Ai. Respectful, attentive, but not performative. The way he looked at her when she wasn't watching—not with the hungry gaze of fans or the calculating assessment of industry people, but with genuine warmth.
"You're doing your thinking face again," Ruby said, poking his cheek.
"I have a thinking face?"
"Mmhmm. All scrunchy." She demonstrated, furrowing her brow dramatically. "Momma says it means your brain is working extra hard."
Aqua allowed himself a small smile. "Maybe it is."
Toshiro and Ai were walking toward them now, Toshiro gesturing animatedly as he told some story that made Ai cover her mouth to stifle laughter.
"So then Ryota decides he's going to prove he can do a triple flip," Toshiro was saying. "Except he forgot we were recording in the studio with the low ceiling—"
"Oh no," Ai said, already laughing.
"Foot goes right through the acoustic tile. He's just dangling there, yelling about how he meant to do it."
Ai's laughter rang out, unrestrained and genuine. Aqua couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that sound.
"What's funny?" Ruby demanded as they reached the bench.
"Toshiro was telling me about his group's practice," Ai explained, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
"Did someone get hurt?" Ruby asked, eyes wide.
"Just his pride," Toshiro assured her, sitting down beside Aqua. "And maybe the ceiling. How's the ice cream?"
"Melting," Aqua said, holding up his dripping cone as evidence.
"The hazard of thinking too hard," Toshiro nodded. "I lose many good ice creams that way myself."
There was no mockery in his tone, just casual understanding. Another test passed without Toshiro even knowing he was being evaluated.
Ai sat on Ruby's other side, efficiently cleaning her daughter's face with a wet wipe produced from her seemingly bottomless bag. "We should probably head back soon. It's getting late."
"Five more minutes?" Ruby pleaded.
"Five more minutes," Ai agreed, smoothing Ruby's hair.
Aqua finished what remained of his ice cream, considering his final test. The most important one. He'd been formulating it all afternoon, waiting for the right moment.
"I want to try the monkey bars," he announced, standing abruptly.
Three pairs of eyes turned to him in surprise. Aqua rarely initiated playground activities, preferring to observe from the sidelines or engage with educational exhibits.
"I'll come with you," Toshiro offered, standing as well.
Perfect. Exactly as Aqua had anticipated.
The monkey bars loomed tall in the evening light, their metal gleaming dully. Aqua approached them with determination, aware of his physical limitations in this small body. As an adult, Gorou had been reasonably athletic—a necessary condition for long hospital shifts. As a two-year-old, his coordination and strength were still developing.
He reached up, grasping the first rung. His fingers barely curled over the bar.
"Would you like some help?" Toshiro asked, crouching beside him.
Aqua shook his head. "I can do it."
He jumped, catching the bar properly this time, and hung there. His arms trembled with the effort of supporting his weight. He tried to swing forward to reach the next bar, but his momentum was insufficient. He dangled, stuck.
This was the test. How would Toshiro handle a child's frustration and potential failure? Would he swoop in to rescue, undermining Aqua's independence? Would he grow impatient with the inevitably slow progress? Or would he stand back entirely, allowing a fall that could result in tears and scraped hands?
"You've got a good grip there," Toshiro observed, hands in his pockets. Not reaching to help, but not walking away either. "Want a suggestion?"
Aqua nodded, arms beginning to ache.
"Try swinging your legs to build momentum. Like a pendulum."
Aqua did as suggested, swinging his lower body. The motion carried him forward enough to grasp the next bar. His fingers closed around it just as his grip on the first bar gave way.
"Nice!" Toshiro said, moving alongside him. "That's the trick."
Aqua hung from the second bar, arms burning. He wouldn't make it across. That had never been the point. The question was how Toshiro would handle the situation.
He made a show of struggling, then let his fingers slip deliberately.
Toshiro moved fast but not frantically, stepping forward to catch him before he hit the ground. The catch was secure but not smothering, breaking his fall without making him feel helpless.
"Good attempt," Toshiro said, setting him carefully on his feet. "Those bars are pretty far apart for someone your size."
No baby talk. No excessive praise for a failed effort. No disappointment either. Just practical assessment and respect.
"I'll try again when I'm bigger," Aqua said.
"Smart plan. Building strength takes time." Toshiro crouched to eye level. "You know what impressed me though? You didn't ask for help to get started. You just went for it."
Aqua hadn't expected that observation. Most adults focused on results, not process. Especially not the process of beginning something difficult.
"My hands hurt," he admitted, showing his palms where the metal had dug into soft skin.
Toshiro examined them with the seriousness the complaint deserved. "No broken skin, but they might be sore tomorrow. Calluses come with practice."
"Thank you," Aqua said quietly.
Toshiro smiled. "You're welcome. Ready to head back?"
Aqua nodded, falling into step beside him as they walked toward the bench where Ai and Ruby waited. He studied Toshiro's profile against the setting sun, trying to reconcile this man with his previous experiences of adults.
In his first life, Gorou had grown up in an orphanage not unlike the one Ai had described from her childhood. The caretakers had been overwhelmed, the children too numerous for individual attention. He'd learned early to be self-sufficient, to expect nothing, to view affection as conditional at best.
Even as an adult, relationships had remained transactional—colleagues, not friends; lovers, not partners. Until Sarina. She'd been the first person who'd made him feel seen, whose smile wasn't deployed strategically but given freely. Her death had hollowed him out.
And now here he was, walking beside someone who reminded him, in small ways, of who he'd been—and who he might have become in different circumstances.
"Can I ask you something?" Aqua said suddenly.
Toshiro slowed his pace. "Of course."
"Were you lonely? In the orphanage?"
Toshiro's steps faltered slightly, surprise registering in his eyes.
"Yes," he answered finally. "I was."
"Are you still?"
"Sometimes. Less than before."
"Because of PRISM?"
"Partly. Having people who depend on you, who you depend on too—it helps." Toshiro glanced toward Ai and Ruby. "But connection isn't just about having people around. It's about being seen for who you really are."
The words resonated in Aqua's chest. Being seen. Not as a prodigy, not as a burden, not as an extension of someone else's expectations. But as himself—complex, flawed, worthy of attention.
"Ai sees you," Aqua said. Not a question.
Toshiro's gaze softened. "I think she's learning to. And I'm learning to see her too."
They had reached the bench. Ruby immediately launched herself at Toshiro, wrapping her arms around his legs.
"Did you see the monkey bars? Aqua was so brave!"
"He was," Toshiro agreed, lifting her up. "A regular astronaut in training."
Aqua met Ai's questioning gaze and gave a small nod. She raised an eyebrow, the silent communication between them as clear as spoken words. Are you sure?
He nodded again, more firmly.
"It's getting dark," Ai said, standing and gathering their things. "We should head home."
"Can Toshiro come for dinner?" Ruby asked, still perched in his arms.
"He can help me with my space book," Aqua offered, the closest he would come to a direct invitation.
Relief and something warmer spread across Ai's features. "Would you like to join us?" she asked Toshiro. "Nothing fancy. Just home cooking."
"I'd be honored," Toshiro said, his smile genuine. "Though I should warn you, Ruby has already extracted my life story and favorite color. Dinner conversation might be limited."
"Deep blue!" Ruby announced proudly.
"She's thorough in her interrogations," Ai laughed. "But I'm sure we can find something to talk about."
As they gathered their belongings and headed toward the park exit, Aqua fell into step beside Ai. Ahead of them, Toshiro carried a chattering Ruby, pointing out the first evening stars appearing in the darkening sky.
"You like him," Ai said softly, for Aqua's ears alone.
"He's acceptable," Aqua repeated, but this time a small smile tugged at his lips.
Ai's hand found his, warm and secure.
Aqua squeezed her fingers. In his previous life, he'd never had a family of his own—no children, no lasting partnership. He'd told himself it was by choice, that his work was more important, that emotional entanglements were messy and ultimately disappointing.
Now, watching Toshiro spin a laughing Ruby in a circle, pointing out stars only just becoming visible, Aqua wondered if he'd been wrong. If perhaps family wasn't something you were given, but something you built, piece by piece, from the raw materials of trust and shared moments and small kindnesses repeated until they became habit.
Toshiro sat Ruby down and turned, waiting for them to catch up. The evening light caught in his hair, turning it silver-gold. For an instant, superimposed over his features, Aqua saw a ghost of himself—not as he was now, but as he might have been, had Gorou lived to find this kind of connection.
The afterimage faded, leaving just Toshiro—solid, present, smiling as Ai and Aqua approached. Holding out his hands to both of them, a bridge between where they'd been and where they might go.
Aqua took the offered hand. A test, a beginning. A small step toward something that felt, improbably, like hope.