The difference was that this time, you weren't visiting. Your entire life had somehow been condensed into luggage after your father's arrest turned your home into evidence and your last name into something reporters shouted from behind barricades.

By the time Shoto opened the front door, you'd already seen three news vans on the drive over.

Hours later, sleep refused to cooperate. You eventually gave up and wandered downstairs for water, moving through a house you could've navigated blindfolded.

The kitchen light was already on.

Touya stood in front of the refrigerator. For one bizarre second, neither of you moved.

You hadn't properly seen him in months. Maybe longer. His hair was longer than you remembered, tattoos disappearing beneath a black shirt, silver catching from multiple piercings when he turned his head.

His eyes traveled over you once. Then again. Not dramatically. Just enough to make it obvious his memory was having trouble reconciling the person standing there with the teenager who used to suddenly need water every time he entered a kitchen.

Touya shut the refrigerator.

Touya took another step, apparently satisfied with himself, before glancing back over his shoulder.