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[Paul presses his lips together firmly to stifle a little cough, his throat perhaps irritated by the ambient pollen. For some reason, it looks and sounds like someone holding back a laugh.]

Gideon and Harrow might not like it there.

['Harrow', now, when he's speaking to people in the house. He walks down the hall unconcerned by Kaworu's floating, a thing that is also becoming familiar.]

I did, when I was younger. [No skeletons in the kitchen, this time; only a stack of unwashed dishes in the sink.] I'd make islands out of it to sail my boats around.

What's that about?

[Squinting at him and yet padding after him eagerly! Why did that sound like a laugh? What's going! What's the big secret? He must know or else he'll die (again). And there's a joy in enthusiasm that he missed while his soul was submerged.]

Boats? Oh, toys. [He cocks his head, looking up at Paul.] So at one time, we were the same size.

[So there's hope!]

It's a bath house that caters to men and people of other genders. Not so much women.

[The words for genders he uses don't quite translate as precisely as Paul would prefer, but he thinks the gist is retained, and hopes the implications translate with them.

It's hard to focus too much on that as he finds a small, genuine smile at the corner of his mouth, despite everything.]

I was even smaller than you, if you can believe that. I didn't start getting taller until two years ago.

Ah, I see. Humans are always so concerned about modesty.

[He snorts like it's funny. Too bad Gideon and Harrow won't be able to chill out at the men's only bathtub that Kaworu's still growing mind could never imagine actually existed for people just like him.

Then his eyes go wide and he stands closer to Paul as if trying to assess how much smaller that would be by sizing him up in his current state. ...That's pretty small. That's a lot of inches to grow.]

So, you were just a little younger than me when you started growing. Maybe I'll be taller than you by next year.

[Modesty taboos are admittedly funny, even if that's still not exactly the nature of the bath house (which Paul finds himself oddly unsettled to think about describing to Kaworu, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth).]

The only animals ashamed of our own skin, I know.

[He evaluates Kaworu sizing him up, almost like a mirror.]

You could be. I'm not going to get taller than this.

[On that note, he reaches out to ruffle Kaworu's hair while he still can, before gracefully slipping away to bring down the bag of rice from a high cupboard shelf.]

It's very odd. Still... it's only for men and those that are like men. Hm. I suppose it makes everyone more at ease.

[Yeah, okay. That's kind of appealing. Even if he thinks the reasoning behind it is silly.

(Little does he know of course.)

There's a huff at the hair ruffle and a weak attempt to shove the hand away.]

We should start measuring. So we can catch when it starts.

[Like teen growth is like that of the plants that have started growing everywhere.

He hops up onto the counter to reach into a cupboard and pull out a pot that he sets onto the stove. At this point, he's at least started to understand all the bits and pieces that are needed when it comes to cooking. So he can help with that.]

[Paul will have to get around to explaining, eventually, if he does ever take Kaworu there. (If he's given the chance. If Kaworu will still go with him. If, if, if.) But it feels - delicate, sensitive. Another thing he should be careful with.]

We should.

[He almost suggests markings on a wall, in a fit of thoughtless nostalgia, but that implies things about the duration of their time here that fall into the category of things Paul isn't thinking of yet. (He doesn't have to. He can let it rest in someone else's steady hands. There are days when that relief is all that lets him crawl out from under piled blankets.)

Kaworu adding the pot to the stove brings another pale smile to Paul as he measures out rice into a bowl with one of the mugs from the cupboard after a review of the pinned instructions.]

It says we need two and a half cups of water. Would you mind?

[He offers Kaworu the empty cup in his outstretched hand, moving to the sink to rinse the rice - even though to his eye, it doesn't seem dirty.]

I'm going to keep reminding you until we do.

[It's said with good humor because it doesn't really need to be said, if he wants something, he'll keep trying to get it. But there's an underlying current there, of someone who is desperate to have promises kept and to be held in enough esteem to be remembered.

Dutifully, he takes the cup and fills it with water. He lets it run over the edge of the cup and cascade down his hands. It's warm, not cold like the sea, and it doesn't have the stinging smell of salt beneath it.

He offers cup to Paul.]

[Paul takes the cup, heedless of the wet exterior, and dumps it into the pot on the stove before handing it back. He swirls the rice in its bowl until the water is milky, then strains it through his fingers slowly - last time, he'd done it all at once, and spilled half the rice into the sink.

(Paul is not yet aware of the existent of a fine mesh strainer basket in this very kitchen.)]

I don't forget things, Kaworu.

[With answering wan good humor, and an answering undercurrent to match. He remembers almost everything, always.]

Especially not about you. Brat.

[Something like that has never been enough. That's why Kaworu always has to press, always has to dig like he's fighting to find water to survive underneath the ground. He needs reassurance, something solid to hold onto. He needs a promise.

Except, this time, he doesn't. When Paul says it, Kaworu finds he can simply believe him without asking for more, without trying to fill up that hole that always seems to be inside.

It's strange, but pleasant to feel at ease instead of desperate.

He takes the cup and fills it with water once more and hands it over.]

Especially not about me?

[Another pour, another handing back. Paul adds the rinsed rice as well, swirls it around with his already wet fingers. Perhaps the issue was allowing for too much sedimental build up.

He clucks his tongue softly at the question, casting Kaworu a fond, half-shaded look. If not for his eyes, he'd look almost like himself. This could almost be a time before, and not after. He almost does forget, despite what he said.]

How many angels do you think I've met, exactly?

[Once more he fills the cup but he pauses before handing it over, watching Paul sift through the rice with his fingers. There's something about how the crude method stirs the grains in the water in almost elegant patterns.

It makes him smile back at Paul easily.

He passes over the cup, leaning over to watch.]

Some people on Earth thought that they had met angels that watched over them.

[Paul adds half of the water and sets the rest aside, igniting the stove to the specified range. He caps the pot with a close-fitted lid, and only then does he turns fully to Kaworu.

There's a quietness about him when he does, his head tilted at a slight angle of contemplation.]

Is that true?

[A softer, nearly wistful inflection in a half-dozen voices rippling underneath a mild surface. Paul reaches out to dry his hand on the blanket still wrapped around Kaworu's shoulders, which so happens to involve brushing it over his swaddled upper arm.]

I wouldn't think an angel would want to watch over any of us.

I watch over you.

[It's an impulsive comment along with the raise of his arm so Paul can better dry his hands, enjoying the soft sensation of touch.

But, he supposes Paul is right and Kaworu himself an unusual exception. And there's something, for once, that delights him about being unlike the rest of his people and separate from humanity as well.]

Most of my people would not. Simply because they don't understand humanity and their connection would be curiosity or indifference. [He meets Paul's eyes and thinks about that softness in his voice.] But we are called "angels" by humanity because the name means "messenger" and perhaps humanity has met other messengers who are kinder to them.

[Paul stills. His hand stops where it is, curved around the slight shape of Kaworu's bicep under the blankets. His throat bobs, a certain crumpling at the edges of his eyes as tender as bruises.]

Then I must be very lucky.

[Paul could sever the moment. Turn it into a joke, or a game, or simply turn away, as if it rests light on his shoulders. He could say you don't have to or I don't need it or but I watch over you, and all of that would be true, in some ways.

Sometimes he can forget his heart exists, so numbed and cold, and then something warm will curve around it, and it aches with the threat of thaw.]

You are. I told you were special. And you are special to me.

[Paul has a unique soul, he can tell by how it shines so much brighter than that of those around him. A great destiny awaits him, Kaworu is sure of that. But that matters less and less now. Paul is unique among humans in his behaviors and his thoughts and it drew Kaworu to him and holds him close now.

It's perhaps a little forward, but what is the point of hiding feelings after everything that's happened? And when has Kaworu ever cared about such things anyway?

(If he'd told Shinji Ikari that he was also special and special in his heart, would things have been different between them? Had ended differently? Could it have righted past wrongs?)]

[Being special is nothing new to Paul. He has been special since before he was born, that great destiny poured into spiraling helices as surely as the natural green of his eyes or the twisting curls of his dark hair. It thrums in his blood even now, that specialness, an unfurling of awful intention.

But Kaworu says it to him in a kitchen, with Paul's handprint wet with only water on his arm, next to a warming pot on a stove, and it is nothing like a chanted name or a whisper in his wake.

What choice does he have, then, but to tug Kaworu into his arms? What option is there but to tuck his head against Paul's shoulder, over the steady rhythm of his heart?]

So are you. [Quiet as prayer.] To me.

["Absence makes the heart grow fonder." A strange saying that humans have to justify their feelings of loneliness and the desire for affection.

Or so he thought. Those days he spent with his soul out of place, unable to reconcile it's station in his body and so his body in the world made him realize how much he was glad to recognize when someone else was near. When he could touch someone else and feel both their skin and his at the same time. And now when he could wrap his arms around Paul and know for sure that he's here in this place, at this time, with someone. Even if that place is a simple kitchen in a dangerous place, he can feel Paul's heartbeat and the pressure of his chest expanding and closing space that already has no gaps.

He'd missed it.]

So I will look after you. Even though I was not created to be a guardian.

[A huff of breath at that, gentle and warm, as Paul turns his face against Kaworu's hopelessly mussed hair. It tickles his nose; it smells like a sea breeze on a sunny day, swept in from a wider ocean.

The other sea draws away.]

You're still good at it.

[If his mouth brushes across the high bone of Kaworu's temple, glancing and soft, before he leans back against the counter and turns his head to watch the pot, to wait for it to boil - he doesn't think anything of it. He adjusts the slight weight of Kaworu's body in his arms, content to let him lean against him, if he wants to.]

I haven't set anything on fire, this time.

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