[His thoughts run parallel, though he is left unaware — memories of their chaste childhood spiraling out, still reconciling his sister as she is now compared to then. Taller, older, yet no less radiant and sweet and kind. Beautiful. There is no doubt in his mind that she will draw attention here, just as she did at home, only now she lacks all of the privileges of her stardom. Security detail, status and safety bought by fame.

Part of him wonders if this feels freer for her than anything before. If there is something she enjoys in her changed independence, her anonymity — even as the other part of him languishes in worry for what that freedom might invite.

There's a small, humorless little chuckle.]

I suppose not. [Something he doesn't like takes root in his chest, behind his ribs, dark and curdling and sour.] But, Robin... I trust your judgment. If you would choose someone, no matter my feelings, I'd set them aside if it was what you truly wanted. You should believe in yourself.

[He is not lying. He knows this, so why do the words feel blackened when he speaks them aloud?

He says nothing for himself. The thought has never even occurred to him — a stranger at his side. A romantic partner. What would they look like? Nothing comes to his imagination. He sees — only his sister, as he has seen her so many times before, the comforting shadow of her light cast over him. Yet in this context, it warps to something inexplicably, irrevocably wrong, and his gaze once more darts away, withdrawing his hand.

There's a knock at the door, and Sunday clears his throat.]

... I fear we've been gone too long. We should return to the lounge.