Declan may well have been speaking another language. Or rather, one that Aoba couldn’t understand despite the whole Chosen business. He spoke of functions and capabilities and there was a meaning communicated in them, but what good were the varying capabilities of the weapons if Aoba had never wielded one in his life? And there was more to it than just the physical act of carrying or shooting a weapon.

He wasn’t thinking it in words precisely, but it was there in an unsettled gut feeling: the understanding that carrying a weapon meant he was being told to kill. Self-defense Aoba knew and had dealt with, and injuring another to protect himself was one thing, but weapons were made to kill.

If someone comes at us, it’s them or us. That’s not a hard choice.

It wasn’t, it really wasn’t, but however rationally it had to be true, it wasn’t a necessity he had to be happy about. It even made it harder to appreciate how much Declan clearly appreciated the weapons themselves. They had names, even.

“If I’m carrying them, I’m carrying them for you. Not for me,” he answered, a duality of meaning that wasn’t lost on him. Settling at the table with chopsticks in hand, quietly appreciating the familiar utensils, he separated a portion of lo mein onto a plate before digging in.