Aoba jumped like he’d been goosed, looking up and around with eyes back to their default shade of hazel, set in a face that was short on sleep but not red or discolored or anything like that. He saw Declan’s face and saw—nothing to mirror the way he was feeling all eaten up and twisted inside.

Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.

He ignored—himself. Not in a way that equaled unhearing, but just not acknowledging.

“I can’t even figure out what these buckles are for,” he said in response, voice soft and tired, but still waving an arm at his friend in a pitiful show of needing help indeed.

They were still friends, weren’t they?