He looked to the sky and his bones ached like never before.

He hadn't been used to running his body 24/7, he hadn't been used to exertion, before. At 18 years, he was finally learning what the responsible and weary had grown to know at their breaking point of maturity. Kaito wasn't a child anymore, and he was fine with that.

Haruto's childhood concerned him.

Haruto was tired, weary, not yet aching, and he shouldn't be responsible for whatever screams he was soaking in. Haruto was a child, would still be a child for much longer, much, much longer than even Kaito could deem necessary. He'd make a way. Reason wasn't a cause for concern when his little brother was involved. Orbital 7 squawking timidly a few wobbly steps behind him about being "unreasonable" was irrelevant. The aching penetrated Kaito's brain, and he shut his eyes for peace.

"…resting is heavily advised, young ma-"

"You're noisy, Orbital." He was still collected. He didn't have to snap at a robot to feel relief. He was an adult. No need to feel anger if Haruto was safe in his room.

Orbital 7's head parts slumped like a pet dog's. Haruto had been interested in the dogs they passed in the street before, hadn't he? Though the robot just irritated Kaito, Haruto might appreciate Kaito's improvements to the Orbital series, once he had a chance to really look over them. Kaito frowned a little more, and Orbital 7 drooped further.

"Orbital 7," Kaito commanded. Orbital salutes, Kaito jumps.

And he's flying, technically freefalling, until wings attach to his back and carry him up. Kaito floats farther up than he'd ever been when he was young, but his entire being aches with a pain deep enough to kill.

He circles the city, gliding higher with each curve. He soars amidst the beams of light bursting through the clouds, limbs straining, eyes watering and ears losing warmth faster than he notices. Soon the deep ache is gone.

Heartland Tower looms in Kaito's path, oppressive and garish, and a small figure pushes at the glass from inside. Haruto's safe. Kaito knows that. He knows that his family is safe for now. That's why he can't feel the pain anymore. Haruto raises his head, and Kaito knows the unnerving stare is latched onto him. Like he watches the happy crowds below, Haruto is watching him. Kaito feels wind, thinks white. Someplace in Kaito's heart, Haruto's dissatisfaction with the laughter below and his older brother above grabs at the teenager, and a tremor runs through him.

At Haruto's age, Kaito had wanted to touch the sun.

In the city or in their villa, the sun would engulf them from light years away, a glowing marble in the sky they couldn't play with. The sun was a doppelganger, encapsulating all who were bright and warm, who weren't there. It was constant, yet out of his reach all the same. He wanted to catch hold of it, bring it close and unclasp his fingers gently to allow Haruto a peek inside, blinding though it may be, and generating awe and adoration from them both, from them all. He had wished upon a star. With Haruto, Kaito had wished upon hundreds. Since Haruto fell ill, they didn't hum their hopes or trace stars' names around his room. Haruto forgot, but Kaito wouldn't because he was the older brother. Haruto looked up to him, and he would keep watching as he fell.

Once Kaito fell down to the crowd, the laughter would cease. Would Haruto smile?