"You brought your own cup?"
Devrim smiled awkwardly after asking the question. A tea set balanced delicately beside him on the split log he used as a seat. From the other side of the campfire, Saint-14 looked comically oversized as he cradled a blue-and-white ceramic teacup in one large hand. His helmet was off, set in the dirt beside his feet. A slow smile crept across Saint's mouth as he looked at the cup.
"Not that I mind," Devrim continued and motioned with his own teacup. "It's just—normally, people don't come this prepared for afternoon tea. Although, yours looks like it's, ah, seen a few fights." Though Devrim chuckled, his assessment was accurate. Saint's teacup was chipped around the brim; the handle had been broken off at one point and crudely glued back into place.
Saint laughed to himself. "It is a memento," he said. "The cup is nothing special, just ceramic and paint. But it is the damage that makes it important." He finished his tea and offered the cup out to Devrim, who carefully took it to inspect.
"I forget where I got it. Sat on a shelf in my home long before Osiris and I lived together, before he was exiled. One day, he barges into my home looking for an argument…" Saint said, watching Devrim. "Osiris, he gets very heated when he is angry; arms like this!" Saint waved his arms around in pantomime. "Very animated."
Devrim laughed as he handed Saint's teacup back. "That sounds about right."
"We argue. Very loud. He accidentally knocks my teacup off shelf, breaks it," Saint said, lowering his voice. "The argument stops. We both feel bad. Osiris apologizes, I apologize. Then…" Saint stared into the fire. "Then, he touches my cheek. His eyes say things that words cannot. He leaves. I sweep up the shards and…"
Saint's voice trailed off into nothingness. The amusement left Devrim's eyes as he looked down into the rippling surface of his tea. "How is he?" It was the question Devrim had been too afraid to ask. Saint's shoulders slouched in response, and that was almost all the reply Devrim needed.
"Not good," Saint quietly confessed. "He is alive. But… his body is there, his mind is not. It is like he is on a journey and cannot find his way home. Or…" Saint shook his head. He honestly wasn't sure. No one was.
Devrim set his teacup down on the log. He rose and crossed the distance to Saint and then laid a hand on the Titan's shoulder. Devrim looked into Saint's vibrant, mechanical eyes with sympathy. "Marc and I are having Suraya over for dinner tonight," he said with a small, hesitant smile. "I know it's short notice, but you should come."
"I…" Saint looked away. "I shouldn't. I should be with Osiris in case he—"
"Osiris has many people waiting by his side tonight. He isn't alone. You shouldn't be either," Devrim pressed as he let his hand slip away from Saint's shoulder. "Dinner. Please."
Saint stared down at the chips in his teacup, and fell deeper into the memory of that day. He would give anything to be able to live it over again. To have Osiris by his side, to have something as simple as the touch of a hand on his cheek. But that day isn't today.
"Okay," Saint whispered.
And it may not be tomorrow, either.