Watching him move, Kira studies the slope of his back: the hunch of his shoulders that holds his arms half-cocked at the elbow, like the legs of a crow unbending as it looks for a branch to hold against the winds. All of him is spindled, brittle, and there is a moment where Kira blinks away the fear that the mugs will crumble in his hands.

But they are never where Bodhi's mind wanders, vivid as his own world seems to be, and there are just the sounds of earthenware on counters, dry herbs separating for human hands.

Sitting back in his seat, Kira finds occupation for his own hands: fetching and shuffling the deck in his pocket, the art-deco cats winking from their illustrations. Bodhi isn't a thing to be fixed, just given patience and understanding. As he lets him sleep and wander, as he asks very little for the upkeep of the house, Kira lets him focus on the tea, letting the smell of the broken bricks spice the room. It isn't incense, and these aren't tarot cards, but it's close enough to feel like a morning before opening the shop. "Are you a religious man," he asks, just to keep them tethered to each other in conversation.