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Taiki watches his master and Shoryu in the water garden pavilion, standing straight and still as statues facing across the lake. How different they look, he thinks, glancing over at Enki, who is sprawled snoring on the moss, the wreckage of a springtime feast on the tray at his feet. Taiki's own state isn't much better, his shoes kicked off and his robes wrinkled from sitting on the ground. Their emperors must be discussing some grave and important matter, he imagines, to be so attentive and quiet. Only the birds' conversation is audible.
But Gyousou proves Taiki wrong as he suddenly tips his head back and laughs, a wonderful, warm, and ringing sound which Taiki loves even more than the sight of his smile. Shoryu's grin is as lazy as his kirin, and Taiki is glad that he himself, at least, is awake to enjoy such a rare moment.