[His lips thin into an irritated line, far more dangerous than his usual moue; as much as he might know that Fugo doesn't mean anything by it, he feels incredibly on edge, as prickly as if there were static running down his spine.]

[But there's no need to address it, not now. Because he feels Zelda approaching before he sees her, stills in his pacing, and when she comes into view — he can still brighten, as it turns out, both internally and externally. His smile is faint but far more relaxed than any expression he's shown so far this evening, his emotions sunbursting with relief, tiny little sparklers of joy at her presence.]

[Okay. This is all going fine so far. Okay.]

It would be a statement piece. For the park. . . . You didn't. We were early.

[Because of the anxiety. And there it is again, a light prickle instead of the arcing static of before, but still: how does he do this? How does he do this without looking like he's never done this before?]

[After a moment, he drifts back to Fugo's side, rests a hand on his shoulder, and . . . fumbles.]

Well, I — I've told both of you about the other, so — Fugo, this is Zelda. My Bonded. And this is Fugo, my [what word did he use? oh yeah] friend. [Nailed it.]