[ though he knows the concept of holidays well enough, he doesn't interrupt her to to say so, listening to her with a respective silence that acknowledges there's a line between the sentiment and the answer to his question and gives her the room to get there at a thoughtful pace. asshole that he often is, he's at least never been a terrible listener.

he lets her sit with her memory, gaze lingering on her even as her fingers play distractedly with the cigar, letting it carry in a lasting silence.

and then he speaks again, ]

My father didn't like holidays. Least he never encouraged it. But ... there was an old man down at the market, used to sell these fireworks — long out of style, some remnants from Earth long brought over. No one cared to buy them, too much work to set them off, so they ran cheap. I'd try to make a few credits to get a few, take them down to the beach to ring in the new year — my sister liked the sparks.

[ his eyes stare off to a corner of the floor, tilting the glass in his hand in slow circles as he recalls rei's beaming smile. ]

And I liked the smell. Crisp, burnt smoke, mingled with the salt of the water in the air. The way the spark would go off, give off that colored light, only for a second, but the smoke just lingered there, like gunpowder in rain. Noting like the standard synthetic lighting that was common use. This was raw and aged and real.

[ he's not sure he'd call it simpler times, but there's an understanding in the craving of that smell, in rei's smile by the beach before they returned to listen to their mother's cries and the blunt force of their father's fists.

he raises the glass to his lips, taking a sip as he steps back out of the memory and returns his eyes to marta. ]

It's all temporary. This place. You'll get back to those cigars.