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Edward arrived in Hegeville on a gray, unremarkable morning, three weeks into his tribunal-mandated supervision, and Allen watched from the guild headquarters’ window as his brother stepped out of an unassuming transport looking considerably smaller, considerably more uncertain, than the golden-armored figure who’d once strode across a stadium’s considerable stage with theatrical, practiced confidence.

"You’re really doing this," Allen said, meeting him at the entrance.

"The tribunal assigned it," Edward said, though something in his tone suggested he hadn’t fought the placement even when he could have argued for somewhere less pointed. "Considerable, ongoing labor, community-facing, under supervision. I asked for Hegeville specifically."

"You asked for it?"

"I wanted to actually see what you’d built," Edward admitted, glancing around at the town’s continued, visible transformation with something that looked, uncomfortably, like genuine humility. "Everyone talks about it like it’s some kind of miracle. I wanted to understand that for myself, instead of just resenting it from a distance the way I’ve resented everything else about your life."

Allen studied him carefully, still uncertain how fully to trust this particular, careful version of his brother, though the tribunal’s ongoing oversight and Edward’s own visible effort offered at least some reassurance against old, familiar suspicion.

"The schoolhouse crew could use extra hands," Allen said finally. "It’s not glamorous work. Considerable manual labor, long hours, nothing that photographs well for whatever reputation you might still be worried about salvaging."

"Good," Edward said, surprising him. "I don’t want glamorous. I want to actually earn something, for once, instead of just being handed it."

They walked together toward the construction site, an uneasy but not entirely unwelcome quiet settling between them, and Allen found himself, watching his brother take in Hegeville’s considerable, hard-won progress, cautiously hopeful about whatever this strange, halting reconciliation might eventually become.

Willis intercepted them partway there, recognizing Edward immediately from the tournament’s considerable broadcast coverage, and Allen tensed slightly, uncertain how the old man’s characteristic bluntness might land against Edward’s own fragile, uncertain composure.

"You’re the brother," Willis said, studying Edward with the same weathered, considering attention he’d once turned on Allen himself. "The one from the final."

"I am," Edward confirmed, not flinching from the observation. "I understand if you’d rather I work somewhere else."

Willis considered him a long moment, and Allen watched something shift behind the old man’s expression, weathered patience giving way to something more measured. "Everyone in this town’s made mistakes," Willis said finally. "Some considerable, some small. What matters is what you do afterward. You’re here doing the work instead of hiding from it. That’s more than plenty of people manage."

Edward’s expression carried genuine, startled gratitude at the assessment, and Allen felt something ease in his own chest, watching his brother receive, from a stranger, exactly the kind of measured, unearned grace their own family had rarely offered each other.

"Thank you," Edward said quietly.

"Don’t thank me," Willis said gruffly. "Just do the work properly. That’s all any of us ask around here."

Edward nodded, and Allen watched him fall into step alongside the schoolhouse crew with visible, deliberate effort, hauling materials and following instruction with none of his earlier theatrical arrogance, simply present, simply working, simply trying.

---

Allen checked on him periodically throughout the day, and found, by afternoon, that Edward had settled into an easy, if tentative, rhythm alongside the crew, exchanging quiet conversation with workers who had no particular reason to know or care about his considerable, complicated history.

"How’s it going?" Allen asked, finding him during a brief break.

"My hands hurt," Edward said, managing a rueful, genuine smile. "In a way that feels considerably more honest than anything I’ve done in years."

"Good kind of hurt?"

"I think so," Edward said slowly. "I keep thinking about Haruki. About what he chose to give, without hesitation, for people he’d never even met. I don’t know if I’ll ever properly deserve any kind of redemption after what my choices cost him. But I want to try, anyway. Even if it takes years."

"It probably will," Allen said honestly. "I’m not going to pretend otherwise."

"I know," Edward said. "I think I need it to take that long, actually. Anything faster would feel like cheating."

Allen studied his brother, recognizing something genuinely different settling into place behind his exhausted, considerable effort — not the desperate, resentful hunger for validation that had once defined him, but something quieter, more patient, more honestly earned.

"I’m glad you came," Allen said finally.

"Me too," Edward said, and returned to the crew’s steady, ongoing work as the afternoon wore on, one small, considerable step at a time toward whatever genuine redemption still waited, patiently, somewhere ahead.

---

That evening, Edward lingered after the crew had dispersed, standing alone near the schoolhouse’s rising frame as the last of the daylight faded toward dusk, and Allen found him there, some quiet, private grief still visible beneath his exhausted, satisfied posture.

"You alright?" Allen asked, joining him.

"I keep thinking about how easy it would have been to never have this conversation," Edward admitted. "If Haruki had died in the crossfire instead of choosing to shield the crowd. If the device had killed you instead. There were a dozen ways today could have looked considerably different, and none of them would have given either of us the chance to stand here talking like actual brothers."

"I think about that too," Allen admitted quietly.

"I don’t want to waste it," Edward said, something fierce and determined settling into his tired voice. "Whatever chance this is. I don’t know how to properly thank you for giving it to me, honestly, given everything I’ve cost you."

"You don’t need to thank me," Allen said. "Just keep showing up. That’s enough, for now."

Edward nodded, and they stood together a while longer in the gathering dusk, watching the schoolhouse’s rising frame catch the last of the day’s fading light, two brothers who had spent an entire lifetime measuring themselves against each other finally, tentatively learning what it might mean to simply stand side by side instead.

Willis found them there as the last light faded fully into evening, his own weathered cane tapping steadily against the packed earth as he approached. "Good work today, both of you," he said gruffly, though something almost warm colored the observation.

"Thank you," Edward said, genuine surprise evident in his voice at the direct praise.

"Don’t get used to compliments," Willis said, though his own faint smile suggested he didn’t entirely mean the gruffness. "Just keep showing up. This town remembers who actually does that."

He continued on his way, and Allen exchanged a quiet, amused glance with his brother, both of them watching the old man’s retreating figure with genuine, considerable fondness.

"I think he likes you," Allen said.

"I think that might be the nicest thing anyone in this town’s said to me," Edward admitted, something fiercely grateful in his tired smile, and together the brothers finally turned back toward their own quarters, one more considerable day’s honest work settled behind them.

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