AN: Originally written for the T&B kink meme.

If there is one thing Barnaby Brooks Jr. has learned in his 25 years of existence, it is that trust is a fickle thing. Years could be spent building it; five seconds is all that's needed to destroy it. And, once broken, it is possible to never be regained. It can be fixed, yes, but the majority of those rare cases can only be considered patch-jobs at best, fragile and full of holes, ready to collapse at the slightest resistance.

He stands in the kitchen, overhead light dim and casting expansive shadows throughout the room. The stove is on, the pan is hissing, his shoulders are hunched and his arms are moving in a jerking motion, back-forward, back-forward, back-forward. Back.

You don't trust me, do you?

He removes the pan from the heat, flicking the stove off with his free hand. For a while he just stares, motionless, at the contents before him, tilting his head as though in inquiry. Then, seemingly making up his mind, he turns on his heel and throws the pan at the opposite wall with all his might. It recoils off the wall and lands on the tiled floor with a resounding clatter. The rice spills everywhere, leaving a spectacular mess that he only barely registers.

That's despicable. I trusted you.

Barnaby slides to the floor as well, folding around himself, and an uncontrollable laughter bubbles and bursts from his chest, filling his empty apartment with its sick, hysterical echoes.

Don't bother with me anymore. You can quit whenever you feel like it.

He becomes increasingly aware that his laughter has turned into sobbing, that the abrupt, heaving, body-convulsing cries and hot tears running down his face belong to him. He lifts his palms to scrub at his cheeks and then lowers them again, deeming it a useless endeavour; what is the point when he knows he won't be able to stop?

I'll carry on by myself.

"I'm sorry," he says to no one but the ceiling fan. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"What's there to be sorry for?" Someone answers.

He doesn't look. He can't look. He continues staring at the ceiling fan as it turns in slow rotations, as tears continue to leak out of the corners of his eyes and make their slow progress down his already-wet cheeks. Swallows. Closes his eyes, then opens them.

"Bunny?"

Only then does Barnaby look. Kotetsu is kneeling before him, a gentle smile in place that reflects in his amber eyes. An urge, almost overwhelming in its strength, takes over Barnaby; he wants to lunge forward, to take the older man in his arms, bury his head in his chest and cry, wants to tell him how sorry he is, wants to repeat those words until he no longer feels this crushing guilt and engulfing sense of loss, these feelings that squeeze at his insides like a thousand burning hands, pulling and twisting until he can no longer breathe.

Instead, he stays frozen, staring through blurred vision at the spectre before him, this translucent, luminous figure of a dead man.

"What - " he starts to say, but the words die in his throat as Kotetsu leans forward and wraps his arms around him, tight and warm. Then, "I'm sorry," he repeats in a strangled whisper.

Things will be much easier for me once you're gone.

Kotetsu makes shushing noises and draws him even closer. "There's nothing to apologize for," he says, and Barnaby can hear the faint chuckle in his voice. "I told you to shoot."

"But I - " Barnaby protests, then has to stop himself. Inhales, deeply. Lets out a shuddering exhale, and continues, "I pulled the trigger. I - "

"I told you to do it," Kotetsu repeats, "there's nothing to forgive." Then he pulls back, standing to observe the kitchen.

Barnaby closes his eyes again, and when he opens them Kotetsu has moved to the other side of the room. "Why are you here?" he asks, not moving from his position on the floor.

"Honestly? I came to try your fried rice," Kotetsu answers, grinning widely and squatting down next to the mess on the floor. "Wow, Bunny, this looks great!" He scrapes the inside of the pan with his index finger and brings the scoop of rice to his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he turns again to Barnaby. "You must have been really practicing," he says once he's swallowed, smiling broadly. "This is almost as good as - "

"Don't," Barnaby says, quietly, almost too quiet to hear over the whir of the ceiling fan. Kotetsu stops in his tracks and the smile falls from his face.

"Bunny - " he tries to say, but Barnaby's scream cuts him off.

"No! Stop!" he cries, bringing his hands up to clench at his head. "Enough," he pleads, tears once again spilling from his eyes. "Just stop."

When he finally brings his gaze away from the floor, Kotetsu is once again in front of him. "Bunny," he tries to say again.

"Please, just leave," Barnaby says, fighting against the rising panic in his chest. "I'm not-I can't-you aren't-"

"Real?" Kotetsu finishes for him, sighing. Then, after a pause, "Bunny, you still care for me?"

"Yes," Barnaby answers, almost immediately. "Always."

Kotetsu smiles again, but there is nothing happy about the pensive upturn of his lips. He tangles his hand in Barnaby's hair, just letting it rest there. "Thank you," he says, "I'm glad."

Barnaby closes his eyes and leans into the weight of Kotetsu's palm. When he opens them again, he is alone in his apartment.

Things have never been harder.