A/N: Enjoy. Concrit appreciated.
Shi-Shishido is...
He dropped the cellphone; the small clatter as the object hit the floor echoed throughout the clubroom.
Then he ran.
And as he ran, he tore at himself, rage and grief and fear. Why? Why did you have to be the last one?
He slid the door open, his throat already blocked.
The other regulars were already there, eyes dull. None met his eyes; Hiyoshi closed his.
Inside him the turmoil never failed to prod at his heart, like a particularly persistent stomachache. He turned to the right, and there he lay, peaceful, sleeping even.
Next to the bed the machine beeped feebly.
He spent the rest of the days visiting the hospital, hand firmly in the patient's hand from morning, only letting go at night. He was afraid to come, afraid to leave and he was afraid of those precious few seconds he might not spend holding him. He skipped practice and school to stare at that face, life in which slowly slipped away as the machine's beeps came in between longer intervals of time.
Tears always welled up in his eyes before he left, but he did not let them overflow. In his mind was still that faint, faint hope that one day his senior would wake up, flash him another smile and live to see another thousand, ten thousand, mornings. He'd never let him see his tears - they represented uncertainty.
Being certain wasn't enough.
The next morning Ootori walked into the room, hand ready to slip into the paler, bonier hand of Shishido's.
He wasn't there.