So I never really understood where Taishirou was coming from in spite of it's popularity and then I rewatched Bokura no War Game and was struck with this haha. Title is from a completely unrelated poem by Francisco de Quevedo. Not mine blah blah etc etc.
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They collapse on they floor, next to each other, after they return inside. They're breathing heavy like they had forgotten how in light of more important matters, forgot about everything else but clinging to their own insignificant lives and they forgot that failing to beat Diaboromon wasn't the only way to lose them. They're gasping and they're too exhausted to even sleep which is about the only thing either of them is capable of.
They lose track of time now that it's no longer important. It's spreading out to infinity from the space between one and two and finally Taichi closes the infinity between them, clasping Koushirou on the shoulder and gazing toward him languidly, searching for a look in return.
Koushirou's eyes are dark but not cold and dissipating lines of concern still crinkle the edges. They're glassy on the surface like a pool reflecting bright lights, shielding an immense sea of knowledge and emotion. Not unlike the sea he's just returned from. Taichi thinks he wouldn't mind getting lost in them instead at this very moment. So he does.
Koushirou is a bit unsettled but he tell tells himself it's just fleeting nausea. Either way he's too drowsy to care even as Taichi's voice pricks his ears.
"Thanks, Koushirou."
The younger chosen has to wade though context, thick like a swamp, to an outlet of understanding. "You and Yamato did most of the work, Taichi."
"No way." Taichi is suddenly insistent, brightly animated. He would sit up if that didn't go against the will of every nerve in his body. "We'd have died so many times already if it weren't for you."
Koushirou turns these words over and over like the pages of a book, analyzing them, trying to find some fault with their truths. When he doesn't respond Taichi continues, softly and with a passionate reverence.
"We owe you our lives, Koushirou."
"I don't want that kind of responsibility..."
There's pause. The commotion of disaster and surprise is still drifting up from the odaiba streets and it's dissolving like ocean spray and the scent of burnt cake on the late afternoon breeze.
"Then we'll share it."
The corner of Taichi's mouth twitches into a faint smile and not the broad faced grin Koushirou assumes when he's going to share a new discovery with the world, though the same knowledge is hidden in both expressions. Taichi looks calculating and vaguely mysterious. Koushirou decides he likes this expression, has always liked it even when it became quite familiar last summer.
His heart, comatose after the adreneline overload of the afternoon, starts to pulse like a system clock in anticipation of some secret, information to process and satiate him. He imagines Taichi can hear it, thinks that he feels the same and when Taichi's hand moves from his shoulder to cover his hand, lacing their fingers together and gripping back is just the natural response.