It's all in the way you look at things, they say.
Miharu isn't one to look at things from every angle; he sees it how he sees it, and if it's relevant, well done.
Yoite is relevant, Yoite is strange and frightening and comforting. Miharu does look at him from every angle. He'll tilt his head when they're talking, when they're eating, when they're sitting together. He's looked down at Yoite, he's looked up at him, he's cradled his face and watched him bleed, and every which way, whether Yoite's skin is clear or caked with blood, whether his eyes are crying or smiling, Miharu can see that Yoite is important, that he's-
Worth everything. Blood and betrayal.
Seeing Yoite laugh is an entirely new angle in itself, and Miharu thinks that his face is like the moon and the stars, crescent mouth and shining eyes. Miharu likes it when Yoite's eyes shine. He doesn't want them to look dull, doesn't want Yoite to fall asleep, because he knows that one day, Yoite might not wake up.
(They made a promise. That can't happen. Yoite doesn't want to die, he doesn't want to die at all, and Miharu looks at his hands and wonders how to wish.)
Yoite's hands are ugly, sickly, thin and bruised purple, but Miharu wants to hold them - in his own, to his face. Yoite's scar, the one on his neck, is frightening, and the thought of how badly it must have hurt makes Miharu wince, but he wants to put his lips there, and he wants to make Yoite laugh with butterfly kisses. Yoite's life is like a pebble at the shore, where it gets worn away and ground to dust, till no one can remember it, but Miharu wants to let the resulting sand run through his fingers, build a castle out of it to keep safe, lay out across it to let the heat it's taken from the sun keep him warm.
It's all in the way you look at things. Miharu tilts his head, and he watches Yoite, and he smiles. His hands are in his lap and his heart is at the seaside with Yoite's life.