It was wrong. It was always wrong, and he had known that. But then again, when had there ever been something right with his miserable existence? Every day, every painful sunrise was a reminder that, yet again, he had failed- at his job, at life. He hadn't even been good enough to kill himself.

He wasn't ever alone, and that was how it began. At night he would lock the doors and drape the windows and at least he wouldn't be being stalked anymore, but even then there was the touch of his hands, the sound of heavy breathing and slight laughter. And, later, after he'd gone to bed but more often when he was still only trying to, the sound of pages turning by moonlight; the boy loved his books.

It was wrong, but it was a distraction, for both of them, and so it persisted.

/

Now Nozomu walks down the street alone, no stalker girl following him, no class of insane girls stumbling into his path like the world's cruelest Deus ex Machina. He has new students now, but they are all dull, uninteresting. Good. The way he likes it.

"I'm in despair!" he cries, and they look at him with genuine concern and a hint of fear, unwilling or unable to play along. He can enlist no one to die with him, and he misses it. Now he's afraid they'll call the principle on him and he'll be fired- or, worse, committed. It's happened once before, with a severe warning, and he secretly fears it. Without his classroom, he has no purpose.

But it's less enjoyable- if anything can ever truly be called enjoyable -without a dutiful class to play along.

/

Once he asked him, "Don't your parents ever notice that you're missing?" And the boy just looked at him and smiled, empty and lopsided, before picking up his book again idly. Written on those pages was some tale or another, he knew, fanciful and impossible, far more interesting to his student than he could ever dream of being.

"Maybe."

And he knew that was the best answer he was likely to ever get.

/

It's a weekend- Nozomu has nothing to do and no place to go, a washed-up man who is caught between stages of life; too old to go out and get drunk and attempt to have fun, and not old enough to drown his sorrows at some rusty-spoon establishment in the bad neighborhoods. But he still needs to eat, and he'd gone to the store for ingredients in a move that was liable to be the high point of his week.

It's halfway home that finally, something interesting happens to him, and it's not entirely appreciated. Boredom is safe, after all, and he can respect that. It's one of the few things that doesn't leave him in despair. But no, the universe sees fit to play yet another cruel joke on him, and he gets off at the entirely wrong train station after having initially boarded what turned out to be the entirely wrong train. Sighing, he locates himself on a map and decides that he's had enough of technology for one day. Walking will have to do.

It's late summer and the day is hot, the air laying in a still, thick blanket over the city; there are fewer people out and about than usual, and those that are, save for himself, have had the sense to carry umbrellas for the sun. He's glad none of his groceries are meltable; as it is, the vegetables will probably have wilted by the time he arrives. It would leave him in greater despair if he weren't so tired, and if there was someone here to listen to him.

At the top of a hill, he pauses for a rest and lets his gaze linger on a rather incongruous sight- sandwiched between an old, ill-cared-for shrine and a conglomerate skyscraper is a small bookshop, only two stories, with a sign above it reading 'Kudou Jun Books'. And this, he thinks, is the greatest ethereal sucker punch of all.

/

One night, he awoke from fitful sleep to find the room bathed in the gentle, low light of an oil lamp, and the boy sitting with his back to him. He'd never seen him out of his school clothes- or in any different clothes, at least -and he almost didn't recognize him, but the messy hair and presence of a book were enough identification for his purposes.

"...Ah, Kudou-kun, how did you get in?" he asked, somewhat shocked and blinking sleep from his eyes; he almost expected these things from his students now, but not usually from him. He was... quiet. And uninterested in much of anything besides books and, occasionally, mystifyingly enough, Nozomu.

There was a slight pause, and when the boy turned a page Nozomu realized that he'd been trying to get to the end of a chapter before answering. Then, "Matoi-chan let me in. She has a spare key."

"...Since when?"

"I think she made copies when you were sleeping, once. Why does it matter? She follows you everywhere, anyway." It always amazed Nozomu how absolutely bored with everything he seemed, outside of school. In public, he was chipper and cheerful to the other students, if somewhat removed from the situation, but many nights he was listless. Uninspired. He'd worked up the nerve to ask about it, once, and he'd brightened up immediately, clearly an act. "Maybe it's just you," he'd said, teasingly, and gone back to his book. So irritating.

But it didn't matter, Nozomu knew. He would have let the boy in himself if he'd knocked, or called. He would have no choice.

He wouldn't ask why he was there at all. Long ago, he learned that it was a fruitless task.

/

The debate rages internally for a minute, what feels like an hour. Should he go in? Say hello? Buy a book to keep himself entertained tonight, perhaps? Maybe he's wrong, anyway. Maybe someone mis-wrote 'Jun Kudou Books' on their sign order form and hadn't bothered to get the correct word order of the chain's name fixed. In the end, though, it doesn't matter. He can't stop himself from self-destructing.

When he pushes the door open, a tiny bell rings- that's familiar, but the expected call of 'Irrashaimasse' never comes. It's dark, he notices, and the air here is stale, musty, like moldering books. It has the air of someplace cast aside and forgotten, and he knows before the clerk even comes out that this is, indeed, what he thinks it is.

The backroom door opens, presently, and a younger man steps out, still with the tall, thin, lanky look of youth. The suit doesn't sit well on him, like it's a hand-me-down or was bought from a second-hand shop after not having been well tailored by its original owner. But there's a book stuffed under his arm and the hair is the same, carelessly flopped any which-way, and Nozomu almost smiles- almost -in recognition.

His revelation is clearly lost on Kudou, though, and the boy appears to be kicking himself for something. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're closed. I would be happy to allow you to shop here tomorrow, but business hours are over, I'm afraid." Nozomu can sympathize with how he sounds- despairing, almost. Business must not have been too good, recently, and to have to turn a customer away would not sit well with him, he knows.

For a moment he stops and considers, thinking that he really should just leave; he can come back tomorrow, or eventually, and buy a book and get caught up and have a marginally better time than he usually does. At the same time, though, he knows he can't; this is a moment, and he'd be foolish to let it pass by. He'll never feel this exact way again, and in the future there will be excuses for not coming, or not revealing himself, and now is the time. Now is the only time.

He clears his throat slightly. "Ah, of course you wouldn't have time for your old teacher. Young people these days are always so busy, rushing around, not tending properly to their businesses. It's enough to leave me in despair-"

And here Kudou breaks in, eyes wide in disbelief- the one time Nozomu ever manages to get a rise out of him, and it's like this. Naturally. "...Sensei?"

/

The boy wouldn't ever tell him when his birthday was, but as his teacher Nozomu knew, and as lecherous and horrible as it made him feel, he left him a present- sitting on his desk the morning of, inconspicuously, as though he'd forgotten it there the day before. He looked at it, uncomprehending, then shot Nozomu a somewhat withering look- Nozomu went through his lesson normally, that day, trying not to feel depressed and stupid.

Later, though, when he looked over his shoulder, he saw that the boy was reading the book. It didn't mean it wasn't wrong, but he still felt better, after that.

There would be no more gifts, until the last time Nozomu ever saw him.

/

They stare at each other for a moment, and Kudou moves into action- the teller's desk is low, with two chairs behind it, and he drags one around to the other side, motioning for Nozomu to take it. "Here, sit. You can, ah, put your bag down, as well."

"Thank you." Nozomu sits down as directed, rather stiffly, and they sit across from each other, staring, for a long and silent moment. "I brought sake," he says after a bit, feeling uncomfortable. Kudou's eyes are piercing, and he's looking at him like he's trying to read his mind, see his soul. People are the one thing he's never been able to read, Nozomu knows now, for all his previous fears- but he doesn't doubt that Kudou doesn't like to try.

Kudou raises an eyebrow at that. "Did you plan this?" They'd had a good run of avoiding each other, by hook or by crook, before this, so why stop now?

"No. Coincidence." He watches Kudou watching him for a long moment, the boy evaluating, thinking, calculating- or maybe just listening to the story in his head. He nods.

"Alright, then. I could use a drink." Kudou smiles then, slightly, more genuine than when they were alone in the old days but also more tired, more defeated. Nozomu isn't sure that this is an improvement, but he shakes it off and rummages in his bag for the small bottle of cheap sake he'd allowed himself to buy as a rare treat.

Meanwhile, he finds that Kudou has procured a set of shot glasses from nowhere- it's a kind of inexplicable magic that Nozomu can get behind, at the moment, so he doesn't ask questions and just pours the drink, setting the bottle to the side, uncorked. He has the feeling that they'll need the whole bottle.

They drink. There is silence, punctuated by the guttural rumble of cars passing by outside. Evening falls, and it feels like they're already drunk, sitting in the dark with nothing to say. He wonders why he came, but consoles himself with the thought that he didn't do it intentionally; it just happened. Damn universe.

Outside, thunder rumbles. Kudou blinks, roused from some trance, and leans forward, looking seriously. "I never blamed you," he says and sits back again, apparently satisfied.

But Nozomu isn't, and he breaks down, allowing his forehead to slam against the desk. "I did," he says.

/

It was wrong, and so it had to end sometime, and it ended exactly like he'd thought it would, but not how it should have. It should have ended with Nozomu saying no, refusing his desires at the very beginning, before it could have even had a chance to start. But Kudou had always been the one he liked, the only boy in the class he could be persuaded to acknowledge, at first, and he'd buckled like wet straw from the first. He was weak, and Kudou knew it- everyone knew it -and neither of them cared. Not really. Not at first.

He could never tell if Kudou cared later, as things went on, as their meetings became more frequent and more meaningless; he was just like that. He didn't want to talk about things that were real.

And then the boy graduated. Nozomu said good bye and shook his hand and allowed himself to admit that possibly his dreams wouldn't all be crushed, and that was the last of it. Matoi testified that after that day, Kudou Jun never visited Itoshiki Nozomu's house ever again, under the cover of darkness or otherwise.

Nozomu had anticipated going to sleep with a less guilty conscience, but life, of course, is terrible.

/

Nozomu doesn't start when Kudou rests his hand on his shoulder, doesn't move, doesn't react in any way. Why did he come? The answer is beyond him, lying out of reach. Is it loneliness that makes him want to stay here, with his old student, who he abused? He has no right to seek comfort here. This is not where he belongs, and it never was. Kudou is something that he cannot, and should not, be able to reach. "It was my fault," Kudou is saying softly, though, and Nozomu hears him pouring another glass of sake. "After that day, I wanted to read your heart. It intrigued me. I never could." Nozomu looks up just enough to see him shaking his head slightly, laughing quietly to himself. "Nobody could ever figure you out, sensei. Congratulations."

Allowing himself to sit up, Nozomu lets Kudou press the glass back into his hand, and drinks the warm, bitter liquid. Even for being cheap, it's strong, and it warms him, giving him a sense of false courage that doesn't really reach all the way into his bones. "Ah, there wasn't so much to know. Despair is simple to figure out, when you realize that the world is out to kill you."

Kudou grins, nods. "I know that now. I should have listened to you before. But that's how teenagers are. I was too concerned with getting into your pants." He pokes him on the shoulder, laughing again. "Hey, come on, smile. What's the good of getting drunk if you can't enjoy it?"

Nozomu looks at him dumbly. When has he ever enjoyed anything?

"...Ah, right. Almost forgot." Another pause, this one somehow less and more uncomfortable, all at once. "You know, I always sort of wished I'd run into you again someday, like Fuura-chan always seemed to. Just to see how things were like, for you."

It's news to Nozomu that Kudou even thinks of him anymore, and he's not sure whether to be flattered or guilty. He'd never wanted to leave that much of a lasting impression on him, at least not like that. "Things are the same. ...But, of course, all of you are gone now. My new students do not take kindly to my despair."

"Nah, I guess they wouldn't." Kudou is frowning, now, staring down into his glass. He looks pensive, as if taking a trip down memory lane into the bad part of town. "We were all kind of special."

"...I can honestly say that there's no one quite like Fuura-san."

"If there were two of them, I think we'd all be dead by now." Nozomu almost laughs, then doesn't. He's always been too serious for that. This is not a laughing matter.

But then again, neither is what Kudou asks next. "I guess you didn't ever get around to offing yourself, then, hey?" This said as he pages absently through a book left open on the desk- with a jolt, Nozomu recognizes it. Frankly, it shocks him that his sentimental attempt at making things better in their joke of a relationship had meant anything at all to Kudou, and it gives him pause.

Stil, it's a fair question, and not entirely unexpected. "Would you have liked me to?" He won't blame him, if so. He would deserve it.

Kudou looks at him like he's gone insane, then shakes his head. "Nah. We all kind of hoped you were always kidding about that stuff, really." In the natural lull, they listen to the heavy pattern of rain pounding away at the building. Peaceful, almost. Nozomu fills his glass, takes another drink, and Kudou stares off at something above his shoulder, seeming disconnected. "You know," he starts, breaking off into his storytelling voice, "there once was a man who thought he had everything- a large house, a beautiful wife, enough money that he could pile it to the ceiling and have enough left over to fill a swimming pool. He'd worked hard, and finally achieved the life he'd always dreamed of.

"Every day, he woke up feeling more and more unsatisfied. 'I have everything I wanted,' he would say to his beautiful wife, 'but it doesn't make a difference. There is nothing left for me to do.' So the man fell into despair. He made life hell for his wife and children. He nagged his employees and crushed their dreams and hopes, until they ran their own lives into the ground, as well. One day, he could no longer take it; he kissed his wife good bye and hung himself right there in their bedroom, unable to face another morning of sadness.

"But in the end, do you know what? It didn't matter. It didn't make him happy. Some people are never satisfied." He stares straight at Nozomu again, now, and the look scares him, almost- so serious. So uncompromising. "...So why didn't you? Nothing was ever stopping you."

In his weakened state, Nozomu can't say anything but the truth- "I think I was afraid." Then, after a pause, he smiles slightly at the farcical nature of it all. "And no one was ever willing to die with me." No one, at the end of things, had ever loved him. And he'd long ago realized that truly, deep within his soul, he didn't want to die alone. To die together would be perfect- to go alone would be sad. A reminder that his life had not contained one perfect thing. A final failure.

Kudou stops, thinks, considers. When he smiles, there's that familiar sense of him being somewhere else, lost in his own little world where things are better, and he's not stuck with Nozomu Itoshiki for a companion. Then he flips the book closed in as careless a manner as Nozomu has ever observed of him, stands up, and downs the last of the sake. "I'll die with you, sensei."

Ironically, that idea, for the first time in his life, makes death seem truly unappealing. Death is new and exciting, but he's never been able to handle new experiences. He sighs.

Despair is really all he knows.