'I'm sorry Gakuto. I can't,' you whisper softly. Damp strands of his hair still cling to your cheek.

You release him from your arms slowly, as if the suspension of time would make parting hurt less.

'Yuushi…'

Your hand rests over his lips, breath panting hot against your palm. 'It's complicated.'

His head drops, hair blocking his face. It's fast, but not fast enough for you to miss the gathering tears.

You know what he wants to say. He wants to tell you it would be simple. That life is left foot in front of right. Shirt then pants. Hands clasped; lips pressed. Maybe for him it is that simple.

For Gakuto, who lives completely from his heart. For Gakuto, who wants to fly when he can only leap. For Gakuto, who will give him everything, for nothing. It could be simple.

You can't be like him. You measure the value of every move. Reward versus expenditure.

Sex complicates. So you leave him.

Leave him… head down, cross legged, and half undressed on his bed. You collect your shirt and pull it back on. 'I'll see you tomorrow,' you say.

You'll have tomorrow.

Or at least you thought they would.

You struggle to keep up. The paramedics moving him with steady efficiency. You want to remind them to be careful of spinal injury, but you can't even open your mouth to speak.

Someone takes the racquet from your hand, but you don't let them take his shoe. He'll need his shoe when he wakes up. He can't walk around with one shoe.

It's Sakaki. His hands are on your shoulders, he's rushing you along the side of the school, keeping pace with the medics. As he pushes you into the van he mentions calling Gakuto's parents. You're almost at the hospital when you remember that Gakuto's mum was in Sapporo for the week.

You wonder how you could've forgotten such an important detail.

They make you wait in a plastic chair. One hour three hours, you don't know, the clock seems to be stuck at 4.27… almost the same time you left him yesterday, thinking that you'd always have tomorrow.

You sit, shoe resting in your lap and wait. It's a size 37. You wonder that you've never noticed how small his feet were before.

It's dark when you're finally allowed to see him. He lies pallid and silent, his hair seems too bright, splashed against the white backdrop.

There are bruises now. No blood. You almost wish there had been, maybe then you wouldn't have hesitated when he fell, if there had been blood.

The dull smack of his head connecting with the ground is a sound you play over in your head. A sound to remind you that some tomorrows never come.

You take his hand gently. Lifting it from the bed, careful not to yank on the IV that is already purpling the skin.

On the next tomorrow you'll let things get as complicated as he wants.