Kamui accidentally bumps into Fuuma in the middle of Tokyo, and they stand still as pedestrians move past them, busy and bustling during the rush hour. Fuuma's eyes widen – delight? – and he bows mockingly, holding out an arm as if welcoming Kamui into a stately home, or as if he were a butler, serving some master.
Kamui doesn't voice his opinions out loud. He has other things to attend to, and he thinks about all the things he wants to say and all the things that he shouldn't.
"Move."
"That's not very friendly," Fuuma pouts, and he smiles. "Why, do you have something better to do?"
Oh, he so desperately wants to tell him.
"In fact, I do." Kamui admits, "I thought you should know that I won't be able to attend many more of our sparring matches. You know, the ones with the blood and glass and stuff."
"And why not?" Fuuma's tone was rather dangerous.
"Subaru and I are seeing each other."
…
Kamui sits in the hospital bed, hands clenched around the white fabric as a tube that pierces his skin trails along the bed railing, feeding moisture into his blood. He feels like paper that has been scraped along a brick wall, and his eyes feel dry and puffy at the same time; closing and opening them hurts.
Subaru sits next to him, expression unreadable.
"You know," Kamui says, but it begins with a croak, and so he pauses to clear his throat. "I don't think that went too badly."
end