WARNING: mention of character death, mention of severe injury.

It's hard, seeing the person you love the most suffer.

He denies it, but I can see it in his eyes. In the way he moves, in the way he speaks, in the way he lives. It's to be expected, of course - though that doesn't mean it's any less painful. It would be easier if I could only do something to help him, but nothing can dull the blow of a loss like that.

Nothing can bring back what has been lost.

"He raised me, you know."

"Hmm?" I look up, having been staring into my unsatisfactory tea with distaste.

"My brother. Our parents, they were never really around. Always working. He was about three when I was born - young, but old enough to take on the responsibility of bringing me up, it seemed."

"I take it you were extremely close, then?"

"Close? More like inseparable."

I never met him, myself.

It was after the whole affair that I met Emil, in that awful period of time where the shock has worn off and everything is really beginning to settle in. Rumour has it that his lover returned to his flat sometime during this period and spent hours staring into the corner, grief pouring silently into the unmade bed.

I found Emil in a similar situation.

He had been sitting at a table in my cousin's coffee shop, looking blankly at a sketchbook as tears rolled down his face. My cousin had told me to see if he was okay - a pointless task, in my opinion, for no one in a state of 'okay' would be crying silently over a tatty old sketchbook - and, of course, I had obliged.

His reply had been stammered and almost incomprehensible, but the message I received was clear: Leave me alone. I need time to myself.

"I don't want to sound insensitive, but... What happened, exactly?"

"He was coming home from work. Taking the Metro. The platform was crowded, someone pushed someone, they lost their balance and fell into him..."

"He was pushed off the platform?"

"Correct," he says quietly.

He returned.

Every day, he was there. Sitting in the corner, delicately turning the pages of the thick sketchbook. Sipping a black coffee with a completely blank expression. His tears fell into the thick grey scarf wrapped around his neck.

I didn't dare ask why he was wearing a scarf in late July.

I found out in the end, though. It took me a while to find out even the most basic of details about this stranger who continued to haunt the coffee shop, but I found out after a little determination.

He looked so alone, just sitting by himself, with that sketchbook that he treated like one might treat a discarded sketch by Michelangelo. It was as if something was missing from the picture; as if something wasn't quite right.

As if half the picture had been torn away.

"What's your name?"

"E-Emil. P-please-"

"What's up, Emil?"

"I-it's none of your business! Please, go back to whatever you were doing. I-I don't want to have to make a c-complaint."

"I'm just concerned, Emil. Is the coffee really so bad that you're reduced to silent tears?"

Naturally, I persevered.

I'm not a particularly cheerful person, exactly - I'm not really an anything kind of person, if that makes any sense - yet seeing the pain of others and knowing I can't help has always been difficult for me. Helping others is something I've always enjoyed doing. I'm not particularly good at it; I don't have any qualifications or anything of the sort. However, I would consider myself a good listener.

When I saw Emil hunched over a coffee and a tatty old sketchbook, I was sure I could help him - help him out of his situation, whatever that may be, which is why I sank into the seat opposite as soon as my shift ended and began to try to make civilised conversation.

Of course, he was reluctant at first.

"N-no, it's not the coffee."

"What is it, then?"

No reply.

"Emil?"

Still no reply.

"Please, I can help you."

"How? How can you help me? The only thing that could possibly help me is having my b-brother here. And that's n-not going to happen, is it? So how could you, a complete stranger, help me?" Emil's eyes shine with tears of both sadness and anger as he glares at me.

"And why is that, Emil?" I'm pushing it, yet something forces me to continue.

"B-because-" he looks away, his voice small and filled with his emotion. "Because he's d-dead."

Once he'd told me in a shaking voice the reason why exactly he was drinking black coffee and tears in the corner of a somewhat run-down coffee shop, it became easier. It was like he'd removed a barrier, like he'd given me a little of his trust.

Watching him closely as I told him to tell me more, to let out his emotion - for bottling it up is no use to anyone - I noticed that that small shard of trust grew little by little as he told me more, his posture relaxing and his speech growing less formal.

I also noticed that his hair was a rather unusual colour. His eyes, also - they were a strange shade of violet, while his hair was a silvery blonde that could almost be called white. I don't usually notice people's appearances - looks always seemed rather inferior in comparison to a person's personality and behaviour to me - but I think that Emil would probably stand out anywhere.

Perhaps this was why he sought refuge in an almost-empty coffee shop on a deserted backstreet, for attention would be drawn easily to a face like that when it was crumpled in a non-physical way.

In any case, as the days passed, he opened up to me more and more. It was surprisingly simple - I got the feeling he hadn't shown his emotions to anyone for a long time, and was just allowing it to spill out. With each day that he arrived at the coffee shop and I met him as I finished work, I got to know him and understand him better.

"I keep thinking... Do I have any right to be enjoying this? To be taking pleasure in the flavour and heat of this cup of coffee... To be enjoying the feeling of this scarf around my neck... To be savouring the cool breeze on my face? He can't, so why should I?"

I stare at him. "Emil... Emil, of course you have the right! Do you really think he'd want you to be thinking this? Don't you think he'd want you to be enjoying what he can't in his place? From what you've told me, it sounds like your brother cared about you a lot. He wouldn't want you to think that you can't do anything just because he can't."

"But... I don't feel like I can. All my happy memories have been with my brother - everything from eating overly-sweet ice cream on a hot and sticky beach on holiday to his overly frantic and chaotic wedding day. How can I enjoy myself when all that is gone?"

"But it's not gone! Those memories are still there, aren't they? It's not gone, and in a sense, neither is he. To use a clichéd yet true statement, he's not truly gone until he doesn't exist in anyone's memory anymore, which clearly isn't going to happen as long as you're around. And besides, you can create new memories to add to those."

He looks at me, his eyes sparkling with grief. "But it's not right, Leon. He's not here."

In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best idea, falling in love with someone like Emil. On the other hand, maybe it's part of what attracts me to him - the way he tried his best to keep a calm demeanour despite his pain, the way he didn't just give up, the way he carried on. His strength is something I admire, yet his situation is something that even the strongest of people would find hard.

It's unfair on him, and I want to help him. I think I am helping him. He tells me I am, but I don't know if it's enough.

It's not a deliberate or conscious action, falling for him.

It just sort of happens. I've never been one for romance - I never really believed in it, if I'm honest, and certainly never thought I'd find it for myself - but somewhere among the sparkling tears and spilt coffee, I find myself falling for the man behind those dull violet eyes. As he shows me more and more of himself - and as I show him more and more of myself - I become more and more infatuated with him.

At first, it's something I can keep to myself.

It doesn't remain that way for long.

"Aren't you hot in the scarf?" I ask him casually, raising an eyebrow.

"Y-yes, a little," he replies a touch too quickly.

"Why don't you take it off, then?"

Emil doesn't say anything for a second. "It was his," he says in a small voice.

That catches my attention. "Your brother's?"

"Yes. The sketchbook, too. He wore the scarf sometimes to cover some birthmarks on his neck that he wasn't too keen on showing."

"I see..."

"I know it's pathetic," he says, looking down. "I know I should be able to just get over it, to move on. But I'm not strong enough for that. I'm sorry, Leon."

My eyes widen. "Emil..." I breathe. "Of course you can't just get over it. He was your brother - no, more than that, as you said, he practically brought you up. No one is expecting you to just move on."

He looks at me, sadness in his eyes. "But I'm expecting myself to."

I pause for a second before replying. "Emil... Let me tell you a story."

"Don't treat me like a child," he murmurs, and I smile. This is the real Emil that I've been seeing glimpses of, and I take every chance to see him with pleasure.

"Better than treating you like the old man you are," I say with a smirk, ignoring the protests of 'I'm only twenty-six!', before straightening my expression and continuing. "Anyway, back to my story. I'm sure I've told you this before, but I'm one of two brothers. My elder brother - his name is Yao - and I grew up together, although there was a bit of an age difference, so he was always acting like the mature elder brother with enough airs and graces for the both of us and then more. He distanced himself from me quite a bit, as well. Spent all his time in his room working or reading."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"Hold on, I'm not even nearly finished. So, we weren't particularly close, and our mother gave up trying to encourage us into worshipping each other by the time I was five and he was ten. However, that changed when I was about thirteen and he was eighteen."

"Of course it did," Emil mutters, and I laugh.

"You've heard too many of these stories, clearly. Anyway, it was just after I'd moved to a new school that was a lot closer to our house, and could walk to school." I pause. "You can see where this is going, right?"

"I have an idea."

"Right. So one day, I was walking home from school, headphones in, not paying attention to anything. So, like the idiot I am, I wasn't looking up just as a motorbike came around the corner at full speed. I'm not sure whose fault it was more, but in any case, they came out of it with a broken leg or something while I was lying there half dead."

Emil pulls a face of disgust. "Lovely."

"I know, right? It was quite the sight, according to the biker. I mean, I wouldn't know, I passed out pretty quickly."

"But how does this have anything to do with me?"

"Hang on, I'm just getting to that bit! After I'd managed to avoid dying and such, Yao came to see me. He was crying, I remember - and let me tell you, that's one hell of a rare sight. He blamed himself for it, even though it was my fault for not paying attention to where I was walking. And maybe a little of the biker's fault, too. In any case, it wasn't Yao's fault. But he was crying and apologising and saying that if he hadn't been so distant and had walked to school with me, it wouldn't have happened. Even now, he's overprotective of me and freaks out whenever he sees me anywhere near a motorbike, even though it was about ten years ago."

"But wait, don't you ride a motorbike everywhere?"

I grin sheepishly. "Yeah, but don't tell my brother that. What I'm saying is, though, that he's never really got over it. Yao is in no way a weak person, and ten years is a lot longer than the amount of time you've had to get over it. No one is expecting you to move on from that so quickly, and expecting yourself to is optimistic going on unreasonable. Also, I didn't want Yao to blame himself for it, just as your brother wouldn't want you to blame yourself for it."

"Thanks, Leon," Emil says quietly, biting his lip. "Though I can't promise I won't tell your brother about the bike," he adds with a smirk.

I gasp dramatically, leaning over to mess up his hair. "Why, you little bitch-!"

Slowly, we grow closer and closer, going from acquaintances to friends to best friends to god knows what.

We stay in that stage for a while - the stage where both of us want to take it further but neither of us are quite sure how to proceed. I don't want to force Emil into a relationship when he has so much else going on, after all.

That leaves him to make the first move, and he does.

It's a Thursday when he asks me, the day before my only completely free day of the week. He's nervous, I can tell, and stumbles over his words as he asks me out to dinner. It's quite sweet, though - this is the Emil I fell for, this seemingly cool and snarky man who is secretly just a shy and passionate dork. This is the real Emil, who is showing himself more and more as time passes and causing me to love him more and more.

Of course, I say yes, and the evening after we're sitting in a classy restaurant in the not-so-shabby side of town. I feel distinctly out of place in my skinny jeans and cheap shirt, but Emil assures me I look fine. In all fairness, he's dressed in a similar fashion, although his clothes look a lot more expensive than mine.

The conversation is light, as is the atmosphere, and we end up exchanging the more trivial of facts - meeting the way we did, we've never really got to know that side of each other.

"What's your favourite colour?" He asks, sipping his wine with a smile.

"Red, I think. Or maybe blue. I'm not sure, I can never decide on that. You?"

"...don't laugh," he says, looking away with a hint of a blush. "It's violet."

Despite his previous words, I can't help but snicker. "Like your eyes? Cute."

"Shut up!" He says, but he's smiling. "Your turn."

"Hmmm..." I think for a second before asking my question, then remember how he's always at the coffee shop, how he's offering to pay for this meal at a fancy restaurant, how his clothes always look new and expensive. "Where do you work?"

"Ah..." Emil pauses at this. "I don't, really."

"Oh, you're one of those kids," I say in a teasing tone.

"No, wait, I didn't mean it like that!" He says quickly. "I mean, I'm an author. I kind of work on and off."

I know I shouldn't, but I can't help asking. "I thought the majority of authors were starving artists?"

"Well, yes... I was, too... After I'd left university, I was balancing about four jobs and writing just to pay for food and rent... But then I managed to write a few fairly successful books, and I was doing well until, well, you know."

"Oh. I'm sorry..."

"No, no, don't apologise!" He says, shaking his head. "It's thanks to you that I can actually talk about it now. Thank, you Leon... I owe you so much..."

Now it's me shaking my head. "No, thank you... I didn't think I'd find someone who isn't related to me to actually talk to and have a proper conversation with... I certainly didn't think I'd ever find someone to consider more than a friend..."

We look at each other for a second, then both burst into quiet laughter. "We're a couple of saps, eh?" I say, and Emil nods.

"That we are, Leon. That we are."

A first date leads to a second, then a third, then a fourth, and before we know it, we're shoving the motorbike into the garage before my brother arrives to meet Emil.

I'm a little embarrassed at first about the way Yao insists on meeting my new boyfriend, and Emil is shy as soon as he sees my brother. It's an awkward couple of days, to say the least, but not entirely unenjoyable.

Soon after, Emil's brother-in-law insists on meeting me the way Yao did.

Judging by what Emil has told me, I was expecting Søren to be in the same sort of state as Emil himself was when I first met him. However, he seems cheerful and bright, the only indications of his sadness being in his eyes. He's good-natured and humorous, but I can tell he's still in pain, the way Emil is.

They're both stronger men than I.

Late at night, when I'm sleeping at Emil's place, pretending to be asleep and letting him trace the scars on my back with one finger, I feel the tears hitting my skin.

It's hard, seeing the one you love the most suffer.

But if you can only be there to listen, it eases it just a little.

It's still as if part of the picture has been torn away. But somehow, its absence is less glaring now. It is not incomplete, simply different.