Disclaimer: Diamond no Ace belongs to Terajima Yuuji.

promise to let go

Chris coughs, a wet sound that sticks to his throat. He clutches his arm closer, carefully avoiding the part of his skin ruined in a mess of torn flesh and cloth, soaked in blood. He takes a deep breath, and looks up, meeting Tanba's eyes with a determined gaze. "You have to do it now."

The words feel like a punch to the gut; his gun weighs heavy in his hand, cool against his palm. "No."

Fear flickers in Chris' eyes—twists the knife in Tanba's heart—before hardening with anger. "You promised," he says. "We—we made a promise to each other."

"Not yet," Tanba says, pocketing his gun as he steps forward.

Chris scrambles backwards, eyes wide as his back slams into the wall. He turns away from Tanba, presses his right side into the wall as he hisses, "Don't come any closer."

"Yuu."

"I'm infected," he spits out, voice cracking. "You need to leave."

Tanba dashes across the remaining distance between them, wraps his arms firmly around Chris's waist.

Chris struggles weakly in his embrace, elbows Tanba in the stomach even as he keeps his right arm out of the way. "Let go—"

He buries his head into the crook of Chris' neck. "I'm not leaving you."

"You promised," Chris whispers, brokenly. His whole body begins to shake. "Kouichirou, you promised. Please, I don't want to end up like—"

"I'll do it," he interjects, the words searing his tongue a second time, streaked like burning oil in his mouth, down his throat and in his lungs. "Just. Not yet. Not while you're still…"

That finally subdues him, and Tanba can feel the fight leaving him as Chris goes pliant. "If you wait," he says, "it'll only hurt more."

Tanba sighs into Chris' skin, pulls him closer as he whispers, "I don't care."

They sit tangled in each other—Tanba with his face buried in Chris' hair, his palms pressed into Chris' chest, over his collarbone; Chris with his head resting against Tanba's shoulder, absently fiddling with the makeshift bandages over his arm, lips parted on soft, pained groans. Together, they shift through the memories they share, the pasts they don't, the secrets they kept.

From outside, the dim light of dawn climbs steadily, pouring lighter colours into the abandoned building.

Tanba listens, counts Chris' breaths.

"Do you remember the last time we had hot pot?"

Chris doesn't answer.

"It wasn't snowing, but it was definitely freezing. Coldest winter we've ever had."

No reply.

Shards of ice break out in Tanba's chest, prickles his lungs. He peers down, lifting shaky fingers to Chris' chin. "Yuu?"

"It was the corner shop," Chris murmurs.

The dread pulls back, and Tanba breathes a little easier. "We had to wait fifteen minutes in line, out in the cold." He pauses, blinking at the memory. "You were wearing that scarf your father sent you."

"And you wore a blue jacket. The one we picked out together."

"That was a great meal."

Chris hums softly. "It was."

The shadows across the floor grow, flip over by their feet. The sun passes overhead, filters in through the cracked windows from the other side of the room. In the distance, Tanba can hear the sounds of gunshots, the occasional explosion, the never-ending symphony of screams.

Chris is shaking in his arms, his body radiating so much heat that every brush of contact leaves a lingering burn in Tanba's skin, has him biting his lip to keep his expression steady. His next breath catches in his throat, and Chris coughs, features strained, nails digging into Tanba's shoulders.

"Kouichirou," he gasps, "Please, it's—please."

Tanba shushes him, presses a kiss to his feverish forehead. His heart is thundering in his ears, and every time he blinks, his vision goes a little more blurry, his throat a little tighter.

"Yuu," he murmurs, running his thumb over Chris' cheek. "Remember how we first met?"

Chris squints up at him, pupils already ringed black, the corners of his eyes glistening wet. "Kou-chan," he breathes.

"Do you?"

He lifts his gun, watches the way Chris freezes in place, staring at the barrel. And then his eyelids are fluttering shut, his fingers relaxing into loose curls on Tanba's chest, his shoulders sagging with one last sigh. "I remember," he whispers.

Tanba pulls the trigger.

In the silence that follows,

(after the deafening bang stops ringing in his ears, after the revolver slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground)

Tanba lays him down by the wall, his hands folded across his stomach, his legs uncrossed. Reaching up with one hand, Tanba brushes his fringe aside, lets it tumble back over his forehead. Chris' skin is still warm to touch, and Tanba wipes away the blood smeared along his jaw, at the corner of his mouth; the weight of iron bears down on his tongue.

Outside, the shuffle of mismatched limbs have started up once more, their low growls creeping closer. The sun is pitching lower with every passing second, and soon it'll be too dark to see. Tanba needs to go.

He leans down, cups Chris' jaw in his hands, murmurs his parting words into Chris' cheek.

When he runs, he doesn't look back. As promised.