A/N: All right. For starters, this little episode is depressing (and long). There is angst and drama and booze and scandalous things and OOC moments… and… yeah.

Just as a disclaimer of sorts... Whatever you see of Matt, Tai, Sora, and Hana during this mini-story is not a direct representation of how I feel about them. I love all of their characters, and I'm not trying to villainize anybody. In short, people have weaknesses. People make mistakes. That is all.

And to spare you all pure, unadulterated torture, I have chosen to split this into multiple parts. The first part focuses on Hana and Matt; the second on Tai and Sora. Does that arrangement suggest anything? Oh, dear…

xXx

- Dissent -

(Part I)

xXx

"Sora and Matt broke up."

A long pause came from Hana's end of the conversation. The phone in her grasp was slick from the sweat leaking out of her palms. She stared at the floor in shock, as if a glass of milk had just spilled over her feet. Through the receiver, Tai breathed steadily, patiently, on his side, but not naturally so. There was static in his exhales, interference crackling in his lungs.

"No," she said, drawing the vowel out in disbelief. "The world ends when that happens, Tai."

"No, Han," Tai replied sharply. "I just got off the phone with Sora. It's…" He inhaled. She imagined him wincing as he spoke. "…over."

"Well… what happened? Why in the hell would those two call it quits?"

He sighed into the receiver—deeply, regretfully. He could have tickled her cheek with the breath released. Instead, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

"I don't know, Han," he said. "I don't know…"

xXx

She watched him in class, captivated by the changes in his demeanor. He spoke even less, scribbled more in the margins of his notebook. The hair that had been gelled to messy perfection no longer gave the impression of disorder. It was disorder. A sculpture of entropy, golden and spiked. The bags under his eyes were grey as dead flesh. He passed the class period like a shade.

Hana made these notes herself. She jotted her idle observations in between the empty lines of loose leaf paper, her scribbling hand making it appear as though she was paying attention to the teacher's lectures. A week had passed since word of Matt and Sora's break-up spread like a pandemic through the school, and Hana had collected about twenty pages' worth of Matt's altered behavior. She felt like her ex-boyfriend, the aspiring psychiatrist, who read people under the illusion of expertise since the alternative, verbal communication, was too risky, and actions couldn't lie.

She told Tai none of this.

Her boyfriend, though a third party, felt the separation of his best friends as keenly as the affected individuals. He pondered on it for days—still did, in actuality—and he questioned in Hana's company why it had happened. She never troubled providing him answers. Her capacity for understanding Matt and Sora's separation was the size of a needle point—sharp enough to break into curiosity but too feeble to breach the realm of reason.

It worked against Matt that Sora had contacted Tai first after their break-up, going so far as to explain the problem that had sealed their division. Tai's response, lightly put, was cataclysmic. He raged over how Matt could have dared to do what he had done to her, to Sora, of all people, who deserved no misfortune, who loved her friends and family generously to a fault. In his anger he'd pace his living room like a caged animal, and Hana recalled him cursing his (former) best friend with a colorful and long list of names, accompanied by threats of so serious a caliber that even she had difficulty deciphering whether or not they were empty.

By the time Matt had called Tai to briefly tell him that he and Sora were no more, Tai, by that point, had already chosen a side. Hana had been with him when the phone call was made, and she had feared that he would launch a violent tirade through the receiver. Instead, he had snarled, "I know. She told me everything," before hanging up.

Such reactions formed the foundation of Tai's protracted grudge, the reminder of which was safely housed in Hana's brain. It was why she didn't dare mention Matt's name in Tai's presence, and also why her scrutiny of the budding musician was kept a secret.

Since the announcement of their split, Hana had kept her distance from both individuals involved. The memory of her own break-up with Ryo was still fresh, still stung when she allowed it to, and, wisely, she decided to await approach should either of the heartbroken feel inclined to confide in her. When neither did, she began to drop them hints that she was available for consultation. Sora was contacted solely via texts and short phone calls, as her tennis season made it impossible to contact her in person. With Matt, Hana had a significantly easier time.

The blond happened to be the only person in their (now divided) group of friends that Hana shared a class with that trimester. She needed to fulfill her Fine Arts credit and had enrolled in an Art History course. Matt was in the class by his own accord, whatever reason he had for enlisting unsaid, though Hana had a feeling that it began and ended with 'Sora Takenouchi.'

Regardless of everything Tai had told her concerning Matt—that he had made the mistake, committed the error that propelled his relationship with Sora into oblivion—Hana was partial to her own observations. Tai and Sora didn't see Matt the way she viewed him in class, how his posture sagged, how he reeked of despair. She hadn't forgotten how he had helped her with her own feelings towards Tai. The least she could offer him was her concern, especially when two of his confidants had left him to brave his anguish alone.

"Everything okay?" she'd ask him at the end of the period.

It was a habit of hers to offer physical gestures of understanding despite the receiving party's level of discomfort. She easily bestowed bisous on the cheeks of her friends when she saw them. Hugs were doled out liberally from her arms. But she wasn't so oblivious as to not exercise caution during particularly prickly situations. In Matt's case, all she could muster was a delicate hand on his slumped shoulder.

He wouldn't even look at her, his face but a shadow beneath his blond hair. In a hollow voice, he'd reply, "Yeah," before promptly leaving.

Sometimes, because Hana would not be discouraged, she'd offer consolation through a quip—typically a French proverb. Some two weeks after their break-up, Hana told him, "Après la pluie, le beau temps."

He turned to her then, privileging her with the blink of his blue eyes. They gazed back into her face, shivering but bright even under the cover of his hair.

"What?" he said.

She sighed. The hand she had on his shoulder slid in the expectation of defeat.

"'After the rain, comes nice weather,'" she translated. "In other words, Matt, things will look up." She paused, hoping to see in his face the fluttering eyelids of gratitude or a warm hue of encouragement.

She saw neither and sighed, again.

"Take care of yourself, Matt."

The following day after class, as she ambled down an aisle between desk rows, Matt stood from his own desk in time to meet her.

"Hey, Hana," he said in greeting. He offered her the rare courtesy of a smile, fragile though it was, and she halted beside his desk. She blinked once and the smile vanished, making her wonder if she had imagined it.

"You doing better, Matt?" she asked, instinctively setting a hand on his broad shoulder. Even beneath the layers of his uniform, she could sense the muscle jerk at her touch. It was her cue to back off, but she remained, stubborn as her boyfriend.

"Yeah," he said, neither unconvincingly nor assuredly. She was tempted to raise a dubious eyebrow at him. Instead, she opted to stare at him until his nerve broke and the truth would be admitted, but he held her stare remarkably well, bearing it for a fraction of a second longer than usual—or appropriate.

"Okay," said Hana, smiling. She lowered her head and withdrew her hand, recommencing her exit out the aisle, but Matt stepped out at the same time. He managed to stop himself before he bumped into her hip.

"Go ahead, Hana," he murmured. He eased back and motioned for her to pass.

She nodded and walked by him, adjusting her headband on the way out as he followed her. The invitation to accompany her down the hallway went unspoken, though Hana expressed no intention of abandoning him as he fell into step beside her. She considered it an improvement that he was seeking company—or at least re-acclimating himself to the social structure of friendship.

Tai, Izzy, and Sora were spotted heading in their direction, and Hana gave them a wave, which only the former two returned. As if on cue, Hana reached out to Tai the moment their paths crossed. Their hands met halfway, and their reunion paused the flow of students, making a few passersby mutter complaints about the obstruction of traffic. She was mindful to keep the exchange of affection brief: the kiss, the sweet nothings mumbled between smirking lips and rubbing noses. She knew Matt was still behind her, and Sora, too, was behind Tai.

The tennis player's bright red hair could be seen on the border of Hana's peripheral vision. She stood behind Tai like a shadow, her sanguine eyes half-shielded under heavy eyelids, their gaze averted. A hand hugged an elbow in the quintessential pose of insecurity. She looked like she wanted to fade into the wall.

Hana felt strangely guilty standing safely in Tai's arms, her cheek resting against his wrinkled tie. A passing student rudely brushed past her.

"I'll see you later tonight?" Hana asked, lifting her gaze to him.

"Yeah," he replied, distractedly. His eyes flicked away from her face, pointing their stare over her head, his eyebrows bending on a sharp incline.

Matt.

Hana spun around, catching Matt's departure too late and finding in his stead a vacancy. Her green eyes switched back to Tai, who did not look at all surprised that Matt had fled. But when it was his turn to glance over his shoulder to check on Sora, the furrowed brow smoothed out, replaced with confusion.

Sometime during their loving embrace, Sora, too, had slipped away.

"This has to stop," Hana said, looking back and forth from Tai to Izzy.

"It's a logical fallacy," said Izzy dourly, stumped for a reason just like the rest of them. "I don't know if it can be helped."

Hana took Tai's hand and squeezed it, fixing him with a plea that begged him to mend what should have never been broken. He only looked back at her, his stare thoughtful but unwavering, and shocked her when his lips set into a hard, grim line.

He said nothing.

xXx

The following day, after the last bell had rung and the hallways filled with the mad rush of students, Hana was amazed to find Matt loitering by her locker. He leaned his shoulder against the cold metal door, his guitar case in his grip.

As she approached, he scooted to the side to give her room, distancing himself a good two feet from her. She tried her best to look apathetic.

"Hey, Matt," she said, green eyes focusing on the knob of her lock.

His reply of, "Hey, Hana," was delivered long after the appropriate margin of conversational pause. Again, Hana checked the urge to peer at him suspiciously, though it became difficult when his silence continued, and she was forced to resort to meaningless pleasantries to wheedle his intentions out.

"How is everything?"

She waited a patient minute, which felt more like ten.

"Bad," he admitted, lowly. He leaned dejectedly against the row of lockers and ran a hand through his blond fringe. In the motion, Hana caught whiffs of his shampoo. His scent was clean, rejuvenating in the same way static shock was. Hana had to sniff in order to rid the sting of fragrance from her nose.

"I was…" He cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. "I was wondering if I could… talk…"

His blue eyes shifted in her direction so suddenly that she jumped back when she met his gaze.

"… to you," he clarified.

Very slowly, Hana shut her locker, her green eyes scrutinizing him.

"About…?"

"Yeah," he said, never allowing her to finish. "I… I'm not ready to talk to Tai about it…" He frowned at some arbitrary spot on the floor. "…not that he'd listen, anyway."

Hana nodded subtly.

"Because of…?"

"Yeah." His tone turned curt. "Because of that."

"Okay, Matt. We can talk."

"Can we… tonight?"

Hana shook her head.

"No. Tai is coming over for dinner, but tomorrow, I can—after ballet practice, that is."

"Yeah, that's fine." He attempted nonchalance. "I've got practice with my band, too, anyway. We'll meet, say… at seven?"

"All right. Sure. Wh—"

"Thanks."

He gave her a forced smile before leaving, veering into the flow of students exiting the school and abandoning Hana to stand solo, heart palpitating, in his wake.

xXx

She crept up behind him while he was working on his homework at the coffee table in her living room. Her feet were tired and sore from her evening meeting with her trusty foot stretcher and her toes curled into the living room rug, thankful for its cushion. Silently, she kneeled and slipped her arms around his middle, resting her cheek on the warm slope of his curved back. His shirt smelled like their dinner: the pungent sweetness of salmon teriyaki.

A little smile spread over her lips when his hand covered those she had clasped around his torso, his touch warm and comforting.

In the distance, she could hear her father brushing his teeth in the bathroom, but otherwise, the apartment was silent.

"I'm meeting Matt tomorrow," she murmured, the words being kissed onto his shoulder blade.

Her heartbeat quickened in anticipation of his disapproval, pounding against her breastbone. He tightened his hold on her hands, and she knew he felt the change of pulse in the heart pressed to his spine. When she lifted her hand higher and planted it right over his chest, the pace at which it thumped matched her own.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Han."

The cheek lifted off his back. The hands slipped from his grasp, and a wave of coldness quickly invaded the space she had covered on his body. He exhaled deeply, theatrically. His shoulders hunched as the unavoidable question was asked:

"Why?"

He turned around to face her, the both of them sitting cross-legged on her living room rug. Mr. Kurosawa spat into the bathroom sink.

"Hana," said Tai, reaching for her hands. "I've told you everything Sora told me about what happened. Matt doesn't deserve counsel or comfort. Sora's the victim here."

"I disagree," she replied. Her fingers were loose and cold in his grip, their fragility threatened by the firmness of his clutch. "Matt appears to be just as—if not more—unhappy than Sora is right now."

His upper lip twitched, raising itself just a millimeter as if fighting a sneer. He veered his stare away from her—an automatic reflex whenever she challenged him.

"Look, Hana," he began, and his eyes returned to her, fiery and determined, "Matt pulled a Ryo Hiraki on Sora, all right? Did your ex-boyfriend deserve to be comforted after what he did to you? Would you call that fair? To you? To Sora?"

Hana yanked her hands out of Tai's grip, her glare hardening. It was low of him to bring her ex into their argument, wrong of him to use that card against her, knowing full well the injury it had the potential to cause.

"You forget, Taichi," she fought, daring to lean forward and poke him in the shoulder, "that Ryo was perfectly fine after our break-up. He wanted the split. But it's clear that Matt is not fine with how things turned out for him and Sora. He needs help, Tai, and you're his best friend. You should be there for him."

"No." His answer was decisively quick, and bitterly so. "No matter what he's feeling, it doesn't excuse what he did to Sora."

She was stunned by his callousness, gazing at him with the same fierce disappointment she would have had she just been slapped in the face.

"Sora," she echoed, slowly getting up on her feet.

Tai's eyes darkened at the way she had said the name, her manner clipped, thinly mocking.

He rose as well, and she met his stare bravely, fearlessly, as if it was she who was staring him down.

"Why are you fighting this, Hana?" There was the grate of desperation in his voice, a hurt that was losing its battle against his anger. "You were in the same boat when your ass of an ex-boyfriend cheated on you! Don't tell me you don't remember what that was like! And now it's our friend who's suffering it! Sora's the victim here!"

The repetition struck a painful chord in Hana. She backed away from him, her courage draining from her limbs. With a scowl, she tightened her hands into fists, pushing for one more offensive. When next she raised her eyes to meet him, her glare did not relent.

"Don't bring Ryo into this," she stated firmly. "I've dealt with him. It's over. I've forgiven him, and I've moved on. And, if you remember correctly, Tai, I still talk to my 'ass' of an ex-boyfriend, all right?"

He looked away with a slight roll of his eyes, an incredulous grin appearing on his face.

"Yeah," he scoffed. "I wonder why."

Hana clenched her teeth, fighting the urge to yell at him. She fought it until her jaw ached and her brain throbbed.

"I think you should go." She pushed the words out through stiff lips. Rubbing her forehead, she went to the coffee table and gathered his papers and books and dumped them into his backpack before zipping it shut. She thrust the bag at him, daring to look him one more time straight in the eye.

"I think you should go," she repeated.

And he did.

xXx

Ren had her long tan fingers on the doorknob to the studio exit. She turned her dark head, her face glistening with perspiration, and laughed openly at a comment from Emi before twisting the handle.

As soon as the door was parted, all three girls reeled back in surprise, Hana most of all.

"Matt?" she gasped, staring bug-eyed at the blond musician who stood on the opposing side.

"Ho! Tai's sending his lackey to escort you home now, Han?" exclaimed Ren. Hana knew it was a joke, but Matt's blue eyes shrank at being dubbed Tai's toadie. Luckily, he didn't bother to explain why he was there, and neither did Hana.

"Hi to you, too, Ren, Emi," Matt greeted, ice in his voice.

"You need to lighten up, Rock Star," Ren quipped, giving Matt an unwanted pat on the cheek.

"Yeah," added Emi with a sly smile. She poked him with a purple fingernail. "You're much too pretty to be so stiff."

Both dancers laughed as they continued down the hall together, enjoying their witchlike cackles. Hana faced Matt, her eyebrows furrowed.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. She noticed the guitar case in his grip, the backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Akira's girlfriend lives nearby," he answered. "I decided to accompany him on the metro ride here from practice since you'd be here, anyway."

He explained himself without any difficulty, without the pauses or stammering that would question the validity of his story. Hana said nothing, only nodded, and followed him out of the dance academy, stopping once to change her pointe shoes for a pair of slip-on sneakers. She would have liked to ask Matt to wait a few minutes while she dressed out of her ballet clothes, but decided against it. He had obviously come to her with an express motive, and since Ren's tease had placed him in a bad mood, she chose not to worsen it.

They walked in silence to the metro station, Hana thankful that the evening weather was mild enough to brave in her spandex and nylon. The breeze was warm on her bare neck, almost balmy. Under the rippling veil of the city—its bright lights and its herds of people—she imagined spending the evening with Tai, the two of them sitting on blankets on her balcony, chatting idly into the night until she fell asleep in his arms.

A stab of regret hit her in the ribs, and while navigating their way to the arriving trains, Hana pulled out her mobile phone.

I'm sorry about last night, she texted into a new message. Then, added:

I love you, you goof.

Her thumb was poised over the 'send' button when Matt's shout interrupted her.

"Hana!" he yelled, beckoning her with a wave. The metro had arrived, the doors recently opened, and she knew they only had a few seconds to get in.

Snapping her phone shut, she sprinted over to him, her duffel bag crashing into her hip, her backpack banging against the small of her back. When she reached him, he stepped aside to let her pass, an arm extended to guide her. The act of chivalry created a tremor in Hana's heartbeat, made a bead of sweat trickle down the side of her face. If Tai had been with her, he'd have shoved his way into the car first and, once in, would have hauled her through the horde with a swift yank.

"Thanks," she murmured, squeezing her way inside. All seats were taken, so she and Matt stood, sharing a subway pole with what felt like twenty other people.

He stood directly behind her, the top of her head falling along the line where his chin met his neck. She could feel his exhales on her slumped shoulders, the hard case of his guitar knocking against her thigh, the toe of his shoe running into the heel of hers. Hana's fingers adjusted their grip on the greasy pole, unintentionally running her thumb into his curled pinky.

The car jerked forward.

"I'm sorry," she said over the hum of the train. "I'm sweaty and I smell bad, and you're right behind me."

He chuckled, and the sound of amusement had been so long absent that it was strange, almost unsettling. She could feel the vibrations of his laughter tickling her spine.

"Sora plays tennis, Hana," he replied, seemingly right into her ear. "I can deal with sweaty girls."

They alighted at the Odaiba Kaihin-Koen Station, which was conveniently by the apartment complexes Matt, Tai, and Sora lived in. By routine alone, Hana had taken a left, toward the Kamiya home, and Matt had to remind her of where she was going with another bellow.

"This way, Hana."

Glancing over her shoulder one last time, Hana nodded and followed Matt into the neighboring building. It occurred to her once they were inside and heading toward the elevators that Sora lived in the same complex. She wondered what the tennis player would think if she saw her with Matt, and she had wondered it aloud.

"She has a game tonight," Matt answered, unconcerned. "We won't run into her."

"How do you know that when you haven't exactly been keeping in touch lately?"

The question left her lips too soon for her to realize its insensitivity. Matt's response was dead silence.

The apartment was dark and empty when Matt unlocked the front door, and he quickly switched on the lights. For Hana, being in his apartment again brought back memories of the last time she was in his house—alone—with him. He had forced a confession out of her about her feelings for Tai. Back then, it had been she who had gone to him for assistance, and he, as a true friend, had helped her. Now, she was at last returning the favor.

"You can put your stuff anywhere," Matt said. He himself had already set his guitar on the hallway floor—a clear tripping hazard—and his backpack was tossed into an empty chair at the dining table.

Hana took a moment to scan the apartment for a suitable spot. She didn't remember the Ishida home being particularly messy, but at present, the state of Matt's house reminded her strongly of her aunt's Parisian apartment: unkempt, gritty, caked in the smell of cigarette smoke.

She pulled out a chair at the dining table and sat, keeping her belongings at her feet.

The surface of the table was littered with small pieces of paper—cards that, upon closer inspection, were each decorated uniquely. All bore the same message:

To Matt.

Hana sucked in a breath at the discovery. Her rock star of a friend had kept every card attached to the gift Sora had given him at each of his shows. Every. Single. One. She was about to reach for one she recognized, one ornamented in planets and stars, when he called to her from the kitchen.

"Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

"More hungry than thirsty," she said. "But I'll take whatever you have."

A few minutes later, while Hana was trying to read a passage from her history book, Matt handed her a glass. It wasn't an ordinary glass. It was a wineglass, filled halfway with a rich, ruby liquid. In Matt's other hand was the dark, sweating amber bottle of a chilled beer.

He had taken his uniform jacket off, the white sleeves of his shirt rolled up above the elbows, the starched collar freed and unbuttoned. To avoid appearing rude, she accepted the wine with a bow of the head and sipped from it immediately, hoping the warmth of the bitter alcohol would erase the worries ricocheting inside her skull.

"You drink?" she asked, pulling the rim from her lips.

"No," he said, still standing. "I just need one right now." He paused. "You understand."

Hana nodded robotically, forcing down another gulp as she faced away from him. The wine burned down her esophagus and dripped stingingly into her stomach. He said something to her then—she wasn't paying attention—but since he left her alone afterwards, she figured he had gone off to another room, further delaying the talk they had planned on having.

When she detected the clamor of plates and pans in the kitchen behind her, Hana perked up. She stood, wineglass in hand, and walked into the kitchen.

"You don't have to, Matt," she said. "I'm fine. Really."

He glanced at her over his shoulder by his place at the stove. For a second, Hana thought the sharp, cool stare drifted from her face to furtively examine other features. She was instantly reminded that she was still garbed in her tights and leotard, and she contemplated rounding the corner of the kitchen counter to stand by the opposite side.

"It's nothing, Hana," he said, turning back around. She stayed where she was. "I like to cook. It helps…" His voice trailed off. "… Sora and I…" he said in a sad breath. "…we used to cook… together."

The crack and hiss of the gas burner being switched on ended his defense. He returned to the task at hand, his hair falling over his eyes and making the thin frown on his lips the only part of his face still visible. Hana continued to stand dumbly at the kitchen entrance watching him, the extent of his isolation dawning on her: how he came home to an empty apartment, his estrangement from Tai, the distance she herself fixed between them. Sora must have looked to him like some star in the night sky—unbearably, coldly removed from him, belonging to a different universe altogether.

"At least let me help, Yamato," she said, smiling a bit as she neared him. He raised his head when she pronounced his full name, the ice-blue glare finding her eyes again and blinking at her glimpily.

All he managed was a subtle nod.

She carried out his orders as dutifully as she could, acting his sous chef while he commanded the stove and oven. Her kitchen experience was minimal, which she admitted, and she chopped unevenly and had to ask him to clarify which spoon was the tablespoon and which was the teaspoon.

Throughout, she drank from her wineglass, growing more animated and garrulous with each sip. Matt, too, drank from his bottle of beer while cooking, and had downed three by the time their meal was completed. Hana herself had finished two glasses of wine by the time they sat down to eat, which was obvious in her pink face and the giggle fits that affected her like seizures.

"Ahh… that was good," Hana said, setting her utensils aside. She leaned back in her chair and patted her belly, grinning at Matt. Her wineglass stood empty for the third time on the table.

"You may only be a quarter French, Matt," she went on, "but you have the heart and skill of a true Parisian foodie." She tried to stifle a burp with a fist to her lips. It came out anyway.

"You're disgusting," Matt laughed. He picked up his plate and reached for hers, but she grabbed his wrist before he could snatch it from her possession.

"You've done enough, Yamato," she said, releasing him only when she had secured her plate and stood up. "Let me do the dishes."

He granted her wish—part of it, at least. She turned on the faucet and passed plates under the stream of water, and he stood beside, a kitchen towel in hand to dry them. Conversation had dwindled since dinner, and she casually asked him where his father was.

"He doesn't come home 'til late," he informed her. "Around ten, at the earliest." He smiled grimly. "That's what working in the media does to you."

Hana nodded sympathetically.

"That's how my dad is during finals and midterm weeks," she related.

She was tempted to look at him but couldn't. Turning too sharply made her head spin, smudged her peripheral vision. Concentrating on the water running from the faucet and the sponge in her hands helped keep her brain functioning intelligently.

"I mean," she continued, since he had said nothing, "I get lonely during those times, but there's the freedom aspect of it, too."

"Tai doesn't keep you company?"

"He does, don't get me wrong. But I don't expect him to baby me, Matt. He has stuff to do and so do I. Like tonight, for example. He's hanging out with Davis and a few soccer teammates, and I'm here, with you." She flipped the sponge over and scrubbed furiously at a stubborn stain, her fingertips beginning to go pruny. "Not that I'd like to see him right now, anyway," she muttered, thinking that she had kept her words to herself.

"Why not?" He chuckled. "You two are always like… one drink away from tearing each other's clothes off in public."

Hana rolled her eyes, unable to find any hilarity in the joke.

"We argued last night," she stated flatly. "I mean, I'm not the jealous type. I'm not. But he's been coddling Sora like she's a freaking damsel in distress." The stuck-on grime on the dish in her hands remained despite her efforts. Growling, she washed it all the harder. "And he's been completely ignoring you," Hana ranted on, "even though you're his friend, too, and you're clearly in pain, but no. The only person worth his concern and care right now is Sora. Zut!"

The plate clattered from her grip, and she lifted her hand out of the dingy dishwater, bringing her index finger to her lip. In her thorough scrubbing, she had rammed her finger into the point of a knife lying at the bottom of the sink.

Matt set the dish he had been drying aside, and his hand invaded Hana's vision, the palm up and offering assistance.

"Let me see it, Han," he commanded gently.

She shook her head, sucking at the blood that landed on her tongue in salty bursts.

"It's fine," she asserted. "Tai'd just say it's a paper cut."

"You're not with Tai, Hana," he pointed out, a tad severely. "Let me see it."

Reluctantly, she surrendered her hand to him, her thin fingerbones cradled in his wide palm, rubbing against the calloused tips of his fingers. He inspected the bleeding gash, running his thumb over it to scrape away the bead of blood before he left the kitchen and let Hana's hand linger in the air, cooling during his absence.

The faucet still ran, filling the basin up with dirty water. When he returned, he had a Band-Aid, cotton swab, and antibacterial ointment all gathered in one palm. She would have insisted on dressing the cut herself, but she couldn't exactly perform the task one-handedly.

He hesitated a few times, his fingers subtly shaking, his face unnecessarily close to the wound. Either he had no constitution for blood, or he was far enough along on his road to intoxication to have trouble focusing—much like herself.

"Thanks," she murmured, when her minor injury had been treated. She was about to dip her hands back in the sink, but Matt reached over, his fingers cupping over the hand she had on the wet faucet knob.

"I'll take care of the rest, Hana," he said softly, as if it were a secret. He inched into the space she occupied, and Hana had no choice but to retreat.

In the meantime, she approached the dining table and picked up her wineglass, her shaking hand desperately seeking something to hold on to. That, and she would have felt stupid standing there watching him wash dishes. She filled it halfway, but before she took the first sip of her fourth glass of wine, she swirled the red liquid in the crystal bowl. The light reflected off its vibrant hue, her face a distorted, crimson image on the swaying surface.

She tried not to think too much on the courtesies Matt was performing for her: escorting her to the metro, the arm that guided her onto the train, the hospitality in his home, the preparation of dinner, the generous offer to clean up after themselves, the mending of her wound. She was supposed to be the one helping him, and yet the night clearly showed the opposite. He had done her numerous favors already, while she stood slightly drunk against the kitchen counter, eyeing his turned back with confusion and a pang of regret—not because she felt guilty about being treated so kindly by the person who needed the most help, but because she had drawn comparisons before she could help herself.

Her addled brain strove to locate the last memory in which Tai had done something pure and selfless for her, something chivalrous. She only grew more upset when she couldn't find one. A sick feeling grew in her stomach. Her face felt heavy and drawn, as if the skin were being pulled from her skull. Her throat tightened.

As Matt began to finish up the rest of the dishes, she ducked her nose in the wineglass, wanting to drown in it. She forced herself to drink, of the same mind as a child who took his acrid dose of cough syrup in order to be soothed by the drug's healing properties. Here, before her, was the friend who was purportedly the villain in the story Tai had told her. She refused to believe it.

"Did you want more?"

His question plucked her from her musings, and she lifted her nose out of her glass. He held the wine bottle by the neck.

"Um, no, thanks," she told him, blinking the water out of her eyes.

He retrieved another wineglass from a cupboard and poured the rest of the bottle's contents into its bowl before rejoining her. The two of them leaned against the counter, their elbows resting on the rounded edge, standing like loiterers looking for trouble on the street. Wordlessly, they drank. Silently, they avoided eye contact. Quietly, they postponed their talk until the sounds of their breathing and the tight swallows of wine made Hana's ears itch.

"I have to apologize to you, Matt," she began, her tone ruefully sincere. She set her empty glass on the countertop. "You asked me to help you tonight, but it seems like you've switched the roles around."

He humored her with a cheap laugh, though he wasn't smiling.

"I honestly didn't mean to, Hana." He sighed and placed his hollow glass beside hers. "I just…" He shrugged half-heartedly. "Whenever Sora had problems, I'd be there for her. I'd listen. I'd do whatever I could to make her day go by easier. Little things. Nothing huge like baking her a cake or anything, but…"

Hana hmm-ed in reply, the hum guttural, surfacing from the very back of her throat.

"…Like doing the dishes? Giving her a well-needed pick-me-up? Cooking her dinner?" she said, hints of her usual playfulness coming out.

"Yeah."

Hana simpered bitterly. She rubbed her arms. Tai had always been of the mind that any problem of hers could be remedied in one huge effort. He didn't practice subtlety. If she did badly on a test or had a rough day at ballet practice, she would be smothered with affection. Extreme pain was always met with extreme love—provided that he shared the view that she had been treated unfairly, dealt a bad hand. Otherwise, any form of comfort was withheld. If she felt bad because of something she herself had caused, he was not one to provide sympathy. But for her, misery had but one shade, and it merited concern and attention regardless of its source.

"You know," she said, releasing the words with a sigh, "tonight I thought you'd tell me your side of the story and convince me that way that you're not the Grade A asshole Tai and Sora think you are right now. But even if that was your plan, I can tell you now, Ishida, that it would have been useless."

She averted her eyes from the linoleum tile of the kitchen and risked a glimpse at him. His blue eyes looked at her defeatedly. The color of them was dull, watery, just a few degrees short of the milky white of a cataract. These were the eyes that used to sparkle in Sora's company, complemented by a smile that invited everyone who witnessed it to instantly fall in love with him; but it was like looking into a porcelain mask. If she so much as dared to touch the smooth edge of his cheek, would it crack and shatter into ten thousand pieces?

He didn't flinch when she touched his shoulder. She had approached him gently, exercising the same control and poise requested of her when she performed emotive ballet routines. Her instructors had coached her in the art of grace, helped her perfect the lay of her fingers so that they fell on their target like an autumn leaf or a shed feather. Such was the way her hand settled on Matt's shoulder.

"You've shown me all the proof I'll need," she said. The hand on his shoulder lifted. Her loosely curled fingers hovered by his cheek. The resigned manner in his posture, the stare that shifted under ashamed eyelids, conveyed his mistrust of her words. She wasn't her boyfriend, who could inspire so much courage in a rock that it could glow, but she would try to lend strength in whatever way she could.

Without timidity or hesitation, she reached for his chin and tipped it up gently before moving her hand to brush some strands of his hair that had fallen over his face. The gesture was unaffected, natural, as if she had done it a thousand times previous. In a sense, she had. It surprised even her how much Tai appreciated the assuring pass of a hand through his hair, the tender stroke that hugged his mind and carried the same message as a spoken, "I'm here for you."

"You're a good guy, Matt," she said, at length, her hand coming to rest against his cheek. "Sora and Tai might not believe that right now, but I do."

The blue eyes lifted. They stared back at her unblinkingly, shivering in uncertainty under the steadiness of her gaze. When they did blink, she thought she saw color burn under his skin, felt his head lean into her hand. The hard line of his mouth softened at the possibility that he was not a failed human being. She smiled feebly, hoping to lead him by example, but as quickly as the changes came, they fled.

He blinked once more and cast his stare aside.

"You shouldn't," he murmured. He took the hand she had pressed to his face and pushed it back towards herself, his fingers releasing hers at the area over her heart. He turned around and jammed his hands into his pockets. "You should probably go, Hana."

Swallowing, she assented, her eyes roving over her surroundings as if she just realized where she was. She reached for her wineglass on the counter and placed it in the empty kitchen sink, her sudden movement making her brain feel like it had melted into some viscous liquid.

Her feet took her to the dining room where her bags were, though she was markedly aware of his stationary position in the kitchen, as if she could feel his eyes boring into her back.

She shook her head, her hands trembling as she gathered her things. It felt like every item in the apartment, including themselves, was connected by lines of string, all of them taut to the point of breaking, and the permeating silence only served to rattle the fibers, forcing them to snap.

'Probably,' he had said.

Her hands clenched. She hated that her heart was pounding, that the alcohol she had swallowed was making her feverish and sweaty. Her backpack was swung over one shoulder, her duffel bag being carried in another hand. She sped for the exit, narrowly tripping over the guitar case he had left haphazardly on the hallway floor.

"Hana."

Her arm jerked on instinct, though unsuccessfully. The hand that had grabbed her elbow still clung, and she was staring back up into his face, detecting in his profoundly blue eyes nothing desperate or dangerous, just an unemptiable loneliness.

"I don't mean to kick you out," he said, releasing her.

"It's… It's all right, Matt," she comforted, trying not to betray any worry in her voice. On a reflex, she patted him on the shoulder, hoping the gesture would assuage him if her words failed to, and she didn't look at him to check if her message was received. But even if her gaze was trained on the floor, he was still standing close enough by her that his body was in her view: the rumpled hem of his shirt, the small white buttons running up his chest. The warmth coming off him was almost tangible.

"It's late," she said, removing her hand from him.

She gulped audibly, as if she were swallowing a rock, when the white buttons she had been staring at neared. His knees bumped into her legs. Still, she refused to raise her head, and she felt the tip of his nose on her cheek, the softness of his hair on her forehead.

"I know," he said, and she could trace the movement of his lips on her face as he spoke, like a crying child murmuring his woes into his mother's ear. "Thank you, Hana."

Their brows touched, the dull thud of bone meeting bone to bridge a connection between minds. She felt sick, as if, in that moment, he had transferred every negative feeling in his body to her, burdened her with his demons.

"Matt…"

Bravely, she lifted her hand and pushed his mouth away, water in her eyes as she looked back at him.

But it wasn't she who shed the first tear. He hardly held her stare for two seconds before he buried his face in his hands, his entire body shaking as saltwater moistened the palms pressed over his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he wept; and so simple a phrase was pushed out a parched, constricting throat, broken up by heaves that racked the lungs. "I'm so sorry…"

He wept the words over and over again, reducing himself to some hunched form sitting on the floor, his back sliding down the kitchen counter. Hana turned away, too cowardly to witness his anguish head on. The back of her hand was brought to her trembling lips, her face hurting as she fought the impulse to cry with him. The first tear to leak out of the corner of her eye was briskly wiped away, and she could do little else—had no heart to do anything else—except flee.

She cursed herself as she abandoned him in his apartment, the finality of the click of the lock falling into place preventing her from pivoting around and running back. His apologies were displaced, unintended for her. They were for another who resided in the same building, in the same broken house of regret. It would have been wrong to stay, to be the recipient of a pardon she did not deserve.

And, still, it bothered her how vulnerable she had been to his loneliness, how greatly she had wished to be the friend who would nobly partake in his pain. But she had accomplished the exact opposite. How stupid she was to think that it was she whom he needed, when the answer to his problems was so glaring, so obvious, that, if visualized, it would have burned the cornea in an eye. What he needed was the half of himself that he had lost. Who he needed was Sora Takenouchi; and it sickened Hana to know that she was in the same building as he, fighting the same fight, yet she would pass the night oblivious to his torment, ignorant of the fact that, if she were to stand but a few floors lower, he would be weeping repentantly at her feet.

xXx

A/N: Ahh, don't kill me! If you do decide to privilege me with a review, please be honest. If you think Matt's character is absolutely WHACK, if you think Hana's being a meddling bitch, etc, TELL ME. Your honesty is what matters to me, and I apologize beforehand if this was an unbearable read.

In my defense, I promise good things. I just won't reveal when or how they will happen.

Thank you, as always, for reading. :)