There is nothing but coffee to drink at the apartment when Ritsuka arrives. Rather than aggravate his already jumping, lurching stomach, he settles instead for cold water from the sink and settles in at the kitchen table as if waiting out a bout of insomnia. Aside from the sunlight glaring in through the windows, it would fit perfectly. Bare toes curled and feet cradled neatly on the chair, knees bent tight and arms wrapped around them to reach for his drink. He watches the water slosh as he tilts the ceramic mug cautiously, gently in an awkward little circle.

Memories of his mother lurch up from an already-worried stomach—he vaguely remembers that it used to be safe to wander downstairs during the night. Full access to memory of his 'former self' is still limited, but slowly returning. With a careful hand, the film can be wiped away to reveal a hazy but visible picture. He remembers his mother's fingertips, doling and pinching cards with a calm evenness he's never seen again, playing away her sleeplessness.

There are no cards in Soubi's apartment, so Ritsuka settles for drinking water to settle his nerves. He makes three trips to the sink for refills before Soubi's key jangle in the lock and then give up, sounding almost confused when there is no obstruction to unlock. Ritsuka's nose scrunches in a half-hearted laugh as mild confusion flashes across Soubi's face. He stares at the knob as he steps inside as if it had just told a puzzling and unamusing riddle, then Ritsuka stands. His eyes lift up and sight on him. Blue turns lovingly bright, the shape of his eyes coming to mimic the shape of his glasses.

"Ritsuka," he says, again in that voice that makes Ritsuka's throat tighten for reasons he cannot yet articulate. Then a little confusion seeps back in. "Don't you have therapy tonight? It's Wednesday."

Then he steps inside, tugging the key from the lock and pressing it shut behind him. He begins the mundane process of pulling off his jacket and dropping his messenger bag stuffed with brushes and half-emptied jars of gesso and paint. Quietly joyful tales of the day lift into the air, Soubi assuming Ritsuka had decided to forgo therapy that night, as he had done on occasion, and launched headfirst into a pleasant evening spent together. Talking, discussing, and sitting together before the television or one of Soubi's works in progress.

Every precious detail of Soubi's day is lost to Ritsuka, who watches from the kitchen table and listens, but does not hear.

He's paralyzed by fear, and entranced by Soubi. Neither allows him to rise from the table to take Soubi by the elbow and ask the question that's been nagging him. Worrying him—ruining him, almost.

He falls for a moment into the memory of sitting with Soubi in front of his canvas. The kitchen light is on, distant like fog, but they huddle beneath a spotlight Soubi had wheeled into the living room, skinny metal neck almost stooped in curiosity. Soubi has his hair pulled back, but stubborn streaks fall along his face, and he fiddles with one with his mouth as he stares at the canvas. His eyes read the mistakes and his mind churns, waiting for answers to rise out of his belly. His work clothing, a thin white shirt, gray sweatpants, are covered in paint and charcoal smudges. His fingertips match, and Ritsuka can see flashes of white and colors on them as he gestures, pointing out things. Ritsuka is sitting on the floor beside him, listening, observing. Then Soubi asks his opinion and he gives it and it's bliss. For a moment, there is nothing wrong in their worlds, aside from the amount light falling on Soubi's painted figures and the blending of a few colors.

Then he's aware of Soubi stopping in front of the table, blinking at him. "Ritsuka? Are you okay?"

He blinks in return, and he feels like they are an odd pair, eyes moving like fluttering blinds to each other. In a moment, his composure returns enough to speak. "I'm fine," he says.

But he can see the disbelief begin to slowly grow in Soubi's eyes. It's soft and glowing, but Ritsuka still regrets it. He feels worthless, robbing Soubi of this happiness he so fully deserves by making him worry.

But it has to be done, he tells himself once again.

"Aren't you going to therapy tonight? Or do you want to go dinner, instead?" Soubi smiles gently and bends forward to kiss him, hoping to push away his worry by brightening Ritsuka's face. It's still there despite all his attempts when they part. Soubi doesn't withdraw to their natural distance, but instead remains close, breathing on his lips that still can feel him.

"Ritsuka?"

He has to look at the table when he asks, "I was wondering if you could come with me this time." He can't bring himself to say his name. It could unleash everything and bear all before he's ready to invoke his name, bring to the front a flood of love and pain so powerful it bends the foundations of his mind. So he looks at the half-empty mug of water.

Soubi does not prod at this vague answer, nor the fact that even if they were to be in the car in five minutes, they would still be over half an hour late for his scheduled time—and Ritsuka is either punctual to the number, or does not go at all. He just lets their hands come together for a moment, as Ritsuka almost wordlessly stands and they go to the door. Soubi grabs his coat with one hand, Ritsuka pulls the keys off the counter, while the other hands remained firmly linked.

Maybe Soubi doesn't know the details, the exact reasons for Ritsuka's distant, pained look barely concealed by an even color, but he will follow him wherever he needs him to go. The most Ritsuka allows him to stray from his grip is to crawl into the car, and even then it is only to start the car and then his willowy fingers are his again.

---

Soubi knows the roads to Katsuko-sensei's office as well as any other route in his life. The loss of function—and circulation, with Ritsuka's ever increasingly insecure grip—in his hand doesn't hinder him at all. Tokyo's glimmering lights seem harsh and artificial against the darkening skies. The fact that Ritsuka can do nothing but stare at them with upset eyes doesn't help, his fingers worrying at Soubi's knuckles.

A short distance from their destination, Soubi again turns to look at Ritsuka. His gaze is small and sideways, but formed only out of comfort. "Ritsuka."

The frayed tips of the younger's ears twitch in response, but he can see the muscles in his jaw tightening as he resists the urge to turn and face him. Even the mumbled, "Hm?" of confirmation is laced with tension.

Soubi pulls up to an intersection and pulls Ritsuka's to his mouth. He kisses the back of it in much the same manner he'd done the first day they'd met. Ritsuka's mind floods with the damp, crisp smell of autumnal leaves coating the world, the saline in his mouth, the soft texture of the muffs around Soubi's sleeves, wrapped around his face. And—despite himself—he feels his body slowly unclench and his eyes turn to Soubi.

For a moment, his painful plan is forgotten. Soubi smiles with as much light as he can muster and Ritsuka feels his thumb run along his pulse. "You'll be alright," he says, even though the problem has not been spoken, and Soubi knows he doesn't know the full story.

And for that, Ritsuka is grateful beyond compare.

They are still joined at the hand when Ritsuka pulls him from the car and up to the office. Without having to be asked, without one syllable of discussion, Soubi knows to park the car where he normally would issue a tender word of parting for the hour, knows to follow when he normally would leave. The weather is turning, signaling the passage of another full year—two since that first encounter between fighter and sacrifice.

That's another thing Ritsuka latches onto to avoid the present—they haven't battled for nearly a year. The wound in Soubi's hand is a distant and ugly scar, but no nearer than that.

They're at Katsuko's door before Ritsuka registers it. Instinctively, as if tensing for a hard blow, he clutches Soubi's wrist in both hands, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Soubi doesn't look down at him—for he's too busy staring at the figure sitting quietly in the bench just outside the door bearing Katsuko's name.

"Kio?"

Ritsuka looks up, and sure enough, spots the lime-yellow of Kio's hair and telltale spark of his jewelry beneath the lights. Soubi's friend stands up from his seat and smiles half-crookedly, his warmth a little muddled with concern.

"Hi, Sou-chan," he greets, the cute bounce of his voice more burdened than usual. "Rit-chan."

Here is where Soubi begins to piece things together, and Ritsuka feels the former gentle willow bend of his hand tense until it is again steeled and whiplike, almost as if poised for a coming attack. And in a way, Ritsuka thinks as his necks almost feels too weak to support his head, it almost is.

He looks down at Ritsuka, and his eyes do not match the roundness of glasses out of a spark of joy, but curiosity and a little flame of worry—fear. Their faces are not as far apart as they were two years ago, but somehow Ritsuka feels that distance returning as Soubi retracts behind a wall for protection.

He has to break that thing down.

"Soubi—"

Katsuko-sensei opens the door and smiles gently. "Agatsuma-san?"

It's then that Soubi understands. Ritsuka watches the round of his eyes go flat, but not before a genuine flash of fear and pain goes through them and stabs Ritsuka's at chest. His voice his half-there when he speaks. He runs his eyes along his chin, his long, thin lips, the visible indentation where his glasses have rested for too long on the bridge of his nose, hoping that it will drive away this distant, clouded look of defense. "Please, Soubi," he says. "I'm only doing this because I want you to be happy. For yourself. Not because of me."

Soubi looks down at him again. He still seems far away, but he's listening. Ritsuka tightens his grip. "For yourself, Soubi." He has to swallow a thick lump in his throat before he can continue. "I don't want to let my brother or me control you anymore."

"That's what I wish," he says. Ritsuka only half-believes it now—he can't affordto believe that's true, or his plan will crumble.

"No… I'm not going to let you do this to yourself anymore."

The color of Soubi's eyes turns amused, but hurt. "Is that an order?"

Ritsuka looks away.

"No, it's not," is the emphatic answer, punctuated by his fingertips trying to rub away the tension in his palm. "It's your choice. I only want you to be happy."

Soubi won't say he is happy with a pair of foreign eyes resting on him, and not even with Kio's familiar gaze. He wont' say anything, but looks up towards his sole friend in the world, seeking some sort of silent source of comfort, of direction.

Kio's eyes and words tell him what he's always known he'd answer in situations like this. "You know you need something Soubi. You know that." And then, the sweetness remaining is gone, replaced by firm advice. "Don't leave it all up to Ritsuka."

Ritsuka is staring at the ground. He feels Soubi's eyes stroke his bowed head once, and the steel in his grip flexes once, then dissipates. He pulls away from Ritsuka and steps inside the room. Kio is there to fall into place, snatching up Ritsuka's hand as the door shuts and the sound splits his head like thunder.

"You did something good, Ritsuka. Don't worry."

A/N: Just one or two more chapters before the end of this story, and I think we'll be due for another story, a little more Soubi-centric this time. Thanks for all your lovely reviews and interest in this story.