Shuichi shrugged off his coat, a burning stick of cancer wedged between his cracked lips. He took a drag and sighed, watching the silvery smoke rise up to the ceiling and slowly dissolve. Ignoring the large piles of books and dirty dishes, he slowly dragged himself into "Yuki's study". It was still Yuki's, even if he was gone. Shuichi plopped into the chair, rocking back and forth a couple times before opening Yuki's laptop, staring quietly at the screen as it booted up. Taking another drag on his smoldering cigarette, he typed in the password, "Kitazawa". It hadn't taken him very long to figure out the password. After all, what better way to remember your password than make it the name of the man you love? He looked at the date in the corner of the screen. December 1. "164 days" Shuichi whispered, his voice hoarse. '164 days since he died. 157 days since his funeral. 156 days since I stopped singing'

Shuichi stubbed his cigarette in the convenient ashtray next to Yuki's laptop, his hands shaking. His hands were always shaking. He assumed it was because of the virus flowing through his system. Or maybe it was because he was cold. Not that it mattered. When you're going to die anyway, does it really matter if you take care of yourself? If you're always cold and you're smoking more than two packs of day? The laptop finally finished loading, a picture of Shuichi and Eiri appeared as the background. It had been taken after one of Bad Luck's concerts. Shuichi was in his stage costume, a fresh hickey clearly visible on his neck. Eiri was smirking at the camera, his arm wrapped around Shuichi's waist protectively.

Shuichi blinked back tears, digging his nails into his right palm. It had all been a lie. Yuki had never loved him. The only things he had ever loved was beer, nicotine, and sex. The only person he had ever loved was Yuki Kitazawa. Shuichi often wondered if it had been Kitazawa that infected Yuki with the AIDS that killed him. The irony would've been amazing. But Yuki had been with so many people, it was impossible to know which one of his fuck buddies had given him the disease. It wasn't until after Yuki died that Shuichi found out he had been paying child support for six women. It wasn't until after Yuki died that Shuichi found out he had been paying three reporters and eight girls he had slept with to keep it quiet. It wasn't until after Yuki died that Shuichi realized how little he had meant to him.

But he had loved Yuki, right to the end. Even when his bones were showing and his face was shrunken from lipodystrophy, he had thought he was beautiful. His beautiful, golden sex god. Eiri Yuki's last words had been muttered under his breath, something about unfinished business before his eyes glazed over and his body went slack. No "I love you." No "I'm sorry." Just one last complaint and he was gone. Shuichi spent weeks wondering what his lover had meant before coming to the conclusion that he was referring to visiting Kitazawa's grave one last time. They had planned on going if Yuki showed signs of improvement. Discovering Eiri's password only confirmed this suspicion. It hurt. It hurt so bad. Knowing that the hungry and predatory looks Yuki had given him were never for him. They were for Kitazawa. Well now he and Eiri finally had something in common. They were both in love with the ghost of a man.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Shuichi scrolled down through Eiri's documents. He had read most of them already. Yuki's stories and the virus, his beloved's parting gifts to him. Just this morning he had finished reading "Time", which was about a young Japanese student living in New York with his mentor. Shuichi would've laughed if it didn't hurt so much. But nothing could stop his eyes from widening and his hands from shaking as he read the title of Yuki's last document. The unfinished novel. The book with no written ending: "Unfinished Business". Hastily, he clicked on it, his mouth hanging open in shock. Pink haired pop star? Novelist sex god with golden hair?

This story was about them. Their whole story was in this single document. The park, the lyrics, the concert, the elevator, the apartment…it was all here. Shuichi read up to Yuki's discovery of the virus before he started to cry, warm tears trickling down his face, a small sob escaping his throat. Then things started to change.

"Shuichi, I don't know how much longer I have, and I have some unfinished business to complete before this damn virus gets worse. There's something for you in the closet."

He didn't remember Yuki ever saying that. He didn't remember opening the closet door and-

He flew out of the room, stumbling over piles of Self-Help books and Eiri Yuki novels, collapsing before the closet in the main bedroom. Slowly, he slid the doors open and sure enough, a small wooden box was tucked in the corner of the closet, right underneath Eiri's favorite dress shirt. His whole body was shaking, and he couldn't tell if it was from anticipation or the choked sobs shuddering through his body. Maybe he was cold again. He slowly opened he box and gasped, clasping a boney hand over his mouth and bringing the box closer to his face. Two silver rings reflected across his face, glittering in the remaining sunlight coming through the bedroom window. He picked up the smaller one, reading the inscription on the ring. 'Kiss shining, we're kissing in my eyes…' Lyrics. Lyrics to their song. The song that Yuki had wrote for him, about them. How had he doubted him? He slid the ring onto his finger, marveling at how well it fit him. Yuki had died loving him, and he hadn't known it. He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth.

"I'm sorry Yuki, I'm so sorry…"