He's home, exhausted, food from a convenience store sitting on his table untouched. He had finals all day and work ran later than usual. It rained the entire bike ride home and he's cold, even after his hot shower. He hasn't even turned on his lights and pushes his food around with chopsticks by the city lights flicker through curtains only partially closed across the balcony doors.

He had made an obligatory visit to his parent's less than a week prior and his mom had immediately exclaimed that he wasn't eating enough, seconds after he entered the threshold. She had then pulled him in for a tight hug, practically squeezing the breath from his lungs. Even his father had stepped over and joined, though with brevity. He was alarmed when they pulled apart to see their eyes were glistening. "We miss him too," his father had murmured. "Though the reduced grocery bill is appreciated."

Taichi leans against his bed, pushing dinner away. The flat is silent, save for the fridge humming and the gentle tick of the clock on the wall, by the entrance. He wonders if Koushiro is still up, burning the midnight oil as he often does, chatting away with Mimi who is seven hours behind in France. It has been several weeks now, since Agumon and Gabumon have parted. Sometimes, it feels like years, other times, it's as fresh as if it were happening again.

We'll see one another again. Taichi reminds himself, breathing deep, recalling all the other moments in his life where he had thought he was permanently separated from his partner. Each time gets harder to overcome, and it seems the length of time between finding one another only grows greater. He reaches for his phone, flips it open. There's a text from Koushiro, asking him about his thesis paper and another from Yamato, asking him if he's awake. The latter text is only a few minutes old.

Yeah, Taichi texts back, unsure of what else to say he presses send. Before he puts the phone back down, Yamato replies: I'm coming over.

Yamato has an annoying way of knocking; a staccato rap that follows no particular rhythm. And he also has an annoying way of walking in, without waiting for an invite.

"Unlocked, as usual," Yamato accuses, sliding his shoes off and placing his helmet on the floor. He looks around, "it still stinks in here." he accuses, wrinkling his nose.

Taichi rolls his eyes, knowing full well it smells fine, he had washed his coaching uniforms not that long ago. "The fact that you lock your door is a disgrace to all of Japan. Who do you think is coming for you? Once you went through puberty, all your fangirls went running after Bieber."

Yamato grunts at this but with a smirk. He slides his feet into the guest slippers, pink bunny slippers. Koushiro had bought them, annoyed that Taichi hadn't thought to get guest slippers. "Who the hell is coming over, Kou?" Taichi had asked him, arguing his point. "Barely two people can fit in my flat!"

"Those suit you," Taichi chuckles, receiving a light slap to the back of the head. He wonders at what age he should sue Yamato for abuse.

"Moron," Yamato hisses then lowers himself to the floor. "You know, you might want to consider getting a cushion or two."

"If you worked out, you'd have an ass to sit on and it wouldn't hurt so much to sit on the floor."

He waits for the pounce and the usual insulted-Yamato death threats but receives none. It's harder to get him mad and riled up now that he's older. Only T.K. still seems to be able to do so with ease. Yamato slides Taichi's food closer to them and hands him the remote, his fingers grazing Taichi's slightly. Taichi swears there's an electric pulse, a snap back to present time, but it's fleeting, done as quickly as acknowledged. Taichi reaches under his bed and pulls out two floor cushions.

"This looks pretty good," Yamato states, looking slightly impressed at the food. "Almost edible."

"I stopped at Miyako's parents' store on my way home. She's coming back from Spain soon, they seemed ecstatic." Taichi flips on the television, aimlessly scrolling through Hulu – settling on a movie both he and Yamato already saw.

Yamato nudges the tray of food closer to Taichi. "You should eat."

"Uh, hello, Sora. Who let you in?"

Yamato shakes his head. "Hey, she's not around. Someone has to mother you."

"Who's mothering you?"

Yamato sighs. "T.K.," he groans. "You know I love my little brother, but he has stopped by almost every night since –."

"Has your dad been home?"

Yamato shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair. "I mean, yes, but only in passing. It's basically like living alone."

They both go quiet. "I'll make a deal with you," Taichi says, and Yamato looks at him. "Help me eat half of this and I'll buy the beer next time we're out."

They eat in comfortable silence as the night deepens and the city noise dulls to a gentle hum. Lights from other units go out all around them and the room gets darker, lit by only the television. Neither of them can finish their share but both confess to themselves that it's the most they've eaten in one sitting in a while.

Yamato glances around the room, impressed with the growing book collection. "Are those for show? Trying to impress someone?"

Taichi nudges him. "Shut up, I've read most of them."

His gaze falls to the guitar in the corner, at the foot of the bed. "I can't believe you still have that old thing." It's red and white, one of Yamato's earlier guitars before the first band become a success and he began to buy higher quality instruments.

"Ladies love a guitar player," Taichi teases, wiggling his eyebrows. Yamato huffs.

It's late and they're both tired. Being tired is part of being a young adult and DigiDestined, Jou had once said, part of the job description. The television drones on, the shadows play off the few items on Taichi's desk. Yamato is tracing patterns on the table.

"Tai?"

"Yeah?"

"Fuck if I am adult enough to deal with this, for fucking real this time." He swallows hard, blue eyes flashing. A stranger would think he was angry, and a part of him was, but Taichi knew it was a shield. He doesn't hesitate, throws an arm around the blondes' shoulders, and brings him in, almost like he would if he was playing soccer and congratulating another team member. Only, that zap is back, the second their bodies touch. Yamato doesn't cry, he cried all he possibly thought he could the night of, but he collapses, the despair written in his body.

Taichi shifts, sitting cross-legged, and somehow manages to shuffle Yamato so that he's sitting on his lap, straddling him. He buries his face against the side of the brunette's neck, places his feet flat on the ground behind him, pink rabbit slippers still securely on his feet. He isn't sobbing but his shoulders shake like he is. Taichi has one arm around his back, gently rubbing circles, and the other is tangled in Yamato's hair, screwing up his 'do completely. The moment is raw and private, best savored in the dark.

"Hey, c'mon," Taichi whispers. "We'll see them again, we will." Who am I trying to convince? Myself?

Yamato doesn't believe this statement, deep down, he truly does not think they'll see their Digimon again. When Gabumon left this time, the hole was too big. And he wants to mourn, so he can move past this, but all the other DigiDestined – including Taichi – want to hold on to the idea that they'll be reunited. He wants to be able to talk about the good times, the epic battles, the bizarre adventures, but no one else does. They stop him when he starts, hope gleaming as they say things like 'we'll meet them again', 'can sense their energy within me', 'I know it was the end', 'it's the hope that gets me through the day'. Yamato wants to say 'Gabumon is dead'.

Tears well up in his eyes. He squeezes his lids hard, hoping the droplets are absorbed by Taichi's ridiculous hair and not felt on his skin. His fingers are numb, he tries playing a rhythm down Taichi's spine. For some reason, whenever he is overwhelmed, his hands always seem to physically sense what his soul emotes.

"You're not composing another love song, are you Yama?" Taichi pries, that sly annoying way of irking him with these fast jabs.

"If I were, it wouldn't be for you," he growls, an odd juxtaposition considering his current location and level of relief to be with his best friend. He knows the exaggerated pout Taichi's now wearing without looking.

"Hey," Taichi says, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. Yamato is ashamed to admit that he wasn't ready to let go just yet. "Thanks for coming over."

Yamato loosens up and sits up. He is trying hard not to blush, realizing what an intimate position they're in. His gaze locks on and he's frozen, absorbed in the deep chocolate hue orbs gazing back at him. Deep in his mind, long and often buried, is that embarrassing scream to kiss him, kiss his best fucking friend. Damnit, Tai, Yamato thinks to himself, jealous of Taichi's innocent and casual way of just being – just letting the scene play out – and just acting on whatever he wants without hesitation.

Taichi breaks their staring contest first, glancing at the egg-shaped clock by his headstand. "You staying the night or what? We both have class in a few hours."

"Shit –," and like that, Yamato is a blur of motion. Helmet on, motorcycle jacket zipped up against the cool night air, and waving over his shoulder as he slides from pink bunny slippers to his boots. He shuts the door behind himself, locking it with the spare key he keeps on his keyring. And then he's moving faster still – homeward.