This chapter only makes sense if you've read the one entitled "Losses."

Weeks after Azana's death, Akari remains heartsick.

Hirato is the only one fully cognizant of the blond's emotional state. The researcher has made no significant emendations to his schedule. He's not requested a leave of absence. He demonstrates customary efficiency and professionalism, and even convincingly feigns his typical ill-humor. All of Research Tower is impressed by the doctor's equanimity, his inimitable dedication, his undiminished competence - although they tend to interpret these things as characteristic of a cold intellectual who understands the totality of the universe and nothing about humanity.

Hirato's experience is precisely the opposite. There are tells, but they're visible by moonlight alone, and solely in the velvety hush of the captain's quarters. Akari always arrives well after midnight, likely because he's too worn thin for interacting with any crew. The blond slips into Hirato's apartment like a specter, silent and cloaked in shade. Nothing is offered in the way of greeting, no mutual acknowledgement, no illumination even. He undresses wordlessly in the dark and climbs under the covers, eventually coming to rest against the commander's chest and sliding an arm low around his waist.

They seldom sleep so close, even on nights when they've exhausted their passion and one another.

Hirato abhors it - not Akari's proximity, of course. It's himself he loathes. Threading his fingers through the doctor's hair feels like betrayal. Banding an arm around his back is treachery. He's always been keenly aware of the blood staining his hands, but touching his lover with these hands is unforgivably traitorous, particularly since they've wrought the other's sorrow. Still, he pulls him near and wonders why the physician can't hear his mimicry of a heart creaking. At this range, the sound should deafen.

Tonight, the blond's fingers etch patterns in his skin, trailing heat in their wake. Hirato stills them before heat gives rise to fire and fire to intent. "You should rest," he says apologetically. Desiring Akari makes him feel reprehensible. Sometimes, it's not at all enjoyable to torment.

"I wonder," the researcher inquires pensively, "do you deny me on account of remorse?"

A sharp gasp slices the quietude as the assertion lands with stunning force. The captain takes several minutes to gather himself, and when he does, his cadence is borne by much more than culpability. "Akari..."

"Consider the company before dissembling. I might have been dulled momentarily, but I've worked it out now." Measured, careful words, yes, but the brunet isn't fooled. This is Akari at his most rueful, most disappointed.

"I wasn't going to lie, actually. Only explain." Deception is ineffectual, he knows, so disclosure is what's left. "My choice was between hurting you and possibly losing you." A weary sigh escapes him. "I made a decision. I won't lose you; to this end, I'll commit any evil." Hirato's arms extricate themselves instinctively at that, as if his sins might mar his lover's soul. They come to rest above his head, fists curled so tightly that fingernails leave tiny red crescents along his palm.

"It wasn't your choice to make." Akari's anger chills their bed although he speaks in barely a whisper. "It was mine."

"I know." And he does. He really does.

"How am I supposed to forgive you?"

That rare tremor in the doctor's tone shatters Hirato's mock heart as thoroughly as the knowledge that follows thereafter: "I don't expect you will."

They've not moved. A hand rests on the captain's chest, a fall of soft hair tickles his skin. Even so, night's shadows grow darker somehow, lengthening ominously and threatening to overwhelm. He can intuit what's forthcoming without much difficulty. Akari's pain is tangible; it's never felt quite so strong. "I want so desperately to hate you - to rage, to leave, to erase the very memory of you." A breath catches in Hirato's throat as the researcher continues in a defeated manner more efficacious than any sort of irritated snapping. "Have you any idea what you've done? Azana was a protegé, a ward. I cared very deeply for him despite his actions towards me."

But I care more about you, the brunet thinks. He wants nothing more than to spare Akari, to alleviate every trace of his agony, to shelter and protect him until the world rights itself. Unfortunately, worlds don't right themselves upon command, and he's witnessed enough depravity and violence to question whether they right themselves at all. So he responds as his pragmatism dictates. "Hate me, then. I won't fault you. If you're alive, I'll take hate."

For nearly an hour, nothing is exchanged except the steady ebb and flow of breathing and the synchronized beating of two hearts, crippled though said hearts may be at present.

"I tried. I can't because I love you." It sounds enfeebled, not romantic in the least. Resigned, like he'd prefer otherwise. Devastated, like it's a malediction. It sounds guilty.

The confession shouldn't cause a dull ache to settle in Hirato's chest. It shouldn't rend him apart so savagely. But it does for myriad reasons, each a shard of mirrorglass slicing deeper than the last. A maelstrom of emotions breaks the surface of both facades. It shrouds the two like cold, dense mist. Still, one of the captain's hands glides across pale shoulders with exceeding reserve... and the other gently brushes aside strawberry blond hair. An apology is unconscionable, so he presses his lips to Akari's forehead, remarkably grateful that the doctor permits even this fleeting kiss. "Then I'll endeavor to be worthy of that love."

It's the only promise he'll never break.

NB of a vaguely related nature: I tried to get this under 500 words, but I simply couldn't. I'm on post-surgery opiates, so it's okay right? Please say yes. It really won't happen again, I swear. Also, I realize that this story is not up to par and boasts fail editing. I'd like it if you blamed the pain meds, but you have my apologies in any case.

Did you know that referents for hair color are gender specific? I didn't. Hey guys, you're supposed to tell me when I make such blunders.

I've not depicted an ideal relationship. If I've disappointed you on that score, please again accept my sincere apologies. My understanding of love is such that it's not an acceptance of another in spite of their shortcomings, but rather an acceptance because of them. (Well, some shortcomings, of course. Some are simply unacceptable.) Lovers don't always manage to forgive each other, but they always make an attempt, at least in my humble opinion. It's the agony of the process of forgiveness (for both parties) that I wanted to articulate here.

Things do get better for our boys, as you've no doubt surmised from these other drabbles.

*gets off soap box*

Hey requi, I believe this is closer to the type of story that you wanted from me. Take it; it's yours.