He fucking kissed me.

The realization that Yokozawa should be much more horrified dimly filtered through to his alcohol-hazed mind. But he felt scarily calm as he looked at Masamune's sleeping face on his futon. There had been no way he could have gone home after the volume of alcohol they'd consumed, so Yokozawa had laid out his spare futon for him. He had gone to sleep within minutes.

Yokozawa had forgotten that the guy was a fucking sponge as far as alcohol was concerned, but his body could only take so much drinking before he eventually, invariably, passed out.

How many years had it been since he'd seen Masamune's face like this? Since he'd seen him look so painfully young and pure; like the years fraught with heartbreak and the divorce of his parents and the pernicious mixture of nameless fucks, nicotine and alcohol he'd tried to fill the void with had left nary a mark on him?

He realized with a start that Masamune's expression was the same one it had been ten years ago, that time.

And we'd been drunk back then too, Yokozawa thought, a bitter taste creeping into his mouth.

Nothing had changed.

And yet, everything had changed.

Because for a moment, Yokozawa had pictured them back in college, but he knew that they'd both changed. Masamune had gotten more mature, had gained so much more self-confidence, morphing from an acutely sensitive, aloof teenager to the charming man who had pulled Emerald out of hibernation, from the bottom to the top.

And yet, when he dropped his professional mien, he was still, in so many ways, the moody, taciturn eighteen-year-old Yokozawa had met all those years ago.

He'd walked into class in the middle of term, this Takano boy with the distant expression and the sad eyes that girls whispered about and the boys maintained a wary distance from. Yokozawa, not being an overly sociable person, had not had occasion to have an actual conversation with him until a good few months into his arrival.

They'd chanced upon each other in the library, when Masamune had spotted him reading one of his favorite books, and had struck up a conversation.

And while Yokozawa didn't believe in fate or any superstitious bullshit like that, he did believe that it was, at once, one of the best and worst things that had ever happened to him.

"What do you want?" Yokozawa had finally snapped, after Masamune had peered fixedly over his shoulder at the book for about five minutes.

"Kaori dies in the end, you know. Right after she finds out that Masato is the killer and also her father."

"Thanks a lot." Yokozawa had turned his soon-to-be customary glare onto him, laying on the sarcasm heavily.

Unfazed, Masamune had taken a seat across from him. "That one wasn't as good as the rest, anyway. You read any others?"

"Are you kidding? I have every book Sagara-sensei has ever released."

For the first time since Masamune's appearance, Yokozawa had seen a spark, a dull flicker of interest in those strange eyes of his. He'd held out a hand.

"Takano Masamune."

"Yokozawa Takafumi. Nice to meet you,"

And the rest, as they say, had been history.

They'd just clicked, and as they'd spent more and more time together, Yokozawa had begun to unravel the puzzle that was Takano Masamune, with his fragile heart and sensitive soul. But as he silently let him in at all hours of the night, as he became a permanent fixture at formerly solitary meals, as Yokozawa carried him home and treated his wounds after he hadn't appeared that night;

Yokozawa, in turn, found out about the boy who'd run off and broken his heart, the parents who were simply props in his familial charade, and the despair he nonetheless felt when they parted ways for good.

And Yokozawa had never been good at expressing the affection he'd developed for this reticent boy, but as Masamune's armor slowly chipped off, bit by bit, they'd developed their own form of wordless communication.

It was what had buoyed them through when Masamune had snapped. Through the months of self-destruction following that horrible day when he'd stood holding the receiver in his trembling hands, just getting out he has a fiancée in a horrible, choked voice before reaching straight for the liquor cabinet.

And Yokozawa almost hadn't noticed how this bond, on his side, at least, had deepened into something more.

Not until Masamune had started to come to him every night, looking starved and smelling like a different person every time, with a fog of goodness-knows-what in his eyes, and Yokozawa could do nothing but watch. He had fought it back, just opening the door for him with his usual, "So you aren't dead yet. Congratulations."

But the green-eyed monster that had taken up residence in his chest had refused to go away even when Masamune had been fed, clean and resting on Yokozawa's bed with a book in hand.

It had kept eating away at him intermittently, but it wasn't until Yokozawa had dragged him, half-dead, out of an alley, after searching for him for three days, with blood crusted on his thighs and suspicious white stains on his clothes, that the braces had broken.

He'd made Masamune delete all the contacts on his phone, every single one, and had tried not to read too much into the fact that Yokozawa's had been the only ne he'd kept.

But Yokozawa was only human, and humans aren't immune to demands of instinct.

And before he knew it, his hand had gripped Masamune's chin, forcing those eyes of clear amber to look at him.

"Promise me," he'd snarled. "Promise me you'll never sleep around again."

The familiar shade of apathy had iced over Masamune's features again as he'd tried to pry Yokozawa's hand from him without replying. Yokozawa had known by then that it was only a thin veneer for his fragility.

"…"

"I'll… do it, okay?" he'd finally spit out, inebriation along with wild, reckless possessiveness making it easier to spit out the words. "I'll give you…"

anything.

"…whatever you get with them. So please, Masamune. Don't do that again."

I love you.

And before Masamune could have ventured forth any reply, Yokozawa had sealed their lips together, putting into that bruising kiss all the passion of the wild jealousy that had possessed him of late. Masamune's hands, lying limply by his sides, had frozen in shock for only a moment before coming up to lock behind Yokozawa's neck, throwing all his hurt into the way he had deepened the kiss, fast and sloppy and dirty.

And for once Yokozawa had let the monster have free reign as he pushed Masamune down to stake his claim.

After it had come that time, that blink-of-an-eye period when love had made an idealist of him. When he'd dared, for a few brief months, to hope to just stay like this, by Masamune's side, forever. To make him happy like that, even when his regret over what they'd done had come through to him clearer than if he'd screamed it out.

Just give it time, he'd thought, how long can one remain heartbroken?

Sue him, he couldn't stop himself from hoping that he could become precious enough, make the one he loved happy enough that the wounds left by Onodera's callousness didn't sting quite so much. Not when he was Masamune's sole confidant and the only one he smiled for.

But the one thing he hadn't understood, or had refused to understand, was that Masamune never gave up on people he loved.

Yokozawa scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking himself out of his reverie. Somehow, it had been therapeutic. That Masamune had never felt anything for him, would never feel anything for him beyond a strong bond of friendship, was clearer in his mind than ever. Maybe without the baggage tying them down, they could have had something beyond that, but, much as Yokozawa hated subscribing to shitty didactic sayings, it just wasn't meant to be.

He understood, now, the meaning of that kiss.

It felt like closure.

"Ow, fuck," Yokozawa opened his eyes to a pounding headache, the profanity being his instinctive reaction when he accidentally sent his shrilly ringing alarm clock flying.

He was answered by an annoyed groan from somewhere in the room, and all the memories of the previous night came back to him in a sickening rush as he spotted Masamune sprawled out on his futon, glaring at him with sleep-clouded eyes.

"Shut the fuck up," Masamune muttered, throwing a hand over his eyes to block out the intrusive sunlight. "And turn that thing off before I do something to it."

Yokozawa wanted to dig a pit into the ground and bury himself in it as the… interesting memories of last night hit him full force. He numbly fished out the painkillers he kept in his bedside drawers for exactly such occasions. He swallowed one pill and threw the other plastic tab to Masamune.

"Get your ass out of my bed, we have work. Take this and get decent."

He tried to act as normal as possible as he retrieved his alarm clock from the bedding and turned it off before escaping to the bathroom. Jesus, what was it with Masamune and embarrassing revelations?

They'd have to talk about this, but Yokozawa could afford to put it off and stew in his embarrassment alone a while longer while he took the slowest shower he conceivably could.

Yokozawa cursed under his breath as was met by a significantly more awake-looking Masamune when he emerged from the shower. He'd kind of been hoping that he'd still be asleep so that Yokozawa could sneak out past him.

"You sure that was long enough?" Masamune said sarcastically, brushing past Yokozawa into the shower. Yokozawa could only scowl at him as he went about dressing for work and cooking, from memory, pan-fried salmon.

He was putting the food onto two plates when Masamune walked into the kitchen, toweling his hair dry. Yokozawa tried not to stare too hard at he smooth, hard planes of his body. Although it had hardly been a criterion for his infatuation with him, there was no denying that the Emerald editor-in-chief was attractive.

"Hey, you remembered," Masamune said when he spotted the salmon, flashing the smile that made the half-healed wounds in Yokozawa's chest ache.

"I could hardly forget that salmon's your favorite when you were on my ass to make it for you half the time," Yokozawa replied, putting the plates on the table and sitting across from him. "There. Eat up."

"Thanks for the food," Masamune said, taking a bite with that same soft smile still on his face. They ate in silence for a while before he ventured, "So I hear I'm quite the inadvertent matchmaker."

"….!"

Yokozawa almost choked on his food but stared determinedly at his plate, trying to ignore the blush burning furiously on his cheeks.

"Let's agree to never talk about that again."

Masamune laughed, and Yokozawa was startled into looking up.

"I'm happy for you," he said, grabbing hold of Yokozawa's hand across the table and squeezing briefly. His eyes were warm. "Really. You deserve it."

And despite the blush now scorching his cheeks, he found it in himself to smile back.

Neither of them mentioned the kiss. By this point, neither had to.

"Well, oniichan, I'm off to bed!" Hiyori said, running into the living room where Yokozawa was sitting, making revisions to his Sales proposal. "Good night!"

"Good night," Yokozawa said. "You want a bottle of water to keep in your room?"

"All taken care of~ Come on, Sora-chan, we're off to bed!"

The cat, which had been curled up next to Yokozawa, promptly padded off after Hiyo, who waved to Yokozawa before disappearing into her room.

The day had been relatively relaxed for Yokozawa, since his subordinates had taken over part of his work to leave him room to juggle the Diamond Heart Board work. It was the reason why he was currently sitting in the Kirishimas' apartment at a comparatively early hour, in a more tranquil state of mind than usual. He hummed in contentment. Today had been a good day.

A click at the door presently sounded, followed by the sounding out of Kirishima's familiar tones. "I'm home~"

"Ah, welcome back," Yokozawa watched in some alarm as Kirishima immediately flopped down on the couch beside him. "Rough day?"

He'd been thinking this for quite some time, but Kirishima really did not look well. His face was definitely swollen, and the younger man had seen him scarily close to collapse on more than one occasion.

"Work was fine. You certainly seem happy," he replied, eyes closed.

Something in his tone instantly put Yokozawa on the defensive. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Hmmm? Nothing," Kirishima said, going to get a beer from the fridge.

Yokozawa had been about to press him on his vague response when the beeping of the fax machine diverted his attention as it printed out a fax.

Kirishima's hurried rush into the room was too late to prevent his cursory glance at the fax.

Kirishima Zen

Diagnosis: Small Cell Lung Cancer (SCLC)

"The fuck?!" Yokozawa said, mind going blank with panic. He froze for a second before snatching the paper from the machine. His eyes scanned it hurriedly, and his heart

stopped.

Prognosis: 3 months from date of diagnosis, with radiation therapy.

Chemotherapy not recommended due to extensive metastasis.

Patient is required to visit Fukiyama Hospital at 10:55 for radiation session 5.

Yokozawa's lips blankly formed the words three months over and over again before something else belatedly registered.

"Session five? Just how long have you known about this?"

"About a month."

Kirishima's efforts to take the sheet back from Yokozawa had ceased, and he just stood there with a horrible, hollow loneliness in his eyes. Yokozawa felt terrible, blinding, all-consuming rage filling him at Kirishima's defeated admission.

"You have TWO FUCKING MONTHS to live, and you didn't even consider that I might need to know?!"

He didn't care if Hiyori woke up. All the wanted to do was give voice to the dread screaming in his head, to fill the cavernous void opening up his chest with some action, so he did exactly that, grabbing Kirishima by the front of his shirt and yelling in his face.

"When the fuck were you planning on telling me this, huh? Or did you just want me to wake up one day and find your corpse? I thought we were in this together, damn you!"

"Yokozawa—"

But Yokozawa violently slapped away the hand Kirishima out of his arm to placate him, instead finding the intensity of his fury throwing Kirishima backwards onto the couch before it cocked Yokozawa's fist back and connected it with his cheekbone with a sickening crunch.

"You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!"

His voice rose in volume with every syllable, until he knew that the neighbors would complain, and then did the only thing that made sense to him in that moment.

He grabbed his phone, keys and wallet, and, snatching his coat from the hanger, he ran out of the house, the building, autumn wind cooling the hot tears on his cheeks he hastily wiped away. He ran, not thinking, to the one place that held his treasure box of happy memories, the place the adult he was and the boy he had been had loved alike.

He ran to the garden.