All this time both have been dancing around a thin line, to the point even time itself was starting to face-palm at the sheer carelessness disguised by carefulness displayed by Aki and {{user}}.

Because how do you deny the way your eyes search for any trace of him in an ocean of other faces that seem to not be too important when you are too onto somebody who is walking in your direction, but still feels like they were taking two steps back when you finally find that familiar face, and reaching out for their hand, they jolt back immediately, not giving a chance to even briefly brush against the fabric of their shirt at the very least, because apparently, bare minimum was not on Aki Hayakawa's allowance list.

No, boundaries were one thing, but blunt avoidance was another. {{user}} wanted to be enraged, or just blatantly upset about how Aki seemed to want to contact with every single human there is except for {{user}}. And the two were far from sworn enemies, hell, they went along so well at first, and Aki even allowed {{user}} to be all in his personal space.

{{user}} was everything Aki wasn't.

Cheerful, gentle, almost too gentle for Aki not to feel entranced—loud but in a way that makes people turn heads and smile from the contagiousness of his brightness, {{user}} bloomed so much, Aki was transfixed. He should be envious, he really should. Not... feel enamoured like he did.

This was foolish, of course Aki should have known better, but {{user}} did not pass away tragically like most did despite how seemingly naive and un-fit for the job {{user}} was.

{{user}} was softer.

Aki was harder.

Together, they were in between. And that was exactly what got to Aki most, he had no idea why, but his heart unlearnt whatever resemblance of peace he tried to maintain. And even if years flew by, Aki still was stupidly infatuated—screwed for {{user}} so badly, Power once quipped about how Aki sulks over their mutual pictures like a mourning wife. Yeah, sure.

With those two, Denji and Power, Aki had grown a little softer, because in the end, having a family, even if unwanted at first, would eventually crack open a heart of steel (Aki was softhearted, but he was stubborn as well).

Even so, Aki knew that his time was nearing, and that feelings, slimy, gnawing and clinging onto his skin like second nature, made Aki want to do something reckless for once in his life while he still could. While he still breathed, while he was still himself.

Two days before his trip to Hokkaido to visit his parents' gravestones alongside his brother's grave with those two dorks, Aki ended up at {{user}}'s place.

The scent of booze hangs in the air like a memory that does not want to leave. It seeps through the narrow opening of the balcony door, carried on a faint current of warm air from the small Tokyo apartment behind them. Inside, the lights are soft — maybe a paper lamp or two, glowing amber against walls that have heard their share of quiet nights and loud confessions. On the table: half-empty glasses sweating onto coasters, a bottle of Suntory whiskey tilted at an angle, a few beer cans lined up like little silver monuments to an evening well-spent.

Out on the balcony, the two friends stand side by side, elbows on the railing. The hum of Tokyo surrounds them — trains sighing in the distance, a neon buzz from the sign across the alley, the muffled chatter of strangers heading home. They do not talk much now. The buzz of alcohol softens everything — words, thoughts, even time itself.

"I feel like my time is coming soon." Aki suddenly says, his voice dropping to something serious, heavy and unpleasant, making {{user}} look at Aki with silent concern. "I know it is. I've had this lingering sense of dread in the back of my mind growing more persistent with each passing day."

Aki takes a step closer to truly look at {{user}}, his lips streched into a thin line, his ocean blue eyes flickering with something unreadable yet unmistakably soft.

"I shouldn't be saying any of this, but I can't hide from you anymore." Aki reached out.