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You try to reach out.
His hands meet yours.
You grasp them. He grasps them. You grasp each other.
Why are you hiding? What are you hiding from?
You don't know. It made sense once. Now it doesn't, but it doesn't matter anyway.
You think you killed something important. You and him. You and him and others.
You don't remember much about them. They liked you. You don't know if you even liked them in the first place.
But you do know that you like him. You do know that when you feel him, his warm hands on yours, your heart flutters and a name is on your tongue- you envision brown, you envision yellow, you envision grey- but it all mixes up and muddles and you're only left with colors and feelings and him.
Your name is… you don't know. You call yourself things, sometimes funny things that make him laugh, occasionally nasty things that make him hug you and cry on your shoulder.
You don't remember which ones they were, which ones made him laugh or cry or murmur quietly, murmuring that name that you'd already forgotten over and over.
You want to remember his though. Because he's important to you, and you don't know why you're important to him.
Extra weight, you can't see, useless, you can't do anything but stand as the noises get louder, and he gets scared. You're never afraid. He always gets rid of what growls at you. What growls at him.
You don't know anything in the world that would growl at someone so sweet.
You tell him that, you think, and he combs his fingers through your hair pleasantly. You hum. You feel your eyes closing, but it matters little to you, the world is dark all the same.
He's talking. Saying something. You try to grasp at it, try to make sense of it.
“I'm not though,” you catch, “I couldn't stop them- I couldn't stop what happened to you.”
You tell him it doesn't matter.
When he cries on your shoulder, you remember to pat his back. You try to feel the planes of his face with your hands afterward.
You tell him his face feels kind. Feels wet, too.
He laughs a little bit, weakly.
You tell him he has a nice voice.
He thanks you. He doesn't believe you.
You want him to, though. So you tell him, you tell him again that you like his voice.
“All I've been doing is screaming. I'm surprised you don't hate it, dude.”
You remember asking if “Dude” was your name.
He breaks down crying against your shoulder again.
You reach out, in that blank space of your mind. You remember his hands, his shaking hands, you remember tasting salt.
So you taste salt. You tilt your head a bit and move his face closer to yours, feeling those soft cheeks and that soft mouth with your fingers. You kiss his tears away, even though after you kissed his cheeks they came harder. They were endless, but it was okay. It was the least you could do.
Then you kiss his mouth for good measure.
“Hibiki…”
His voice never sounded so clear.
You open your mouth. You felt like you were taking a breath of fresh air, like you were soaring.
You reach out to grasp his hands.
He reaches out to grasp yours.
“Daichi.”
Your voice never sounded so clear.