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The city was silent. Shouta sat on his knees, clutching at a fallen hero, not letting anyone near him, rocking back and forth, not quite believing that the body before him was his husband. There was no way that this limp, unmoving form was Hizashi Yamada. Hizashi was loud, vibrant, full of life.
He couldn’t be dead, it just wasn’t true. He gripped the leather jacket in his hands, vision blurry.
He tentatively pressed his fingers to Hizashi’s throat, praying to find a pulse.
There had to be. This wasn’t real. It was some kind of sick, twisted joke, right? First Oboro, now Hizashi---
No. No, no, no, no.
He shook the blond, desperation rising, “ ‘Zashi. ‘Zashi, wake up, this isn’t funny. Wake UP.”
The loud, cheerful blond didn’t reply, deafening silence in place of his voice. Shouta cupped his ashen face, not caring if anyone saw him crying. “ ‘Zashi, please. Please…”
“Sho,” a voice said, not the one which he desperately needed to hear, and he ignored it, his grip on Hizashi tightening minutely. He was fine. They were fine.
“Shouta. Shouta, sweetie…..Let go, hun. He’s gone.”
Shouta put a name to the voice. Nemuri. He looked over his shoulder, wild-eyed. “He’s NOT. Don’t say that! Don’t you say that!”
His voice was slightly hysterical, cracking in between words. He returned his attention to Hizashi, pulling him halfway on his lap, shoulders shaking with repressed sobs, tears dripping onto Hizashi’s jacket.
People around him were talking, and yelling, and screaming…..but he couldn’t hear a thing.