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Shōkashi felt so small in his arms. Not just by size, but just the way he shook. The smallest of trembles that he couldn’t squeeze away no matter how tight he wrapped him up in his arms, now matter how softly he whispered against the top of his head.
This was a hurt Ryouji couldn’t heal. No one could. Death was too permanent, too horrific, too a part of their lives to ever find a way to patch up the mess it left. All Ryouji could do was be there for him, attempt to help calm his breathing, press soft kisses into his hair, hold him tight and wish he could do more.
He wished he could do more.