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Never in his life had Madara been so desperate for something so personal.
He clung onto Ryouji’s shirt as if it were a lifeline. Shut his eyes tight as Ryouji seared their time’s end onto his lips, tongues and teeth drawing each other back in over and over as if neither were ready to let this go. Let each other go, let the years of dedication and mornings spent in the other’s embrace slip through their fingers to lay on the ground behind them.
Madara didn’t want it to end. Never in his life had he fought and held onto something as selfish as his time with Ryouji (stolen moments behind everyone’s back, fingers laced together when they were alone, blood on his hands to prevent his from spilling) and he wanted to be selfish, wanted to deny the hurt as if nothing had ever come between them.
It wasn’t Ryouji’s fault, and yet he blamed himself. As if his memories had ever been given away willingly. But no amount of pleading with him would convince his love that, and Madara’s own sins could not be forgotten either.
They pulled apart, foreheads resting together as they had so many times before, yet it did not feel soft, did not feel like the intimate act it once had been. Now it felt like goodbye. Like those dark green eyes he’d memorized over the years would never look at him the same again, would never be without the pit of pain he saw in them now.
“Please,” Madara begged him one last time. Pride be damned, he was not above pleading for this - for this man, for their love, for everything they’d ever had or been.
But it only brought Ryouji more pain to hear it. His hands coming up to wrap around Madara’s, gently removing them from their lifeline, voice cracking as he only whispered, “I can’t.”
They both broke in each other’s absence.