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Are you okay? He wants to ask. Are you okay? Is there something I can do?
Are you afraid? He wants to ask. Are you afraid? Are you afraid like me?
But he doesn't ask, doesn't say anything.
Miyuki rests his forehead against his drawn up knees, closes his eyes and tries to forget. It's awkward, painful, to stare at Kuramochi crying, to see him break. Even more so to listen to it and feel like a knife is stabbing into his heart because he's powerless. There's nothing he can do, nothing they can do.
Things aren't that simple. They never have been, but sometimes, sometimes for the sake of his own sanity, Miyuki likes to pretend they are.
Lying is easier than admitting the truth, after all. Pretending that they've got a shot to make it out of this hell alive is an easier mantra to stick in their heads than accepting the truth, letting the knowledge that they'll probably die out here—cold, alone, broken—overtake them.
Kuramochi's as good of a pretender as Miyuki is. Always has been, honestly. And even as they're sitting alone in this secluded cave, backs both literally and figuratively pressed against the wall as they ran and hid here to escape the horde of the infected that caught up to them, that killed their other companions like it was nothing, even here, Kuramochi tries to keep up the strong facade. Doesn't want Miyuki to see him break. Doesn't want to see himself break.
But then there's the quick glimpse of the tears slipping down Kuramochi's cheeks. There's the way he'd pressed a hand over his face to hide them—like he wanted to push them back in, away forever. There's the quiet echo of strangled cries, broken hiccups and intakes of breath.
Everyone breaks eventually. It's not hard to here.
And when Kuramochi does, Miyuki can't block it out. Can't block it out. Definitely can't fix it. Avoids it altogether because he knows, he knows he can't.
"I'm useless, aren't I?" he asks, words bitter on his tongue. He says them to no one, really. The frustrated puff of breath is more for himself than it's for Kuramochi. "Just sitting here while you cry. Waiting until you're done to do anything..."
Miyuki's not... Miyuki's not good at this.
(Kuramochi's not good at this either, he'll say, he'll insist. More than once. He'll press his cheek into the crook of Miyuki's neck while they huddle for warmth late at night. He'll say, "I don't know what I'm doing." Will say, "I don't know what this is."
Miyuki'll shrug. Will say "Neither do i." Will mean it. Will turn his head. Will look into Kuramochi's eyes for an answer that neither of them have. What now? What's next?
Then, Kuramochi will lean in. Will press their lips together in a kiss that's gentle at first, but grows fierce, grows into fire as quickly as it starts. They can't keep one roaring in the dead of the night because it means being found. But they have this.
They have this. And it might be nothing, in the grand scheme of things, but for now, for now it's something. It's something to them.)
But that thought is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
(You are good at this, Miyuki wants to tell him. You're better at this than i ever could be.
Because Kuramochi's the one who'll look away from bodies and blood and carnage. He'll press a gun into Miyuki's hands, even when Miyuki thinks he never wants to pick one up again, and says "Let's go."
He cries, sometimes. (But not like this. Never like this. Not like this time.) They all do, but Kuramochi cries when Miyuki isn't looking, when none of them are. He'll do his best to hide whatever weakness or vulnerability he's feeling because this is what they both do. They vow they won't fall apart, not in front of each other.
Kuramochi takes a step forward when everyone else wants to take a step back. He'll put himself on the line if it means there's a chance at saving someone, at winning over the infected.)
Kuramochi's equal parts backbone in this duo they've formed since meeting months and months ago, since getting caught up in this mess and sticking together due to some unforeseen attachment to each other. Neither of them can hold this up on their own, they've learned, in more dangerous situations than this. Ones they've gotten out of, barely scraped out of.
It'd be easy. It'd be easy to leave, to accept whatever comes next alone. Long ago, in a life that's only blurred memories of a home he doesn't have anymore, one that's firmly cut into the past with a divider—pre-Kuramochi—Miyuki would've thought that's the easier option, the best one.
In a way, it still is.
But then... but then again, it's not. It'd be easy to walk away, but he doesn't want to. It's a little more difficult to stay, a little more painful to stay but... but he thinks, at least for now, he doesn't regret it. Won't regret it.
Miyuki's not in love with Kuramochi...
(Not like that.)
He could be...
(But he can't. They can't. Not here. Not like this.)
That doesn't make this any easier. It's a weak excuse for detachment that doesn't solve anything at all.
"You're an idiot," Kuramochi mutters, and even though it's said at the end of a breakdown, through a sharp intake of breath, it feels a bit lighter. Lighter than anything has all day.
He turns, scoots closer to Kuramochi.
"You're bleeding," he points out.
"So what?"
Miyuki sits in front of him. Picks up his hand, grabs the few bandages they've got left, until they'll have to pillage for more.
He doesn't say anything, only looks down at Kuramochi's hand, bites his lip as he puts his full focus on wrapping up the wound, covering it from the rest of the world's view.
Miyuki's good at that.
And this way, this way he doesn't have to look at the remnants of tears in Kuramochi's eyes, doesn't have to watch him swipe them away with the sleeve of his jacket, doesn't have to acknowledge this break at all—verbally, at least.
But when their eyes meet while their hands are still brushing, they do. They do acknowledge it.
Kuramochi's still red eyes say I'm tired. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of all of it.
Miyuki's touch on the inside of his wrist is understanding, agreemnt. Me too. I am too.
The glide of his fingers over Kuramochi's skin is a direction. But don't you dare think of leaving.
It might not be much. It isn't anything at all, honestly. But for now, the quiet inhales and exhales of their breath, the tentative press of their palms. That's enough.