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Summary
It's always been the three of them.
"It’s awful how good he looks. Long sun bleached hair raked back at the temples, square line of a jaw so sharp to the cut. Swimmer’s shoulders, runner’s legs, mind clearest in solitary movement. Half into a worn out leather jacket he’s pulling on one-armed over a collared button-up, palm-sized mobile to the ear Sora’d pierced for him with a safety pin twenty summers’ worth of nights ago. That’s where Taichi goes now, too, back to one of those summers, and all of those nights."