Toshinori wouldn't kiss him. And maybe that detail was easily ignored, easily overlooked, in the beginning. Or even in the middle of then and now, though he secretly hoped that there was much more middle to be shared between them before the end. But their relationship up until this point was made up of desperate touches in dark corners and a hesitant, tense partnership built on a shared goal and mutual, grudging respect. There was no place for such exchanges when time was limited and mouths could be much more productive elsewhere - besides, co-workers simply didn't do that.
But after months of denial and ignoring his friends' less than subtle suggestions, Shouta finally had to admit: he was a selfish man, in love - or at least very close to it, and he wanted more than what they had. He started with a subtle approach, and Toshinori seemed clueless; so he tried more obvious hints, but to no avail. Growing, slightly, desperate and throwing, most of, his caution to the wind, Shouta forewent subtlety altogether. And Toshinori feigned ignorance, or a cold, complained of chest pains, or used his ridiculous size to get away. Shouta should have been discouraged, but nothing else between them changed, in fact Toshinori always seemed more attentive to him after snubbing his advances, and he couldn't imagine going back, having /less/ Toshinori in his life, not when he was accustomed to seeing his bright smile in the morning, hearing his booming laugh across campus, talking with him and sharing meals during lunch or over the weekend like they were old friends; not when he knew his smell or gentle touch or how it felt to be cradled in his arms for something other than a desperate, heartbroken rescue. So he stayed, and didn't push, didn't ask questions even when he could feel them building in the back of his throat everytime they were together: Why, why, why?
He should have asked. Some part of him always knew that, but the bitter reminder echoes around in his head now, silencing only for the replay of Toshinori's parting words to him, about how easy it would be to fall in love, how easy it was to be selfish with Shouta, even with the guilt eating at him over their every interaction, over his own foolish feelings, over his weak heart that could never survive kissing the man he loved and not asking him to be his, as if he wasn't much more than a corpse (as if Shouta hadn't already been his for months). There's still shouting happening around them, and the crash and rumble of the earth and man made structures alike giving way for the fight still raging on. And Shouta should be out there, fighting alongside his colleagues, his students - but he can't seem to unbend his fingers from the death grip he has on an old tattered uniform, and he doesn't dare release the hand curled around his own. The body in his arms is warm but still, and blood seeps into his jumpsuit where his head is rested against Shouta's legs. He doesn't know when Toshinori finally closed his eyes and fell silent, it feels like eternity and no time at all that he's been sitting there. Toshinori's familiar hair is matted, covered in soot and blood and hardly even blond anymore.
Shouta tries not to think of what he imagined kissing Toshinori would be like, not his taste or shy, blinding smile, or how delicately, or not, Toshinori might hold him, because Toshinori's lips are already cold, when Shouta steals his first and last kiss from them, and he tastes like blood, just like Toshinori always worried he would.
