( no, no. he knows. he's familiar enough with the feeling to feel its bitter sting, like the burn of battery acid against one's skin — of taking someone in hand, in giving them something of yours personal and intimate, and yet feeling an inexplicable distance, sensing just enough of a lag in their words and reactions that you got the sense that they were more deliberate than automatic. makoto had grown so obsessed with getting J to fall in love with him, telling himself it was the primary vehicle for the ultimate goal of his revenge, but — in truth, he wanted to force out whatever caused that distance, his animal instinct to tear away the vestiges of whoever it was that J still loved, who he still thought about for just a passing moment whenever makoto took his hand, when he pressed close, when he claimed his lips... ah, if only he could make him forget, so he could keep him jealously to himself.

though makoto might not be who ranmaru wants to see right now, he is nonetheless who is here with him now, and that alone should at least be enough to circumvent the disorientation and pain of solitude. he is welcome to use him for that, to cling to him as a drowning man might a drifting piece of flotsam, for just long enough that he remained afloat until real help could arrive.

the pad of makoto's thumb moves swiftly, almost with a sort of practiced ease, sweeping away the track of tears. )

You won't, so long as you accept me here with you now.

( he pauses, thoughtful. )

Change can be a storm, as can be loss and pain. You can weather them.