<sub>[ He's completely oblivious, too, of precisely the kind fo worries and troubles that Sakamoto wants to yell about. Maybe he would understand; maybe he wouldn't. They always have been similar in certain ways— the kind of ways that matter, at least.

Katsura's smile doesn't last very long— it gradually fades as he keeps his gaze across the room, nervous feet shifting against the flooring beneath him. His dark eyes are focused elsewhere; on a wall, as if it were interesting. Tatsuma's rough fingers brushing against his face when he pushes his hair back causes him to shut his eyes and dip his head sideways so his cheek is resting in his palm. He keeps it there, one of his own hands lifting to hold Sakamoto's hand that is holding his own face. He pulls it down from his cheek, keeping his hand in Sakamoto's. ]</sub>

Sakamoto..
_{[ His voice is just above a whisper. ]}

What are we to do without him?
_{[ He's looking at Sakamoto now, face filling with warming heat as the corners of his eyes prick with tears.
Apparently he's still not done crying. ]}

Live our life as beautifully as we can, yes; that is what he would want.. but how can we do that without him here?