This morning, Tsuzuki seemed so lost, just back from a horrific case and still between partners. You offered to help him with his paperwork.
You return home to find him in your bed, your sheets dark with the guilt he has tried to slice from his veins.
You fall to your knees, begging for the razor.
He looks at you, but several minutes pass before his eyes focus.
You beg him for any way you might ease his pain. You want to kiss him, hold him and caress him.
You nod, swallowing, and reach for your belt.
After a particularly hard blow, he falls to the bed. You pause, belt in hand, swallowing your nervous questions.
The first time wasn't like this, or the second, or the many other times when you touched his body and joy sang through you both. You're hard, but you hate yourself for it. He's not, but he hasn't said the word that allows you to stop.
Tsuzuki raises himself up again, slowly, painfully.
Once, he would have wriggled and smiled bashfully to say that, but now he just closes his tear-filled eyes tight.
You wish you could close yours.
The third time he falls to the bed, he stays down, even after you strike him twice more. Stepping forward slowly, you hope it has been enough.
Asato is unconscious-- his back now matches his eyes. His tears have dried, as have the cuts on his wrist.
You drop your belt and leave your bedroom. You strip, leaving your clothes to soak in the laundry sink. You shower while the kettle boils.
You sit at the kitchen table with everything you'll need for tomorrow's report inside a closed manila folder.
It would not do for the paperwork to get wet.