There's nothing momentous or dramatic to mark this declaration. No lightning cracks in the distance, no bell tolls loud and clear. But it strikes a chord within Yamato nonetheless. Three syllables, two characters, something as simple as a name--and yet they burrow through his skin straight into his heart, like they've always belonged there.

Yamato is pliant and relaxed beneath his touch. If it tickles at all, he doesn't show it. He simply lets Souji explore his hands the same way he's searching Souji's face, eyes as distant as they are piercing.

"You're a dancer," he says. "I heard them talking about it when they brought you in."

It had been a grim conversation, doubtful estimates of Souji's recovery time. Yamato hadn't paid it much attention, and doesn't repeat it. He has no taste for those things.

"I always wanted to try dancing," he says instead, and smiles, almost shyly. "But no one would teach me, so I learned piano instead."

Not a bad hobby, by any means. He likes the piano well enough, and he's fond of music. But it doesn't quite click, the way he'd always thought dancing would. He's always had the urge, the need to move his body in certain, graceful ways--so of course he's been confined to a small bed in a lifeless room. Bloody fate.