The tension that had crept into Yamato's shoulders slips out again, just as quickly and subtly as it had come. He's not being rejected, or abandoned. He isn't being pushed away. He'll be left behind sooner or later, but that's alright. That's his lot in life, he knows, and he's used to it.

"Thank you, Okita-kun," he says, and his tone is so reverent, it's like Souji's given him a precious gift. Maybe in some ways, he has.

The question doesn't get an immediate answer, but Yamato doesn't pull away, either. He doesn't stiffen up or shift uncomfortably. Souji is more than welcome to pick him apart and examine the pieces--and maybe Yamato shouldn't be so quick to trust, but he can't help himself. And there's no one here to stop him, not anymore.

"I hurt some people," he answers eventually. He speaks softly, distantly, caught up in memory. "They were cruel to someone I love, so I hurt them. The nurses are afraid I might do it again, so I have to stay in here."

He doesn't mention the toll it had taken on his own body. The way he'd collapsed, choking on fluid and blood, rasping and spitting like a rabid cat. Not because he wants to hide it, but simply because it doesn't matter. He'd been defending Kashuu, and the nurses are right to think he'd do it again. He's dying anyway, why not use what little strength he has to protect those precious to him?