Junjou Romantica is the rightful property of Nakamura Shungiku. This is a fanwork written purely for both your entertainment and mine. I apologize if it seems a little muddled, as it was originally going to go in a totally different direction.

The title comes from the song "Through Glass" by Stone Sour.

The first time Miyagi had felt truly at home, he'd been with Sensei. He'd seen her struggling with her shopping on her way home (after thinking about her for months, after wondering where she'd gone and what she was doing) and offered to help her. She had rebuked him, laughed it off and asked him if she really looked like she needed any help from a brat like him. He had ignored her and picked up the bags she'd dropped, she'd smiled at him, and they'd walked back to her home in silence.

Sensei had seemed unsurprised that her husband wasn't home (and Miyagi found himself glaring at the wedding ring on her finger, like its existence bothered him), and he'd put away her groceries while she'd rested in the lounge.

A true change in character, Sensei had joked, and Miyagi had scowled and looked away.

That night, she told him about her sickness with such calm and acceptance that he almost felt angry with her for giving up.

I haven't given up, she'd smiled, If you're fighting a losing battle, you may as well go out in a blaze of glory, right?

It was then that he realised that he'd fallen in love with her, and the whole world suddenly seemed to have a warm, yet bitter edge in his eyes.

And, true to her word, she fought until the end, though calmly resigned to her own demise as she told Miyagi to forget about her and be happy with her last breath. It was something he should have taken to heart, he thought; lingering on old memories would only hurt the people around him.

He ignored his own better judgment, and instead visited Sensei's grave every year on the anniversary of her death, prioritising that one trip over everything else in his life.

He should have forgotten about her, but he couldn't deny the fact that she was the first thing that ever felt like home to him.

When he'd married Risako, they'd had a house, but not a home. He should have been fairer to Risako, really, because she never asked for a husband who could never really love her, but he felt too selfish in his own loss to see the pain he was causing her. She'd tried so many things to make them happy; dinners at fancy restaurants, outings to the movies, get-togethers with friends and filling their apartment with photos of their wedding day.

It had been on one of these days that she'd found the photo of Miyagi and Sensei, at the bottom of a box filled with old mementos of her husband's younger years, and Miyagi had made the mistake of not telling her why that photo was so dear to him.

He kept it with him from that very moment, and Risako grew increasingly frustrated with not being able to win over a woman she knew nothing about. Perhaps that was what had driven her into the arms of other men, but Miyagi hadn't felt enough for her to care, and their relationship continued to deteriorate.

It was only as Risako was on their doorstep, with bags packed, that Miyagi had tried to explain the situation to her.

IIt's too late for that now/I, she'd said, and she left without another word.

Miyagi sat in the lounge for hours after that, looking at the one precious photo he owned of himself and Sensei, and felt nothing. He should have felt more emotion than this, anything more than this, but he couldn't bring himself to.

Steeling his emotions, he calmly reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag.

When he exhaled, it almost echoed off the walls.

After his divorce, Miyagi's home had become his own sanctuary; a place where he could be left alone with his old books and his old memories and never be bothered by anyone else again. He'd built a wall around himself, and felt comfortably isolated from emotion until his ex-wife's little brother had decided to royally screw that up for him by forcing upon him the strongest emotion of all. He should have known its strength; he'd felt it for a woman he could never regain his time with for sixteen years, and tried to feel it for a woman who'd tried her hardest for the last three.

Shinobu tried his very best, and had, in the end, managed to draw some emotion out of him, which was an improvement from the hollow lack of feeling he'd felt since Sensei had died.

He had said he wanted to try and love Shinobu, and that was the honest truth. He should have realised, long ago, that love wasn't something you could Itry/I, it was simply something you Idid/I; against your own will, it would dawn on you like a great and terrible idea, snag your heart and overcome you like a virus. He and Risako had Itried/I, and that had amounted to nothing. It would be unfair of Miyagi to say that he had hated his ex-wife; there were times when he'd felt happy, calm, even grateful to have her, but his emotion for her had never risen past that, and in the end there was only so much one person could take.

Perhaps his years of yearning had left him detached, because he'd almost forgotten what a delicate emotion love was. No matter how hard he tried to drive Shinobu away, or by what means, the boy persisted until Miyagi had, in part, submitted to him.

It was unfair that he'd agreed to another relationship of convenience, both to himself and Shinobu, but he couldn't bring himself to see anything wrong with it at that point.

Behind him, Shinobu clung to his shirt and sniffled, dragging his suitcase behind him, and the knowledge that the boy was crying for him made Miyagi's stomach twist with guilt.

Shinobu began coming over to his apartment regularly after that, invading Miyagi's world even further with his violent dedication and bad cooking and sheer, unbound love.

Even if the kid's way of showing affection was unique, it was something Miyagi couldn't avoid.

It made him feel even worse for what he was doing.

The day that stood out most in his memory had started like any other; Shinobu was wrapping up his final high school exams, Miyagi insisted he should go home and study, Shinobu refused. He'd come over about an hour after that, with a bag full of cabbage, and proceeded to mutilate it beyond recognition before burning it even further beyond recognition. Miyagi has paid for takeout food, and they'd eaten in silence as Miyagi marked thesis papers.

At nine o'clock, Shinobu asked Miyagi to stay the night. Miyagi refused. Shinobu had glowered, trembling and avoiding his eyes, and Miyagi reflexively tensed, waiting for the boy to throw a punch (or to yell and scream and let out his frustration; both would hurt equally as much).

Shinobu's gaze locked onto him (and Miyagi was sure he could taste the bitterness in that gaze), and then kissed him.

It wasn't fair to either of them that Miyagi kissed back.

As soon as they broke away, Shinobu took Miyagi's hand, dragged him to the bedroom, and told him in a flat, emotionless voice that he didn't have to feel he had to do anything as he pushed the older man down onto the mattress with surprising force.

Later, they lay side-by-side in bed, but never touched. Shinobu was on his side, facing away from Miyagi, breaths short, muscles quivering, a barely visible smear of blood on the inside of his right thigh. Miyagi, for lack of anything better to say, offered him a tissue, and Shinobu didn't reply.

Miyagi sighed.

"This isn't love, you know."

Shinobu's breathing hitched.

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know."

Miyagi rolled over and switched off the bedside lamp, leaving the room completely dark. He could still here Shinobu next to him, breath short and sharp, and Miyagi wondered if the boy was crying.

He didn't want to find out, he realised, but only fell asleep when Shinobu had quietened.

"It isn't right for us to be together."

Miyagi felt Shinobu flinch against his shoulder at those words, but the boy still didn't look at him.

"I know that."

"I'm ruining you."

"That doesn't change the fact that I love you."

"… How can you still say that?"

"I told you at the very start that my feelings would never change."

Shinobu's toes brushed against Miyagi's ankle as he arched his leg over Miyagi's knees and curled up closer to the older man. His skin was as cold as ice, but Miyagi didn't flinch, and he thought it was terribly sad that he wasn't surprised.

"I don't know if mine will, either."

"Why are you saying this now?"

"Because I don't know if I can live with myself, by continuing to lead you on and ruining your chance at happiness."

"You've already done a pretty good job of that."

"What happened to always being happy as long as you were with me?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore."

Shinobu got out of bed, stretching jadedly and slowly redressing. Miyagi watched his every move, eyes lingering guiltily on the small mark he'd left on the boy's neck with his teeth.

"Shinobu..."

"I'll make stir-fry before I leave," Shinobu said, voice sounding a mile away even though he was barely halfway across the room, "I think this will be the last time."

Miyagi looked up, briefly, but realised there was nothing he could say. Still, he tried.

"Shinobu!"

"Don't pity me."

Shinobu left the room. Miyagi didn't follow him.

What kind of fucking monster was he to do this to a kid?

After that day, Miyagi didn't even hear of Shinobu again for the next five years, and when he did, it was offhanded, and from the Dean.

"Miyagi, could you please make sure you've handed in the paperwork regarding the newest literature subject by Thursday? I have to leave early this weekend."

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, what's the occasion?"

"Aah, I'm flying to Kyoto for my son's wedding."

Miyagi froze.

"Shinobu, you mean?"

"Err, yes, that's who I mean," the Dean said, adjusting his glasses, "Thank you for caring for him while he was in his rebellious stage, by the way, I couldn't handle him on my own..."

"It was no trouble," Miyagi responded, trying his best to avoid the images of Shinobu he'd hand dancing through his head for ten years.

"But anyway... yes, he's getting married to a nice girl he met at university, they got together at a match-up party, would you believe..."

"Aah" Miyagi said, trying his best to not wear his heart on his sleeve, "Tell him congratulations."

"I will, I will!" the Dean said jovially, "Just make sure to have that paperwork in!"

Miyagi walked back to his office, deathly calm, and then knocked over the pile of books Kamijo had neatly piled next to the door before he'd left that afternoon.

Shinobu was making the same mistakes, and Miyagi fucking hated that all he could do was sit by because he was too cowardly to intrude on Shinobu's comfort.

In the back of his mind, he refused to listen to the tiny voice that told him that, in the end, the only one at fault (who had ever been at fault) was himself.

He went back to him empty apartment then, every sound he made echoing off the walls, in his head, ringing on for eternity. He sat down on the couch, lighting himself a cigarette and taking a long drag; he'd considered his last failed relationship like this too, he thought with bitter irony, except this time he couldn't say he didn't care.

It was unfair, he told himself, to intrude on Shinobu's happiness. He shouldn't have to force his loneliness on him just because he was lingering over two lost loves.

Two...

That was something he'd realised all too late, obviously.

Grunting and kicking off his shoes, annoyed at himself, Miyagi knew there was nothing he could do.

Acceptance was the only option, just like Shinobu had accepted his lack of reciprocation and moved on.

It made him feel sick to his stomach, because in the end, all it meant is that he'd die lonely, and full of regret.

Miyagi remained lonely for the next five years, haunted by memories of the two people who he'd felt emotion for beyond care, both who were once so close, now both so far out of reach.

He was too loyal; he could never replace either of them in his heart.

Five years after Miyagi had heard Shinobu was getting married, the boy (no, he was a man now) showed up, unannounced, on his doorstep. He'd grown, and for a moment, Miyagi didn't recognize him.

"Shinobu?"

"Yes," Shinobu replied, staring at him like he was completely stupid, and for a minute it felt like he was home for the first time in a long time.

"... Why are you here?"

"My marriage is over."

"I don't see what that has to do with me."

"It ended because I couldn't forget you," Shinobu muttered, laughing a humourless laugh, "Ironic."

Miyagi didn't know why, but at that very moment, he knew what he wanted, and he kissed Shinobu as impulsively as Shinobu has kissed him almost ten years beforehand.

He was sure it was those ten years of loneliness, of wanting, and of lies that made Shinobu kiss him back.

It was stupid to be left wanting after all these years, he told himself, and when he drew Shinobu inside, shut the door and pressed him against the wall. Kissing him until his lips felt bruised and he wondered how the hell he'd waited this long.

After a rush to the bedroom and hurried preparation bordering on carelessness, Miyagi lay down and drank in the sight of Shinobu lowering himself until he was fully inside the younger man, and damn it, he wasn't a kid anymore but Igod/I Shinobu was still exactly how he remembered, all long, slender limbs and pale skin tinted with red when Miyagi moved inside of him. Shinobu moved as if he'd been saving all of his passion and longing for this one moment, and in the end neither of them could last and they came together, Miyagi kissing the same spot on Shinobu's neck he'd marked ten years before, remembering as if the red stain was still visible on the man's pale skin.

They clung to each other and refused to let go, Shinobu's fingernails leaving little crescent marks on Miyagi's back.

"This still isn't love."

The younger man flinched.

"Idiot."

"But it can be."

Shinobu looked up at that, as if seeing Miyagi for the first time.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm willing to try if you are," Miyagi murmured against his hair, "If you'll have me."

Shinobu was silent, and Miyagi felt dread burn his heart.

The soft blow Shinobu delivered to the side of his head was answer enough.

"Idiot. You've always had me."

Always.

He was home again.

END

I… probably could have made this better, but I'm honestly not sure how. I think it's pretty good like this, anyway. Reviews are appreciated.