Disclaimer: I do not own. Please give credit where it is due. Thanks.

Author's Note: Written as a birthday gift for a dear friend of mine. Please enjoy it!

Warnings: Not beta-ed (I apologize for the mistakes) and fluffy sap (uh oh).

Today, he sees him.

It isn't the first time he's noticed, but it has never really occurred to him to pay attention before…until the noise did not come in excess. His exuberance and energy are no longer felt, either.

Momentarily, he thinks what if he's broken? If he is, he cannot fix him. He's a writer, not a mechanic. He cannot recharge him like his laptop or replace him with a new one.

His love has no substitute. His brilliant pink hair, those bottomless violet-blue eyes, the soft keening sounds he makes when they touch…

No one possesses such traits as he.

Later, he concludes that his lover must be sick. Nothing else explains what is wrong. Magenta locks droop, and his tan skin is pale beneath the surface. The luster is gone from his face when he smiles.

He frets but doesn't let it show.

Eventually, it worsens. He does not speak unless he's forced, and there are no kisses. Nothing. It's been almost a week since they've made love, and the thought eats at his brain with nagging worry.

Something's wrong.

Something's wrong…

He finds him crying late one night after he's given up trying to find words to fill his novel. He just watches, speechless and utterly clueless. He makes no move to comfort because he doesn't know what to do.

Why?

"I-I'm sorry," he whimpers, wiping at his face to hide his tears. "I'm sorry."

And still he stands, staring at his pink haired lover with a blank look. He only thinks he really is broken and continues observing the scene in silence. When he scrambles from the bed he lays on to rush to the bathroom door, his legs work of their own accord, and he is, once again, holding an armful of sobbing, glittery boy.

His shirt weighs heavy with his lover's tears, but he is blind to them. He holds him tightly, feeling out of body, out of…place. He isn't strong enough to handle this. He can't speak, can't comprehend how to help.

"I-"

His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks.

"Do you love me?"

He is unable to move.

"D-do you? I mean…" He chokes and digs his fingers into clothed flesh, sniffling.

"I-"

Suddenly, everything makes sense. Like lightning, it strikes, hurting him to the depths of his soul. His love isn'tbroken. He hasn't been.

He's…lonely. Lonely because-

"I'm sorry," he hears himself whisper, knowing he is well out of character. Yet, he doesn't care because his lover is tilting his head back, strands of soft pink slipping over his forehead as he gazes at him with wet, beautiful eyes.

"Yuki…" He raises himself onto his toes and opens his mouth, searching for something.

A kiss.

He greedily obliges, relief flooding him. Warm shock curls in the pit of his stomach the moment their lips meet, and he realizes that he's been lonely, too. The smell, the sounds, the touch, the taste.

His lover…

They clutch at one another in desperation, scared to think they might have lost one another, delighted in the renewed sensation between them. He catches him as his knees give out, supporting him with ease. His tongue pushes between parted lips, and he cannot help smiling when he hears the soft groan.

Perhaps, he thinks to himself, he should see him more often.

End