The night is darkening 'round me;

The wild wilds coldly blow,

But a tyrant spell has bound me,

And I cannot, cannot go.

-from "The Night is Darkening 'round Me"

Emily Brönte

Silence screamed through the distance between them. Both of them sat staring into their teacups, the drinks having gone stone cold as they contemplated their own chaotic thoughts, neither interested in even the pretense of civility. Tension was a tangible presence in the air, hot and cold at the same time, thick as syrup, bitter, volatile.

Shizuka hadn't moved in over twenty minutes, while Kimihiro had fidgeted and twitched and shifted. The silence began to scream in agony, and the tension sizzled as if someone had set it aflame.

And then suddenly the dam burst.

"It was completely unnecessary," snapped Kimihiro, rising from his chair so quickly it toppled over backward, though he paid it no notice. He slapped his hands on the table for emphasis and used the stinging of his palms as added fuel for his temper, leaning forward to direct the entirety of his anger unto Shizuka's impassive form.

Shizuka merely looked at him with so much boredom apparent in his features that Kimihiro felt his temper spark a little more.

"What," he said listlessly, "your stupidity tonight?"

"You goddamned idiot," Kimihiro hissed. "You utter moron."

"Funny. Here I was thinking the exact same things about you." Shizuka rose as well, calmly, without seeming to hurry, without seeming to care.

Kimihiro hands clenched into fists, and he knew he was going to have nail marks in his palms. "You could have been killed, you ass!"

"Again, I was thinking the same thing about you."

Damn him, damn him for looking so fucking at peace with the whole fucking world. This was goddamned serious, and Kimihiro wasn't going to let Shizuka pretend otherwise. Like hell would the archer get away with that deadpan expression this time.

"You pushed me out of the way."

Shizuka lifted an eyebrow. "I did you a favor," he corrected. "Saved your life. Again."

"I was fine!"

Shizuka let out an exasperated sigh. "That spirit was going to stab you with claws that looked like rusty daggers. At best, you'd have just gotten tetanus."

"Rust doesn't cause tetanus, idiot," Kimihiro retorted.

Shizuka smirked. "I'm impressed. Someone's been paying attention in health class."

"Fuck you," shot back Kimihiro. "At least I know better than to throw myself in the path of homicidal spirits with fucking five-inch-long claws."

The archer snorted. "You? You practically invited him to take a shot at you," he sneered.

"What?"

"You stood there," Shizuka said, and this time there was a hint, just barely a flicker, of fury in his voice. "You just stood there and let him come at you. You didn't move. You didn't call for help, even though I was standing right beside you. You didn't bat a damned eyelash." Yes, that was definitely fury. "You stupid fucking moron."

Hearing Shizuka curse didn't shock Kimihiro; in fact, it sort of thrilled him. Now he had someone to fight with, instead of simply shout at. Now he could let loose the ball of miserable fear and frustration that had locked itself inside his stomach since the moment he'd seen Shizuka's back in front of him, instead of the spirit's lethal nails, and realized with horror what had happened.

"Oh, I'm the moron, am I?" he yelled. "I'm the one who continually puts myself in danger, on purpose and with full knowledge of what could happen, every single time some shit like this happens?"

"Yeah, you are," Shizuka snapped, his breathing heavy and erratic. Kimihiro noted with satisfaction that the archer's hands, too, were fisted, and he basked in pure spiteful pleasure that tomorrow's archery practice would be hell for Shizuka, whose palms would bear crescent-moon nail scores identical to Kimihiro's. Probably worse; the archer's grip was a lot stronger.

And then he thought of the claw marks raking down Shizuka's chest, and winced despite his anger. Yuuko had bandaged him up and declared it only a flesh wound, with no serious repercussions besides maybe a nearly-invisible scar, but the point was that Shizuka had gotten hurt on Kimihiro's account for what was most likely the hundredth time in their odd partnership. And Kimihiro was sick of the guilt, sick of the worry, the dread, the helplessness, and sick, so fucking sick to his stomach of the fear every single goddamned time Shizuka shed blood for him.

"You are the most moronic person I know," went on Shizuka, "because after all these years, you still haven't fucking learned a damned thing from that witch." His eyes blazed at Kimiro. "You still rush into situations without thinking, you still offer yourself up like a fucking sacrificial goat, you still haven't learned when to ask for some goddamned help. You still don't even acknowledge that you need help in the worst possible way."

"What, help from you?" scoffed Kimihiro, and in the next instant, Shizuka had somehow teleported around the table and grabbed a fistful of Kimihiro's shirt.

"Yes, help from me,"he snarled. "Because I'm the only one who can."

"Get your hand off me," Kimihiro hissed at him, and grabbed at his wrist, but the archer's grip, as he'd already admitted, was like fucking tempered steel. "Goddammit, Doumeki, let me the hell go."

"I should," breathed Shizuka, his eyes so hard and so enraged that Kimihiro's gaze almost flinched away from them. Shizuka bent so they were literally eye-to-eye, and spoke through gritted teeth. "I should just let you go, and straight to hell, too, since you're so determined to end up there anyway." His expression went grim and almost pained. "But so help me, I can't." Something like despair entered his voice, and his brows drew together. "I could almost hate you for it—but I can't do that, either." His eyes smoldered. "The only fucking thing I can do is wait for you to get yourself killed, and hope like hell I'll be there in time to stop it from happening."

His fingers tightened in the cloth of Kimihiro's shirt, and the sound of fabric straining sent a dizzying jolt of red-hot anger and red-hot something else into Kimihiro's brain.

"If you rip my shirt," he said evenly, his voice low, his tone warning, "I'm going to kick your ass from here until the next afterlife."

"Try it," advised Shizuka, and hauled him a little closer. "I dare you."

For a breath-taking, physics-defying moment, they stared at one another from a span of three inches, their breath mingling, both able to feel the heat of the other's skin.

Then Shizuka released Kimihiro slowly, and straightened. They still held one another's gazes, neither one wanting to be the one to back down.

"Don't ever," said Kimihiro in that same low, even, warning voice, "do it again."

The archer let out a derisive bark of laughter. "It's a shirt, Watanuki," he said pointedly. "You've got more."

"Don't play dumb with me, you asshole!" spat Kimihiro. "Don't you ever, ever push me aside and take an attack for me again. Ever." He glowered at the archer, his whole frame shaking with rage. "If you ever do that to me again, I will never forgive you."

Shizuka's eyes narrowed. "If I do it again?" he repeated angrily. "You won't forgive me?" In a gesture of complete abandonment, he threw his hands up into the air. "And what the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime, Watanuki? Practice archery for my health?"

"You don't practice archery for me," Kimihiro denied.

"Like hell I don't," snapped Shizuka. "What else do I do with it besides save your ass all the time?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know," mused Kimihiro sarcastically. "Stand around carrying your damn bow like a medal of honor, or a fucking status symbol, maybe?"

Shizuka's eyes burned holes into him. "You think my bow is a fucking decoration?" he hissed."Something I carry around just to look good?"

Before Kimihiro could reply that yes, actually, that was exactly what he thought, Shizuka barreled on, "Never mind all the times I've kept you from being eaten by a spirit, all the times I've pulled you back into the world of the living, even when you were this close," he held up a thumb and forefinger a half-centimeter apart, "to losing your life—all that doesn't fucking matter to you?" he demanded. "Or is that just part of the status symbol?"

Kimihiro glared at him. "Don't act like you're doing it for my benefit—you complain all the time about having to rescue me from spirits."

The archer looked ready to explode. "Of course I do!" he roared, and even though he preferred a two-sided shouting match, Kimihiro still had to keep himself from jumping a foot into the air. "Because you're always too much of an idiot to keep yourself out of trouble! So I have to constantly babysit you and make sure you're not doing too many stupid things at once! That kind of responsibility is absolutely fucking exhausting, you know!"

"So stop fucking doing it!" Kimihiro shouted back.

Shizuka's lip curled in disgust. "And when you get attacked in front of me again, what do you want me to do?" he snapped. "Stand by and twiddle my thumbs, and politely ask the damn things to leave you alone? That's a fucking waste of time, and you know it as well as I do."

Kimihiro ground his teeth together. "Well, then, if you're so worried about your precious time, then from now on, stay the fuck away from me!"

"Gladly," shot back Shizuka, and time stopped.

They stood looking at each other as the moment, the words, sank in, and each one felt as if something had rammed itself hard into his ribs and torn his heart out on the way. A stunned cold settled itself over their minds, and they gave each other blank, wholly detached looks.

"Fine then," said Kimihiro through lips that had gone numb.

"All right," said Shizuka around a throat that gone dry.

Kimihiro turned his back and closed his eyes to trap the tears, pressing his lips together to silence the sobs, and crossed his arms to hide the trembling.

Neither said another word.

.1.

.0.

.4.

Shizuka saw himself out, and Kimihiro went to his room. He watched out the window as the archer's stiff, furious figure marched away down the dimly-lit street. He touched one finger to the glass, tracing lightly over Shizuka's rapidly disappearing form.

"You're safe now," he whispered brokenly. "Goodbye."

He curled up in a tiny, trembling ball on his futon.

In the living room, both cups of tea sat on the table, ignored, still full, and cold as ice.