Warnings: This story deals with death, though its not a deathfic.

Notes: I've had this story half-finished and sitting on my hard drive for two or three weeks now, so I decided to finish it and post it. Hopefully it's fairly IC. All reviews are welcome.

Title is a modified line from Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" (hopefully I didn't kill the line) because it is an awesome poem and everyone should read it. Hopefully it's not overly pretentious of a title.

If life mimicked the movies, the sky would be overcast and grey every time he came here, and sometimes it was, but sometimes it wasn't, like today, when the sky was cloudless and the sun was so bright he had to shade his eyes to stop them from hurting.

"Do you want to be alone?" Usagi asked, and Misaki looked back at him, the sunlight reflecting off his silver hair and blurring his image. He'd lift his other hand to shade his eyes as well but he was grasping a bouquet.

"No, it's okay," he said, as he had every year he'd come here with him, though Misaki had always insisted he didn't need to, but Usagi never listened if he didn't like what was being said.

Usually Takahiro and his family joined them, but this was one of those few times when they couldn't, because Mahiro wasn't feeling well, and Misaki would never have them leave behind a sick child to join him on this, especially since irony would probably come out in full effect.

He looked at his family tomb, slightly more weathered but otherwise unchanged since the last time he'd been here. Near the lower half of the inscriptions, at the current end, he could see his parents' names, their dates of birth and death next to them. Above that was the grandparents he only knew about from when his father talked of them, and above them a list of ancestors he couldn't even begin to pretend to know. He left behind the flowers, white chrysanthemums that he'd bought with him.

He smelt the tobacco of Usagi's cigarette and memories flashed before his eyes: his father smoking his pipe, his mother scolding him, telling him he'd sicken himself with it, die before his time.

She'd been right about the last part, though not for the reasons she'd supposed.

He turned around and faced Usagi, frowned at the man as the red at the tip flickered in the light. His thoughts had switched, and they sometimes did, to the fear of long hours spent in white sheets in a place of white walls, the tobacco smell becoming overrun by the imagined smell of antiseptic, stinging with sterility.

"Do you have to do that here?" he heard himself say with an annoyed tone, because if he tried to complain otherwise Usagi would just roll his eyes and Misaki never wanted to annoy him so much he'd be a burden on him, but he had to say something to make himself feel better.

"I don't see a problem with it," Usagi said, and blew smoke into the air. It began to sting the inside of Misaki's noise, but not nearly as badly as the imagined antiseptic before.

Still.

He turned his head to look at their grave again; there was nothing more he could do here, not 'till next year.

"Let's go," he told Usagi, and the man nodded, throwing his cigarette to the ground and crumbling it in underneath his foot.

Misaki winced.

They were on the worst part of the journey back, the part of the road wherein it hugged the curve of the hill it surrounded, where Usagi always slowed down and Misaki always closed his eyes.

Sometimes, he could watch the car barreling along the asphalt at turns like these, but never on this day of the year. If Misaki had it his way, all the roads would be straight somehow, never a turn to speed off of, and driving would be outlawed on rainy days.

He smelt the tobacco again, and this time it was accompanied by a horse cough, the kind that could fill his nightmares and haunt his heart with worry.

"Usagi-san, are you alright?" he asked, but still didn't open his eyes, knowing it would make the way his heart was hammering against his chest hurt worse.

"It's just a cough," he said, and Misaki smelt the smoke again.

"How do you know?" He still kept his eyes shut. The tobacco smell was really beginning to sting. "How would you know if it was something more?"

"I wouldn't," he admitted, and Misaki finally opened his eyes to look at him. Usagi had the cigarette between his lips, two fingers holding it in place, only one still on the wheel.

The sound of something pelting against the metal roof sounded throughout the car.

"What's that?" Misaki asked, not about to look outside, not until Usagi said it was okay.

"Rain." Usagi put both hands on the wheel now, having crushed his cigarette in the ashtray in the car. "I saw some clouds not too far back; looks like the weatherman was off again."

Misaki swallowed, taking deep breaths to slowdown his heart. He felt like he might throw up.

"I'll stop the car as soon as I can," Usagi said, and Misaki nodded, unable to speak.

He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the seat, covering his ears with his hands.

He could still smell the remnants of the cigarette smoke.

When they finally stopped, the rain was so heavy it sounded like rocks against the roof, angry stones falling from the sky. Misaki opened his eyes to see a more relaxed Usagi. He looked at Misaki and smiled, the kind of gentle smile that made his heart beat faster for reasons that had nothing to do with fear, then reached out and ruffled his hair.

"Misaki," he said, in his deep voice that sent shivers done Misaki's spine. His hand moved down the left side of his face, past his chin and down his throat, making its way to unbutton his shirt.

Misaki glared at him. This was the last thing he wanted, not now, out in the car and hearing the rain break over their hands and watching it shatter, dripping down the window to a blurry world outside.

For once, Usagi pulled his hand back, not saying anything, not even the slightest protest. Instead, he faced forward and grabbed his cigarette pack.

"Do you have to?" Misaki found himself saying, this time, because he was imagining the white walls again. Usagi just looked at him.

"Does it really matter?" he said, barely a question.

"Yes," Misaki replied. "It matters to me."

Usagi sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. He didn't say anything, just gave Misaki a look.

"How do I know that cough before was just a cough?" he asked. "How do I know I won't wake up one day and you'll be in the hospital, gasping for breath?"

"You can't know," he said, his voice far more solid than Misaki thought it should be.

"Then why?" he asked, trying to stop his own voice from breaking. "Why take the risk?"

Usagi was still for a moment, the echo of falling rain the only noise stopping the car from being filled with a deep, impenetrable silence. Somewhere nearby, the sound of a car revving its engine sounded the din of the rain, and Usagi broke his moment of paralysis, giving another sigh, heavier this time.

"It's because I can't know," he said. "That's why. Because I could die tomorrow or in seventy years, and in either case the cause could have nothing to do with cigarettes. Or it could. But I can't know now, and when death comes, it comes."

"That's stupid," Misaki said, because at this moment he could be nothing but honest. "Just because you don't know for sure, doesn't mean you can't reduce risk, can't try to prevent an early death. If you take precautions –"

"Precautions?" he said, cocking his head slightly, as though he had never heard of the term before.

"Yes, like quitting smoking, or having a good diet, or crossing the street when the light is green -" Or not speeding – no, not being selfish and encouraging others to rush home –

"Misaki," he heard Usagi say, cutting through the pound of the pelting rain, but he was thinking – I should have stayed longer, done something more, I didn't have to leave so fast – maybe I should get Usagi to drive back – no, not in this rain –

"Misaki," Usagi said again, and this time he grabbed his shoulders, made him look him directly in the eyes – concerned, trying to see through him, like he always was – and... just stared at him, like he was trying to penetrate every last molecule.

"Misaki," Usagi said once again, as if he needed to, "eight year olds can't tell the future."

That wasn't it. Usagi didn't understand - "If I hadn't –"

"It's not your fault," he said, and he was leaning over him, holding him tight – Usagi must have taken his seatbelt off, was that safe? But they weren't moving -

"It is," he said, "I could have stopped – "

"Misaki - "

"I could have prevented – "

"No," Usagi said, and he was looking him in the eyes again, piercing his heart with his gaze. "Some things you just can't prevent." Misaki's heart beat so rapidly he thought he might die. Tears were in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. "Sometimes, you can't know cause and effect, and you can't blame yourself for the fallout."

"But," Misaki said, because he knew that wasn't the whole truth, "sometimes you do. Sometimes you can tell. Like when you tried to cross the street when the light wasn't green – and I – " He felt as though he was slightly choking and couldn't go on.

"You saved me," Usagi said. "You saw the bus, and you saved me."

"Yes," Misaki said, though he felt slightly guilty for taking pride in that action. "Yes, and I'm trying to save you now."

"Misaki -"

"Maybe we can't know some things. Maybe we'll both die tomorrow. But if some things..." He took a deep breath. "I just want to minimize the time I might live without you. If I could do that – "

"Misaki -"

"Maybe I won't have to spend so much time hurting."

He almost felt guilty, because in the end, it was a selfish reason that Misaki wanted Usagi to quit. He wanted to feel not as much pain – to be able to spend more time with him...

The rain wasn't quite as loud any more. Misaki looked out the window; the rain was more of a drizzle, now, falling in light droplets. It don't sound nearly as threatening.

"I'll see if I can cut back," Usagi said, his arms still around him, as they had been the entire time. "For you, I might be able to do it."

It was then that the tears can back, overwhelming him, and he let them fall, droplets wetting Usagi's shoulder. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it more than he ever had before.