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He just needs to knock.
He just needs to knock and to open the door.
To open the door and go inside and-
And-
He knocks.
He knocks and he waits and the silence deafens him - it allows the sound of Kotetsu's fading breath and slowing heartbeat to fill his mind and overtake everything else. It allows the grief to settle back in under his skin, familiar as the blood pumping through his veins.
The door opens.
It's a shock to see Kotetsu standing there - whole and alive and maybe not healthy but here and real.
The silence drags on.
They stare, neither saying a word.
Is Kotetsu as afraid as he is to open his mouth? Afraid to know if what will tumble out is a scream or a wail or a confession he is not yet ready to part with?
"Bunny?" Kotetsu finally says and Barnaby startles so badly it's a wonder he doesn’t fall down the stairs.
"You look terrible."
It's not what he meant to say, not what he really wanted to say, but it's the truth. There are bags under Kotetsu's eyes and grease weighs down his normally wild hair. He's shirtless, his bandages reapplied poorly, his sweat pants hanging low on his hips. He's lost weight, maybe, and Barnaby finds his chest aching at the sight of him.
Kotetsu grins, but there's no light behind it, it doesn't reach his eyes.
He looks tired.
Barnaby clears his throat, grasps desperately for some sort of normalcy, anything other than the horrible longing pulsing through him. He swallows, fighting past the clawed fist clenched around his windpipe.
When he doesn't manage to get any other words out, Kotetsu's brow furrows. The ache in his chest intensifies.
There's a tiny flicker somewhere deep in his mind, the barest hint of anger - at Kotetsu, at Maverick, at himself. Barnaby latches onto it, the only thing that will keep him from drowning.
"From the look of things, you haven't finished packing, have you?" He asks, none of the malice he's trying to scrounge up making it into his voice - instead, he just sounds sad.
He steps into the apartment, noting each difference, feeling each one like a pinprick under his fingernails. As expected, Kotetsu hasn't finished packing, but the things he has tucked away into haphazardly taped up boxes have left a gaping hole in his once messy apartment.
Barnaby isn't sure what's worse, looking at Kotetsu, or looking at the things that are already gone.
Kotetsu makes a sound that might be a chuckle, but sounds more like he's gargling gravel. "I'm doing my best! It's just been a little, ah, difficult, y'know?"
Barnaby sucks in a sharp breath - he knows, of course he knows, he held Kotetsu's limp body in his arms and watched as he- He bites his tongue, hard, until the panic ebbs to something that feels less like suffocating.
"Why didn't you ask for help?" He asks, hating that he sounds hurt, that he couldn't cover it up for even one second. He can practically feel Kotetsu wince, though he can't bring himself to look at him again.
"Aha…"
"Right." Barnaby nods to himself, takes a poor facsimile of a deep breath, and strips off his jacket. He has a task. That's good. He can follow a checklist, he can put one foot in front of the other and do whatever it is that needs to be done right now, in this moment. He resolutely does not think about how everything he does pushes Kotetsu further away from him.
Kotetsu looks confused when Barnaby turns to face him. Barnaby focuses on looking through him and not at him, at staying just out of arm's reach as he ushers Kotetsu toward his bathroom.
"Your bandages are a mess, and you look as though you haven't washed your hair in weeks." He says by way of explanation, fanning the little spark of rage he still harbors. If he can build it into a flame, he can get through this with both of them intact.
He walks in ahead of Kotetsu, methodically pulling out the first aid kit - stocked, he knows, because he stocked it himself - and one by one placing supplies on the bare countertop.
Kotetsu's exceedingly gentle touch on his wrist - the feel of his calloused fingertips both achingly familiar and heartbreakingly rare - stops him.
"Bunny."
"Don't."
It comes out so much sharper than he means, feels like shards of glass in his mouth as he whispers it. Kotetsu doesn’t retreat, isn't afraid of Barnaby's sharp edges. He curls his fingers carefully, intentionally, around Barnaby's wrist and simply holds him.
Barnaby doesn't move, doesn't breathe. When he finally gathers up the courage to look up, he finds Kotetsu watching him intently in the mirror.
For how hard it was to look up, it's infinitely harder to look away.
He swallows. His voice cracks as he begs, “Don't. Please.”
Don't make this harder than it has to be.
He can't.
The corner of Kotetsu's lips lifts, the ghost of a smile. He squeezes Barnaby's wrist, lingers, and finally lets go.
“Okay.” He says simply, doing what Barnaby couldn’t and breaking their eye contact. He takes a step back, arms hanging limply by his sides. “Okay.”
Barnaby closes his eyes, takes a deep, painful breath, refocuses on the task at hand.
They don't speak as he strips off Kotetsu's bandages - so, so careful not to do more harm - as he runs the bath, as Kotetsu steps out of his pants and boxers and into the tub. The water stops just above his hips, high enough to provide some warmth, some comfort, but far below his raw skin.
Barnaby lathers up the softest cloth he can find, soaps and rinses every inch of exposed skin. He skirts around the edges of the healing wound, desperately reminding himself that it is healing, that Kotetsu is here and safe and solid beneath his fingertips.
He doesn’t realize that he's abandoned the cloth, that he’s been tracing old scars and lines of muscle until he touches smooth metal - until he's reverently rubbing his fingers over Kotetsu's wedding ring.
Kotetsu turns his hand over, tries to link their fingers together. Barnaby pulls away before he can, reaches for the shampoo instead, struggles to keep himself on solid ground.
Kotetsu says nothing, though Barnaby can feel his eyes on him. There's no protest when Barnaby tilts Kotetsu's head back, scoops water into his cupped palms and lets it pour over his hair. Kotetsu obediently closes his eyes, and Barnaby can breathe just a little easier.
He massages shampoo into Kotetsu's hair, gently raking his nails over his scalp, rubbing his temples and his neck. One of Kotetsu's hands settles, warm and rough, on his waist and this time Barnaby doesn't move away - he allows the touch to be the thing that grounds him now, that reminds him this moment is real and that Kotetsu's eyes are closed in relaxation and not-
Again, he guides Kotetsu's head back and pours water over it until all the suds are washed away. He repeats the process with the conditioner, lingering without meaning to because the way the tension drains out of Kotetsu is intoxicating. Because the longer this takes, the longer they stay in this moment, the longer absolutely nothing has to change.
Because tomorrow they will both be leaving, going their separate ways, living different lives.
Because all they have is tonight.