WARNING: contains spoilers. The old man in Sri Lanka and the boy in Nepal are completely made up, although the boy in Nepal is mentioned in the first episode.

"In your travels, you'll meet people who'll make you feel like you've known them all your life, even if you've just met, and even if you don't know their names."

Godai didn't know why those words popped into his head just as he was deciding it was a good idea to stop hauling the detective's limp body off to somewhere safer. Strangely, it became an even better idea to lay his tired, battered body down and use it as a cushion keeping Ichijou's upper half from the cold concrete floor.

"But when you meet those people, you must never, never tell them this."

For the floor truly was cold. Young, unconscious detectives with surprisingly long eyelashes needed protection against it.

"You can say it, but it's better if you wait for them to say it first. Because if you say it, and they don't say it back, even if they feel the same way..."

Weird words, from a weird acquaintance. Godai knew he probably shouldn't put too much stock in what a rambling old Japanese man wandering the streets of Colombo would say, but the words stuck in his head anyway.

"The feeling fades. It will never be the same."

Ichijou felt warm against him. Godai didn't want that warmth to vanish. It felt like finding something he had been roaming the world for.

That was why he couldn't move a muscle.

Godai breathed in the smell of the other man's hair - so familiar, even if it shouldn't be. It was just the scent of some popular brand of men's shampoo mixed with smoke and dust and sweat. This scent, like so many things about Ichijou, made its way deep into Godai, and later in his life he will look back at it as one of the first things he would associate with the sound of Ichijou's name.

The old man had said something else, something about the feeling staying with you all your life, never completely leaving you. About the human heart, how it's strong enough to contain such things for the long haul.

Small comfort, that. Godai knew what it meant for that feeling to fade.

Shortly after his mother died, Godai woke up one morning to the realization that it had become harder to make people laugh.

He supposed the ones around him noticed. It started to seem as if they were smiling only to be polite. They didn't really want to smile, but there was nothing else to do around him, especially with how hard he tried to be funny and clumsy and distracting.

When his antics didn't work, it just made him feel empty, silly, and worst of all, useless. He had to stop feeling that way.

He told everyone he wanted to go on a journey. With some reluctance, the ones around him gave their blessing. They didn't suppose there was any way to keep him, if he wanted to go. They worried for him, of course, he was young - but he had traveled alone before, and he had promised to return safely, and that had to be enough.

He was out to learn new skills and see the friends he'd made while traveling as a child, and therefore one of his destinations had to be Nepal. He was 19 and so was the guide boy who had helped him and his father go a short way up Chomolungma.

He needed to see that boy, especially. He remembered how they were inseparable and how they kept each other safe. He'd held on to those memories jealously, clinging to the image of the boy's smile as to a talisman against fear.

He thought telling the boy all this would help him feel less empty.

But when he got to Nepal, and talked to the boy finally, the boy was silent. The silence made him feel as if a rift had appeared between them - a rift that had only been waiting years for one big push, in order to crack open.

And then the boy smiled, then laughed, then clapped a hand on his shoulder.

By the time he left Nepal, a numbness had settled inside Godai. It was as if he had put an end to a story that begged for an ending, and at the same time as if he had lost something precious and it was all his fault.

Right after that, he met the crazy old man in Sri Lanka, who explained everything.

"How do you do it?" Ichijou asked him, when he'd finally quieted down.

He blinked. "Do what?"

"Stay the way you are," the detective replied with trademark hesitation.

Godai didn't need to ask what Ichijou meant, but he seldom did. However, he wasn't sure how to answer.

He wasn't about to risk cracking another joke and ruining the moment. They were having a nice, peaceful drive, on the way to police headquarters, after Godai had just proven himself immortal for the first time.

"I can't imagine being like you," Ichijou continued, "having seen so much and put so much at risk. I can't smile and laugh as much. It would hurt."

Something inside Godai twisted when he heard someone else point out this truth about himself that he thought he'd been hiding well up to that point.

"It doesn't hurt!" he insisted. "I just remember my reasons... the people who need me. And then I can do anything."

They were silent for a while. Sometimes Godai felt like he treasured their silences more than the words they exchanged, though he was sure it wasn't the case. It was just that everything about his time alone with Ichijou felt important.

Ichijou smiled sadly. "You have a big heart, Godai. Certainly bigger than mine."

Godai wanted to say he disagreed, and that he understood: Ichijou had chosen a life that placed him in the middle of other people's suffering. With a life like that, anyone's heart would feel small.

He wanted to say that inside, they were the same... and given time, he could wear the differences down and remind Ichijou how to smile and laugh in spite of everything. It would be easy, he could say - so easy, because they'd known each other all their lives.

But he knew better and he wasn't going to say it.

He flashed a reassuring smile and said instead, "Ichijou-san... your heart's bigger than you think it is."

Godai wondered, for a time, if the old man was wrong - if the feelings return, especially if someone holds on and remembers. If there is a time, maybe when they are both much older, when they are able to connect the way they did when they were young, and they would be able to tell each other how they feel freely and it would be as if nothing had ever stood between them.

But as time went by, it became harder for him to hold on and remember.

He met and connected with a lot of people in his travels. Some of them felt like they could be special, like the boy was, but most did not.

One thing was sure: the more memories he gathered, the less space there was for old emotions, ancient history.

He knew it was the same for the boy in Nepal.

It felt a little to Godai as if his heart was shrinking. As it took on more things, more of other people's sorrow and joy, it felt like it had less and less room inside.

He knew that the human body stops growing, after a while. And when the body stops, it just starts to age, growing smaller and frailer until it can't do anything more, can't contain anything more.

If his heart stopped growing, too, and just started aging, like the rest of him, it wouldn't be so strange, would it? The heart is just a part of the human body, after all. Nothing special, and nothing endless.

After everything, he said he wanted to go traveling again. The look in Ichijou's eyes asked a number of things.

Where was he going.

Was he going to stay safe.

Was he traveling alone.

Was he coming back soon.

"I'll bring back a souvenir," Godai cheerfully announced. "You don't have to tell me what you want, I'll find one that's perfect for you. That's my 301st skill!"

Ichijou smiled, but his smile seemed pained. Godai wanted to drop everything he was carrying and wrap his arms around the other man tight and tell him everything was going to be okay, that he was going to miss Ichijou most of all. He bit down the impulse to do this.

Don't worry. I'll never say it first.

"Do you have to go?" Ichijou's voice was soft, as it usually was when they were alone together, discussing matters that did not have to do with things like mysterious relics or murderous creatures or life or death.

"Tsubaki-sensei even said I'm in top shape." Godai chuckled. "What exactly are you afraid of, Ichijou-san?"

Ichijou started to say something, but kept himself in check. There were also things he could not say aloud.

"I'm afraid," he almost whispered, "you'll forget."

After that, it was just too difficult for Godai to hold back. If he didn't do or say anything now, he would regret it all throughout his journey.

He smiled, then laughed, then clapped a hand on Ichijou's shoulder.

Then, as his smile faded, he laid his palm against Ichijou's cheek.

Ichijou's skin was warm. The warmth reminded Godai of the night they spent together after that first real battle, the smell of Ichijou's hair.

At first Ichijou looked stunned. He reached up for Godai's hand and stopped just before making contact - because a small part of him wanted to take that hand away, and the rest of him didn't. The look in his eyes settled to a sort of numbness.

A number of things raced inside Godai's mind - things he could never say first to this proud, beautiful, brave man who thought his own heart too small.

But there was one thing he had to say, one truth that had waited years for Godai to discover and crack open.

"The heart keeps getting bigger, Ichijou-san," Godai revealed, half to himself. "It never forgets."