Sixty seconds of Kido's vulnerability is all it takes.

Her skin's hot and her blood's cold, and there's no use lying in bed. She glances desperately at the ipod at her bedside, but her heart is pounding and her head is clouded and peace of mind is unavailable on every playlist. By then it feels like she's been lying in that clenching atmosphere for too long a time—even though it's been roughly 20 seconds since her eyes shot open. She pushes herself up to a slow stand.

Kido walks hard on the worst of days; the same cannot be said for her bad nights. The hesitance slows her whole body down. A curled knuckle, a twitch of the toes—the creaking floorboards make her think of falling beams with crushing weight, and houses too big and too lonely.

She drifts out into the hallway and follows the swatches of moonlight splayed across the wall, and comes face to face with the last door. Kano's door. It seems very different in dusk than in daylight. She stops there and swears she must have gone slack and stopped breathing with the onset of all these looping, troubling, floundering thoughts.

She's in that taxing state of mind, suspended between drowsiness and overthought, where the slightest artifice of light turns terrifying and the foulest words seem like poetry so long as they're there and they're human.

So went her thought process on that night: even Kano's mockery was a welcome comfort. Even his stupidest jokes. His nastiest lies. Anything to get the soot and sulfur to pass from her mind, anything to rid herself of death dreams. There are nights when nightmares scathe her, and when she wakes up wide-eyed, everything, everything seems warped and unbearable. Leaves her dry-mouthed and shaking and pitiful. Her options are few.

She just remembers that nights spent bundled up with him were always good nights. Regardless of how long ago—or how childish—

He won't laugh at her if she's crying. And she feels like she just might; she's so numb and so cold by then that it feels like the tears will just slip out. Consequences and dignity be damned, Kido thinks tiredly, closing her fingers around the doorknob. Kano owes her. And for all his faults, he can at least understand, sometimes. When she needs it. Better than anyone. It's because he's so clever, and because he knows how it feels even if it never shows—that's just Kano.

The door creaks open and she shuffles a foot inside, a word on her lips, not any decided word. Maybe a name? She closes her eyes and thinks she'd hate for it to sound like a plea, even as she's trembling. At the first syllable, though, she realizes that Kano hasn't gotten a word in first as he so usually takes the pleasure of doing. Kano's a really light sleeper, she knows (it's paranoia) and she wonders if he's really so exhausted as to pass out-

She looks, and he's not there. The lighting is dim, but all she can see is his bedsheets swaddled up over his empty bed, and he's not anywhere else.

She forgets about her gaping loneliness, emboldened by this ostensible emergency—although it gets her heart jumping so fast that it aches. She looks around for a few seconds just to be sure, and enters further in, sitting down on his bed with a tight frown. She takes a deep, shaking breath. The oxygen does her good in a corporeal sense, but Kano's still not there.

She thinks: I need to think.

Kano usually tells her when he leaves for the night, when he goes and does his underground business. It's for their sake—she's always trusted him about that. She doesn't mind if he breaks the law. But there was such a thing as communication. She hugs her knees on the corner of his bed. The air around her runs cold with betrayal. She needed him—she needs him. She must have forgotten how elusive he could be, how easily he slipped away, that consummate trickster, that irresponsible little bastard, it wasn't fair to expect anything of him, it's not like he knew she'd come to him whimpering that night, but— but—

Why'd he have to go away without saying a word? Didn't he know she'd catch him eventually? Didn't he know she'd worry?

At least he's distracted her this way. She's only scared for herself in a different way. A little angrier. She resolves not to say a word, though. She could go looking for him, but the city is big and Kano's disguises are infinite and the underground is a place she's long left behind. She's almost positive he's there. Doing something stupid. Why else would he not tell her? She pinches herself. She's worrying like a scorned mother.

Then she has a clearer idea. She'll call him up—she doesn't know what to say, but she'll say something. Come back right now. She moves to get up to retrieve her phone, but spots his settled innocuously on top of his drawer. She almost wants to throw it.

In the end, there's really nothing to do but wait. And she'll wait. At least she's in his room. She would have left in a rush of embarrassment already. It's only now coming to her how silly it was to pay a 2 a.m. visit to Kano in hopes of, something, something-or-other, snuggling, comfort, whatever. More than silly. She would have crept back into her bed hot-faced and regretful, but now she figures she has to wait out this absence. She only feels the slightest doubt; otherwise, Kido is positive that Kano will come back. She doesn't want to think about the alternatives.

(0)(0)(0)

At 4:17 a.m., Kido, wide awake, hears scuttling and heavy breathing outside of the window. In one swift movement, she leaps up and stands by the door opposite to Kano's one window. She ratchets her concealment up, and she watches silently, as Kano pulls himself up and in and tumbles over his bed. He sits up and rubs his neck, unaware. Upon seeing he's unharmed, Kido decides to leave—she thought about it. If she slapped him right there and then, she might never learn where he'd gone. She'd save it for later.

She did notice one thing, though. A whiff of a coppery, cold smell on him.

She watches him shut the window, and she slips out the door, unseen and unheard and unnoticed.

(0)(0)(0)

Kido didn't get much else sleep that night. At 6:30, she hears Seto stirring around the house, getting ready to head to work at the shop for the day—she scrambles out of bed, slips on clothes in a rush, and meets him out in the hallway. He looks at her oddly and opens his mouth, but Kido pulls her index finger to her lips. Shh.

He gives her a slow nod, and she seems relieved. In the next second, she's herding him down the hallway and out the door.

"You look kind of awful," is the first thing he says, and she didn't even think of that but she supposes it's true. A little pallid, a little strung out. Wrought with worry and dark rings lining her eyes. She sighs.

"Can I walk with you to work, or will I only embarrass you with these awful looks?"

"Nah, I—I'd be happy if you walked with me to work. You know I didn't mean it like that." He punches her in the shoulder. Usually that was dandy between the two hardy members of the Dan, and she would slap him on the back in return, but she only jolts and rubs for a moment. He doesn't seem to notice, and starts along his commute. "So what's wrong?"

"Kano," she grumbles. Seto chooses to laugh, of all things.

"No, it's worse than that," she starts, "I—it's serious. I went into his room last night, at about 2 a.m., and he wasn't there. He didn't tell you anything about that, did he?"

Seto contemplates this. "Nope," he says, and has the decency to look troubled. "Maybe he forgot."

"No way," Kido responds harshly. "He's hiding something."

They stop at the intersection, and Seto turns to her with a smile. "Don't you trust him?"

"Doesn't he trust me? He should tell me if he's going to sneak out in the middle of the night."

"Maybe it's something awkward."

Kido thinks of Kano meeting with a girl in the dead of night, and frowns her biggest frown yet. "He should still say something beforehand."

"So you can talk him out of it?" Seto asks, doubtful, and begins to cross the street. Kido knows he doesn't want to be late for work, but she's annoyed at having to match his big stride. It's too early for this. She wishes Seto would be agreeable.

"Someone needs to take responsibility for that guy."

"Kano should take responsibility for himself, right?"

"Whose side are you on?"

He stops again on the other side of the road, frowning at her helplessly. "I just don't want you guys to get into a fight over this is all. It's probably nothing."

"Do you know something and you're not telling me?" she fixes him with a stare, and she sees his discomfort before he simply turns and slips away again.

"That's not it," he says, and she follows him, arms folded and steps heavy on the pavement.

"Then I have a favor to ask," Kido starts, and Seto turns to gawk at her.

"No."

"Seto—"

"I'm sorry, but no."

"Come on. I need to know what he was doing." She figured he would catch on despite whatever nice pretense she tried to construct. He would be perfect for this, and the problem would be solved. But his steadfast opposition to utilizing his power on people was so stubborn. She would admire it if it wasn't giving her such trouble.

Seto sighs and stops in the middle of the sidewalk again, placing his hand over her shoulder. "Then, um, first, can I ask how you came to be in Kano's room at 2 a.m. to begin with?" No such thing as if you don't mind my asking. Naturally. Seto didn't have that kind of tact. They felt tact was superficial anyway, and it had no place between the three of them. Still—

She wavers, drawing her mouth straight shut to prevent sputtering. She hadn't seen that coming.

"I left my ipod there while I was cleaning," she says, slow and quiet.

Oh, there, she's gone and abandoned her tattered scruples just as Kano might, but with nowhere near the mastery. Seto turns his head away with a concentrated effort and a forced smile—he's disappointed, it's written there plain as day.

"I see."

At least he won't pursue it. But now he definitely won't help her. It's not that she feared for judgement—never, from Seto—but she knew if she told him two words about nightmares and momentary weakness, he'd get too concerned too fast. So she lets the blatant lie hang between them instead. Two blocks down, they come to the flower shop, and Kido reaches out for Seto's big folded sleeve.

"You won't help me?" she asks, subdued and soft. Seto has a weak point for that, but she's not consciously exploiting it. She knows he won't, and why force it? She stares at her feet. She feels absolutely rebuked for lying.

Seto turns to face her, the shop doorway behind him. "You could just as easily ask him," he suggests brightly, though the mirth doesn't reach his face.

She doesn't even consider that possibility—looking quite miserable about it, she gives voice to the fear that comes with loving someone like Kano. Hushed and incredulous: "You actually think he'll tell me the truth?"

The other boy can't say a thing to that.