There’s a long moment where he’s not sure what he should do (there’s too many uncertainties between them and too many broken bridges that he’s been trying to repair with no success), but the moment he recognizes signs of something almost nostalgic, uncertainties are abandoned and he moves.
Aone drops his bag on the pathway leading to the front door and slides his jacket off, ignoring the way the faint hairs on his arms bristle at the cold.
He closes the distance, ignores the distance in the way his name is called, wraps his jacket tight around the smaller body and follows it with his arms.
Grounds him.
He doesn’t say anything, simply waits.
(He’ll wait forever, if he has to.)
It’s been such a long time since he’s actually had an attack, so he’s not sure how to deal with it - all shaking shoulders and soft wheezing. When Aone’s chest presses against him - a tactic that has never failed, not even for his worst, Kenji’s fingers scrabble to grip tightly around Aone’s front and tug at the clothing on his back.
His hands are tight and suffocating, gripping as if Aone would disappear through his fingers like running water if he let go. It’s been too long - it takes too long, more than several minutes, because he’s been drowning in himself for so long and he’s tired. He misses Aone - he shouldn’t be allowed to, but he does.
It takes him a long time to regain his breathing - but he keeps his face buried into Aone’s chest, shaking for different reasons - for the clenching in his chest, the guilt thrumming through his veins. He’s here now - but it’s too little, too late.
“ I’m sorry. I’m - I’m sorry. “
It will never be enough.
