Good friends are those who don't always require speech. The power comes from being there. The power comes from touch.

Sitting on top of the kitchen counter, legs dangling to the ground, the dark haired boy stared across the room, subconsciously tugging at the bracelets on his wrist. They were there for style, they were there because they looked cute, but they were also there to hide the scars that couldn't be hidden by the sleeves of his shirt. Scars dangerously close to the vital veins. But at the moment he wasn't concerned with those scars, or himself at all. He was concerned with the boy on the other side of the room, who had no visible scars for his pain. His dark eyes were studying the figure of the other, the figure of his best friend.

His friend was leaning against the wall, legs pulled up against him with his forehead pressing forward against his knees. His blonde hair was messy; he hadn't brushed it that morning. Before he'd put his head down, the look on his face was of solid hurt. His blues eyes were filled with confusion, and he looked drained.

Something was wrong. Something unnamed was wrong.

Shoving off the counter and landing on the floor with a slight thunk – he never was very light on his feet – the other made his way across the room towards the blonde. Sitting down and folding his legs in front of him, he sat there silently until the blue eyes emerged from the huddled figure. "Dais..." the boy whimpered a bit.

Without saying a word, Daisuke held out his arms. Takeru shoved out of his fetal position and slumped into them. It was warm there, leaning against Daisuke's chest with his arms around him. Snuggling closer, he sighed. Life sucked sometimes, but sometimes you had friends that could make everything go away without so much as a breath.