For the remainder of the ride, it's like this. Yukimura kisses him long and slow and deep. He holds him, filled with bittersweet nostalgia over this body he knows so intimately well even two years later. His hands eventually leave Akaya's hips and instead find those hands hanging loose by Akaya's sides to intertwine their fingers.

This should have been what made him feel better-- and it does, on the surface. Yet deep underneath, he knows something is wrong. For Akaya to just be standing there, not putting forth that spirit that is so unconquerable and uniquely his, something is deeply wrong, and Yukimura knows what it is. And underneath that calm, content exterior, it's fermenting into a well of frustration and grief and inescapable dread that he doesn't know what to do with. He clings to those fingers as though it might somehow keep Akaya from slipping away from him.

What's his name?

It's a question burning at the front of his mind and the tip of his tongue. It's a question he won't allow himself to ask. Not when it would give the whole game away.