Hiro didn't twitch. Not an inch, not a fractional change in expression. Not a thing to remind Raidou that he'd just made a concession.

Instead he approached the bed, gradually and carefully, two sets of year-worn dogtags dangling intertwined from his loosely-curled grip. They swung together slowly, their metallic collisions achingly loud against the fadeaway backdrop of machine noise and sudden silence. Hiro held them out far in front of him like an offering to a wild animal that might bite or bolt at any time, and watched Raidou's eyes locked on him warily the entire way.

Neither looked away until Hiro steadily settled the tags into Raidou's painfully outstretched hand, and stepped back.

Turning towards the pitcher of water, his back towards the hospital beds, Hiro finally started to breathe again.