Five years later, they talk about it.
"What?" he asks, blinking his eyes into focus. The star on her cheek trembles.
"You killed him, you murdered him, /my brother/, you fucking bastard, and you /never say anything/." She is screaming now, flinging the last words at him, the accusation of five years of studied silence. He'd finally managed to shove the body into the closet, and now she's dragged it out, because it was okay when it was just in the living room, or lying between them while they slept, but he's not allowed to forget his sin. Not ever.
She has a knife. He desperately tries to decide whether he should try and take it from her, or whether he should just let her hang onto it, maybe even use it, cutting his guilt from him in thick slices. She would straddle him like she did during sex, carve Yamato's name into his chest, dig out the heart that was rightfully hers. He would let her, he decides, because he owes it to her. A million good reasons he'd never shared with her, and the last words she should have known, he should have told her years ago.
She doesn't kill him. She cries instead, sobbing into his arms, as the blade falls from her limp fingers to the ground. He whispers comforting words, vowing that he will tell her why he had to do it.