Thanks to the lovely Mefiant for beta-reading this chapter for me.

---

"I never said any of it was Fuuma-san's fault. That doesn't change the fact that he being here is placing everybody in the world in unnecessary danger."

"Well, what do you suggest that we do? Kill the poor guy—"

"No. Would you—listen for five minutes?"

Sorata was staring at Arashi over the top of his glass with eyebrows arched; Arashi stared back at him with her gloved fists in her lap, the only above-table sign of her irritation being a crease between her eyebrows. They were sitting at a table in the circular pavilion surrounded by sliding glass doors to the dance floor, which was circumscribed donut-fashion around the soundproofed center. Gray-white mist rose from marshy rivers and lagoons hemmed by subtropical foliage, partially obscuring the cold, starry sky.

"Nee-chan, come on…"

"He's deteriorating." Arashi started levelly as Sorata realized he was still holding his glass of soda and sipped it, lowering it back to the table. "All it took was one guy to ask him for donations to the disaster fund, and he freaked. That kind of thing is everywhere now. There's no way he'll be able to avoid it. All we can do is not compromise his situation further."

"But if you knew you'd been the one to cause all that damage, wouldn't you—"

"It isn't a question of willpower." Arashi took a deep breath and collected her thoughts, forming her words. Though her mind was quick, words came slowly to her. "…it's that anybody would be affected that way. It's a hard hit for anybody. And he can't afford hard hits like that. He's on the edge."

"What, you think he'd magically not hear about it if he moved away from us?"

"—I never said that—"

"If anything, we're his sanctuary. We don't have the news runnin' twenty-four-seven like most people nowadays, and we don't talk about it so much. We've… got tact; we know not to say bad things around him. Nobody else does."

"We don't talk about it because we lived it. Because we were in it."

"So?"

So, it should be perfectly clear. Arashi's brow furrowed slightly, further. "…because we're the Dragons of Heaven, his being around us is like being around a trigger. Our very presence and involvement in the war could be the stimuli that sets him off again. It won't take much at all. And I think we'd do more to cause that than being in an environment where he has to listen to the newscast."

"But what about Kamui? Nee-chan, he deserves happiness more than anything, and Fuuma is all he's got left."

"Kamui is precisely the one I'm most worried about."

"Why? He might be the one to help Fuuma the most—"

"The closer they get, the more danger Fuuma is in of changing back." Arashi glowered across the table. "Don't you see that? They're Gemini; I don't know exactly why, but I know that Kamui'd be most likely to trigger him off again. He was… what got Fuuma to change over in the first place, with his decision. He's definitely got that power."

"But he's got no more wishes to make like that; he's already on our side. Don't you think he's used up his ace?"

Arashi glared flatly. Sorata laid his forearms on the table to grasp for her hands. Arashi's fists stayed in her lap. Sorata closed his fingers slightly as if to draw back.

"Nee-chan, don't be like this."

"You just don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

"It was Kamui's heart that swayed Fuuma once. I don't want to think of the danger of their hearts getting closer."

"But I thought Kamui was involved with Subaru. Actually, I don't know what's goin' on there, but I got the feelin'—"

"Kamui swayed Fuuma as nothing but a best friend; if they stay that or become more, the danger is still there." Arashi paused. "And I don't know what is going on between Kamui and Subaru and Fuuma. I've never been very good at understanding relationships."

"That's why you need to learn."

Sorata's hands were open again, straining, reaching. Arashi glanced at them and clenched her fists more tightly in her lap, looking to the side to avoid eye contact. She understood relationships better than she let on, but pretending she did not saved her a lot of grief and obligation to sensitivity she did not feel entitled to give.

There was a long silence. Sorata quietly said "Neee-chan" in a singsong manner; when Arashi only stiffened in response, he sighed heavily and withdrew his hands to his glass.

"Well, then, what do you propose we do about Fuuma?"

"…just… send him off for a while, away from us and Kamui. Let him live quietly until all of this blows over. He can always come back when it's safe."

"And what if it'll never be safe? Do you really think we can shake destiny off completely, even if we've slowed it down for a little while?" Sorata leaned further forward, and his eyebrows bent backwards slightly in a strange mimic of restrained sorrow. "You've believed in the absolution of destiny stronger'n any of us. Don't bullshit us. You know it'll never be safe." He paused for a moment. "I'm not dumb, Nee-chan. Please don't talk to me like I am."

Arashi averted her eyes. "I know you're not dumb, Sorata-san."

Sorata smiled, still looking oddly pained, and leaned forward further. "Please—" Arashi could feel his expression grow more pained as she reflexively drew away a bit, but she didn't care. "—it's just 'Sorata'," he finished softly. "Or Sora, if you'd so prefer. What is wrong with you? You were calling me 'Sorata' just the other day. Stop drawing away from me."

Arashi bit her lower lip softly and clenched her forearms, forcing herself to look Sorata in the eye and neutralize her expression. She was terrified the effort it took would be evident. "The suffering of one over—"

"—two—"

"—two over the fate of humanity. What's the right thing to do?"

"Well…" Sorata looked to the side and groaned slightly in distaste, thinking, furrowing his eyebrows. "…it's not to—turn Fuuma out on the street—"

"I never said anything about turning him out on the street." Arashi hugged her abdomen slightly, back straight. "…and our fate has given us a burden to bear for the good of humanity. Even if it's not fair. You know the answer deep down, Sorata-san. Even though it's not easy."

"Just… 'Sorata'. Please."

Sorata was silent for a long time, staring at Arashi with that same pained gaze and obviously struggling with multiple things he wanted to say. Finally, he sighed.

"Do you think the boys got back to the house all right?"

"I'm sure they did. Keiichi and Yuzuriha should be back by now; they'd tell us if things went badly."

---

"There's something you've got to accept if you want to have a relationship with Fuuma. Bear this in mind. He's damaged. There's nothing romantic or alluring about it, and it will soon be clear how much it will permeate the relationship. He's neurotic about any contact that could be considered even vaguely sexual, and that's only the beginning of his problems." Seishirou was staring at Kamui levelly through his glasses with his fingers interlocked over his mouth. "Do you think you'll stay with him in sickness and health, till death do you part, after months and months and years and decades of dealing with that, when you look around you and see people in relationships that are relatively healthy, and wonder why you can't have that for yourself? You could live a simple life, an uncomplicated life, with a nice girl who wouldn't flinch every time you touched her, and who would lift the burden from your shoulders, not lean on you with her own burden. Who wouldn't have been a part of a war, a constant reminder, the worst reminder, even, the cause of all the trouble. You could have a heterosexual relationship, without having to explain yourself, without having to be ostracized, without having to have people constantly ask why you can't just be normal. You won't be able to be open about your relationship without having people think you're flaunting your homosexuality. It's different on this side of things, Kamui, regardless of what the media makes you think. With the vast majority of the population, we're not considered the same as everybody else. It's not fair, and it may seem like I'm playing an outdated politically-correct line, but it's true. You could live without that additional trouble." Seishirou paused. "So, is this still your decision? For the rest of your life? Do you truly love Fuuma that much? Because only if you love him more than anybody else, regardless of his damage, will this relationship survive and make you happy."

"How the hell am I supposed to know if we'll stay together forever? We're—we're just starting this out; I don't know if we'll last a week. And we're seventeen."

Seishirou laughed and said that Kamui was very right. Kamui realized through a vaguely surreal haze that he was no longer focusing on Seishirou as the source of Fuuma's sexual damage; the thought somehow did not make him want to raise his guard. It seemed like something far in the past, beyond the more recent conversations and merely shadowing Seishirou's status as a trustworthy, if not shady, mentor.

"…I can't go into any relationship right now making promises like that. Nobody can. I just want to try. And I'll fight all the way as long as it's going to work out."

"Then that's all you can resolve, for now." A faint, pleased smile was playing at the corners of Seishirou's mouth. "And don't feel alone. Things like this—like what happened to Fuuma, like the situation you are willingly entering—things like this happen every day, all over Tokyo."

---

Fuuma had long since calmed down and was slouched down in his favorite armchair in the living room, eyes closed, though he was not dozing. His eyes were raw, and every muscle in his face was slack with exhaustion and abject guilt. Every so often he would clench his eyes and take a shuddering breath that was a shadow of an impending sob, but eclipsed that edge before Fuuma could break down again. Kamui had helped Fuuma out of his green-and-tan plaid shirt, the ends of the collar of which were damp with vomit, and had found a simple white t-shirt that was still warm from the dryer. Fuuma was barely able to stand while Kamui had helped him out of his shirt; his weight buckled with the slightest pressure. When Kamui had finally been able to steer Fuuma over to the armchair, Fuuma had collapsed as though somebody had kicked him in the stomach.

Fuuma remained silent while Kamui took off his suit jacket and threw it on the chair across the room and went upstairs to fish for a bottle of sake under his bed. He finally rolled it over with his fingertips and caught it, then sat on the edge of his bed for a moment and dropped his forehead into his hand, holding the bottle loosely over his leg. He just then realized how badly he was shaking. His chest and stomach seemed to have filled with lead; everything was heavy, and the surface of his tongue hinted metallic.

He realized a few moments later that he was crying, and made no effort to dam his throat; he fell on his side and sobbed wretchedly for an unknown duration of time, burying his face in his hand and clutching at his skin. It felt good, in a sense, to wrench his gut over and over with self-accusations, to beat the hell out of his own mind and heart with the worst judgments that could be given in his situation. The coldest logic. The deadliest, most all-encompassing assurances of his guilt. It felt good to release the emotions and allow them to crash into his gut, the pure self-loathing and guilt that he had been damming with logic and common sense—that he had held back by assuring himself none of this had been his fault. Everything had been caused by his existence. Everything circled back to him. His secret thoughts. His inverse-self. Kamui wallowed in a completely Kamui-centric universe, as the source of all bad in a universe in which all good would surely soon be destroyed if he dared to touch it. If his resolve broke and he touched.

Fuuma.

—Fuuma, back turned arms crossed, angelic and pure, white-coated and white-winged, blindingly edged by white sunlight, sad, so sad, so beautiful and untouchable, the most pure and sad thing in the world—

Kamui knew that he was leaving Fuuma alone downstairs when that was the last thing Fuuma needed at that moment, but he kept resolving to get up after "five more minutes" until a full hour-and-a-half had passed and his sobs had slowed to slow, shuddering breaths. He finally took a good look at his bedside clock and sat up, pulling down the red turtleneck that had bunched up around his waist.

Okay. He took a deep breath. I've felt sorry for myself long enough. Time to be strong again. Level. Mature. Put things in perspective. This is not my fault. This is not Fuuma's fault. Destiny just screwed us over. It would have happened to anybody Destiny would have chosen.

Kamui walked to the bathroom, washed his face with cold water, toweled himself off, decided that it was the best he would be able to do to make himself look presentable without waiting longer, and walked downstairs with the sake, hesitating a moment behind the end of the stairwell wall before forcing himself over the top and leaning out to look at Fuuma's armchair. Fuuma seemed to have fallen asleep; Kamui hoped that was the case, since any sleep Fuuma was able to get was good for him. He padded down the last few steps and collapsed in the armchair across from Fuuma, opened the sake, and took a deep drink straight from the bottle.

"Kamui?"

Kamui choked on the sake and sat up, coughing; Fuuma was definitely awake, and his garnet-red eyes were surprisingly clear and focused. The boys stared at one another for a few moments before they stared anywhere-but-each other in an awkward silence while Kamui gasped and regained his breath.

Kamui hated awkward silences. They made him pressingly aware of a taboo subject between them.

I kissed Fuuma. We act like it never happened. I don't know if that's good or bad. So, great, now we're going to be super-casual with each other and pretend nothing ever happened. Fuuma, don't be embarrassed; it's all right—

"Are you drinking?" said Fuuma.

"Er… uh, yeah."

Silence.

"…why?"

"Um… I dunno. I feel like it."

"Oh."

"…you want some or something?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"…no. No, I think you need some."

"What?"

"Wait."

"No, Kamui—"

"—just wait—"

"—I'm fine—"

"—hold on."

Kamui strode into the kitchen, holding the bottle by its handle, and retrieved two English tea mugs from the cabinets, then returned to the living room and shoved one handle-first into Fuuma's hand before pouring the clear alcohol into the mug. The acrid smell fumed from the splashing liquid. Fuuma stared at it apprehensively.

"That's—that's not a sake cup."

"Sake cups are for pussies who want to do shots. We're drinking."

"Um, Kamui…"

"I'm sorry the stuff's room temperature." Kamui poured himself a mug of sake and set the bottle down by his ankles as he sat on the ottoman in front of Fuuma. Their knees were between one another's, like a zipper's teeth. "It ain't so bad once you get used to it, though. If you really don't like sake, I think I've still got some red-current vodka up in my room."

"I really don't like alcohol very much."

"It's like medicine. It doesn't taste amazing, but it has its effects."

Fuuma stared at Kamui. "You can't… believe that."

"Fuuma!" Kamui sighed and leaned forward in exacerbation. "I promise you won't turn into an alcoholic or die if you drink every now and then to calm your nerves. I promise. All right?"

Fuuma stared at Kamui. Kamui arched his eyebrows.

"Please tell me you've drank before."

Fuuma shrugged. Kamui sucked in air and exhaled slowly. Almost eighteen years old and clean as a whistle. If I had lived in Tokyo he'd have gotten out of the house more.

"I mean," said Fuuma, "I've had wine at dinner a bit, and I've had some sake, and I tried some beer at a family party—"

"None of that counts as drinking. Rule of thumb is that if you did it with your daddy around, it ain't drinking."

"Oh." A moment of sadness flickered across Fuuma's features. Kamui cursed himself; mentioning Monou Kyougo was clearly out of bounds, and he damn well knew it. "All right, then."

"Oh, god. I'm sorry, Fuuma. Your dad—"

"It's all right." Fuuma swilled the sake and stared down at the mug. "…I don't want his name to disappear forever just because it's painful."

Kamui stared at Fuuma for a long time as Fuuma swilled the drink, eyes far away. Kamui didn't notice his grip had tightened around his own mug handle until the porcelain started to press his fingers' bones together painfully.

You amaze me, Fuuma. I can't tell you enough how much you amaze me. He looked down at his mug. I'll never be good enough for you.

"…all right." Kamui looked up and nodded over his mug. "We'll do it together, all right?"

---

"J'know our moms were lesbians?"

"What?"

"No, seriously. They were lesbians together. Rug munchers. Muff divers." Kamui paused. "Our moms."

"What?"

"They liked to munch rugs."

Fuuma glared up from his sprawling position in his chair; his head had been back over the juncture of the chair's arm and the back. "That's not so nice to say about our moms."

"Maybe that's why we're gay, though. Swishy. Gay." Kamui was lying on his back on the floor at Fuuma's feet, staring at the ceiling; he sat up and leaned back on his hands. "That's why we're sausage packers."

"Kamui!" Fuuma thought for a moment. "…we like women too!"

"So we're rug munchers and sausage packers!"

"Kamui, that's vile."

"What?"

"Disgusting."

Kamui pointed at Fuuma unsteadily, closing one eye as though aiming at him. "…I thought you said 'vile'."

"You're vile. Wait; what?"

"We're drunk."

"What?"

"We're drunk."

"That's no excuse to be stupid." Fuuma sank back into the chair and allowed his head to drop back over the arm again. "…you know the vast majority of a drunken euphoria is psychological, right?"

"Oooh, big words!" Kamui flung his hands open at Fuuma as though flicking water onto him. "Euphoria."

Fuuma looked up slightly. "What?"

"Euphoria!"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm making a drunken euphoria." Kamui flung his hands open again. "Euphoria!"

Fuuma shook his head and sank back over the chair arm. "I think you're desperate to be wasted."

"You're not sober either."

"Yesss I am."

"Nooo, you're not."

Kamui fell back onto the floor and sighed, closing his eyes and folding his hands behind his head. Fuuma stared at the ceiling for a long time, thinking.

"…is what you say true about our moms?"

"What?"

"That they were… involved." Fuuma cleared his throat. "Lesbians."

"Uh-huh."

"But…" Fuuma thought for a moment. "Mom and Dad were together, weren't they?"

"Well, yeah."

"…but…"

"I dunno why your mom married your dad. I think it's got to do with the Shinken."

"What?"

"The Shinken."

"Oh."

"I mean… it's got to, right? It'd be too much of a coincidence otherwise."

"Oh."

Fuuma closed his eyes for a while. Now that he thought about it, as a child he had noticed his father always watched his mother with the utmost care, staring at her as she did various tasks around the house with a distant, deep melancholy in his expression, but his mother never returned the favor. Her eyes were always far away. She certainly loved Kyougo on some deep level, and loved her children more than the world, but something seemed unreciprocated between his parents. As a child he certainly knew what unrequited love meant, but his parents were excluded from all considerations of abnormality and anything perverse. They had to love each other. They had to be the manifestation of safety and what was right in the world. Even though Saya had died hideously, it was a more likely and bearable idea than something so fundamentally wrong as Mom and Dad not loving each other. Saya's death was unfortunate and out of the bounds of the family's control. The very essence of the family itself lied in the bond Fuuma assumed they had.

Now that Fuuma was older and he realized that his parents, like all parents, were two people who had met and gotten into a relationship, and who had ended up with children; this did not exempt them from something being fundamentally wrong with their relationship on the basis of them being His Parents alone. It was something he had always considered, especially after hearing stories of his friends' parents' relationships going to hell; to know it was actually true for him was destabilizing. His point-of-reference for his worldview was shifting. No longer was he Fuuma, the one from the loving family; now he was Fuuma, the one with a broken family. The room seemed lukewarm and far too immediate; every small movement caught his awareness. He shifted in his seat and sighed heavily, blinking at the ceiling, allowing the information to soak through the surface of his mind.

"…hey, Kamui?"

"Hnnn?"

"Does that make us, like, brothers?"

"I don't think so." Kamui paused; Fuuma kept his focus on the ceiling. "It's kinda odd, though. Kinda ironic."

"You know, if our mothers weren't involved, we never would've met… would we?"

" 'sbullshit. We met that one day on the street corner because of the dog, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, but would we have met each other again?" Fuuma thought for a moment. "And I bet we wouldn't have been in the same neighborhood in the first place if you guys hadn't had moved closer to us anyway."

"Life's funny like that."

"It's almost like you're my destiny."

Kamui did not respond for a long time. Fuuma sighed and closed his eyes, re-adjusting his position so his head was further up along the back of the chair. The blood rushing to his head was not helping his lightheadedness.

"…you almost make me want to like fate," said Kamui.

"What?"

"I hate destiny. I want to destroy it."

Fuuma opened his eyes; suddenly, his head was clear, replacing the staggering clarity of external reality with self-awareness. It was as though he had remembered why he had wandered into a building in the first place, or what his original mission was before he had gotten distracted by something. He sat up straight, staring down at Kamui. The boy was still lying on the floor with his eyes closed, with his hand under the hem of his turtleneck and tracing his fingers across his stomach absently.

"And, you want to destroy destiny now, Kamui?" Fuuma's voice was clear, smooth but hinting at the fringes of the raw elements. It was no longer the voice of a young man. It was the voice of a young god.

Kamui's eyes snapped open; he stared at Fuuma in drunken shock, jaw slack. His hand was frozen under his shirt. Fuuma swung his long legs over the opposite chair arm and stood over Kamui with a soft, sadistic smile. Kamui scrambled to his feet, still gaping, and drew himself up to his full height, staring at Fuuma. He swayed; now that Fuuma was sober, he could see Kamui was incredibly drunk.

"Fuuma?" Kamui reached up to Fuuma's face tentatively. "Come on; this isn't funny."

Fuuma grabbed Kamui's wrist and twisted Kamui around roughly, plowing him forward through an ornamental table bearing a vase of roses and smashed him into the wall as the vase crashed to the ground. The water flooded around Fuuma's bare feet as he locked Kamui's arm and shoved Kamui's hips into the wall with his own, jerking Kamui's locked shoulder roughly, asserting dominance. Kamui choked and twisted his neck around painfully, and Fuuma smashed Kamui's cheek into the wall. Fuuma felt that his Gemini was enraged and terrified; Kamui's disappointment was welling and crashing so harshly that he felt as though he was drowning, lungs filling with lead. He was pleading and moaning litanies; the initial shock was wearing off. Fuuma lowered his head to nuzzle the juncture of Kamui's neck.

"Fuuma, this isn't funny; please, please stop—"

"Then why don't you do something about fate if you hate it so much? Or are you just going to whine about how much you hate it without trying to change anything?"

"Please, God, no," Kamui shuddered as Fuuma nipped his ear. "—please God, no—please—oh my God, please, God, no—PLEASE—FUUMA, WAKE UP—"

"No. What you want is for me to go back to sleep."

"—this isn't happening this isn't happening this isn't happening—" Kamui whined thinly; he was on the verge of tears. His words rushed out in a barking sob. "—this isn't happening oh my God FUUMA PLEASE WAKE UP—"

Fuuma roared and shoved Kamui away, stumbling back and slipping in the spilt water. The backs of his hands were searing; he screamed and clutched at his hands, falling to his knees. The marrow of his bones was blistering; the bones were cracking with the pressure from inside, shattering; his skin was surely ripping along the lines, popping muscle and tendon and each fiber painfully as though each was a nerve all its own—

Fuuma awoke curled over his knees, clutching his hands; Kamui was kneeling over him and shaking his shoulders, screaming his name repeatedly. He had vomited in pain; the mess was all over his clothes, his hands, and the floor, and the aftertaste was acrid in his mouth. He gasped and smashed forward onto his hands, barely avoiding the mess on the floor, and vomited again, shaking so badly his arms were a hairsbreadth from collapsing. Most of what he was vomiting now was alcohol, and he could taste that clearly. This time, a few drops of blood also splattered onto the floor. Kamui pushed him upright and supported his shoulders, staring into Fuuma's half-opened eyes.

"Fuuma! Come on, you bastard, come back! Fuuma!"

"It's me… it's me; what are you talking about?"

"Oh my God!"

Kamui gave Fuuma a tight hug around the shoulders and kissed the top of his head, still muttering "Oh my God" in a babbling, fevered litany; Fuuma was too dazed to register the intimacy of the gesture. Kamui ran into the kitchen and returned with paper towels and started to clean Fuuma's jaw and nose—Fuuma then realized that the blood was from his nose; he had a gushing nosebleed—and Fuuma was too dazed to protest and insist that he could take care of himself. He was vaguely aware of how disgusting he was at that moment, but was too exhausted and shaky to resist being helped. After Kamui had mopped up what he could, he ordered Fuuma to pinch his nose with a wad of paper towels and pushed Fuuma back against the ottoman—pushing it against the chair so it wouldn't slide around—and cleaned up the floor, which was thankfully wooden, water and vase shards included. By the time Kamui had thrown the towels away and had returned with a glass of water, Fuuma had calmed enough to fully realize what had just happened. He remembered none of it, but the evidence, the mental black-out, and Kamui's agitated state were evidence enough.

"Kamui—I'm so sorry, I—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Kamui shoved the glass so roughly into Fuuma's free hand Fuuma slammed back into the ottoman; upon further inspection, he could see Kamui was crying. "Just drink that and shut up! You're lucky you're here! So shut up and stop apologizing!"

"But I've made such a mess—"

"I. DON'T. CARE. Shut up and drink that."

Fuuma watched Kamui carefully as he sipped at the water, washing the awful aftertaste off his tongue, as Kamui ran upstairs and returned with another clean shirt and a clean pair of pajama pants. He stood over Fuuma, still livid, though he had stopped crying and had set his jaw so hard he was barring his teeth. He seemed to have sobered, though his movements were still lacking in coordination; his eyes were clear, dark purple tinting conflicting, unfathomable, wracking emotions. He stood that way over Fuuma until Fuuma had finished his glass and was leaning back against the ottoman, gasping and rubbing the backs of his hands. They were still sore to the bone, but it was a mere shadow of the prior pain, like the ghost of an explosion that is left when one closes his eyes afterward.

"…Kamui…" Fuuma said weakly.

"You scared the hell out of me." Kamui's voice was deathly quiet, restrained. He was trying to keep from sobbing; the effort of restraining himself was twisting his face further, making him curl his lip in and clamp down on it so hard his jaw shook. "…I've never been so scared in my entire life. I almost lost you again."

"Kamui…"

"Do you want to take a bath?"

Fuuma barely shook his head. "I don't think I even have the energy to stand. I think I'd drown."

"Then let's get you out of those clothes."

It took a considerable amount of time to get Fuuma into clean clothes again. The shirt was little problem; the pants Fuuma refused to allow Kamui to aid him with, and insisted on Kamui facing the other way as he laboriously changed. His arms were shaking so badly that he could barely tie the drawstring on the pajama pants, but he finally was able to do so. As soon as he was done his legs gave out on him and he collapsed back into the chair, closing his eyes and sinking into the deep cushions. He heard movement and felt Kamui leave the room; a few moments later, Kamui was standing over him again. Fuuma did not open his eyes.

"Kamui, I'm so sorry about all of this. This is so disgusting and—embarrassing—"

"Whatever happened to you saved you. I don't give a fuck what happened as a result. You're here." Kamui paused. His voice was calmer now, quiet. "Can I see your hands?"

Fuuma nodded. He felt Kamui kneel down beside the chair and take his right hand, flipping it so their hands were palm-to-palm. Fuuma opened his eyes to actually look at his hands for the first time since they had exploded; there was a faint, glowing imprint of two five-pointed stars superimposed over one another, the one with its center point toward his middle finger red, and the reciprocal one white. He glanced at Kamui; Kamui's eyebrows were furrowed.

"…it looks like you've got two guardian angels."

Fuuma had a vivid memory of lying naked in ice water with the backs of his hands growing searing-hot. "…Subaru-san, isn't it?"

Kamui nodded, still furrowing his eyebrows. "I didn't know about him. I knew about the other one."

"Who?"

Kamui did not respond. Fuuma curled his fingers slightly.

"It's Seishirou-san, isn't it?"

Kamui looked up at Fuuma sharply. "…how did you know that?"

"Subaru-san talked to me a bit." Fuuma took a deep breath; it was the first time all evening he had remembered his conversation with Subaru. It had been at the forefront of his mind until the encounter with the Hearts of CLAMP Campus Disaster Relief Club at the dance. Since then, it had been a non-existent thought. "He's the Sakurazukamori." Kamui's eyes grew wide. Fuuma exhaled through his nose in irritation, but only succeeded in popping his ears since he was still pinching it. Exactly. "Kamui, come on. You're both hiding something from me about Seishirou-san. I'm not as big of an oaf as I seem."

"…could we not talk about it right now?"

"It's not like I'm going to forget—"

"I know that. Just—please?"

Kamui had lot let go of Fuuma's hand; Fuuma now noticed that Kamui was tightening his grip. Fuuma looked up at Kamui; Kamui was staring silently back at Fuuma, blinking every few seconds. It was not the first time they had made eye contact at such close quarters, but the weight and level, pointed directness of Kamui's gaze held Fuuma's attention with unprecedented strength. Fuuma took a deep, silent breath through his mouth, allowing his chest to rise and fall, realizing that he was still holding his nose with a bloody pad of paper towels. He broke the gaze to pull the pad away and felt right under his nose, and, after deducing that his nose was dry, wiped it with a clean patch and threw the pad in the nearby trash can.

Kamui's stare had not wavered when he looked back, and the tension weighed on Fuuma again as though there had been no break. Kamui was stroking the blade of Fuuma's hand with his thumb; he sniffed and licked his lips, taking a silent breath. Fuuma stared back, blinking, realizing more fully what exactly this meant. The feeling had already settled into the pit of his stomach; now, it was growing, riveting him in morbid fascination. Though Fuuma's memory was spotty at times he had always remembered the evening Kamui had kissed him and bolted; he had pushed the memory to the back of his mind for the sake of keeping things from getting awkward, but now it returned full-force, unleashing the dammed emotions and confusion he had associated with it.

"Look…" Fuuma took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled; the desire to bolt was starting to jerk at his nerves. "…I think we finally need to discuss what happened—"

"I'm sick of discussing. Waiting. It's bullshit. There's nothing to discuss. I did what I felt like doing."

"But…" Fuuma caught himself on the chair's arm and considering crawling over it; Kamui tightened his grip on his hand. "…uh… erm…"

"Shut up." Kamui's voice was even and cold, edging with a swelling of the emotions he had just gotten under control. His gaze was direct, but his eyes seemed far away, thinking. "I almost lost you. I've never been so scared in my entire life. We can't wait; destiny won't wait for us. So, before it's too late, let's do this." He paused for a moment. "Life's too short to ever wait."

"Do what?" The hand on the back of the chair was quaking; Fuuma was considering kicking Kamui in the face and bolting out the door. "Kamui, do what?"

"You're not going to run away from me." Kamui raised his eyes slightly, clearing like a shutter, re-focusing on Fuuma, trying to pin Fuuma to his seat. Fuuma just felt more like running. "Not because you're scared. I'm not going to let you associate love with hurt any longer."

"I'm…" Fuuma's wrist collapsed; he fell on his forearm and yanked Kamui with him. Kamui stabilized himself and knelt on the ottoman, resting one knee on the edge of the chair. "…I'm not going to sleep with you!"

Kamui paused at this and stared at Fuuma for a while. The serious glaze over his eyes melted, as sun burns off mist, and he started laughing. Fuuma allowed the arm Kamui was holding to go slack.

"Kamui?"

"Oh my God." Kamui held his hand to his eyes, shaking his head and laughing harder. "You moron."

"…what?"

" 'I'm not going to sleep with you!' Oh my God…"

Kamui fell at Fuuma's side, still gripping Fuuma's hand and twisting Fuuma's shoulder awkwardly; Fuuma twisted onto his side to relieve the pressure. "Fuuma, for God's sake, I swear I'm not going to rape you, all right?"

"…I know that, but… er…" Fuuma settled back and wondered just why that had been the first outburst to come to mind. Great. I sound like a paranoid idiot. "…actually... you know what; never mind."

"We'll take it as slow as you want, all right?"

"We'll—wait, what's this 'we'll' business? We'll do what?" Kamui was still laughing, curled up on his side; Fuuma sighed and hauled him onto his back by the shoulders, pinning him down across the span of the chair and the ottoman. "Kamui!"

"I'm in love with you, Monou Fuuma."

Fuuma stared; Kamui smiled at him, an odd, toothy, open-mouthed grimace that Fuuma realized was twisted half by laughing, half by crying. It was difficult to tear his eyes away from, somehow seemingly inappropriate for the situation. But tear his eyes away he finally did, and Fuuma stared at the floor to the chair's left.

"…are you ready to say words that strong?"

"Yes," said Kamui. Fuuma kept his eyes to the floor. "I've thought about it a lot for a long time, Fuuma. And there's no time to be a coward. I love you. I've been in love with you for a while."

"…I'm not ready to say words that strong."

"That's all right." Fuuma looked at Kamui; Kamui stared back at him levelly, smiling tearfully. "I'd never want you to lie to me, ever. If you say the same to me, I want to know you really mean it. Above all else, we're best friends, and best friends are honest with each other."

Fuuma thought for a moment, looking away and sitting up. "…I'm not even sure I'm ready to… I don't know… Kamui, do you want us to get romantically involved? Become lovers? I don't even know if I'm ready for that."

Kamui sat up slightly. "You don't even want to try?"

"…I'm honestly not sure how I feel about you that way." Fuuma took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. He did not want to look at Kamui's face; he was sure the disappointment there would be heartbreaking. "I'm sorry, I just don't. And… something seems wrong about going into a relationship when you're ready to say 'I love you' and I… well, don't even know what to say, or where to stand, or…" Fuuma sighed. "I don't know, Kamui. I just can't make any promises to you right now. And I don't want to break your heart. Above all, I don't want to screw up our friendship. It means a lot to me."

"But how will we know until we try?" Kamui sat up fully and stared; Fuuma still refused to make eye contact. "You've kept pushing me out; you're not allowing yourself to feel anything for me, so how will you ever know if you don't try? And I'll take it if you decide it's not going to work out." Kamui paused. "First and foremost, we're best friends, and nothing's ever going to change that."

"But you do want more?"

"Of course. Desperately." Kamui took a deep breath. "But I'll take what's right for you."

Fuuma arched his eyebrows. "…you're not honestly going to sit here and tell me that we won't allow things to get weird and can go right back to the way things were, because you know that's bullshit. The further you go, the harder the—fall, the harder it is to fix things. And you can never go back to start."

"I know. I've thought about all of this a hundred times over. We can't even go back from this conversation." Kamui took a deep breath. "Don't start like this, Fuuma. You've got to believe it's going to work out, or it won't."

"Who said I've agreed to anything?"

Kamui was silent. Fuuma look off at a distant wall.

"Kamui, I can't allow anybody to get emotionally close to me. I'm dangerous. I—I just almost turned back into a monster, I hurt you—sooner or later, if things turn back the way they were, you'll have to kill me." Fuuma stared at Kamui. "…and emotions can't prevent you from doing what's right for the sake of the world."

"You think I care if there's a chance it might end? We've only got right now!"

"I'm afraid you're the trigger that'll send me back over the edge."

"Because I'm your Gemini?"

"Yes, and… kind of, no." Fuuma collected his thoughts for a moment. "…I just get that feeling."

"Why?"

"Because you're somebody close to my heart."

Silence. A stare.

"…what are you admitting?"

"I don't know. I honestly have no idea."

"…Fuuma! Come on! I'll take any defeat that comes if we give it our best shot, but if we never try, I'll regret it the rest of my life."

Fuuma stared at Kamui. "…how long have you been waiting to pull that one out?"

"We can talk to Subaru and Sakurazuka. Imonoyama and the CLAMP Campus guys, everybody. If we pull enough people together I'm sure we can beat this." Kamui squeezed Fuuma's hand. "…please, for God's sake don't let that be your excuse."

"It's not an excuse! It's a valid reason! It's far too great of a risk to risk even a sliver of a chance that I might go nuts again. Countless thousands of people have died because of me. Thousands. Their lives are worth more than us—even our own two lives, let alone us getting into a relationship." Fuuma realized he was raising his voice and took a deep breath, quieting. Kamui was staring at him quietly, thinking, brows bent back in faint despair. "…destiny can't be checked even by all the wards in the world. Subaru-san and Seishirou-san checked me this once. There's no guarantee they'd succeed again."

"But, I don't even know what triggered it this time! It wasn't because we were getting close! I don't think that's it."

Fuuma thought for a while. He had already forgotten what had triggered his relapse, but whatever it was, he knew it was directly precipitated by Kamui. He sighed and sat up.

"Then the solution is more drastic than I thought, I guess." He stared back at Kamui; Kamui's lip was trembling and curling in anticipation of a passionate rebuke. "I have to leave you completely."

"NO! For God's sake, let us talk this out with everybody! There has to be some way you can stay here! I refuse to give up this easily. You mean far too much to me." Kamui stopped for a moment, thinking, breathing labored with emotional exhaustion and crying. "I thought I told you you're the person I was fighting for the most. To get you back. Now that you're here, I'm not going to let you go so easily. I've given up everything for my destiny. You're what I kept fighting for."

"What about Subaru-san and the others?"

"Not nearly as much as you. Never nearly as much as you."

"…I was under the impression you and Subaru-san have a history."

Kamui looked up sharply; Fuuma took a deep breath. A-ha. I knew it.

"…why? What do you know?"

Fuuma shrugged and smiled to himself, looking off to the side. "I'm not as dense as people seem to think."

Kamui sighed and looked out the door, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. His eyes seemed far away again, narrowed with faint concern and regret. "…yeah, Subaru and I… kind of half-started something, I think. Actually, I'm not even sure what we ever were. That was the night we found you. But since you've come back, I just haven't cared about Subaru anymore that way. I mean—I don't know what the hell I did that evening, but I'd like to forget it."

"He won't. He hasn't."

"Well, that's his damn problem, isn't it?"

"Kamui."

"Well, living for everybody but myself has taken everything from me; maybe just this one time I want something for myself." Kamui's gaze was still narrow and distant, conflicted but unwavering; his tone was calm. "Is that selfish?"

"Yes, extremely." Fuuma thought for a moment. "But we've got to be selfish every now and then. Just not when the price is paid by so many people."

"It won't be. It can't be." Kamui stared at Fuuma, hard. "I promised I wouldn't screw up again. Too many people have paid for my mistakes. If you turn back, I'll do what I have to do. And I'll fight every step of the way so that doesn't happen." He crossed his arms. "So that's not an excuse not to be with me." Kamui thought for a moment. "In the end, I'm extremely selfish, and I don't care."

Fuuma was silent, though he knew Kamui was lying. He wasn't sure if Kamui meant that he didn't care about Subaru, specifically, or the fate of the world, but he suspected it was both. Kamui looked back out the door after a few moments of staring at Fuuma's bowed head; Fuuma glanced up and saw that Kamui had the same resolved, concerned expression, brows delicately creased, seeing something far beyond the door. They were both silent for a long time; the kitchen clock chirped the top of an hour and some people from the dance ran past the house talking loudly and drunkenly, whooping about something somebody was doing. While they were passing Kamui and Fuuma exchanged glances, eyebrows arched, and Fuuma made a comment about their school having the cream of Japan's intellectual crop; Kamui laughed and said "Yeah" before staring out the door and allowing the silence to re-settle, to regain its tension.

"Kamui?"

Kamui turned around eagerly. "Yes?"

"Look." Fuuma cleared his throat. "I… I don't know, Kamui. I…" Kamui tentatively reached for his hand; Fuuma allowed him to take it, inwardly wincing but curling his fingers around Kamui's. "I'm screwed up. I know that. I know I'm not normal where this relationship stuff is concerned. I don't think I'll ever be able to have a normal relationship. Be like that. Touch people like that. You can do so much better for yourself."

"Fuuma, for God's sake, I already told you you're the only one I could ever want."

"But I can't make any promises or anything."

"And as for the physical stuff, that's fine; I want to help you overcome that." Kamui stroked his hand. "Believe it or not, I can be patient too."

"This is news to me."

Kamui laughed weakly and punched Fuuma in the arm; Fuuma recoiled and laughed equally weakly, though he did not pull his hand from Kamui's. True to the cliché his heart was pounding, dull and powerful in his ears, but his giddiness was edged with an inclination to run rooted in something far more primordial than interpersonal nervousness. It was base, physical terror. He could not shake off the feeling that he was making a huge mistake, already feeling the onset of a terrible case of buyer's regret.

He looked up at Kamui, who was staring at him with clear, focused eyes, bent as though he was about to cry. But, he was smiling. And despite his nearly-tearful expression, the smile truly did reach his eyes. Fuuma was struck with the powerful, numbing concept that somebody loved him enough to cry with joy at the mere admission of reciprocal romantic sentiment, unbalanced though it may be. That somebody wanted him more than anybody else. It was a concept dry and cliché in romance stories, usually love given to a character Fuuma considered boring and rather unremarkable, but when it was applied intimately to his best friend, somebody who knew him for who he truly was, better than anybody else, who would love him that much despite all of his truly unflattering faults, it culminated in one of the most powerful, real (Now I understand what people mean when they say something is so 'real', so 'right') moments he had ever experienced.

I could learn to love you, Kamui.

He didn't know where the thought came from, but it was there, strong and clear like gold gilt on all the rusted terror and guilt.

Kamui gripped his hand tighter, possessively. Fuuma gripped back reflexively, focusing on Kamui as the stabilizing point of his currently stormy psyche, and swallowed. "You know I take promises seriously. I don't make them unless I mean them. That's why I don't want to promise anything right now."

"Yes, yes, I got that—"

"I want you to know that a promise I make is for real. My word is my bond."

Kamui scoffed and gripped even tighter; Fuuma was glad that Kamui was not aligning his knuckles as he often did when he wanted to hurt somebody's hand with an intimidating grip. "Everybody says that. Everybody thinks they mean promises when they make them, at the time. But then it wears off as time passes, and it's forgotten. Like, as things change, and people lose interest in one another. And no, I'm not saying this applies to me." Fuuma's bones creaked with the tightening grip, but he did not complain. "I mean it, Fuuma." Kamui stared at him, hard, still dry-eyed. Fuuma stared back unwaveringly, forcing all of his doubt and fear to the pit of his stomach. "I mean it. With all my heart. I mean, I guess I haven't made any promises yet, but how I feel right now—it's real right now. And that's all I can go by right now."

Fuuma was silent for a long time."…do you remember a promise I made a long time ago? That as long as you protected Kotori, I'd protect you?"

Kamui stared at Fuuma for a few moments. For those moments, he looked even more as though he were about to cry. "Yes," he finally said. His voice was becoming huskier, and he gave a small start at the weak tone of his own voice. He obviously intended to sound stronger. "I failed you in that promise. And I never forgot it for a moment. Even when I was in Okinawa." He smiled ruefully. "What'd the guys think if they knew I was mulling over a promise a friend had made me when I was nine? They'd think it was gay. Well, it was, but I didn't really think about it that way at the time."

"I didn't mean it to be when I made that promise." Fuuma covered Kamui's clasping hand with his free hand, scooting to the edge of the armchair. "And I want you to know that promise will hold no matter what happens between us. You did your best to protect Kotori, and it's all I could ask for."

"But I failed—"

"Shut up. First and foremost, you're my friend, and I want to always be your friend, no matter what. And I don't think I broke that promise, even when I was in my other form."

Kamui was silent for a long time, still holding Fuuma's hand in an unrelenting death grip. Fuuma watched him as he looked away, mulling. Obviously, mentioning his other form at a time like this was one hell of a mood killer, but it was something he had been wanting to say for a long time. He did not know how he was aware of this seemingly impossible, contradictory fact, but fact it was. Fuuma knew it with a clarity and a force stunning in the face of the muddled way in which he remembered other details of his other form's intentions.

"…well," Kamui finally said, "Now that I'm actually going to ask, are you gonna let me kiss you?"

Fuuma sat bolt upright and scooted back as Kamui started to crawl up the armchair toward him. "What?"

Kamui pinned Fuuma's shoulders to the back of the chair and stopped with his lips just shy of Fuuma's. He balanced on his knees on either side of Fuuma's hips, unintentionally clearing the space between their groins, much to Fuuma's relief. Both were breathing heavily, chests rising and falling visibly, taking in one another's breath with lightly parted lips. Kamui's breath smelled strongly of alcohol, and the water Fuuma had sipped had not done nearly enough to clear his breath entirely of alcohol and vomit, as it still hung heavily on his tongue, but Kamui did not seem to notice. Fuuma realized upon gripping the chair arm that he was shaking; it was making Kamui overbalance on the chair cushion and come dangerously close to collapsing on top of him, but Kamui braced himself and lipped Fuuma's bottom lip experimentally. It was a feather-light touch, an electric ghost of an idea that made Fuuma's spine tingle and his hair stand on end as he dug his fingers into the upholstery. Kamui started to nip softly at his parted lips with slow, shockingly patient progression, taking in a fraction more of Fuuma's mouth with each movement as though he were drinking something delicious he wanted to savor. His tongue still remained behind his teeth; only lips came into contact, with movement akin to a man dying of thirst taking long, slow drinks of the purest, coldest water. It was deceptively chaste expression of passion, a ripple on the surface of a fathomless pool caused by a testing of the depths.

Kamui braced himself firmly against the back of the chair, a gesture that seemed like a vain outlet for this test of his scant patience and self-control, but the rest of his body was relaxed, focused on Fuuma's mouth, eagerly drinking in the pure, powerful energy of the kiss. Fuuma loosened one hand enough to gently stroke Kamui's flank, covered by his carmine sweater; he appreciated Kamui's patience and willingness to take things slowly more than he could express, when he would have expected Kamui to jump him and knock the chair onto its back with a wild, deep, bruising kiss. This was more like a slow burn, warming and guttering and growing hotter like an ember, and Fuuma found himself relaxing more and more as it deepened further still, moving his own jaw and taking eager, steady sips of Kamui's lips. He released the other chair arm and stroked Kamui's slender waist with both sets of fingertips, half-fantasizing on the idea of teasing the flat stomach and flanks and spine under Kamui's sweater, but shying away from actually performing the act. He dully realized that his heart was still pounding, but it was a warming, liberating effect now, no longer seeming such a flight-or-fight reaction as it initially had. This was not at all the rough violation he associated with intimate contact; it was slow, respectful of boundaries, and loving.

Fuuma was still half-marveling over Kamui's uncharacteristic self-control when Kamui finally groaned quietly, ran one hand roughly through Fuuma's gelled hair, and opened his jaw over Fuuma's barely-open lips, resulting in an awkward position in which he was biting Fuuma's mouth whole—a feat, Fuuma dully noted, since Kamui's mouth was tiny compared to his. Fuuma jerked spastically at the sudden pressure of teeth on the skin around his mouth, least of which for its awkward and amateurish nature, most of which for the sudden, violent change. Kamui paused for a moment as if not quite sure how he had ended up that way, then closed his mouth enough to lip at Fuuma's lips again, running his tongue between Fuuma's lips and across his teeth, trying to coax Fuuma to reciprocate. He stroked Fuuma's scalp comfortingly, but his touch edged with urgency and impatience. Whether or not Kamui was conscious of it, his fingertips was feathering down Fuuma's flank where his shirt had ridden up against the back of the chair, another ghostly touch somehow far more maddening than a firm rake, and still heading south, ghosting around the hem of his sweatpants, ghosting down the angular juncture between leg and groin, the inner hollow of the thigh, the—

Fuuma's shoulders stiffened suddenly as his hand reflexively snapped around Kamui's invading wrist, jerking it out at an odd angle from Kamui's elbow. Kamui started and broke away, gaping and struggling with the painful elbow-lock, trying to fight a frustrated scowl and inaudible protests starting with "Wha—Wha—WHA—"

"—sorry!—"

"Jesus fuck, Fuuma, let go!"

Fuuma released Kamui's wrist and Kamui immediately rubbed his elbow, staring at Fuuma with an almost livid expression. Fuuma stared down—noticing his own erection, which was still aching along the underside of the shaft at the feather-contact, flat against his stomach but still pressing slightly against his pants—and immediately averted his eyes to Kamui's knee in a strange mixture of self-disgust, shame, and edgy indifference borne of self-interest, trying to think of something to say. He knew he had been unnecessarily harsh, but the reaction was reflexive. Kamui was panting, and upon raising his eyes slightly Fuuma could see that Kamui was also erect, and far more evidently in his tighter pants. He quickly looked at the wooden floor again and tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair guiltily.

"Kamui, I'm sorry. I'm—God, I'm sorry."

"I wasn't going to yank your dick off or something, you know," Kamui said flatly.

"I know, I just—it was a reflex, I wasn't thinking about it."

Kamui glanced sidelong at Fuuma. "But you were enjoying it."

Fuuma bit his lip and did not respond, still focusing on an odd knot in the floorboards. Kamui hugged his own elbows and stared in the opposite direction, focusing on something of his own choosing. The clock in the hallway chimed the half-hour, Fuuma still tapping his fingers rapidly out of rhythm with the clock's ticking. He glanced at Kamui; Kamui was tapping his fingers on his elbows, face turned to the hallway.

Finally, Fuuma sighed and swung his legs over the juncture of the end of the chair and the ottoman, carefully avoiding kicking Kamui, and stood, levering himself up unsteadily. His erection had long since collapsed, awkwardly flapping back down from being pinned under his pants, and he did not care to take a look at Kamui's crotch to see how resilient he was to crippling awkwardness.

"Kamui, I'm sorry. But—as I told you, this isn't going to happen overnight."

Kamui nodded slowly, still hugging his elbows and staring at the floor. Fuuma could not see his face, but he guessed Kamui was gnawing his lip and wrestling with some form of emotional outburst.

Therefore, he was surprised when Kamui's voice was quiet and level. "I know." He paused for a moment. "We made progress—far better than before."

Fuuma nodded slowly. "I didn't hurt you, did—"

"No."

"—okay. Good."

Silence, once again. Fuuma shoved his hands into the loose pockets of his pants and half-thoughtfully fingered a hole in the bottom of one, nearly large enough to force the tip of his finger through. If I don't sew that, I'll lose change sooner or later

—mending, domestics, Kotori—

—hole, force, Kamui—

Fuuma's eyes glazed in blank shock as he imagined, if even only for a brief, heated second—forcing Kamui's slender frame stomach-first into the armchair and hot warm tight thrust dick feel his head wet glisten roll fluid over swollen head—and screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head jerkily. What the FUCK is wrong with you, thinking about sewing and then your sister and then sex?

"Fuuma?"

Fuuma started; Kamui was looking over his shoulder, eyebrows arched backward in a nearly-unfathomable expression. Fuuma swallowed and turned toward the stairs.

"I need to go to bed. I feel really sick."

"Fuuma, wait!—"

"I feel like hell. I'm sorry."

"But we need to talk—"

"About what?"

Kamui paused as Fuuma looked over his shoulder, chewing his lip in confusion. "About—everything. About this, and what happened—"

"I think we've talked more than enough for one night, Kamui." Fuuma turned toward the stairs. "We're going to just go around in circles again."

"But are we—I mean, are we—official?"

Fuuma stopped at the foot of the stairs and put his hand on the knob of the darkwood banister, staring at the second step. He heard Kamui stand and felt him step toward him.

"Fuuma?"

"I don't know, Kamui. I'm sorry." Fuuma didn't want to turn around; he knew the confusion and frustration and hurt in Kamui's face would be too much to take on top of everything else. He started to climb the stairs stiffly, still sore. "I really need to sleep on it, all right? Please? I promise we'll talk about it tomorrow."

---

"I've never failed to marvel at how humans willingly walk into situations that will only cause them heartache in the end. They know this going into it. People willingly walk into the same self-destructive spirals they have seen others walk into since time immortal. They think they're different than every other life that burned before theirs. They think they can come out alive, and whole, and happy, without the soul-rot of cynicism. They have the benefit of thousands of years of history, and years of personal observation, to warn them, but still, the flame burns bright, and memorized, they are drawn to it. Moths see their kin burn to death, but they still fly to that very same flame, over the corpses of their brethren. What possess the moth? Freud called it the Thanatos, you know. The death instinct. The desire to self-destruct and destroy others that is as strong as our libido, our Eros. It's beautiful to watch a moth be consumed by a flame. They could involve themselves in healthy relationships, healthy circles, healthy occupations, away from all that is eccentric and insane and damaged. And, many of those "normal" people living a cookie-cutter life of propriety die as happy and fulfilled as any human being can hope to be. A life in the underworld is not the requisite for a "real" life; that is the erroneous assumption of insecure adolescents. So, why do some willingly live a life of pain, when the only thing we want is to be happy? Would you call it an orgasmic death? To end with a bang, and not with a whimper?"

"…I don't know. But it's what feels right in my heart.

Seishirou scoffed quietly and stood, rolling his chair back and stretching. "That's exactly what intrigues me."