Disclaimer: Obviously, I own nothinggg.

"Oh how could I face the faceless days

If I should lose you now?"

-- "So Close", Jon McLaughlin

He used to watch fairy tales, once upon a time. Disney movies and such. His personal favorite was Sleeping Beauty. There was just something about the idea of going to sleep while the world passed you buy in all of its whirls and twirls, and only waking up when Prince Charming came to save you.

Funny, though, he always thought he would be the one to fall under eternal sleep, and someone else would kiss him awake.

"I'm home." Dark gold eyes, smoldering.

But life is peculiar that way, he supposes, because now someone else is Sleeping Beauty and he doesn't think he can find it in himself to be the Prince.

They tell him he should go home, and he always agrees with a submissive nod and a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

But every night, without fail, he's there, at his bedside, an unintelligible expression on his face.

They don't realize that the only thing that would separate the two of them would be the end of the world itself… and even then, he thinks, with a touch of irony, that may still not be enough.

He opens his eyes blearily, barely registering the sun peeking in through the blinds. His eyes flicker towards the monitor, taking in the numbers: heart rate, oxygen saturation, and lines that zig and zag like jagged mountain peaks.

It's been months, and there has been no improvement. When the nurses let slip phrases such as 'take him off life support' his eyes flash angrily and that's the end of discussion.

But…

He doesn't know how much longer he can take. His resolve is weakening, and he's tired, oh-so-tired…

On the bed, his hand twitches, ever so slightly.

He hasn't eaten in two days, but he can't bring himself to care. The nurses all know him by name now, and are never surprised to see him in the room.

Occasionally, one of them will try – a slight pat on the arm, a sympathetic smile. He is neither condescending nor dazzling to them; civility is all he endeavors.

A young nurse with dark green eyes tells him, "You know, maybe it's time to let go… prepare yourself…for… well…" She trails off.

He stares at her.

She's flustered, but continues anyway. "I mean… he's been like this for a while, and who's to say he might never…"

A low growl erupts from his throat before he can think twice. The nurse gulps audibly and practically flees the room.

The sad thing is, he knows that it's true. They must all think him pathetic. But, quite honestly, he doesn't care. His eyes, flickering towards the bed – he is all that is – that is –

A sigh escapes from the other boy (man? He doesn't know; his memories only remember flashes of when he was but a boy, his best friend, strictly his, his memory doesn't recognize a "man" that was ever his) as he shifts, a little bit, in his sleep.

For the first time in a long time, Kamui feels his heart beat.

"M'hungry," the boy (man) lying in bed mumbles, and is deathly still again.

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world,

Which I find myself constantly walking around in daytime,

And falling into at night. I miss you like hell."

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

He's not completely certain as to where he is. He finds that he's cold despite the white sheets thrown haphazardly over his body, and something is missing.

It's so clear to him, a pang that strikes him between his ribs, somewhere left of his sternum. But he can't remember what it is. Who it is.

He furrows his brow, straining to recall. Anything, anything.

His head pounds and he finds that it's hard to breathe. The room spins and he staggers to his feet – perhaps not the smartest decision. He falls back onto the cushions almost immediately.

It's like a faded memory, he thinks, as his eyes flutter shut, and in the distance he can almost, almost, almost see…

"Welcome home." An apron, warm blue-violet eyes, and a smirk.

And that's when he opens his eyes.

It's mid-afternoon, he thinks, judging from the sunlight peeking in through the windows. He's in what appears to be a hospital room. He scoffs at the needles attached to his arm and at the atrocious hospital gown he appears to be wearing.

What is he doing here?

He tries to remember, furrowing his brow in the process, but he can only draw a blank. Hospital room. Alone. Empty. What is it, what is it?

What's missing?

Almost as if on cue, the door to his room swings open violently, banging against the wall with a thud. A petite, almost girlish-looking boy stares at him, frantic and wild-eyed.

"You're…" he swallows, "…awake."

Who is he?

He closes his eyes and counts to ten, imagining that maybe, maybe, this time, when he opens his eyes, everything will magically make sense. But of course it doesn't. That boy, so strange and familiar all at once, is still there, staring at him as if he isn't real. And maybe he isn't. Maybe – maybe this is all some sick joke and he's been transported to who-knows-where and why why why is he still looking at him like that, with those damned blue-freaking-violet eyes?

He racks his brain for an answer. Anything, anything, but he's got nothing. And all the while, he's just standing there, staring at him like – like he's the answer to all of his questions, his freaking savior, and all he knows is that despite not knowing who this kid is, he can't disappoint him again.

"I…" the boy starts, stepping forward warily.

He makes the mistake of making eye contact with him again. Sees the emotions swirling around in those unnaturally beautiful irises, and he puts a hand up, effectively stopping the other boy in his tracks.

"Don't," he growls out. "Don't come near me."

"You can't tell me what to do," the boy retorts, an angry hiss beneath his words. Almost like a cat. "I'm not about to just sit back and let you –"

And that's when the dam breaks.

"I don't even know you!"

And that's when he sees it – torment, pain, anguish, filling those strangely bright eyes. The boy backs out of the room and strides down the hallway, never looking back. The door is left wide open, and for some reason, looking at it really hurts.

"You're an ass."

He looks up to see the same boy from yesterday. Pale-skinned, dressed in black. Piercing eyes.

"Well, thank you." The response comes easily to his lips, as if from years and years of practice.

The boy glares.

Silence.

Minutes pass, and he's just standing in the doorway, glaring as if the entire world is out to get him. It almost makes him want to laugh. Finally, he decides to take pity on the poor kid.

"Talk."

Blue-violet eyes meet his. "What?"

"Talk," he repeats. "You're here. So obviously, even though I don't know you… you know me." A shrug. "So just… talk."

The boy gazes directly into his eyes, scrutinizing. It's uncomfortable, as if he can see into his very essence, his very soul.

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

"Your name, for starters."

There's another moment of uncomfortable silence. He's about ready to give up on him when the boy speaks.

"My name is Kamui," he finally says, with an air of uncertainty.

"Kamui." He lets the name roll off his tongue. It comes more easily than he'd expected. It dawns on him that he doesn't know his own name. "What about me?"

He pauses. "You're… Fuuma."

"Fuuma." He repeats it, trying to figure out if the name matches what he knows of himself. If it fits. But he doesn't know, he barely knows himself, he's just woken up.

He grins. "Alright, then."

And it's slow, and small, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it type of thing, but he swears he saw him – Kamui – smile back.

Kamui visits him nearly everyday. He doesn't ask why, and he doesn't offer any explanations. Sometimes they talk. Other times they just sit and watch the television – the news, some sort of sitcom, cooking shows.

This goes on for two weeks until a doctor walks in, and tells him that he can go home.

"Home?" he echoes the man's words after he leaves the room. He turns to Kamui. "Home?" he repeats.

To which Kamui shrugs. "Well. It's not like there's anything wrong with you. Physically."

"But," he pauses. "Home?" He glances around the walls of his room. "Where is that, anyway?"

"It's not very far from here," is the reply.

Home? He can hardly wrap his mind around it. In fact, he's so frazzled that he realizes, only belatedly, that his companion is saying something to him.

"What?"

"I said," Kamui tells him, peevishly, "that if you wanted… you could stay with me."

He blinks.

"Because you don't even know what you're doing," Kamui rambles, "and you probably don't even know how to cook and clean and take care of yourself –"

"So what, you're going to take care of me?" It's startlingly easy to fall into such banter, he realizes, "like some perfect little housewife?"

Kamui glowers, and he simply grins in response.

"For every atom belonging to me as good as belongs to you."

-- Walt Whitman

The apartment is not entirely what he expects, but then, he doesn't really know what he can expect from the petite boy. It's an eclectic mess of sorts, each room changing as fleetingly as Kamui's emotions. The soft, shaggy rug leads into cold, hardwood floor. The plump red sofa balances out the cold, glassy table.

"What are you looking at?" Kamui asks, eyes inquisitive. There's something in his voice, something behind the question. He wishes he could understand.

"Just… everything, I guess." He feels his stare rather than sees it. "I don't know. I was trying to put it together with… well, you." A wry smile. "But I don't really know you. I guess. So, whatever."

His companion raises an eyebrow. "So you don't like it?" And behind the carefully casual façade he thinks he can sense an undertone of panic.

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you meant." Kamui's turned so that he can't see his face, but he thinks he's probably got that petulant pout plastered to his lips.

He rolls his eyes in response. "I like it, okay? Anything's better than that hospital room."

"Fine. Whatever." And Kamui – there's no other word for it – stomps off. He has to struggle not to laugh; he knows that would only make the temper tantrum worse.

On Sunday night, it snows. Kamui stares out the window, watching as the powdery flakes dance gracefully down the sky, flutter, flutter, flutter. He thinks he can vaguely remember snowball fights and lopsided snowmen and tasting snowflakes on his tongue…

"It's snowing!" An unwelcome (welcome?) voice intrudes on his thoughts. Kamui turns around and sees Fuuma (not quite his Fuuma yet) with a wide smile on his face.

"Yes. I can see that." His words come out more stiffly than he had intended.

"So let's go!"

Kamui blinks. "What?"

Fuuma practically lights up. "We can go ice-skating, right? Isn't there an open air rink somewhere? I know there is, don't even lie to me, I saw it!"

Kamui barely suppresses a sigh. Of course. Of all the things he could remember, it would be his unhealthy love for ice-skating. "Look, I don't really –"

"If you don't take me, I'll drive your car myself," the taller boy threatens, eyes flickering to where he knows Kamui's keys are placed. Memories of scratched bumpers and flat tires cross his mind, and he knows he's lost this battle.

He grabs the keys and stomps out the door, all the while hearing Fuuma chuckling behind him.

The ice rink is crowded and annoyingly, irritatingly cold. He's wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket, and the harsh chilly winds bite into his pale skin. He doesn't want to be here, and doesn't try to hide it. A scowl etches itself onto his lips, and Fuuma lets out a barking laugh before striding over to the skate-rental kiosk.

He wonders if he should have just stayed at home and let Fuuma take his car. It'd be warmer, at least, he grumbles slightly.

"Here." A pair of battered ice-skates dangles in front of him, inches away from his nose.

Kamui blinks. "What?" He slowly takes the skates, staring at them cluelessly.

"I paid for you." A cheeky grin. "They're your size, right?" But he doesn't seem too concerned about the answer, already down on his knees, lacing up his own skates.

"I don't skate." Kamui drops the pair of skates unceremoniously on the floor.

"Don't be silly, I already paid for them, and there's no refund." Fuuma frowns. "What's the worst that can happen?"

Kamui ignores him, heading for the bench directly across the rink. He vaguely registers the way that the bright sparkling lights reflect on the ice, but he's already reaching for the paperback book stuffed haphazardly inside his jacket pocket.

"Kamui!" Fuuma walks, a little shakily on his skates, towards the bench. "Are you really going to let me waste my money on those skates while you sit here and read – read – An Interview with a Vampire?" His voice is laced with disbelief as his eyes flicker from the book to blue-violet eyes that are persistently ignoring him. "…really?"

"Shut up." Inside, Kamui is cursing every god of every religion for grabbing the wrong book. Hadn't The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes been sitting on his bedside table? "Just go skate, will – what the hell!"

Because Fuuma is currently yanking his tennis shoes off and shoving his feet into the ice-skates. "Just for a little bit," he pleads, "ten minutes. Come on."

Kamui plants himself firmly on his seat, "I am not going to skate!" spewing from his lips like lava from a volcano. But Fuuma doesn't care; he never has. He drags the petite boy easily to the rink and before Kamui can blink, he's on the ice. Any anger he might have had quickly dissipates as he settles for clutching frantically at the wall.

Only to fall flat on his rear.

Dammit.

Behind him, Fuuma explodes into laughter.

"You're going to have to let go of that wall sometime," he tells the smaller boy. "Come on. Really. Let go and at least see if you can stand by yourself."

Kamui, however, stares straight ahead to the exit. "I am going to get over there," he spits out through gritted teeth, fumbling for his balance, "and then leaving. I am going to drive - I have the keys - and I will leave your sorry ass --"

But of course, he just laughs in response. He glides towards him and, seizing both elbows, pulls Kamui away from the wall and towards the center of the ice. The petite boy flails, but his grip is strong.

"Relax," he soothes, "if you tense up, it's just harder."

Piercing blue-violet eyes meet him head-on. "If I was still sitting on that bench reading, I wouldn't be tense in the first place."

"Yes, with that lovely piece of literature," comes the sardonic reply. "Didn't think of you as the vampire type of guy."

"Can you just shut --"

"Well look at you, you're standing by yourself." He smirks. "My little Kamui's all grown up."

He watches, amusedly, as the boy's eyes grow wide - and then, not so amusedly, as he begins to pitch forward. It happens in a flash, much, much too fast, and he's reaching out to grab him - his hands, his bare hands.

The contact is electrifying.

He pulls back, but moves to keep a firm grip on Kamui's elbow - his clothed elbow. He's more frazzled than he'd like to admit, but he keeps his face impassive.

"You okay?"

The only reply is an angry, furious glower.

He forces out a laugh in reply. "Let's go then. I guess you've suffered enough." And Kamui shoots him dirty glares, each one more seething than the last. But all he can think of is the feel of cool, slender fingers entrapped within his own. He can't help but wonder why it feels so familiar.

By the time they get home, Kamui's in a bit of a better mood, though not by much. He, on the other hand, is still distracted by - by - by whatever that had been, the frightening sensation of -

He swallows, jumping from the couch and pacing the floor. He needs a distraction, something, anything, from these plaguing thoughts.

In the midst of his pathetic attempt at distraction, something catches his eye. It's hidden away, in the far corner of the room, covered by black cloth and hidden by plastic green plants. In two strides, he's there, lifting the cloth to reveal a black upright piano.

He gingerly raises the lid, exposing ebony and ivory keys. He pulls out the rickety plastic bench and sits himself down, placing his fingers on top of the keys. It's a comforting feeling. He's done this before. A melody sings through his mind, and he finds himself playing the beginning chords of some song, progressing as far as he can go, but for some reason something is missing -- it's merely an accompaniment, it's not the melody that he's hearing in his head...

Slam.

He barely gets his hands out of the way before the lid crashes down, blocking the piano keys from his view. The cloth is slung haphazardly over the instrument, and he finds himself being forcefully shoved off the bench.

"What are you --" he starts, but is cut off by the frightful expression on Kamui's face.

"Just -- don't," he forces out between angry hisses.

"Why the hell not?" He knows he probably shouldn't provoke him like this, but the time for politeness has since passed.

"Don't!" Kamui repeats, eyes flashing.

But the warning is ignored. "The entire time I've been here, you've just been miserable! All you've done is hole yourself up in your room, throwing pity parties for yourself! I'm-Kamui-and-my-life-sucks! Well maybe my life sucks, too! I don't know who I am. I barely know who you are. And just when I think that maybe, maybe, I'm getting something back, you come and ruin it! So tell me," his eyes flash similarly, "just what is your fucking problem?"

But as always, Kamui has a way of surprising him.

"You're not him," he whispers, brokenly.

He can't sleep.

He's flat on his back, an arm slung over his eyes. The blankets are a mess, he's sure, with all the tossing and turning he's been doing.

"You're not him."

The words echo countless times in his head. Well, sorry, he thinks, for not being your perfect little Prince Charming. What was he supposed to do? He wonders if it would have been better to have declined the offer to stay with him. Maybe he would have been alone, all alone, in some forsaken little place, supposedly his "home", but it would have been better than this...

He would leave in the morning, he decides. Out of Kamui's life, if that was what he really wanted - and it was pretty obvious he did.

Yes, he would leave, he repeats firmly to himself. So he didn't really know who he was. That was fine by him. He could start over then. And Kamui could go and be miserable by his own self. He didn't need to drag others down with him. That stupid - stupid, self-righteous little...

That's when he hears it.

He bolts upright in bed, drawing in a ragged breath. Music. Soft strains of a beautiful melody, hauntingly sad and ethereal. The melody he had heard in his mind earlier.

The melody that goes with his accompaniment.

He throws off the covers and flings open the door. He's racing towards the living room, towards the source of the music. There's a slender figure on the balcony, sitting down, head bowed, lost in the music. He slows down, afraid to break the spell.

And there, Kamui sits, cello molded perfectly to his body. His back is to him. There is a book of sheet music on the stand, but it's closed. It's not necessary. The music flows perfectly.

He reads the cover: Rachmaninoff's Vocalise, for Cello and Piano.

He moves slowly, trying not to make any noise. But inevitably, he steps on a sensitive spot and the floor creaks in response.

The music dies.

Kamui whirls around, and he finally gets a good look at him. He's sopping wet - it's raining, he realizes absently. Droplets of water trickle from his hair, to his cheeks, to his fingers, to his cello.

He's drawn closer and closer before the rational side of his mind can tell him to do otherwise. He's stepped into the rain now, and it cascades down his body. With every step he takes, Kamui takes two backwards. But he can't stop now, now that he's here, he can't just - he can't just -

He's backed him up completely to the wall. The rain continues to fall, drenching them both completely. His eyes fall on his lips -- and feels the overwhelming compulsion to taste every single last raindrop...

He stops. And looks down, and moves away. There is one more second of deathly silence, of intensity, before something in him snaps, and he runs.

Dawn is just breaking when he pads quietly into Kamui's room. The other boy lies on his side, facing away from him. He's awake, but unmoving. He stops in the doorway, taking in the way the sunlight falls just so on his skin, bathing him in a warm glow. He takes the time to absorb every detail - the curve of his neck, the form of his body underneath the white sheets.

He slowly makes his way to the twin-sized bed. Kamui's on the far right, leaving ample room for him. He stretches out behind him, reveling in the way everything just seems to fit.

"Kamui?" he whispers.

And he thinks there must have been something in his voice that wasn't there before, something that compels the other boy to turn to him. For a moment, they do nothing but stare at each other, taking each other in utterly and completely.

And then he's buried his face in the other boy's neck, and he thinks that this must look so completely absurd, because in terms of sizes, he should be the one holding him...

He sighs in contentment as Kamui's arms wrap around him.

"I'm sorry," Fuuma murmurs into Kamui's neck. For forgetting.

In response, Kamui pulls away ever so slightly, placing gentle fingers underneath Fuuma's chin, forcing him to look directly at him. He places a hand on his cheek; Fuuma leans into his touch.

Welcome home.

Fuuma closes his eyes, entangling Kamui's free hand with his, pulling him closer until he can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

I'm home.

FIN

Notes: So here's the annual birthday-fic for my darling Berry-chaaaan. I must really really REALLY like you to put myself through this, huh? XD Well happy birthday! I...tried. Really. I don't know what happened, I think my brain exploded, but... yes. Hope you enjoyed?