A/N: This chapter ended up being a whole lot longer than all of the others, but in a way it needed to be. I really like the way it turned out, though, despite the concerns I have over the length. This is also much more serious in nature than all of the others, so be prepared. I know it starts out kind of light, but it is anything but in the end. You have been warned. (And as a warning ahead of time, I am one of those people who thinks that the actual loss of ears doesn't happen immediately after sexual gratification, but rather while the person is sleeping.)

The call came at almost three o’clock in the afternoon. We were eating lunch together when the phone rang, sharing a plate of sushi and the occasional kiss while relaxing against one another on the couch. We had planned on going to an art gallery later that evening, where one of my paintings proudly hung. It was one of my favorites—it showed a young, violet-eyed boy lying face down on a bed covered in dark purple silk bedclothes, arms curled around a pillow and his lower half barely decently covered by a thin sheet. His cat features were still in place, but his position on the bed and a certain gleam in his eyes said that he had only just finished loosing his ears. Ritsuka supposedly hated it, but had agreed to going to this particular art gallery knowing the painting was there.

When the phone rang, I made a move to get up, but Ritsuka put a hand on my chest and said, “You sit still. I’ll be a gentleman and get the phone.”

I rolled my eyes at him, and he laughed a little along with me as he walked over to the still ringing telephone.

“Hello?” he answered. “Yes, this is Aoyagi Ritsuka. … Oh, is this about Misaki?” He turned and walked into the next room, which worried me. When Ritsuka had told Misaki about our relationship several years ago, she had gone into a rage and had beaten him severely, breaking a bone in his arm and giving him a concussion. I had taken him to the hospital, and the staff had called the police when they began to suspect child abuse. Misaki had been examined by a psychiatrist, who told them she hadn’t been in her right mind for some time and that she needed care Ritsuka couldn’t giver her. Ritsuka reluctantly agreed to let them admit her into a mental hospital.

Ritsuka’s voice pulled me out of my memories. “What? What happened? No, never mind, we’re on our way there.” He slammed the phone down and tugged me out of the house, saying only that there was something wrong with his mother. When we arrived at the establishment, a police car and an ambulance were already there, and I felt a feeling of dread settle into my stomach.

We walked inside and Ritsuka told the receptionist his name and that he wanted to see his mother. She hesitated before responding, “Um, well, we aren’t supposed to let anyone in her room yet, because the, um, police are still in there, so—”

Ritsuka shook his head and stalked up the stairs. I followed him, trying to stop him from doing something rash. He ran down the hallway and opened the door to his mother’s room.

“Ritsuka, don’t—” I called, but I stopped speaking when his jaw dropped and he gasped loudly. I walked over to him and looked inside the room. His mother was hanging from a rope attached to the ceiling fan, a chair laying on its side a few feet beside her. I thanked whatever gods might be listening that she was facing away from us and that Ritsuka could only see her hair, her back, and the feet poking out from underneath her nightgown.

The police shooed us away, but not before the damage was done. We stood in the hallway, both shocked by the image burned on our eyes. “Kaasan…?” he choked out. I hugged him to me gently and he began to cry, shuddering and heaving into my chest. I cried with him for a moment, wanting with all my being to take away his pain.

After a long time, when his tears had stopped and I was simply rocking him side to side, a young police officer came out of the room, carrying a slip of paper. She said simply, “We found this on her bed. It’s addressed to her son,” and left us alone. He read the note and a few tears dripped down his face in response. Soon afterwards, we left our information with the receptionist in case the police needed anything and went home.

“What did the letter say?” I asked as we were getting ready for bed much later.

“Nothing,” he said, pulling his shirt roughly over his head.

I woke in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke. Fearing the worst, I followed the scent to the balcony of our apartment. Ritsuka was there, sitting cross-legged and watching the letter from his mother, her last words to him, turn to ash and blow away in the wind.

“What did it say?” I asked softly when he came inside.

He didn’t reply, only buried his head into my chest and began to cry once more.