“And as the darkness comes I start to see a picture
Of a lonely man so clearly now, reaching out for me”

*

He could feel the car slipping out of control. It was a terrible feeling to be conscious of, feeling the tires scrabble and scratch for purchase, knowing command was failing and able to do nothing with that knowledge.

He bit his lip hard – from fear and from suddenly realizing how precarious his situation was. He wanted to wipe his face, push damp hair out of his eyes and water from his face, but he only gripped the wheel tighter, unable to risk the movement.

He tapped the brake, trying both gently and desperately to guide his movement. A sharp squeal and sensation of hydroplaning made him wince, bite his lip harder, made his heart flutter wildly. He fought to bring the car to a precious stop, praying silently in his mind as the sky flashed and fell apart above him.

His frantic prayer was granted as suddenly, motion stopped.

It was gradual but at the same time abrupt, and with the absence of movement there came a strange, breathless silence. When he was finally stopped, his breath came raggedly, the rain pounded like a drum from every side.

Jiro shuddered. Mixed with the rain on his face he could feel tears, he recognized the warm, salty sting. He didn’t remember when they had started to fall – when he had run from Hisashi’s? When his heart was pounding and he nearly crashed, when the fear and panic were strongest? – and he couldn’t make them stop.

The night was dark and blind around him. Oppressive. Unforgiving. He sat long in a clammy silence, drawing shaky, deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

< What should I do? I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t be driving. Like Hisa said... > Closed eyes. Squeezed tightly shut.

< Hisa... Help me. >

A countering thought-voice immediately responded to the tenuous plea in his mind. < No. No, I couldn’t stay there... Not after he kissed me... He kissed me... >

Hands were tightly clenching the wheel. “What should I do?” he whispered to the car.

Air was wrapped against him, chill and wet with a feverish, suffocating effect. Moisture covered him like sweat. Maybe some was sweat, he couldn’t tell. This car, these metal walls were his solace, his only protection against the battering power of the storm. But he only felt trapped, suffocating.

Jiro forced his eyes open, released a shuddering sigh. He loosened his grip on the wheel – feeling a painful cramp take hold of his fingers, which had gripped far too tightly – and he made himself look around. He was stopped on the side of a deserted side street, but he was near an intersection. Flipping on his high beams, he could read the street name only barely and by squinting.

“Teru!” he breathed, voice choked with a sudden wash of relief. The vocalist lived two streets over, he was sure he remembered correctly.

Another shuddering breath. Jiro flexed his fingers. < I can make it, > he thought. < I’ll drive more carefully... > Because now he wasn’t running away from someone, he was running toward something.

His heart, at last, had slowed, if not completely stopped, its both upset and panicked race. But the lightning still flashed threateningly outside. Glancing around, finding the lane still black and angrily empty, he pulled away from the side of the road, shakily and desperately trying to make it to Teru’s house.

He felt calmer, now. But his face was still damp, he still felt like he was locked away, felt like he was running away.

His eyes still burned.

*

Teru ran a hand through his hair, absently trying to banish the tangles from the damp strands. As he opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, a brush of cool but dry and welcome air hit him. Leaving the steamed-up bathroom door open to cool down, he shivered absently, dressing quickly. As he did so he cast a glance out the window, studying the storm. It had not slowed at all noticeably since he had begun showering.

“Damn,” he said, peering at the sky. He had never been more thankful to be safe, warm, dry, and inside.

He wandered into the kitchen, deciding he was hungry. It was only then that a blinking, self-important red light caught his attention. “Who called?” he muttered, surprised. His eyes skipped over the time displayed on the microwave. It was rather late in the evening already.

He clicked the button on the answering machine, waiting curiously to hear the single, obviously recent message play back.

“Tekko... Jiro desu.”

Those first three words already made the vocalist frown. < He doesn’t really sound like himself... >

“A–are you there? I came to your house, because...” Trailing off. Painful hesitancy. When he resumed speaking, his voice was a hoarse whisper.

“I shouldn’t have been out driving, I can’t... And... Tekko, where are you?”

The message ended.

Teru stared at the answering machine, eyes reflecting his disbelief and concern. < Oh my God... What happened? > His thoughts were confused.

< ‘I came to your house...’ – My house? >

Snapping into action, he hurried to the front door, seeing the flashes of lightning and wincing as he pulled the knob slowly. Rain lashed in. He peered out in concerned alarm, and his eyes, trailing downward, found a figure on his doorstep.

Jiro was sitting in a ball on the porch front, back toward the door, as if staring out into the rain. His hair was matted thickly against his head, utterly wet and still dripping even though there was a small overhang above. His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees, which were drawn up against his chest. Teru could see him shaking.

“Jiro!” he exclaimed in distress, releasing the door and unmindful of the wind which forced it fully open, slamming into the entryway behind him. He fell to his knees, landing one hand gently on Jiro’s shoulder. The blonde flinched in response to his sudden touch, eyes leaping to Teru as his head hesitantly turned.

“Tekko,” he whispered, eyes wide. Water streamed into them. He blinked. “I thought... you weren’t home. Or that you were with Ami... or something...”

“Jiro...” < What are you doing, out here, like this...? What happened? > He forced the questions down. “Jiro, you need to come inside,” he ordered, squinting against the storm, feeling the chill wetness of Jiro’s flesh with his hand.

“Cold...” Jiro murmured in a vague response. In spite of his owlishly blank gaze and senseless reply, he responded well enough, moving as if to stand. Teru helped him once he had slowly uncurled; the vocalist slid one arm securely around Jiro’s waist, offering stability and maybe, hopefully, some warmth.

Jiro didn’t object, and Teru could feel shudders racking his wet body. Teru guided him inside, used one hand, then his foot, to press the door shut against the fist of the wind.

“Come on, you can go take a shower and warm up, and then you can have something to eat, okay?” he asked gently, leading Jiro toward his bedroom and the bathroom attached to it.

“Aa,” Jiro agreed in a murmur, letting Teru guide him, not seeming to really pay attention to his surroundings. When they reached Teru’s room, the vocalist pulled Jiro to a halt, peering at him in concern.

“Ne... Are you gonna be alright? Maybe – you shouldn’t try to shower. Maybe you should just lay down or something...”

“No, I – I’ll be fine,” Jiro said, almost as if rousing himself under the intensity of Teru’s eyes on his face.

“You sure?” Teru didn’t let go of Jiro’s arm yet, wanting to be positive.

Jiro attempted to force the barest of smiles to his lips. Teru could see how much effort that took, and it never neared his eyes. “Thanks, Tekko... I’ll manage,” he insisted softly.

Teru sighed, still feeling the other man’s shivers. “Okay. I won’t keep you any longer – there should be an extra towel in the little cabinet in there. If there isn’t, then you can just use mine. Once you’re done just borrow some of my clothes, ne?”

“Doumo.” Teru released him and he obediently turned to the bathroom and disappeared inside without another word.

Teru heaved a heavy sigh once Jiro disappeared, putting his hands on his hips and staring hard at the door. < What happened? > he asked again, in silent anguish. But it wouldn’t have been fair to demand answers of Jiro like that. Something was clearly wrong, it didn’t look like he had just been caught in the storm.

Teru, having studied his eyes closely, thought they were red from more than the rainwater. Maybe it was from tears.

“He might get a fever after this,” he mused softly to himself. “He certainly didn’t look physically well, let alone emotionally so...”

Teru surveyed his room quickly, eyes flicking to the window and the savage storm outside, across his bed, then to his dresser.

“Yosh’,” he murmured determinedly. “Whatever is wrong, I’ll do what I can to help.”

*

Teru rubbed his eyes as he pulled up in the studio parking lot. The previous night – it had been a long one.

While Jiro was in the shower, Teru had undressed the bed, pulled down the blinds, and laid out some extra comfortable and warm clothes on the bed. Then he had gone to the kitchen and made some soup and tea, just in case Jiro was hungry.

The bassist had appeared in the doorway while Teru was pouring his own cup of tea, and Teru, looking up, had seen him standing there hesitantly, gaze dilated. His face was still uncharacteristically solemn, Teru hated seeing the natural joy and brightness so completely absent.

“How are you?” Teru had asked, studying him with a frown.

“I – I don’t know,” he had replied. “I... feel strange. Weak... Cold... Hot...” His voice was translucent.

Teru, setting down his cup abruptly enough for it to clatter, had hurried over to him. When he reached him he saw that Jiro was still trembling. “You have a fever,” he had determined immediately, staring into Jiro’s eyes that were large, pained, pleading, and not completely coherent. Teru had led him to the bedroom, made him lie down under heavy, warm covers, and then hurried to his cabinet to search for medicine.

“Poor Jiro-chan,” Teru said softly as he parked his car and wearily climbed out. The world around him was shimmering gray. The storm had finally broken around two in the morning – at least, that’s when Teru seemed to remember noticing that the lightning was gone – and a blue-gray rainbow was left in its wake. The streets were shinily damp, a silver-ish black, and the sky was misty gray, no sign of blue, but no more threatening black.

Teru’s eyes passed over Hisashi’s car as he trudged across the pavement, hands shoved deeply in his pockets against the cold. His eyes darkened.

Before Jiro had passed into a mostly-unconscious state, Teru had finally asked him what happened, why he was out, where he had been. He had gotten very little out of the blonde, shivering bassist. It didn’t seem that it was the fever so much that kept Jiro from talking but his own reluctance. He slid his words around Teru’s questions, revealing very little.

All Teru had been able to know for sure was that Jiro had been at Hisashi’s.

“I better damn well get some answers,” he muttered to himself as he reached the studio door, slipping inside. When he entered GLAY’s practice room, both Takuro and Hisashi turned to look at him.

“You’re late,” Takuro declared. “And so is Jiro.”

A soft sigh. “He’s not coming.” The vocalist flicked his eyes to Hisashi. The bluehead had been tuning his guitar, and had merely glanced up when Teru walked in. At Teru’s words, however, he had lifted his face again. But his expression was unreadable.

“Why not? And why didn’t you call?”

“I tried you at home, but it was too late, I guess you had already left. Him too.” He nodded in Hisashi’s direction. “And neither of you have your cell on, it seems, which is why I had to drive my ass all the way here just to tell you Jiro’s sick and won’t be coming.”

Takuro ignored his chide about the cell phone. “He’s sick?” he asked, brow creasing with worry.

“Yeah. He’s at my house right now.” Another quick look to the guitarist. He caught another brief, indecipherable glance.

Takuro set down the wires in his hands and approached Teru, who had remained near the entrance. “What happened?” he asked. “Is he okay?”

Teru directed his voice only to Takuro now that he was closer, although Hisashi could still hear. “I don’t know... He showed up on my doorstep, late last night.”

Hisashi’s tuning suddenly stopped. Teru looked at him quickly, saw his back momentarily turned. He motioned Takuro quickly forward.

“I have to talk to Hisashi. Alone. Okay?”

Takuro blinked at him, but in response to the plea in Teru’s eyes, he accepted the strange request.

“Well,” he announced, speaking to both of them, “I guess we won’t practice today. I have to get something from my car, I’ll probably stay at the studio for a while, but you’re free to go.” With those last words, he cast a curious glance at Teru, and then left them alone.

Silence fell, dropping thickly over the room. Teru remained quietly where he was, letting his gaze settle on Hisashi. He knew that there was a certain intensity within his eyes, and he knew that Hisashi felt it. But the guitarist did not acknowledge him for a long time. He put his guitar away carefully, lovingly, lingeringly, and it was always either his back or his profile that was presented to Teru.

Something was definitely not right. It was in the way that Hisashi moved, acted, the way Jiro’s eyes had cried out last night.

Teru had watched over Jiro for almost half the night, concerned for his well-being; the fever was severe, and the blonde had not rested comfortably. He had been haunted by fever dreams, and Teru could only imagine the discomfort that had plagued his body. He remembered watching and wishing he could help as Jiro twisted and turned helplessly.

Every so often, whimpers had escaped his lips. Soft noises or moans of pain and displeasure. They were always accompanied by an anguished twist of his features.

Even less often, words had escaped. The words had been murmured, fleeting. But they were very clearly there.

“Hisa...”

Teru didn’t know how many times he had heard Jiro say Hisashi’s name.

“No... No, please... Don’t...” Along with Hisashi’s name had come protests, different emotions behind each one. But every emotion had painted a blue-black picture in Teru’s mind.

Hisashi definitely had some explaining to do.

As these thoughts were running through Teru’s head, and as his eyes remained fixed on Hisashi, the slender guitarist finally spoke.

“How sick is he?”

Teru was taken slightly aback by the abrupt question. It was spoken with utter indifference. Hisashi was standing near his guitar stand, face turned toward Teru.

“Do you care?” Teru responded quietly.

Blink. Hisashi said nothing, revealed nothing.

The vocalist continued after a short pause. “He’s alright... His fever sort of broke sometime last night, I guess, but he’s not fully recovered. I think he’s still a bit feverish – at least, he was when I checked this morning, before I left – and he seems... very tired. Weary.” < And hurt. >

“Sou.” Hisashi reached for his coat, shrugged it gracefully on. He approached the door, as well as Teru who stood in front of the door.

“What happened last night?” Teru demanded quietly. His voice was flat.

Hisashi, a few feet away, paused. His eyes flickered to Teru, flickered away. “Nothing.”

“Like hell,” Teru snapped, hating Hisashi’s chill nonchalance.

Hisashi gave him an icy glare. “I’m going home now,” he declared. He made as if to leave, approaching the door. Teru didn’t move, and Hisashi was forced to stop or try to brush past.

“Tell me, Hisashi. What happened?”

Dark gaze dancing away, ever so briefly. Perhaps the barest flicker of some emotion. “I told you. Nothing.”

“What did you do to him?”

Slight startlement. “Do to him?” he repeated.

“Something upset him. Something hurt him.”

Hisashi’s eyes seemed to darken at this. Looking away, he tried to leave again, this time aiming to push past Teru. The vocalist made him freeze, going so far as to lift a hand against his shoulder.

When Hisashi spoke, he voice was dangerously low. “Let me go, Teru.”

“Dammit, Tono,” the vocalist said harshly. “I don’t know what the hell is going on between you two, but whatever it is, it’s going too far. He already tried to leave once, I won’t let that happen again. He should never have been out in that storm, and whatever you did made that happen.”

“I told him not to-” Hisashi bit off his words abruptly. Once again, he pulled his eyes away, coldly evading Teru’s gaze.

The vocalist frowned slightly at the tenuous emotion that had colored Hisashi’s harshly cut off words. It was as if the emotion bordered on something Teru could not name, it was restrained, was perhaps restraining.

“You hurt him,” Teru repeated. “Why? What did you do?”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Coldly distant, coldly apathetic. Simply cold.

“Hisashi-”

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Hisashi told him frigidly, harshly, eyes flaring.

Teru was surprised enough – by the intensity of Hisashi’s voice, the flash of passion in his eyes – that Hisahi was able to brush his arm aside, pushing past. Teru stumbled slightly to the side, out of the way, and turned in time to see Hisashi storm out of the room.

*

Jiro couldn’t escape the fever dreams. They presented themselves in the forms of memories, haunting him, ridiculing him, confusing him.

< Things from my childhood... They are always so faded. It’s hard to remember many details, details of anything. >

< But Ryohei... Ryohei... >

He didn’t think he would ever forget.

<<< His name was Ryohei.

Jiro had known him for a long time – they had gone through the same schools together for years, always ending up in the same place as they advanced and matured. He wasn’t so much Jiro’s best friend as he was a good friend.

Their last year of high school, however, was when things changed. Even though Jiro wasn’t Ryohei’s closest friend, the other boy, for some unknown reason, saw fit to confide in him. Perhaps he just felt like Jiro could be trusted, that the happy, kind boy was someone he could keep faith in.

Late one night, while Jiro and Ryohei were working on a project for school, Ryohei confessed to Jiro that he was gay. It was one of the last things that Jiro was expecting to hear, and he remembered the silence following that admission. It had been admittedly stark and uncomfortable.

Jiro wasn’t very prejudiced, although he had been raised strictly and thus retained some conservative tendencies. He also had never thought too deeply on the subject before. But Ryohei was his friend, and he had been watching Jiro, after he spoke, with large, dark, pleading and almost frightened eyes.

Jiro didn’t remember what he told Ryohei, but it had basically been along the lines of Jiro not caring. He warmly promised not to judge Ryohei, and he also promised not to tell. After that night, Jiro took some time to adjust to the idea, but he didn’t let it affect him, he didn’t treat the boy at all differently. Ryohei was still the same person, only now, perhaps, there was a deeper bond between them. And Jiro didn’t mind. It was nice to be trusted, to deserve that trust.

But in the end, Jiro’s promises didn’t matter.

Somehow, somebody found out, and the truth spread through their school like wildfire late that semester, as Christmas and Winter Break were approaching. The only blessing was that Jiro didn’t lose Ryohei’s friendship – the other boy believed him when he swore that he hadn’t told anyone.

But Ryohei lost most of his other friends, he became a virtual outcast. At first the cruel jokes were spoken behind his back, but not long after that, they were brought starkly and cruelly into the open. Sneers and derogatory remarks were flung in Ryohei’s face, hurting him, scarring him.

As the situation degenerated, Jiro’s father found out. It didn’t matter how – such ‘scandals’ simply got around.

Ryohei came home with Jiro after school one day, finding one of his few solaces to be Jiro’s forgiving kindness and company. They spent some time practicing together – Ryohei played guitar, and Jiro had recently begun learning to play the bass. Then Jiro walked him to the door, and once he returned to his room he found his father waiting inside.

“Otousan!” he exclaimed in surprise, pausing in the door. He looked at his father curiously, saw a darkness hooding his eyes. He frowned in worry. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t want you to see that boy anymore.”

“...Ryo-kun?” he repeated, confused.

“I don’t want him in our house. Don’t talk to him.”

Jiro was struck dumb, he stared at his father, incomprehensive. After a long moment, he finally found his voice.

“Demo... D–doushite?”

His father’s eyes were stern and flashing. His expression was chipped of hard, icy stone. “He’s that gay boy from your school. Correct?”

“Anou...” Hesitation. Confusion.

“Answer me!”

“Hai, Otousan,” he responded quickly, flinching at the sharpness of his father’s tone.

“Then don’t associate with him anymore.”

Jiro bit his lip, kept his silence.

“Do you understand me?” Voice like a whip crack.

“Why?” Jiro whispered again. “Otousan, he’s my friend...”

“I will not allow my son to be friends with someone like him.”

“Someone ‘like’ him? It – it’s not like there’s something wrong with him-”

“He’s gay,” his father cut him off harshly. “That is *wrong*, it is not normal. I won’t allow him to change you.”

< Change me? No... That’s not how it works... >

“But-”

“Don’t disrespect me!” He raised his voice and took a threatening step forward. Jiro bit off his words, closing his eyes. His father did not accept any rebellion.

He remained quiet, opening his eyes but keeping them trained on the ground.

His father, after a scrutinizing moment of silence, seemed satisfied. “Good. Now – do your homework.”

“Hai,” Jiro whispered, stepping hastily out of the way as his father strode briskly past. When he was gone Jiro closed the door and then leaned back against it, confused and upset.

< But... It’s just Ryohei. He’s my friend. >

He slid to the ground, breathing a helpless sigh.

< Is it really that wrong...? >

He went to bed late that night, putting off his homework because he just didn’t feel like doing it, not after that confrontation which left his thoughts spinning. His father never brought anything up the next day. Neither did Jiro, and at first, during the next couple of days, he avoided Ryohei. But he simply couldn’t continue to do so, he saw how the other students verbally abused the other boy. He finally spoke to him again, offering comfort and apologizing for avoiding him, attributing it to problems at home.

Ryohei was quick to forgive him, and they resumed their friendship, only Jiro avoided letting Ryohei come to his house. Two weeks after his father had spoken to him, however, Jiro slipped up. He and Ryohei had gone to an affair at the school one evening – a mandatory event for their graduating class – and Ryohei was dropping Jiro off. They were in the middle of a conversation, so instead of just letting Jiro out, Ryohei pulled over and walked with Jiro to the front door as they continued talking.

Then they said goodnight, Ryohei smiled, waved, and walked back to his car, and then Jiro turned around and slipped inside.

The first thing he felt was a harsh slap on his cheek. It was strong and sudden, and he stumbled back against the door, crying out in surprise.

“I told you not to associate with him.”

Jiro raised a tentative hand to his face, touching the corner of his lip. He felt blood. “Otousan,” he whispered, peering into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. As they did, he saw the looming shadow of his father. His arms were planted on his hips and he stood only a foot or so away. His eyes gleamed in the dimness.

Jiro didn’t know what to stay, he could only stare at his father, his face stinging.

“Well?” his father demanded dangerously. “What the hell were you doing with that faggot?”

“He’s my friend!” Jiro exclaimed, speaking without thinking in response to the accusatory words, rebelling without meaning to.

Another slap, this one a harsh backhand on the other side of his face. Reflexive tears of pain sprang to his eyes, it was all he could do to swallow the cry that tried to escape his throat.

“There is something *wrong* with him. He’s not normal. He shouldn’t be in that school with you.”

< Wrong... not normal... > Confusion made Jiro’s thoughts whirl, made his eyes burn more. He wanted to speak out, to defend Ryohei, but he didn’t know what he could say, not with his father glaring at him like that, his hand raised threateningly.

When Jiro didn’t respond, his father’s hand moved again.

“Hai,” he said quickly, almost hoarsely, wincing involuntarily at the blow that, thankfully, did not come. “Hai, I – I won’t talk to him anymore,” he whispered, dropping his eyes to fix them on the ground.

“You told me that once,” his father responded coldly. “I hope this time you remember it.”

“Hai, Otousan,” he whispered, never looking up. His father seemed satisfied with his reaction. Jiro stared at the floor, trembling, until even the echoes of his father’s footsteps were gone. The next morning one side of his lip was swollen, and there was a large, faint bruise on the other side of his face.

Jiro did his father’s bidding with a confused heart, now completely uncertain of his beliefs, of the concept of friendship and the concept of homosexuality. But a twist of cruel fate made it so that he didn’t have to ignore Ryohei for long.

Things began to get violent. People became more agitated by Ryohei’s presence, and a group of students took it too far. One day, as Ryohei was leaving school, a group of six boys attacked him. Ryohei was found later that day unconscious and with a deep slash in his side.

After that, he didn’t come back to school. There was only a week until the Winter break, and no one at the school heard any word of him, although the rumors sprang up. Jiro wondered if he was the sole one to worry – although he hid his concern well.

Then, after Break was over and Jiro returned to school, he learned the news. Ryohei and his family – the only ones who accepted him; it was a surprise but a blessing that his parents were okay with his preference – had moved away. >>>

Even now, Jiro could still remember his smile, his harmless kindness. And he could still remember the bruises from his father.

< *Wrong*... Not normal... Faggot... >

Jiro couldn’t help but regret that he had never even been able to see Ryohei again.

< They stabbed him, shunned him... >

He didn’t know if he would have wanted to say sorry or just goodbye.

*

When Hisashi returned home he was restless. But he didn’t have anywhere to go, and he didn’t want to speak to or deal with anybody. Not unless that person was Jiro.

< I wonder how sick he is... I hope he’s okay. >

He had very briefly considered asking Teru if he could see the bassist, but that idea had existed for only a moment. There were two reasons he had given it a quick dismissal. One, he didn’t know what he would say if he *did* see Jiro, not after that night. And two, Teru would press him for answers.

< I’m sorry, Teru, > he apologized in his thoughts. He regretted his hostility, it wasn’t directed at Teru – he didn’t know who it was aimed at. He was just upset and frustrated, confused.

He sighed, dropping his house key on the kitchen counter and turning around when Ayu mewed. She peered up at him, eyes trusting, large, and glittering. Hisashi dropped down to his knees, unmindful of the hard, cold tile floor, and offered Ayu a friendly scratch. She seemed surprised but pleased to see him home at this hour, and she purred back lovingly.

“Teru thinks I hurt Jiro,” he told her softly. Ayu’s ears twitched. “If I did – I didn’t mean to... I just thought...” He let the words trail off and die. He didn’t feel like thinking, although his thoughts were difficult to avoid.

But he focused his attention on food, first feeding Ayu a treat from the box in the cabinet, and then making some instant ramen for himself. He was able to avoid thinking too much while he was occupying himself, but as soon as he sat down on the floor in front of the coffee table in the living room with his lunch, his eyes fell on two beer cans from the previous night.

< Jiro... I don’t understand... >

He knew the Jiro had been wary and upset because they were both men when that ‘incident’ occurred, but Hisashi didn’t think it had mattered that much. At least, not after Jiro knew that Hisashi wasn’t going to judge him.

< I thought he was just afraid of people not accepting him. I thought that’s all it was. >

< So maybe he just – didn’t expect what I did. >

The hope was half-hearted. < No... > What was in Jiro’s eyes had been far more than surprise.

< I shouldn’t have done that, I should have been thinking... Staying friends would have been fine, although that was tenuous already because it was new. >

< I wonder if I’ve ruined this... > The thought brought a sharp pang of regret. < Ruined it before it even really started... >

He blinked in startled surprise when he felt a nudge against his midsection, and he turned to glance down as Ayu butted her head into his side. She then peered up at him hopefully, flicking one paw against his hand that was resting on the ground.

He gazed at the small cat for a long moment. “You want to play,” he whispered, “don’t you?”

She batted his hand again, ears perking. He moved the hand slightly, and she pounced happily. When he didn’t jerk it away or evade her attack, however, she seemed confused, didn’t know what to do with the prey she had caught.

Large eyes turned to Hisashi, expectant and curious. He didn’t return the playful bat, in spite of the large, liquid eyes that regarded him.

“Sorry, neko-chan,” he whispered.

She mewled sorrowfully, sitting down sadly when his hand only fluttered against her fur in a half-hearted pet. She gave a last bat toward his fingers, but once again, he didn’t return it.

He didn’t feel like playing.

part 5