His roommate had gone out to take care of some issues, as he own had said, so to spend some time, Shion stood in front of one of the shelves filled with books and passed his eyes over the variety of covers and titles. Until that a little volume climbed his legs, making its way to Shion's shoulder. The brown little mouse kept on climbing to the top of his head, tickling his neck with its long whiskers, causing a and short laugh from the boy. And finally, curling in the soft, white hair.

-Comfortable, Cravat?

Said, rising his forefinger to caress the mouse's read, focusing his gaze back in the choice of a book, when a, relatively small, sky-blue book, called his attention.

-I guess Nezumi was currently reading this one, it has a bookmarker.

It was actually just a newspaper sheet folded some times. He sat on the couch, opening the book on its marked page, and began to read out loud for the mouses that were accommodating near him, from the beginning of the act.

Nezumi was walking home, cheeks and nose flushed from the cold, and clouds of warm steam forming from his moth, also by the same reason. The snow was falling around, white and translucent, reflecting a poor, grey, sun light, covering the floor and living things, including himself. Instantly, the thought of Shion's snow-white hair came to his mind, the touch of it and his voice, invading his mind... The way he always greeted Nezumi with a cheerful 'Welcome!', accompanied of one of his innocent smiles.

'How can one be so naive and careless, at the same time?'

He stopped, finding himself standing in the front of the room's door.

Inside, Shion was asleep in the couch with an opened book laying by his side and the small brown mouse in his chest, that was going up and down with the slow rhythm of his breathing.

'Hm. Sleeping as always.'

He walked to the side of the furniture, leaning in his knees, providing him to look at the Shion's face. Hot breath stroking his cheeks, as he approached more. Seconds passed, the desire of caressing that hair made of snow growing. And he did, slowly slipping his fingers through it, letting the strings of hair fall back to place under gravity's influence. The scarf that was once in Nezumi's neck, was now being layed over the boy. And after leaving a kiss in his cold forehead, he grabbed the blue book and sat in the bed to keep his reading.

"Lubov: This telegram's from Paris. I get one every day. Yesterday and to-day. That wild man is ill again, he's bad again. . . . He begs for forgiveness, and implores me to come, and I really ought to go to Paris to be near him. You look severe, Peter, but what can I do, my dear, what can I do; he's ill, he's alone, unhappy, and who's to look after him, who's to keep him away from his errors, to give him his medicine punctually? And why should I conceal it and say nothing about it; I love him, that's plain, I love him, I love him. . . . That love is a stone round my neck; I'm going with it to the bottom, but I love that stone and can't live without it. . ."

The last phrase kept echoing on his head.

That love is a stone round my neck; I'm going with it to the bottom, but I love that stone and can't live without it.

He closed the book and layed in his bed, looking at the asleep boy.

I love him. I love him. I love him, I love him, I love him, I love him, I helplessly love him. But this were words he swore to never voice nor admit to himself.