AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written last year for Uragiri wa boku no namae wo shitteru and uploaded to help the fandom grow some more. This one expands on a moment I've often wondered about. The moment where Hotsuma and Shuusei have to face each other after one of them almost died.

While You Were Sleeping

He's asleep, lying on his back, hair falling softly across frowning brows. His fingers cling tightly, desperately to the blanket - slim, graceful fingers that once clenched my hands as he writhed and twisted in agony. They were hell, those burns. They must have been hell. I still recall the sight of them before they were healed: a sickness of blood, charcoal, and blistering skin.

I swallow some bile. Didn't he tell you? Thanks to the serum developed by Isuzu, Shuusei is healed. He'll live. He'll be normal. He'll smile again, Hotsuma, just like always. I blink at the ceiling and gulp down more air, gagging, almost sobbing, at how stupid I've recently been. You're right, Shuusei is better. Isuzu knows what he's doing. Like he explained to us last night, Shuusei received some kind of 'transplant' from Luka. Heals human flesh within hours, not days.

Leaning over the bed, I touch Shuusei's face, careful not to wake him, and trace my thumb along his pale, tear-stained cheek, then along his trembling lips - the ones he keeps chewing. He's having a dream, probably a nightmare, and I can't make him see that nothing will hurt him.

Frustrated, I sink into a chair next to the bed and watch him eventually turn, rolling onto his side, pulling at the blanket so it covers his mouth. He still looks human; I haven't ruined his looks. But I know he can't undress without other people staring, wondering what had happened to that once perfect skin...

We may not speak, but I often come to visit him, stepping into his bedroom, just before dawn, so he doesn't know what I'm doing. To be honest, I'm afraid he'll find out. I'm afraid of what he'll do. Frequently I stand in front of his door, studying the handle for what seems like forever, and then, with a push, I'll let myself in, scared that the movement has woken him up. He sleeps like a log. He never suspects. It's kind of silly to think that he'd suddenly change.

But, if he saw me, I wouldn't know how to explain or excuse myself. During the day, it's painfully clear that his presence unsettles me. I can't meet his gaze. I can barely respond to his questions. Everything he asks me is focused on health - he's obsessed with the concept of atoning for sins. We never really discussed the reason he wanted to die. I guess you just don't. You can't ask that question and expect an easy answer; it lurks there between us, tainting the things we enjoy.

Like reading in the study. I used to enjoy that. I would sit there for ages, absorbed in a book, steadily flicking through the chapters until he joins me with a grin, proffering a mug balanced on a saucer. Completely unrefined, I thought, every time I drank that tea, but the memories make me...

I did resume our routine - I honestly tried - but my book soon became a convenient shield. I would sit there reading in silence, reading over and over the same bloody words, never reading past the same stupid sentence. And Hotsuma would stand there, observing from a distance, hand resting tensely on the handle of his door.

Blinking, I enter the room, ignore all the computer games scattered in my path, and make my way to the bed where I find my partner curled up, clutching one of his pillows in a loose, child-like grip, face partly hidden by a sweep of blond hair. I lift a few strands, tuck them behind his ear, smooth the deepening wrinkle between his troubled brows. Even in his sleep, he's moody and remorseful.

Could I blame him?

I smile a little sadly, wishing he would forget what had brought us here in the first place. After they discharged me from Isuzu's care, I didn't want to see him, I didn't want his version of events. I was shocked, sickened. I couldn't get over the fact that he had done this to- I cringe and grasp at the bed, breathing too hard, anxious not to cry. Not in here, of all places. Not in here... I want us to talk. I want to hear his voice. But how can I possibly ask when he no longer needs me?

How?

I force myself out of bed, kicking hard at the blankets, achingly alive in my eagerness to meet him. He was here, just here! But what did he want? There's an outline on the bed, neat and familiar. Who else could it be? I dash across the carpet, trip on a cable snaking over the floor, nearly crack a game disk forgotten under a notebook. For an instant I bend down, as if to pick it up - but to hell with all that!

He was here.

I stop in front of the door that leads to his room. It looks like mine: mahogany, expensive, enough to muffle a voice.

Inwards, outwards, I breathe like a clock, closing my eyes, turning the handle, not entirely certain he will welcome my approach. We haven't talked in months, not at all like we used to. The effort is titanic, the act of pushing a door.

He must be awake. He must know I'm coming.

But things inside are different, not what I expected. Instead of someone bounding into the blankets, rushing to disguise they had just left the bed, I'm greeted by a strange and startling murk; lifeless, disturbing, gloomy, unmoved.

I creep towards the bed, frowning at the silence.

Gazing down at my partner, he looks like he's asleep, really asleep, like he hasn't been moving. I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling incredibly baffled, and watch the moonlight glisten in strands of his hair.

'Shuusei?' I whisper. He's sleeping on his side, facing away. I should have walked around - I really don't know if he's sleeping.

I stare at him a bit longer, growing more and more worried. I can't see his ribcage breathing up and down.

'Shuusei?' I whisper again, this time, much louder. Leaning closer, I wait for the rise and fall of his throat. It isn't moving, either. No signs of breath or movement of a pulse. I get increasingly scared, on the verge of bursting, but then he stirs, bumping into my arm.

I feel like a coward.