A/N: This is the first of a list of dedications to people who have reviewed my works. If you have given me a review, take a look in here. I will try my best to please. :)

-Okami

For Quistis88.

The dancers; perfectly in time to the music, gliding gracefully across the floor with smiles fixed, seemingly perpetually to their faces. Happiness in dancing is something I have never found I've possessed and frankly, I'm not all that disappointed.

The decorations; all designed to give the impression of a glittering night in autumn, the tiny diodes on the silk across the ceiling shine in alternating brightness and as a civilian, I am dazzled. However, as a cynic I am unimpressed – they look nothing like real stars and we have a whole sky-full of real stars beyond a set of mere patio doors. If they wanted stars they could have held the thing outside.

The refreshments; tasty. But not delicious. I suppose I would be a little more forgiving if I were a sweet tooth, but as it is, the cakes and coconut ice blocks and champagne flutes full of sticky sweet pink liquid, are really not my thing.

The people; tolerable. Being as I have spent the last 5 years cooped up in a prison cell and have only recently been proven entirely innocent; one might think I would relish the idea of some company other than inmates and fuzz. And they would not be wrong, however this particular company are the very same who landed me in prison in the first place, so I shall be excused for feeling a little bitter.

The entertainment; sparse and yet completely overwhelming. I am blown away by the music and the couples whizzing past a few inches from the end of my nose. The 'stars' are beginning to get on my wick and if I look slightly to the left I get glare off that girl's oversized white ball gown. The entertainment I am really searching for is not allowed in this sort of a function and my clothes already smell of nicotine enough without my adding to it. I guess I should search for you instead.

You; ah me, now this is what I have been waiting for all night – the golden hair all curled and trapped neatly by what must be hundreds of pins, the deep red lips pursed in annoyance as your cornflower blue eyes fix me with an icy glare. The red dress you have chosen clings and sways in a way that makes me wish you didn't hate me so much, and you walk over to cause some damage with that quick tongue of yours. I have never met anyone who could meet me on equal grounds in a verbal spar, but you've always fired back like no one else ever dared. You are, by far, one of the most tolerable people in this room and I would gladly sit in your company for many an hour – who knows, I may even brave the dancing. But I can think I will be hard pressed the squeeze a dance out of you tonight, if the palm soaring towards my face is any indication.

With refined reflexes, I dodge the slap, ducking away and holding out one hand in order to hold you back should you decide to persist. A few heads turn at the commotion, but we are a familiar pair and our reunion was never going to be peaceful or even civilized.

"You're such an arse!" You hiss, both hands now balled into shaking fists at your sides. I pretend to brush some stray lint from my shoulder and don't answer, it's often best to let you shout yourself out before I prove you correct. But this time you simply stand there and glare at me. I can feel my corner of the room becoming colder by the second and I think there's a stalactite clinging to the silk ceiling above our heads. I dare not take my eyes from you to check.

"Why didn't you write to me?" I'll admit the question caught me off guard and there really is no way to disguise the surprised way my eye brows raised and the word 'huh?' that escaped me. A blush dusts your cheeks and something flickers in your gaze. I don't recognise it and curiosity has never been recommended.

"You had five years and you couldn't even write one letter?" It's hard to tell if your tone is joking or accusing, I've always found the second to be a safer bet when dealing with women.

"Paper is a hard thing to come by in high security prisons." I answer, hoping the truth will be enough to placate you, I really don't feel like starting the night with a black eye.

"Surely you had access to a phone at some point?"

"I didn't think you would appreciate the call."

"It would be better than nothing wouldn't it?"

I shake my head. Honestly, sometimes I just cannot understand what you want from me; you laugh at my insults; snarl at my jokes; pick at my temper; stab holes in my world with your perfectly manicured nails – which I notice you have painted red specifically for tonight – then bathe my wounds with words whispered like promises in my ear. If I were a lesser man, I might have run screaming from you by now. But unfortunately I am not and masochism remains to reside over our confusing relationship.

Quietly, I ask you for a dance and – to my somewhat reluctant delight – you accept. I cannot explain enough times the feeling I get when every other man on the dance floor stares unabashed as you glide onto the floor, but it makes my hackles raise and it tightens my fingers even more about your waist. Perhaps the word is possessive, but I wouldn't want to label it. Giving it a title makes it official.

"I thought you hated dancing." You whisper, voice soft and saccharin in my ear. To say that I have missed your voice would be an understatement; there have been nights when I craved the sound as I lay still in my bed, rethinking all the sweet and heart-warming things you've ever said to me. There are surprisingly few and it reaffirms my opinion that you hate me so.

"I don't hate dancing, I have never really found the point – I have no need for the exercise and as for romance, that's been a little thin on the ground for a while now."

"Then why did you ask me to dance?" Now, there are a million and one ways I could answer this – no jokes – and every single one of them tends to end badly for me. I pick one out of the pile and throw it into the ring.

"Thought I could show off my new shoes and their world class laces."

You're silent for a long time and it is only when I dip you that you respond. "How does it make you feel though?"

"About what?"

"The dancing. How does it make you feel?"

"Sleepy. You?"

"Self-concious."

I guess that makes sense given the amount of men currently undressing you with their eyes and I remember the first time you admitted you hate me. You'd just pulled my belt from my jeans and I was halfway through your shirt buttons when you said it, out of the blue – "I hate you so much, you know?" I mean, I know it was a pretty important moment in this charade we're jokingly calling a relationship, but you were so beautiful and I was so impatient that all I could answer was – "I know". Now I can only imagine the amount of money half these men would pay to even get a peek at the pictures we took that night. But unfortunately for them I burnt every single one the day I realised I love you.

"Don't worry about it," I try and coax you to continue the dance – a slow waltz – "you look beautiful tonight anyway. Let them stare."

You stop dancing as I knew you would and drag me to the patio doors, opening them and pulling me outside. There is no one else out here, but the music and the sound of the fountain make up for it. The real stars are shining overhead and they're much brighter than the fake ones inside. I can't help but feel happier out here. It is also very cold tonight and a glance at you shows you're shivering already. Not that I can blame you, the floor-length, red, backless number you've got going would make an Eskimo shiver in July.

Ever the gentleman, I slip my jacket off and it out for you. You shake your head no, but I drop it over you anyway.

"It smells of smoke." You complain, wrinkling your nose and giving me a look that clearly states you're unimpressed. Well it's not really my fault, there isn't much else one has ready access to in the d-district, other than alcohol and I made full use of that liberty already.

"It's better than nothing." I mirror your words and you turn to lean against the stone patio railing, not bothering to give me a reply. I sigh and dig in my trouser pockets for my cigarettes and a lighter. I can see you watching me from the corner of one eye as I light up and the small sigh you let out steams in the cold night air. We stand in silence for a while and it is not until I am about to light up a second one that you straighten up and turn to face me.

"Give me one then." You say with one hand out. You sound as though you're giving in to me, as if I had been pushing you for a very long time and finally you cannot resist anymore. One eyebrow raised, I nudge a third cigarette from the pack and offer it up. You take it and place it between your lips, leaning in to light it off the tip of mine and I feel my eyebrows rise even further towards my hairline. I had never taken you to be a smoker, or even in the least bit rebellious, but then again, you weren't exactly abiding by the law when you slept with me, so a cigarette seems almost childish in comparison.

We are silent again and it is only when the entire packet is gone that you speak again, "Follow me."

Unquestioningly, I do as I am bidden and you lead us away into the darkness of the gardens. When you stop us again we are in the shelter of the orchard, apple blossoms falling all around us and some of the petals have fallen in your hair. I pick them out carefully and you turn to face me. You have that look in your eyes – the same look you had the first night we did this – and I think myself incapable of understanding your hatred of me, it is unlike any I have ever seen. I bend my neck as you reach up to me. Your mouth is hot and sweet and I can taste some of that coconut ice you must have enjoyed earlier before I ruined your evening. It is sweet and saccharin and it doesn't last. You grab my belt and begin fumbling with the buckle as I push the jacket from your shoulders and push the straps of your dress down too. For a second I am overwhelmed and it has nothing to do with the stars, music or the pink apple blossoms catching in your hair, but before I can identify what or why, you stop my thoughts from straying to that dangerous ground:

"I still hate you, you know."

I tell myself that curiosity has never been recommended, but then again I know what and why. But there will be no pictures this time, only my memories so I guess I'll have to burn my heart instead; because I'm still in love with you.

"I know."