A/N: A little piece that's dear to my heart. October is Depression Awareness Month – remember that you don't have to suffer alone, and that it ain't over till it's over.

Disclaimer: I do not own any any of the characters used in my fanfiction, nor profit from my work.

Everything in the world was gray. The window was open, fruitless as there was nothing outside but heavy rain, chilly air, and the deepening sky. The trees were bare of their leaves, the streets nearly deserted at the end of the day. The snow was late this year, leaving the ground brown and dead in melancholy anticipation of the snow to come.

Between us, a cloud of steam shimmered upwards from his tea. Gray steam, green tea. None for me. The tea had been a ruse, an excuse to come to his door. My heart had lodged in my throat as he slid the shoji open. I must have interrupted a nap: his hair was tousled, eyes dark and slumberous. One of Omasu's romance novels would have called that utterly picturesque look "bedroom eyes," but something about his presence was off. Chilled. Distant, even for Aoshi-sama.

He hadn't stopped me from sitting down, though I knew he must feel I was invading the quiet sanctuary of his room. Every time I launched myself at him like this, I told myself I was doing the best thing for him. I was forcing him out of his self-induced isolation, however briefly. This evening, it seemed as though he wasn't even in the same universe.

I had come at a bad time, and even that sounded trite in my head.

It would make more sense to leave when he was like this, I realized dimly, even barely understanding what "this" was. He was no more reachable now than he was the day we had both stood in the pale green splendor of the bamboo forest, the blood-filled lookout shack just beyond.

Never show your face to me again.

Ironically, it was his face that was hidden now, obscured from my eyes by his hair and the twilight shadows, both equally inky. My breath caught in my chest, feeling like a stone crushing my heart, as I reached for him. Where he sat, his long legs distanced me from him, and I had plenty of time to think about the impropriety of what I was doing. I had to strain to reach, but my fingertips touched his cheek, the backs brushing over the sharp curve of his chin. Unbidden by me, my thumb smoothed lightly along his lower lip.

He didn't respond, either with pleasure or to push my hand away. His eyes were closed in mock serenity; his impossible lashes didn't even flutter at my touch. He merely tolerated my caress. It was like touching a statue made from flesh, barely warm with blood and almost imperceptible breath. A bolt of something like despair, tinged heavily with sadness, transfixed me.

How long since I had seen him smile? Had I ever? I found nothing as I searched my memories. If I had ever seen it, it had been lost to the erosion of time and care.

Had I ever heard him laugh?

Had I ever seen his eyes lifted in reverence to the stars? Had I ever seen his face relax with the simple pleasures of a spring rain, the summer sun on his face? Had he ever found an instant of peace outside the oblivion of elusive dreamless sleep?

My hand dropped back to my side. It didn't make me ache to let go of him as I had expected. I wasn't touching the Aoshi-sama I had adored, lusted after, searched up and down Japan for. This was an ink painting, a poem in fabric and flesh, one of Gein's corpse dolls.

He wasn't really alive. This wasn't living. It was existing while breathing, death without decomposition.

When had he died?

I left him there, moving as quietly as my shinobi skills allowed as I withdrew. It didn't matter, of course; an earthquake couldn't have brought him back.

Forgotten behind me, the gently steaming tea gave up the last of its nurturing warmth and grew cold.