Disclaimer: I don't… Own… Fruits… BASKET!!!! grumbles Or Michelle Branch for that matter. That would just be weird.

Everywhere

Turn it inside out so I can see

He could still feel his hand over her eyes, still feel the beads of sweat that dropped down his face, eyes closed in concentration, the furrowing of his brow wrinkling the bandage that lay over his wound. He could still hear her anguished sobs in his head, and just the mere memory of his hand upon her hot tears made his hand clench in anguish.

The part of you that's drifting over me

The man's shoulders slumped, hunched over his desk. His eyes scanned over the papers that sat before him; he had read the same line at least half a dozen times, and no revelation of comprehension was opening his mind to the useless lines and dots that filled the page. He brought his hand over his eyes wearily, closing them in a distressed weariness.

And when I wake you're, you're never there

The darkness enveloped him for a brief moment, and the doctor was nearly lost to the conscious world altogether. Church bells rang far in the distance, signaling the bane of the day, the beginning of another. Lovely. Another day of hell to endure.

His eyes snapped open as his dreaming conscious brought the smell of brimstone to his nose, and he caught a shining in his peripheral vision.

But when I sleep you're, you're everywhere (you're everywhere)

With thoughts of hellfire on his mind, he swiftly turned toward the short flash of light he had seen, hands clutching the armrests on his chair. As the cause of the awakening came into view, he let out a small sigh of both relief and distress. It was simply a picture frame that had caught the moonlight just so, and reflected it back at the doctor.

Just tell me how I got this far

He gave a small cough at the irony of the situation, legs taking on his weight, feet carrying him over to the picture frame. He did his best to ignore its contents, all the while wondering why he still kept the thing at all. A small, almost non-existent frown disturbed his perfectly emotionless face, and he turned away from the glass and wood, snapping it onto the counter, face down.

Just tell me why you're here and who you are

The glass gave a tinkling sound as it hit the wound, almost as a last pathetic effort to call for help. The man winced, halting in his pursuit of sleep, turning on his heel to face the shelf and picture frame once more. His hands closed around it gently, flipping it over with the utmost concentration.

'Cause every time I look you're never there

Shards of glass fell from the frame, the picture itself bending to the will of gravity, a god it had to obey, now that it's smooth, hard haven was shattered. He bent it forward, allowing some shards to slip to the ground, and carefully used his forefinger and thumb to remove the picture safely from its broken safety.

He tried his best not to look at the face in the picture, but after a moment's consideration, he realized it was silly to keep a picture that you never looked at. After all, what was a picture for, if not admiration?

And every time I sleep you're always there

His eyes, equal in size and color, but not in sight, gazed at the picture for a few moments. Though one was limited in vision, they could both see the beauty of the girl in the picture. She smiled outwardly at them: her face was not clouded with fear or guilt, innocence and purity lined every smooth, perfect feature she possessed.

You're everywhere to me, and when I close my eyes it's you I see

Both eyes, wounded or otherwise, teared at the sight of her. It seemed as if it had been years since that picture had taken, and even longer still since she had smiled that sweet, innocent smile at him. The hand holding the picture dropped to his side, and his body dropped back into the chair, shoulders shaking with both suppressed sobs, and the horrible agony of longing for something you've lost.

You're everything I know that makes me believe, I'm not alone

He brought the picture into his line of vision again, one shaking forefinger gently stroking the miniscule, two dimensional face of a girl that couldn't even remember his name. He dropped the picture abruptly, and held his face in his hands, trying to stem the flow of tears that was now falling freely. Was it too late now to feel a sense of regret washing over him? Or would a sense of irony be more precise?

I recognize the way you make me feel

Closed or open, his eyes and mind received no comfort. She had broken down his defenses, and now infiltrated the deepest, darkest caverns of his mind and heart, running ramped with such force that even he could not claim sleep as his secret haven. His dreams held her as well, just as he could not hold her himself.

And now the question stood more then ever: why the hell did he let her go?

It's hard to think that you might not be real

He brought in a shuddering gasp, trying, in vain, to collect himself, just as he collected the shards of glass off the floor. But his brokenness reached beyond a sharp point, and there were so many more shards of him then there were of the picture frame. His shaking hands dumped the contents into the trash, hoping that he could, in a metaphorical sense, do that to this sense of abandonment he felt.

I sense it now the water's getting deep

A knock at his door brought him out of his trance, and he quickly reached down and picked up the picture that still lay on the floor near his desk. Straightening his composure and tie, he strode forward, straight-backed, to greet this midnight visitor.

I try to wash the pain away from me

The door swung open to reveal a being, dressed in loose garments, and in a state of utter despair, tear-stains running down her face. her shaking hands released their grip on the door knob, and attached themselves to the front of the doctor's suit, causing him to take a step backwards from the force.

And the sobbing figure spoke, muffled hiccups into the fabric that covered the man. However, he had had experience with these things before, and he was able to roughly translate her words in his mind.

"It's gone," the figure sobbed hopelessly, "it's gone, it's gone, it's all gone…"

And when I touch your hand, its then I understand

"Shhhh," his rough voice was meant to come out as a comforting whisper, but is instead void of all emotion, a corpse pretending to be a human. This only causes the figure to cry harder, her vice-like grip upon his clothing tightening.

Unsure of what else to do, he pulls her close, taking her shaking body into an embrace that begins semi-awkwardly, but unfolds itself, becoming comforting, and, dare the word be mention, passionate.

The beauty that's within, its now that we begin

Now he himself was crying, his head in her shoulder, hers in his, they both cried softly, shoulder's shaking, heaving, hands clutching loose fabric, one hopeless body desperately clinging to another in an attempt to regain something they had each lost so long ago.

After a few moments, she yanked herself from his embrace, eyes alight with a passion that could've been either love or fury, which overtook and illuminated her damp face, drawing him into her gaze.

"Don't leave me." She whispered, and her hand reached down, intertwining with his.

You always light my way, I hope there never comes a day

Her whisper became more desperate, and she squeezed his hand tightly, eyes never leaving his. "Everyone else left… Please…" She pleaded with him, begged, "Don't leave me, Hatori. Don't leave me!"

The secret he held weighed heavy in his other hand. A simple photograph it was not, instead it was his passageway to life, the reason his emotionless heart carried through each day. And she was asking him to leave it behind. All for the sake of abandonment, a broken curse.

But, revelation comes to even the greatest of us. What was this girl, now clutched in his hands, if not a curse?

No matter where I go, I always feel you so

He had carried her memory in his heart for so long, and now… Now she was intertwined with his lungs, heart, and vital organs, constricting him, and making it harder to leave each day. She, in reality, could not even remember his name, could not remember the love that they had shared so long ago. Then what was his reasoning? What was he living for? Some memories? A sad song?

A photograph?

'Cause you're everywhere to me, and when I catch my breath, its you I breathe

"Hatori?"

Her voice made him realize how stupid he had been, living for a girl printed on paper, when he had had this in front of him the whole time. Her desperate, pleading stare watched him, and tears filled his eyes. He had had her all along. She had always been there for him, and he had always cared for her. He had always loved her.

Love.

It was such a relief to voice the word, even if only inside his mind.

You're everything I know that makes me believe

"I'll never leave you Akito." His voice cracked, constricted by the weight of his words. Then, he pulled her close.

The hand that held his curse, his burden, released it, letting the paper flutter to the floor without a second thought. Instead, it intertwined within the woman's hair, pulling her tightly into his embrace.

She gave a short gasp of shock, but overcame it, instead she succumbed to the hug, closing her eyes, and running her own hands through his hair.

"I love you."

I'm not alone.