A/N: First attempt at writing CageBlade fanfiction - this is the result of a freaky mixture between the blissful panacea of pharyngitis medication plus a depressing playlist.

Maybe NSFW – this not a smut piece, but it kind of… evokes some stuff, so be careful.

Detour

Sometimes, I wonder - if you think I don't remember.

But I guess you know my mind is made by so much more than repeated lines I would deliver; certain and triumphant – the way I unravel, mechanically absorbing each tiny detail as I craft a web of patterns and mazes, could tell you more than you would possibly imagine.

Like your nocturnal rendezvous, for example. The way you trace the same route each night along the same corridor, making sure everyone's alright. First the girls; then the boys - but never me.

Never me.

The net of my memory was built the same way, in the darkest of nights, during those long-lost phantasmagoric hours. That night, I remember, you stood by my door and you knocked gently – you were there, the breathing image of a world so painfully alive. Then I whispered, my lips barely touching your earlobe, "You shouldn't be here," and you blushed, the thirst you were longing to quench was mercilessly forging your desire. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be," you confessed then, finally allowing me to bury my mouth in your neck.

There, in your eyes, I found the reflection of my own consuming gaze.

One, two, three, four, five… the number of footsteps separating you from the first door – I know, because I count them every night, as you make your way to your room and I lie in bed; resting my hands on my stomach as if expecting you to knock on my door once again.

Headquarters' bedrooms are way too sterile, way too impersonal – it's like they're trying to tell us not to get too attached, not to get carried away by insignificant details such as an ordinary feeling of belonging or perhaps, the warm proximity of having someone near. But you know that; impenetrable as a Lin Kuei, afire as a Shirai Ryu, you know about all this, and so you walk, every night, the same footsteps caressing the same corridor, enveloped in the same darkness – yours are the compelling footsteps of someone who walks with a purpose: yours are the footsteps of someone who has a destination.

Then I kiss the emptiness, in the surreptitious realization of a route I know by heart by now; as I become the silent witness of this precious, brief parenthesis of time when you allow yourself to finally be you –

The 'you' you used to be, that is.

Then you knock on their door, the girl's room, and the mother in you compels you to make sure they're alright. They will laugh a while, just like every night, then they will narrate the funniest events of the day for you – and you'll giggle, timidly, shyly, as if afraid to come undone. But then you'll sigh, as the obsidian night wraps itself around your silhouette again, and you'll say 'goodnight' and close the door, feeling content that they are fine, that she is fine.

She looks an awful lot like you, my dear, and that will break somebody's heart someday.

But then it's time to march again, and march you will, six, seven, eight, night, ten, eleven, twelve, and now the boys are going to tell you that it's been a long day, that they thought you'd never come, that you spend way too much time in the girls' room and you barely pay any attention to them. You'll smile, frankly, as you shake your head and cross your arms over your chest. 'Goodnight, boys," is all you'll say to them, but deep down you'll know it's enough and you will close their bedroom's door, still grinning, as you'll hear them say, "Goodnight, General Blade."

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…

Then you'll keep walking, past my door and up the stairs.

But there will come one night when you'll stop by my door and hesitate: the shadow of a doubt will encompass your weary bones and the question will become unbearable:

What if…?

I can picture it clearly now: your hand in the air, slowly and doubtfully, will reach for the doorknob and I'll be there, waiting on the other side, for you to come in and find me, after all this time.

Then I'll whisper, my lips barely touching your earlobe, "It's been a while," and you'll blush, under the façade of distance and coldness you've been building up for quite some time now. Then I'll know, I'll be sure – "There's no need for words right now," I'll confess, and you'll understand that time and distance are futile notions for the hungry heart. I'll bury my mouth in your neck and the you I used to love will appear right in front of me; her vision will blind me but I'll be alright. In your eyes, once again, I'll find the reflection of my own consuming gaze. I'll pin you against the wall, your body heavy over mine. Your swollen lips will tell me they have missed me. I'll shove your body into the wall; and I'll ignore the sound of your spine aching. You'll pull me close to you. You will bite my lips and you'll smile tenderly at the blood coming out of them. God, it will hurt – but I won't care. Your mouth will be on my mouth again; I'll be liquefied by you. My chest will be crushed against yours and I'll push harder – with fistfuls of me and my clothes you'll finally come undone and after that it will never be enough, I know.

I hear your footsteps, as you are about to walk past my door now. I sit up in bed, as I hear every sound, every tiny detail – only there is silence.

You've stopped, surprisingly, and now you gravitate hesitant in front of my door. I get up, slowly, as anticipation consumes my every thought – perhaps our invisible proximity will help you decide.

I close my eyes, as you still linger there, impenetrable as a Lin Kuei yet afire as a Shirai Ryu. Then you walk, finally, and I crumble – the part of me longing for you will never give up on the eternal quest of finding the 'you' I fell in love with. A timid smile curls up my lips as I sigh, irrevocable yet hopeful, my left hand resting on my side of the door.

Tonight you stopped, no matter how briefly.

Tonight, at least, you hesitated.