As their lips pulled apart, she murmured softly, almost regretfully, "Goodbye. I'm sorry, but it's over. It has to be." And she walked off, leaving her broken-hearted lover to languish alone. And he cried. And cried. And cried.

Yuki leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen of his computer, reading and re-reading this paragraph over and over—the last paragraph, he decided, that he planned to write. Early morning had crept into night and inevitably back into morning once again, and though it had been a hellish stint of work, Yuki finally felt that he could call his novel finished, without having defied any of the compulsive tendencies that had always seemed to dictate his writing. "Think that's it…" he said softly, rather groggily. His mind felt foggy and muddled from copious amounts of alcohol, and the smell of smoke hung heavy in the unvented room. "It's shit, but it's done. The girls'll eat it up—just enough fan service to save it."

He didn't get up, at least not right away. He continued to read those last few sentences, and it was then that he realized just how unlike his previous works this book had turned out to be. The ending isn't happy, he thought to himself after a moment, as though too afraid to say the words aloud. It occurred to him that the prospect of this actually disturbed him, more than he would ever care to admit. All of my other books have ended with some sappy romantic shit, because that's what they all love. But this is…it's sad. And it's not good, but…if I change it…it won't be right. In this story, it's just what happens…this was inevitable, unfortunately…and I just gotta leave it. I wouldn't want to stay with someone like him either, the way I made him treat her.

Saving his work and quickly composing an email to his editor which included his completed draft, Yuki took a celebratory swig of the remainder of his alcoholic coffee—the fifth he'd had since beginning that morning, whenever that was—and then clicked the 'send' button. Closing the lid to his computer, the blond-haired man got up and stalked over to the couch, which sat against the opposite wall, stumbling and practically falling onto it as he did. Turning to lay on his back after a moment, Yuki stared up at the ceiling, which seemed to spin and swirl before his eyes, letting out a pained groan that turned into a sleepy yawn. Almost immediately, thoughts of the novel—the thing he had been staring at for the past thirty-six hours, ignoring everything else all the while—seemed to flee from his mind entirely, leaving it open to be promptly and fully invaded by a strange, foreign emotion he could only barely identify.

He knew he regretted something, but he was not sure what, exactly.

"Oh, hell," he said quietly, his eyes drooping. "I fucked something up. Something's wrong. Not the book. Something else."

And then he thought, and was filled with subsequent, unintelligible dread: I've been alone since yesterday morning. Alone. No noise…no sounds…just quiet…so quiet…

Before he could process what this really meant, Yuki closed his eyes fully and gave into a deep, deep sleep.

When Yuki woke up once again, the first thing he saw was that the room—although no longer spinning—was very dark. The only light—or rather, perhaps more appropriately, the absence of total darkness—came in from the big picture window, whose views sported the bustle of the nighttime cityscape in all its grandeur. The sparkling lights were always beautiful to look at, undoubtedly, but now they cast the room's sparse furnishings in distorted, unpleasant shadows. Yuki sat up slowly, a hand on his pounding head as he glanced around, trying to get his bearings about him. The clock on the near-empty bookshelf told him that it was almost eight in the evening, and he could hardly believe his eyes.

"I slept the whole day?" he said aloud, reaching over and turning on the lamp beside the couch. His disbelief subsided however as he looked over to his desk and saw that it was littered with beer cans. Rolling his eyes to himself, he sighed, now understanding why he could hardly remember the day before. "Of course you slept all day. You're lucky you even woke up at all, drunk."

Yuki stood up, stretching and yawning softly, hearing his stiffened joints creak like an old tree in the wind. As he gazed over at his desk once again, he saw his computer, the unfriendly, uninviting gleam of its shiny metal surface, and felt a surge of relief come over him when he realized that he wouldn't have to touch the thing for at least a few months. Despite his throbbing headache, he actually felt much better than he had in quite some time—probably since finishing the previous novel, now that he came to think about it. It was as though the idea alone that he was now free from writing, at least for a time, had lifted a great weight off his chest, and he would let no physical pain undermine that. A headache would pass in a few hours—but he'd rode out the frustration of writing that stinking book for nearly half a year.

"Mm. At least it's finished. Thank God," he said quietly, waltzing over to his desk and sitting down, as though he didn't have a care in the world. "Wonder what my editor decided to bitch about this time."

He reached for his computer, curious to see the email he had undoubtedly already received from the editor in question, which was sure to include any corrections she'd made, along with the potential final draft of his novel. As per usual, she would wait to send the copy to the print office until she'd gotten his approval, but when it came to his most recent novels, he hadn't even bothered to read any final drafts, and at best would sometimes skim over the corrections list without interest. He was always quick to approve her work—whatever it may be that she had decided to send, even if he usually didn't agree with the changes she made—merely because he knew that the sooner he consented, the sooner he'd never have to deal with the books again. He had started to hate them, he decided. Started to hate writing, maybe.

As he turned the computer on, he found himself starting to smile as he was greeted with the screensaver he saw every day—something that usually annoyed him but now seemed to make him oddly jovial. It was a picture of he and Shuichi when they'd been out on one of their dates, a date that he remembered quite well in fact: he had promised to take his younger lover to his favorite amusement park to make up for something he'd said—he didn't even remember what it was, to be honest—in the heat of finishing up his last novel, when he'd been tense and angry almost every day. He remembered how afterwards Shuichi had somehow gotten his computer password and decided that with it he would change the backdrop from its usual calming photo of the mountains—a picture which usually served to calm Yuki when he felt very stressed from his work—to the photo of them standing together on the pier, the sun just beginning to set behind them. The picture had caught Yuki with his arm around his small lover, planting an affectionate kiss on the pink-haired singer's flushed cheek. Shuichi, in turn, was beaming.

When Yuki confronted him on the matter—albeit quite gently, as he didn't want to risk hurting Shuichi's feelings once again, though his computer had always been a very sacred thing to him and secretly he was fuming—Shuichi had just smiled. "I thought it was a nice photo. We're both having fun and we both look happy. It feels like we're really in love when I look at that picture. I was thinking that if you could always see that, maybe it'd make you think twice before you say something mean to me."

And because he was so stunned by this—or rather, filled with guilt, though he would never admit it—Yuki had left the picture as it was.

Sighing softly, Yuki found himself getting lost for a moment in the beauty of his lover as he stared at that photo. He thought about Shuichi's silky hair, his smooth, powdery skin, his bright, sparkling eyes and his big, stupid smile. He thought about how much he loved to hear the singer's laugh, or how he actually enjoyed it when Shuichi would launch into passionate rambling about this or that—again, things he would never admit.

"God, I miss all the noise," he said softly. A moment later his eyes widened and he stood up, practically knocking his chair over.

Wait, he thought to himself, feeling his heart began to race, cold sweat beading on his forehead. I haven't seen him since…since yesterday morning. Yesterday morning…what the hell happened yesterday morning? Did I...oh shit…I haven't even heard the door open…phone hasn't rung…oh my god…where is he?

He looked at the clock again, gulping down bile. He knew that Shuichi always came home before eight, as he was intent to eat dinner with his lover—and in that sense, Yuki knew he was very punctual, though he was almost always late for everything else. Though he supposed Shuichi could have gotten held up at work, it worried him—more than he could even begin to comprehend—when he racked his brain and realized that he couldn't recall receiving any indication that the singer had actually come home the night before. Usually, Shuichi would announce his arrival by loudly calling to Yuki, even if he knew better than to bother the writer by coming into his study, and would then proceed to either begin singing or watching his video tapes of Nittle Grasper at an obnoxiously high volume. By then, Yuki usually gave up for the night, resigning to spend time with his small lover, as there was no way he could focus with all the ruckus. But last night, it had been so silent, and the writing had just sped by, distractions minimal.

At the time, he had been thankful for it.

Hurrying out of his office, Yuki stood in the hallway and looked around, almost frantically. The darkness of the apartment was the next thing to really worry him. Yuki remembered that during one of the periods of writer's block he'd encountered the day before, he had decided to stretch his legs and had gone around the loft, walking through the rooms distractedly as he thought about the best direction to take his story. He had gotten annoyed at how bright the place was—all the lights coupled with the natural sunshine coming in through the windows had felt very overwhelming, and he had turned them all off in a huff. Yuki knew that Shuichi wasn't a fan of the dark, and if he had come home and seen all of the lights off like this, the writer was certain he would have made a point to flip them all on, flooding the place with obnoxious illumination once again. Does that mean he hasn't been home since yesterday afternoon, when I turned them all off? Yuki thought as he stood there, shrouded in shadow.

Feeling disoriented, Yuki could sense his emotions rising to near panic, but tried to regain his usual composure, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Come on, he thought, reassuring himself, this is Shu we're talking about. I'm sure he's fine. Maybe he just went to bed early tonight.

Heading over to the bedroom to see if his hunch was correct, Yuki held his breath and opened the door slowly, cautiously. Flipping on the lights, his heart sunk to see that the bed was empty—the sheets and blankets rumpled, just the way he'd left them yesterday morning when he got up and made his way to the kitchen to get drunk. However, his ears suddenly perked up and it was then that he realized he could hear a steady, soothing sound coming from the bathroom—the shower, he decided after a moment. Looking towards the bathroom, he saw light coming from beneath the door, a sight which comforted him more than he cared to admit.

Yuki let out a huge sigh of relief, a small smile creeping onto his face. "God, kiddo," he said aloud, though he doubted Shuichi would be able to hear him over the sound of the water. "You scared the shit out of me."

It was then that Yuki decided he wanted to spend a bit of time with his lover. Though they had seen each other practically every day since they'd met, Yuki was not blind to the fact that he certainly had not gone out of his way to really connect with Shuichi these last few weeks; in fact, he had been known to not only forgo dates and spending time with the singer in favor of working on his book, but often chose to refrain from even simple interaction with Shuichi—skipping meals together, ignoring Shuichi's attempts to strike up conversation, refusing to answer his calls. The worst of it—and he knew this—was the way he treated Shuichi during their lovemaking. His romantically-inclined writing, and all the nuances of the relationships he created, often left him feeling extremely pent up and frustrated, and after a long day of giving so much love and attention to these fictional couples of his, devoting himself to the growth of their relationships into something beautiful and divine, something his readers could savor, he almost always felt himself unable, and unwilling, to extend the same to Shuichi, his real lover. And he used him, like a toy—never bothering with foreplay, or spending time to care for how he might feel. He did what he wanted to Shuichi and then went right to sleep, each and every night. It often felt like he was cheating on Shuichi with the characters in his novel.

Despite his hangover, Yuki resolved that tonight he would do whatever he could to make Shuichi feel as special and adored as possible. He knew—without even having to remember everything he had said—that he had been far from loving to Shuichi, and that the least he could do was show the singer some well-deserved affection.

Maybe I'll take him to the amusement park tomorrow if he's not working, Yuki thought, and began to undress. But tonight, I'm gonna make him feel so good, he'll go nuts.

Stripping off the remainder of his clothing and throwing it to the floor, Yuki crept quietly towards the bathroom, his excitement growing as he placed his hand on the smooth wood of the door. Leaning against it, he listened closely, the sound of the running water becoming much clearer. He sighed in anticipation, closing his eyes.

"Shu?" he cooed softly. "I hope you're decent, kiddo, cuz I'm coming in."

Yuki pushed the door open, feeling the steamy air envelop him immediately, a sensation which only seemed to heighten his excitement and anticipation. Turning his gaze towards the shower, Yuki found himself immediately presented with a rather alluring prospect: he could see the silhouette of his bathing lover behind the shower curtain, which was pulled to full privacy, leaving nothing to be seen and everything to be desired. The normal Yuki would have been content to yank back the shower curtain and pounce on his unsuspecting lover like something from a movie, but tonight he decided he wanted to try a more charming, sexy approach—something that would leave Shuichi's mouth watering with desire the way he often left Yuki's.

"Oh, Shu," Yuki purred, pushing the bathroom door closed behind him and taking a step towards the shower. "Hope you don't mind, but I heard you in here and I just couldn't resist. What do you say if I join you? You know, give you a hand washing up? I can help you with those…hard to reach areas…"

Silence resounded, and at first Yuki was confused as he watched the figure behind the curtain freeze in place, as though in shock. However, a moment later Yuki let out a chuckle, deciding that his little lover must be playing hard to get, or was possibly just nervous. The prospect of either possibility only excited him further.

"Oh, come now, Shu, you don't have to be shy," Yuki said softly, taking another step nearer to the shower until he was close enough to reach out and grip the edge of the curtain. "God, you look nice like this—putting on a coy little show for me behind that curtain."

Once again, the figure remained frigidly still, and though Yuki was surprised that Shuichi was not more receptive to his sultry temptations, he was determined not to give up the game just yet, as he was sure Shuichi would come around with just a little more persuasion. "Aw, come on, kiddo…I know you're probably mad, but I promise I won't bite so much this time…"

With that, Yuki pulled back the curtain fully, and almost at once, the blond writer realized that the sight before him was not nearly as tantalizing as he had thought—not at all, in fact. Actually, it made him immediately want to vomit.

His younger brother, Tatsuha Uesugi, stood beneath the spray of the shower, his black hair dripping with water and plastered to the sides of his face and his forehead. The bar of soap and sponge clutched in his hands were held strategically over his body, covering his privates. The young monk smiled sheepishly at him, his cheeks flushed. "Oh, hey there, Eiri. I'm in town for a few days and I just wanted to stop by and say hello! I bet you're surprised. Boy, you sure talk dirty to your man, huh? Sometimes I fantasize about Ryuichi talking to me like that!"

The writer was absolutely stunned, certain he was about to faint.

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" he screamed after a moment, loud enough that the neighbors could hear it. "How the hell do you always manage to get in anyway?!"

He yanked the curtain back into place without waiting for an answer, his own cheeks now bright red as he stormed out of the bathroom. He was not about to have a conversation with his younger brother while he was in the shower, and while both of them were completely naked, at that.

Tatsuha didn't seem to mind, however. "Oh, well that's a funny story actually, I—" Tatsuha cut himself off, suddenly screaming loudly. "Oh geez, there's a big spider in here! Eiri, help! I'm not supposed to kill any living creature, so you'll have to do it! Oh, it's coming towards me! Eiri!"

Ignoring his brother's wailing, Yuki slammed the door shut and found his jeans, quickly pulling them back on, grumbling all the while about the stupidity of his siblings.

By the time he had redressed and left the bedroom, Yuki's flustered embarrassment had melted back into worry. So if that was my ridiculous brother, he thought, then where's Shuichi?

His heart beginning to race once again, Yuki realized he still had the living room and kitchen yet to check. Hurrying through the hallways, turning on lights as he went, he prayed silently that he would find Shuichi watching his videos as usual, though his hopes were quickly dashed when he realized that he could not hear the TV. Yuki remembered—albeit vaguely—that two nights ago, something had happened and for some reason which escaped him, he had told Shuichi to sleep on the couch. Maybe he thought he wasn't allowed back in the bedroom and so he's sleeping in there? Yuki thought hopefully. But when he entered, he saw that the couch was empty, aside from Tatsuha's suitcase.

Feeling his worry spike at what seemed to be an all-time high, Yuki practically ran into the kitchen, though he could tell before he'd even entered that it was no use. Like the rest of the house, it was dark and empty. His heart having sunk so low that it was practically in his stomach, Yuki flipped on the light switch and grimly surveyed the sterile-white countertops. There was the nearly empty pot of coffee that he'd made yesterday morning, along with the bottle of whiskey he'd used to spike his drink. A few empty cans of beer that he'd neglected to pick up were strewn around.

"God," Yuki said aloud, regretfully. "I was drunk. I was drunk and he was crying. I must've…did I…did I do something to him?"

He looked over to the kitchen table, where the apple that Shuichi had started to eat still sat, now brown and rotting. A sluggish fly buzzed around it. Yuki watched it for a while, numb, until he noticed something else, something which seemed to make his heart stop all together.

A shiny brass key sat on the table, gleaming in the bright light which shone down from the sleek hanging lamp above. Yuki didn't need to get any closer to examine it—he already knew what it was, and what it meant.

"He left his key here," Yuki said, and sat down at the table, practically collapsing into the chair. It felt in that moment as though the world had just crumbled around him.

I did hurt him. I knew it. I hurt Shuichi and I was too drunk and too possessed by that damn book to realize it. I hurt my Shuichi.

He sat that way for a long time—lost in a downward spiral of raw emotions and remorseful thoughts—before finally reaching into the pocket of his jeans and removing his cell-phone. He hadn't checked it in almost three days, but he saw that the only message he'd received was from his editor, bragging that she liked the novel and that it was sure to be a bestseller with the help of her corrections. The only thing she hadn't cared for was the ending. But Yuki could say with total honesty that he really didn't give a shit; all he could feel in that moment was a sensation of sheer, unyielding emptiness.

"It wasn't fucking worth it," he whispered, and slowly began to dial Shuichi's number, praying with whatever hope remained inside of him that he'd answer. Please just give me a chance to fix this, he begged silently. Answer it, Shu. Please.

It was the first time he had ever been the one to initiate a call between them.

In a small apartment across town, Shuichi sat on a worn leather sofa, staring at the TV across from him without interest, even though what he was watching—one of his many Nittle Grasper tapes—had always been his favorite. When the door opened and his best friend Hiroshi Nakano walked in, carrying two boxes of pizza and a few cans of soda, Shuichi didn't even look up.

Hiro put the food on the coffee table in front of the couch and then sat down beside his friend, who merely sighed sadly, his eyes slipping closed. Frowning, Hiro opened one of the boxes, letting out the fragrant steam that had been trapped inside. "Don't tell me you're not hungry anymore. I ran across town for this."

"Actually, you drove. And it's not that," Shuichi said very quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper, as he picked up the remote and turned off the TV.

Hiro stared at Shuichi for a moment, knowing what his friend was upset about without even having to ask. It was the same thing that had been making him upset and sad for so long. The same person, to be more specific. In many ways, the whole situation was so frustrating to Hiro because he had tried so often to tell Shuichi that Yuki's behavior towards him was not normal and should not be tolerated—but no matter what it was, Shuichi always came up with some excuse to justify the horrible treatment he'd received and why, ultimately, he would stay with his lover another night. Hiro knew that it wasn't Shuichi's fault, and that he could not help who he had fallen in love with, but he often wondered why his friend couldn't see what everyone else could. Though he knew attempts to persuade the singer to leave Yuki often fell of deaf ears, Hiro believed strongly that it was his duty as a friend to at the very least try.

"Shuichi, I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking about going back there. But we both know it's a mistake," Hiro said, and reached over, brushing pink locks of hair off of Shuichi's forehead.

"I know," Shuichi said gently, leaning into Hiro's touch, rubbing his cheek against the hand which lingered there. "But I miss him. When he's sweet to me, he's so sweet, and I miss that part of him."

Hiro's frown only deepened at hearing this. He absolutely hated Yuki for what he'd done to his friend—the sort of mental abuse the guitarist knew he had been putting him through since their relationship began. It was obvious to Hiro that Yuki was content to treat the pink-haired musician like shit for as long as he could get away with it, only changing his behavior when he'd taken things too far and pushed Shuichi enough that the singer began to think about the possibility of leaving. Then of course Yuki would pretend to be sorry and go out of his way to shower him with affection, planting that seed of doubt in Shuichi's mind which kept him perpetually trapped in this awful relationship, this vicious circle. And just when he'd gotten Shuichi to commit to staying by his side once again, Yuki would let his behavior slip back to his previous abusiveness, just like that. Yuki had clearly done this to Shuichi many times before, whether the singer realized it or not, but it was no surprise to Hiro, who knew how people like him operated. They were deceptive, sociopathic, snake-like.

How he hated Yuki Eiri. He hoped for the writer's sake that he never happened to be alone with him—he wasn't sure that he would be able to keep himself from doing something stupid should that ever occur.

Maybe that was why I bought a gun the other day. I had him in mind, Hiroshi thought, but only for a second.

His hand beginning to caress Shuichi's cheek, Hiro said quietly, "I know, Shuichi. I know that sometimes he's sweet to you. But when he's mean to you…"

"He's awful," Shuichi answered before Hiro could finish, his eyes dim. "I know."

"Yes," Hiro said, and realized that this time, Shuichi understood.

It was at that moment that Shuichi's cell phone, sitting on the coffee table, began to ring. The two of them turned and looked down at the device, as though in slow motion—and both of them seemed to know who was calling even before they had seen the name on the screen. Hiro's insides knotted tightly, anger boiling inside him—but Shuichi's face lit up.

"Yuki's calling! He's calling me! He never calls me!" Shuichi exclaimed, and reached for the phone.

But before he could answer it, Hiro took hold of Shuichi's wrist, very gently, caressing it affectionately in his hands. Shuichi looked over at his friend in confusion, his eyes wide and searching. "Hiro…he's calling me…I bet he wants to apologize…I should…"

"Shhh," Hiro said softly, pressing the pointer finger of his unoccupied hand gently to Shuichi's lips. "Don't give in. Remember what he did to you."

Shuichi looked at the phone as it continued to ring, noticeably trembling, the terrible anxiety he felt in that moment now showing through clearly in his bleary gaze. The sound of the ringtone seemed almost deafening. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

The sight alone—the sight of his best friend crumbling before him—made Hiroshi's heart shatter.

"Shuichi, look at me," he said gently, taking Shuichi's chin in his hand.

It took the singer awhile, but eventually he met Hiro's gaze. Staring into the guitarist's eyes, Shuichi realized that he suddenly felt safe, and loved, in fact—and understood immediately that everything was going to be okay after all. He wanted to get lost in that warm, compassionate stare and stay lost in it forever. "Hiro," he murmured, feeling more vulnerable than he had ever before in his life, it seemed. "You…you won't leave me, will you?"

Hiroshi stared at him for only a moment, and then he smiled. Shuichi decided that it was one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen.

"Never," Hiro answered immediately.

And then he leaned in and kissed Shuichi, gently but passionately. And a moment later, Shuichi kissed him back, without regret or hesitation.

They stayed that way until the phone had stopped ringing, pulling apart only to catch their breaths. And then when they were able, they kissed once again.

And Yuki sat at his kitchen table, alone, when they went into Hiroshi's bed together and stayed there until morning.

It was the most wonderful night Shuichi had had in a very long time.

A/N: And so I turned to Satan and said, "Keep driving, boi!"

Hope you all enjoyed the chapter. To Crystia, thanks for the review girl, hope Yuki's suffering was sufficient. Added the shower scene to really put him through hell.

Thanks for reading, please feel free to review with any comments or requests.

~Rick