This isn't really part of the story, but I thought it was worth adding to the end. You'll notice that the story is now 'Complete.' Don't be too sad, though - I'm nowhere near finished with this universe.

On another note, I wrote the song Doumeki sings, and if you search for the band 'xariigl' on Virb, you can listen to it. It's called "Perfect Little Tremors."

Please do review! And thank you for sticking around for the ride. I loved writing this story, and I hope you loved reading it.

You've stopped being anything but amused in finding him standing in the rain with his flute, although these days he actually has a few tips to show for it. Nevertheless, when on the twenty-eighth of December you found him in his usual spot, you once again dragged him underneath your umbrella and subsequently back to your flat. He didn't protest but merely sulked the whole way there, to your profound shock.

"I was actually making money out there," he informed you redundantly upon reaching your destination. "You'd better have a damn good reason for pulling me away."

Fortunately, you did have one in mind. "I wrote a song," you told him matter-of-factly. He looked surprised, and though he hid it well, you could tell it was in a pleased sort of way. Either he'd slipped, or you've become better at reading him. You weren't sure which option you'd prefer more.

"So you're going to make me listen to it," he guessed, to all appearances in resignation. You didn't believe the show at all.

To answer, you simply pulled out your guitar and tuned it, and he sighed. "I don't know why I put up with you," he informed the universe in general, but did not move from his perch on your sole couch.

Satisfied with your tuning, you hesitated over the title and decided in the end to leave it out. Instead, you simply began to play; it was a simple tune, something you'd written with him in mind. You wondered if he'd notice this, and decided it didn't matter.

"You stood untouchable, perfect in every damn mistake…"

His eyes didn't leave your face, and you could feel them on you as you watched the fretboard. The one time you did look up, he was looking away, but once again you didn't fall for it. You'd been watching him for too long for those tricks to work.

"And I've tried to understand you, I've tried to pull you out of your shell…"

You looked up at him at that line, and whether he met your eyes in surprise, realisation, or something else entirely you weren't sure. But he did, and for a moment you were caught up in the utter perfection of his gaze.

Your fingers slipped on the strings.

You managed to recover, but he definitely heard and as you looked back down you caught a glimpse of his expression – confused, but thoughtfully so. Suddenly you wondered if maybe this had been a mistake, too forward, if he wasn't going to be ready to understand what you meant to say. But it was too late to stop now, and the way he dealt with the world, he probably wouldn't have noticed unless there was a good possibility that he would be able to deal with the consequences of doing so. Or so you hoped.

You finished the rest of the song without further mishap, and as the tones of the final chord died away you looked up again to find his eyes squarely on you.

"That song," he began, "what is it about?"

At this point, you doubted the question was in anything but a desire for confirmation. "You," you told him.

"Oh," he said. Then he added awkwardly, "It was a nice song."

"Thank you," you replied.

"And you, ah, I mean, it was…"

"Written for you," you supplied, beginning to enjoy yourself despite the amount at stake.

"Right," he mumbled, going a very bright red.

A few minutes passed in which he appeared to think this over. You left him to stew and made the now customary pot of tea. By the time you returned, the change in colouration had mostly subsided, although he no longer would look you in the eyes. When you offered a mug, he did move to accept it, but when the tips of his fingers brushed yours they pulled back sharply.

"Um," he said, turning red again. You put the mug down on the makeshift table and he reached for it once you had pulled your own hand back. "Do you, um, want a response?" he asked.

"I don't need one," you told him. You would have liked one, but you had a feeling that he needed time to come to grips with things like this. A delay wouldn't kill you. You hoped a rejection wouldn't either.

The answer seemed to surprise him, although what prompted his next words you would never be sure. "But you'd like one, right? I mean, even you don't go dragging people places to listen to a song written tothem if you don't want a response. Um." He finally looked up, as if forcing himself to do so, and continued, "If you mean what I – what I think you mean, then, then this is… I mean, yes."

"Yes what?" you inquired, even as your heart leapt into your throat with the hope that what he was trying to say was that he reciprocated.

"Yes-I-accept-what-you-said," he said very quickly. Then he shook his head. "That didn't come out right. Um. I mean." He adopted an annoyed expression. "Why can't you just understand what I'm trying to tell you?!"

"If I assume, it'll be biased by what I want to hear," you explained reasonably.

"But it is what you want to hear!" he burst out. "I mean, I think it is." He glared at you now, full on, no holds barred. "Dammit, why is it so difficult just to say that I feel the same way!" He blushed a brighter red than he had yet and abruptly noticed he'd risen from his seat, sitting down and looking mortified with himself.

"Beats me," you told him over the surge of elation, and to keep yourself from doing something rash poured your own mug of tea.

"Is that all you have to say about it?" he muttered. "Aren't we supposed to, um, do something now?"

You would have been content to bask in your own euphoria for the rest of the day, but his demands were not exactly taxing on said euphoria. "As in?" you inquired, because nothing much on your part had changed and seeing him flustered was twice as amusing now that you knew why.

"Um," he said expressively, waving his hands as if to depict what he meant but failing. "You know."

If he were to go any redder, you had a feeling that he would pass out on blood overload in the brain. To spare him, you sidestepped the table and joined him on the couch, reaching over that final stretch of space between and kissed him.

"That?" you asked a bit later.

"Shut up," he told you. You complied.