Tatsuha wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Something like his own place, maybe, CDs stacked everywhere and posters papering the walls. Or else like Eiri's mansion apartments, wealthy, spacious and coordinated.

Sakuma did live in a penthouse, the top floor of a thirty-story complex, and the size was befitting to his fame. But the walls were mostly bare, flat expanses of muted paints, and the furniture was spare and ordinary: futon, chair, table, lamp. There were a few touches. The entertainment complex to which Ryuichi had referred dominated the main room, a blank black widescreen wedged between enormous speakers. On one end of the futon were piled an assortment of toys, mostly Kumagoro's siblings, pink bunnies of every shade, shape, and size. And one wall was scrawled with crayon art, like an indelible blackboard, covered in doodles, jagged lines and messy kana. In the corner Tatsuha saw rows of smaller print--Roman alphabet, he couldn't understand most of the words but thought they might be lyrics to a piece he didn't recognize. A new Nittle Grasper song? One as yet unheard by anyone...

"Isn't it big?" Ryuichi said, patting the television gingerly. "It's loud too." He sat Kumagoro on top of the set to keep watch over the room while he opened the cabinet beside it and began rummaging through the cassettes and DVDs stacked inside. "Do you like TV, Tatsuha-kun? I don't watch much but sometimes it's funny."

"I watch a little," Tatsuha said. "I like some of the music shows."

"Those are fun! I like to be on them. Though when it's an American show I usually have to remember to sing in English and I do, except when I forget. But in Japan they don't care if I sing in English or Japanese."

"Your voice is fantastic no matter what you're singing," Tatsuha said sincerely. Ryuichi was still pawing through the cabinet, so he took a few steps closer to the enigmatic writing on the wall. "Sakuma-san, this is English, right?"

"Un. I like English. It's easier. The words mean less things. In Japanese I get mixed up. I found it!" Flushed with triumph, he held up the video, then bounced over to join Tatsuha's inspection of the wall. "Can you read that?"

"Not quite," Tatsuha confessed. "My English isn't too great. Is it new lyrics?"

"Yeah." Ryuichi ran his fingers over the crayon marks. "I think so. But there's no music yet. Tohma will have to make some. Unless you want to. Do you want to sing for me, Tatsuha-kun?"

Tatsuha didn't know if it was a joke, didn't know if he was supposed to laugh. Didn't know if he could even if it were expected of him--if anything was expected of him--this close, only a foot away from those shining clearwater eyes, close enough to feel his breath on his cheeks. Ryuichi was looking at him, not the lyrics on the wall, not the television or the stuffed rabbit, gazing straight at him and speaking in that voice, that priceless voice, every syllable worth a diamond.

"Or do you want to watch the video now?" Ryuichi asked.

"Sure," Tatsuha said, or tried to say, but the words wouldn't come. Instead he leaned forward, and it was like a dream, unreal, as if this were a movie and he was only watching an actor dip down and kiss the perfect mouth below those perfect eyes.

Then he felt his lips close over that tender warmth, and knew this was himself after all. He felt the body in his arms tremble, was for an instant sure he had made a terrible mistake and began to pull away--

The mouth under his parted, vacuum opened, locking them together, and the tongue slipped in, twisting about his, not forcing but there was force, not pushing but there was pressure. He heard, distantly, the plastic clatter of the cassette falling, and then long fingers burrowed into his hair, brushed his ear and sent a shiver through him like a blizzard wind.

Weak-kneed and panting, he felt it end, merge breaking slowly, with care. He was staring into blue, no longer pure but stormy, cyclone irises. No trace of naiveté; the child was gone, leaving only the singer, slant-eyed, fierce, and fair.

"What do you want?" he asked, not a joke, just honesty, and his voice rang like a bell.

"This," Tatsuha said, "this, please, this is what I wanted, ever..." He dove forward, fell forward, and so did Ryuichi, and in the center their mouths joined. It had been no mistake, no fluke, and Tatsuha swallowed lightning and was devoured.

They covered one another, seeking, exploring. He shivered at the warm lips skimming his neck as he trailed his fingers down the beautiful line of his jaw, and then his hands found the wide buttons of the coat beneath the lace. Clumsily he worked at them until he finally lost patience and the final button tore loose, skipped into the corner with a shrill merry clink, and he was touching skin--smooth, but not soft as he might have expected. He had seen this body before, almost as slim as a boy's, but this was not a boy's form, wiry, silk over steel. With his mouth he traced the flawless arc of the collarbone, his hands sliding down the planes of sculpted muscle, while he felt his shirt shrugged off his shoulders and hot breath gusted down his naked back.

Ryuichi guided them, two dancers moving in step so as not separate for even an instant. Tatsuha barely noticed the door shutting behind them, even when it left them in near-darkness. His eyes were useless; he had seen this before, worn the videos almost to oblivion from watching and rewinding. This was beyond seeing; this was learning what could never be watched or read. He found those lips again without fail, locked to them as if to pour himself down that throat and wrap around the heart. His belt was pulled from his jeans, slithering around his waist to drop to the floor, and burning hands plunged between the fabric and his hips.

He barely noticed when they fell together on the bed; the shift from upright to across mattered less than the loss of clothing, no barrier between flesh and flesh. They were in rhythm, slower than a pulse but as steady. When it faltered he caught his partner, begged, not in words or expression, the physical was all that mattered, and with every action he plead for it to continue, clarified his desire.

All that could be heard was the syncopated rush of their breathing, and the friction of their bodies. When fire caressed him he didn't cry out, for fear of shattering that silence, delicate as blown glass. This was nothing like being with a woman, nothing like the couple of men he had experienced. There was none of the caution, none of the careful method of seduction--gentle, but it was a gentleness borne not of suppression but equal strengths, a congress of force and reception.

Barely sight, barely sound, and yet he had never been more aware, not of his lover, not of his own self. Every cell focused on existence, on this sensation. The lean arms around his torso, the lips against the curve of his shoulder, the legs aligned, all separate and one at once. He was a hundred thousand lives, and one, and a pair.

Time became crystal, each second unique. He felt himself entered and it was not violation, not dominance, but the final sharing, two beings' integration.

And then he thrust and pleasure exploded like a nova, flooded them, and they were lost in it, lost in him, until everything was finally overcome by darkness.

* * *

Tatsuha regained consciousness gradually, opened his eyes at last and found it less black than he had expected. Above him he saw a skylight, filled with a half-circle of moon. When he turned his head, he found Ryuichi kneeling on the bed beside him, facing him. The moonlight made his hair silver, his skin marble. Like a statue, a carving of perfection. He could have looked forever.

"Did I hurt you?" The singer's voice was low, husky, still melodic. His eyes were obsidian in the shadows.

"No..." Tatsuha could barely move, this completely satisfied. This complete. There was a dull throbbing which might ache later but no pain could survive this happiness. He knew what this must be, that every beat of his heart assured him he was here. "No, not at all."

"Good," Ryuichi said. "It had been a long time." His eyes were still black, not windows but pits to infinity.

With great effort Tatsuha reached out his hand, captured Ryuichi's wrist. As smooth as stone, but warm. He brought the hand to his lips, rested his cheek against it and whispered, "I love you." It was the first time he had ever said it that he understood what it meant.

He was asleep before he heard any response.

* * *

Dawn had passed when he awoke again, the room pale gray with the light streaming from the unshaded window. He was covered and warm but there was no presence beside him or against his back. Raising his head, he saw Ryuichi standing by the room's single bureau, pulling on a pair of worn jeans.

Tatsuha sat up, rubbing his eyes. He smiled when Ryuichi glanced over, asked, "Can I come to the studio today, watch you sing?"

Ryuichi's head tilted. Thoughtful, he looked, a single line furrowing his brow. He didn't answer immediately.

"Please," Tatsuha pressed, with a tiny teasing hint of whine.

Ryuichi pulled a t-shirt over his head, wriggled it down to cover his torso. Tatsuha could have shivered at the intimacy of it, watching what was his to see be concealed. "If you want to," the singer said finally.

"Thank you!"

There was no answer. Ryuichi finished dressing with an economy that was almost fastidious, at odds with the casually scruffy outfit. Not taking his eyes off him, Tatsuha took in the bedroom in his peripheral vision, noting the simplicity, even starker than the living room. The bed was barely big enough for two, unlike the futon held no toys. The small mirror over the bureau was the only thing on any wall; the dresser top, however, was an exercise in contained chaos, covered with jewelry and combs, a few hats and sunglasses. Apart from that, it might have been a motel room, hardly lived in.

While Ryuichi tied his sneakers Tatsuha left the bed, not bothering with the modesty of a swiped sheet. Entirely exposed, he faced the singer as he straightened, grinned cheekily. "See you later?"

In answer Ryuichi tipped his face up to his. Tatsuha hadn't realized before that he had several centimeters over the rock star, forgot the difference now when Ryuichi rocked onto his toes to kiss him.

He expected fireworks, but it wasn't like the previous night at all. Gentle, no rushed imposition, purity instead of passion. They traded no flavors, their mouths closed. Yet it was sweet, so sweet, as clear water is sweet after a mouthful of vinegar, and it tasted, so sweetly, of goodbye.

And when Ryuichi left without a word, Tatsuha said nothing, only stood in the empty room for a long time and listened to the silence of the rising sun.