Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I manipulate characters and plotlines without permission and not for profit.

This chapter is short but I wanted to devote it to Oriya (my darling). Please don't hate me after you read it. The next chapter is longer and begins to pull things to together (finally!). I see maybe five more chapters left until the end. Depends on the final scene. I can't write confrontations and fight scenes so any advice is welcome and wanted. I noticed the reply sign on the review pages. Not sure if anyone actually reads those pages, I'm putting replies at the bottom again. If you prefer it in the reviews page, please let me know.

A special thanks to for the translations of the Kyoto arc. I know, I know. Supposed to read it with manga. I cheated. Ooops. And, again, thank you for reading. (Quote from Terrors and Experts (31); anyone else think this is me reading Yami through this book?)

"Why would a person want to understand someone, or even cure them, rather than have sex with them?"--Adam Phillips

"Dr. Sakumi—paging Dr. Sakumi. You are wanted in Delivery." The loud insistent voice called Oriya from the warmth in which he was floating. He slowly opened his eyes.

Hard fluorescent lights sent him blinking and reeling into nauseousness. Swallowing hard, he grit his teeth and propped himself up on his elbows. He willed himself to open his eyes, keeping his gaze downward. An army green blanket, his legs underneath, lines crossing his arms. A steady beeping.

Hospital, Oriya thought dizzily. He moved each finger, to check to see if they could. He wiggled his toes. He took stock of the IV in one arm, the bandages around his hands, the dull pain in his side.

Oriya began to think clearly. The last thing he remembered was the sneering face of Kazutak and the deep sharp pain in his side before being flung across the courtyard.

KoKakuRou. Hisoka—what happened?

How did he get here? He sat up fully as a nurse waddled into the room. She was short, heavy, with a broad beaming bland face. She smiled at Oriya.

"Awake now, are we?" she greeted in a sharp voice as she pulled out clipboard from the foot of the bed. Oriya weakly smiled. "Don't worry; lunch is coming."

Oriya titled his head and sighed as nausea didn't threaten to overwhelm him. The nurse pulled out a pen and quickly wrote down the numbers on the machinery by his head.

"How long have I been in here?" he asked slowly.

"Two days."

"How did I get here?"

"Oh Muraki-sense admitted you. And he's your doctor. That might make you lucky." Oriya glanced sharply at the nurse who moved toward one of his monitors. One large hip bumped into a tray which wheeled squeakily to the wall. She punched some buttons in short deft movements.

"What does that mean?" She looked at him, wide with surprise. She glanced uneasily around her, opening her lips to speak. The nurse leaned in just as a tall, silver, white shape walked by the window facing the corridor. She jerked back and started writing again as Muraki entered the room, without flourish. He entered the way any other man entered—no flurry of activity, no trailing coat, just a simple, possibly, confident step into—

"Good afternoon, Oriya-san. How are you feeling?" Muraki said. He was all doctor, in simple pair of khaki slacks, an open collar button down shirt and a stethoscope flung casually around his neck. Oriya's jaw dropped. The nurse handed Muraki the clipboard and moved with surprising dexterity out of the room. Oriya would call it fleeing—a movement with which he was familiar.

"Dizzy spells?" the doctor asked, pen poised over paper. Oriya shook his head.

"Nausea?"

"A bit." Muraki scribbled for a moment. Oriya gained his composure and folded his hands together on his lap. If he had learned anything from his years of friendship with Kazutaka, it was that his friend was a natural shape-shifter.

"Your fever has gone down with no sign of infection from your wound. It might be safe to say that you'll be fine, but we'll keep an eye on your concussion." Muraki's voice was cool, soothing, and professional. He grabbed a rolling stool, guided it to Oriya's bedside and sat down. His surprisingly warm hand rested on Oriya's forehead.

"Taking awfully good care of the man you knifed." Oriya kept his voice icy. The warm pressure left his forehead.

"Oriya, you forget I'm a surgeon. Do you imagine that I stab so carelessly—if stab is the right word?"

"So when you stuck a knife in my belly, you managed not tear anything apart." He turned away to face out the window, to the other wing of the hospital.

"I stabbed you, but not far enough to pierce gastro-intestinal walls."

"But you gave me a concussion." Muraki looked up from the clipboard. Oriya's heart began to beat rapidly as he stared into the expressionless but flawless face. But he quickly shut down any loving thoughts. Remember Oriya—this man is not in love with you.

"That, my friend, was your fault. You've studied aikido. I assumed you knew how to keep your neck rigid." Oriya blinked. True, he knew how to fall, but he never imagined that Muraki planned his violence with care.

Liar. No, he knew. He cleaned up enough of his friend's problems to know that every move was planned. He looked at Muraki, who was writing on the paper, a mess of numbers, a lazy loopy scrawl of narrative. He felt himself relaxing in his presence. That was Muraki's gift; an ability to calm people even when he had a knife pressed to their throat.

"Why did you attack me?"

"Why did you threaten me?" Muraki's long fingers drew back his collar, revealing a short, fat, shiny scar. It looked deep and hot, a possessive mark.

"Hisoka..."the name fell from Oriya's lips as he sighed. He looked into Muraki's eye which regarded him with what he would call calculation.

"Yes, that boy, who continuously falls into my path." Muraki's voice became hard and bitter. Oriya tasted that familiar sticky emotion and swallowed hard.

"Why don't you leave him alone?" You've ruined him," Oriya demanded, pushing past a terrified knowing that he was treading into dangerous territory.

"I'm not interested in him."

"Then what are you interested in?" Silence. Oriya listened to his heart beep courtesy of Tokyo General's equipment. Outside, the intercom clicked on and the same nasal voice declared its demands. It clicked off and still Oriya heard his heart beep steadily. Finally—

"I'm interested in Tsuzuki. Not for sex—gods know I can get that whenever and wherever—and if I read one more article that claims that neuroses comes from sexual trauma during infancy—as if being psychotic is always related to sex—do you hear the doctor in me, Oriya?--what I want from Tsuzuki is an answer to a question." Oriya raised an eyebrow. Muraki never explained this much to anyone at any one time, if ever, but he was enjoying this new, khaki-clad man who seemed vulnerable. He remembered the younger Kazutaka, one more like this one seated beside him now; he seemed a breathing human and not a cardboard cutout villain. But he was not fool enough to think that Muraki had changed, was as truly sensitive as he appeared—he was too prone to mood swings, to madness, melancholia.

"What's the question?"

"To be or not to be." Muraki smiled and Oriya inwardly groaned. Already—gone was the open, charismatic doctor and before him was the madman—mad only because the ends always justified the means.

"News for you, Oriya," Muraki stood up as a nurse walked into the room, carrying a tray. She placed it on the bed table and wheeled it toward Oriya, wincing as it squeaked. She took off the tray top. Neither man looked at the food.

"KoKakuRou burned down that night. Only the living quarters remain standing." Oriya sat up straighter. Muraki chuckled and the nurse, with a confused look on her face, scuttled out into the safety of the hallway.

"Take away everything I have, why don't you? Did Hisoka make it out alive?" Oriya demanded. He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. Muraki slid the clipboard back into its slot.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning to see if you are ready to be released. If you need any medication, just page the nurse," he said, placing the pen in his front pocket. He walked toward the door and paused, one hand on the frame. The sunlight glinted off his frames.

"My dear Oriya, I haven't taken everything from you. You still have me." With a careless laugh, he exited the room. Oriya remained alone and staring at the wiggling mass of green jello which began melting in the warm sunlit room.

Rogue Kyne--Just you wait. That's all I have to say.

PSYM--Glad you are enjoying the story. :) And thank you for reviewing. I wonder what you will think of Muraki in the next chapter.

Kudatsuo-chan: Is this soon enough for you? I'm glad you are enjoying it and thank you oodles for your review.

Yami Chikara: Thanks for your review. It gets better for Tsuzuki (well, I think. I hope you think so too).

Jennamarie: Ah, yes. Tatsumi :grins.: I can't say. Thanks for the review.

Junglebunny: Did this Oriya work for you? I tried emailing you through but I'm not sure if it worked. I'm glad you like the story so far. Sadly, though, I think this might be the end of the line for Oriya (don' t tell anyone, but I don't have the end quite figured out. I'm too busy writing Watari--oops. Did I give something away?)

Lunarkitty14: I promise I'll update more! And faster! LOL. Would you call this a cliffhanger?

And, again, thank you to all the silent readers :tosses out holiday candy: Holidays are so fattening, I swear...