AN: One more chapter after this! And it's already written! Professors and supervisors have combined forces to kill me slowly, so I'm glad to finally finish this. Sorry to make you wait, but most of you knew what was going to happen anyway, right?

Chapter 12

Arima's mother answered the door when Hideaki knocked. She was wearing a long, brown skirt and a heavy coat. Her hair was tied back in the usual tight bun and an expression of surprise came to her face when she saw him.

"Asaba-kun! Good evening."

Hideaki flashed her his instant-charm smile. "So sorry to bother you, Arima-san. Soichiro invited me over tonight and I completely forgot about it."

She looked at his face for a moment and beckoned him in. "Come inside. Souji and I just got home from a dinner, but I think that Soichiro has been up in his room studying. I'm sure he'd be glad for some company."

He slipped off his shoes and followed her through the house. Her husband crouched before the stone hearth, reaching to light the Western-style gas fireplace. Flames shot up quickly and he closed the glass doors. He looked up to see them. "Oh, it's Asaba," he exclaimed. Many tiny smiling wrinkles gathered at the corners of his gentle eyes. "What happened to your face, young man?"

"Tripped over my own feet in gym," Hideaki lied smoothly. "You should have seen the guy I landed on!"

The older man chuckled companionably. "Go upstairs and cheer up Soichiro for me. He's been a little down lately. Seeing a friend is what he needs."

Hideaki climbed the long flight of stairs to the hallway on the second floor, feet sinking into the thick carpet. Arima's room was near the end of the hall, above the kitchen. He knocked on the polished black door and waited for an answer. The sound of running water came to him through the wood and he twisted the stiff knob uselessly.

"Soichiro," he called. "It's me." No reply. Anxiety twisted his guts. "Open the door, Soichiro, or I'll call your parents up and tell them everything."

The water stopped running and after a moment, the door opened a crack.

"What do you want?" Arima said. His voice sounded drained and hollow.

Not bothering to answer, Hideaki pushed the door open all the way, forcing Arima to step back. The dark-haired boy wore a loose white dress shirt and black slacks. Perspiration glistened on his face. He was clutching his left hand in his right, holding it against his stomach. His shirtsleeves were stained red.

Hideaki felt a cold sweat break out all over his body. He tried to move his mouth.

"Get out of my room," Arima said roughly. He turned and went back to the small bathroom connected to his room, leaving Hideaki in the doorway.

As Hideaki crossed the room after him, he heard the water in the sink turn on again with a steady hiss. Arima's back was turned to him as he ran his hand under the water. Pinkish water droplets beaded on the white bowl of the sink.

"Oh my god," Hideaki groaned as he saw the deep gash in the back of Arima's hand, a wound that seemed as though it might bleed forever. As the hand turned, he saw that the hole went all the way through the palm.

"It didn't hurt like I thought it would," Arima said quietly. "It barely hurts at all now but it keeps bleeding. Do you know how much blood the human body contains?"

"Fuck," Hideaki breathed. He felt his insides shake at the severity of the situation. He wrapped his arms around Arima's back, pulling the other boy's forearms and elbows against his chest. Hideaki breathed against the back of Arima's head. "Please, please don't do this. You wanted my attention? You wanted to make me feel bad? It worked, okay. Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

Arima seemed suddenly so small with his thin clothes and fragile bare feet. Hideaki wanted to wrap around him completely, absorb the other boy into his body where it would be safe and warm.

"You're so egotistical," Arima said viciously, "thinking it's all about you." He pushed himself out of Hideaki's embrace. "Stop touching me already. It's disgusting."

Dropping his arms, Hideaki felt sick, like someone was pushing their foot into his stomach. "Your father needs to see that," he said, looking at the injured hand. "He needs to bandage it or something."

"I'll wrap it up myself," Arima insisted. "If you say anything to anyone, I'm never talking to you again."

Blood filled the wound, trickled over the hand. "Tell me where the stuff is, then," Hideaki pleaded.

"In the hall closet there's a first aid kit," Arima said, watching the warm flow of blood with an almost scientific fascination.

Hideaki went out and retrieved the little white box from its place on the dusty shelf. Lilting classical music drifted up from the room below. When he shut the door to the bedroom behind him, Arima was sitting on the bed, rubbing his fingers in the blood. Hideaki cleaned off most of it with a damp washcloth from the sink and applied some disinfectant before closing the gash with a butterfly bandage.

"This probably needs stitches or something," he said, winding the long, soft gauze bandage. "Your dad could fix it."

"It's fine," Arima declared sharply. A small splotch of red showed on the surface of the gauze, but the bleeding had slowed. Hideaki took his friend's face in both hands and stared at it, searching for an answer. Arima looked impassively back at him. His skin under Hideaki's fingers was hot and slick with sweat. How long had he been bleeding?

"I think you should go now," Arima said stiffly. "Thank you for your help."

Letting go, Hideaki stood. Anger and pain wrestled in his stomach. "Okay," he said. His throat closed up and his face felt numb. It was only the sting of spite that allowed him to get words out at all. "I'll see you at school then." There was particular force on the last word and he went to the door quickly, burning with resentment. "But I'm telling your parents about that hand." His fingers curled around the knob and he paused with a sudden weakness.

"Ah…" Arima moaned faintly, and he could have been trying to his friend's name or he have could simply been sighing with pain. Hideaki turned and looked helplessly at the slumped figure on the wide, white bed. Arima seemed to be collapsing slowly, melting into himself. Powerless, Hideaki lost his resolve.

He went back to the bed and knelt in front of Arima, wrapping his arms around the other boy's legs and resting his chin between the hard kneecaps. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can't leave now. I'm sorry if you hate me."

The other boy stared at him, face twisting with contained emotion. "What are you…" He bit his lip like a child trying not to cry. "I don't want…"

Hideaki set both hands on Arima's knees and pushed himself up close to the boy's face. He felt terrified, reckless, frantic to do anything that would get him closer to Arima. He could see the fine curve of Arima' wet eyelashes, the pores of his skin. His nose brushed Arima's.

Arima backhanded him hard across the face and he lost his grip, falling back on the floor. His nose throbbed distantly. "Ow." He wiped watery eyes. Slowly, he rose to his feet. "It's going to be like that? Do you want me to hit back then?" He felt his face harden into an unfamiliar expression of fury. Arima glared back at him, eyes red-rimmed and defiant. "You want me to hurt you like you've been hurting yourself?"

"Like I need you," Arima said thickly.

Moving quickly, Hideaki lunged forward and pushed him down on the bed, deep in the covers. Arima thrashed wildly. His elbow knocked forcefully against Hideaki's chin and his fingers tore at the other boy's bright hair. Hideaki was bigger than him, and though Arima had training, he was in no state of mind to use it, weakened by blood loss and inner chaos. Pinning him, Hideaki straddled his stomach and pushed his captured wrists into the mattress. Arima stopped fighting; his muscles seemed to lose all strength and his tightly desperate face went slack. "Why…?" he started to say.

Gradually, Hideaki's breathing slowed as he looking at the pale, lost face of the youth beneath him. Arima's chest contracted and expanded with shallow gasps. Hideaki let go of his wrists, feeling the old rush of need and pain and sadness that seemed eternally entwined in his body.

"I just..." he murmured. "Please don't, Soichiro. Just don't…" He didn't know how to express it, this burning ache for the darker boy. He couldn't put into words the images in his head, the white-hot knife of guilt and long iron needles of self hatred that Arima constantly buried in himself. It terrified Hideaki to see the blood and sickness, to watch the disintegration of Arima's body and soul. "Please."

Hideaki touched the beautiful black hair that framed Arima's face in a dark, messy halo. His hand was smeared with the other boy's drying blood. His fingers trailed the hard cheekbones, the soft hollow of his cheeks. Arima stared at him, eyes glazed, lips parted. Hideaki laid a flat palm on the Arima's chest to feel the movement of his heart and pressed the fingers of his other hand against Arima's throat. Arima swallowed and he felt it. A tear ran down Arima's cheek and he caught it with his knuckles. Liquid and bottomless, Arima's eyes held him, trapped him. He wanted to say it, to speak the heavy, silly words that ripped at his insides. He had become used to hiding them, though, and his tongue couldn't even form them around the thickness in his throat, the weight of his saliva.

"You," he said wetly. "…You."

Arima's chest shuddered as he inhaled sharply and he clenched his eyes shut. It doesn't work, Hideaki could have told him. It doesn't keep them in. He bent and kissed Arima's damp, salty forehead and the smooth strips of his eyebrows. Tilting his head, he kissed the hard plane of Arima's jaw. The skin beneath his lips trembled. Arima's body heaved. Hideaki kissed Arima's mouth, pressed open the moist, parted lips and the dark boy began to cry thick, wet, heartbroken tears. Arima sobbed against Hideaki's mouth, helpless and weak.

"I'm sorry," Hideaki whispered.

Arima didn't open his eyes but he continued to cry harder, turning his head away as much as he could as his body shook with sobs.

Are you thinking of her now? He didn't understand Arima's tears, his submission, but he knew Arima wasn't crying in happiness, wasn't crying for him. Why can't it just be us, just be you and me? Why can't I make you happy? He kissed Arima's palms. The injured hand had begun to bleed heavily again, soaking through the bandage.

"Shit." Hideaki pushed himself off the bed and went back to the little room with the sink. He washed out the bloody washcloth and brought it back to where Arima lay sprawled on the coverlet, clothes rumpled and face red from crying. He unwound the bandage from the limp hand, cleaned the blood off it, and applied the disinfectant and the butterfly bandage before winding it up again. Arima opened teary eyes to watch him.

"Try to keep it still," Hideaki told him gently. He resisted the urge to kiss Arima's calloused thumb.

Crossing the room to wash out the cloth once more, he caught sight of a bloody straight razor lying on Arima's desk, the kind that school kids used to sharpen their pencils. A wave of nausea rose in his stomach and he had to swallow to keep the bile down. He wrapped the stained blade in Kleenex and dropped it in the wastebasket before cleaning up the mess on the desk.

In the washroom, he studied himself in the mirror as he rinsed out the cloth. Blood had dried on his hands and his jacket. He washed his hands and removed the jacket, scrubbing at the stains before hanging it over the towel rack to dry. In the mirror he saw a rather tall, slender young man with ginger-colored hair that hung around a handsome face with bright, empty eyes.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Yukino wants to know."

He grinned false happiness and was surprised to see how easily it camouflaged his bright, empty eyes. There was a fading bruise under his left cheekbone and a healing cut on his lip. His nose looked a little red and swollen. Another bruise would probably form on his chin, where Arima's elbow had connected.

"Tough guy," he sneered at himself. "You're just a lousy coward underneath that pretty face. You can't even say it." He glared at his reflection and forced his tongue to move. "Arima…"

Frustrated, he picked up the tube of toothpaste on the counter and squeezed a generous glob on his index finger. He wrote four shaky words on the mirror and stared at them for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. Arima, I love you. He laughed softly at himself and washed them off with the cloth, rinsing foamy, mint-smelling water down the drain.

A drinking glass rested on the sink. He filled it with water and took a clean washcloth from the shelf, wetting it in the sink.

In the bedroom, Arima had curled on one side of the bed, his sobbing ceased. He squeezed his eyes shut again when Hideaki approached. The taller boy knelt and wiped at his sticky, tear-smeared face with the cool cloth. Arima reached up with his good had and caught hold of it, opening his eyes to look at Hideaki sullenly. "I can do it," he said thickly.

Hideaki let him clean his own face then offered him the glass of water. Arima drank deeply, draining it rapidly.

"Thanks," he murmured, eyes avoiding Hideaki's.

Hideaki stuffed the washcloth into the empty glass and set it on the nightstand. "Your shirt is stained," he said, motioning toward the marred sleeves. "You'll want to change." He started to unbutton the front of the shirt and Arima pushed his hands away.

"I'm not a kid," he said gruffly. "If you want to help, get me a shirt… middle drawer on the dresser."

"Okay." Hideaki brought him a soft black t-shirt, savoring the glimpse of bare chest before Arima slipped it over his head. The stained dress shirt was balled up and pushed under the bed.

Arima crawled under the sheets and pulled the covers up to his chin. Weighted with resignation, Hideaki was about to go and gather up his jacket when Arima's muffled voice spoke. "Are you staying tonight?"

Pausing for a moment, Hideaki let the blessed warmth of relief spread through his body. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I will." He slid under the covers beside his friend, still wearing his school uniform.

"Good night," Arima said curtly, voice still foggy from crying.

"Good night." Hideaki sighed quietly and turned on his side to watch the sharp slope of Arima's back and shoulders, his dark hair on the pillow. He didn't try to touch the other boy again. He listened until his friend's breathing slowed to an even rhythm and hugged the mattress beneath him, burying his face in the pillow as though it were Arima's sweet hair.

-

The creak of the door opening awakened Hideaki in the dark bedroom. He became immediately aware of Arima's sleeping body curled against his and Arima's warm face resting against his shoulder. Next he noticed that the figure standing in the doorway watching them was Arima's mother. The light in the hall silhouetted the shape of her long skirt. A trickle of fear and guilt ran down his spine. Did this look suspicious? Did boys usually sleep like this?

Reluctantly, he rolled away from Arima and sat up. She waved silently in apology, appealing him to go back to sleep, but he slipped off the bed and followed her silently down the stairs, leaving Arima asleep on the bed.

In the kitchen, she set a kettle on the stove. "I'm sorry to wake you, Asaba. Some nights I can't sleep and I get up for some midnight tea." The plain gold ring on her finger shone in the dim light of the kitchen. "Would you care for some?"

"Yes, thank you, Arima-san." He sat down at the table, smiling.

Like her husband, she had small wrinkles around her mouth and eyes that collected when she smiled. "You can call me Shizune, if you like. Isn't the sort of thing that a cool mom would say?"

"I wouldn't know," Hideaki replied innocently. "My mother isn't nearly as cool as you."

"Ah." She laughed softly. "You're too polite."

He watched the way she moved about the familiar kitchen and thought of the comforting smell of his mother's dinners on the stove when he came home from school, the sound of her voice when she had scolded him for leaving his dripping wet umbrella on the floor. That had always been the safe time, right after school before his dad got home from work, before the bitter accusations started. He had loved his mother then for her comfort and hated her for her silence when his father spoke. Gradually it had grown to the point where he couldn't reconcile the two sides of her at all and he didn't want to see either of them.

The water heated quickly and Arima's mother poured it into the small cups and the teapot to warm them. "When Soichiro was little boy, he would have nightmares and the two of us would come down here and drink tea until he felt better." She emptied the teapot into the sink and spooned in the flaky tea leaves. "He was so quiet and sweet but he tried so hard. We never knew what to say to him to convince him that he didn't have to be perfect for us to love him." Lifting the two cups, she poured the hot water from them into the teapot and stirred it lightly.

Hideaki watched the steam rising out of the pot in little pale ribbons. "That must be very comforting," he said politely "to have such caring parents. Running over the surface of the polished table, his cold fingertips traced the grains in the wood.

Shizune poured a neat cup of tea and set it on the table in front of him. White snowflakes dappled its blue glaze. "I'm happy you came tonight, Asaba. Soichiro is going through a difficult time right now. I'm happy you stayed by him."

Aching with guilt, Hideaki lifted the cup to his lips. "I'm not really that great of a friend, actually." He burned his tongue on the first sip, just as he'd known he would.

Shizune smiled gently and shook her head. "I know people, and I can see it in you. You're a very kind person, Asaba. You're a good boy."

-

When Hideaki returned to the room upstairs, he found Arima sitting upright in the pooled blankets. He clutched a soft pink jacket to his face, the thin, flimsy kind that girls wore over their halter tops in the summer to project some kind of modesty. Arima held it to his face, eyes closed as though inhaling deeply of some sacred scent. Hearing the door close, he looked up and met Hideaki's eyes with a hooded, defensive expression. Still grasping the jacket to his nose and mouth, he turned to lie on his side, back to Hideaki. "Are you leaving yet?"

A frigid silence filled the room. "I thought you wanted me to stay," Hideaki said uncertainly, standing at a wary distance from the bed. Of course Arima knew exactly how to reach across the divide between them and claw out his heart.

"I don't. You should go home already."

A grating, excruciating pause followed. "Okay," Hideaki chirped, inwardly pasting himself together again. "I'll just get my jacket." He crossed the room to the little washroom with the silvery towel rack. The jacket still felt damp when he put it on and the bloodstain on the edge of one sleeve hadn't quite come out.

"Bye," he said to Arima's shape, curled up on the wide bed. Arima crossed his arms over his eyes, trapping the pink garment under his chin.

When he descended the stairs and passed by the kitchen, he saw Shizune washing out the kettle and teapot. Noticing the painting of the delicate cherry tree on the pot's surface, he realized that the white dots on his cup had been sakura petals, not snowflakes.

"Are you leaving?" she asked when he came to say goodbye.

"Yeah. I have to get my stuff for school tomorrow and everything's at home." He shrugged defenselessly.

"At least wait until morning. Stay here and Souji will drive you over before classes."

He shook his head and bowed dramatically. "Thank you so much for the tea, Shizune-san. I'm honored to be served by such a wise and beautiful hostess."

She laughed and covered her mouth modestly. "Come again soon, Asaba… and be careful on your way home."

He closed the door behind him and went out to the street. In the sky above, the moon shone faintly through the thick clouds like a light sunken deep underwater, a lost lantern shining from the cold depths of an endless well.

-

Hideaki never saw the moment when Yukino confronted Arima for the final time. In the break after second period, he received a call to come to the main office. Yukino was waiting on the phone to tell him that Arima had been taken to the hospital. Hideaki felt his brain freeze up.

"What happened?"

"His hand," she groaned. "He cut himself and it was bleeding so much. I made him go."

Hideaki felt the first wave of shame and relief wash over him. She had done what he couldn't and gotten Arima help.

"I think it's going to be okay," she said softly. "I think maybe I got through to him today. I was terrified. He kept talking like he was giving up, telling me that I would be better off with someone else. It was really scary but I told him that I wasn't letting go so he'd better get used to it."

"That's great," Hideaki said. "That's really great."

"Oh, and I broke a window, just to let you know before the rumors start flying like crazy."

Hideaki lifted his eyebrows. "With what?"

She giggled nervously. "Uh, my hand, actually. I'm in the hospital too… but it's just a little cut, nothing major like his. I had to convince him somehow that I was willing to share his pain."

Hideaki didn't know what to say. "Drama queen," he complained. "You just want some attention."

Yukino laughed. "Hey, come over after school if you can."

"Sure. The secretary is looking at me funny. I gotta go."

"One more thing. Could you spread a rumor for me? Arima got so worn out from studying that he collapsed and put his hand through the window. I tried to save him but also suffered an unfortunate flesh wound from the glass."

The secretary came up behind Hideaki, looking grim, and he had to squelch a grin. "I shall do what I can," he vowed. "Try to pull through, Yukinon. I'll come to visit my dear suffering friends as soon as I can."

"Okay," Yukino agreed. "Well, see you soon then."

He hung up the phone and put on a sorrowful face for the secretary. "Terrible news! Arima-kun and Miyazawa-san have both been hospitalized for debilitating injuries connected with exhaustion from their massive workloads."

The secretary was a small woman with graying hair and a worried face. "I know these children study too hard," she fretted. "Seniors at this school just have too many responsibilities that they take so seriously."

"Oh yes," he agreed solemnly, all the while laughing inwardly. After all Arima and Yukino had been through, it seemed downright hilarious to think that something like the pressure of exams would be the thing to break them.

He left school before his classes ended and took the train to the downtown hospital that Arima's family ran. The young woman he spoke to at the desk had blonde streaks in her hair. She flipper her ponytail at him flirtatiously as she told him Arima's room number.

When he finally got out of the elevator and reached the room on the third floor it had been nearly two hours since Yukino's phone call. The door was not completely closed. A band of light shone through its narrow crack. Silently, he pushed it open.

Arima lay on the smooth white sheets like a beautiful martyr, straight and clean in his pressed robe with his neatly bandaged hand resting on his covered stomach. Yukino sat in a chair beside him but she had fallen asleep, her head resting beside his legs and her fingers clasping the blankets. Her smooth hair made a bright splash of color on the pale bed. Hideaki saw the large band-aid on the back of her own hand standing out like a promise seal.

Pink-orange light came in from the sunset outside the window, bathing Arima's face in a healthy, golden glow. You could make a painting out of this, Hideaki thought, or a sappy movie. Arima's head turned on the pillow and he saw that the dark-haired boy was looking right at him. Hideaki's mouth dried up. Arima smiled softly, slowly, with a shaky uncertainty. It was an honest smile, but still fearful. Speechless, Hideaki tried to muster a grin, but his mouth felt like lumpy glue.

A sharp finger poked Hideaki's lower back and he jumped in surprise, spinning around. Shizune stood behind him, smiling broadly and holding a bag of clothes. Arima's sniggering laughter came from the bed.

"You ambushed me," Hideaki accused, brushing at his sleeves in an attempt to regain his dignity. "All this time I thought you were such a lady."

"Hi, Mom. Hi Asaba." Arima said quietly. Yukino sat up and yawned. "Go back to sleep," he told her.

"I have to pee," she grumbled.

"Oh, thanks for that information."

"I'm sorry for surprising you, Asaba," Shizune said, facing Hideaki. "You were just too much of a target." She closed both hands over the handles of the bag she carried. "Do you mind if I have a moment alone with my son?"

"No problem."

Yukino followed him out the door and into the hallway. "Thanks for coming," she said when the door closed. "You can see it, right? I think he's really getting better this time."

Hideaki leaned back against the wall and listening to the machines beeping in the room next door, the low buzz of a television. "Is he opening up to you now?"

"Yeah." She took a deep breath of relief and the frilly edges of the sleeveless top she wore over her turtleneck rose and fell. "I can't believe what he's been through. I've never seen him this honest before. Have you ever seen Arima cry?"

Hideaki thought of the broken body sobbing against him that night, too anguished and afraid to resist his advances. He remembered the smell of Arima's sweat and the taste of his mouth. His fingers scraped against the plaster on the wall.

"No, I haven't" he lied. "That would be something to see."

Yukino went down the hall to the restrooms at the end but Hideaki continued to lean against the wall, listening to the sound of Shizune's concerned voice in the closed room and Arima's softer replies. He thought he ought to wait and visit with Arima after she came out but there were no words left in his throat for the boy. The thought of playing the fool again made him feel ill. Straightening, he started down the hall toward the elevator that would take him to the exit.