Doumyouji gasped as he was plunged into a vivid recollection.

Red hot rage was pumping through his veins. Acid stung his throat, and his stomach churned as if his intestines were tying themselves into knots. Behind his eyes, darkness strobed, threatening to consume his sanity entirely. Somewhere, through the haze that shrouded his vision, he could dimly see Soujiro and Akira walking away. Their voices carried clearly back to him.

"He's totally snapped this time," Soujiro grumbled in disgust.

"Yeah," Akira agreed, "Let's get out of here before he kills someone."

Tsukasa had stood there in the silent hall listening to the blood boiling in his ears. He felt ill. There was glass on the floor around him; a jagged hole in the window let in gusts of warm air. Doumyouji noticed none of it, consumed as he was, by the darkness within.

He remembered waiting, as the school emptied with unseemly haste. The lights were dimmed, the halls echoed with quiet. And still, he'd burned, still he'd raged. Silently, he'd lurked out upon the emergency stairs, as if guarding the lonely pile of books abandoned there.

And then, She'd appeared.

Makino.

In his memories, Again.

In her haste to collect her books, she'd not noticed him standing there. As for himself, he'd hardly been able to see through the red beat of his pulse. At the sight of her, his insides had twisted and writhed, his skull had clenched, filling his mind with pain. And he'd struck out, trapping her against the wall. . .

". . .Go ahead and Scream, no one will hear you. No one will help, even if they do hear. They're all too afraid of me."

She was afraid of him.

He'd smashed his fist into the glass of the door, savoring the sharp pain as his knuckles began to bleed. He'd licked the long gash, but the metallic taste of his own blood couldn't slake his thirst. . .

Makino had run, but she was weak. She fell. And there was no escape. She'd protested, she'd yelled, but he hadn't listened. . .

"This is all your fault." Doumyouji's eyes had transfixed her as he knelt down to pin the struggling girl against the cold floor. He could remember every detail—the way her tears sparkled in her thick eyelashes; the smoothness of her skin, as his hand had slid up her thigh; the way her muscles tensed against his as he effortlessly held her down. . .

. . . But that was all he remembered.

Why had he been so enraged? Why had he assaulted Makino?

What had he done?!

Doumyouji crouched down on the darkened porch, desperately trying to remember what came after, or even, what had come before. But his mind was stilled, as if the intensity of that one memory had temporarily bleached out all other possible memories.

Doumyouji would have liked to believe that it was not a real memory, that it was nothing but a nightmare or hallucination, that he hadn't done . . . whatever it was he'd been about to do. But even he couldn't deny the cold clarity of truth in that vivid recollection.

Blindly he stared out into the dark, trying to make sense out of what he'd just relived. He must have been angry at Makino? What could she have done? When had this happened? (He was trying to avoid having to face the question of what had really happened that day). But, even Tsukasa's mind was forced to circle back, and ask. . . What happened next? Did he force himself on her, as he seemed about to do? Doumyouji hated to admit it, but the old him, wild and cruel, was certainly capable of such a thing—but if he had—then how could she face him so calmly now? How could she say she loved him?

Tsukasa was confused.

This piecemeal way of remembering stuff was truly stressful—like filling in a puzzle with no coherent picture, no guide to tell you how anything fit into the bigger picture. He wanted to remember who he was. And he wanted to remember Now!

But his subconscious wasn't having any of it. It wasn't about to let itself be browbeaten into submission by his drive to conquer. It was going to sit there and unlock each precious memory in its own sweet time, in its own devious way, as if according to some greater plan; some clever scheme which mere ego driven processes couldn't possibly comprehend.

Confronted by this isolated memory of his violent past, Doumyouji was pierced by guilt. The man he was now would not be capable of such misdirected violence. Sure, he could fight to defend himself and his friends; to protect what was his. But to violate a girl? That was a boundary he couldn't cross. He hoped he hadn't then either.

Of course, the only person who knew the truth of what might have happened, was Makino. But would she tell him? She seemed the kind of person who held her negative emotions in tightly. She'd never let anyone see her pain, her weakness, until unyielding circumstances forced it out.

Slowly Doumyouji stood, staring sightlessly out across the darkened sky, as he pondered the best way to approach the skittish girl, and get the answers he feared. . .

-------

Rui did not immediately go out walking as he'd planned. Instead he made a brief stop back at the room to which he and Tsukushi had been assigned. When he'd fled Tokyo the other day, he'd brought a few things with him, almost on a whim. Among these items, was his violin. When he was upset, and needed to escape reality, Rui usually opted to sleep. When he couldn't sleep, he played the violin, and let its warm tones seep through his body, soothing his mind, until all distractions faded away. Now, taking up the case, he strode hastily out of the house and along the dimly lit paths of the garden.

Finding a secluded wooden bench, nestled under the protection of a drooping pine, Rui settled down, and withdrew his precious instrument. Like all the F4, Rui knew how to play several instruments, and in many styles. But While Akira secretly preferred the moody tones of the saxophone, and Soujiro the melodic capabilities of the piano, (And Tsukasa the angry energy of percussives), Rui's passion had always been for the sweet sound of a well-played violin.

Almost eagerly, his slim fingers took up their familiar positions as he raised the instrument and bow and began to play. Years of long practice made each note flow effortlessly from the motion of his hands. He needed no light to play, and let his eyes slip shut as his mournful notes climbed into the star-lit heavens above.

The song he played was full of melancholy. It tugged at the heart, reminding one of lost days of youth, of misspent passion, and the frailty of human nature. Into it, Rui poured his frustration, and his regrets, as if by giving these things life in song, they could leave him alone. What was wrong with wishing for peace, for happiness? What was wrong with wanting love?

Why was there never an ideal solution?

Rui thought back to what had led them all to this pass.

Shizuka.

How long had he loved her? Since they were children, and she'd drawn him out of his shell—taught him how to smile. But she'd gone away and left him. She'd never needed him. Not like he'd needed her. And then, Makino. The poor girl who'd forced him to feel again. She'd taught him to fight for the things he valued—to fight for Shizuka. And so he'd gone. Gone to France. Sure, Shizuka had been surprised when he showed up on her doorstep. But, she was too Perfect to mind. Oh No, Nothing Ever Fazed Shizuka. She enjoyed having Rui's love. He was her pet—a boy she turned into a man. But, she had her own life too. One in which Rui had never played a part—could never be a part of. While he'd based his life around her, waiting for her to come home, striving to please her in any way possible – she'd be going off on dates, meeting other men – sleeping with them too, if she wanted. But she didn't need them either. No, Shizuka was as self-contained as Rui, if in another way.

He could do nothing for her, for she needed nothing he had; didn't even really want his love, except as a tender memento of childhood friendships. And it broke his heart.

Rui had returned to Japan, bitter memories clouding his vision. Needing to feel wanted, to be needed as Shizuka had needed him, he'd turned to Tsukushi. Hell, she'd loved him before he'd left—a puppyish adoration, so blatantly obvious it was almost painful. So, he felt no qualms about the way he'd callously taken her from Tsukasa. It had been her choice, after all.

It was only then, when he saw her crying for his pain, that he began to admit that maybe Tsukushi might mean something more to him than a warm body in which to forget his sorrows. He wanted to protect her too. It was easy to want to shield someone who looked so fragile, someone who no matter what, always seemed to make their life so much more difficult than it really needed to be. It had taken longer, Much, Much longer, to realize that he loved her too. At first, it had seemed to be merely friendship. Friends care about each other, and Tsukushi 'd taught him to care; she'd made him smile. It was because of her that he'd awoken to the world around him.

But Rui still wasn't good with people. His forte was to watch and understand. Human interactions were still difficult. For, analyze each situation , each personality, as he would, it was still so very easy to say a wrong word. Make the wrong expression, and in so doing to fuck up entirely.

A brief spasm crossed his features, and a shrill squeal rang out from the violin.

Yeah, he'd fucked up again. but what could he do? At heart, Rui was just another lonely boy, brought up in isolation with no siblings, his only friends the three equally, if differently, warped heirs of Japan's other leading families. The only ones who'd ever pierced his loneliness—ever tried to get inside and understand him, were Shizuka and Tsukushi. So was it really any wonder that he'd fallen in love with them?

Of course not.

He'd tried, really, and truly tried, not to act on his feelings for Tsukushi. Or at least, he'd tried to channel them into the acceptable paradigm that was platonic friendship. He'd helped her through her tumultuous relationship with Tsukasa; given her a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on so frequently, that even he could no longer enumerate the instances. And the more he helped her; the more he encouraged her and Tsukasa to get together and stay together, the more he came to feel that maybe, just maybe, She Shouldn't be with Tsukasa after all.

After all, a couple shouldn't need the efforts of a third party so much, if they were truly happy together. The whole business in New York, where Tsukushi went after Tsukasa, only to be turned away so rudely, had almost clinched it for him. That was No way for a boyfriend to act. And so, he hadn't been able to stop himself—hadn't even tried really—from letting slip his true feelings for Tsukushi.

Rui's music grew more wistful, as he thought back to the flowers he'd bought her, with the first money he'd ever earned. Even then, she'd seemed torn by his attention; not sure whether to smile or cry. But she'd kept the flowers.

Rui had taken it as a sign. Maybe, with time, and patience, Tsukushi would be able to get over that asshole Tsukasa and learn to love him again. But when Tsukasa came back to see her, and been kidnapped by Shigeru, Rui knew it couldn't be so. He'd avoided that whole escapade, desperately unwilling to see Tsukushi and Tsukasa together again. If he had any hope that she'd be happy with Tsukasa, he might have been more inclined to cheer them on. But, in all honesty, Rui had to admit, he did have a jealous streak and probably would have been just as apt to speak his mind about what a jerk Tsukasa was. Really, the guy had no idea how to make Tsukushi happy.

Rui, on the other hand, had thought that he did.

Now, unfortunately, he had to admit, he'd gone and made mistakes. Not because his ideas were wrong, but more because he hadn't though before he'd acted. He'd been carried away, just a bit, when Tsukushi began to rely on him more heavily after Tsukasa's accident. And when she'd finally snapped, well, what was he supposed to have done? Left her with her little brother? Not bloody likely. Left her with the rest of the F4? Again, not bloody likely. Only he really understood her enough to take care of her.

Or so he'd thought.

Rui let out a long sigh, and set down his violin, listening while the last lingering notes faded away on the breeze like a vanishing memory of happiness.

Now, it seemed, everyone was mad at him. Except, perhaps Tsukushi. Rui knew, deep down, that Tsukushi didn't Really need his support. She probably grew weaker for it. In truth, if he was going to be honest with himself, her so-called 'weed power' was more than adequate to pull her through any and all of the shit she got herself into. Hell, it was obvious that she'd been drawing strongly on that source of vitality ever since the guys had come to pick them up this morning. Rui knew he certainly had had nothing to do with her industrious activity this evening. Though, he mused, it would had been nice if he could claim credit for something other than making her angry.

Well, and so, perhaps it was time for him to go apologize for ruining dinner. He was certain that Tsukasa wouldn't bother with such niceties. And at any rate. Rui needed Tsukushi's forgiveness, for the simple truth was,

He needed her, a hell of a lot more than she needed him.

To be continued. . .