She was late.

Ten o'clock found me waiting outside the concert hall, nodding to stragglers hurrying to see the show. Coat draped across one arm, I left my corner post and wandered into the night, hungering for a cigarette.

Tucking her gift into a pocket, I withdrew the pack from mine and Yusuke's last excursion, tapping out a slim tube. If Azumi appeared before I finished, I would apologize:

Though at the moment, her approval meant nothing.

'Something is wrong.'

Embers flared beneath the match, filling my mouth with stale tobacco. The taste bit my tongue though I ignored it, leaning against a stone pillar. "Not necessarily." Acrid smoke curled past my lips, weaving patterns in the night. "Any number of things could be delaying her."

He quieted, reason winning against paranoia.

Or so I thought. 'The woman is never late.'

Fifteen minutes slipped by and I lit another cigarette, ignoring the stares of passersby. Flicking ashes into a nearby trashcan, I glanced down, making sure none sprinkled my clothes. Black slacks and a button-down shirt; comfortable shoes, suspenders looped around either shoulder – she'd infiltrated my wardrobe long ago. "It's not like you to worry." I smiled as he bristled, sliding one hand into my pocket. "Don't worry my friend. If anything happened, she would have called–"

Just then my cellphone rang, soothing pitches of bird song, a tinkling breeze. Gripping the device, I breathed a sigh of relief, answering on the second chime. "Did you get lost?"

The question was meant to tease, a running joke between us. Azumi prided herself on her sense of direction yet once after a shoot in Fukuoka, she lost her way while showing me around. She always kept a remark stored for the reminder, pointing to my faults with a smile.

This time there was no laughter, no thornless barb. Only harsh breath and sounds of the night. "Azumi? Are you there?"

Another moment of near-silence, then a chuckle. "Figures."

The smile fled my face at the pain in her voice, husky, barely audible. "What's happened? Where are you?"

"Of course it's you. You're the last one I–" A low curse and rustling grass, splashing water. "Doesn't matter, thing's dying anyway."

Already I was moving, feet soundless on the sidewalk. "What is dying?"

"Doesn't matter." She repeated, her laugh impossibly wet. "I'm glad it's you."

Panic threatened but I did not let such seep into my voice. "Azumi, I need you to tell me where you are. If you don't tell me, I cannot help you."

"No–" Rustling and a sharp gasp, as if she'd moved too quickly. "You can't come, Shuichi. They'll kill you too."

Yoko shifted as ice filled my veins, steps slowing to a halt. Azumi had only used my first name once when lost to pleasure, caught up in tender caresses and the feel of my hands. "Who will?"

"Demons."

He growled though I kept my mouth shut. A flurry of emotions flared, dark and possessive, flaunting the basest of instincts. Begging patience, I forced my mind to work, processing her words, attempting to plan. "Why did they attack you?"

"I . . . don't know." Her breaths grew more shallow, spreading wide while fuzz coated her tongue. "I don't know what they want."

"Stay with me." Fear ebbed and flowed, fluttering with the beating of my heart. Before I realized it, I was running, though I did not know where. "Where are you now?"

"Dunno."

The word came slowly, floating on a cotton candy sea. "Can you describe it?"

"Mm-hm." Her bedroom voice filled my ear, though for once it did not bring excitement. "There's water – a fountain. And trees, lots of trees."

A park, then. I could only think of three which boasted a considerable number of trees.

"There's flowers too."

"Don't fall asleep." I hissed, hoping she would obey. Yoko's cadence rose, slipping into a snarl. "What about you? Are you hurt?"

A soft grunt. "It hurts."

"What does?"

"Everything. Everything's red – they said he'd like it."

Car horns as I flew across the street, not bothering to look beforehand. "Who?"

"Kurama."

I nearly stumbled into a lamp post, mind grinding to a halt. Even Yoko fell silent.

"I don't know him but they think I do, said he'll come for me."

Reason returned though I did not move, thoughts swirling, listening to her breathe. They knew. I did my best to hide her from my enemies and still they found her, hunted her; tortured her. The last bit spurred my legs, harnessing his anger, a cold, wild thing without limits. Such brought on his thoughts, imaginings of her bleeding upon the ground, helpless prey–

I ran faster.

"Tell me again."

I almost missed the command, so faint was her whisper. "Tell you what, love?"

The sentiment came easily, a tender word from a human throat. Yes, I loved her and so did he, in his own way. I'd never used the word with her, knowing how much she hated it.

She said nothing of the aversion, now. "The roses. Tell me about the roses."

I understood immediately yet thought of denying her, wishing to delay the inevitable, the effects of blood loss. There was no harm in it; they would keep her alive until I arrived – I knew their nature too well. They wished to slay her before me, force us to watch the life drain from her eyes:

That would not happen.

"So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly

There in the hush of the wood that reposes,

And turn and go up to the open door boldly,

And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses."

She hummed at the lines memorized for her, tasting the words. "Shuichi–"

Then she shrieked, the sound ringing in my ears long after the line went dead.

A/N: The poem above is not mine; all credit goes to Robert Frost for his work Asking for Roses.

September 2020 OTP Drabbles

Prompt 4 – Talking on the Phone (substitution for On a Date)