NB: This begins with Toshio, although the story will shift more towards Seishin's perspective. You'll see why. Also, there's been a time lapse of several months between the last chapter and this one. Our favorite fellas are each dealing with their last encounter in their own ways. Seishin has been productive; Toshio has been...well, Toshio.

Finally, this chapter seems to be the lightest of the lot in terms of tone. I hope you'll think of it as a reprieve of sorts from our angsty little tale.

"Dr. Toshio Ozaki speaking." Toshio picked up the phone, his voice still rough with sleep, his eyes blearily looking around at the sun-drenched room. What time is it? He was violently hungover. Last night's events seemed just out of the reach of his consciousness. He hadn't blacked out, of that he was sure, but his brain seemed to be processing information at an alarmingly slow rate this morning. He hoped this mental sluggishness would dissipate by the time he showed up to work.

"Oooooh, you sound so sexy when you're just waking up." She laughed.

He struggled to remember her name, and then he breathed a sigh of relief as he finally hit upon it. "Chiyo." The previous evening was trickling back to the doctor now. He'd gone out with several colleagues for dinner, including the new busty resident Chiyo. He'd then asked Chiyo and only Chiyo to join him for after-dinner drinks. Of course she'd agreed. He was Toshio Ozaki, and although he'd carefully cultivated the image of the emotionally unavailable middle-aged widower, he'd found that all his posturing was for naught. Instead of warding women off, he often had the opposite effect. Apparently there was something about a broken man that even successful, attractive women found irresistible. As a result, a number of his colleagues had propositioned him, and while he'd generally been quite good about declining their offers in a charming, self-deprecating sort of way, the more persistent of their ilk would always show up to after-work social events in impossibly high heels and low-cut blouses. In the past, Toshio had simply excused himself early from such gatherings. He was too tired to pursue a relationship with anyone. Besides, Kuro was the jealous sort. Since his rendezvous with Seishin nearly a year ago, however, the doctor found that he desperately needed to be distracted when he wasn't at work. At present, this distraction was taking the form of several drinks a night. Last night his bout of drinking had been followed by Chiyo, apparently. Toshio prayed he'd not slept with her. That would make his work life entirely too awkward. He took a deep breath. "What happened last night?"

She giggled. It was an incredibly girlish sound and he found that it rather repulsed him. I hope I didn't do anything stupid. "Don't you remember, To-chan?" She just called me To-chan. Fuck.

"I remember drinking myself into a stupor and asking you to drive me home." He felt nauseous, but he wasn't sure if the feeling was a result of his hangover or his fear of what might have transpired between them.

She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Do you remember what happened then?"

"It's a bit of a blur."

"Hmm. Well let me refresh your memory. All of Tokyo got a free show last night." And that was when the images came flooding back to him. Chiyo stripping in front of a very tipsy Toshio who'd been pushed onto his own sofa; Chiyo removing Toshio's clothes despite his half-hearted protests; Chiyo's full lips trailing from his neck to his groin; and finally Chiyo, pushed against Toshio's sparkling floor-to-ceiling windows, digging her nails into his shoulders and screaming his name while he thought only of olive-colored eyes and pale skin shimmering under the moonlight. That was the third most stupid thing I've ever done. He felt along his shoulder, wanting to make doubly-sure that he had not invented this latest drama, but her nail marks were very much real. He sighed, forgetting that she could hear him. "Are you okay?"

He lied. "I'm fine. I'm just hungover."

"Well, do you want me to bring you something?" Her voice had a cloying cadence, and Toshio resisted the urge to slam the phone onto the receiver.

"I'm a doctor. I think I can handle a hangover."

"To-chan?"

"Hmm."

"Are you sure you're okay? You sound angry with me." He relented. It wouldn't do to burn bridges at his place of employment. As such, he'd have to find a way to disengage himself from the doting girl without incurring her anger. And he'd have to do so soon.

"I think I'll be fine by 8 o'clock."

"What's happening at 8 o'clock?"

He didn't want to, but he really didn't have a choice. "I was hoping you'd drop by." So I can tell you how very un-interested I am.

She giggled again. Toshio cringed. "I'll see you then. I'll bring dinner. I hope you'll work up an appetite by then."

"See you tonight." He replaced the phone on the receiver and scrubbed his face with his hands. He sat up gingerly, making sure that the sudden movement wouldn't cause him to vomit all over his sheets. Kuro sulked into the room, devoid of his usual playfulness. He growled at Toshio from the doorway; clearly the retriever felt betrayed. "I'm sorry Kuro. You'd have done the same." The dog simply stalked out of the room as though he fully understood Toshio's words. "Not you too." The doctor stood up then and was pleasantly surprised to find that the room did not spin as he did so. He flipped the radio on as he made his way to the bathroom. It was going to take a great deal of work to make himself even marginally presentable this morning. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and nearly choked. Chiyo had left a sizable bruise on his neck. Goddamnit. He was in the process of cataloging which of his very few dress shirts and ties were un-wrinkled when the voices issuing from the radio stopped him short.

"That's right, Tokyo. Tonight at 8, we're going to be talking with fantasy author Sesto Moretti about his latest novel." The man had a typical announcer's voice—a rich baritone that seemed perpetually on the verge of laughing.

"What a treat. You know I hear he never gives interviews." His co-host was a woman who sounded disturbingly like Chiyo. Toshio would have turned the show off under any other circumstances.

"He doesn't, but he's agreed to speak with me tonight. I'm very excited. I've been a big fan of his for the last several years, and this last book was incredible…"

Toshio turned on the tap to drown out their voices. Seishin was alive and well. Seishin was in Tokyo. Seishin was giving interviews. Seishin. Toshio had read the jinrou's latest novel too, and he had to agree with the radio announcer. It was incredibly moving. It was nothing like his previous offerings, which were all tales of men abandoned by God or lost in a sea of misery. It was a love story, and it was all about Toshio. He'd gathered as much from the first page. Seishin had described a handsome doctor living in a small village who'd been loved from afar by a girl promised to another man. It wasn't exactly autobiographical, but all the major details were there. There was the fiery hero whose station and sense of duty made him nothing more than an impossible dream for the girl who worshipped him at a distance. There was the tiny village, whose meddling residents prevented the doctor and the girl from seeing each other but for a few brief moments. There were the girl's own obligations to serve the husband that was chosen for her at birth. There were supernatural elements in the story too - fairies and sprites and an evil warlock or two. Seishin was a fantasy writer, after all. But, ultimately, the priest had made a hauntingly beautiful confession of his love through his words and the doctor couldn't help but be flattered. He was, however, a bit disturbed by the fact that the novel did not end happily. Toshio was admittedly ashamed of how he'd slighted Seishin after their last encounter. He realized too late the sad truth—that even though he was incapable of the kind of love that the jinrou wanted, he would have spent a lifetime endeavoring to deserve him. Or at least in his current sleep-deprived and consequently unguarded frame of mind, he thought he'd have made such an effort.

It doesn't matter now. He never let you finish speaking, did he?

Recently, these sorts of conversations with his conscience had become more frequent. "I had already told him that I didn't know what I wanted him to be to me."

So?

"So I didn't give him enough. I've never given him enough. That's why he stayed with Sunako."

He's impossible to please. Why can't he be happy with what you could give him? Why couldn't he accept you for who you are? How come you're never enough?

Toshio opened his mouth to respond but found that he could not form a suitable reply. His conscience was right. Seishin's standards were impossible. Toshio couldn't be the ideal hero in one of the jinrou's novels. He was too broken, too defeated, too world-weary to have much to render to a lover, but Seishin was unsatisfied with anything less that undying devotion. What the hell does he want? A ring? A picket fence? 2.5 kids? So the doctor had made an elementary mistake by not articulating precisely why he couldn't give himself over to Seishin completely, but he'd have explained himself eventually if the other man had just talked to him. But Seishin had not allowed Toshio to speak. Seishin had unfairly assumed control of the whole conversation. Seishin had poisoned him. That jinrou bastard. I didn't deserve that. He splashed cold water on his face. The anger inching through his veins sobered him up considerably, and by the time that he reached the hospital, Dr. Toshio Ozaki was himself once again.

Toshio's victory was short-lived. A patient death had deflated him. Chiyo's insistence on "checking up" on him had not done the doctor one whit of good, and by the time his shift was over, he was already looking forward to a double scotch. He drove home in record speed, cursing the traffic and loosening his tie and dress shirt all the while. The day couldn't get much worse, and then he remembered that he'd asked Chiyo to come over tonight. He dropped himself into the sofa. Kuro had apparently forgiven him; the dog plopped down beside him, his head in the doctor's lap in a show of apology or exhaustion - Toshio couldn't discern the difference. He poured a large measure of scotch into a glass and pulled out his phone to text Chiyo:

"Hi. I'm sorry, but can I take a rain check for tonight? I'm not feeling up for company right now." She wasn't going to like that, he knew, but he had stopped caring around the time his patient's heart stopped.

"Sure honey. I understand. You take care of yourself. Call me if you need anything, okay?" He barked a sharp laugh at that.

"I will." Another lie. How was it that he seemed to attract people that were doomed to be hurt by him? Chiyo wasn't unkind. She was quite attractive too, and a very skilled doctor. There was nothing not to like. Honestly, an old curmudgeon like him should feel lucky that a nubile young thing like her would even be interested. Toshio closed his eyes. I think I'm incapable of proper human sentiment. Sotoba has turned me into an empty shell of a man. He threw back his scotch and considered pouring another before he abandoned the glass altogether and started sipping from the bottle.

By 7:30, he was roaringly drunk. He turned on the radio against his better judgment. Being so spectacularly wasted meant that he was liable to do something incredibly foolish. He sank back into the sofa, one hand scratching behind Kuro's ears and the other still clutching a half-empty bottle of scotch. He listened.

The announcer from the morning show was particularly jubilant. "We're here with the very popular and even more reclusive author Sesto Moretti, who's with us in the studio now and is surprisingly not Italian, unless I am very much mistaken."

Seishin laughed. Over the airwaves, the jinrou's voice had a richer resonance, giving the illusion of mystery and danger. Toshio's breath caught at that; how he missed that laugh. If he'd been sober, he'd have chastised himself for being so sentimental. "Not at all. I am indeed Japanese."

"Now that's very interesting. TPR has been trying to get an interview with you for years, but we were always told that you were out of the country and unavailable. Should I be offended?"

"Well, I do spend a considerable amount of time in Italy so I likely was out of the country when you called my agent."

"I see. And why Italy? Do you have an Italian muse?"

Another laugh, a nervous one this time. "I'd like to keep my private life private, if that's okay."

"I had a feeling you'd say that. You're as famous for being a hermit as you are for being a writer. In fact, this is the first time you've ever put in a personal appearance. Why so shy?"

"Well, I don't think I ever really sought fame. Don't get me wrong; the money is nice and it's certainly given me the freedom to write at my leisure, and I'm thankful for all the support, but I only ever wanted to tell stories. I've always felt like the best way to show my appreciation to my fans was to write, and write often. I didn't do interviews and book tours because I prefer to spend my time working on the next book."

Toshio smiled darkly. Well, that and you don't want anyone to pick up on the fact that you don't age.

"But you're doing an interview now."

"Yes, I am. I suppose I'm here because this book has generated so much attention that I thought it would be rude of me not to give my thanks in person."

"Yes, let's talk about that. This book has been exceedingly popular, even for you. Why do you think it's been so well-received?"

"That's a difficult question. But I think it's because I finally wrote a romance. Everything else I'd written could be classified as either horror or fantasy, but this is very much a love story with some fantastical elements."

"And people love love stories, don't they?"

"Yes. It seems that romance might be the tie that binds humanity together. Whether you've been deliriously happy or irreparably heartbroken, you've no doubt been marked by love in some form or another. So I think that people identify with the story. They feel for the characters because they too know what it's like to be tossed about by the vicissitudes of love."

The doctor nearly spit out his drink. I don't believe that you really believe that, Seishin. You're a heartless bastard just like me. How else could you be so dismissive after I traveled half-way across the world to see you?

"Well, that may be true, but you're doing yourself a disservice. I've read this book, and I've been a long time fan. This is by far the best novel you've ever written."

Seishin laughed again, and Toshio could picture the blush that was no doubt making its way across the werewolf's cheeks. He felt heat coiling low in his abdomen and did his best to ignore it. "I'm flattered. Thank you so much."

"That Italian muse of yours must be something." Silence. "Folks, I know you can't see it at home, but notoriously anti-social writer Sesto Moretti is in the studio right now, and you won't believe it – He's blushing." Seishin cleared his throat, but only Toshio heard the alarm in the gesture.

"I'm sorry, but I had to tell them that you're not so aloof after all. You're actually rather charming." Toshio's ears perked up at that, and now he found that in his utterly uninhibited state he was feeling something akin to jealousy. That announcer just hit on Seishin. That old possessiveness was beginning to creep under his skin again. The fuzziness caused by the scotch was turning into something sharper, something with intent.

"Uh…thanks. I think." Seishin's voice had become tentative and shaky under the scrutiny of the interviewer. Toshio's free hand curled into a fist involuntarily.

"Okay, okay. I think I've tortured him enough. How about we take some questions from fans?"

"I'd like that."

Toshio had dialed the radio station's number before he even registered what he was doing. He waited on the line not at all expecting to get through, but get through he did, and although he should have disconnected the line when the show's assistant told him that he'd be next on-air, he remained holding. Let's see how charming you are now, you jerk. The alcohol had made its way through the entirety of the doctor's bloodstream now, and any sort of check he'd typically place on his own behavior had been disarmed. Toshio was determined to get his revenge on the unsuspecting jinrou...and that playboy interviewer too.

"Hello caller, you're on the air with Atushi and Sesto Moretti. What's your name?"

"You can call me To-chan." He wasn't exactly slurring, but his words did seem a bit disjointed and slow. "I've read enough of Signor Moretti's novels to feel like we're friends. Best friends, even." Toshio might have been imagining it, intoxicated as he was, but he thought he heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. A dangerous smirk found its way across his lips.

The interviewer laughed good-naturedly. "Huh. Well, To-chan, you're not alone there. What's your favorite novel?"

"Personally I like Village of the Damned. It was so vividly written that it's been giving me nightmares for over a year."

"Yes, that one was quite terrifying. What do you have to say to that, Sesto? You gave poor To-chan nightmares!"

The jinrou's voice lost its earlier buoyancy. He sounded defeated. Toshio recognized the apology in his tone, but he didn't want Seishin's apology, he wanted Seishin to feel as helpless as he did when he woke up in an abandoned Italian villa.

"My deepest apologies. I did not intend to hurt you, or anyone else."

The interviewer gave another hearty guffaw before addressing Toshio again. "So, To-chan, did you call just to make Sesto apologize for disturbing your sleep, or do you have a question for him?"

"I've got a million questions, each more pressing than the last."

Another round of chuckles from the DJ, but nothing from the jinrou. "Let's hear the first."

"Okay. Sesto." Toshio spoke the name in a mocking lilt. "How come none of your novels have happy endings?"

Seishin cleared his throat again. "Well, I suppose I'd believe in happy endings if they were as ubiquitous in the world as most novelists would have us believe."

The interviewer cut in. "But you write fantasy, not reality."

The confidence returned to the jinrou's voice; he was in his element when he was talking about his craft. "Yes, I write fantasy, but even fantasy must contain some semblance of reality for the narrative to work. Happy endings have always seemed forced to me – like painting a sunrise on a window so you don't have to look at the rain."

Toshio took his chance. "It doesn't have to be that way, you know."

"I think it does. It seems to me that there are circumstances wherein two people simply cannot live happily ever after, even if there are shared feelings between them." It was Seishin talking now, not his horribly pretentious alter-ego, and while a small part of Toshio knew that he should feel guilty, he felt only anger. Seishin had cut off all communication between them. The circumstances of which he spoke were contrived by his own hand. How dare you pretend that you're a victim of circumstances beyond your control? You are not the victim here, old friend.

"Well, you should have thought about that before you poisoned your best friend after he so generously fucked you into oblivion!"

A shrill screech sounded from the radio. Toshio smiled triumphantly; his profanity coupled with the words he knew would be tumbling from the jinrou's mouth no doubt contributed to TPR's current "technical difficulties." He laughed raucously, startling Kuro who'd been curled up at his side all the while. He'd damaged their relationship beyond all repair, he knew, but having Seishin at his mercy like that had been worth it. Making the jinrou react so strongly in front of all of Tokyo had been worth it. Reasserting his hold on the other man had been more than worth it. It wasn't like the jinrou would show up to his apartment to scold him. There was nothing between them any longer; Toshio could do as he liked. He fell back on the sofa, drunk off his scotch and his victory, and before Kuro could trot back to his side, the doctor had fallen asleep.

Seishin paced. Sunako watched in trepidation. He'd ripped the microphone off himself and stalked out of the radio station without a backwards glance on the heels of Toshio's outburst. The jinrou sneaked out of the back entrance, fearful that the doctor had been keeping watch outside. His drive back to his home in a village six hours from Tokyo had been tortuously slow. He had wanted to get out of the city, to put as much distance between himself and Toshio as possible, to come home to Sunako where he could find peace at last.

Seishin had never learned how to process anger. He'd trained himself to project a kind of calming stillness so that the villagers would feel comfort in his presence. Having been expert at burying his emotions in the presence of others, he typically dealt with them by writing or reading. After several hours, he'd emerge from the little church on the temple grounds to find that he'd reached a sort of emotional equilibrium almost automatically. That was before Toshio had outed him in front of the whole country. What the jinrou felt at the moment could only be described as rage. His step was so heavy that Sunako was sure he'd leave grooves in their hardwood floor. His hands were curled at his sides and his head was bowed, but she could make out his glowing ruby eyes even as they remained downcast.

Seishin suddenly spun on his heel. He picked up a potted orchid and threw it at the window which opened up onto the patio. The window shattered, allowing a sharp wind to whip through the room. Sunako was thankful that neither of them could feel the cold; it was mid-winter.

She sighed tiredly. "Seishin, I know you're upset, but destroying our home is not going to help."

"No? Then why did it feel so good to throw that plant through the window?"

She only shrugged. "You knew that this might happen. You're the one who wanted to give an interview - in Tokyo, no less." She was accusing him of being unreasonable, he knew, but still her voice had a soothing quality about it that eased the tension building between his shoulder blades. He stopped pacing and dropped to the floor. Sunako came forth and slipped her arms around his shoulders. Seishin relaxed almost instinctively.

"The publisher was insistent. I thought it would be okay. I assumed that he wouldn't surface. He's got colleagues in the city; surely his sense of duty didn't go up in flames with Sotoba. I expected professional obligations to keep him from making a fool of himself...or me."

"Yes, but you didn't count on him being incredibly drunk."

"No. That I did not anticipate." Seishin ran his hands angrily through his hair. What the hell am I supposed to do now? "He's ruined my career."

Sunako laughed. He looked over his shoulder and arched an inquiring eyebrow at her. "Likely not. Now mysterious writer Sesto Moretti is a heartbreaking lothario with a proclivity for drugging his dates. My guess is that your books will fly off the shelves." She had a point, he had to admit. People loved drama. And Toshio had certainly given them that. "Besides, you can always change your pen name." She removed her arms and sank down behind him, her back to his. He could feel her lean into him and he leaned forward to make her more comfortable. "Maybe you ought to be Seishin Muroi for a while." Her words carried a kind of sadness that made his heart squeeze inexplicably. What is she asking me to do?

"Seishin Muroi died in a fire nearly seven years ago." She said nothing. The two remained like that for quite some time, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, silent tears streamed down her face. He was too immersed in his own feelings to notice.