Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Maki Murakami does.

A/N: Sorry for the huge gap in submissions! :(

Prompt: Just a moment. A moment of insecurity, of a sense of loss and fear, and something that would lead to more.

Rating: M for language and mentions/flashbacks of rape.

Prelude

His first night back in the apartment, and he hadn't even made it to the bed.

Two days. It had only been two days.

Yuki had gone out, to some place or another Shuichi hadn't really paid attention to, with a soft whispered promise that seemed so out of place and untrue that he was sure it didn't actually pass that cold mouth. But the point was that Yuki had gone out, leaving no company but the shadows brought by the dim lighting and the mutters of the low-volume television – poor company, but he knew what would happen if he left them to go to the bedroom.

The same thing that had happened at Hiro's, which had brought him back to this apartment in the first place.

So he sat on the floor, as far from the comfort of the couch and the warmth of the vents as he could, arms wrapped around his knees he had forced up to his chest in spite of the protesting pain of his ribs. His legs throbbed pointedly, and the sharp stabbing in his lower back questioned his motives with a dangerous mentality. But he simply rested his chin against his knees and stared unblinking out of the large glass door of the balcony.

It was raining.

Always raining, even when it wasn't raining.

It wasn't raining.

But he could see the shadows of the drops against his skin, trickling over him without touching him – they were always there, even when he couldn't see them. This was just a greeting from a phantom he wasn't going to forget; an acknowledgement that he wasn't really alone. Or insane.

He wondered if Yuki was coming back. He wouldn't blame the writer if he didn't. He didn't ask what had happened, didn't mention the bruises in places a normal rough-up wouldn't bring, the way Shuichi had bowed out of the offered kiss with a flinch violent enough to knock him sideways. He didn't press for the assurances Hiro had, or growl in the anger the teenager knew he had to be feeling. Just put a blanket over his shoulders, a cup of milk in his hands, turned on the lights and television, and …

Left. With those words Shuichi wasn't sure he had said.

("He doesn't love you. Kicked you out, didn't he? Poor little Shuichi.")

'God.' The mug in his hands shook slightly, its half-empty contents swishing about at the movement. 'GodGodGodGodGodGodGod.' What was he going to do if the other man didn't come back? He hadn't told him – hadn't said what happened … would he even care? He was already such a burden, such a complication, such a nuisance. Would he care?

("And even if he did," A rough hand on his waist, a sharp pinch of fingers that brought tears to his eyes. "Do you think he would now?")

His arms wrapped tighter around his knees, jaw clenching as he could hear his ribs creak in objection, and though the skies were clear and starlit outside the glass, he closed his eyes and could see the flashes of lightning like phantom clowns under the strobe lights of a haunted house. And he could feel it—

("Feel that?" A brutal movement made Shuichi pitch forward, a sharp cry ripping from his throat as he felt something inside of him tear apart.)

He jerked away from the door so quickly it took the pain until he was at the other side of the room to catch up. But he didn't double over this time, didn't scream, didn't cry as he felt his bones shift and slip inside of him. His shoulders heaved as he took in breaths he couldn't catch. The television spoke softly, but its words were no longer soothing, its light no longer safe. They had been murmuring, always talking, but softly. He couldn't hear the words, but he knew the tones. He knew what followed.

(A swift punch to just below his ribs, and suddenly he couldn't breathe anymore.)

(A calloused hand pushing poisonously against his throat, moving in rhythm.)

("Finally.")

"Get out," he whimpered desperately, reaching up to clutch sweat-damped hair. "Tachi. Get out."

Shuichi's body slid along the wall, shaking so violently that even that solid support was questionable in its ability to keep him upright. Staring at nothing, but seeing everything – a small cry erupted from his throat as his shoulder bumped against a raised panel – the doorframe of Yuki's study.

("I've known Eiri a long time," Ryuichi admitted softly as they leaned against the side of the ice cream shop. "I think … I think writing helps him cope … with things.").

Yuki's study – Yuki's safe-haven?

("I've got you.")

"Getoutofmyhead!"

And he ducked, away from the whispers and away from the logic, into the forbidden room.

-x-

He's against the wall, pressed to the floor, curled up as tightly as his body will allow. Two hours later, but his phantoms have not followed him. Regardless of the quiet, darkened peace, he's still awake.

Because two hours later, Yuki has not returned.

Aptly named, that. There's a second part, so it's all good. A surprise second part I'm excited to write but that I won't post for a while, because it's just that cool.

Let me know what you thought? :)