I didn't notice him until my first January in Tokyo.

Winter was especially harsh that year, highlighted by record snowfall and several days with temperatures below freezing. Ice clung to the roads and rail lines, frosting coffee cup lids the instant customers exited cafés and various shops. Powdered white also found the most inopportune places to hide: crouched on tree branches, lurking atop a convenient overhang; slipping without warning down commuter jackets or melting through ill-prepared shoes–

Needless to say, I wasn't a fan of winter's games.

Having spent most of my life in Gokayama, Gifu prefecture, Tokyo's heat in summertime and autumn were no surprise. When the city gifted us with the first flurry of the year, I was the only one in my apartment complex who seemed to enjoy the event. I'd only seen snow a handful of times in my life, so the thought of experiencing this every year thrilled me to no end, childish excitement spawning thoughts of snow angels and meeting someone special in a field of white–

Such thoughts dissipated after the third ice-related power outage.

A sigh spilled from my lips as I waited the next train on the Keihin-Tohoku line, bag hung securely around my neck. Not many commuters lingered this time of night – rush hour had passed long ago – but I didn't mind. In many ways, Tokyo saved her best secrets for those willing to wait out the night with her: illusions of solitude; minuscule coffee houses where hungry souls gathered; millions of lights twinkling from buildings without number like so many fairies, offering to accept the willing into the city's belly–

He was one of those secrets.

Sitting alone with a woolen hat pulled to his brows, he remained unmoved by those around him, even when an overly-affectionate couple bumped into his seat from the row behind Dressed in black jeans and a coat, he gazed out the fogged-over window, chin propped in one pale hand, knee pulled loosely to his chest. Gray earbuds nestled inside well-shaped ears, he continued his staring contest with the window – or was it the city? – twin cords falling past a well-defined jaw only to disappear into a coat pocket. His stance remained both lax and guarded even as the train pulled from the station, caught in a tug-of-war between the heat of the car and the uncomfortable seats standard to all trains.

Needless to say, he intrigued me.

Taking three steps, I stopped before his seat, offering my best smile. "Is this seat taken?"

His gaze flitted from the glass and I bit back a gasp. Irises the hue of polished ruby bore into mine, somehow managing to appear both empty and full. Those eyes performed a quick survey of my person before rising again, bright red unmoved, unfeeling–

Unimpressed.

Only then did I notice the bag at his feet. Tucked nearly out of sight beneath the seat, nothing about the satchel stood out save the fact that he tried to hide it with his leg, glaring all the while. The bag was old, worn thin in places with gray spots dotting the otherwise black landscape.

Did he really think I wanted to steal it?

Shoulders bunching ever so slightly, he leaned forward, knee burrowing into his chest.

Apparently so.

I pulled my lips into a more natural expression, gripping my own bag. "I hate to disturb you but would you mind if I sit here? My stop's coming soon; I promise not to be a bother."

Those eyes narrowed ever so slightly, lips pressing into a hard line as he continued to watch me. I honestly thought he would refuse until finally, after the better part of five minutes passed, he reclined against the seat and returned to gazing out the window.

A soft sigh slithered from my lungs and I sank down beside him, allowing my purse to fall between us. Even though I'd decided to keep to myself – to not bother him anymore – my eyes roved back to him of their own accord. He continued to stare out the window, though now the hand which held his chin before was now hooked around his knee, left leg still planted before the black bag. Tokyo unfurled beneath his gaze, much like a flower blooms under the sun's rays, yet he remained indifferent to her affections. Every so often a passing streetlight would reflect just so and engulf the city and his reflection in brilliant white, as if purging the world from its sins.

All the while, he remained silent.

Eventually, my attention shifted from the glass to his small ear. Gray stuck to that shell like a second skin, whispering sweet nothings with a lover's adoration. At random intervals a strain would escape the sound-proof material, calling to mind distant amphitheaters and music halls. Still, I couldn't identify the song no matter how closely I listened, could make out no voices no matter how far I leaned towards him–

Frustrating, to say the least.

Before I knew it, a tinny voice filled the car and we began to slow, bringing the city-scape steadily into focus: great cherry blossom trees, nondescript park benches, benign beige buildings until finally an all-too-familiar diner filled the window, signaling the end of my journey.

He didn't move when I rose, seemingly oblivious to the few passengers getting off at this particular stop. The distant melody rang in my ears even as the intercom sounded a final warning. My feet begged me to move but I couldn't.
Not yet.

"What are you listening to?"

At first, I didn't think he heard me. His posture remained lost between two extremes, his gaze fixed on the daily specials menu at the neighboring diner, fingers spider-like against one raised leg. Only the soft scraping of his boot against the grit-ridden floor told me otherwise. He'd heard the question–

He just had no intention of answering.

Over the following week, we fell into a pattern; a ritual, of sorts: I would board the train after work to find him sitting in the same seat, wearing the same black; bag hidden behind one leg, earbuds humming faithfully in his ears. Each night he allowed me to sit with him – well, maybe allowed isn't the right word – and I would study his reflection in the glass, watching him watch the city. He never spoke, though different instruments greeted me every evening, tugging the reigns of my curiosity. I didn't look at his bag and he paid no heed to mine, though his hand rested inches from it every time. He refused to answer any of my questions, regardless of how harmless or mundane they appeared but that was okay. We had an understanding, a set tempo–

Or so I thought until his empty seat greeted me.

Even as the doors closed and the train pulled away, my mind refused to comprehend what I saw. The faded green cushion glared under the overhead light, refusing to offer solace, reason, or even pity. I sat out of obligation though the seat was cold; not even the impression of a body remained. None of the other passengers seemed to realize someone sat here every night, that a human being had vanished without a trace. I watched Tokyo unveil herself yet she seemed resigned, embarrassed to undress for any save a pair of red eyes.

The following night bore the same burden: the familiar train, the same commuters, yet the one I wanted to see was missing. Once again, the city watched me with lidded eyes, a forbearing mistress awaiting her lover with bated breath. Rain replaced snow that evening, sprinkling the window with an artist's precision–

Each drop ran down the glass like so many tears.

I made some excuse to leave work early the next day, urged by warm neon lights towards Shinjuku station. Invisible fingers tugged me to the ticket window, drawing my eyes to the digital schedule overhead. Strange names awaited there, glaring bright green in the cold: Yamanote, Saikyo, Namibu, Chuo. All at once, Chuo disappeared only to be replaced by another name, another train–

Another possibility.

Somehow I knew he was on a train. I could picture him clearly in my mind's eye, securing a seat for himself, staking out the city with those earbuds in his ears. Watching, waiting:

Hiding.

I bought a ticket for the Yamanote line, rocking back and forth as the train pulled in minutes later. More strangers pressed through the sliding doors this time of day, all eager to begin the ride home. I allowed them to push me this way and that, somehow enduring the ride pressed between a sharp businesswoman and overweight man in his mid-thirties. All the while, my eyes raced over the crowded heads, raking across each seat for the black beanie.

Needless to say, it did not appear.

The next two night were spent in similar fashion: leaving work at the right time to board the necessary train, ignoring my boss's hard look and my coworkers' hushed chatter. They wouldn't understand, even if I told them what happened. How could they? I didn't understand myself. All I knew was I had to find him no matter what; if I waited too long, it would be too late and I may never see him again.

Both the Saikyo and Namibu lines produced the same results as Yamanote. A few other rail lines called with languid voices, yet none resonated like the Chuo line. The rapid express glared down from the myriad of other colors on the bright station screen, a scowling hue among the pinks and greens and blues:

On the fourth night, I found him on the Chuo line.

He sat much like he did on the Keihin-Tohoku line: nestled in a backseat, chin in hand, staring out the window. As always, gray traced the line of his jaw, twin garnets heavy-lidded as he watched faceless commuters pass. He didn't look up after a few passengers and I boarded, didn't stir as the scenery sped away–

I couldn't bring myself to be so subtle.

"There you are!"

Raucous red found me then, blatant shock shattering his stoic mask. My feet carried me to his side in a few easy steps and I breathed a sigh of relief, drinking him in. Familiar dark clothes, skin almost translucent in its paleness; woolen hat pulled to his ears, the black treasure stowed beneath his seat. Him:

It was really him.

"I'm so glad you're alright!" I breathed as I slid down next to him, hand slipping over my heart. The organ couldn't decide whether it wanted to beat fast or slow, though I couldn't bring myself to care. "If you're planning on disappearing again anytime soon, could you please let me know?" The demand sounded breathy in my own ears and I grinned. So much for scolding him. "I've been looking for you everywhere!"

His surprise gradually faded as I talked, though those wild eyes remained decidedly well-rounded. For once, he didn't watch the city as the train rushed down the tracks. Instead, he stared at me the entire commute, though whether he listened to my chastisement I couldn't tell.

Finally, when I was nearly out of breath and the intercom gave a three-minute warning for my stop, I leaned back in the seat. This time, piano notes radiated from his ears, every other key hinting a melody I couldn't quite grasp.

Rolling my head to the side, I met his gaze. For once, he allowed me to stare at his strange eyes without a medium or go-between, thin lips parted ever so slightly. Shades without number danced within those depths, highlighting separate, individual thoughts: bright scarlet, rose, crimson; sweet berries and currant; even dark sangria and wine resided there, each sparking like so many starbursts. I wanted to run my fingers through the colors, dance within their depths:

Know the hidden meaning behind each one.

"What are you listening to?"

At the question, his lips pressed into a soft line. However, he did not pull away, made no move to shield his face from me. Suddenly, the metallic voice sounded again, announcing our arrival. The train dutifully slowed in time with the command, grinding to a halt before I was ready.

Sighing, I retracted my gaze before standing, shouldering my bag dutifully before stepping into the aisle.

Then, just before I fell into the steady flow exiting the train:

"Beethoven."

The voice was so soft – a low baritone, the barest brush of satin – I couldn't be sure I'd heard right. Once again his eyes were fixed on the window, only this time I felt him studying me through the glass, myriad eyes shifting from light to dark before settling on a dull median.

I couldn't stop smiling the entire walk home:

His voice followed me into my dreams.

The next evening found him sitting in his seat on the Keihin-Tohoku line, eyes closed to the disgruntled commuters. He refused to be moved by the woman in the back row's prattling in Russian, nor the child screaming at the front of the car. Temple pressed against the hazy window, his breaths came ever so softly, in-time with whatever melody seeped from generous gray. For a moment, I thought he'd fallen asleep–

Knowing red's appearance as the doors closed stated otherwise.

I joined him without fanfare, allowing my head to roll back against the worn material. He watched as I blew a stray hair away before turning to the window, knee rising to his chest. The first quarter of the ride passed this way, both of us wrapped in a silence as familiar as breathing–

As if the past few days never happened.

"You cheated, by the way."

He glanced away from Tokyo's bright depths, raising a slender brow.

"Do you have any idea how many pieces Beethoven composed? Wait, don't answer that." I groaned, massaging the bridge of my nose. "I was up half the night trying to find the song from yesterday and know what I came up with? Zip, nada, nothing." A sigh this time, a desperate plea as I rubbed my neck, staring at the overhead luggage rack. "All that and I still don't have the name–"

"Kreutzer."

Startled, I blinked back at him. His voice still sounded soft in my ears, though a bit deeper than last night, as though his tongue ran over a track of gravel before reaching open air. "I beg your pardon?"

Jaw flexing, he continued staring at some unknown point over my shoulder. Tokyo tower shone at his back, a brilliant tiger lily in full bloom. Thousands of lights shone through the window, dim fireflies nudging his face, his shoulders, his throat, though he paid them no mind. Instead, his focus remained on the opposite wall, gaze calculating, searching–

Debating.

"The first movement of Beethoven's violin sonata no. 9 – Kreutzer." His tongue rolled around the foreign word before he snapped his lips shut, taking the tender organ between his teeth.

I leaned forward in an attempt to meet his gaze but he jerked his head towards the window, falling back into his own world.

Before he could descend too far into the depths, five all-too-familiar words spilled from my lips. "What are you listening to?"

I immediately regretted the question. Though his posture didn't change and his expression remained dispassionate as ever, I watched the glass reflect him retreating behind his eyes, red darkening by degrees to callous currant.

Then, he removed one of his earbuds.

Before I knew what was happening, he extended his arm, offering the gray artifact to me. Both eyes remained fixed on the window, though his fingers never faltered. The fragile instrument appeared harmless but I felt his essence flowing through it, watched it take careful breaths in his palm. I stared at the scars lining those fingers, holding flimsy gray so carefully; the olive branch:

The invitation.

I took the earbud with the utmost care, sliding smooth rubber and plastic beneath my hair. A flurry of stringed instruments filled my ear: the crescendo, peaking, falling only to rise again, lost in the madness of their melody. The daring of the piece took my breath; each instrument seemingly sprinted without rhyme or reason, yet there had to be a pattern, a theme . . . something.

"Vivaldi's Winter." His voice found my unoccupied ear, a brush of air without pride or reservation.

Nodding, I prodded the my inner cheek carefully as the song took another turn, racing on at break-neck pace. "Can you start it over? Feels like I jumped into the middle of an argument or something."

A smirk and he obliged, lips curling ever so slightly as one hand slid into his coat pocket. Silence and then the music began again, taking us through a deadly blizzard with only violins, cellos and who knows what else.

We listened to the piece twice before the train ground to a halt, neither of us saying a word.

Over the following months, we fell into a new pattern. I would board the train after work and sit with him, just as before. That much remained unchanged. Yet now, he extended the left earbud towards me the moment my butt hit the seat, arm fluid and unhurried. I would accept the gift and step into his world, allowing long-dead masters to sweep me away as we gazed at the city together. He accepted my intrusion without complaint, though he never smiled; not once.

The biggest change, however, was his willingness to talk to me.

Perhaps willingness isn't the right word. During that time, I was always the one who spoke first, who began dialogue about anything under the sun. He explained the specifics of music with muted resignation – his patience with this subject astonishes me even now – taking me through different movements and their meaning, why styles varied over the course of time, as well as why certain composers favored this or that instrument over others. Though his answers were often brief and he snorted more than once at some thoughtless comment on my end, I never felt stupid for my ignorance of classical music. Every day held something new, another song or witticism with just the right amount of bite.

During this time, he also began telling me about himself.

Of course, this didn't begin right away. As with any pattern or orchestral progression, there were rules to be followed – rules it took me a while to learn. I was allotted one question – one inquiry of a personal nature – per ride. He would always answer honestly, yet his answers were normally brief and didn't reveal anything substantial. Also, I found if his answer led to another question he would refuse to answer the latter, moving instead to stare out at Tokyo's bright petals. This morphed into a game of sorts: my constructing questions which took more than a handful of words to answer, he navigating a response which was truthful yet not forthcoming. A delicate dance, yet one that taught us a lot about each other.

The only question he appeared hesitant to answer happened to be the first I asked.

"What's your name?"

I'll never forget that moment for as long as I live: we'd just settled into listening to Bach's Cello Suite No. 1, G Major; frisky fireflies shone through the ever-present window, playing with his wool cap, his skin, his eyes. Those uncanny irises narrowed as he glanced my way, lips pressed into a frown. Suspicion swam through red depths and he shifted so that his back pressed against the glass, this time bringing both feet into the seat. The earbuds connected us all the while, carving through his upraised knees like a polluted river.

"Look, all I'm asking is what would like me to call you?" I sighed, biting back a smile despite his simultaneous portrayal of a wet cat and a pouting child. "I've got to call you something and I don't think you'll like any of my ideas." Scarlet slivers appeared atop black hills and I chuckled; it wouldn't surprise me if he hissed at any moment. "It doesn't have to be your real name."

He mulled that over for a time, taking first one taut cheek and then the other between his teeth as he watched me. I gave him what privacy I could, humming every so often with the piece and admiring the city. Every light within Tokyo's depths came out to play, nuzzling his cheeks and ears as a mother would. Still, he appeared unmoved by her affections, thoughts racing across eyes ever-changing from ruby to rose, garnet to scarlet, candy to crimson.

Finally, after the third movement, he said, "Hiei."

"Hiei?" I repeated.

He nodded and I didn't question his choice.

I discovered many things about him in the following weeks: such as his eyes were naturally red, his favorite color was blue (go figure) and he abhorred anything sweet. He wasn't particularly fond of television or radio programs, though he did enjoy occasionally watching nature programs and listening to opera. He liked red curry, bagels, hot tea and his favorite animal was the fox.

"Although foxes mate, they are solitary creatures." He supplied, offering a rare explanation. "They are one of the few creatures in the world content with being alone."

He also told me things he disliked, such as stupid people, aimless comedy and drama. Although he did enjoy reading, biographies were not his forte and documentaries bored him to tears. He hated narcissistic men as well as women who cried easily:

What he detested the most, however, were enclosed places filled with people.

"But each time I've seen you is on a train." I argued over Einaudi's Monday, motioning to those around us. "If you hate tight spots so much, why put yourself through this every day?"

Though technically a second question, I couldn't bring myself to care that I was breaking our unspoken agreement. He acknowledged my lack of etiquette with a sideways glance, eyes hardening ever so slightly–

Debating.

Then, just when I thought he wouldn't answer, "Because trains are safe places to sleep."

At the time, I didn't know why knowing these things mattered so much. Still, night after night simple getting-to-know-you questions sprouted forth, nudging us closer to one another. Maybe that's what I wanted, even then – a special connection, to have him all to myself. I wanted to understand everything about this man with the strange red eyes and for him to know me in return.

More than anything, I didn't want him to feel alone.

So, as winter gave way to spring, Hiei allowed me a glimpse into his world.

His granting an additional question marked the changing seasons, two per night rather than just one. Of course, this too was an understood adaption, another unspoken agreement I discovered through consecutive trial and error. As the snow slowly began to melt and the cherry blossoms budded, the door to his realm opened a crack further and I dove in headlong, devouring his every word.

I mulled over his commentary of sleeping on trains for a couple of days, studying him under the guise of telling him about myself. As I shared my hobbies and preferences I noted his abnormally pale skin, milky blue veins prominent beneath the overhead light. While discussing my musical tastes his hands caught my eye, the scars lining both fingers and knuckles foreboding as a forgotten tongue. I saw how painfully thin he was when I told him my favorite foods, how his body didn't have an ounce of fat and his cheeks were sunken when viewed at the right angle.

At those times, he seemed more an apparition than a human being.

Finally, after confiding my inability to sleep in complete silence I noticed the dark circles beneath his bright, wild eyes; faint, the barest of smudges, yet present all the same.

Of course, he didn't ask anything about me. Hiei remained silent during most of our 'conversations', either gazing out of the window or staring at my hands when a particularly animated topic surfaced. However, he instructed me on the basics of classical music without complaint – mostly so he could enjoy the ride in peace, no doubt.

"What sparked your interest in classical music?"

He glanced away from the flowering night to stare at me, eyes wide; bewildered. Then, he darted behind guarded garnet, lids narrowing into a glare. "What does it matter?"

I shrugged, forcing myself to relax. Before now Hiei had taken offense to any of my questions, yet this one seemed to offend him. "It doesn't, really. To be honest, you seem the type that'd like rock or hip-hop, something more upbeat. My friend Kuwabara's favorite band, Megallica–"

"I could care less about your friend's tastes."

"No need to be rude." Leaning forward, I took in the hard line of his jaw, his furrowed brow, petite nose wrinkled in disgust. I'd never seen him express so much emotion at once. "What, you're not going to answer?"

It wasn't a question, exactly. Rather, it was a challenge – a dare for him to honor an unspoken agreement:

A prompt to keep his word.

Gradually, his brow smoothed and the hardness fled his eyes. Tender pink ran across his top lip, massaging chapped flesh and slowly easing away the tension in his shoulders. Then, he tipped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes; considering or hiding, I couldn't tell.

His tongue made another pass as Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre, Op. 40 swam through our ears. I observed him torture first one cheek, then the other until ruby finally peeked through thick lashes. His eyes lightened to soft rose at the playful back-and-forth between piano and violin, allowing the music to speed along his thoughts.

At last, in the middle of the piece, he released the mottled flesh. "Kurama."

"Kurama?"

I waited to see whether or not he would elaborate, supply a face for the name. He didn't, shifting his gaze instead to the cloudy sky. I debated using my other question to force him to tell when Saint-Saëns caught my attention, the violinist literally plucking the instrument's strings. "Why do most of the songs you listen to involve violins, anyway?"

The question slipped out without my permission, largely rhetorical and perhaps the stupidest thing I'd asked him yet. For a moment, I expected him to snort and offer some sarcastic remark in return, batting away my last freebie of the night.

To my surprise, he shifted so that his leg purposely hid his bag, something he hadn't done in weeks. Eyes never leaving the window, he spoke to my reflection, voice soft as downy feathers. "Because I play the violin."

I blinked, gaping at the back of his head. The answer froze my tongue, slowed every thought to a stand-still. Even after all this time, my mind still wrestled with the fact that Hiei seemed to only listen to classical pieces – his attire and attitude attributed to everything but Mozart or Beethoven. He didn't wilt under my gaze showcased by the glass, though as the duet marched on his leg nudged the bag further beneath the seat, drawing my attention to the floor.

There was nothing special about the sack. Worn around the edges, the dark material appeared sturdy, though I couldn't place what it was made of. About the size of a child's backpack, the bag had no definite shape or form; random lumps lined the sides and front, though the container wasn't anywhere near full. A subtle arch here, a stubborn bulge:

He could easily store a violin there.

"How long have you been playing?"

Hiei's lips remained closed, not that I expected him to answer. I'd already used up my two questions; he was under no obligation to answer me. Yet as Danse Macabre slipped into an unfamiliar song – one featuring a string quartet – he relaxed his hold on his knee, brow smoothing with each pass of the musicians' bows. Both lids drooped as he listened, all traces of impassivity and irritation wiped away by the smooth melody. Even though he didn't say a word, his body told a story his mouth would not: the way he gave himself to the music without thought of consequence, fingers moving subconsciously atop his knee, a poor substitute for a wooden neck–

Music was as much a part of him as the city.

On the last frosted night of spring, I mustered the courage to ask him the question burning on my heart.

"I want you to elaborate."

Tokyo winked in the moonlight as he glanced my way, brow raised. Another week had passed with the usual nondescript questions, exchanging nonsense information no one minds throwing to the wind like so much paper. Simple things such as most and least favorite subjects in school, ideal places to live, preferred daily attire–

Safe topics.

Even so, Kurama continued burrowing into my brain, haunting my waking hours and stealing my sleep. I couldn't tell whether this person was male or female, how Hiei knew he or she. Regardless, Kurama was obviously important to him. Why else would he keep that name a secret? No, Kurama was definitely a key, as vital to Hiei's identity as the music he loved–

I had to know.

"Please – who is Kurama?"

Curiosity gave way to muted anger at the name, though I noticed the change only because of the time we'd spent together: the deliberate slacking of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes; the way he took first one deep breath, then another, nostrils flaring with each inhale. At first, I thought the person called Kurama spawned the emotion but no–

His glare stated otherwise.

Part of me wanted to turn tail and run – to melt beneath his molten gaze – yet I refused. Up til now I'd refrained from asking Hiei anything personal but Kurama was something he offered to me, a hidden part of himself:

I couldn't let that slip away.

Lava cooled to candied apples and he turned once more to the window, arms resolutely hugging his knee. Movement one of O Fortuna marched on as he mused, the first song with lyrics I'd heard from his reservoir.

Too bad it was all in Latin.

Perhaps he heard the desperation behind my plea, or maybe his honor meant too much to him. In any case, as the song melded into the second movement, his voice found open air. "I've known Kurama most of my life."

My eyes widened at the admission and I leaned closer, the slack gray cord pooling atop his shoulder. "So, you're friends?"

He shrugged and tilted his head in a noncommittal fashion, beanie brushing smoky glass.

I waited but he offered no answer to that particular question, so I decided it didn't count as my second one.

Licking both lips, I retreated back to my half of the seat, choosing each word with care. "What brought the two of you together?"

At that his mouth contorted into a decided grimace and he wrinkled his nose, as if he'd just swallowed something unpleasant. "Don't speak as if we're a couple." He bit out, glaring. "If you're one of those silly women who have delusional fantasies of two men together, leave the fox and I out of it."

The fox? For a moment all I could do was stare. Then the reality of his words set in and I giggled, hushed sounds giving way to full-blown laughter at the fierce look on his face.

"What's so funny?" He demanded as I leaned forward, forehead brushing my knees. I tried to stop laughing – truly, I did – yet one glance spurned a fresh slew of cackles, tamed only after several failed attempts.

"I-I'm sorry." I breathed, sitting up. Another giggle bubbled at his decisive frown, how his nose remained wrinkled, like a cat who'd just hacked up a hairball. "It's just, I had no idea whether Kurama was a man or a woman." Tilting my head, I tried to catch his eye. "You haven't been very forthcoming about him."

He snorted, turning to stare resolutely at the river, chin in hand. A new piece filtered through my earbud, the intro brimming with soft horns, woodwinds and a harp solo.

"Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers."

My brows rose at the name and the happy tune but I didn't question his tastes. "So, you're not going to tell me?"

A slight shifting of hips and he was pressed flush against the train's cold wall, eyes on the dark water.

I sighed and loosely laced my fingers together, smiling at the knee he held so tightly. "Look, I said I was sorry – I didn't intend to offend you." Foot moving with the steady tempo, I nudged his elbow with mine, pink meeting black for an instant. "Please, tell me about Kurama."

"What does it matter?" Hiei looked at me then, brows knit in angry folds. "You don't know him – you'll probably never cross paths." His eyes narrowed as he stared, chest pressing against his kneecap. "Why is he so important to you?"

"He's not." The reply was automatic, truthful. "But he is important to you." Ruby tapered to slender slits yet he listened on, not daring interrupt. "Kurama is the first thing you've gone out of your way to hide, a piece of you you don't want me to see." I shrugged as the song winded down, leading to another Tchaikovsky work. "Call me selfish but I want to know what's in there."

I want to know the Hiei you try so desperately to hide.

Of course, I couldn't tell him that. He had to understand the purpose behind this Q&A by now, right?

We'd moved past trudging through a commute with chitchat long ago.

As if on cue, the loudspeaker blared and the train brakes squealed, signaling an end to our time together.

"This isn't over." Air squeezed between my teeth in a hiss as I stood, glaring against my will. "And don't even think about hiding again!" He didn't flinch under my anger, watching as if observing a curious new exhibit. "If you try to run, I'll find you – I'll search every train in Tokyo if I have to."

To this he rolled his eyes, sneering. "You don't scare me, woman."

Sure enough, Hiei was in our normal spot the following night, left earbud in-hand. At the time, I had no idea learning about Kurama would change the trajectory of our acquaintanceship, as well as my view of the world in general.

"Wait – repeat that?"

Hiei sighed, sipping the hot tea I'd brought from the station vendor. I trusted him to remain true to his word but a little bribery never hurt.

Scarlet peeked behind thick lashes to stare at the paper container in his hands, contemplating. We sat facing one another, his back against the window, mine to the open aisle. Both of his legs were in the seat, right knee upraised while the left slid beneath it. I sat with my legs crossed, butt nearly resting atop my ankles; not the most comfortable position but one I could live with. The gray cord hung around his neck much like a child's forgotten toy, swaying ever so slightly with the train–

There would be no music today.

He rolled the cup between his fingers twice before allowing it to settle back in his palms, lips pressed tightly together. "You heard me."

I leaned forward, gripping my own cup. "You're telling me Kurama is your foster brother?"

"Was." Hiei corrected, running a thick thumbnail across the black lid.

When he offered nothing else, I took a sip of tea, pondering. "How old were you when you met?"

"Eight." He squinted, ruby deepening to currant before he shook his head, as if chasing away an unpleasant thought. "It's not something I like to think about."

Understandably so. All I knew about foster kids was that they were taken from their homes and shuffled around, their lives made up of whatever could fit in garbage bags. "How did you wind up at his house?"

To this he raised his head, gaze sharp, brow raised. "The backgrounds of those in foster care can be gruesome, princess." A snort and he took another sip of tea, smirking around the cup's rim. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Yes. The answer bubbled up instantly yet somehow lodged in my throat. No matter how many times I swallowed or drank the cooling beverage, that one word refused to come out.

Finally, I gave up and changed tactics. "You said Kurama was your foster brother. What did you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said. Don't you understand simple sentence structure?"

I ignored the bait; he wouldn't get a rise out of me, not today. Not about this. "Then tell me how your relationship as brothers ended."

Another sip of tea and he glanced at the digital clock overhead. "You'll miss your stop."

"That's okay, I'll get off as soon as you're finished."

His gaze narrowed once more, though this time his eyes looked different from before. Jaw pulled tight, he suddenly appeared predatorial, a looming force; sinister–

Dangerous.

When I didn't balk he looked over his shoulder to the thousands of lights warming the black sky, breathing a silent sigh. "Shiori was my third foster parent."

"Shiori?"

"Kurama's mother." He kept his attention on the cityscape as he spoke. "Shiori was . . . kind, much better than I deserved. By then, we'd been in the system for a long time and I had a reputation as a 'problem child'–"

"We?"

Hiei glanced my way, brow raised in question.

"You said 'we'd been in the system'."

For a second, his eyes lit like fierce coals in their death throws. Then, he shuttered them and looked away, lips shut tight. When he finally opened them placid red had taken the fire's place. "No one wanted me because of the trouble I caused, especially when no form of 'discipline' seemed to work." His right arm moved, the sleeve rising just enough for me to see the white strip of a bandage. "No one wanted me as part of their family, no one was was willing to try – until Shiori."

He lapsed into silence and I watched him work his jaw, countless thoughts flitting across that pale face. "She sounds great."

"Shiori's a saint." Something close to a smile tugged at his lips and he chuckled. "I never saw her lose her temper: no matter what I did, she refused to become angry. In every altercation, whether it involved a teacher, a child or the parent of a child, Shiori always took my side, tried to see things from my point of view." He leaned his head back once more against the glass. "Within a few months, I'd grown to care for her deeply. There were even talks of adoption, of my becoming an 'official' member of the family."

"And you and Kurama bonded because of his mother?"

"Initially, yes. We have almost nothing in common so without Shiori, I doubt we'd have come together."

A smile formed as I pictured a miniature Hiei happy with two faceless people. I saw him running and laughing with another boy – Kurama – doing homework, playing pranks and whatever else little boys do. I pictured him sitting beside Shiori at the dinner table, eating a plate full of food and enduring her doting upon him. The picture was perfect, tranquil:

"So, what happened?"

Something had to have happened, right? The destruction of Camelot, expulsion from Eden; both were caused by some horrible chain of events, a diabolical plot–

A single person.

Suddenly, the two minute warning sounded overhead, the automated tinny voice surprisingly loud. Hiei glanced my way once before turning to gaze through the window, allowing me to make my own decision.

When I didn't move, his eyes darkened once more and the hand gripping his cup began to tremble, though not from anxiety. Anger boiled in those eyes and he grit his teeth, jaw tight:

I was honestly surprised he didn't crush the cup.

"Shiori was diagnosed with cancer." His voice belied a calm completely in opposition with his body. "She kept it a secret for over a year."

My mouth fell open as the train began to slow. "How do you keep something like that a secret?"

"Shiori's composition has never been strong: she constantly contracted colds and other minor illnesses and Kurama and I cared for her; as a single mother, she felt it her duty to put on a brave face." Hiei's own face twisted into something belying disgust and longing, with a sprinkling of rage. "I think Kurama knew, or at least had an inkling something was wrong – the fox has always been good at reading people."

As the door opened ahead of us and commuters trudged through the aisle, he dug thin fingers into his pants leg and squeezed until his nails were rosy, each fingertip white. With each press, his face relaxed into a decided calm, one devoid of emotion. The shifting of extremes was sudden, unnerving–

Frightening.

Without fanfare or overdue pomp, the doors shuddered closed and pulled away from the station. At the sudden quiet, I glanced around and found that we were alone. Sure, the conductor sat in the front car and maybe there were occupants in the other cars but for right now, we were the only ones here.

I had him all to myself.

If Hiei experienced the same revelation, he kept it to himself. "She collapsed while we were at school." He continued, gaze narrowing as he studied his knee. "I was in gym class but when I saw my case worker talking with the instructor, I knew something had happened."

He picked at the fibers of his black jeans, knuckles working beneath scarred skin. "Naturally, they told Kurama first – he is her son, after all – but even after I was informed, for some reason they wouldn't take me to her." A smirk pulled at his mouth then, devious and cruel. "Fools made the mistake of telling me which hospital she was in, as well as her room number."

Dread pooled in my stomach at that look, much like how a cat would observe a cornered bird. "What did you do?"

"What else? I ran. The hospital wasn't far from the school and I knew none of them could catch me. Even if they used a car, I would make it there first. Of course, they called the hospital to warn them but Kurama heard the conversation – every word." He snorted, reclining once more. "No one pays attention to what's said around children and the fox took full advantage of that."

For a moment, I was speechless. "He sounds very intelligent."

An affirmative sound in the back of his throat and the smirk grew. "I pity the fool who makes Kurama his enemy." He took another sip of his tea, now doubtlessly cold. "Kurama helped me sneak into his mother's room. They'd placed Shiori on the second floor, yet a tree grew next to her window. When he saw me coming, Kurama asked the nurse for something to drink and she happily obliged – he's always had that effect on women." I nodded, the image of a literal playboy running through my mind's eye. "I hid under the bed before the nurse returned. She never knew I was there."

"The nurse or Shiori?"

"Both." He set the empty cup down, staring at his hands. "I knew I couldn't stay but I wanted to see her, touch her. She smelled like she always did – her perfume overrode any hospital antiseptic – but she looked so frail, as if she would break at any moment."

His voice trailed off and I didn't question the silence. Instead, I took the opportunity to study him: the way his larynx bobbed with each breath, nostrils flaring; how the gray earbuds shifted in-time with the rise and fall of his chest; the swirling red masses beneath drawn lashes, muddled streams in war-torn lands.

I had no idea why Hiei was sharing this with me; maybe he didn't, either. Still, much like a parched plant craves water, I was willing to take in as much as he would give. "What happened then?"

He blinked, much like a turtle coming up from a prolonged dive. "We designated a meeting place – an old warehouse nearby – and I left. Later that night, Kurama came and I told him everything. I couldn't go home or back to school, nor could I see his mother – they would be watching those places and take me away."

The last bit surprised me. "Where would they take you?"

"Another home, another family who would see me as a cash cow."

"Cash cow?"

He rolled his eyes. "Each family hosting a foster child receives a stipend, a fixed amount to help care for the child." Another snort, followed with a sneer. "Surely you see how easily that can be distorted?"

Indeed, I could. "How could Kurama to help you, though? You were both kids, right?"

"Never underestimate a trained mind." He crossed both arms over his chest as the intercom sounded again. "Kurama has always been brilliant, more intelligent than people twice his age."

"Okay, so what did Mr. Wonderful suggest?"

His eyes narrowed at the slur and for a second I feared he wouldn't answer. The door slid open once again, though nothing but the March wind entered the car. Only after the train departed and had gained its former momentum did he speak.

"Kurama said I needed to leave Mushiyori. The longer I stayed there, the more likely I was to be caught. Mushiyori is a big city but no one knows how to keep a secret." Hiei pressed his tongue against his inner cheek and rotated the organ a few times, searching his memory. "He bought a cheap prepaid phone and walked with me to the station, handing it to me on the platform. 'Go somewhere no one will think to look, a place where individuality does not exist', that's what he told me. So, I went to the only place I could think of."

After a moment's consideration, realization hit. "Tokyo." I breathed.

He nodded and a comfortable silence enveloped us. I embraced the void, retreating step by step to digest his story. Before I knew it, several minutes had passed and we were nearing the last reasonable stop. "And you've been here ever since?"

Another nod, though his lips remained tightly pressed together, as if he was afraid of what could emerge should they part.

A thousand fleeting thoughts took hold of that motion, yet the intercom signaled the two minute warning, cutting away all but one. "Where can I find you?"

Hiei met my gaze then, eyes hard. The unadulterated red still startled me because he rarely looked me in the eye, relying instead on sideways glances or staring out the window.

"You know, in case we ever want to talk when it's not a work day." I continued, standing and shouldering my bag. "Where do you normally hang out when you're not here?"

I honestly didn't expect him to answer. We'd already traveled so far out of bounds that he had no reason to. However, just before the train pulled to a stop, I heard him say:

"Look to the river."

As time marched bravely into April, I discovered Hiei was homeless.

Of course, he never stated his vagrant state outright but it wasn't hard to put two-and-two together. He'd stayed in Tokyo after aging out of the foster care system, after authorities had long since ceased hunting for him. Just as Kurama predicted, he needed to be in a place where individuality didn't exist, where all that mattered were the rules of autonomy:

Tokyo was such a place.

At first, Hiei remained skeptical of my prying. He did well in evading the subject at first, offering only vague answers and suspicious glances.

More than anything, I think he feared pity.

Only after I'd pestered him for several consecutive commutes did he ask why I wanted to know, why such a thing would have any value to me, given my stable living condition.

We were listening to Pachebel's Canon in D Major, the gray cord connecting us by the ear. The cello pulled me in with a deep purr; swift violins swept us into the cloudy sky overhead, to a place where nothing else existed save the music and glittering lights.

I wanted to reach for his hand but didn't dare.

Instead, I looked to the window, hair slipping over one shoulder. "Have you ever thought about life, whether or not you're having an impact on the world around you?"

He didn't answer, not that I expected him to. "Historical figures are made up of people who operated in extremes – whether good or bad – yet there's nowhere in history books for the ordinary ones. When we die, we'll only be remembered by those who knew us but after they go, what then? I think it's the same when people go missing, or try to hide from the world." I leaned forward, catching his eye. "I want to know what's on the other side of being forgotten, how things operate once you've crossed that void."

For a moment, Hiei simply stared. His face never betrayed his thoughts – he held his feelings too tightly for that – yet his eyes danced with color, shifting from ruby to rose, blood to bourbon, candy to currant and back again. I yearned to run my hands through those shades, even though I knew it was impossible; my fingers twitched with longing.

Finally, he said, "The most important thing is not to draw attention to yourself."

"Not draw attention?"

A single nod and he shifted his gaze, staring straight ahead. "In order to disappear, you have to become part of your surroundings, something no one will remember." He smirked, propping his cheek on a steady fist. "Hollywood's idea of that is a joke."

"How so?"

He snorted, as if the answer was obvious. "If you walked the streets wearing rags with a big bag over your shoulder, the cops would haul you away within an hour – it's a dead give-away."

I mimicked his stance, cheek resting resolutely in my palm. "Okay, then how is it done?"

Hiei's brow furrowed ever so slightly and he cast me a sideways glance. "Do you have a habit of meddling in the lives of others?"

"Nope, just yours." I smiled, winking.

He studied me a moment longer before offering a disgruntled huff, rolling his eyes towards the window.

So April bled dutifully into May, every day drawing me deeper into his world.

I learned so much from him during that time, more than I could process until much later. Hiei explained everything about disappearing, from appropriate attire to the best places to charge your phone inconspicuously. Wearing the right clothes was the key to not getting caught, that and how you carried yourself: the trick lay in picking garments which weren't too new or too old, as well as choosing neutral colors such as gray, tan or black. No one would think twice about seeing a trash can in the city yet if the container was damaged or torn, complaints would be made about the blight–

The same applied to anyone living on the streets.

He told me how best to utilize public baths to shower and wash clothes, that the best times to use those places were mid-morning and mid-afternoon, when most people were busy with school or work. He shared the best places to kill time during the day were innocuous facilities such as libraries, public gyms or parks; that your best bet for charging your phone was to set up camp at a coffee house, ordering cheap beverages for a couple of hours. This also doubled as free entertainment – watching people and their foolish antics was far more entertaining than wasting money on a theater ticket.

Most of the time, money didn't matter because it's easy enough to come by when you know where to look:

People were always willing to pay for specialized services.

When hard-pressed, however, he admitted pick-pocketing was an option. Food could be tricky to come by but really, that's where networking came into play. Though it was less than legal, many businesses willingly exchanged labor for food, day-old breads and half-eaten meals which would have been disposed of, anyway.

As he'd already stated, Hiei found trains to be one of the safest places to sleep, along with cemeteries. If you carved a spot for yourself and refused to look at anyone on a train, people tended to leave you alone; no one visited cemeteries enough to notice a continual presence, anyway. The optimal time to catch a nap lined up perfectly with the slot for bathing and doing laundry, a golden time for personal upkeep. The respite was brief – four hours at best – yet something which could be depended upon, much like the moon rising each night.

Night was not the time for sleeping.

All this time, the works of Schumann, Chopin, Mozart, Brahms, and Haydn serenaded us, making an awful reality seem bearable, almost natural. I had no idea how he'd survived this long on his own – he appeared about my age, obviously not a child – and was reluctant to ask his plans for the future. He held back nothing about that secret world, portraying it as the barbarous and beautiful thing it was. I appreciated his trust, the level of confidence he placed in me. I wanted to delve further into that world, to know it just as well as my own.

The chance to do so came sooner than I expected.

One night, at the dawn of summer, his empty seat awaited me.

I stared from the aisle as the train pulled from the station, dumbfounded. His bag, the gray headphones, all that made up Hiei, gone. The seat was cold; not even an impression of his body remained.

I licked my lips, running through the past few nights. Things had been going so well; Hiei was finally offering information willingly. He knew I would keep his secret, he trusted me at least that much. Every day he allowed me to draw closer, unfurling like the petals of a delicate flower:

What had happened?

The possibility of him hiding came to mind but I dismissed it immediately. Before, Hiei ran from the threat of intimacy, the moment I decided I wanted to truly know him. But now, after he'd opened up about so many aspects of his daily life? No, this time was different. Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

I didn't sleep well that night and refused to go to work the next day. After calling in with some bogus excuse, I hurried from my apartment, Hiei's cryptic suggestion playing through my head. Look to the river–

What on earth could that mean?

The morning quickly grew humid and soon I stood at the water's edge, staring up and down the paved path. However, Hiei did not appear; the dark water flowed on as it had done since the beginning of time.

The Shinkuju would never reveal her secrets so easily.

For over an hour I searched the water front, asking the odd jogger or commuter if they'd seen a short man with red eyes. Every time the result was the same – the description didn't ring a bell – and the sun climbed higher and higher. Maybe I was overreacting, maybe I'd sent myself on a fool's errand. Still, the overwhelming sense of wrongness would not leave; my gut refused to uncoil, no matter how much I reasoned with it.

Finally, an elderly man with a walking stick crossed my path, wearing a weather-beaten hat and a withered disposition. When I asked him about Hiei and gave a description, he shuddered and hurried on his way, mumbling about the 'demon under the bridge'.

Sure enough, a trestle stretched across the river several yards away, a bridge shrouded in shadow because of the sun's angle.

A train gave a warning whistle in the distance, quickening my steps. The familiar clatter filled the air and I broke into a run, speeding towards the darkness. Just before the mid-morning express ran across the trestle I dove beneath its folds, breath coming in tight gasps.

Too soon, all thought of regulated breathing stopped.

Distinct objects emerged one-by-one from the gloom, each telling a story all their own: a pile of dirty clothes, each article ragged and old; a small circle of stones surrounding the remnants of a fire, the ashes dead and cold; a stack of discarded bedding; an all-too-familiar black bag gripped in a too-pale hand–

His hand.

"Hiei!" I gasped, voice barely above a whisper. Hiei sat on that dingy bedding, leaning back against the concrete with such force I feared he would hurt himself. Face twisted in a grimace, he kept his eyes closed, grinding his jaw much like a millstone. The hat was gone, black hair atop his head so wild and full it would make any woman envious. He seemed oblivious to my presence; the hand gripping the bag shook. However, my eyes were drawn his other hand, the one at his side–

To the red dripping between his fingers.

"Hiei?" I called louder, rushing to his side. His eyes flew open and he snarled, turning towards me, fist raised. For a moment, he simply stared, a feral light shining through blurred coral. Then, recognition hit and he lowered his hand, gaze narrowing.

"What do you want?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "You . . . you told me to look to the river. You weren't on the train last night, I was worried."

He maintained eye contact for a few seconds more before wincing, the motion overtaking his entire body. Pressing both lips together, he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, reclaiming the bag with a trembling fist. "Go away."

Red continued to seep between those fingers, carving a path down abused skin, invading the lines of each nail. How could he expect me to walk away from this? "What happened?"

A feather-soft question, one he obviously didn't want to answer. "Mind your own business."

The words were frayed at the edges, fuzzy – he appeared ready to pass out at any moment.

I crept closer, ignoring his glares and breathy growls. When mere inches separated us he snarled outright, shifting away even though the motion made him hiss.

"Can I see?"

The sound died in the back of his throat and he returned to staring, refusing to react even when I touched the offending hand. Red smeared across my palm as he allowed me to lift the appendage, to see what lay beneath the torn edges of his shirt.

A deep puncture wound rested between spans of scarlet skin, the hole purple and deep. There was less blood than I thought there would be yet the liquid leaking from the wound was dark, nearly the shade of his eyes. I didn't know much about this sort of thing but I knew he needed help–

If something wasn't done, Hiei could die.

"No hospitals." He ground out, reading my mind.

I bit my lip, a thousand questions flying through my head until I spied the stray earbud sticking out of his pocket. "Let me see your phone for a minute."

His eyes narrowed to slits, suspicion curling his nose.

"Come on man, you've got to trust me. I'll give it right back."

He hesitated a moment longer before releasing his bag, hand dipping unsteadily into his pants pocket. The phone he handed me wasn't at all what I expected. Rather than a rinky-dink flip phone a smart phone rested in his palm, not anywhere near the latest make and model but a decent device all the same. After unlocking the screen – there was no code, just a swipe option – I touched the surface twice, studying the unfamiliar layout.

"What are you doing?" He grunted as I tapped on the only contact in his list, pressing his hand back atop the wound with my own.

The other line rang three times before someone finally answered the call, a velvet voice filling my ear. "Hello?"

"Kurama?" Hiei stiffened at the name and tried to take the phone away but I pressed his hand tighter against the wound, causing a hiss to spill from his lips. "This is Kurama, right?"

Silence. For a moment, I feared he'd hung up, would refuse to talk to me. Then, he spoke again, voice low, tone guarded. "May I ask who's calling?"

"We don't have time for niceties." I replied as a string of curses fled Hiei's mouth, each word blending with the next to form a fierce conundrum. "I need your help. Or, I should say, Hiei needs your help."

At that name the man on the other end fell silent once more, as if prompting me to continue.

I told Kurama we were acquaintances, as well as the state I found him in moments before. "It looks pretty deep." Moving Hiei's hand away, I glanced once more at the wound, demanding my stomach to hold in my breakfast. "There isn't much blood coming out but what has leaked out is dark – I don't know if that's a good thing or not."

"Dark blood is never good." Traffic sounds from his end: blaring horns, purring engines and and the occasional squealing tire.

I squirmed as the warm liquid crept between the creases of my fingers, beading around my knuckles. "What should I do? Hiei said not to take him to the hospital."

"No, that would not be ideal." I could practically hear the man's gears working, sorting through various scenarios. "Is there any antiseptic on-hand?"

"Um, no. There's some rubbing alcohol in my apartment–"

"It will have to do." A spirited horn blast from Kurama's end and I jumped, causing Hiei to groan. "Take him to your home and pour some directly into the wound; it will need to be stitched closed as well."

I froze mid-reach, processing the instructions. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly serious. If that wound is left to fester and bleed, it may very well kill him." Another horn, mingling with the voices of countless pedestrians. "I'm taking the next train to Tokyo but it will be at least an hour before I reach the city – you have to care for him until then."

"But, I don't know how to do that!" Who did he think I was, a doctor? A seamstress?

A long-suffering sigh, followed by a polite apology to some unknown commuter. "Do you have needle and thread at home?"

"Yes–"

"Then take Hiei to your home and patch him up as best you can. Make sure he stays awake until I arrive or complications could arise. Please text me the address so I can find you."

With that, the line went dead.

A short taxi ride later, I was dragging the half-conscious man up two flights of stairs, one arm supporting his weight, the other pressed against the menacing hole. Thankfully, Hiei appeared drunk to the unknowing eye – the driver had been particularly amused by this fact – though this didn't make my job any easier.

"Okay, just, hold still for a minute." I wheezed, pressing him to the wall by the hand at his side, rummaging for keys. Blood dotted my pants, my shirt, my skin, looking like so many flecks of paint. Hiei nearly fell and I pressed against him more, earning a strangled groan.

"You're killing me, woman!" He breathed, lids caught somewhere between open and closed.

"If you'd hold still it wouldn't hurt as much!" The doorknob finally turned and we fell inside; only my elbow hitting the ground saved him from landing on his side. Kicking the door closed, I dragged him on all fours past the genkan, pulling until we reached the kitchen.

I kicked off our shoes, lifting the shirt to his chest before laying him on the tile, stomach shining for the world to see. As expected, scars lined his torso, though well-defined muscles coiled there too, shuddering with each breath.

Running to closet, I fished a needle and thread from my sewing box, grabbed alcohol from the medicine cabinet, and picked up fresh dishtowels on the way back through the kitchen. Kneeling by his side, I lifted the bottle where he could see it, twisting off the cap. "Do you want something to bite down on? This is going to hurt."

Dull rose stared back at me, shifting in and out of focus. "Just do it."

When the liquid hit the wound, I silently commended him for not screaming. Eyes widened to impossible proportions, he stared unseeing at the ceiling, mouth open, though only a strangled sound came out. After filling the hole, I set the bottle aside and threaded the needle, praying sewing a tear in skin was the same as mending a work shirt.

Hopefully Mr. Wonderful could fix him if I screwed up.

Kurama arrived just as I finished, announcing himself after knocking. He helped me transport Hiei to the couch without a word, offering a positive hum when the smaller man murmured his name. As soon as we'd set him down, Kurama set to work with steady hands, poking and prodding Hiei in all the right places. He checked his pulse, his tongue, his eyes, even pinched his skin to see how long it took to return to its former state.

Finally, he allowed his friend to drift off, wiping his hands with a dishcloth. "He should be fine."

Only then did I take the time to truly study the man before me. There was no doubt Kurama was attractive: perfect skin, willowy yet possessing a certain, merited strength. He had hair for days; the rich crimson locks trailing down his back would make any woman envious. What set him apart the most, however, were his eyes. Intelligent emerald irises glanced casually this way and that, giving the impression he was watching me even when he wasn't. A confident aura, a pleasant smile–

I could see why Hiei admired him.

"Thank you for caring for him."

"N-no, thank you for helping me save him." I sputtered, bowing deeply. "Hiei means a lot to me."

Kurama's mouth relaxed into a more natural expression as he glanced at his one-time foster brother, crossing his arms. "He's quite a handful, isn't he?"

I had to agree.

We talked for hours that day; we really had nothing else to do and neither of us cared much for television. I told Kurama how our acquaintanceship began, as well as general information about myself. I shared what Hiei had revealed about his past, how he knew Kurama and gotten to this point in his life.

The redhead listened objectively, interjecting a question every so often but for the most part remaining silent. I honestly couldn't tell what he thought of my story, or whether my relationship with Hiei pleased him. Every fifteen minutes or so, he would check Hiei's pulse as well as his breathing, though he made no move to wake him.

"Are you a medical student?" I asked early in the afternoon, watching his attentions while boiling water for tea.

Kurama smirked, amusement pulling the corners of his eyes. "Something to that effect."

He didn't go into detail and I suddenly found I didn't want to know any more about this man.

"Can you tell what happened?"

Kurama nodded, tracing the stitches with nimble fingers. "He was stabbed with a blade, though I have no idea what led up to the scenario. It's unlike Hiei to get into fights he cannot win."

"A coward."

The interjection made both of us look down. Twin sets of red blinked open and Hiei slowly rose to his elbows, squinting in the light. "Some dickhead tried to rob me, masquerading as a confused tourist." He winced, touching the stitches. "When I told him to get lost, he went for my bag; I didn't see the blade until it was too late."

Kurama furrowed his brow. "Did he take anything from you?"

"My pride." He glanced around before his gaze settled on me, a question burning on his tongue.

I smiled at his raspy voice, still thick with sleep. "Don't worry, I grabbed your bag earlier, remember? See, it's right here."

He followed my hand to the black sack on the table, nodding minutely before turning back to Kurama. "How long have you been here?"

"A few hours now." A muted smile and the redhead pressed gently against Hiei's chest, pushing him back against the pillow. "You need more rest."

Hiei looked like he wanted to argue but soon enough fell back into slumber, lips parted ever so slightly.

We ate dinner in relative silence, a simple meal of pasta and a tomato, onion and tofu salad. No matter which subject we attempted to discuss, both our attentions drifted back to Hiei, who remained lost to sleep.

"Tell me, has he mentioned Yukina to you?"

"Yukina?" I thought a moment, running through countless conversations. "No, that's the first I've heard of her. Why?"

Kurama brought a hand to his mouth, pressing a fist firmly to his lips. Then, after a moment's consideration, he continued. "Yukina is Hiei's sister; twin sister, actually." He glanced towards the man sleeping on my couch, a touch of pity tugging at his eyes. "They were separated shortly after entering the foster care system, at age five or so. Hiei has been looking for her ever since."

I leaned forward, brows drawn. "Is that why he's stayed in Tokyo all this time, to find her?"

"Yes but finding one person in such a big city is a daunting task. He got word that she lived here years ago, though he never could acquire a direct address." Kurama's eyes narrowed and he folded his hands in his lap. "This is probably an unnecessary precaution but do say anything about Yukina. If Hiei wants you to know, he will tell you when he's ready."

As the hour waxed late, Kurama cleared his throat at my incessant yawns, checking his watch. "You should get some sleep, Miss."

I knew he was right – definitely couldn't lay out of work two days in a row – yet still I hesitated, gaze roving to Hiei. "But, what about–"

"Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him."

Who was this man sitting in my living room? Kurama possessed a practiced calm, a confident bedside manner many practitioners lacked. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, whereas the only thing I knew about him was his relationship to Hiei. "Are you sure?"

"Quite." He smiled then, a sincere motion. "Please do not concern yourself with me – the arrangements have already been made."

Arrangements? Who talked like that, anyway? The man was a walking dictionary. "Um, okay." I rose, retrieving two blankets. "In case he gets cold." The cotton felt warm in my hand as I set one blanket at the end of the couch, handing Kurama the other.

He bowed from his seat, laying the blanket on the arm of the chair. "Thank you for all you've done. Sleep well."

I woke up to find both of them gone, blankets folded and placed back in the linen closet, dishes washed and drying on the rack. Work passed slowly that day and when night fell, I found the seat unoccupied once again.

Nearly a week passed this way; I didn't dare return to the bridge. Kurama had promised to keep an eye on Hiei – if he trusted the aptly-named fox, then so would I.

Finally, one night in mid-May I boarded the train to find him in his normal spot, looking out the window, left earbud in hand. Handel's Arrival of the Queen of Sheba serenaded us as the city watched on, talking about various topics from heady cherry blossoms acquiring muscle mass.

It was as if nothing had happened.

Summer passed with with its normal humidity and dreaded heat. Even with reliable air conditioning, the train car resembled an oven at times, thick air wrapping sticky fingers around my throat each time the automatic doors opened. Hiei never complained about the heat, even when sweat beaded on his brow and crept down his face:

He also refused to relinquish his winter wardrobe.

"How can you stand wearing long sleeves all the time?"

The train pulled away from the station as Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 began, dappled moonlight reflecting on the perspired window. Hiei sat with his knee drawn as always, yet I noticed the material of his pants was different, thinner. Even when sweat marked his temples as it did now, he never smelled of it – not the slightest trace of musk.

He snorted, leaning his cheek onto an awaiting fist. "The sun and I have never seen eye-to-eye."

A few more pointed questions revealed he'd never been able to stay in the sun for long without damaging his skin, the result of a medical condition he'd been born with. Coincidentally, his eyes were an unusual color due to that same genetic defect:

In short, Hiei was albino.

This was another reason he preferred wandering the city at night: few people if any would bother you, there was no danger of baking under the sun's rays, and he didn't have to hide behind sunglasses to protect his eyes.

On a balmy September evening, I asked if he was doing anything Saturday morning.

Hiei raised a brow and glanced my way. The suspicion had fled those eyes months ago, yet a wariness remained there – a complete aversion to surprises. "Why?"

I shrugged, reclining into the seat. "I was wondering if you'd like to take a train into the country, just to get out of the city for a while."

Red narrowed to quarter-cherry slices. "Why?" He demanded again, voice tight.

Another shrug. "Honestly? I want to see what you look like in the daytime." I nudged his shoulder. "Don't worry, the trip's on me – I just want to see you."

I wasn't prepared for Saturday morning. Nerves wracked my brain and stomach as I slid into my sandals, fighting the entire trip to the station. What if he didn't come? What if he didn't have a good time? What if we couldn't mesh during the day like we did at night, if darkness was behind the ease between us?

The butterflies crested in my stomach when I found him waiting at a bench in the terminal, bag draped over one shoulder, cheap sunglasses hiding half his face. His customary beanie was gone; raven hair reached skyward, like flames from the deepest pits of hell. No one else sat with him, though the bench could easily hold several people. There seemed to be a natural aversion to his presence, an invisible radius of five feet or so.

His pointed scowl didn't help.

"Ready to go?"

Hiei looked over as I made my way into that bare circle, rising to his feet. For a few moments, he simply stared, though I couldn't gauge his reaction because of the dark shades. Then, with a grunt, he re-shouldered his bag and demanded where we were going.

The ride to Kamakura took roughly an hour and a half, during which we talked, ate convenience store bento and, of course, listened to music. I didn't mind sitting in his normal spot by the window, the sun was warm on my face and the scenery stretched for miles. Cheery tunes by Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky serenaded us during the trip, as well as sprinklings of Bach and Haydn. The leaves were just beginning to change and somehow it seemed cooler here than in the city.

We spent a few hours in the historic city, visiting quite a few temples and shrines. Hiei didn't appear impressed with the scenery yet he never left my side, leveling more than one local with a dirty look. I couldn't help but laugh at his antics.

It wasn't until the ride back that I confided in him about a very personal matter.

"There are these men I work with, three coworkers about my age." I began as Beethoven's Silence drifted into my ear, airy notes somehow helping the words come. "They've been showing me a lot of, um, unwanted attention."

I told him how the incidents started a few months before, what began as idle small talk quickly morphed into raunchy comments and long glances focused on intimate places.

"And I don't know what to do." Anxiety coiled in my stomach and I leaned forward, massaging my eyelids. "I've told my boss but we're a small business just getting off the ground – he's not willing to fire anyone yet. They behave themselves when he's around so he doesn't take it seriously, an out-of-sight, out-of-mind sort of thing."

"Then your employer is a fool." He spat, staring at the clenched fist in his lap. Finally, after a moment's consideration, Hiei looked at me, sliding the sunglasses down so I could see those fierce eyes. "Don't let them to catch you alone under any circumstances."

Another week came and went and suddenly it was Saturday again. I spent most of the morning lounging in my pajamas, wishing the weekend would pass quickly so I could see Hiei. I'd thought

of asking him out again but dismissed the thought. Hiei seemed the type to run at intimacy of any sort – he'd proven as much earlier that year – so I stuck with train rides. Last week had been fun, an anomaly in our ride-share relationship:

We did things on his terms and I was okay with that.

Finally, I got dressed and went out, intent on doing something productive. Shopping didn't take long – the super market wasn't far – and the heat remained somewhat bearable. An afterthought brought me to a little music shop on the corner, humming an opera piece while browsing the bargain bins:

That's where they found me.

"So, you like music?"

I froze, a classical collection set in my hand. They stood there in casual attire, denim and t-shirts in place of three piece suits. The three stooges, the ringleader and his two minions–

This couldn't be a coincidence.

"Why don't you come out with us sometime?" The sandy-haired one – Masaka – asked, sauntering over to the bin. "There's plenty of nightlife around here. We could go after work–"

"No, thank you." I answered as politely as I could, dropping the CD while tightening my hold on the grocery bags.

"It'll be fun." Masaka urged, trailing behind as I stepped into the street. Even though it was Saturday afternoon, this part of town never saw much action – nothing of note resided here save a handful of stores. "There are plenty of clubs around here, you can listen to all the music you want–"

"No thank you." I repeated, a bit firmer this time. "I have no interest in clubbing."

He shrugged, smirking. "That's fine, there are plenty of other things to do around here." The other two snickered, though I couldn't see their faces. "C'mon, don't be a wet blanket! Let us take you out."

"No thanks." I quipped, refusing to look at him.

Masaka frowned, stepping in front of me and grabbing my arm. "What, think you're too good for me?"

My blood chilled as reality hit. We were alone in a virtually deserted neighborhood, and they didn't want to let me go. Hiei's warning sped through my mind and I did the only thing I could think of–

I stomped his foot as hard as I could.

"Ow!" Masaka cried, releasing me instantly. I dropped the bags and took off, running as fast as I could. When I neared the warehouses I heard their pounding footsteps, their ragged curses and snarls. The river lay in the distance – I saw it through breaks in the buildings – but I didn't know if I could make it there before them, even with a head-start.

I've never been very fast.

"Hiei!" I screamed as the water drew closer, as my lungs began to burn. They were catching up, I could hear their words clearly now. "Hiei!"

Of course, I had no way of knowing whether he'd be at the river this time of day, or whether this was close to where I found him last time. So many uncertainties, all variables I couldn't control. Yet it was too late to doubt myself now, I had to keep running–

This was my only chance.

"Hiei!"

A chain-link fence separated us from the river and I sprang onto the metal, climbing with the grace of a duck in mud. I saw a bridge a few yards away, the underside too dark to make out. He had to be there; he had to be!

"Hiei!"

A hand around my ankle and I screamed as gravity took over, aiding my descent. I hit the ground hard, rough gravel digging into both legs. Before I could think of screaming again a firecracker went off inside my mouth and I tasted blood.

Masaka shook his reddened hand, frowning. "You made a big mistake, princess." He shook his head and the other two pulled me to my feet, one gripping my arm, the other my hair. "All we wanted was to have a bit of fun and you had to make a big deal out of it."

I swallowed hard, eyes wide as I stared at him.

"Oh well, this looks like a good enough spot; plenty of places to choose from." He smirked, motioning to the warehouses around us. Turning, he motioned to his companions. "Bring her over here."

"N-no!" I struggled against them then, for all the good it did. My scalp hurt from the big one's grip; I was definitely going to have bruises. I dug my feet in and screamed, hoping, praying someone would hear me. "NO!"

A metallic rattle sounded and suddenly big boy grunted, releasing his hold. A fresh hand – a familiar hand – grabbed my left arm and pulled me away, back towards the fence.

I lost my balance and fell, though that hand kept me from hitting the ground full force. A wash of black greeted me as I looked up, interrupted only by pale skin and sharp crimson.

"H-Hiei?"

Hiei offered me a quick cursory glance, taking in the disheveled hair, the bleeding lip, the fact that I couldn't catch my breath. He let go only when he was sure I could stand on my own, stepping so I was hidden from view.

Masaka scowled. "Who are you?"

That red glare narrowed and Hiei took a ready stance, wielding a dagger which was in no way legal. "Touch her again and I'll slit your throat."

His eyes widened as he noticed the weapon and he backed away, flanked by his flunkies. "Look man, we don't want any trouble. We were just trying to–"

"Rape a helpless woman, I know." Hiei replied, nose wrinkling. "Pathetic."

"Hey, we don't have any issues with you–"

"Don't ever bother this woman again." The blade shifted in Hiei's hand and he pointed it at Masaka, brow furrowing. "Leave now, and I'll let you keep the ability to breed."

I've never seen anyone run away as quickly.

"You found another job?"

"Yes." I sighed, running tired fingers through my bangs. "It's not perfect by any means but definitely a vast improvement."

True, this new position called for longer hours but with no creepy coworkers and free danishes, I couldn't complain. Working at a bakery suited me better than some desk job, anyway.

Hiei nodded, glancing out the window at the freshly fallen snow. Winter had found us again before I was ready. With Christmas just around, the shop remained swamped with cake orders; I'd just managed to catch the train.

When I'd thanked him for saving me that day, Hiei just shrugged and said 'we're even now'. Though some things had definitely changed since that second encounter by the river: now, he let me choose the songs sometimes, whether they were classical or not; also, he allowed me to sit close to him due to the cold, so close we touched nearly every night.

I never understood how he stayed so warm.

"So, how's Kurama?"

A dismissive grunt. "The same as always."

I cocked my head to the side. "Meaning?"

"He's spending Christmas with his mother."

A gasp rose unbidden. "You mean Shiori's alive?"

He looked at me as if I were stupid. "Of course she's alive. I said she had cancer – I never said she died."

"That's great!" I grinned; I couldn't help it. Hopefully, they would have a good holiday together. "Do you have any plans for Christmas?"

Hiei shrugged but remained silent, tapping out the melody to Prokofiev's Troika.

I chewed my inner cheek, debating. Finally, midway through the song, I spoke up. "Do me a favor."

He glanced over, brow raised.

Taking a deep breath, I took the plunge. "Spend Christmas with me." As I watched the old walls fly up I quickly added. "I know it's a selfish request but I don't have anyone to spend Christmas with. My family's back in Gifu and I don't have the money to go home right now. Please?"

Silence prevailed and he continued to watch me, fingers steadily moving with the song.

Two weeks passed and suddenly it was Christmas Eve. I honestly didn't expect Hiei to show up – he never answered me one way or the other – yet at around 5 pm a knock sounded at my door, a reserved tap. He stood alone in the hall, gift in-hand, a blush dusting both cheeks.

I couldn't have been happier.

We took our time preparing dinner, all the while listening to selections from The Nutcracker on the stereo. Hiei was a surprisingly good cook; he knew how to bake chicken until it was perfectly done, moist and juicy. He could do things with vegetables I'd never even heard of, and he could make a mean ginger cake. All thoughts of awkwardness faded as we weaved around each other in red and green aprons, the food acting as a catalyst for whatever secret the night held.

After dinner, we sat together on the couch, suddenly at a loss for words. After a moment's consideration, he handed me his present – a medium-sized box which rattled as it left his hands.

I peeled the paper away carefully, heedless of the wrinkled edges. No doubt, he'd wrapped this himself.

What lay inside took my breath away.

Several CDs lay inside the box, each track a song we'd listened to during our daily commutes. They were all there: Bach, Schubert, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Brahms; too many composers to name rested beneath my fingertips. All of the songs, each containing a different story, a small piece of himself–

They were all there.

"Hiei." I breathed, touching first one cover, then another.

He looked decidedly uncomfortable, refusing to look me in the eye. "You don't have to keep them." A faint murmur, the barest of whispers.

"No, I love it." I said, shaking my head. Smiling, I reached out and touched his hand. "Thank you."

Another blush, though he said nothing in return.

I picked up my gift – small in comparison to his – and handed it over. Hiei's brows rose as he looked at the wrapped box, turning it first this way then that before opening it.

A necklace fell into his waiting hand, a black dragon carved from African blackwood attached to a smart chain. The figure was just over two inches long, highly polished with reaching arms and a gaping mouth. I'd bought it for him months before, paying a month's rent for the item even while finding it on sale.

His reaction was worth the price.

Eyes wide, he stared at the necklace, mouth falling open. His fingers traced the smooth wood, as if handling the most valuable china. Finally, he shook his head, extending his hand. "I can't accept this."

I blinked, taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"It's too valuable; I can't take something like this from you."

Another smile found my lips and I pressed his fingers closed around the necklace, pushing his fist against his chest. "You're not – I'm giving it to you."

"But why?" He demanded. "Why would you give me something like this?"

"Isn't it obvious?" My chest clenched at what sprang to my tongue next but there was no stopping the words. "It's because I love you."

Hiei's eyes widened further and his lips parted once again, though for once he seemed at a loss for words.

I ran shaking fingers through my hair, a weak smile taking hold. Too late to take it back now. "I've loved you for a long time now, Hiei; I think I loved you the moment I met you." My cheeks burned; my body felt hot and it had nothing to do with the crappy radiator. "You're one of the kindest people I've ever met, though you have a hard time showing it. You're also loyal, confident, and sarcastic to a fault; you make me laugh when I want to cry. I always feel safe with you." I couldn't gauge his expression, couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Look, I don't know if you feel the same way and if you don't, I understand. I just couldn't go another day without tell–"

A blur of motion and his lips met mine, stealing the rest of the words. He kissed me firmly, fingers twining through the hair at the back of my neck as he massaged my mouth. I gave into his caresses without a second thought, losing myself to that petal-soft touch, the gentle urgency.

Finally, he pulled away, eyes glazed. "Does that answer your question?"

I laughed, I couldn't help it. "Yes." I managed to breath before he dove back in, taking me into his arms.

Various Christmas decorations watched on as we continued this wild dance, including a sprig of mistletoe dangling overhead.

January came again, encasing the city in even more ice and snow.

The train rolled into Shinjuku station at exactly 8:05 pm, punctual as always. I boarded and quickly made my way to our seat, knowing Hiei would be waiting.

I greeted him with a smile; he handed me the left earbud without a word. The bag no longer rested at his feet. No, it was at home, our home–

Where we were going right then.

My hand found his beneath the fold of his coat, warm and rough, as always. He laced sure fingers around mine, pulling me closer ever so slightly. I laid my head against his shoulder as Sleeping Beauty Waltz played, fighting to keep my eyes open.

"Sleep." He said softly, shifting so I could use the entirety of his shoulder. "I'll wake you before we stop."

I nodded against him, sighing and closing my eyes. Yes, we still had a lot to learn about each other – Hiei still possessed many trust issues and I kept having nightmares about that last day by the river – but that would come with time. We'd managed to ask and answer 364 questions, as well as begin a relationship, all in a single year:

Who knows how far things would go in another year?