"I'm leaving." Reishin declared offhandedly as he threw back the sheets.
Hair, black like ink and smooth as though fine, imperial silk, spilled carelessly over Houju's exposed shoulder. He flipped to lie on his side, his head supported on one hand, and watched was the flawless, porcelain-like skin of Reishin's shoulder disappeared beneath the fabric of his white under robe.
The snow outside fluttered silently in the deep winter night. The ethereal glow of the moon filtered through the rice-paper windows, bathing the room in its cold, magnificent light.
Reishin smoothed down his robe and stepped into the pool of light. Houju's gaze lingered unwillingly on his now fully-dressed lover, whose elegant features were made all the more indifferent by the pale, detached moonlight. His pride would never allow him to admit that he resented Reishin for always leaving without even the courtesy of regret.
"Why do you always go back?" Houju asked, his voice tainted with just the barest detectable trace of dismay.
There was no answer, just like he knew there wouldn't be.
The sound of the door closing rang in the midnight stillness.
Reishin entered the master bed chamber. The burning candles in the candelabras were almost half gone. The hour was late, already past midnight, but Reishin ordered a bath anyway; Houju's scent was on him still.
He bathed quickly, and, after pulling on a clean cotton under robe, blew out the candles.
Darkness fell in the room, permeated unobtrusively by the dim, wintry glow of the moon.
Reishin lied motionlessly on the soft, silk-threaded cotton sheets, his hair splashed across the pillow like tresses of ink. The cold, clear silence, collecting as though dew on a stiff, frozen leaf, enveloped him in the stillness.
Moments later, the sound of the door being opened broke the quiet. A small, ephemeral smile fluttered Reishin's lips. He threw back the cover. After a few seconds, Kouyuu's thin, frail form climbed over him and nestled on the inside of the bed. Reishin turned on his side, one arm stretched casually across the length of the pillow, and instantly Kouyuu curled against him.
Kouyuu's robes were cold; his hands, which rested against Reishin's chest, were colder. Reishin wondered absently why Kouyuu never wore a coat during his nightly trip.
He waited until the child found a comfortable position, and, tucking the cover securely around the boy's neck, draped an arm protectively over Kouyuu's huddled form. The boy shifted a little, and Reishin felt, with another imperceptible smile, childish finger twirling a strand of his hair that had fallen over his shoulder. He knew this was a habit of Kouyuu's; he does it every night, because it seemed to ascertain something for him that Reishin's embrace couldn't.
The calm stillness of the night again fell around him, and the dim glow of the moon was just as aloof as it had been in Houju's room, but somehow, the loneliness Reishin always feared with the approach of nightfall seemed less threatening in the shared warmth between them.