There were some things that Shuichi never thought about. Things that he would never allow his ambling mind to wander to. Times of pain and humiliation. No, Shuichi never thought of those things. Instead he focussed on his music and on Eiri's well-being.

But there were moments when he would lose focus. Often when he was alone in the dark, if Eiri was away on a book tour or simply away, but mostly it was in his dreams.

Too many nights he had woken in a cold sweat with the reminiscent imaginings of ghostly hands upon his skin. On those nights, if he had not woken his lover as he had on some occasions, he would silently slip out of the warm bed away from Eiri and don the shirt that the writer had been wearing that day. He liked that the soft cotton caressed away the nightmarish feeling of fingertips on his skin – much the same way that Eiri had after the 'incident'. But when he woke in the middle of the night, Shuichi knew that he could never tell Yuki about the hands.

He knew only too well just how fragile his lover's soul was, despite his crass persona, and how it destroyed the writer every time he displayed even the smallest fear in the bedroom. Although Yuki was always understanding.

So instead he would pad barefoot from their bedroom into the living room and curl up on the sofa before he would allow the tears to fall. Dirty.