His hands sometimes draw my attention and I find myself mesmerized by them. As one would expect of someone so lean and tall, he has long elegant fingers adept at a wide variety of actions. He can steal a coveted item like my application for the LME auditions just as easily as he can caress the keys of a piano. His hands can return to me a source of comfort and joy or he can block my bathroom escape from impending doom. These extensions of his power can fill me with the feeling of safety or with the fluttering butterflies that frighten me and rattle the last vestiges of control I hold upon my heart.

Those graceful hands help him express himself more fully. With a flick of his wrist and a flex of his muscles, they can show menace or anguish, tenderness or disdain, and power or weakness. More so than any part of his body, save perhaps his haunting eyes, they are a direct link with his soul. I have held them in my own trembling grip in the face of near disaster and he has promised that in that moment that I reached his soul that was lost in the darkness.

A blush creeps across my cheeks and lends a tinted glow to my complexion. His hands hold a certain masculinity that make me think strange things at times. I squash those dangerous images from my mind before they can take root like the incipient threat to my personal well-being that they are. My gaze flicks back to his hands once more. They are not rough or gruffly calloused like the hands of a laborer yet they are not soft or delicate like a pampered pansy. His nails are squared and blunt to reflect his no nonsense attitude and the knuckles have faint white scars marring his otherwise perfect skin. Those slightly damaged hands hold a quiet source of power which has been known to inspire me to bravery or to coax me into agreeing to something I had emotionally considered rejecting.

They are so much an extension of the might and strength within the man who looms daily in my thoughts as well as batters at the last protections on my soul.

Once again, I am drawn from my meandering thoughts by the magical power of his hands. Although he reclines in the folding chair supplied for the actors not active in the current on location scene in Kyoto, I can tell that something is bother him by the actions solely exhibited by his enthralling hands. At this moment, they are shifting in agitation. His hands move in jerking movements that lack his normal grace and poise. Unconsciously, his fingers clench into a fist throwing his scarred knuckles into sharp relief with the slowly reddening skin stretched taught with frustration. It is like he is grasping something precious and refusing to let go. Because I too have finally found things that I want to hold tight and never to let go, I recognize his desire to tightly secure whatever he fears is elusively escaping his grip.

Despite the spell his hands have cast, my thoughts drift to my own precious things that I hold close to my heart. In that moment of scattered thought, I find myself transported to a dappled grove with water tinkling against the rocks as the tiny stream scrambles deeper into the woods. The soft sounds of the moving water is punctuated by the occasional call of birds or the movement of small animals through the underbrush. I can almost feel the heat of the day creeping into my muscles and bones along with the peace that the memory of that special place always gives me. That pervading peace that relaxes all the tension from my body reminds me that my precious senpai is not feeling near as relaxed as I am feeling.

"Are you nervous?" I timidly inquire as I drag my gaze from his fidgeting movements to his dark hair which has fallen over his averted eyes.

As expected, he does not answer me. That is nothing new. He almost never admits to a weakness in front of me. To cover my embarrassment at drawing attention to his discomfort, I stumble for something to say. I know that he hates when I apologize for the little things that fill me with guilt so I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind.

"I know that you like the wilds of nature. Do you want to visit my special place near the inn where I grew up when we have a break in filming?"

I have never considered taking anyone to my secret spot from my childhood, not even Shotaro, but it seems somehow fitting to offer the special place to the concerned actor. I suspect he will appreciate it and I hope that it would provide him just a small glimmer of peace.

"Tsuruga-san?" I call gently when I still get no response. My concern grows.

"Ren?"

Shaking his head and lifting his eyes only slightly to meet my worried gaze, the man for whom I have come to respect and to care more than any other person raises his dark brow in question.

"What was that, Mogami-san?" he replies with no change in his expression. Despite the lack of confusion on his face, I can tell that he has absolutely no idea what I asked him. He is not just replying quickly as he collects his thoughts. He truly did not hear anything that I said. I am not sure how I know this. I can't help but smile softly as I consider that perhaps it is all the time I have spent in his company while acting, learning, playing and even pretending with this handsome man with the mesmerizing hands. Whatever it is that provides the insight, I know that he did not hear my ill timed questions. This relieves me. I hate when he sees me as foolish or childish.

My fascination with Tsuruga-san's hands shifts to his tenderly lit eyes and the tell tale twitch of his lips which make the horde of butterflies take flight once more in my stomach. Unconsciously, I take a tiny step back from the intensity of the expression that I have come to fear because it causes my emotions to react in ways I can't seem to control. The briefest flash of pain skitters through his dark eyes and I instantly regret my retreat. I would do anything in my power to erase the momentary hurt from his eyes. Unaware of my unconscious movement, I take two steps forward and my fingers reach to brush his dark locks from their strayed position over his eyes.

When my fingertips skim lightly over his sun-warmed skin, the neutral expression that had replaced the pained one disappears. In its place, a fierce, almost possessive expression hardens his lips and narrows his eyes. Like a targeted prey animal, I freeze.

Quick, like the predator that he is, my senpai captures my hand that is poised just a hair's breadth from his cheek. His grip is firm as he turns his head just a tiny margin and places the softest of kisses into the palm of my trembling hand.

"Kyoko-chan," he whispers against my captured hand which is enclosed within his own.

I am held tight within his grasp. There is nowhere left for me to run. All hope is lost. His hands have captured me; there will be no more escape for my hand, my heart or my soul.