Muraki decided, as he gently pressed Tsuzuki onto his back beneath him, that he could quite happily spend the rest of his days far away from the living in this state of intimacy. His pale lips were swollen from the kisses they had shared, damp and reluctant to be parted from the Shinigami's even briefly. Tsuzuki was turning out to be everything he had dreamed he would be, as purely submissive and desperate for affection in this broken state as seemed possible.

For a moment the doctor paused to shrug off his trench coat and crisp, white suit jacket, scowling as his watch caught on the sleeve and hindered his movements. Tsuzuki stared up at him, eyes still alive with a faint film of tears, his own sore lips parted, a soft whimper of complaint issuing between them at the lack of attention. That sound spurred Muraki to tug sharply at the caught sleeve, not caring that it ripped, and tossing it aside like a rag, he returned his attention to his prize.

Heated lips met, and Tsuzuki felt again that irresistible connection between them, something he had dreaded feeling at first, but now couldn't get enough of. It was more addictive than anything he'd craved before, at once arousing and comforting. It was this closeness he'd needed all along, this sense of belonging and it didn't matter that it was with Muraki, because despite all the lies and trickery, Muraki genuinely wanted him too.

He felt deft fingers manipulating the buttons of his shirt parting it with the utmost care and smoothing it away from his shoulders. He shivered, this last barrier to the air being stripped from him, but the heat of the body above him remedied that almost immediately. Fingers ghosted across his chest and abdomen, so light he barely felt them, and yet his body still arched upwards in response, a breathy gasp escaping him and his fingers clasping tightly at the sofa cushion.

Muraki seemed spell-bound, taking his time in exploring the new territory that was revealed to him, the lean, hard body with its delicate musculature, definition subtle but most definitely there, tone that was easily hidden, to the point that he seemed almost too slender in his everyday working garb. This was perfection. His lips followed the paths his fingers had taken, leaving damp, warm trails over the contours of Tsuzuki's chest. The Shinigami writhed beneath him, finally unable to resist holding the doctor, and his fingers left the sofa, arms making a vain attempt to reach up around his neck. His shirt, pushed down around his elbows, prevented him from doing so.

Muraki ended his ministrations temporarily to slide his hands beneath the Shinigami and lift him slightly from the sofa, easing the garment the rest of the way off him. It was cast aside, landing in a crumpled heap with Muraki's own clothing. Tsuzuki was about to reach for him again, but the doctor caught hold of his right wrist with both hands, sitting up as he straddled the brunette's hips. Slowly, ivory fingers began to work at the buckle on his watch-strap, and Tsuzuki froze again.

"Muraki. Please don't."

The silver haired man glanced at him briefly, but did not stop. The watch fell away, landing with a dull thud on the floor. Both men stared at the latticework of scars upon Tsuzuki's slender wrist, evidence of his own self- loathing and sheer desperation. How many times had he slashed that delicate flesh? The scars were too numerous and overlapping to make any estimate, but the Shinigami could well remember the blood. There had been so much, and for a moment he recalled seeing fingers twitching, slick with vitae that enveloped his arm all the way up to his elbow. His eyes took on that distant look again, as if his mind was lost in the nightmare, and though they were open, he was not really conscious.

Muraki smiled faintly, adoring how lost and vulnerable he seemed. Was it wrong of him, if he loved him, to cause such unpleasant reminders? He pressed his lips to those scars, letting his tongue trace them gently until Tsuzuki's eyes fluttered, pupils dilating and fixed on him once more.

"Tsuzuki-san. You don't need to dwell on those memories anymore. You are not alone now."

There came a choked sob from the Shinigami, tears flowing again, lip trembling slightly. He turned his face away. It was not as easy to cast aside his memories as Muraki might think, to try and justify what he did and how many deaths he was responsible for. His wrist was released, soft kisses pressed to the skin upon which the tears were streaming, and then he felt the doctor climbing off him, weight rising from the sofa. For some reason, this sparked off sheer panic in Tsuzuki, and he sat up abruptly, grabbing at Muraki's shirt. The doctor looked down at him, pleased with this response. Gently he eased the trembling hands away from his shirt.

"I.I." Tsuzuki struggled for words, but Muraki silenced him with a shake of his head.

"You don't need to say anything, Asato. I won't abandon you." Tsuzuki's arms slid around his neck, the trembling less severe. Muraki slid one arm about his back, the other behind his knees, and lifted him from the sofa effortlessly, treating him as if he were a fragile thing that might shatter at any given moment. Without another word, he turned and exited the room, carrying Tsuzuki upstairs towards the Master Bedroom.

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