There is a night Masaki remembers, before the days of Raitei. He'd woken early, and stood looking down at the threadbare scavenged mattress he'd risen from, because Teshimine Takeru remained, fast asleep. Long lashes guarded golden eyes, soft lips were slightly parted. Although he'd shifted, his arm once again had stretched out over the place where Masaki had rested beside him.

     Dawn broke, and Masaki stayed, watching the light creep across the exquisitely scarred face.

     Now Teshimine lies at his feet, bleeding. This also will become a memory.

     As Masaki walks away, he wonders which memory is better off forgotten.