"Don't you dare," huffed the man, "don't you dare go near her. You aren't good enough for her . . ."

"Who?" I asked him, coming up on my knees as he sobbed into his hands. "Who is she?"

His fingers parted, revealing his beautiful eyes, flowing with tears. The symbol re-appeared on his forehead, glowing incandescent and he became a monster once more.

Mercifully, I awoke.

He swallowed. The monk thought he'd been past such dreams since his early days of study. He could feel the tightness of his hard-on pressing against the soft fabric of his trousers, and he blushed a little.

That dream!

Calm, he told himself. He breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Thrice.

He could still see her, the look of surprise on her face as he pushed her away. Actually, he could still feel her lips on his -

Stop. He sat up. Focus. It was just a dream. Men normally have such dreams, he reminded himself. Let it pass. Accept it and go on.

It wouldn't leave.

Chichiri inhaled deeply, closing his eye and concentrating on the world around him. The cool night breeze ruffling his hair, the song of crickets in the darkness, the feel of his clothing against his skin, and against -

"Daa!" he cried softly in frustration. "And I suppose it's been so long since I've had one of those types of dreams, that I'm not used to it, na no da?"

If that's the way it was going to be, well he could play stubborn too.

He summoned up a mental image of Taiitsu-kun. If that didn't work, he'd eat his kasa.

Fortunately for him, he didn't have to change his diet, and was able to return to a dreamless sleep.

Meanwhile, I sat at the little kitchenette table, hunched over the surface, intent on my work. Even now, it seemed magical, how a simple line from a pencil could say so much, hold so much meaning, transforming everything else on the page. I was bent double over my work, practically flat on the table, one arm curved around the sketchpad, the other manipulating the soft-leaded pencil. I'd win no prizes for deportment, that's for sure.

A soft knock interrupted my work. I looked down at it for a moment. Eyes looked back at me. Eyes, wild fringe of hair, and the symbol. The knock came a little louder this time, but not by much. I flipped the sketchbook closed and hurried to the door, wondering who it could be.

As I looked through the peephole, I smiled to myself and opened the door. Perhaps I'd been too hasty to say only one good thing was coming of being awakened from these dreams. Keisuke stood outside, dressed in his usual morning exercise attire, his solemn face admitting to some trepidation. "I saw your light on, Maeve-san," he began.

I smiled. "Would you like some coffee, Keisuke?"

His relief sparkled through his expression, and I let him inside. "I have not seen you outside the past few days, Maeve-san," he admitted as I led the way to my kitchen.

"It isn't really my normal habit to get up this early," I confessed as I filled the coffee maker with coffee and water. As I turned the machine on, I said, "I've just been having some dreams."

"Dreams?"

I leaned on the counter and looked at him. "Yeah, dreams that wake me up and that won't let me go back to sleep afterwards."

"They are not . . . troubling you, I hope?"

I tugged at the end of my braid, twisting it between my fingers. "You know, Keisuke, I really can't say." And I really couldn't say, either. They were simply dreams, but they were beginning to haunt my waking life. Dreams strong enough for me to record them, ponder and mull them, draw pictures of them in my waking life. But "troubling"?

"I think," I began slowly, "it's that while the subject matter of my dreams aren't troubling to me, their vividness and strength are . . . " I frowned. "Influencing my life."

We were silent while the coffeemaker gurgled. I poured two cups and asked him how he took his coffee. "Very sweet," he said. "And with cream, please."

"Tell me when," I said, spooning sugar into his cup. He really did like it sweet. Right then, the air conditioning sputtered on and he jumped, then laughed nervously. I led him to the table and pushed my sketchpad aside.

"May I?" he asked, indicating the sketchpad. I stared at it a moment, a little hesitant. "Sure," I finally said, pushing it back towards him. "But I have to warn you, there is some nudity in there."

He chuckled and promised, "Then I'll keep my eyes covered while I look!" and proceeded to cover his face with his free hand, his laughing eyes peering out from between his fingers. I couldn't help it, it was so silly, and I watched him as he carefully flipped through the book, crying out, "I did not see that!" every time he happened upon one of the nudes. My head dropped forward as I helplessly giggled at his antics, and then I noticed he wasn't laughing anymore.

He was holding the sketchbook in both hands, looking intently at whatever it was I had on that page. I couldn't see what it was, so I asked him which picture he was looking at. Wordlessly, he showed me.

It was a study of a phoenix, in reds and golds, that I'd done in colored pencil a week or so ago. I was a little proud of it, the sweep of its wings, the way its tail fanned against a shower of sparks. "Do you like it?" I asked, a little afraid of his answer. The frozen expression on his face unnerved me a little.

He silently closed the book. "It's . . . it is beautiful, Maeve-san. You are - you are very gifted."

After a moment, I swallowed and spoke up. "You don't seem very pleased, Keisuke."

He seemed a little startled, and nodded his head, once, into something very like a bow. "Gomen, Maeve-san - your work is very beautiful, it is just that the picture . . . it reminds me . . ."

I waited for him to continue; instead he stood, saying, "Gomen nasai, Maeve-san. Thank you for the coffee. I - I must go."

I showed him to the door and watched him go back to his own apartment, lost in thought. I looked back at the sketchpad, studying the bird that I'd so painstakingly rendered in delicate strokes of crimson and goldenrod. It was something I'd done one afternoon, before heading into work. I had practically bounced into work that night, so proud of myself, so happy about that picture. Now I glared at it. "What was that all about?" I asked it.

But the picture didn't reply, and after a moment, I returned to the table, and drank my coffee.

Suzaku! he thought bitterly, as he stared at the framed photo of his family. Could he never escape that damned bird? His mother and sister smiled back at him, as well as the younger version of himself. He felt so old as he looked at his image in the photo. Was I ever that carefree? I don't remember.

I should never see her again. The sudden realization left him cold. He was starting to like Maeve, her forthrightness, her insights, her pleasant conversation. He was starting to feel comfortable around her, too. She'd intimidated him at first (though he'd never admit that to anyone!), with her serious face and eyes that could see things other people missed. But he could not risk it, not with that book still around. It was bad enough that she'd found it once.

He would never forgive himself if he allowed what happened to Miaka to happen to her, too.