A/N: Sequel to Datenshi Blue. Result of a "game" on my LJ, whereupon I requested people to give me a first line, or a line of dialogue and request one of my 'verses to write a ficlet of. Each person can request up to five ficlets. This was requested by Poldera. Anyway, hope you all enjoy this. This is unbetaed, so forgive me any mistakes. This was written directly onto LJ.

"Do you enjoy being actively broken?"

I didn't know why I spoke, much less why I chose to ask that. It was merely a passing thought I had while looking at him (though God knew I looked at him too often for it to be merely in passing). I had not spoken to him since that day, although it would perhaps be more appropriate to say that I had not had any contact with his since that day in the music room. Lucas and I didn't speak. He had spoken to me, although it had seemed then and even now as I think of it, as though he was speaking through me rather than to me. My feet found themselves taking me towards him one lunch time, the pale light of day hardly casting any warmth despite it being noon, reminding me yet again of his glacial, untouchable beauty. Something to be admired from afar, and not to be touched and yet here I was, standing so close to him that I could all but feel him, could barely hear the rasp of his breath, see the evidence of his living in the white cloud that puffed lazily between those pale pink lips.

There were shadows underneath his eyes, painting that paper thin, white skin with bruises. Long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones and still, still he did not look at me, did not deign me with even a glance or a flicker of an eyelid in acknowledgment. His steadfast refusal to notice me drew my ire, my frustration, as it did before. The memories of him, of his body pressed against mine, of his hair underneath my hands, the discordant sound of the piano under my body. Of his lips, smooth with a hint of roughness moving across my chairs, wrapped around my cock, sucking me into his wet, warm mouth - I pushed those thoughts aside.

I had not meant to think of it, never meant to think of it again and yet my traitorous mind did nothing but replay those moment over and over again. Yet despite that, despite still feeling his touch lingering on me, I felt removed from it. I felt as though I was looking at those memories on a screen, a silent picture flickering to life in front of my eyes, the colours dull and faded as old movies tended to be. I could not clearly remember his scent, could not clearly remember the touch of his hand, the kiss of his lips even as I felt branded by him. Even as my very body sings his name, even as my blood pulsed through my body with a steady beat of "Lucas, Lucas, Lucas".

I stood in front of him, hands shoved into my pockets almost irritably, uncomfortably, keeping my body still of fidgeting as he continued to stare off into space, book lying forgotten in his lap and it was all I could do not to rush over, not to grip those thin shoulder in my hands, all I could do not to shake him hard until those dark, dark, blank eyes slid to me, locked on mine and I could finally see a spark of recognition, so finally my name would resound in him as his resounded in me. And mostly - wayward, accidentally voiced question or not - I wanted to know, to hear his answer because I was so very, painfully curious. I wanted to know, wanted to find out if those invisible broken wings I imagine so very vividly were an affectation or if it was something out of his control. Did those meaningless trysts with nameless men fulfill him or did he merely join in to find some sort of strange meaning in his life? To feel alive? I wanted to know how he thought, wanted to know what went through his mind.

I was obsessed with him, as obsessed as Humbert with Lolita, even if Lucas was not the sly coquette that she was. I was obsessed to the point of madness. I couldn't not think of him no matter how hard I tried and I tried, I tried time and time again to forget, to hate, to push aside that time, that one and only painful time... but I couldn't. I could still see him by that piano, hear the sadness that his fingers teased from ivory keys, could still see those shadows of broken wings stretch out over the floor. I could still smell polish and paper, cologne and sweat and grass. I stepped closer, wanting to smell that again, needing to catch that scent once more but finally he moved, finally he snapped shut that book and put it away. Without a word he stood, without a word he started to walk... away.

I found my hand wrapped around his wrist in a heartbeat, not even realized I had moved until I felt the thin cotton of his shirt, unburdened by the heavy, still blazer that most wore to ward out the cold. Not even the knitted black jumper did he wear to maintain some warmth and he was cold to the touch, even through the shirt. If I had to felt the steady beat of his pulse under my fingers, I would have thought him a walking corpse and oh, how that would have suited him far more than being a mere mortal man. I found myself whispering his name, just once, and he did not turn, did not look at me still and just stayed docile in my grasp, an insect in my web, waiting to be devoured. A sacrificial lamb. With a cry, I flung his arm aside as though he burnt me, whirling around to sit heavily on his abandoned bench and even that did not hold the slightest trace of his body heat, even there did his warmth not linger. I ran agitated fingers through my hair, hands shaking so that I had to curl them to hide the weakness, gripping my hair in a fist that was almost painful. I tugged just a little bit harder, needing the pain to wake me up from this living, beautiful, cold nightmare that Lucas had placed me in.

"Please," I whispered, achingly, needily. "Please just... just answer me. Talk to me." I looked up at him, seeing that small, still back, as ever just his back, facing me. Not even once acknowledging me from the masses. "See me."

Nothing. Nothing at all. He lingered only a moment before he walked and this time, I let him go, watching his retreating back in dejection, shoulders slumped. There was his answer, that was my cue. I should forget it, forget him. I should leave it all behind and move on, go back to my life, to my women and dancing and drinks. Drown the memory of that blank, lifeless face in alcohol so that every kiss I took would no longer taste of him.

I couldn't even find it in me to delude myself to comfort.