Disclaimer: Fruits Basket is the property of it's creator, Natsuki Takaya. No infringement upon her copyrighted material is intended. "Ohne Dich" is property of Rammstein, and belongs expressly to Rammstein.
Without You
Time stands still in the picturesque clearing as the final tentative rays of dusk dance through thick tree branches. She walks alone, knowing what she is looking for, dreading the finding of it. Of him.
Her dread
(anticipation)
soon manifests itself in the form of young may, a boy.
She stumbles upon him with his back slumped casually against rough bark, sleeping. She knows he has been looking for her, knows it and regrets it, even fears the possibility of him finding her. If he were to find her, she is not sure she could stay away. And if he were to succeed, if he were to bring her back, she will never be able to live with herself.
He has already done so much for her, he has already done enough for her. For everyone. It is his turn to be happy.
…but sill, she cannot resist. Involuntarily she reaches out, and her hands, pale alabaster, travel through short, snowy locks; her flesh and his hair blend to become one, a blur of pure, unsullied white. For long moments she stands there, fingers nestled in silken strands of hair before she pulls her unruly appendages free, almost as if she has been burned.
She backs up two, and then steps forward three. The movements are surreal; not particularly against her will, but not part of her conscious either. Her motion is a result of her most base desires; selflessness, selfishness – neither have anything to do with it. She is made of nothing but lust and love, simultaneously, as she bends over and her ashen lips part in the softest of reluctant smiles as memories flood her mind. It's a grudging reminiscence, something she'd rather avoid, but she can't help it, there's something about the unabashed naiveté in his still, sleeping face that draws her closer to him, so close that her lips brush his. Even if she wants to, she can't call it a kiss. Rather, it is an exchange of warm breath, slight, barely there, but enough, just to enough to remind her of how she feels.
Without him, she feels as if she cannot be, and perhaps it is true.
Without Hatsuharu, she is incomplete, a starving artist's masterpiece lying forgotten in a dusty corner, unfinished. Without Hatsuharu, she is nothing but driftwood lost amidst the tumultuous maelstrom of the merciless ocean.
She backs away again, breaking their ever-so-slight contact. She is breathless. Without him, she feels as if she cannot be, and perhaps it is true. Perhaps he feels also that without her, he cannot be. Perhaps he needs her just as much as she needs him.
…because nothing, not even the tranquil scene portrayed before her, is worth it without him.
Eyes, slate grey and still murky with lingering lethargy, slowly flit open to a canopy of pine needles and incandescent light. There is the slightest sound of dry twigs crunching under small feet, but by the time he has identified the direction from which the sound came, she is gone.
….because even though she cannot exist without him, because even though nothing is worth it without him, because even though her life
(time)
cannot move without him, she does not want to ask the price he would have to pay to be with her. She cannot ask the price he would have pay to be with her.
…so instead she watches from the welcome obscurity of the trees, and perhaps that is enough. She can believe it is enough.
It is unfortunate that she has never given him the chance to tell him that it is not.
Thank you for reading. Critique of any kind is always appreciated. Take care.