One of my first oneshots ever. I've picked over it so many times that it's ridiculous, so I think I can finally just go "screw it," and throw it out there for you guys to dissect.

Fact about me: I got into Fruits Basket last summer at geek camp. I read the first seven volumes in about a week. It's what really got me into the anime/manga scene. Also, this happens to be my first FB piece that I ever tried to write. So, yes, it has a little bit of sentimental value. Please treat it nicely, but give me some real concrit.

-Erin 3

I've always loved the feeling of the kitchen right after dinner. My boys have just left, stomachs full and minds relaxed, for whatever their evening pursuits may hold. Shigure has showered me with loud and elaborate praise that leaves me blushing. Yuki's words are cool and polite, but his gentle pat on my shoulder speaks far louder, because I know he's not a touchy kind of guy. Kyo grumbles, but I know he liked the meal, too, since he ate everything, even the leeks.

I love the feeling of the kitchen while I'm cleaning it, putting away the leftovers, washing the dishes and returning them to their respective cabinets. I feel like…like a mother. I know that sounds strange, but I can't think how else to say it. These boys…my boys, they never had their meals cooked for them before me. Not like I do it, anyway, more for their pleasure than the basic need to eat. I don't put food on the table just because I have to, but also because I know it'll make them smile.

Kyo has turned on the television in the next room and is perched on the edge of the couch, riveted to some martial arts program and shouting a lot. Yuki is in there too. He's not saying anything, but I know he's watching and pretending not to be interested.

Dutifully, I wipe the counters clean and hum along with the mellow background noise of the radio. Then I bag the trash and nudge open the kitchen door with my foot, leaving it just outside in the gathering dusk so I'll remember to leave it at the curb in the morning. Wiping my hands on my apron in a satisfied sort of way, I go back into the kitchen to fix tomorrow's sack lunches for Kyo, Yuki, and myself. Here, I feel like their sister, knowing those foods and nuances of their character that a parent would never understand. I remember not to put mayonnaise on Kyo's sandwich, because if I do he'll throw a fit, and I note that Yuki takes his lunch with bottled water instead of the soda that Kyo and I prefer. I know that Yuki doesn't like crunchy foods as much, because the sound it makes while he's chewing makes him feel like everyone in the world can hear it. Yuki's never liked being put on the spot. Kyo hates having too many muffins and cupcakes and sweet little fruits, because they make him feel like he's eating "girly food."

When I head upstairs to throw in one last load of laundry before bed, I see that Shigure has joined the other two in the living room, and that the martial arts program has been switched over to the evening news.

The laundry is a quiet adventure told in shirt stains and rumpled cuffs. The telltale grass green in the knees of Kyo's jeans let me know that he's probably been picking fights again, but the absence of blood also tells me that he won. Yuki's clothes look almost as if they were coming out of the clean cycle, not going into it, although a miniscule yellow smear just below the collar of one of his shirts betrays that his lunch got the better of him one day. In Shigure's favorite kimono, there is a very obvious splatter from a stray ink pen that I've never been able to get out, but he continues to wear it anyway, claiming it has "sentimental value."

I gather these things to my face, if only for seconds, relishing in the wholesome, familiar smells of my boys. I feel a little silly doing this, like some besotted schoolgirl, but then again, maybe I am one. I'm besotted with this whole family. In my mind, we are always "us four," and we're never quite whole, never quite the same unit, without all the others in tow. Often I have wondered if I am in love with one of them. I have not forgotten the worried look that Shigure sometimes gets if I'm having a down day, letting me know that he appreciates my presence for other reasons than the fact that I'm a pretty female countenance in his house. Then there's Yuki, who goes out of his way to be a gentleman in the manner I have come to expect. And Kyo thinks I don't see those looks he shoots me out of the corners of his eyes, but I do.

Maybe I'm in love with one of them. Maybe I'm in love with all of them. I don't know.

It's getting late, and I head downstairs to remind them of the hour, when I realize that they've all fallen asleep in front of the TV. Shigure's reading glasses are askew, and the book he had loosely gripped in one hand has slipped to the floor. Yuki and Kyo are curled up under the heating blanket, Yuki with his arms neatly tucked under his chin, and Kyo just a mass of splayed legs and arms and orange hair.

I smile to myself and turn off the television, freezing the newscaster's sentence mid-word. I retrieve the fallen book and set it on the coffee table, and carefully remove Shigure's glasses without waking him, folding them neatly and perching them on top of his book. Kyo rolls onto his stomach in his sleep, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "damn rat," and I grin, ruffling his hair gently and chuckling to myself. I pull the afghan off the couch and rest it over Yuki's prone form. His tense muscles relax ever so slightly, and he sinks lower into the welcoming heat of the table.

I pause in the doorway, intending to go upstairs and get into bed myself, and I survey my boys. All three of them are so drastically different, and yet they have melded together so perfectly to form my own definition of family. This…this right here is everything I will ever need.

I curl up on the remaining couch with a stiff pillow and another afghan. I'm not sure if I'm their mother, their sister, their lover…all I know is that we would be lost without each other.

And that's all I need to know.

I like to think there's more to Tohru than her bubbly, ditzy exterior, so if she seems a little OOC, that's my inner sensei at work.

Reviews are tasty and good with ketchup. :)

-Erin