That Moment On
By Llett.
"Things can't stay this way forever."
This is what she told him one winter morning while standing in cold ankle deep snow. At that time he had no reply. He just faced her eyes, opened his mouth and let out a warm breathe that formed a cloud across his lips.
She turned then. Walked south. Said nothing for a while.
When the moment came that he did have, what he proudly considered a fitting answer to her proposition, it transpired that she was not in any mood to listen.
"How would you like things to be then?"
He had said it elegantly, or so he thought, but between her red hot blushes and burning tears she could only sob out stumbled words and syllables. He hoped her eyes would dry, but they did not, turning to rives and raging streams as she strangled her arms against her shaking body. He watched her. Stunned; for he had no ability to do anything more.
She found him one morning huddled up in the corner of her bedroom. He opened his eyes and stared directly at hers, his lips opened but the sound that left them was unheard. Her head tilted, nodded, and so he tried again.
But she could not hear him.
They held hands one Saturday. It was a spontaneous action which neither would claim they initiated. Her hands were soft, fingers warm and tingling against his rough, yet calming palm. Surprisingly it was he who gripped the tightest.
They walked in zig-zag lines. Neither could remember where they had originally been heading; he claimed mountains while she claimed lakes. He smiled at her when she blushed. She smiled at him when he frowned. He wanted to say nice things to her, to make her feel as warm as he did inside. But the words did not reach his lips.
He was surprised to awake one morning to her looking over him. His bed was warm and her look was not. Brown orbs that he swore flashed red; her body language moved in a dance, he, the victim, was ensnared. He wasn't sure which of his deeds had displeased her, was sure that she would get over it quickly. She always did. He flashed her small grin to match the snarl that was already starting to fade.
"Hold my hand."
This was the order she gave him a following Saturday. It was one he did not hesitate to follow, nor complain about his compliance.
"Hold me."
This came on either a Wednesday or Thursday, neither could agree. She was torn; her leg throbbing harsh pain. She hadn't whispered it, no, it was a cry. A plea! To show a weakness to him, of all people, how unforgivable…
His concern, it seemed, reached rather deeper then she anticipated. When his arms wrapped around her shaking frame and pulled her cheek to his chest, she felt her eyes give way and the rivers return. She shook against him, but he pulled tighter. Together they breathed, his hand, rough, worked its way into her tangled hair. His lips pressed against her crown, small kisses. She could feel the warmth of those lips chilling her body.
She healed of course. She always did.
One Monday he had to leave. He always did. To go here, there, anywhere and everywhere. A father waited impatiently outside while his only son stared his young fiancée in the eyes and opened his mouth.
She was in no mood to listen.
He watched the ground dejected. Many things a man should do, but only a boy be he. Thus he turned quickly on his heals to face north. Said only one word as his body left the room.
"Bye."
Had he turned back he would have seen but one more tear drift down a cheek, but the boy did not.
He returned of course. He always did.
"Things can't stay this way."
"They never do."
"Did you miss me?"
"Possibly."
"Typical."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why do you care?"
"Maybe I don't."
"See."
"What's your deal?"
"You never tell me anything!"
"Well then, what is it you want to know?"
She took one hell of deep breathe, stomped her foot, arms across chest and exhaled; "Why is it me who has to say it?"
He was angry. And stupid; stupidly angry, "Say what? Why aren't you making any sense?"
"Either make a move or let me go."
The words left the lips of a young woman. She stood in front of her fiancé with a look of both incredible fear and terrifying ambition.
The boy stared back.
"Akane. Ive been making moves for the last two years." He turned his head to the south, a breath, "Not my fault you've been to thick to notice."
There was a kiss.
And another.
And another.
When they both remembered that oxygen was somewhat essential to survival and continued kisses, they broke for breath.
"Things can't stay this way forever, Ranma."
"So you keep saying."
He shuffled underfoot and pulled her closer. Placed a finger under her chin, a hand against her hip. "So, how would you like things to be then?"
Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her own fingers digging into the back of hair, pulling and tangling; her lips moved to his ears with naive intent. "You."
They both decided, sometime later in distant hindsight, that her answer at that time made little, to no sense. But from that moment on, it was suffice.