Natsuki Takaya's character's
Yuki Sohma had silvery blue hair. The color was metallic and harsh, assaulting his eyes every time he saw strands of it come into his peripheral view. His skin was ivory, as flawless, pale, and somehow as perpetually bloodstained as the snow the drifted from the cloudy sky. His eyes were violets, blooming, beautiful, and delicate. Oh so delicate, so willing to spill salty drops onto the cold wood floor.
He spent countless hours avoiding mirrors, and then countless hours looking into them, searching in their depths for an answer he knew he would not soon receive. He looked at himself in different lights, tried glasses, tinted, tried to find a way to feel beautiful and strong. White meant purity. Purple meant wealth and power. How they lied for him, disguised the grotesque decay inside him was a mystery. Even when he transformed, he kept those same colors, as if they were a reminder: you can lie to yourself but your truth won't change. It's inevitable. He was strange. He had strange hair. He spoke strangely. He had strange eyes.
And he knew it too.
Because they were not lilac. They were not amethyst. They were not violet. They were colorless in the dark where he lived.
As Yuki stood in the snow watching the depths of the sky, looking for where the snow came from, he seemed to blend into the brilliance of the white in his silvery kimono. The sky was shedding it layers, lightening its load in preparation for the kiss of the sun. He liked that idea. He liked the sunlight and its harsh sting on his skin. He was tempted to do something foolish and insane and childish.
But instead, he watched, frozen for a long moment as he hesitated to take a step from where he stood, to break the perfection of the frosted world. It looked so much like the little globes he played with. And that if he ran far enough, he could shatter the glass that suffocated him.
He could see the vase shards as they shattered around Hatori-san and his spring.
He could see the pale hand caress his cheek and the perfect nails scrape his skin.
He could see the cold stares that only reflected the hollow inside him.
He could see those pale lips widen, whispering.
And he whispered back.
I'm lonely.
Yuki.
It's cold here.
Yuki.
I'll be good.
Yuki
It's cold here.
When he caught a snowflake in his hand, it took a very long moment for it to register that he was holding something in his hand. Something special and unique that he would never have the privilege of holding one like again. And despite it being his namesake, despite the fact that he was as cold inside as the snow was, it melted before he even had the chance to beg it to stay.
You're special Yuki. You're mine, Yuki. You're beautiful. You don't need anyone else besides me. No one else would want you.
Would he melt away if it became spring?
He blinked, his long eyelashes heavy with frost.
And then turned.
He entered the wooden creaking timeworn house again that was so much more dilapidated than it seemed. It would break down soon. He knew it. And then, he could run away. Past the wooden, ancient houses. Past the reach of a god. Past the reach of thirteen. Past the snow laden places, and to the sunshine and warmth of someone to call home. He would be safe there. Like he was in his better dreams.
His small feet left slight damp impressions on the wood and he knew he would scolded later, yet somehow, the wood was warm.
He needed this place, because where else could he go?
Who else would accept him?
When he transformed, he became as small as he felt. Sometimes, their eyes would just pass over him as if he was invisible.
Would anyone care, if he disappeared?
Akito would.
And that was his only bitter consolation.
He turned his back, catching, just barely, the flash of orange and a flicker of brown. He heard the effervescent screams and laughter loud and clear, with the pound of small jubilant feet, bouncing across the fresh snow, breaking its perfection without hesitation. "Kyo-chaaaan!" There was the rustle of cloth, the sound of heavy breathing, and the thump of snow being thrown. It faded just as quickly as it came, the sounds disappearing as the children ran into the bush tinged with green after their scuffle. They had pushed the snow off and they entered the green garden, leaving him alone to the sound of snowfall.
Even him.
Even that cat.
Even that stupid cat could be loved.
But what about the rat?