I really do not own Ranma. Rumiko Takahashi does, and man is she lucky.
You walked down a quiet street in Nerima, feeling as useless and unimportant as usual. Your crazy, violent, martial artist friends were probably off fighting and doing more worthwhile things with their lives than you as you walked towards the Tendo Dojo.
Life was incredibly boring for you, as of late. You had nothing to do with yourself, so you resorted to talking long walks towards your friends' houses for entertainment. Both of your parents worked, and school was temporarily out for a short break.
You sighed deeply. It was only Sunday and you had fallen into this routine: get up, eat breakfast, do nothing until lunch, eat lunch, do nothing until dinner, eat dinner, and sleep until the day started anew and you repeated it all. This wasn't you, you knew. You weren't all gloom and doom like Ryoga often was. You were a fascinating, energized, excited, optimistic person…. who fell into a terrible, mind-numbingly boring, uninteresting rut.
You were considering what to do with yourself when a brightly colored something on the road caught your eye.
It was a red shirt. It sat there, and you could tell it was abandoned, alone, and lost.
You picked it up gingerly, examining the cloth interestedly.
It was your friend Ranma's shirt! You were slightly suspicious of how it was just… there. You felt like he had intentionally dropped this beautiful shirt.
For some reason, this assumption, this wild conclusion you had leapt to enraged you beyond anything else. Who, you asked yourself furiously, would leave such a great shirt just lying on the road?!
It must have been agonizing, you thought. Sitting there, left to rot unattended. Unloved by cruel, unthinking Ranma. You felt almost moved to tears. You clutched the shirt to your chest.
Somehow, it felt like the shirt moved towards you as well, cooling you in its silky grasp.
For several moments you just stood there, feeling this insane attraction to the shirt, wishing it had been loved as you so thought it deserved. In the peaceful street, you felt as though time had completely stopped, and it only consisted of you and the shirt.
You walked home, the shirt nestled safely in your arms. You opened the door cautiously, then ran up the stairs to your room. You felt an insane urge to wear the gorgeous red shirt, with its shiny, alluring gold clasps, the fashionably rolled up sleeves….
You felt your cell phone vibrate. Your forgetful father had accidentally left the letter he was going to mail at home… And he didn't want to walk back from the post office. You prepared to leave, but then your mother called.
She had grand delusions that you wanted to spend the rest of the day at market with her, buying food and supplies. "After you deliver the letter to your father," she had said commandingly, "You will come to the supermarket and help me. I need a bag carrier." Well, gee. Looks like you'd have to wait to get near the shirt today. You quickly hung it on a hanger then placed it carefully on your bedpost. Despite your hurry to leave, you did not want the red shirt getting damaged.
You locked the door quickly, letter in your pocket, then sprinted down the street. The faster you finished the days errands, the sooner you'd finally be able to wear that alluring shirt. In your blind scramble down the sidewalk towards the post office, you crashed face-first into someone's chest. You both went down like boats sinking in the ocean.
"Sorry!" you said, jumping back up. It was Ranma, your friend, who was currently shirtless, parading around town. His state of shirtless-ness was of no surprise to you.
You offered him a hand, and he took it, pulling himself up.
"Where's your shirt, Ranma?" you asked him, just to distract him from your recent mishap.
"Uh… Ryoga and I were having a fight, and I guess I lost it along the way. Have you seen it? I've been looking around, but I can't seem to find it."
"I saw it on the way to the Tendo Dojo. Might wanna check around there." you said quickly. "Anyways, sorry again, I've gotta go."
You headed away quickly. You knew he wouldn't find his shirt. You didn't want him to, in any case. He didn't deserve to, you thought stubbornly. He'd had his chance, but you knew the shirt had been through plenty of abuse.
When you finally got home, you went upstairs and face-planted on your bed. You were exhausted. Your dad, bless his forgetful soul, had actually left 3 letters at home instead of one. And he remembered each one only after you brought the last one. So, you made three trips home, running back and forth like a lowly messenger. Then, you had shopped for hours with your mother, and she made you carry twelve bags- 12- home by yourself, on foot, so she could pick up your dad. Your arms felt like limp noodles, and your legs like jelly.
"Sorry red shirt," you apologized, feeling like you had betrayed it. "I'll try you on tomorrow, ok?"
You felt like it had understood and forgiven you for this injustice.
At dinner, your parents chattered happily. You ate your food quickly and quietly, seeing no reason to join in. The food was good, as always. And the conversation was interesting to listen to, no doubt. But you wanted to touch the shirt again. Being without it for a day reminded you of the strong bond you had already forged with it. When you had finished, you washed your bowl, then excused yourself and went back upstairs.
The shirt sat on its red hanger, lifeless. It was breathtakingly handsome and really, a fashionable shirt to be seen in. You felt too tired to do much more than take it off its hanger and crawl into bed with it in your arms. When earlier, the shirt had been cold to soothe you, now it was warm. It was chilly outside, yet even with the window open, you felt comfortably heated by the red shirt. Burying your nose in the hot red cloth, you fell into a comfortable slumber.
You, unsurprisingly, dreamed about the shirt. In your dream, the shirt could walk and talk, move on its own accord, do everything that people could. In your dream, you and the shirt fell in love and walked off into a tropical sunset while clasping each other in the hand area. It was so romantic, you wished it was real. But even in your subconscious, you knew that the shirt could never do that. A huge, monster wave crashed on you two, sweeping the shirt away into the swirling torrent.
Your chest constricted and your heart caught in your throat. You ran into the ocean, trying to find it. But, no matter how hard you looked, you couldn't find it. In your despair, you sunk to your knees and beat the water, splashing everywhere, as if that'd solve anything.
You awoke with a gasp, panting. What the hell was that?! You brushed against the shirt, and held it to your face. When you parted, you noticed the shirt was wet. You… you'd been crying? Over the shirt?
It seemed crazy to you, but at the same time…. it made so much sense. You'd found something to take your mind off the monotony of life… and the shirt had found someone to love and cherish it.
"I'll never leave you," you muttered into the shirt, half-asleep already as it comforted you. Soon, with the shirt by your side, you fell into an even deeper sleep, with a good dream where you actually had the strength, skill, and speed to beat the crap out of Ranma for leaving the shirt.
First Ranma 1/2 story ever.
If the reader seems somewhat obsessed, that is there for a reason.
Ranma looks like such a jerk. (HE IS.)
Anyway, please review. I'd love to hear what you have to say!