The Morning After

Motoko had given into the rapture that had consumed her, leaving behind the pain and suffering of her defeat at the hand of her older sister. As she lay there, panting, spent, her mind was only focused on the enclosing darkness, his scent still lingering in her nostrils. Then there was nothing.

Daylight tore through the linen curtains of Keitaro's room, rudely forcing Motoko from her sweet slumber. As she awoke, a cascade of images flooded her mind: the cold dark rain, Tsuroko's sword smashing through her much beloved blade, the mongrel dog and the wound left behind by its teeth, and finally, Keitaro with his deep soulful eyes. It was the eyes that soothed her troubled soul. The pain and anguish she experienced, welling up inside of her, slowly receded as she focused on those eyes, belonging to the man for whom she had for so long ridiculed and abused. She then noticed a warm and soft sensation seeping into her consciousness. Opening her eyes, braving the bleak, she saw an image blurred by sleep. But slowly, as her vision focused, she spied the rhythmic rise and fall of a man's chest.

Her morality demanded that she lash out in righteous fury, but the deep hunger within her subdued the compulsion, causing her arms to tighten their hold on the man. Motoko had cast aside her reason and logic; instead, she sought shelter in the feeling of safety that she found in the man lying next to her.

How long she lay there with him, awake, she could not tell, nor did she care, her only thought being a vain hope that the moment would never end. So there they remained, timeless, and distant in their own little world.

Breaking her from her thoughts, Motoko felt the slight tremors of his musculature reacting to the electrical impulses that began to explode throughout Keitaro's body as he began to wake. Unlike the young woman next to her, Keitaro had no rush of memories to remind him of the night before, only the dull ache of lying supine for so long.

It was the feel of a warm body pressing against his own that spurred Keitaro's mind into inquiry. As his brain attempted to decipher the curious signals that it was receiving from the dermis, a small twitch in the deep recesses of his biology struggled to make itself known. This twitch had been there long before the dawn of man, born from the random juxtaposition of genetics and the environment, passed down through the generations. It had been one of the first devices that enabled life to understand the world around it – the bridge that linked the outside world of stimuli to the internal dimension of sensation. So important was its function that the twitch had become instinct – a reflexive action.

The twitch, at first, bound itself to compulsion. It directed life to sources of nourishment. As time progressed and life evolved, the twitch pared itself to other functions. When memory came into being, the twitch saw survival in its pairing. Thus from the rise of sentience, came the bond between our sense of smell and memories, the conjunction between life's oldest and newest adaptations.

So powerful is this bond that only a few molecules are needed to elicit a reaction, the twitch that rouses the mind to remember – even of events long since passed. For Keitaro, this twitch brought with it images of a young girl with raven black hair and emerald green eyes, her scent reminding him of a myriad of pleasurable sensations.

Cognition, however, is a double-edge sword. As his mind began to access the sensations associated with her scent, awakening the primal urges that lay within, it also brought with it memories. Pain, another ancient function, made itself known as Keitaro began to relive the memories of Motoko's fearsome attacks, the nauseating sensation of soaring through the sky seemingly ever present.

And in the span of only a few seconds, Keitaro realized that he was in bed – naked – with Motoko – who was also naked – and that they had done something the night before that was wrong – though not completely regrettable. After coming to this realization, Keitaro's first response was to panic. And like any panic stricken creature, he wanted to run.

Motoko could feel his body react physiologically to his mood. She could sense the perspiration, the increasing heat emanating from his body, and the tension building in his muscles. Motoko's years of physical training had taught her the mysteries of the human body. She knew full well that Keitaro was experiencing panic – a feeling that she had almost succumb to the night before – and that he would soon seek escape.

Her reaction was immediate. Motoko wrapped her legs around his torso and her arms lashed across his chest. She then buried her face into the side of his chest. Keitaro was startled by her actions, not knowing why she had locked onto him in such an intimate fashion.

But before he could speak or raise protest, Motoko blubbered: "please stay."

Keitaro was speechless; the raw emotions behind her words struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. In the short time that he knew her, Keitaro had never seen Motoko sound so weak and miserable. She was like a wounded animal, proud and still possessing grace, but seemingly more wretched for it now in this state.

He wanted to stay and comfort her, but every fiber of his being told him that he was in the wrong and needed to extricate himself from her. Motoko, sensing his lingering turmoil, tightened her hold on him with even greater force, forcing the intimates of her body to compress against his, eliciting both fear and excitement in the near catatonic Keitaro.

Minutes passed, slowly at first for Keitaro, but eventually, he lost all track of time. Though he appeared calm, his mind was restive, struggling to find the best course of action to snap Motoko out of her fugue state and putting right what had been wronged.

It was the tears that solidified his resolve. He could fear a warm wetness beginning to trickle down his chest, the sound of Motoko's muffled cries ringing in his ears, the feel of her body convulsing as her diaphragm began to spasm. Keitaro, finding courage in his new found resolve, began to speak. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay as long as you want me to stay."

At first, Motoko seemed unfazed by his words. Keitaro struggled to think of something else, when he felt her grip on him slackened. Instinctively, he reached up and began to caress her arm, trying to soothe the still quivering mass of tears and self-loathing.

With new vigor, Keitaro continued, "I don't know what's going to happen Motoko, after we leave this room, but I want you to know that I'm going to keep my promise to you. I won't rest until I help you find your happiness again."

And like any man truly blessed with a kind and gentle heart, Keitaro managed to find the right words to comfort the distraught girl. It was the earnestness in his voice that restored, partially at least, her hope.

Feeling Motoko's mood lighten, Keitaro began to gently coax the young girl off of him. At first, Motoko resisted, reasserting her tenacious grip, but Keitaro, patiently and calmly guided her arms off of his body. Supporting her shoulders, he eased her up so that she was sitting next to him, her eyes never wavering from his own.

Keitaro, trying to be a gentleman, could not help but notice how beautiful she was, her nude form revealed to be as perfect and flawless as he had imagined it to be. Without warning, Keitaro chuckled. Motoko was perturbed by this, her expression hiding none of her displeasure. Recognizing potential danger, Keitaro explained, "yesterday, I'd probably be soaring through the atmosphere right now if I saw you like this.

Motoko could not help but laugh at the truthfulness of his observation and the absurdity of the movement. She had been a man-hater for most of her life, but now found herself in the intimate company of one. Stranger still was that she had no regrets for what had transpired between them. True, she had given her chastity to a man – a man not her husband, but she could no longer deny that she was in love with him.

She had needed him the night before, not just because she needed to be comforted, but because she needed to be honest with herself for once in her life. Motoko had always stood in the shadow of lies. Though she had professed to be a proud warrior who would fervently seek the title of headmaster of the Shinmeiryu style, Motoko felt too weak and cowardly to ever accept the mantle.

She was no Tsuroko, a near legend of her school and clan. It was Tsuroko, not Motoko that deserved to sit as leader of their dojo. The question of why had fate bestowed such an honor to an unworthy student like herself caused Motoko much heart ache. But she was a warrior, and warriors do not bend to their emotions: a lie that she was able to shed before this man.

Keitaro noticed that Motoko was in deep thought. Realizing that she was still naked, he, in wanting to preserve her dignity, began to wrap his sheet around her shoulders. The enveloping sensation broke Motoko from her contemplative state. After realizing what he was doing for her, Motoko offered him a gentle smile in return. "Thank you," she whispered in a hushed voice.

Keitaro, covering his own nakedness with a pillow, responded with a smile of his own. What came next was a silence that hung in the room like a heavy quilt. Both knew that life was forever changed for them – there would be no going back. It was Motoko who broke the silence. "If you wish for me to leave the Hinata Sou…"

But before she could finish, Motoko was silenced by his touch. Keitaro had reached out and took hold of her hand. In truth, Motoko was relieved by this. She had felt diminished when they broke physical contact, but the tenderness of his touch had restored some vigor to her downtrodden spirit. "This is your home Motoko. I would never ask you to leave."

Motoko felt new tears emerge, but this time, it was from the happiness that she felt from hearing his reassurance. The happiness, however, was short-lived, when she realized that they had broached the one subject that neither had the stomach to discuss. What about Naru?

The former swordmistress knew of Keitaro's love for her friend – it was the worst kept secret at the Hinata Sou. Keitaro, a clumsy man by nature, seemed even more predisposed to bad luck and buffoonery whenever the young Tokyo U. aspirant was around - a sure sign of love. Motoko had always viewed him with suspicion and contempt for it, his obvious infatuation with Naru had been a sore spot for her, but she had always chalked it up to her philosophy. She realized, however, that it was jealousy.

Over the brief time that she had known him, Keitaro Urashima had somehow crept into her heart. It was his kindness and incredible fortitude that served as her undoing. No matter how fierce her attacks were, he would not relent. He would come back, from wherever that he flew to, with a caring smile and a gentle disposition.

How can such a man exist in an age of cynicism?

It was how he was able to win their hearts and eventually their love.

That too was a terribly kept secret. Only Keitaro seemed to be in the dark. The first to fall in love with him was Shinobu, but she was also the one most honest with herself. Kitsune was the next, though she would never admit it. It was the way she looted him - she only looted from the ones she cared about. Motoko was unsure when she had fallen for the bumbling manager.

"Perhaps at the bridge when he touched me," she thought remembering the odd sensation that emanated from the spot where his hand had landed.

It was Naru, however, that posed the mystery. She was always there for him, serving as his staunchest defender, aside from Shinobu, but she was also the first to attack him. For every kind word she had for him, there were several dozen accusations and insults that followed. How can that be love?

But for reasons that escaped Motoko, Keitaro loved her, there was no denying that terrible truth.

As she continued her deep contemplation, Keitaro struggled to piece together the puzzle that had been last night. True, he had found her very attractive when they first met, but he had no romantic inclination towards the traditionalist. She was too elegant and graceful for a humble man like Keitaro. Her proclivity towards violent also influenced his opinion of the girl. Though he respected her tremendously, Keitaro was always leery of people who wielded power - especially the violent ones.

But he loved Naru and she was the most violent one of them all. Thinking of her gave him pause. Keitaro couldn't remember when exactly he fell in love with her, but he could not deny it now. Yes, she was violent, but she also possessed an amazing heart. She was the first female, other than relatives, to truly stand up for him. He remembered with fondness of how Naru attempted to cover for him when the others though he was a Tokyo U. student. He could also recount the long hours that she had spent with him, tutoring him on subjects that he once viewed as arcane sorcery.

He loved Naru, and so felt the guilt of betraying her even though there was nothing to betray, so he told himself. They weren't dating and Naru always maintained that their relationship was purely platonic. Looking over to Motoko, Keitaro was struck by how beautiful she was. Her lustrous ebony hair seemed to flow down her lithe figure like gentle waterfalls, accentuating curves that had been hidden behind the traditional garb of a kendoist.

As he allowed his mind to drift in thought, the memories of their time together began to dance in Keitaro's head; the imagery almost intoxicating. Suddenly, the fantasy playing out in his imagination came crashing down as he remembered the state that she had been in when he found her, shivering and drenched by the falling rain.

It was the feel of her body, pressing against his that had snapped him out of his trance. Looking down, he saw the top of Motoko's head pressing against his chest. He still could not believe the state they were in, nor could he truly grasp that they had become lovers.

Where was her contempt, her cold exterior? He needed the old Motoko now more than ever, because the girl pressing against him was starting to make him feel something that he should not be feeling.

"I love Naru," he mentally screamed, trying to placate his rising doubts. But Naru had always been distant, cold. Motoko, in this moment, was anything but. The warmth of her body, the tenderness of her touch, it was all that he had ever craved.

Not just sex, but intimacy.

"God I'm a woman," he sighed quietly, too low for Motoko to hear.

Motoko was also screaming in her mind, trying to convince her body to walk away. "You cannot show weakness to a man, especially this weakling."

Her body paid no attention.

"Naru is our friend, we cannot possibly do this."

Her hand slowly reached out for his.

"What are you doing? You're acting like a harlot!"

She brought his fingers to her lips, lightly kissing each digit.

"Where did you learn to do that? Do not forget that you're an Aoyoma!"

Her kisses began to move away from his fingers to his chest, drifting higher.

"He loves her – not you! You'll just be a notch on his bedpost. Is that what you want?"

Is this what you want?

Motoko looked up and wanted to find the answer in his eyes. What she saw was doubt. She could see him struggling between the passion that was erupting between them and the love that remained in his heart. It was enough for Motoko.

If there is doubt, she thought, than there is hope. In that moment, Motoko made a decision. She would do all that she could to be by his side – win or lose – she would not just let him go.

"I'm sorry Naru," they both thought, before giving into their passion.

Meanwhile, in the next room, Kitsune awoke to the sound of something that sounded familiar and yet was as alien to her as it had been for Keitaro.

"Is that Motoko giggling?"