Disclaimer: I don't own anything associated with Fruits Basket.
What does it take to set the Sohmas free after Akito's death?
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A/N: Enjoy!
Warning: Foul language.
The Puppet Master's Last Testament
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Chapter: Interlude III: Moments in Time
"Are you out of your mind?" Haruhi hissed as they approached the vegetable fields.
"We are starving Haruhi! We haven't had anything but fucking berries and herbs. I can't stand it! If I could fucking hunt, we might get some rabbit but you would be mad about that too. I fucking can't stand the things you aren't willing to do. You would rather allow yourself to die that let a stupid rabbit die. You fucking rabbit-lover."
"This is someone's hard work! Rabbits are Kami's creation."
"They should be grateful that we are taking some of their tasty vegetables. It's all going to rot if no one eats it. We are Kami's creation too; rabbits are at the bottom of the food chain, we are at the top. I'm sure He would forgive us if we just ate one. Aren't you hungry."
Haruhi licked her lips like a hungry wolf. "Yes. Fine, we can get some vegetables."
Ichiro motioned for her to follow him. He scurried down a dirt path into the vast vegetable fields. She looked at the steep slope. She bit her bottom lip.
"I'll catch you."
She ran down the incline, into his arms. He held her. "Alright?" She nodded.
He pulled out two satchels from his back pant pocket.
"Get as much as you can. Meet back here in ten minutes. Don't get caught."
Before she could say anything more, he was gone.
Someone so wealthy could be so immoral. It made her wonder.
She did as told. She picked some interesting plants she had never seen before – ripe eggplants, heads of cabbage, crimson tomatoes, squash, even a yellow melon.
She waited for him by the oak tree.
He came up from behind. "That's all you got?"
He showed her a satchel bulging with stuff.
She said defensively, "Everything I got is ripe."
"Let's get out of here."
They hurried back to their campsite. He opened his satchel inside the tent. "Look here."
He did indeed pick many items. However, many of the vegetables were still raw.
She giggled.
"What?"
"Look at this green eggplant. It will be bitter and hard."
He ticked her. "This is what you get for making fun of me!" She collapsed on the dirt ground, her chest heaving. He leaned on his elbow and looked at her. He wiped the silk hair from her eyes. His fingers lingered on her rosy cheeks, before moving up to her the corner of her mouth. He draped on leg over hers before moving onto her in one fluid motion.
"I want you so bad," he whispered into her neck, nibbling the soft skin. "Why won't you let me?"
"I can't Ichiro. I have left my family, but not my morals. I would never be able to forgive myself if I did."
"Don't you love me?"
"Of course I do."
"Why don't you ever say those words?" He cringed to say that. It was not like he had said them to her.
"Please, don't ask me that."
"Why not?"
She did not look into his tempestuous eyes. She mumbled, "If you must know, I have this superstition that if I say it, all of this – us, will go away."
He looked at her, disbelieving. "Peasant nonsense."
Guilt filled his heaving chest. He felt the same way. This fantasy, this wondrous frivolity of these two adults fleeing from duties back at home, would just fade. He had tried to convince himself so many times that she was just a game, but they had made it so way. It was far from a game. He had seen her cry, laugh, smile; he had seen every emotion: joy, hate, despair, want, need, warmth, longing.
"I do care so much about you, Ichiro."
"I know."
He nudged a pendant that lay right below her chin. "You never told me who gave this to you. The pearl is dirty. The necklace is so tight around you neck; it's going to cut off the blood to your body."
"My grandma before she died, fourteen years ago."
"Why is it so important? You don't like the jade bracelet that I bought for you? I can buy you so many gems and jewels." He lifted the hem of her sleeve forcefully to remind her of his gift.
"I love both. It's just that this has… sentimental value."
"Ooo, I taught you that word!"
She blushed. "Yes you did."
"You are learning, my little pawn." He smirked.
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In the evening, they settled in their tent. It was starting to darken earlier. They had cooked their vegetables over the fire before the sun set. Winter would soon be here. They could not expect to live in tents during the cold season.
"Ghost stories?" Ichiro asked Haruhi in the dark, as he chomped on a whole squash. They could not afford to light a candle or fire for fear that it would attract attention.
"Yes, but can you hold me?"
"Of course."
He could not see her face, but right before the dark set in, he had taken one last look. They were pale green – jade, with a light spattering of hazel grains.
"Tell your story."
"This one is about love."
She smiled in the dark.
"What kind?"
"Deep, passionate, wild love between two cannibals! No, not really. I bet if there was light on, you would have a look of horror on your face."
He read her mind.
"No, the story is about love between a ghost and a woman. He died twenty years before she was born, but he appears in her room every night. He tells her stories, and she slowly falls in love with him. She wants to know what happened to him that made him a ghost, and why he wasn't in heaven."
It sounded so serious, but he began it with a boom. He always gave the most dramatic, fanciful things imaginable. It was unrealistic, but fascinating, humorous, romantic, angst-ridden, mysterious. That was one of the few things that had in common – a great imagination.
She fell asleep in his arms.
Ichiro placed her on the soft wool blanket and wrapped her up. He lifted the flap of the tent. The sky was starless. Moonless. He listened to the cool strumming of the wind's fingers through the forest branches.
Tomorrow, they would leave. Again.
Within two weeks, they needed to find a place to settle down – a real shelter, with four walls and a roof to protect them against the bitter cold.
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Shigure tapped his chin with his index finger. Nomads.
Wasn't he a nomad in his heart, never settling down? The story was getting more difficult to write. He had wanted a bad, sorrowful ending for the couple, but he was having second thoughts. The story was becoming very personal. His ideas were coming from his life. His stories consisted of busty mail-order brides, forest nymphs-turning-human, and super-beautiful, "alpha" women beyond men's imaginations. This story was the most… different. The girl was simple. Her innocence was captivating.
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He shut off the monitor of the computer to go down stairs for some tea.
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They had been playing the game for one month, three weeks, four days, nineteen hours, and four minutes.
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A/N: Thanks for reading.