Wonder

Notes: Yay, another fluffy 58 ficceh! And what a grammatical horror it is! I usually don't do first person POV, especially in present tense, but this is how it came out. I wrote this in my RP notebook around three a.m. And in the near two hours it took, I heard that new Britney Spears song –four- freaking times. How annoying. Anyway, at least I got out some pent-up angst. And a little action too! Though not much, cuz I'm a wimp... [sweatdrops]

Please comment! I might do another of these...it struck meh this morning. Monologue-ing abound! I originally wanted to write it without telling who it was, but I think –anyone- could guess this. Ah well. I like writing Hakkai...he's angsty! And don't worry folks, we're diving into Goku's psyche next on The Trouble With H!

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It's getting late. I've been laying here for quite some time, just staring at the ceiling. Hakuryuu joined me some time around midnight, laying next to me and lazing in the breeze of the open window. Every so often I reach over and scratch his head.

My time alone isn't spent very excitably, I'm afraid. Not like others I could name. But if he were here right now, I wouldn't be dazing out at the ceiling light. I've discovered a previously unknown hatred of stucco walls. But I digress. If I weren't alone, I'd be doing something. If I wasn't alone, I'd be comfortable.

If I wasn't alone, I wouldn't –think- so damn much.

He's like that. A catalyst to depressing thoughts. I never go into these self-torture musing fits when he's here. He'll kiss me and we'll go to sleep, wrapped up together. Constantly touching; a lazy arm draped over the waist, legs tangled. Sometimes I think it's just me. That –I'm- the one who needs the contact. Then I bury my face in his shoulder and make myself stop thinking. Just breathe in his scent until it lulls me to sleep.

I wonder if he knows just how deep its run. It wasn't supposed to. But then again, it wasn't –supposed- to be anything to begin with. It just happened one random night. Sitting there normally, when I noticed him staring at me. I asked him why, and he muttered about wanting to try something.

Before I could reply, he leaned over and kissed me. It wasn't a quick happy kiss, but it wasn't filled with ulterior motives either. It was just a kiss. Then he broke off and looked at me. He said I could hit him for it if I wanted.

But I didn't want to hit him. I wanted to kiss him again. But I didn't. He asked me if I minded. I told him not at all.

And now I think it went too far. Not physically. That's moved so slow I have to wonder sometimes why he bothers with my naïveté, however forced it may be. I wonder if he knows that a lot of it is an act. How sometimes I was to pass that comfort zone I've set that he respects and patiently stops at. But I never tell him. He's grown accustomed to my passive nature, and I'm afraid of change.

Mentally. I'm in too far mentally. He takes romance a bit lightly at times. I worry that this may be one of such times. That someone better will come along, someone he doesn't have to be patient with, or find hidden meaning in their words. He'll find someone, and I'll be left to be in love, like so many others he's left in the past.

I'd like to be that person he doesn't have to stop for, but then again, I don't. He knows the me who is passively naïve. And there's a nagging feeling that if I stopped being that, he'd stop loving me.

I don't want him to see the real me, the needy silent one with my own personal scars. I hide them from him, even though he's seen them many times, and they never bother him. They bother –me-, so I feel they bother everyone. But that's not right. It really doesn't turn him away from me. He's got scars too, he reminds me.

I still hide them.

Just when I think he's gotten tired of me, he'll lay on me contently, like it's the only thing he needs in the world. Just when I start thinking pessimistically, he kisses me. It's gotten more comfortable since the first time. He's been assured he's not doing any wrong by it, and it makes the effort longer and more intense. I welcome his tongue in my mouth, but never dare my own to explore. I have half a mind to, but that's not very passive –or- naïve. I wonder if this ever bothers him. Not much seems to, at least as far as I'm concerned. He's patient with me almost to the point of my own frustration. But if he knew I was willing, how far would he take it?

Now there's a stupid question.

The more important one would be: would it change anything? Would it make it better? Or worse? I don't know, and I don't want to lose what I've got. I'm not much of a gambler. That's his job.

It dawns on me that my stomach is growling uncomfortably, making me wonder just how long this revirie has lasted. It seems too much an effort to move, so I ignore it. But once I've noticed it, the feeling becomes more insistent. Finally I sit up. My head spins for a moment at the sudden change from horizontal to vertical. I make my way to the kitchen.

He's there. He's sitting at the table, playing Solitaire with an old deck. He keeps it for some reason I don't know. He hasn't told me, and I don't ask. He mutters a greeting and I put water on the stove to boil, before sitting down across from him.

"How long have you been home?"

"About fifteen minutes. I thought you were asleep, and I didn't want to disturb you," he answers, flipping over a new card and analyzing it. Neither of us says anything for a few minutes.

"I couldn't sleep," I offer finally. Then as an afterthought, "You know that deck's missing a four."

He nods. "I just skipped from three to five."

"You're cheating at –Solitaire- now?" I chuckle softly.

"Call it improvising," he smirks, flipping a new card.

I put my hand over his, holding the draw pile. He looks up at me for the first time since I entered the room. "You alright?"

I'm compelled to ask. "Are we?"

He looks genuinely confused. Before I can elaborate, a whistle announces that my water's ready. I take it off the burner and turn it off. I pour some in the cup I've set up with a teabag in it and begin to mix. I take a sip.

He's still looking at me, waiting for an explanation. That damn eternal patience again.

Finally, he presses. "Are we what? Alright?"

I stand again, putting the kettle back on the semi-cooling burner. I face the stove, not able to look at him quite yet.

"Are you upset? Frustrated at me?"

"What? Why the hell should I be? What made you think that?"

I shrug. "I just wonder sometimes..."

I turn to him just in time to see him walking towards me. And then his mouth clamps over mine. I don't resist, and every time he plunges his tongue in my mouth it goes deeper.

I'm leaning against the wall now, and he's pressing comfortably into me. He takes my hands and entwines them with his own, trapping them between flesh and wood.

His mouth moves to my neck, clamping down on the skin at the nape and biting softly. Then he lays his forehead on my shoulder.

"Never," he answers, muttering into the collar of my shirt. "I never get upset with you. I'm happy with whatever you're comfortable with."

"How—"I start, but he cuts me off.

"I just –know- okay? And it doesn't bother me. If you weren't how you are, I wouldn't have wanted you in the first place, and I wouldn't be loving you now."

He looks at me again. I nod, understanding. He smiled. "Ai shiteru."

I close the small distance between us in another kiss. He looks pleasantly surprised at my initiative. I smile into his mouth before leaning back, the grin still placed on my features.

"Ai shiteru."

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Ta-dah!