Disclaimer- the events and/or characters in the story are entirely fictional. Any similarities between true anime characters and events are purely coincidental. Also, no anime characters were harmed in the making of this fanfic.
P.S.: Don't sue me.
"It's hot."
I didn't answer. Maybe it was the humidity that bothered her. Maybe I did. I didn't know, and right now, I didn't really care. I just allowed myself to relax further, sinking slowly into a soft state of numb, near-static trance as my eyes began to close. What did it matter if I answered or not? Would it really affect the outcome? It wasn't likely.
"Hey, are you listening?" I opened my right eye and stared for a moment. She was getting mad with me. I probably missed hearing something she had said about the weather or another question directed at me. Whatever it was, I doubted it had any life-threatening importance. And every time I chose to not answer, she would get more and more irate with me, eventually causing her to either yell at me or storm out in frustration.
Don't get me wrong; I love her more than I could ever tell her. Ever since we worked together, I felt a special kind of bond, spiritual if not mental. I'd never tell anyone of course, but I know she doesn't need my words to know how I feel. She feels it too. In five years of being together, I have never doubted that fact.
So, why do I choose not to answer, to ignore her questions and accusations and pretend that I just don't hear? I don't know. Maybe it has to do with the chemistry generated when she gets mad, that compound that awakens the passionate spirit within me. Some may call it unhealthy or an odd sort of fetish, but I simply see it as one way to exist from day to day.
I open my other eye and focus on her eyes; strong and defiant blue mirrors glaring in my own. I still do not reply, my eyes traveling to her delicate white neck. She is a young woman of great beauty, a thing of poets' works and artists' portraits. A goddess incarnate you might say.
"What?" I ask, a slight smile coming to my lips. If she could kill with a glare, then I'd have been on my way to the great beyond several years ago. Luckily, this is only a thought entertained in the back of my head, and right now I'm concerned more with handling her rising temper than my own humor.
"You weren't listening, were you?"
I don't answer, but continue to smile and stare into her eyes.
"I knew it! You always do this! Why? Why do you do this?"
"Why do you let it get to you?" Here it came, the Game. First pitch.
"You're avoiding the point. I asked you a question first."
Swing batter.
"And it's the same one we always get to, isn't it?" Second pitch.
"Only because you never answer it." Swing.
"I answer, but you never like to hear what I have to say." Strike.
Her fists are clenched now. It is around this time that she either blows up in my face or continues to push her anger down, building pressure for what will surely be a climatic demonstration of curses and storming out of the room.
My own personal warning is going off: If I push too far, the balance will tip and I'll be unable to approach her for several hours. If I don't push enough, then what I've been building will have come to nothing. Better to avert her attention now and cool her down than try to make her temper worse.
I walk past her, sliding the door to our room open and stepping into the living room. I look to the table: We left the takeout cartons on the table again, and a few cans are lying on the floor. Great, another mess to clean up. I cross slowly to the table, kneeling and slowly picking up the cans that I can reach, putting them on the table.
"What? What do you think you're doing? If you think you can just drop the conversation there and do something else, you've got another thing coming mister!" She's after me like a hound on the hunt. Once she smells blood (or thinks she does), she pursues it until the end, no matter how well you cover up.
"You're just getting mad at me. If that's what it comes to, I'm not going to stand there and let you use me as some sort of doll for insults." I continue to pick up the cans slowly, counting each of them to myself as I set them on the table. Six…Eight…Ten! Geez, when did we ever drink that many in one meal? I slide the cartons into one another and turn my head to look at her. She's gone quiet, at least for the moment. I wonder which way her emotional pendulum will swing now. I can almost see tears in her eyes, of rage or sadness I'm not sure.
"But why, why do you always have to be so difficult?
"Why do you always have to fly off the handle at every mistake I make or comment I have?" The Game continues.
"I do not fly off the handle. You are always trying to get me angry."
"Not difficult dear." Third pitch. However, I think that was an unfair play. I can see that I've struck a nerve. Walk one man to first base. I turn my head back to my work and begin picking up the stack of cartons. There's some leftover General Tso's Chicken. Blecch! It stinks! I walk past her to the kitchen counter. This little one-bedroom apartment isn't much to look at, but we both agreed that it was all we would need. I set the cartons down on the counter and spin on my heels to go get the cans. I come face to face with those blue eyes again, and though I've seen them a million times before, many of these as close as I am now, I am still shocked at her sudden proximity.
"There you go again avoiding me. I swear, if you keep dodging like this, we can't keep living together." First base runner is trying to steal second.
"Dodging, is that what you call it?" I picked up the cartons and, after lifting the lid of the garbage can, dropped the cartons with a soft metallic thump, "I simply see it as avoiding a fight while you're in a bad mood." I step to the side, making a line to the cans on the table. Tucking them into the crook of my left arm one by one, I plan my next move. I need to come up with something quickly, to get her away from the argument until I'm ready.
"How is it that we never clean our messes until the next day?"
Throwing to second base.
I turn, and she's looking me in the face, her eyes once again burning with fury incredible as her passion. This is getting interesting. She pokes a finger into my face, and I'm forced to back against the table, banging my calves against the edge.
"Don't change the subject; I'm not through with this discussion!"
"Argument." She pauses, holding back either a slap or some random curse from escaping her trembling lips. She is beautiful, even when she's in a rage and ready to tear my head off. At any rate, runner is out at second base, and the next batter is stepping up.
"Stop contradicting me!"
"Stop being so angry." First pitch.
"You're the one who's pissing me off." Swing batter. Looks like she's not going to back off this time. Fine with me; I guess I'll try my hand at hardball.
"Only because you can't control your temper." Strike. She huffs at me in frustration, and I take this opportunity to step past her and cross to the counter. I should wash out the cans before I put them in the recycling bin; it's practically a miracle she didn't knock them from me. I let the cans fall from my arm into the sink and let the cold water run for a moment before I start rinsing them out.
I look up. She hasn't moved from her spot, not even to turn around. The gently shimmering sweat on her neck brings back to my mind previous summers we'd spent together, the drops leaving a tantalizing trail down to areas as of now unseen. Her loose pale-yellow tank top sticks to her where the sweat has soaked her body, and her shorts, those sky-blue short shorts that hug her figure; it's almost too much to bear watching. I'm even starting to feel the heat now, a small band of sweat forming at my own hairline.
"Hey, still breathing over there?" I chuckle to myself. She doesn't respond. I turn off the faucet, drying my hands on a nearby dishtowel and then walking slowly to her. Her fists are clenched so tightly that the knuckles are white. Her shoulders are shaking, a sign that she's on the verge of either screaming at me or running out of the room crying.
"Hon?" I place my hand on her right shoulder. She pulls away and spins about to face me.
"Don't try and talk your way out of this, I am not finished with you yet!" The anger in her eyes is almost to the level of rancor, and I suddenly feel the strength leaving my body and the sweat running down my face. She eyes me at this moment much like I used to eye my father when I used to work for him. Luckily, we have love between us to ease the confrontation, unlike my father and I.
"All right, you win. You tell me what's wrong." I had better play defensive instead of hardball, or else she'll have my scalp as a war prize. I've seen the damage of her wrath, and it's not pretty.
She loosens her fists. At least I'm not going to get hit this time. The last time we argued she gave me a bruised shoulder, a casualty of battle. She had apologized for it later making full sure that I not only accepted the apology, but that I was feeling better despite my injuries. Now she wants to wage a diplomatic battle, one that I'm more than ready to engage in.
"You know how mad I get when you ignore me. I had asked you a simple question, and you ignored me."
"What was the question?"
"Don't interrupt me; you know how much that pisses me off."
"Yes."
"Anyway, like I was saying, I had asked a question, and you had ignored me. When I pressed you for an answer, you just smiled at me stupidly and refused to answer."
"What was the question? I can't possibly answer a question I don't know." Second pitch. She's not going to like that, but I can't just stand here and take it.
"There you go again. Stop interrupting me!"
Swing. Strike.
She's losing her temper again. Sometimes she can be so proud and arrogant. But, these can be good traits as well: she has a will of iron and a die-hard philosophy when it comes to overcoming obstacles.
"Just calm down please. I'm only bringing up something that I think is important to this discussion." I have a good curve ball prepared is she wants to try and switch-hit on me.
"What's important here is your attitude, not my question." Her voice has dropped dangerously in tone. I have to move quickly, or else I'll be out of luck and my day's work all for nothing.
"That's the whole basis of this argument. Like it or not, this whole thing started because of that question." Third pitch. The anger is starting to fade from hr eyes, and relief washes silently over me.
"I know, but we simply can't ignore your attitude!" Strike. Second batter is out, third batter steps up to the plate. She's looking for an avenue to shift the argument to. She hates losing, and even more admitting she made a mistake.
By now she's crossed her arms in front of her, a drop of sweat dripping off he chin onto her shirt. She is even more beautiful than before, a lingering haze of angry energy still clinging to her, adding a powerful, intelligent, and sensuous nature to her presence.
"I know. You're right. I was being a little rude." First pitch. A flare of anger, and her eyes are glaring again.
"A little? You were being damn arrogant with me. I am not the one who was causing the problem."
Swing. Strike.
"Maybe we should talk about this when you're a little calmer." Second pitch.
"Calmer? I am calm! And no, we aren't saving this for later."
Swing. Strike.
She's bound and determined to prove that I was wrong. "By the way, when did the discussion switch to my attitude? We were talking about your attitude."
Damn! She's more prepared for me this time around than I had expected. I've got to pitch something really good this time, or else I lose the Game and lose the progress I've made.
Catcher signs a one and pitcher shakes his head. Catcher changes sign to a two, the pitcher again shakes his head. A three is signed, and the pitcher hesitates.
"Not only was your attitude lousy, but, rather than try and solve the argument, you dodged it every time you could."
He hesitates. The catcher signs again.
"You need to stop dodging and start taking some initiative. Things will only change when you change you attitude. Am I right?"
I can't believe I can't come up with some sort of counter to this! Certainly there must be something I can use to still win this argument.
The batter is getting impatient. The catcher signs a three again.
Damn!
The pitcher hesitates.
She gets better with every argument, and if I'm not careful, I'll lose this one for sure. I can't give in to this, not when I'm so close to seeing victory.
"Are you listening?" Her eyes, once filled completely with anger are now outlined with a soft, innocent desire. I know what she wants from me. She wants me to admit my wrongs and continue on with living peacefully: if I admit, she'll forgive me and go back to being the proud and caring girl I've come to enjoy these past five years.
Wait a minute. That's it!
The pitcher nods.
"Okay, I admit I approached this with a lousy attitude. I'm sorry for not listening to you, and I'll try to change my approach to this from now on." Third pitch.
Her arms are still crossed, but her face lightens again as a proud smile comes to her face. She unfolds her arms and takes a step closer. I can feel the heat from her and smell her sweat. The haze of energy has changed, and I can feel my own passion and desire increasing: she'll never know what hit her.
"There, you see, now that we agree we can go back to normal."
Swing. Strike.
"I guess you're right."
The teams switch positions, and the first batter steps up to the plate.
"Of course I'm right. Why wouldn't I be?" First pitch.
"Only because you haven't admitted to overreacting just a little bit."
I suddenly feel the anger flare up again. I need to move fast, or she's going to knock me flat.
"Overreacting! I was not..."
I wrap my arm around her waist and draw her close, pressing my lips against hers with all the passion and desire I'd been holding onto for this moment. She struggles for a moment, more from surprise than actual resistance, pressing her hands against my shoulders, then stops fighting, instead enjoying, even encouraging my kiss, sending to me her own built up passion and desire.
We hold that kiss for several minutes, and then pull our lips gently apart. She looks at me, eyes gazing loving and longing into mine, then starting to harden again. She's going to play tough.
"You know, this doesn't excuse you from your promise. You can't do this every time you g..." I kiss her again, lending my passion to her and pulling her even closer. Again she responds, her hands feeling my neck and head as the kiss lingers on.
After what seemed an eternity, our lips parted again. She looked into my eyes again, and all I saw was a smile.
"I hate you, do you know that?" She ruffles the chestnut hair I've let grow out some since I quit working for my father affectionately, and I smile in response.
Home Run!
"I know," I respond, and then kiss her again, my hands gently reaching down and squeezing her butt. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses herself against me, the heat between us rising steadily. We stop kissing, and she lays her head on my shoulder.
"I love you."
I kiss her neck gently, "I love you too." I continue to kiss her neck, giving light pecks at spots I know she's sensitive to. She cranes her neck to expose more of it to me, and I gladly cover the soft, white expanse of her perfect skin. I run a hand through her beautiful red hair, careful not to pull it as I feel its silky smoothness. She responds to my touch, gently pressing into my hand. I smile at this tenderness and then and then begin to run my finger over her neck. She twitches slightly at this touching, and I pull my hand away.
"It tickles." She smiles at me; the look in her eyes a desire for me to touch her more. My own heart pounds louder as I start to caress her again, this time gently brushing her shoulders and arms with my fingertips, making her eyes close. I know she is enjoying the feeling, the feeling of just being touched be my hand. This is a side she shows to me and me alone.
We move into the bedroom and lie down next to each other. Before we continue, she looks and smiles at me tenderly. I reciprocate this, and then I kiss her again, moving on to more passionate heights as we continue our lovemaking.
I guess some people might call this some sort of odd love/hate relationship, but I merely see it as meting out our existence together in the best way we possibly can manage. Also, I really don't care about what others think, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't either.
Funny isn't it, how strangers are thrown together by chance, to grow to love one another and to find peace in their life? From chaos comes order, I guess. I don't know how my life would've changed had I not met her, but I'm almost certain it would never have been the same.
After we finish, we hold each other tightly, the silence speaking for us. She pushes herself into me even more, the soft touch of her skin and the weight of her head on my chest an even stronger assurance that I do not need to fear being alone, nor fear facing the future.
A thought occurs to me, and I half-chuckle, half-sigh to myself. She looks up to me, her blue eyes curious and concerned.
"I wonder what our friends would think of this. Of us being together, living together, being in love." Her eyes harden a little, and she sets her head on my chest again, gently stroking my chest with an open hand.
"The dead care not for the dead," she says softly, and then hugs me. I hug her back, my mind considering what she said, even as I begin to drift into sleep.
The dead care not for the dead.
Please, feel free to review. I am sorry if I offend any fans of the series.