A/N: A scene from one of my unfinished stories. Ichigo reflects on how she fell in love with Kishu.
There was something to be said for perseverance, she thought, fingers toying with a lock of silk smooth hair. It slipped across her skin like water, a texture so fine it felt like the softest fur. Ironic, given she was the one with the kitty-ears. She ran her fingers along its length, once twice, thrice more, before smoothing it back behind a fine-tipped ear.
He looked beautiful. Beautiful and otherworldly, the moonlight casting a silver glow to his skin, adding a radiance to skin so pale it was like fallen snow. Like an angel, she thought her eyes drinking in the shadows gathering in the dips of his spine, the curve of his body, all sleek muscles and slender limbs. His expression was sweet-innocent almost-slumber stealing away the furrow on his brows and the creases at the edges of that mouth, leave a delicate youthfulness in their place. Yet there was something in the cant of those eyes and the sharp slant of the chin that gave him a fey sort of beauty. Even now the corners of his lips tilted ever so slightly upwards, lending that face an impish cast. Or more like a fallen one, she amended silently.
It suited him, she thought, resisting the urge to trace those cheeks and steal those lips again. It would wake him. He was sensitive, a lifetime of military training had ensured that the merest brush shocked him into wakefulness. Had she been anyone else, she knew, she would not have gotten away with even this much, the force of her gaze alone certain to bring him to consciousness. But there was trust between them and a familiarity born of endless repetitions of endless nights. He knew her. And she knew him. His scent, his warmth, was deeply imprinted upon her senses as she knew her was on his.
She smiled.
Four years ago, she would have said it was impossible. Hell. Even a year ago she would have said it was impossible, her love for Masaya too strong, too steadfast to leave room for anyone else. But things had changed. Time and distance had molded them into different people. The smart, gentle boy she had loved was no more. In his place was a cool, confident young man. A young man, she had realized, she barely knew at all.
Only two years had passed until she saw him again. Two years of letters and postcards, emails and text-messages, and the rare video chat snuck in wee hours of the night. Eight-hour time differences limited things. Phone calls had been small, stolen minutes between his morning classes and her evening commute. She had thought she knew him so well. It hadn't even crossed her mind to worry when the letters grew fewer and the text less frequent or when the calls whittled down to a few words on holidays and birthdays.
At eighteen, bright-eyed and in love, she had headed off to England, following Masaya on a hard-won scholarship. She had dreamed of their meeting for months, reading and re-reading his letters until they grew crumpled and creased, the ink faded where her fingers caressed the strokes that made up his name. It would be wonderful, she though, to be so close. He would show her the Big Ben and they'd have lunch beside the Thames, and in the spring when the flowers bloomed, he'd take her to Hyde Park to see the roses. And he would be just as sweet and charming, and perfect as he had been at fifteen.
Except he wasn't. Somehow prince charming had become Casanova. Still sweet, still charming, but with the cocky arrogance of a man that knows he is handsome, talented, and highly desirable. This Masaya was a stranger. A stranger that drank and smoke and came home smelling of sweat and perfume. Someone dominating and crude, filled with a sort of raw sexuality that both drew her and repelled her. Not the Masaya she knew at all.
In fact, if she hadn't known better, she would have sworn she was seeing Deep Blue. Which was impossible. And silly. And more than a little unnerving.
But she could have ignored it all. Could have ignored how her pressed her and teased her for her for her shyness. Could have turned a blind eye when he flirted with those foreign girls, tall and blonde and busty. But she couldn't ignore his jealousy.
It was her nature to be helpful. Years of playing heroine had seen to that. When someone fell, she helped them. When they were lost, she gave directions. She hadn't intended to flirt. Didn't think that a few words and a comforting smile could have been taken for infidelity. But it had. It had only taken a clumsy classmate, and a single, friendly hug to change the Masaya she loved into someone she feared. He became possessive, dangerously so, sending dark looks at every boy that so much as looked at her. And he pressed her, harder, asking for things she wasn't ready for. Things she didn't even want to contemplate.
It was only when they were alone that he was normal. That he became the sweet boy she fell in love with once upon a time.
Until it happened.
Her powers, quiescent away from a threat, begun awakening. The cat-like tendencies she had struggled with through so much of middle school returning her until she was napping in the sunlight and eating tuna by the can. But this time had been different. She was older now. Her body matured. The ebb and flow of her hormones affected her differently, making her more playful and flirtatious, more likely to tease. Catty even. But Masaya hadn't understood. He had seen her chatting with Eric, the twenty-something waiter that worked at the campus cafe. And she had flirted, yes, flattered by the attention of a handsome, older guy, but it had been harmless.
Yet Masaya hadn't seen it that way. He hadn't cared that they'd done nothing. Hadn't cared that Eric was engaged and they'd done nothing more than talk. It hadn't mattered either that she was scared, that he knew she wasn't ready. Masaya had taken offense and made it a goal to have her—completely. He had seduced her, taking advantage of her feelings and her hormones to push beyond her boundaries. And it had been wonderful, amazing, electrifying.
And ultimately unsatisfying.
She had wanted to be cherished, to be loved slowly and gently, to explore their relationship bit by bit until, finally they would make love. And there would be rose petals and champagne and soft kisses stolen under the candlelight. They'd have a romantic dinner at their favorite restaurant and dance barefoot in the grass below the stars. Then they would declare their love for each other, promising eternity before joining their bodies as close as their hearts-not a quick romp in a borrowed bed with chair shoved under the door to keep his dorm-mates from walking in.
That was the final straw. She could take the flirting, the neglect, and the gossip—she knew they were necessary, tactics to further his career. Sometimes she could even respect the single-minded focus and ambition that had made him both a top athlete and top of class. But she couldn't, wouldn't stand that sort of disrespect. No meant no. Even if it was a nervous, laughing, timid no. Even if he had made sure she enjoyed it.
He had broken her trust, and that was irreplaceable.
She left for Japan that May, taking advantage of an incident on campus to get as far from him as possible. It had taken months of planning to get it done. Months of sneaking away in the mornings when she knew he'd be dead asleep, too drunk to come escort her to class or coax her into bed for a quickie. She didn't tell him she was leaving. Just packed up her bags and left right after finals, letting him think she was just going away for the summer.
And she'd been glad. Glad to be rid of the awkward silences and strained smiles. Glad to say goodbye to the guilt and the grief of being to weak to resist him again and again.
She knew it was cowardly. She should have confronted him. Should have told him all the ways he made her feel she wasn't enough. Should have given him a chance to fix what had been broken….
Instead she ran, as fast and as far as possible. Telling her parent's nothing. Telling her friends nothing. Pretending everything was fine and she was still the same girl that had left them a year ago. She probably would have still been pretending if not for Kishu… Kishu who had the tendency to appear in the worst place at the worst time. Kishu whose complete incomprehension of personal space had somehow, never felt more like an imposition.
He had popped into her room. One minute, she was alone, crying into her pretty, pink pillows, the next she was bolting up and seizing the hand that dared rest against her spine, a hand that belonged to one all too familiar alien. She barely noticed him then save to take in the golden eyes and emerald highlights in his long, dark hair. Golden eyes that had stared at her with such concern her heart broke altogether. Instead she had welcomed the distraction he had given her, fighting him with a vehemence that made their early days seem like child's play. And he had allowed it, taunting and jeering good-naturedly, until anger chased away the sorrow in her eyes.
It wasn't until the third time that she really noticed him. She had turned expecting a scrawny, sickly-looking alien boy, all gangly limbs and awkward height. Except he wasn't a boy. Not anymore. Like herself, like Masaya, like everyone else, he had changed, the mask of childhood slipping away to reveal the man he had become.
His jaw was broader, his cheeks narrower, his nose longer—subtle differences come together to transform androgynous features into something more mature, more masculine. Goggling, she remembered feeling her face heat, her breath catching. Kishu… was hot.
And very nearly naked. Odd. It had been something she had never noticed before. Not back then. At fourteen there had been little to see and even fewer reasons to care. That had changed. Oh, kami how that had changed. Sleek, toned muscles had replaced a wiry frame, lean and lithe like sinews of some great, jungle cat. Muscles that shifted tantalizingly, drawing the eye to a slender waist and broader shoulders.
No, this Kishu was very much a man, she noted, her gaze drawn to the slits in his skin-tight pants, dark green fabric parted to expose the top of one pale thigh. And when she had finally managed to tear her gaze away, it was his eyes that stole her breath. Liquid and molten, they seared into her with such heat and desire she felt it down to her bones.
This Kishu was dangerous.
Yet she didn't stop him when he came again and again. She didn't scream and yell and get Masha to ward her door nor did she think to tell Ryo and Keiichiro or any of the Mews. It seemed almost a blasphemy. An unwanted violation of their strange not-friendship.
So, he would come each night, to taunt and to tease as frustrating and handsome as ever, riling her until she threw him out or her parents came to knock on the door. Sometimes he would even come during the day, appearing behind her in the metro or standing by the door, near enough to annoy, far enough to be, if not comfortable, then tolerable. And each time he teased, until she wanted to scream and shout, and squirm because the feelings he incited should not be.
But she didn't stop him. Instead she unlatched the window and locked her bedroom door. Each time wondering why she bothered.
At first she told herself it was guilt. Guilt that he had died for her and that, but for incredible luck, he would have been nothing more than dirt and dust. Then she told herself it was anger. Anger against Masaya for hurting her so, a sick sort of punishment to destroy them both. They were lies, lies she would still be telling herself had he not come.
Three months. Three months he had been on earth, each night appearing like clockwork in her room. Until he didn't. She recalled it vividly. It had been early August when the days were long and hot and uncomfortably humid. There had been no news of the Crusaders and she had spent the day in typical cat fashion napping by the window.
He didn't come that night, nor the next, or the one after, his absence leaving a hollow place in her breast. It made her realized she missed him. That all those nights spent bantering and bickering had become something she looked forward to. Something she enjoyed.
It was a startling realization, one with implications she didn't really want to contemplate.
And it did nothing to stop her from throwing her arms around him when she saw him again; clinging to him with such desperation and concern it was almost as though he had died all over again. He had said nothing then, taking only one good look at her red eyes and relieved expression before flicking her forehead and telling her he was fine.
It changed everything. Their midnight meetings taking on a different tone, one closer, more intimate. Heated arguments changed to playful jibes and long conversations seated on the rooftop with the moon hanging bright above them. Sometimes nights they'd even travel, Kishu teleporting them to secret groves and far away mountains, brilliant, untouched, and teaming with life.
They became friends, or something like it.
She would have been content with that. Satisfied by those stolen moments of unexpected friendship, never testing, never pushing, her wounded heart still faithfully Masaya's.
Then he kissed her. Not the stolen pecks of thirteen or the almost goodbye that fell short of her lips. He kissed her as though she were air and water and all that was vital. Sweetly tentative and a brief brush of lips so soft, so delicate it gave and asking nothing for itself. And it broke her heart, shattering the part of herself that still clung to maybe, the part of herself that swore it would be only Masaya's, and rebuilt it in a different arrangement. One new and frightening and oddly beautiful for all the cracks.
She was in love with Kishu.
It was wrong, wrong on so many levels. It was supposed to Ichigo and Masaya. Not Ichigo and Kishu. Masaya was her prince charming, her blue knight, the one to sweep her off her feet and carry her into the sunset where they lived happily ever after. Kishu was… Well, she hadn't been too sure what Kishu was. Not quite an enemy. Not quite an ally. More like the anti-hero in a story than anything else.
And everyone knew, the anti-hero never got the girl.
Her heart had other ideas, the treacherous organ skipping a beat every time she saw him. She couldn't shake it and couldn't pretend, the vivid delight on his face embedded deep in her mind as he gazed at her as though she were the moon and the stars.
He knew. Without saying a word he knew.
Yet still she ran. Shrieking and spitting in an attempt to return to the childish rage that had fueled the earliest stages of their relationship. Kishu wasn't having it. When she shrieked he smiled. When she spat, he laughed, dodging her swiping claws and flying kicks, each time he caught her complimenting her before vanishing from her arms.
Worst still were the gifts. Wild flowers and love notes, soap cakes and butterfly pins, tucked into the pocket of her skirt or the bottom of her pillow. He left them almost every day, arriving before she came back from school and leaving just as quick, so that only traces of his scent proved he had been there at all.
She grew to expect them, heart fluttering each time she slipped her fingers into the pockets, feeling for the treasure hidden inside. She was never disappointed, each time revealing a new treasure, a cowrie shell or colored stones, an amber pendant or carved wood. Little things somehow more precious for their simplicity.
He eroded her will a little each day until no longer did she worry "what would Masaya think". No. There was Kishu and only Kishu with his impish grins and wandering hands. Masaya fell far behind. She sent him an email the next day, a long and rambling email saying all the things she had been too afraid to say, her woes exposed on a computer screen.
His reply was two words. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. A phrase she heard again and again as the weeks went by and voicemail messages became heated phone calls that left both of them tearful and hoarse, their hearts and minds run raw and ragged. And each time there was Kishu, holding her close and stroking her hair, murmuring nonsense words as her shudders slowed to quiet sobs.
Even out of love, she still loved Masaya. She only wished she had been strong enough to have ended it all before.
A year later, they made love.
Unplanned and unexpected they had been lying in a glen side by side, watching the clouds from the gape in the trees, as purple wildflowers tickled their skin with every errant breeze. It had been hot, unseasonably so for mid-October, and they had gone for an impromptu swim, chasing and splashing each other through the rivers and streams until both of them were thoroughly wet. Then they lay in the sun, watching clouds as they dried.
She didn't quite know who had moved first or when exactly the slow circles against her arm grew to something more. She only knew that all too soon her lips were meeting his, their breaths mingling as their hands stroked and caressed, burning to a fever pitch in the fading daylight. Then his fingers had slipped beneath her shirt, bolder, than before and she had kissed him, peppering kisses on that angled jaw until their clothes were lost and she lay beneath him, nude and exposed.
And he had looked at her as though she were a goddess, his touches worshipful and feather light, stroking up her calf and the curve of her hip, lips brushing kisses up the bend of her arms, the hollow of her throat. He had loved her with such painstaking gentility she could take no more, her hand scaling his back and pulling his hair, claiming him, coaxing and caressing until there was only mingling breath and beating hearts. And all around them the air scented with crushed blooms.
And it was beautiful, amazing, electrifying. And somehow right.
There had been no roses. Only dandelions and hyssop crushed underfoot. Sunlight instead of candlelight. Birdsong instead of music. There was no fancy dinner. No chocolate. No wine. They did not dance the night away, but instead chased each other across a sunny field, giggling and squealing like children. Yet it had been perfect, the memory sinking past her skin and into her soul.
And she had loved him more. Loved him as he slipped into her bed at night, his dark hair spilling on her pillows like ink from a jar. Loved him as his arms held her in her sleep, and his kisses woke her in the morning. Loved him too as he departed with a kiss and a quip, leaving her flushed and flustered, moments before she had to get up for school.
No. Even eight months ago, she would have thought it impossible. To have fallen in love so deeply and completely with someone not-Masaya. Eight months ago, he wouldn't have been allowed here at all. Her anger, her fear, keeping him far from her life and even further from her heart. Yet lying there, staring at him as those long lashes fluttered open and his lips curled in a sleepy smile, she knew there was no one else she'd rather be with.
Yes, she thought, curling into him once more, there was something to be said for perseverance. Luckily, the man beside her had it spades.