AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you very much for the reviews!! I hope the point of view change is acceptable. WARNING- MAJOR SPOILERS – Enjoy!
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BEAUTY
~Holding the hand that holds me down~
The Sohma home was perfect, not many people would say that, but it's true. It was and still is, a sea of lies, traditions, and petty anxieties. Oh, how deep and dark it could become and it was all so thrilling really, at least as an observer. A one-time-more-than-friend once told him that he was a jellyfish and she was absolutely correct. Only he could manage to stay afloat, none of it could touch him. It was all water off a duck's back and all that. Until Akito let herself get swamped. She had to succumb; she who had the Zodiac's unwavering respect, if only out of fear, yet she could not find the strength to rise above it, and that was maddening.
So he turned to books, not as an escape from reality, but as a window into the real world. He explored libraries and schools, not to get an eyeful of young females -though telling Akito that had just about made his day- but to no avail. He even read all the old texts regarding the Sohma family long before Rin took an interest in them.
Ultimately he paused and sat down in consideration. Perhaps he was going about things the wrong way, he must not lose courage now, and besides frantically scrambling was not his style. He needed to remain constant otherwise Akito would worry, start to suspect, maybe even grow to hate him. Oh and she would despise him, if she knew how far he was willing to go to destroy everything she thought she loved.
In truth the only one who loved the Sohma house was Shigure. It made him laugh to himself, because he alone could bask in Akito's affection. No one wanted her like he did. No one needed her like he did. He knew, even before he was introduced to God, that his love could only be returned in full force by a beautiful, ephemeral being whose heart was about to burst. If there is one thing Akito has in abundance, it's passion. Passionate joy- as a child anyway- passionate anger, passionate speech, and she will learn passionate love- in all aspects of the word; he would make sure of it.
As a child, she was an innocent girl, who had yet to witness the evils of the world. When something remotely bad happened she cried enough tears to supply an entire rain forest. They were such tragic yet pretty tears; when her eyes were puffy, red, and swollen, and a thin line of snot poured down toward cracked yet plump lips, he could not stop himself from approaching her, and offering her a flower. She had yet to witness the beauty of the world too. She took the gift and held it carefully in small fingers. A deep blush, that outshone the rose, suffused her cheeks and she smiled through her tears.
When they were alone in her room. Everything he spoke was the truth. He told her she was beautiful, even if that word did not do her justice. He told her that her skin felt like the inside of flower petals, and that even in men's clothing she was attractive. Taking off that tie of hers was even more exciting. Each button was a slow tease, and while she wore male garb they could play with each other longer, or just rip open the material and cause buttons to fly off to distant corners of the room. It depended on the mood really. He would tell jokes, because he knew she didn't like the outfit, and it would make her blush. She would probably kill to wear something sexy and feminine, but that was only because she did not know how much he already loved her. She could wear a garbage bag and that would not deter him, but wearing nothing is always an excellent option as well. The smell of her sweat only made him more aroused. It wasn't a particularly pleasant smell, but when it mixed with that of his sex, to him, it was better than any smell in nature. Lying next to her on the sticky and dampened futon became his absolute favorite place to be. He adored it when she would murmur in her sleep and tuck her head snuggly on his shoulder. Gently, very gently, he would move the strands of hair that stuck to her forehead, and look upon her closed eyelids. Why couldn't they just stay like this for all time? But in the morning light, he could see the deep circles under her eyes, watch the stiff way she put her crumpled clothing back on, and how she would turn from him, ask him to leave in a bitter, deep, male voice. Both awake, the dream would end, and he went back on the hunt, to break the so-called curse.
He did not fret when she claimed that she needed something new. After all she always came back to him. He did not blame Hatori either, for he knew his heart could never get involved, that man could never look at her as a woman who needed love. Try as he might, Hatori secretly hated her, and Shigure suspected, that he continued to adhere to her beck and call, that he administered medication to her sniffles and coughs, only to prolong her suffering in that house. Maybe, before he met Kana, he could have had genuinely good feelings toward her, but that was destroyed the day she tore Kana out of his life.
Yes, he loved that bastard, if he did not have that wonderful cold side there was no way they could have remained such good friends. And Aya, ah poor man, well there was nothing to worry about on that front.
But him- he made his hackles rise and bear his teeth, as a dog, he felt obliged to do great harm to her new lover. After she slept with him she did not return. She actually believed that she preferred him. There was something off about that guy, and not only because he was her new toy. Could he kill him? He felt his anger rise, and he struggled to keep his emotions under control; he did not want to turn into a mutt at this time. In the end it was up to Akito and she seemed to enjoy that- person's presence.
If that is her choice, then Shigure decided to leave. He would not stay and watch this, nobody, paw all over her. He wanted to stay, to protect her, but that was not her desire. He packed his belongings in a daze. Was that his tie or hers? Where did he put that book? No, he couldn't leave without- his best pen! He was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps. Could it? An upset young man, with a tuft of dazzling white hair on top of pitch black, came up to him with his hands out begging: almost as if he were God. Well this is interesting.
