Disclaimer: I don't own Fruits Basket, any of the characters, places, things, what not.

This spawned from those moments of writer's block that I'm sure we've all struck one time or another as a writer, and in this case, how Shigure dealt with this particular one.


A Writer's Friend

Kalla


Sleep is always a writer's friend. Or was it, a writer is always sleep's friend? Whichever way it was, there are always times where writers are awake in the middle of the night, lost in thought, or writing frantically before thoughts can escape; before witty words can fizzle away, and before perfect actions blend and become fuzzy.


Such nights were never fun. Or, well, sometimes they were. This one was not.


As usual, Shigure sat in his study, staring at the full moon outside. His story had taken a turn for the worse, as every good story had to have at least a little angst in it. It couldn't all be sweet and happy, though he would always like it to be. There had to be some kind of conflict to make it interesting. There had to be someone hurt, or killed to cause pain for comfort's sake. There had to be someone wronged who could only be avenged by their lover. There had to be a loved one maimed that you could do nothing about other than stand by and watch it happen.


He blinked as a shadow crossed the moonlight, and shook his head. He was tired, and was thinking outside the story again. Pen touched paper again, and several moments later, another crumpled ball joined the rapidly growing pile across the room.


He tried again. And another ball sailed across the room. And another. The pen dropped to the paper covered table with a dull clatter. Shigure pulled himself to his feet and started for the kitchen. A cup of tea, and a break would do more good than trying to force the words to flow right.


Moments later, tea in his hands, he wandered to the porch, and curled up on it, staring into the woods. Perhaps a walk would help as well. It had been a while since he did that just for the fun of it. He sipped the tea and sighed quietly. He was too tired for a walk, he decided. He was too tired to write properly, too tired to walk, and right now, to tired to sleep.


Nights like this irked him. He felt what he needed, had it on the tips of his fingers, but the flow eluded him like water through cupped hands. He yawned, then sipped his tea again, leaning back against the beam that began the stair railing, still staring out at the woods.


As he stared, thoughts began to tumble over themselves in his mind, cold thoughts unwanted, unbidden. Only the occasional drink of tea could warm him at all. He shifted so he was more comfortable, set his cup beside him, and stared once again into the underbrush.


The sound of soft weeping prickled at his ears. His eyes opened and he stood up, careful not to knock over the cup still beside him. Only a few steps carried him to the edge of the wood, and the sound of soft sobs grew louder. He moved slowly, carefully, dodging around trees, keeping his steps silent in the brush. He followed the sound until he found a girl kneeling by a tree.


He frowned, feeling he had seen this before. Something inside him told him this was ~wrong~ but he could not turn away. He approached the girl and reached out his hand to touch her shoulder.


"Are you all-"


She turned on him, eyes blood red and glowing, and he realized she was no human. He backed away swiftly, his eyes widening with shock. He wanted to scream, but the sound died in his throat.


And then she was upon him. Claws shredded his clothing, sliced through his skin to the bone. He turned to run, but he couldn't get free.


And she spoke, some other language that he could not understand, but /did/.


"I will tear you to shreds for him."


And he screamed then. One long, piercing note before tinkling glass woke him.


The dawn was gray and pink over the trees as he opened blurry eyes. One hand was still wrapped around the beam, the other was now bleeding from the shards of glass that had embedded themselves into his hand. He had knocked the glass over, and down the steps.


He stood, and went to the kitchen, returned with a towel to clean up the glass, swept up the remainder, and returned to his study.


He knew what he had to do now, and it was all there. By the time the others awoke, the final chapter would be complete with time to spare.


He began to wonder just what evilly amusing things he could do to his editor this time, even as his hands spread the story out on paper and screen.