Momentary


Disclaimer: I do not own Fruits Basket.
Date: May 28, 2006
Title: Momentary
Fandom: Furuba
Pairing: of dogs and gods (no names ever actually used in the fic itself, though)
Rating/Warning: abstract references to sex; very few instances of foul language- 'M' so no one can say I'm corrupting the kiddies

A/N: Enjoy!


There were moments.

There had always been moments, each burning and dazzling brighter than a star. He could appreciate such moments– the times when she was kind, when she was compassionate, when she was loving. They were what made his memories; they were what he wanted to remember.

Of course there were bad moments.

Those were inescapable. Even saints had bad moments– moments of strife or struggle, moments where the wrong decision was made. Moments one would regret for the rest of his life. And oh... Regret them he did.

He had wanted to hurt her. Had wanted to, and yes, indeed he had. She would scarcely look at him after that, going so far as to kick him out of the main house. He might have deserved it; he didn't really care. She had betrayed him, and he wanted her to hurt as he had. He wanted her to feel ripped apart and torn asunder and totally worthless inside. Just like she made him feel.

For a split-second, he had been sure he hated her.

But loving her was his own equivalent to a consuming, addictive drug– he couldn't imagine not loving her, he couldn't not love her, the very world was created around them so that he could, indeed, love her. That shadowed, shy little girl stole his heart every time he saw her; and there was nothing he could take in return.

But that didn't stop him from trying. He stole her self-worth. He stole her confidence. He wanted to wreck her and leave her stranded on a beach of white-hot sand. He wanted her to burn– to burn like he so fervidly burned for her. Every moment he burned like flame when she was not beside him.

But what could he do? He never saw her for longer than a moment. That wasn't enough to apologize– not that he ever would– not enough to tell her that he did truly regret– and how would she take that?– not enough to do more than simply feel that pang in his heart where her pedestal stood empty. He always felt empty without her.

There were moments he felt himself to be a good person. There were moments when he was sure that deep down some of his intentions were pure. That might have been true– he could never say for certain when he was just as aware of all his less-savory qualities. And he was a bastard– an absolute villain. He used others to get what he wanted; he manipulated everyone around him to meed his own ends. Everything was for personal gain.

Or for her. There wasn't a moment when he wasn't thinking about her. Sometimes it seemed that everything he did was for her, or to forward his means of attaining her. She was a goddess– a beauty, a beast, a blind fool, a wealthy beggar, a terrible, wonderful, beautifully wounded creature; she was a goddess. She was his goddess. Those moments were his and no one else's– he wanted her to love him and only him and forget about the others.

There were moments when he felt selfish. But it wasn't selfish to ask for monogamy; it wasn't selfish to want her to be only with him. It was selfish of her to expect him to be alright with her indiscretions.

He wasn't deluded by self-pity– she didn't love the one who had been released. She clung to him, desperate for him to still be part of her, still be bonded like all the others. It was part of her curse– she was the most powerful, but she also had the greatest burden. He was the only cursed one who realized that. The rooster knew as well, but he wasn't blinded by his own chains; they had been long cast aside.

She had no right to expect him to be faithful when she wasn't. He enjoyed women– he always had. But as much as he enjoyed others, he worshiped her. He loved her. She who was his world, his life, the missing piece of his very soul. She was the woman he loved. And there were moments he considered letting her know that.

He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want to say it aloud. He wasn't ashamed; he knew it was true. But she didn't need that leverage– not until she was settled; not until she was sane. She couldn't know he was vulnerable, or she might try to attack.

He almost pitied her. But the poison that had tainted their relationship clouded his eyes– he saw her as the betrayer, and she needed none of his pity. So she received his contempt. And he knew how badly that hurt her. From mere observation he was able to see that he himself was a sore spot with her. There were moments when he wanted to make amends. He did sometimes want to say that he was sorry. But he would receive nothing in return, and she would bestow her favors on all the unwilling populace of her world. Her tiny world– she was so sheltered, so very sheltered. And yet she knew so much pain. He didn't know how to help her, not really, and it truly bothered him that she had to experience any suffering he hadn't personally inflicted. Her punishment should be under his control.

But those such thoughts always rose from the bitterness that had gathered in his heart. He didn't want to hurt her. He wanted to love her. He wanted her to love him. That was his only real goal– everything else, even breaking the curse, was merely a means to that end. One day, they would be together.

And there were moments when he truly believed that.

He did have his lapses. She was so fragile. He thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Not because of any classical loveliness or traditional figure or exotic appeal, but merely because she had inspired a flame of feeling in him that no one else had managed to even ignite. She was exquisitely unreal– a wrinkle in his imagination, wasting away on the waves of his dangerous mind. He wanted to bring her to life.

He wanted to hurt her, to heal her. That was his goal– she was his goal. He wanted to make her feel. He wanted to make her forget every other man; he would be her world, just like she was his.

So he held her. And he touched her. And in her embrace he let himself surrender. There was a spark of something magical, something so un-nameable that he barely let himself think of it. He felt the edge of it every time he was with her, calling him, beckoning him, but warning him that he could never truly understand.

There were moments when he was speechless with that feeling, and she somehow seemed to know that they were connected much deeper than the flimsy bond of the zodiac that she knew so well. She fell over that gulf with him, when he was warm, and she was screaming, and they both were wracked with real, sought after release of petty hatred, trivial anger, and the very constraints of cruel reality. There was something... Something deep. Something there. Something that he could only understand in moments.

And she let him understand. She helped him understand. She held him and shook underneath him, and burned the image of her sweet, soft body into his head. He always felt like weeping afterwards, though he was numb to everything apart from contentment. Waves of contentment– whole oceans of contentment washing over him, reminding him that there was calm after every violent storm.

And he was violent.

There were moments when he wanted to split her open. He wanted to rip off her skin and feel bone and muscle and tissue and blood, and be her and know her and hurt as she hurt, and then make all the pain go away. He didn't know why he needed to hurt her, but when he was wrapped up and wet within her, he did all he could not to scream and thrash and pull her fragile body into pieces. She was magic– she was electricity. She was a thousand things in a thousand languages a thousand times beyond his understanding. He worked with words. Even he knew he was too pragmatic to be a poet, but he wove words with a skill and dexterity rarely ever seen. There were no words for her, though. No words.

And there was never a moment he didn't stand in awe of that.

One day, he knew that she would realize how foolish she had been. He knew that then he could finally tell her he was sorry– so sorry– he had hurt her. And they would smile. And she would tell him she loved him. And for a moment he'd stare wistfully off into the sky, and then tell her that he had known it all along. Then he would pull her close and whisper it as well.

Because he loved her.

Because he had always loved her.

Because there was never a moment he wasn't thinking about her.

And, all in all, he only had those moments.


End A/N: Thank you for reading! I'd appreciate reviews of course, but I wrote this solely for myself (birthday present to me!), so they'd really just be icing on the cake, so to speak. I love Akito/Shigure pairings, and I enjoyed writing this. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did! Thanks again.

ILB