Disclaimer: Why would I even think about owning Fruits Basket? It's amazing; I would just muck it up.


Well…my first Fruits Basket story. It not as much of a story as much as a drabble really. It's more of a "spur of the moment" kind of thing. Also, it's dedicated to "The Scarlett Sky" and "Ekoaleko" for totally obvious reasons. I idolize them first of all, for being such angsty and dramatic writers, in fact, just totally good amazing writers. Also, this is for "Panda-Chan" whom I have to admit, I am very fond of right now. Anyway, (Spoiler ahead peoples)

This is set after the curse is broken, for you manga scan hounds who even know what I'm talking about. That's about it actually, I would write more, but I have to get to work.

So long, farewell,


A girl walks in the rain, hair wet and flat against her back, the way she walks suggests that something is wrong. Her cheek is stinging, so is her arm, it tingles with that familiar feeling of a rubber band being snapped against wet skin, like a cold hard slap to bring you back to reality. That kind of tingle, the kind of prickling sensation when your arm falls asleep and it goes numb, tingling and still numb, weightless, …worthless…

That's what she is, that is what I am, she thinks without crying. What is the point of crying when it's raining? More importantly, she thinks almost aloud to the other few passing people on their way from work, what is the point of crying when you're just getting what you deserve?

It's cloudy, the sky is a slate grey, and it is a bluish shade that seems to fall down with each little drop of rain. They don't sparkle like in the movies, and even though life is a soap opera, it doesn't mean the special effects are the same.

Oh, she thinks, scowling at her reflection in an office window, it's not acting here; this is the real thing baby.

And, to tell the truth, it really is the real thing. People happen, things happen, love sometimes happens, and when it does, you pay dearly. Oh so dearly, oh so precious. Not with your life, but with other things. You lose to rumors, lose to fault, lose to guilt, teasing…the list should go on and on and on.

She keeps walking, the stinging now dull, her breathing not frenzied, but the mark is still there, the red hand on her face, showing that at the spur of the moment, something did happen, it, oh baby, it was the real thing.

For real baby…

"You whore! How dare you think you have the right…?"

She didn't have the right; in fact, he was the one that gave it to her. With that single tug of her dull hair, with that small yet electric touch on her fingertips, at least he acted as though she had a right. She let him touch his hand to her cheek, while she cried over perfection.

She didn't have a right. Not at all, not once, not now, not ever. That wouldn't change. The only question was why wouldn't he love the other girl, the perfect girl, the composed, quiet, beautiful, stunningly beautiful girl? Why wouldn't he? Was he blind?

"I don't have the right…" she muttered slowly, the rain beginning to fall, slowly dripping onto her cheeks, running down. She wasn't crying, she wasn't crying…It was just the rain, wet warm salty rain caressing her cheeks…just like his feather light fingertips. Just like him, always making her cry, even when he wasn't even there, even when it wasn't his fault. She wouldn't cry, she wouldn't cry. But…who was to stop the inevitable?

And one second, a slap resounded, harsh and deafening, echoing down the street in hollow wet whooshes like bare feet on cool wet pavement. Then her arm, the tight grip tightening and loosening, then just as she began to feel relief, it tightened, and she cried out. But she didn't cry.

She still won't cry, even when the rain stops, even when the clouds move and the sunset is so beautiful—just like himshe thinks—so painstakingly beautiful, like she will never be, she won't cry. Because she is better than that, because, she can't cry, because, she will show that she is weak. And she will not go for that. She opens her door, and remembers with a faint frown and disappointment aimed at herself, that she forgot to lock the door. She is so scatterbrained in the morning; actually, I'm so scatterbrained all the time.

Walking in, she sighs. It's messy just like inside her head, just like her thoughts. Messy and untidy, so scattered and tarnished…just like her, rusty…worthless.

Her cheek stings, and she remembers that she is dripping wet—they stole her umbrella, the blue one he gave to her—and goes to get a towel. It's dark, she doesn't even bother to turn the lights on, it just shows how stupid and slow she really is, how worthless she really is. Something cool touches her cheek, the one that hurts, and a light turns on.

Why is he here? The door was unlocked…he let himself in…he let himself into her house. Her house, so messy…

He let himself in, and decided to touch her cheek, touch the cheek that hurts the most…

"You're hurt…" He murmurs in that small voice, so quiet and loud inside her head, so calm and worried… The voice of his that is so loved. This is the time…

She will not cry, she will not cry, she will not cry.

He frowns, caressing her cheeks with his probably lotion fed fingertips, she realizes her cheek isn't tingling anymore. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry…

But, as she looks at his purplish blue hued eyes, and his concerned face, she cries, and is ashamed that he has to see, ashamed that he has to feel her tears soaking up his perfect hands. She manages to talk, slowly, carefully choosing her words so he won't think that she is an idiot for crying…so he won't think she is an idiot for being the victim.

"Jealousy bites hard…"

He doesn't laugh at her; he doesn't mock her or say that she deserved it for being so imperfect. He just touches her face, smiles at her, that gentle feather smile.

And…holds her.