[Fruits Basket] Haru/Rin, #8 Title: Still Life With Memory Author: Ysabet MacFarlane (ba087@chebucto.ns.ca) Pairing: Sohma Hatsuharu and Sohma Isuzu (Rin) Fandom: Fruits Basket Theme: #8 (our own world) Disclaimer: Fruits Basket belongs to Takaya Natsuki and Hakusensha; English-language versions by FUNimation (anime) and Tokyopop (manga). This piece of fiction is in no way approved or endorsed by any of the copyright holders. Please support the original work! Notes: Haru/Rin, ~2400 words. Set just over a year and a half post-series, except when it's not. Full-series spoilers. ********** March 1999 ********** "But I'll fall asleep," Haru protested the third time Rin told him to hold still. "And you say I move around a lot in my sleep." His bedroom was less chilly than it had been in the dead of winter, but it was still colder than he'd expected when he'd noticed Rin sketching him and had jokingly offered to take his shirt off. They'd lit every candle they could find, but while the tiny flames dancing around the room were pretty, they were too scattered to cast much heat. Rin put her pencil down and rubbed her hands together, shivering despite tights and fingerless gloves. She'd refused the warmer shirt he'd offered her, preferring not to obscure the shape of her body even in the privacy of his room. Dating her--if that was a word he could use for what they were doing in such secrecy--hadn't yet given Haru the confidence to say everything he wanted to. He was sure she knew just how much he appreciated the way she dressed, but less certain how she'd react if he asked why it was more important to her than being comfortable when it was just the two of them. She said, "Don't worry, I'm almost done," and picked the pencil up again. The temptation to say _but it doesn't matter_ lasted only a moment. Haru fixed his eyes on one of the candles and held still, wondering if it would be the one she chose to consume her work. ********** October 2002 ********** "Do you ever think about it being your year?" Haru asks, and the camera catches Rin's expression as she turns to look at him. He's been photographing her for two months, getting better at it all the time. He bought his own camera within a week of starting, not wanting to compete for hers. Between them they've taken hundreds of photos since summer; hers are of whatever catches her eye, in case she later decides to incorporate it into a painting, but his are all of her. She stares at them sometimes, looking at her own face as if it belongs to a stranger. She doesn't pretend not to understand the question. Only the day before, a stranger asked about her zodiac, and she answered, "Horse" with a hint of alarm that dulled as she corrected herself. "Sorry, no--Bird. I'm Year of the Bird." "Not often," she says finally. "It...it doesn't feel real without all of us being together." He nods. It's been two years since the curse freed them, and they spent both of the intervening New Year's holidays far away from their family--out of the country entirely as the year of the Horse dawned in Japan, both of them aware that Rin was running from it, and from the unhappiness of the passing year. They watched the first sunrise alone on a beach south of the equator, her hands gripping his while she looked out at the water and whispered prayers. "It's not like I danced for it," Rin adds. Her tone is dismissive; her eyes aren't. "You still could." He tries to say it lightly, but he can't keep himself from adding, "You've never showed me." ********** April 1999 ********** "Let me see?" Haru looked up from his homework when Rin set her sketchpad aside. With practice it was getting easier and easier to hold still while she drew him, and she was getting faster at it. "It's pretty rough," she warned, but she let him look. He was getting used to seeing her impressions of him on paper, and almost used to the fact that none of her pictures of him survived the day. *It's kind of meditative,* he'd suggested once, seeing a flash of sorrow in her eyes. *You capture a moment and let it go. It's all ours, forever.* She'd only laughed, shaking her head as she struck a match. Being able to read her mood from the way she drew was a skill he was cultivating, but it was still an imprecise art. He studied the sketch, noting that she'd done it in quick, broad strokes, giving the most detailed attention to his hands and hips. "I don't get a face today?" "You kept frowning at your notes," Rin said. "Oh." Haru lay down on the floor and rested his head in her lap. "'kay. No more grumpy faces." "I have to go home soon," she said, bending over him. "Homework-only visit, I know." He carded his fingers through her hair until they snagged on the beginnings of a tangle. "Want me to comb your hair out first?" He wasn't entirely sure what the ritual meant to her, but he knew how much trust it took for her to let him do it, to not flinch away if he touched her unexpectedly. Her eyes widened at the suggestion. "But--" "Unless you only want it to be an after-sex thing?" Caught off-guard, she blushed and snapped. "Don't just _say_ things like that!" "Sorry." "Let me think about it," she said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it in apology. "Don't do it today." "Okay." Haru helped her up and watched while she meticulously tore the sketch she'd just drawn out of the book. She looked at it for a long moment and then took the lighter he handed her. He gathered her hair back in his hand while she set the picture on fire, and they both watched it burn away. When there was only ash left, he leaned down and kissed the exposed nape of her neck before letting her hair fall loose. ********** October 2002 ********** She dances for him a week later, waking him at dawn. "Did you sleep at all?" he asks, wide awake before he rubs at his eyes; her nervous energy is contagious. "No." She kisses him when he sits up, and he can't tell which of them is trembling, only that their mouths are awkward together, hungry for this thing she's left undone. "I promised to show you." "Yeah." An old promise, made under the weight of the curse, one neither of them had believed she could keep. *I'll dance for you,* she'd said, and they'd both known she meant *not for Akito.* There's nothing in either of their extensive wardrobes that mimics the elaborate costumes Jyuunishi have always worn to greet their years, and he doesn't know if Rin would wear it if there were. But he braids bells into her hair, the way he does whenever she asks him to help her get ready for anything--an evening out, a visit with any of their family. She's never done it for herself. The only hands but his to ever weave music into her hair belonged to the maids who prepared her to dance as a child. Afterwards, Haru doesn't remember what she wore, only that her feet and fingers were bare: she slips her wedding ring into his hand, still warm from her skin, and dances. He doesn't know how she remembers the Horse's dance, but it's just as it was twelve--almost thirteen--years ago, a human woman following the steps she last took as a child possessed by an unthinkably ancient spirit. He's seen her run since the curse lifted, as fast and surefooted as always, and her dance is the same: quick, light, feet seemingly touching the floor only to leave it again. He hardly breathes, watching. The dance doesn't strip her raw in the way that dancing for Akito exposed all of them, but he's grateful for that mercy. He knows the feel of pushing past his body's limits, driven by something different than the desire to test himself, and remembers the mixed longing and dread he used to feel when he imagined her dancing for Akito, knowing that the spirit burning in her would never notice when it ran her illness-weakened body into the ground. There's no joy in her face when she finishes, suddenly motionless in the middle of the floor, her eyes tightly closed against the emotion he sees tightening her throat and fists. Haru stands and goes to her, holding her close until she speaks. "For you." "Thank you," he whispers, kissing her hair, her temple when she tilts her head back, eyes still shut. "You're so beautiful, love." "I'm done." Rin touches her neck, as if she's probing for something. "How do you feel?" She stands silent against him, thinking. "Like I've had an exorcism." She takes her ring from his hand and slides it back onto her finger. "Like I ought to be crying." After a while she steps back, reaching up to caress his face. "I'm glad it was beautiful for someone," she says, almost smiling, and he kisses her again because there's no other answer. It only occurs to them the next day that he never even thought about photographing her dancing, and he feels strangely relieved. Jyuunishi dances have never been recorded that he knows of; the knowledge of them has always been in their bodies, impossible to lose between generations until now. But, "I didn't want anything between us while you were doing it," is what comes out of his mouth, and it's true. Rin nods and goes back to sifting through the selection of photos he's taken of her, the ones he thinks best show what she looks like to him. Her face is blank with concentration as she struggles with it, trying yet again to step away from _herself_ and see her husband's lover with his eyes. ********** June 1999 ********** The last time he saw Rin before--hours before--the accident, he found her sitting cross-legged in front of a flawlessly-manicured flowerbed. She was still in her school uniform, her bag in her lap to preserve modesty (harder to do in her uniform than her own clothes, she'd told him once; the skirt moved so loosely around her thighs that it was harder to remember it wouldn't necessarily stay in place). "I'm not good at still-life drawing yet," she explained when he sat down a few cautious feet away and joined her in staring at the rich purple iris inches from her face. "I hate losing the color. I should paint more." Haru nodded and stayed with her until she was finished, both of them aware that no one would think it strange to see them together as long as they were focused on something other than each other. "Do you ever draw yourself?" he asked, when she was on her feet and brushing grass off her skirt. She looked down at him in surprise. "No." When he waited, she frowned. "It's not like I can _see_ myself." Much later, he would remember the discomfort in her answer and recognize a flicker of the self-loathing she usually kept buried. But at the time he only stood up, still making sure not to forget and touch her, and waved goodbye when she said she was going to look for some things she had in storage. It was the next day before he heard she'd never made it home. ********** December 2002 ********** Rin shows him the painting by looking up from buckling her boots and telling him to go into her studio while she's out. He knows that means she's finished something, but he isn't prepared for the first self-portrait she's ever created: realistic, like all of her work, with the chaotic touch that distinguishes her paintings. She's captured something he's never photographed, and once Haru catches his breath he can only think that she must have worked from the memory of seeing herself reflected in his eyes and face. It's the moment she understands that she's woken from a nightmare, when terror and relief are most at war, and on canvas it never ends. He's almost sick with it, but he makes himself look until eventually he hears her key in the front door, and goes out to meet her. "No," she says, after she asks him what's wrong and he tells her. Comprehension makes her pale; she comes and puts her arms around him without taking her coat off. "No, it's okay--I'm waking up." She repeats herself carefully, kissing his face while she holds him. "I'm still waking up. It's just taking a while. Do you understand?" Her lips are cool and comforting on his cheek, as if he's the haunted one. "Please understand." "Rin--" "You have to wake up, too." She takes a small step back, cupping his face between her hands. "It's not just _my_ nightmare. I know how scared you are for me, all the time, but I'm going to be okay. And so are you." Her fingers slide up into his hair, knotting in it as she pulls him down to her mouth. "Trust me." As she kisses him, Haru remembers fire in her hands, spreading to one picture after another, and her admission that she stopped drawing completely after breaking up with him, that she'd burned every sketchbook she could find. "Don't burn it," he says, kissing her between words. "I won't. I don't do that anymore." A fingertip moves slowly along his earlobe, pausing on each stud as if just discovering it. "You always say you want me to see myself." "I know. I'm sorry." "Don't be." She presses her forehead against his and backs away with a sigh, taking off her coat. "I didn't exactly warn you." "How did you do it?" "Do what?" "Paint that. How did you know what you look like?" "Oh." Rin frowns and goes into the kitchen, putting a kettle on to boil before she answers. "From you, I guess. I wasn't sure it was real. Before the curse broke, I think you used to dream about it. About me." Unlike her, he's never particularly remembered his dreams. "Oh." As the kettle heats, she holds her hands close to warm them. "It's not like I'm the only one who has bad dreams," she says, unusually gentle as she watches the steam build. "You just don't wake up." "They're probably not as bad as yours." "I'm glad." She makes tea for both of them without asking if he wants any, and Haru holds the delicate cup in both hands, breathing in the smoky smell as he follows her back to the living room and the warmth of the kotatsu and its quilt. As he opens his book he watches her go back to her work: fanning a handful of reference photos out in front of her, turning to a blank page in her sketchbook, and picking up a pencil.