[Fruits Basket] Haru/Rin, #24 Title: The Borders of Our Lives Author: Ysabet MacFarlane (ba087@chebucto.ns.ca) Pairing: Sohma Hatsuharu and Sohma Isuzu (Rin) Fandom: Fruits Basket Theme: #24 (good night) 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: Set at the very end of vol. 16 (first sunrise of the new year). Title from Simon & Garfunkel's "The Dangling Conversation". ********** She's asleep when he finds her, curled up under a blanket and leaning against the wall instead of in her bed. Haru kneels beside her, seizing the chance to simply _look_ at her for the first time in months. In the moonlight, filtering in through the frost creeping up the windowpane, her face is pale but less alarmingly thin than he remembers, and untroubled by dreams. "Rin," he says softly, wondering if she'll wake and what he'll say if she does. The new year is only a few hours old; he knows he should be looking ahead, contemplating new beginnings instead of the sleeping face of a girl who embodies his past and wants nothing to do with his future. "I thought it'd hurt more to look at you." He whispers the words, and the room's silence swallows them whole, lets him hear the voices at the back of the house instead. Kyo and Tohru, waiting for the year's first sunrise, still in the awkward flush of unacknowledged first love. He sits still for a while, listening to the slow, familiar rise and fall of Rin's breathing, remembering those feelings--the uncertainty, the hope, his pulse pounding at even the most innocent touches. For the thousandth time he tries to wrap his head around the idea that a year and a half can be long enough to move from those dizzy emotions to the certainty they both felt, despite the odds against them; long enough to survive the ending of it; long enough to learn how to get through entire days without being blindsided by pain and loneliness. A year and a half. From time to time the sound of Tohru and Kyo's conversation reaches him again, too quiet to distinguish any words, and he tries not to envy them. Rin's hands clench on the edge of the blanket, and he reaches out without thinking to cover them with his own, stroking the backs of her fingers. She calms for a moment, and then he feels her hands starting to tremble against his palms. "Hey," he breathes, touching her cheek, her shoulder, "you're all right." It's far from the first time he's seen a nightmare sinking its hooks into her, but there's an uncomfortable fascination to it; her eyelids start to flicker while her hands tighten into fists, as if there's anything to lash out at but the shadows in her own head. When she makes a quiet sound of distress, the need to comfort her overwhelms the voice of common sense telling him to get out before she wakes up. He whispers her name again while he puts his arms around her, too unsure of what he wants to happen to do anything else, and this time she answers. "Haru?" Her voice is soft and heavy with sleep, utterly devoid of anger. He wants to catch the sound of it out of the air, to have something to hold onto when she comes fully awake, but all he can do is hold her closer. "You were having a bad dream," he replies, quelling the urge to touch her hair; it's been one of her occasional triggers since childhood, since her father used it to hold her still while he punished her for the crime of living. "Go back to sleep." "Mm hmm." And she does, twisting her fingers into his shirt as she settles herself against him. He kisses the top of her head and stares unblinkingly out the window until it hurts too much to hold her. Carrying her to the bed is too risky, so he settles on easing her down to the floor and tucking a pillow under her head--things an uncursed man could conceivably do to make a female Jyuunishi more comfortable. Without his warmth against her, she burrows deeper into the blanket; he hesitates and then lies down beside her, close enough to stroke her arm, far enough that their bodies don't touch. The buckles strapped up her forearm are icy cold through his sleeve, something to focus on other than her nearness and the way his throat keeps tightening. "Happy new year," he tells her. "Sleep a while longer." When the sun comes up, spilling cold yellow light through the frosted glass, he watches it without making a wish. And then he lets her go. [fin.]