Title: Silence Blossoms Author: Ysabet MacFarlane Pairing: Sohma Hatsuharu and Sohma Isuzu (Rin) Fandom: Fruits Basket Theme: #11 (gardenia/kuchinashi) Disclaimer: Fruits Basket belongs to Takaya Natsuki and Hakusensha; English-language versions by FUNimation (anime) and Tokyopop (manga). Notes: "Kuchinashi", the Japanese word for "gardenia", can also be written with kanji that mean "mouthless" or "without speech". Mild spoilers for vol. 8 and a panel in vol. 12. The title comes from an untitled Leonard Cohen poem, found in "Let Us Compare Mythologies" (1956). ********** There are words that don't need saying, when you've known someone your whole life. Stories that don't need telling, although sometimes they're told for the sake of conversation, for the soft pleasure of hearing a beloved voice. Rin loves the times when she and Haru are together wordlessly, communicating entirely by touch. Even with him, only sharp words ever seem to come out cleanly, as if they cut themselves free of her, leaving gentleness and love tangled unheard in her throat. His whispers and endearments hurt, illuminating her own ineloquence even as they make her smile. But there is no awkwardness in their shared silence. No pain. *** Occasionally he makes a game of giving voice to her thoughts; in the afterglow from sex, he whispers the words she chokes back while their bodies move together. This time, afterwards, he pins her wrists and glances from her face to the marks left on her forearm when she bit down to keep quiet. "Your body was screaming," he breathes, licking the fading imprint. His mouth on her skin makes her move restlessly, unable to bear the leisurely way he likes to taste her. "I could hear you." The words that follow should be obscene, would be unbearable if their edges weren't blunted by the tenderness in his voice. Rin arches off the bed to kiss him, to stop him, but the dark tides of his mind are too close to the surface to be turned aside--the words keep coming, soft and rough, working their way under her skin. Her eyes close while his grip on her wrists tightens, as if she can blind herself to the way she responds to this side of him, or deny the rising lust in his voice. "Again," she whispers. *** He falls asleep with his head in her lap one sunny afternoon, his breath warm through her skirt. Rin sits very still and tries not to give in to the unexpected urge to cry, not wanting to break the spell by waking him. Around her, the air is thick with the incessant drone of cicadas, rich with the scents of Haru's bare skin and the gardenia hedge that hides them from curious eyes. Summer intoxicates him in a way she envies; it exaggerates the trace of mania in his good moods, and the inevitable crashes manifest as drowsiness more often than anger. In the sun, his skin is almost hot to the touch, as warm as the weight of her hair on her back. It feels strange, braided loosely on one of Haru's whims; before nodding off, he patiently plaited white blooms into the length of it even after she told him she had no way to secure his handiwork. The braids began to come undone as soon as he let go, a slow uncoiling while he nestled against her; every now and then, as she watches him sleep, a blossom falls to freedom behind her. Tears gradually escape in spite of her best efforts, trickling under her fingers while she tries to staunch them, and Haru stirs, reaching for her without opening his eyes. She turns onto her side as he pulls her down, and curls up with her forehead pressed against the hard muscles of his belly, his head still pillowed on her thigh. The silent comfort of his presence makes her tremble, despite the heat of the sun beating down on them. She has no words to tell him that she's crying from relief--relief from the constant ache in her chest, from the longing to collapse in on herself and never get back up, from the need to stand and walk as if nothing is wrong. *** It's his voice that falls silent when she ends it. Where words of love froze in her mouth, the lies come easily--she pretends to be someone else, perhaps the stranger she saw in the mirror Hatori grudgingly held up for her once the doctors were finished with her. The swelling has gone down, but bruises still discolor her skin; she wears them like make-up, wears the bandages like a costume, and says her lines. Haru's fists clench helplessly, and she wonders if his hands would recognize her body if she let him touch her, or if he would flinch away from the ruin of her back. The question seems vitally important, somehow; she lets it occupy her thoughts while she returns his stare. He says nothing at all, and neither of them cries. She is too cold inside, and tears would only dilute the unbelieving pain on his face. There is enough time before he leaves for her to memorize his expression, time enough to wonder if he might hit her--a new idea, one she examines from all angles. She finds that she almost craves it: an instant of violence to mark the destruction of everything they'd built between them, to fit it into the pattern of her life. And although he believes the lies, he sees that much; the numb shock in his eyes changes to sickness, and he is gone. When the door closes behind him, Rin's hands begin to shake. The tremors continue until a nurse doses her with painkillers, hours later, and she falls into a sleep so deep that her own weeping doesn't wake her. fin.