Listening to the background noise, Akane Tendo rested her chin against her hand with a faint smile. If she didn’t think about the other things she knew . . . the secrets she had learned in the dead of night, she could almost imagine that everything was perfect, that nothing had changed. She let her dark eyes wander around, taking in the modest decoration and functional furnishings around her. There wasn’t much in the room to look at, as it was almost sparse in its simplicity, and her visual tour quickly ended on a familiar wrapped katana which rested on its stand at one end of the room, patiently waiting to be called into service.

Akane smiled lightly to herself. This was such a nice little house. She wondered how different Ranma would have been if he had grown up here, under his mother’s influence, rather than on the move with his father. Would he have been a more thoughtful person? More considerate and not as selfish? Would she have been attracted to him right away, or would she still have had to condition herself to love him? Or, rather, to love the young man she wished he was, instead of the one he presented to her . . .

The laughter of the neighborhood children drifted in once again, tinkling gently in the afternoon air. (( I’d like to have a son that looks like Ranma did when he was a child, )) Akane decided silently, glancing at a portrait hanging in the entry, just barely visible through the doorway.

She had examined it a little more closely when she first came to call on her future mother-in-law, interested in seeing an example of Ranma’s past, especially since he didn’t talk about his younger years very often. The portrait showed a child, barely older than a toddler, who nonetheless looked rather wild and untamed. Akane marveled at the bright-eyed smile on young Ranma’s small rounded face. Still safe in the security of his mother’s home and unknowing of the life that was to come, he was the very picture of joy and potential.

Seeing that inspired gentle hope within Akane. Within those mischievous blue eyes she thought she could sense a part of Ranma that was elusive and hard to touch. A part she craved and wanted so desperately to bring to the surface. The long hidden core of something special, something that needed only the proper prompting to release it.

The person she had always wanted Ranma to be.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Akane dear," Nodoka Saotome apologized as she ducked beneath the banners hung across the doorway to the kitchen. A refined and elegantly-featured woman, she carried herself with a certain proud grace that indicated excellent breeding and upbringing somewhere in her ancestry. However, where earlier she had worn a friendly smile, now there was an expression of grave seriousness on her face as she set the teapot she was carrying down on the table and tucked herself in beside it. She carefully poured fresh tea for them both, the light in her dark blue eyes serious and troubled.

"It’s all right, Aunt Saotome," Akane replied in a low sympathetic tone, gratefully acknowledging the tea and taking a sip. Now that the Saotome matriarch had returned, the youngest Tendo daughter pushed aside the contemplative thoughts that the idyllic afternoon had inspired. It was time to get back to business.

On some level, Akane had been very loath to deliver her news to Ranma’s mother, knowing the pain and chaos that were likely to result. This was going to hurt everyone involved. But on a much stronger level, Akane was barely restraining herself, eager to put an end to what she had discovered developing between Ranma and Ryoga within their tent deep in the night. It had hurt to hear the comfort that her iinazuke gave Ryoga, to hear the tenderness and understanding in his voice as he did his best to console the Lost Boy.

Tenderness and understanding that he had -never- shown her.

Akane had listened to all of Ryoga’s story, and perhaps in her deepest buried heart she wanted to embrace him just as Ranma did, somehow make everything better for him and show him that he was loved and accepted. She had considered him a close friend, after all, and he had certainly proven himself and his loyalty to her on more than one occasion. But as dawn began to break over the sharp edges of the nearby foothills, any compassion that Akane felt toward Ryoga evaporated like the overnight frost. When Ryoga’s voice began to wind down into incoherent sobs and Ranma’s words took over . . . it was all that Akane could do to hold herself back and not tear into the tent right then and there.

For that was when she heard it . . . that affection . . . that sympathetic love in Ranma’s tone . . . and that was when she realized that they were growing disturbingly close . . . closer . . . and the Lost Boy’s tragedy was only going to bind them even more tightly together . . . Perhaps the boys themselves did not yet realize what was happening, but she did.

That damn Ryoga was on the path to releasing the special hidden quality that lay dormant inside Ranma’s heart . . . that untouched place in his soul . . . the prize which Akane coveted for herself.

She had run then . . . fleeing all the way back to Nerima, her anger as bright as the sun which splashed over her and burned away the cold air of morning. That core of Ranma’s being . . . it -should- belong to her! It was hers by all rights! She was his iinazuke, she was the one who would be spending the rest of her life at his side, not that . . . that ~pig~. A plan formed instantly in her mind, laying down a clear trail that she could follow which would lead her straight to what she wanted. She would not allow this perversion to continue. Ranma belonged to -her-, damn it all! And if she had to tear the traitorous swine to shreds in order to secure her future with the pig tailed martial artist, then she would do it gladly.

Deep within, Akane recognized her desire to hurt Ryoga as unhealthy and cruel, especially after hearing him stutter out such a terrible story of torture and disgrace. But he had used her love and affection. He had knowingly hurt her. His constant devotion was utterly empty in the face of what she now knew, and she would not allow such a betrayal to go unanswered. Akane was not the forgiving type. He had deceived her, and now she wanted him to hurt as much as she did . . . more . . . And even though she fully acknowledged the danger in that type of thinking, she dismissed it easily enough, letting her mind twist around the truth until it properly suited her needs.

Ryoga was a whore and a murderer. He deserved what she was about to unleash on him.

Nodoka held her cup in slender fingers, but didn’t seem terribly interested in tasting the tea residing within. She stared at nothing for a long moment while vengeful sentiments filled Akane’s head, then shifted her gaze to rest on the young woman who was promised to her son.

"I’m glad you came to me with this, Akane-chan," the older woman began in a voice that seemed at once firm and tired. "What you’ve told me only confirms my decision to confront Genma and demand the truth from him. He’s allowed this to go on for too long, and the situation has gotten out of hand."

Akane blinked her way out of her thoughts and got her mind back on the matter at hand, nodding in sympathetic agreement. "I still can’t believe that you’ve known about the Jusenkyo curses all this time and haven’t said anything."

"Well," Nodoka began then paused for a moment. She gave up any pretense of trying to enjoy her tea and set the cup down. Resting her cheek against her hand, she seemed to ponder how best to word what she wanted to say, then continued. "Men are prideful creatures, Akane. It’s not always healthy for them, but sometimes it is better to let them hold onto that pride rather than strip it away."

"But to let it go on for so long . . . "

"I was hoping they would come to their senses on their own and see how silly they were being. It’s perfectly ridiculous to even think that I wouldn’t know my own husband, let alone the child I gave birth to, in whatever form they take. I’ll have to admit that some of their efforts to keep the truth from me have been highly amusing. But now . . . this has all gone beyond the realm of entertainment and into the perverse."

She sighed heavily, a shadow of extreme disappointment and discouragement crossing her features. "I’ve been pushing Ranma hard lately, to see just how far his pride would take this charade. I thought for certain that date I sent him on the other night would be his breaking point but . . . " She paused for a moment, looking profoundly disturbed. "He surprised me. Surprised and sickened me. That he would willingly kiss another man just to deceive me . . . It’s been bothering me ever since, and coupled with what you’ve told me about that Hibiki boy . . . well, it is time to put a stop to this."

Akane looked relieved, and it wasn’t entirely acting. When Nodoka first mentioned that she knew about the curses, the dark eyed girl was afraid that Ranma’s mother was going to let things remain as they were. But now it appeared as if that wasn’t so. Nodoka was as bothered by Ranma’s aberrant behavior as Akane herself was. For slightly different reasons perhaps, but that didn’t bother the Tendo girl in the least bit. The ends justified the means. As long as she managed to get that pig away from Ranma and punish them both severely . . . well, right now that was the most important task on Akane’s list.

"I was hoping you would," she said quietly, her voice laced with the expected tones of relief and gratitude. It wasn’t terribly difficult to come up with the proper words for the occasion, or to pull off the expression of devoted iinazuke sadness that she let fall over her face. "I’m sorry, Aunt Saotome, all I really want is for Ranma to be happy, and I simply can’t believe that he could ever be so in that . . . sort . . . of relationship."

"Of course he couldn’t," Nodoka’s eyes flashed briefly at the very thought. "And you have nothing to be sorry about, dear."

Akane cast her gaze down, clasping her hands in her lap and looking the very picture of contrite and ashamed. "I haven’t been the ideal iinazuke, Saotome-san," she admitted regretfully. "Ranma and I have had our differences, so it really doesn’t surprise me that he’s looked elsewhere for companionship - - "

"Nonsense Akane-chan!" The older woman was obviously startled and appalled, just as Akane had hoped. She leaned forward to rest a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder, blue eyes intense. "You’ve put up with far more than any young woman should, and Ranma is very lucky to have an iinazuke who cares about him so much. My dear, I’m frankly impressed by your loyalty and devotion. You would be well within your rights to reject him now."

"Oh no!" Akane gasped, dark eyes widening in soft horror at the very suggestion. "Oh, Aunt Saotome, I could never do that. I really do care for him, and I would never abandon him. It’s really not his fault, you must realize. It’s the curse, I’m sure, and Ryoga’s influence . . . "

"Yes, well, we’ll take care of that, at the very least." Nodoka nodded, settling back into position. The hard expression on her face hinted at how capable she was of following through on the threat, and her eyes shifted to rest on the wrapped katana, which bore mute testimony to the seriousness of her conviction. "First, however, I believe it is time to pay my husband a long over-due visit."

Akane was hard pressed to suppress a smile, but somehow managed to keep her satisfaction hidden. It certainly wouldn’t do to show how much she anticipated the coming storm.

*************************************************

It took a long time for both Ranma and Ryoga to calm themselves down after Ryoga’s attempted suicide. The afternoon wore away as they sat twined together on the cool ground beside the campfire, listening to the burning wood crackle and pop. Ryoga simply shivered, not actually crying, as if he no longer had tears available to shed. He clung to the front of Ranma’s shirt and simply stared at the fire; not really seeing the licking dance of the flames, but rather something much further distant and more painful. A wounded and haunted light shimmered in his eyes, though it did not quite extend to the barren expression on his face.

Holding him sheltered in a firm embrace, Ranma rocked slowly, fighting against his own sense of panic and the lingering crisis-induced adrenaline which was still being pumped through his body, making a desperate attempt to keep it all concealed. When he could, he managed to whisper encouraging nonsense for Ryoga, hoping to soothe down his fears, letting him feel his presence. Though Ranma may not have exactly been aware of it on a conscious level, doing so gave the Lost Boy exactly what he needed so desperately.

To be held . . . to be taken care of . . . to be loved . . .

({ I won’t leave you again, Ryoga. I will -not- leave you. })

Ranma meant it this time, meant it with every fiber of his being and every conviction in his heart, but those feelings were tempered with an uneasy fear all the same. Over and over, his conscience was asking an almost impossible question, continually whispering it through his mind. Did he have the courage that it would to take to stand before his parents, Tendo-san and Akane and tell them that he would not accept the fate they had laid out for him? For so long now he had been avoiding the entire situation, letting it proceed around him, acting oblivious, so that he wouldn’t be forced to deal with it. Akane, Shampoo, Ukyo, Kodachi . . . Ranma knew that he should have spoken with each long before now, explained his feelings, made them understand that he simply wasn’t interested in marriage . . .

But, how could he have done that, when he was only just now understanding and acknowledging how he felt?

Past indecisions aside, it would all have to be dealt with now. His father, his mother, Tendo-san, the girls . . . they all had to be -made- to understand. It was time to stop being afraid and stand up to them. Perhaps he could even enlist Akane into his camp and they could face the parents together as a united front. Ranma didn’t think she was any more enthusiastic about marrying him than he was about marrying her. She would probably welcome the chance to put this whole messy affair to rest, for once and for all.

Thoughts of Akane made Ranma grimace, though, as he was never quite sure what sorts of reactions to expect from her from one situation to the next. She -would- want to put their engagement aside, wouldn’t she? He thought so . . . or at least he hoped so . . . but she was so unpredictable sometimes, and maybe he was reading her attitude completely wrong?

Maybe it would be better for everyone concerned if he simply packed Ryoga up and ran, as was his first instinct. Certainly not the most honorable course of action, and he didn’t relish the thought of taking after his obligation-dodging father in such a way, but . . . Ranma’s courage wavered under the vision of his mother’s katana which swam before his tired eyes, and under the thought of Akane’s fury and disappointment.

({ Kuso! None of that matters! None of it! }) The hell with honor and responsibility! Despite threat of katana or mallet, Ranma harshly reminded himself that his first obligation was to Ryoga, the scarred and traumatized lost child, to the friend he had long ago abandoned, but who’s desperate need currently superseded everything else. He had prevented the young man from committing suicide, and his duty now was to make sure that Ryoga continued to live.

Continued to live . . . no matter what. And it was very unlikely that Ryoga could find healing in Nerima . . . Nerima, where so much of his pain originated. Years of loneliness, years of wandering. Where Ranma’s own life lay in such chaotic shambles. If they went back there, he would not be able to entirely devote his attentions to his lost friend, because there would always be some new problem with an iinazuke to deal with, there would always be rivals challenging him, there would always be further threat to the continuation of the dojo that Ranma would be obligated to face. He couldn’t take Ryoga back . . .

As the afternoon wore itself away, giving in to early evening, as the panic wound down slowly, Ranma stroked the unresponsive young man’s soft disheveled hair, and came naturally around to his own decisions, plotted out the insanity of his life up to this point, and decided that he didn’t like it in the least.

Ryoga had stilled while Ranma wrestled with his thoughts. Feeling uneasy, the pig tailed boy looked down at the friend he held in his arms, and saw that his deep brown eyes were open, but that they were staring outward, obviously not focusing on anything. Ranma experienced a brief renewed moment of panic, wondering if Ryoga was having another awful seizure of some sort, like the one that had wracked him the night before. He squeezed the Lost Boy a little tighter and rested his hand on the young man’s overly warm forehead, and was relieved when Ryoga blinked and slowly closed his eyes. A few renegade tears squeezed out from beneath his heavy lashes and made slow tracks down the dry lines of his cheeks.

({ He’s in some kind of mental shock, passed out with his eyes open. }) Ranma decided, obsessively brushing back Ryoga’s thick heavy bangs with a hand that was shaking a little more than the pig-tailed boy would have ever admitted. ({ Ain’t too surprising. The whole thing happened months ago, but he’s only just remembered it. The pain’s fresh. I guess I should’a thought about that before trying to push him into going home. Well, I ain’t making that mistake again . . . })

Gathering Ryoga firmly into his arms, Ranma somehow managed to shift his weight under himself and get to his feet. He felt rather sore and weary, not having slept at all during the night, and still nursing bruises and now some severe burns from Ryoga’s ki release. But that was beside the point, and Ranma had certainly experienced worse. He carefully carried his fragile armload into the tent and wrangled one-handed with the disarray of sleeping bags until he had them laid back out properly and could tuck Ryoga into their shelter. The Lost Boy remained limp and unresponsive throughout it all, which was a good indication to Ranma that he was unconscious rather than asleep.

That was a little worrisome, but Ranma wasn’t entirely sure what he could do about something like that other than just wait it out. He made certain that Ryoga was warm and well-covered, stepping out of the tent briefly to retrieve the coat Kasumi had sent so that he could drape that over the young man as well. Before leaving, Ranma paused to watch the shallow rise and fall of Ryoga’s breathing for a moment, and let his eyes travel up the Lost Boy’s slender body to his still and expressionless face.

Ranma lost himself for a long moment in the perfection of the scene, of how Ryoga’s hair fanned out beneath him against the material of the sleeping bag, how his thick lashes lay across his cheeks, half hidden in the shadow of his bangs, and how perfect his mouth was, parted just slightly to allow the passage of air between his lips.

({ He’s really so beautiful . . . }) Ranma thought to himself, feeling a certain regretful sadness surge within him, accompanied by a warm flush of attraction. The thought of anyone deliberately wanting to hurt that lovely perfection was almost unbearable, but even as he felt a new rush of hatred towards Stephan’s memory, Ranma had to chastize himself as well.

({ I’ve hurt him too . . . I hurt him, he lashes back at me, I retaliate . . . we’re gonna put a stop to that vicious cycle, Ryo-kun . . . })

He pressed a hesitant kiss against Ryoga’s damp forehead and slipped out of the tent.

First things first. He wanted to take a stock of their provisions and estimate how far they could get on what they had. Ranma was feeling edgy for some unidentifiable reason. It was the same sort of precognition he’d often experience right before danger was about to hit, except that this time it felt more subtle and drawn out. At any rate, it inspired him to get moving and to put as much distance between themselves and Nerima as possible. Ryoga wasn’t up to facing home right now, and Ranma wasn’t interested in dealing with his own obligations, so they would not go there. It was as simple as that.

And actually a relief to the pig tailed martial artist . . .

Ranma checked out the food situation first. They still had the things which Kasumi packed, but the rice balls had already turned and the sandwiches weren’t likely to last much longer than a day more. Ranma tossed the rice out into the trees where the forest denizens could pick at them, and re-packed the rest. He’d thought to shove a few hasty zip-loc bags filled with trail mix, dried fruit and mushrooms into his own pack, but that wasn’t likely to last very long either. And when he opened Ryoga’s normally well-stocked pack, Ranma was rather surprised to find only two cups of instant ramen and a package of fish jerky to count among the edibles. That right there was a pretty clear indication of Ryoga’s state of mind, even before remembering what had taken place in Hong Kong. The Lost Boy was not usually absent-minded when it came to survival.

Ranma sighed heavily, scooting down to sit by the camp fire with Ryoga’s pack and pick through the gear within. The contents were pretty much as he expected and remembered Ryoga carrying, and as he pulled each item out, Ranma kept a running mental inventory, comparing it with what he’d brought in his own pack. Luckily, as far as equipment went, they weren’t likely to need anything, so it was really just food that was a concern. Ryoga was a good hunter and Ranma was capable enough to survive, but that wasn’t always a dependable source of sustenance. It would probably be a good idea to hit the nearest town and stock up on provisions.

That brought up the concern of money. Ranma knew that Ryoga had some, since he’d paid his tab at Ucchan’s, but the pig tailed boy himself had none. At least not on him. He had a very modest amount saved in the First Nerima Bank, and getting his hands on that was as simple as finding an automatic teller machine. It would be enough to stock them well for awhile, and they could take it as it came from that point, as they were both well used to doing.

Occupied by these thoughts, Ranma at first didn’t really think about the black metal box that he pulled out of the bottom of Ryoga’s pack. It wasn’t until he was putting everything back that he took notice of it.

Apparently it had once been an inexpensive lock-box, but the cheap little lock on the front had long since broken. The top was inscribed with the characters of Ryoga’s name, the metal scratched with what had probably been the point of a knife from the looks of it. "Hmmm"-ing quietly to himself, Ranma didn’t really even think about the fact that he was about to invade someone’s privacy as he lifted the lid. His mind was still on equipment and survival, and he automatically assumed that the box contained something useful.

He blinked in surprise at what he found.

The box contained an odd assortment of items, which at first Ranma was rather puzzled about. Included in the miscellany were papers, a bar of used soap, some dried flowers, a scroll, and a torn pink collar with a dangling heart-shaped tag. Furrowing his brow, Ranma picked out one of the pieces of paper and unfolded it.

It took him a moment, but he recognized it as the map to the Japanese Nanniichuan. That was sort of odd, as he didn’t remember Ryoga saving that, nor could he fathom why the young man would want to. That entire incident had been bitterly disappointing for both of them. Ranma frowned and put the map aside, pulling out another slip of paper. It was the plane ticket to China Ryoga had received for winning the Martial Arts Obstacle Course Race, which he’d never gotten to use.

Ranma realized then that this was a box of mementos, as he recognized the bar of soap as being Shampoo’s water-proof Jusenkyo brand which had temporarily cured Ryoga of his curse. The dried flowers he realized were of a variety that had been growing on Togenkyo, the scroll was the one which described the Shi shi Hokodan technique, and the collar was obviously that which Azusa had fastened around Ryoga’s neck before the Charlotte Cup. The list of familiar items went on, but also included were things that Ranma couldn’t readily identify, such as some brightly polished petosky stones and a little music box that played a tune he didn’t recognize.

As he held the small simple box in his hand and listened to the tinny tinkling melody coming from within, Ranma realized that he was looking at a part of Ryoga he had never been aware of before.

It was no secret that Ryoga often bought souvenirs to bring back from wherever he ended up, it was a trait that the Lost Boy shared with his entire family, as their house was pretty much stuffed full of useless trinkets. But Ranma knew that the things in this box were indicative of something else entirely. None of these items were just from places, they were from -events- . . . events that had made an impact on the long lonely life of Ryoga Hibiki. Most of the stuff would have been trash as far as anyone else was concerned, but he had saved them and afforded them valuable space in his traveling pack because of the need to carry a connection, however small, to the important defining moments of his life.

As Ranma looked through the artifacts, he was saddened to realize that most were remnants from defeats or bitter disappointments . . .

Laying beneath everything else, nicely smoothed flat, Ranma found an empty food wrapper, which he pulled out and squinted at, mystified. It took him a few minutes of reading the label to realize exactly what he was looking at. This was a wrapper from one of the packets of bread that Ranma had given Ryoga when he first showed up at Furinkan. That had been a careless and rather callous gesture, now that Ranma thought about it, and it had certainly angered Ryoga at the time, so . . . why on earth had he bothered to save one of the wrappers?

Was it like everything else? Part of a shaping event that sculpted out Ryoga’s lonely existence? Or was it more? Symbolic perhaps? Of his fury towards all of the hurt and indifference that Ranma had heaped upon him? Of the friendship that a few rather messy fights during lunch in junior high had eventually led to before everything fell apart?

The pig tailed boy sighed heavily, lowering his eyes and clenching the crinkly wrapper in his hand. ({ I’m gonna make it up to him. I swear I am . . . })

An envelope lay waiting at the very bottom of the box. Collecting a composure which he hadn’t even realized had been shaken, Ranma set the wrapper aside and picked it out. Within he found a good number of photographs, almost all scenic shots of locations the pig tailed boy couldn’t even begin to pinpoint. As he flipped through the pictures, he silently found himself marveling at all of the beautiful places Ryoga had been, but reflected that each place seemed to carry an inherent loneliness that somehow marred that beauty. Not a single photograph contained other people, and all of the scenery gave the impression of being far away and empty.

But there were three surprises at the bottom of the pile. The first was a picture of Ryoga’s parents, whom Ranma dimly recognized. It was old and worn, evidently taken in the couple’s younger days, but the most distinctive feature of the photograph was that it had quite obviously been torn in half and then taped back together at some point. The edges were yellowing and frayed, and the scotch tape was starting to turn crusty. Ranma was careful to handle the picture gently as he flipped to the next.

He was a little startled to come face to face with his own monochrome eyes, as he found a photo of himself that had been taken during junior high. He was wearing his uniform and standing beneath a tree that grew just outside their home period class on the school grounds. Ranma smiled slightly, as he remembered the occasion the picture had been taken for the first time in many years. Ryoga had belatedly gotten a camera for a birthday and wanted to test it out, so he used Ranma as a guinea pig. The Lost Boy was later disappointed to discover that he had mistakenly bought black and white film rather than color.

Like the picture of Ryoga’s parents, this photograph was also beginning to look worn and yellowed, and it was mended with tape where it appeared that a tear had been started, then aborted. Ranma turned it over and found that Ryoga had scrawled, "Ranma Saotome" on the back at some point, but even these characters were fading.

The final photo in the stack was the group picture that had been taken on Togenkyo, which Akane had made copies of to be distributed to everyone who wanted one. Ranma thought he even vaguely remembered her insisting that Ryoga take one, though the young man had politely refused, saying that he didn’t need it . . . that it would just get lost or torn during his travels. Akane had been adamant about it, and of course in the end Ryoga gave in and accepted the picture.

What froze Ranma’s blood in his veins, what shocked him cold, was that the picture had been defaced, with obvious deliberate preciseness. Ryoga had used the tip of a sharp knife to carefully cut himself out of the photograph . . . where the Lost Boy had been in the midst of the group, there was now only a blank hole . . .

Feeling a hot tight pain in his heart, Ranma gently ran the tip of his finger over the hole, feeling the sharp edges of the fresh cut, grimacing as he did so. This had obviously been done recently, for the freshness of the cut did not correspond to softening and wear on the rest of the photograph. Ranma didn’t have to ask why Ryoga had done such a thing . . . he knew why. While the most traumatic memories were still trapped in his head, Ryoga had been under the mistaken impression that he had willingly sold his body, pawned his honor. It came as no surprise to Ranma that the Lost Boy would loathe himself enough to mutilate the only photograph that contained his likeness.

But Ranma was startled mostly because he had never really noticed Ryoga’s presence in the picture . . . until that presence was removed . . .

Nausea rose in Ranma’s throat and he had to fight it back down, closing his eyes and tightening his hands into fists, the photograph crumbling slightly in his grasp. A strange threat of emptiness yawned within him now, building from the foundation of fear that had been laid down in his stomach during those moments of terror and panic when he realized that Ryoga was about to kill himself. Never in his entire life had Ranma known such a dreadful heartbeat of time; Neko-ken training not withstanding. The mere thought that he could have lost Ryoga . . . that the Lost Boy could have died right then and there . . . that the defaced picture might have been foreshadowing . . . chilled Ranma to his core.

The pig tailed martial artist took a gasping breath, willing his stomach to cease its hurtful twisting. He snapped the picture out smooth again and stared at the hole where Ryoga should have been. ({ He was gonna to die . . . kill himself right in front of me . . . I can’t believe that I didn’t realize sooner how hurt he was, I was so blind! But, thank Kami-sama that he was here where I could stop him . . . he could ’a killed himself in that hospital in Hong Kong . . . Kuso! Stephan could ’a killed him, and I never would have known . . . I never would have known what happened to him . . . })

Ranma bit his lower lip hard, in a deeply-rooted effort to prevent tears of fear and loss from forming. ({ What if . . . what if Stephan had . . . ? Would I have somehow known it? Would I have felt it in my soul? Or would I have never even thought about not seeing him? Sometimes he’s not around for months, and I’ve never even given it a second thought, never really wondered how he was doing or what was happening to him. All these years . . . anything could have happened to him, and I would have never known. })

The young man didn’t notice the single tear that managed to escape his normally iron control, didn’t feel the track it made down the curve of his cheek, and didn’t see it break loose when it reached his chin. The small solitary drop of saline fell through the hole in the photograph and disappeared as if it had never existed. Ranma had always just assumed that Ryoga would be back eventually, because he always was. He had come to view the nomad’s intermittent presence as part of the normal workings of his chaotic life, not giving it any thought . . . taking it for granted. Just as he had taken for granted the fact that Ryoga was in the Togenkyo group picture . . .

Except . . . Ranma gazed down at the photograph again . . . except that this time he wasn’t . . . and it was by Ryoga’s own hand that he was missing . . .

***********************************************

It was an unusually calm evening in the Tendo household, the type that only occurred after rare uneventful days when there were no tales to be told of schoolyard confrontations, no fights to referee between the resident betrothed pair, and no threat against hearth or home from the megalomaniac flavor of the month. This peace was due, of course, to the fact that Ranma was presumably off on an impromptu and solitary training trip, but like anything that was even vaguely associated with the pig tailed martial artist, the quiet would prove to be deceptive.

The only truly unusual thing that could be said about the evening up to that point was Akane’s insistence that there be hot tea on the table in the family room at all times, a request that Kasumi was more than happy to comply with, though she did notice that her little sister wasn’t actually drinking the tea very much. In fact, she seemed a bit edgy as she sat and tried to concentrate on whatever prime time shows the television thought fit to spit at her, occasionally glancing at the clock or in the direction of the front door. The eldest Tendo daughter found herself frowning over this behavior, but tentatively chalked it up to Akane possibly missing Ranma’s presence. A nice thought perhaps, but by now, Kasumi suspicioned, a gesture that was coming entirely too late.

Everything else was as it should have been, however, and Kasumi took a moment from her embroidering to feel grateful for this rare instant of familial perfection. Nabiki was also watching television, but her attention was divided by a magazine she was paging through during the station breaks. The patriarch of the family was sitting silently to one side, dark eyes thoughtfully contemplating the shogi board in front of him, across which sat his old friend Genma. The Saotome head was contemplatively rubbing his chin, hard expression fixed firmly on the move he hoped his opponent would make.

Yes, everything seemed right. Kasumi nodded to herself as she redoubled her interest in the fancy thread-work she was adding to a tunic which was meant to replace Ranma’s lost dress shirt. The tiny bit of unease she -did- feel was attributed toward anticipation over the pig tailed boy’s eventual return and the problems that were likely to result if he had truly faced his feelings and come to some important decisions, as she suspected he might.

There was a ring from the front bell. Fixing a pleasant smile on her face, the eldest Tendo daughter immediately set aside her project and got to her feet with a sing-song assurance of "I’ll get that." As per usual, no one really moved or noticed, though Kasumi did catch a fidget from Akane out of the corner of her eye as she left the room. Making her way unhurriedly to the door, Kasumi pondered the possible meaning of that unconscious gesture. Nervousness? Anticipation? Guilt?

Hmm.

She slid the door open to be greeted with older wiser versions of Ranma’s eyes, set in an elegant female face. Nodoka Saotome was as lovely as usual - Kasumi was always a bit envious of and intimidated by the older woman’s perfect grace and charm - wearing a traditional semi-formal kimono and carrying her ever-present wrapped katana. They smiled in simultaneous acknowledgment, and Kasumi stepped back so that she would have room to bow properly while the matriarch stepped in.

"Saotome-san! How nice to see you," Kasumi greeted, maintaining her calm demeanor while at the same time pitching her voice loud enough that those in the other room would hear her. A distant splash told her that her message had been received, and she was able to continue in a tone more befitting a lady. "Please come in. Would you care for some tea?"

"Arigato gozaimasu, Kasumi-san," Nodoka replied, also bowing a bit to show respect for the tender of the household. When she straightened, however, her serious expression immediately triggered Kasumi’s highly-developed mental warning alarms. "But that won’t be necessary. This isn’t a social visit this time, I’m afraid."

Kasumi blinked, maintaining her normal benign mask of pleasant blankness while her mind shifted through all of the possible reasons why Nodoka would pay a call that wasn’t social. Only one explanation seemed the least bit plausible, and Kasumi couldn’t help her disapproving frown as she followed the older woman back into the family room.

(/ Ranma . . . /) she sent a silent mental message to the young martial artist. (/ I hope that you’ve been able to work things out with yourself, because I have the feeling that you’re about to run out of time. /)

A moment later, Kasumi’s suspicion proved to be correct as Nodoka grasped the pot of hot tea which was waiting on the low table and, to the amazement of almost everyone in the room, deliberately poured it over the head of the panda playing shogi with Soun Tendo.

As the expected frantic scrambling, rambled desperate explanations and shameful begging commenced, Kasumi barely noticed. She was far more concerned about the slight smile of cold satisfaction that curled the corners of her youngest sister’s lips.

*******************************************

A shiver wracked Ryoga’s body and his eyes snapped open, even before his mind could become fully awake. As the last lingering tendrils of invading hands slipped away to disappear back into the realm of nightmares where they belonged, the young man lay still on his side and stared at the gently curving wall of his dome tent. The waning light of an autumn moon was whispering through the fabric of the shelter, bringing a mild chill with it.

It was just another of countless such awakenings in this young man’s life. The shape of the tent, the feel of the air . . . it was all familiar to him, and immediately his habitual weight of loneliness and bitter depression descended, reducing everything to dreary shades of grey and shadow. The way he always saw everything. Pall in every breath he took, cold earth beneath his body . . .

But there was something different about this awakening, some subtle change that alerted his senses before he could fully succumb to the disappointment of facing further existence. A slightly out-of-place scent hung close to his body, a scent that was not his own, one consisting of the faded remains of training and rice balls, a hike through the woods and scorched material.

It was accompanied by a warmth at his back, Ryoga realized slowly - a heavy close presence which pressed against him, draped over his waist and entwined with his legs. After an initial feeling of disorientation, as he didn’t immediately remember the events that led from his aborted suicide attempt to waking up here, the young man realized exactly who that warmth belonged to, and the trial of the last two days came rushing back to him in a torrent of disconcerting images and feelings. Working hard to process it all, he stayed still, quietly considering, loathe to move and disturb that warmth.

It was the first time in longer than he could remember that Ryoga hadn’t felt cold.

Even before Stephen . . . before Hong Kong . . . he had always tried to carry a soul of granite at his core, to protect himself from all of the pains and disappoint that simple day-to-day living seemed to heap on him. He had used it as a shield, only to miserably realize time after time that his imagined stone soul was really one of glass, a fragile material which melted easily and shattered regularly when squared against heat and pressure. . . it had never protected him well. And glass was cold. There was no warmth in its reflective surface.

Now, the heat felt so good, so sheltering. Ryoga wanted it to never end, never go away. Here, there was safety. Here, the hurtful pieces of his fragile glass soul were being melted away into molten liquid to be reforged. The Lost Boy slowly felt something older and much more welcome forming and moving back into his heart. Something stronger. Arms around him once again . . . his childhood protector . . . his friend . . .

{( Ranma . . . you promised me that you would always take care of me, didn’t you? And here you are . . . just when I need you the most. )}

Ryoga’s eyes filled with hot tears and he wormed a hand up from under the sleeping bag to angrily scrub the offending liquid out of existence. {( Knock it off, Hibiki! )} he hissed in the usual derisive tone he utilized when addressing himself mentally. {( Haven’t you been doing that enough lately, you worthless baka? For Kami’s sake, get a grip . . . )}

He attempted to settle his hand back where it had been, and his fingers brushed against the arm of his companion’s jacket, drawing out a soft hissing sound as his skin slid over the lightly burnt material. Grateful for the distraction and letting his mind dwell on the triviality of the moment, Ryoga carefully shifted his legs in the confines of the joined sleeping bags, and was strangely pleased to feel the play of the pig tailed boy’s denim pants against the cotton of his own. There was an odd sense of synergy to the sensation, a feeling that these two differing textures belonged together in some small way.

It was equally as satisfying to carefully roll more onto his back, letting himself move against Ranma as much as he dared without waking his companion, to turn within the shelter of those enveloping arms and feel them tighten slightly around him in reflex. As he settled once more onto his back, his partner in the sleeping bag shifted, made a soft noise in his throat, and nestled his head alongside the Lost Boy’s shoulder. Ryoga closed his eyes as Ranma’s gentle breath nuzzled in the hollow of his neck.

He shivered deep within, from the fleeting memory of being touched by another, and from the irrational sense of claustrophobia that Ranma’s closeness generated within his chest now that he was more awake. But Ryoga warred with those feelings . . . with the panic that painfully twisted his stomach . . . until he successfully mashed them all down for the time being. He wanted to enjoy the security that Ranma had generated, he wanted to bask in the warmth while he could. As usual, Ryoga was uncertain of how long this moment would last before unpleasant reality came crashing back into him, and he wished to make the most of it. He curled himself against his companion, somehow managing to wrap around Ranma, even while Ranma was wrapped around him.

Despite his best efforts, a tear managed to squeeze its way from beneath his tightly closed eyelid as he drank in Ranma’s scent, accepted the warmth. It felt so good, even as it hurt, but Ryoga was grateful for the pig tailed boy’s presence. Just for a short while, he could pretend that the years which yawned between junior high and the present had never taken place, that they had never grown beyond the innocence of being close . . . that the Fight, China, Jusenkyo and Hong Kong had never happened . . . for the moment, Ryoga imagined that they were children once again, curled together on the bed in his darkened room, the promise they made still fresh in their minds and in the sting of the cuts they had inflicted on one another.

Opening his dark heavy eyes, the Lost Boy lifted his hand and gazed at the scar which crossed his palm, only barely able to make out its form in the hazy filtered light of the cold moon. So many years, so much anger, too much pain . . . he had almost forgotten the meaning of that insignificant ridge of flesh beneath the confusion of just trying to live, stubbornly and irrationally seeking retribution, blinding himself to reality. But now . . . now he remembered. He remembered the promise that he had thought was cruelly broken. Now he realized . . . it really hadn’t been . . .

Ryoga jumped lightly as another hand lifted from the shadows of the sleeping bags, and at the chilled feel of strong slender fingers pausing briefly to trace the scar, then entwining with his own. Swallowing the hurt, he shifted his gaze downward and found Ranma’s glittering eyes gazing at him questioningly in the fuzzy darkness. Weariness and concern were within those dark crystals, and he gripped Ryoga’s hand firmly, reassuringly.

"Daijoubu ka?" Ranma asked, his whisper a bit hoarse from sleep.

"Hai . . . " Ryoga replied, curling his fingers to meet Ranma’s. It felt so right to be here with his rival, cuddled together in the warmth they both generated, hands joined once again. So right. But it also hurt a great deal. Hurt because in the back of his mind, Ryoga knew that - realistically - this moment couldn’t last. Everything was different now, but at least he was allowed to experience this feeling again once more before Ranma’s obligations and responsibilities re-asserted themselves. At least Ranma was here now . . .

Ryoga blinked softly. {( I can’t believe that I just thought that. I’ve spent the last two years trying to beat him, trying to make him miserable, trying to destroy him . . . but now I’m glad he’s here with me . . . )}

He didn’t realize that he had made a quiet dry chuckling sound in the back of his throat until Ranma smiled and nudged his shoulder gently. "What’s funny?" the pig tailed martial artist wanted to know.

Ryoga’s eyes dipped away, as he felt himself ashamed to admit this, but it just didn’t seem right to avoid the question as he might have in the past. Ranma had seen into his very soul, had witnessed all of the agony and ugliness that made up the person named Ryoga Hibiki. Keeping anything hidden now would have been a moot point. "I was just thinking . . . thinking that I’m glad you’re here . . . "

Ranma emitted a noise of agreement, then laughed in a subdued manner that conveyed fatigue. The irony of the situation was not lost on him either, but when he truthfully examined his thoughts over the last two days, the pig tailed boy realized that he hadn’t thought of Ryoga as being his rival at all. "Yeah," he nodded, his hair brushing Ryoga’s shoulder. "I’m glad I am too. If . . . " The amusement in his voice drifted away, to be replaced by something far more heavy and serious. "If I hadn’t been here, then you might ‘a . . . you, well . . . I wouldn’t ‘a been able to forgive myself . . . "

The Lost Boy shifted away even more, feeling accustomed weight settle in around him, even through Ranma’s warmth, making him shiver deep within. Ranma still didn’t understand . . . how could he not understand when Ryoga had practically spelled it out for him? Dead . . . the whispering thought reasserted itself in his mind, now that he was awake and the soft moments of peace were over.

"Only a matter of time . . . " he muttered.

He felt Ranma tense beside him, recognized the feel of sharp attention being put toward the conversation as the Saotome heir woke himself up more fully, pushed himself up onto his elbow, and concentrated on what Ryoga had just said. Ryoga didn’t look, but he knew that Ranma’s dark brows were folding in over his eyes in an expression of confusion mixed with hints of determined stubbornness. It was in his nature to be cross with things he didn’t understand.

"Ryoga . . . " he began, then faltered uncharacteristically, as if unsure of what to say. Ryoga felt a little swirl of self-directed peevishness whisper through Ranma’s aura as he tried to plot out exactly how to approach this.

The Lost Boy saved him the trouble. "Ranma," he began in a sensible tone, a little surprised by how reasonable and coldly detached he managed to sound, when all he really wanted to do was plunge himself fully back into his companion’s embrace. "I already told you - I’m dead. It’s only a matter of time before - - "

"Ryoga Hibiki, you are -not- dead!" Ranma interrupted sharply, reaching out to grip his shoulder. He saw Ryoga flinch, but made the contact anyway, digging his fingers in enough to hurt, voice softening as the boy looked away even more. "Ryo-kun, he didn’t kill you."

He didn’t understand . . . Ryoga pulled against the hold on his shoulder, partially because Ranma’s insistent grip was too reminiscent of Stephan’s hurtful touches, but mostly because of the instinctive need to shy away from uncomfortable topics of conversation. "He might as well have. You don’t understand, Ranma. You -can’t- understand."

The sleeping bags hissed and shifted as Ranma moved, using his hold on the Lost Boy’s shoulder to pull himself closer, arm slipping down to wrap securely around Ryoga’s waist while the other supported the young man’s head and neck. "Help me to understand, Ryoga," he requested quietly, plainly, not giving his companion the room to refuse or move away. "Talk to me."

Ryoga shivered again, real-time and remembered pain flickering through his body, sparking up the length of his spine, aching beneath the slight strain of his muscles as he first tensed beneath Ranma’s embrace, then relaxed into it. He could not deny how good it felt to have those arms tucked around him, no matter how much it hurt to know that this could not possibly last. In spite of himself, Ryoga did not have the strength of will to push Ranma away. He could only gratefully accept the offered comfort, turning slightly inward to press himself closer to the pig tailed boy.

"He took it all away, Ranma," Ryoga began slowly, trying to simply let the words come and not think about what he was saying. If he thought about it, then he might censor himself, and Ranma would know that. He would not accept anything less than the complete truth from Ryoga now. "Everything that was inside . . . everything that I ever thought was important . . . everything I’ve ever clung to. When he was . . . h - hurting me . . . none of it was there. It was completely stripped away and I . . . had nothing to hold onto. . . I didn’t even know who I was." He realized that his face was tightly pressed into Ranma’s neck, and that the other young man was carefully running loving fingers through his unruly hair. "Everything I had . . . is gone, Ranma . . . and if it’s all gone, then that means there’s nothing to me anymore, doesn’t it? That means I’m dead . . . "

There was a gentle pause, and he felt Ranma’s fingers falter for a brief moment before the comforting grooming continued.

"You have me," Ranma assured in a voice that was more breath than tone.

Ryoga squeezed his eyes shut. "Don’t say that . . . "

The embrace tightened. "Ryo-kun . . . I mean it. I won’t leave you. Not again. You and me are gonna go, as soon as it’s morning, we’re gonna pack up and get as far away from everything as we possibly can."

Ryoga drew in a long stabilizing breath and steeled himself so that he would have the strength to push himself away from Ranma’s warmth. He felt the pig tailed boy grasping after him, so sat up and turned away, making it harder for Ranma to maintain his hold. Fixing his eyes on the darkened fabric wall of the tent, the Lost Boy shook his head, even as he tried desperately to reinforce the rickety walls around his heart and soul. "I can’t let you do that, Ranma."

Ranma sat up too, and there was a touch of indignation in his reply. "You ain’t -letting- me do nothing, Ryoga. This is my decision, this is -my- promise to fulfill. You’re damn well stuck with me, whether you want me or not, so you best just get used to the idea right now."

Ryoga winced, swallowing hard on the pain in his throat. {( Whether I want you or not? Kami-sama, Ranma! I do want you . . . I’ve always wanted you . . . but I can’t have you . . . I can never have you . . . )} He wanted to scream it out, but the shame he felt was much stronger. He was doing just what he hadn’t wanted to do in the first place - he was corrupting Ranma. He was giving the pig tailed martial artist an excuse to run out on his honor . . .

No. He could not be responsible for ruining Ranma’s life. "Your honor . . . the dojo . . . Akane-san . . . "

He tried not to flinch as Ranma quickly moved closer and grabbed his wrist, but he didn’t quite succeed. The instinct was now firmly ingrained, having evolved from his childhood discomfort with physical contact into a near-phobic condition thanks to Stephan’s abuse. If Ranma noticed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he lifted Ryoga’s hand and pulled it around to where the Lost Boy was forced to look at it, then firmly pointed at the scar on the palm.

"You see that, Ryo-kun?" he demanded sharply, giving the scar a poke. "That right there supersedes everything else. That right there is what’s important to me right now - you! You need me, you said so yourself, and I’ll be damned if I leave you again, especially not for a bunch of stupid obligations that I couldn’t care less about! Got it?!" The last two words were issued as a challenge.

Ryoga yanked his hand away, and turned to glare at Ranma in the hazy dark. "Stop it!" he snapped in return. "Our oath doesn’t mean anything to anyone other than you and I. Your parents, Tendo-san, Akane-san . . . damn it all, everything has changed, Ranma!"

"Everything except this," Ranma growled, taking Ryoga’s hand once again and forcibly opening it so that he could lay his own scarred palm over it and press the two together. Just as they had done when the oath was made. The Lost Boy trembled as the memory returned to him once again, as the feelings he had experienced while cuddling on the bed with young Ranma rose up - the ghost of a restless soul.

"This . . . " Ranma continued, his tone softening as he caught Ryoga’s eyes with his own and blue met brown, gazes melting together like twin burning candles. "This is the only oath I ever made myself, Ryo-kun. All that other stuff was Oyaji’s idea, or Mom’s, or Tendo-san’s . . . but this one . . . " He squeezed their hands together while a gentle smile formed on his lips. "This was mine. And I intend to follow through with it. I know . . . I know I forgot about it for awhile, that it kinda got buried underneath all that other stuff, but I’ve remembered it now . . . "

Ryoga gazed at him for a moment, at the gentle bruises and scorch marks that had been left behind as testament to the Lost Boy’s unstable state of mind. He felt as if he were on the verge of breaking into a thousand pieces. Could he really . . . could he really cling to this? Had he actually rediscovered something to fill the great painful emptiness inside? Could he trust Ranma enough to lay it all down on the silly childish oath they had made so many years ago? He cast his eyes down, ashamed and frightened, as one final reservation mentally demanded attention . . .

"You don’t have to . . . j - just because . . . " he muttered, choking before he could get a proper sentence out of his mouth. His head lowered, heavy bangs falling over his vision, obscuring the penetrating light of Ranma’s eyes.

Luckily, the pig tailed martial artist deciphered the meaning behind the broken fragments, without the need for further clarification. "I’m not," he assured, reaching up to carefully part Ryoga’s bangs, taking note of the slight resulting recoil. "This ain’t just about the oath, Ryo-kun. In fact, I guess the oath is just a convenient excuse. This is more about how I feel about you . . . how I’ve always felt about you." He paused for a moment in case Ryoga wanted to say anything, but the Lost Boy remained still, eyes slowly falling closed, an unmistakable mask of pain on his face. Nodding with understanding, Ranma continued quietly.

"I know I hurt you when we were kids, Ryoga, when I stopped meeting you in the morning to take you to school, when I teased you along with everyone else. But, I was afraid of losing you, afraid of how bad it would hurt when Oyaji took me away, like he always did, so I pushed you away. When he dragged me off to China, I just buried it all, because that’s the only way I knew how to deal with it."

Ryoga’s voice drifted up then, low and steady, but with an underlying fragility that was new and brittle. "I wish you would have told me, Ranma," he said carefully, not moving. "I never had any real friends. I didn't know what friendship was suppose to be like, and I used to be so afraid of doing something wrong, something that would ruin it all." He faltered a moment, fingers curling into an instinctive fist around Ranma’s. "You were all I had, Ranma, and when you turned away from me, I was so confused. I thought for sure that I had done something, that it was all my fault, but I couldn't figure out where I'd messed up. And you wouldn't talk to me, you wouldn't explain it. That was all I really wanted, Ranma, was for you to tell me why."

"I’m sorry," the pig tailed boy admitted softly, leaning forward. His brow pressed against Ryoga’s and the two stayed together like that for a long moment, hands still tightly entwined. Ranma closed his eyes as well. "When you came back . . . I didn’t wanna remember you, because it had taken me so long to convince myself that I’d forgotten our friendship. An’ you were so angry that it was easy to forget. An’ then there was Akane, an’ everyone else, an’ it all piled up on me and kept all my attention and pretty soon I didn’t even have to remind myself to forget anymore." Ranma sighed gently. "It was just gone . . ."

They lifted their heads at the same time, both sets of eyes opening. Ranma’s free hand found Ryoga’s cheek and his fingers danced gently over the satin skin there, inciting a shiver from the Lost Boy, and prompting him to wince away from the touch. Ranma dropped his hand, but his dark sapphirine eyes glinted with understanding.

"But I was wrong. It wasn’t gone, Ryo-kun. It was just buried. Buried under all that other junk, and under my mom’s insistence that I be a man, and under the confusion over my stupid curse. But," he laughed lightly, a smirk crossing his face. "It didn’t take much to bring it back from the dead. Just a kiss."

Ryoga grimaced slightly, but a faint warm blush spread over the bridge of his nose regardless of his feelings, almost invisible in the darkness. Ranma knew it was there, just from the expression on the Lost Boy’s face, and the increased beating of the blood beneath the flesh of his hand. He smiled and leaned a little bit closer.

"That kinda started to wake me up, you know?" Ranma continued quietly, but in a slightly playful tone. "I realize it was a stupid thing to do, but I guess I was feeling pretty desperate to keep up the charade for Mom. As it was, I think she disapproved of ‘Ranko’ being so forward, but even though it was a mistake at the time . . . I’m glad I did it." His voice lowered once again into a more serious tone. "But . . . but I think that was what started to trigger it all for you too, ne?"

Ryoga nodded once, looking pained. He slowly slipped his free arm around his stomach as if hurt deep within, but did not release Ranma’s hand. "I . . . I was terrified . . . but at that time I didn’t know why. After that . . . everything started to fall apart, unravel . . . " A haunted light, very reminiscent of the one that Ranma had seen when they shared the kiss in the first place, began to come up in Ryoga’s dark eyes, and the Lost Boy drew in a shaky breath, his control starting to slip.

Ranma squeezed him reassuringly, and his fingers somehow found their way into Ryoga’s hair once again. The young man paused uncertainly for a second, then leaned into the touch, directing a grateful gaze at the pig tailed boy.

"You kissed me back, Ryo-kun . . . " Ranma reminded gently.

"H - hai . . . " The Lost Boy looked away briefly, gathering his scattered thoughts, wrestling with his feelings, with the continued uncertainty of trusting Ranma with his heart, but . . . but Ranma was being honest with him, Ranma was laying it all down now . . . could he really do any less? And why was he even trying to resist when he knew damn well that he wanted this more then he had ever wanted anything?

He brought his gaze back up and stared openly into Ranma’s eyes, stomach fluttering nervously, fear trying to choke him. "I . . . " he began, then faltered. He tried to gesture pointlessly, tried to fidget, but Ranma still had a tight hold on his hand. Realizing this, Ryoga looked down at their entwined fingers and surrendered himself to the stability symbolized by the act. To the oath they had taken. "I couldn’t help it . . . " he continued. "I’d always wanted to . . . "

A wry grin crossed Ranma’s face, a hint of that infuriating ego rising to the surface. "It was good, wasn’t it?" he practically purred, then chuckled at the renewed blush on Ryoga’s lowered face. Easily switching gears once more, Ranma leveled back into seriousness and leaned forward a little more, getting close enough that his breath ruffled the fringe of the Lost Boy’s bangs. The fingers he had buried in that rich black hair slipped down to carefully fit into place under Ryoga’s chin, and Ranma lifted, pressuring just gently enough to bring those deep brown eyes back up to meet his own.

"Ryoga . . . " Ranma began, the nervousness and shyness that usually belonged to Ryoga dancing in his expression, though there was almost a firm command to his tone of voice. "Ryo-kun, I want to kiss you again."

Ryoga’s breath caught in his throat, and for a long moment he could only stare at the boy in front of him, stare at the uneasy smile that flickered over Ranma’s mouth, thoughts blank and stunned. Faced with that expression, the pig tailed boy’s initial reaction was to mentally kick himself for trying to move so quickly into something as serious as a kiss. Especially given Ryoga’s traumatic experience. But the guilt was whisked aside a heartbeat later as his companion’s dark brown eyes softened out of hard surprise, and something painfully longing passed through them instead.

Neither of them exactly moved, but the slight distance between them shrank as they inexorably drifted together, and while Ryoga stayed locked in place, Ranma tilted his head slightly to one side and drew in a shallow breath as his lips met Ryoga’s. For one small span of time, both forgot that they had each lost their first kisses to others, that they had been pressed together in this same way only two nights ago. They felt only the newness of the moment, a spark that passed between them like electricity jumping wires.

At first, it was similar to their first impromptu kiss, merely an uncertain pressing of lips against lips, while they stared at each other with wide open eyes, both turning a little pink as they mentally worked to breech their individual ingrained barriers and protests. Ryoga shivered from the contact, his fingers tightening around Ranma’s almost desperately, as if he were clinging to their clasped hands to keep from being overwhelmed. The pig tailed boy understood, seeing the bits of fear spring up in the other’s expression. He gripped back and nudged the kiss just lightly enough to prompt them both to close their eyes. Block out the world. Concentrate only on the feel of each other.

Just as it had been a surprise the other night, it was again when Ryoga pressed the kiss into evolving further. He shifted slightly, opening his mouth and carefully pushing his tongue against Ranma’s lips, sending a small jolt of pleasure down the pig tailed boy’s spine. Ranma gladly opened his mouth to receive that tongue, pulling it in with his own so that they could wrestle together slowly, drinking in Ryoga’s taste, even as he drew in the Lost Boy’s scent along with a deeply pulled breath through his nose. His free hand slid up to tangle in the thick hair at the back of Ryoga’s head, to hold him tight and press him closer into the kiss.

Ryoga made a soft sound, one that seemed to be comprised half of desire and half of protest, but it did not interrupt the kiss in the least. Instead, it intensified it, and as if a wall that had been holding them back suddenly crumbled into dust, the two boys plunged into the contact wholeheartedly. They twisted together, falling as one into the warm nest of sleeping bags, mouths and tongues battling in their need for more, their need for closeness. Ranma half-mounted Ryoga, entwining their legs together, breaking the kiss just enough to plant smaller cousins around his companion’s mouth before diving back in. Ryoga’s free hand wrapped itself around Ranma’s frayed pig tail, needing something to hang onto.

Outside the tent, the cool moon was slowly obscured by a thick front of clouds, which brought further hint of the winter that was sneaking toward the region. The resulting darkness wrapped around the coupled boys like a safe blanket beneath which they could hide. When Ranma opened his eyes, he could see only the dimmest outline of the curve of Ryoga’s face, but he didn’t need sight in order to shower long suppressed affections on the young man at last. It seemed somehow unreal to be kissing Ryoga, but Ranma noted with relief that the voice of his conscience was absent this time as he peppered that face with love and nuzzled his nose close to warm skin, listening to the gasp that Ryoga pulled as he seemed to remember to breathe.

"Ranma . . . " Ryoga’s whispered voice sounded heavy, and he shifted beneath the pig tailed boy, arching his back a bit as Ranma renewed the gentle assault on his open lips. His entire body felt as if it were vibrating warmly with the joy of receiving such loving attention, and he returned the kiss with a certain wild abandon that caused Ranma’s temperature to rise considerably. Their joint inexperience quickly gave way under merely feeling and instinctively knowing what felt good. While Ryoga’s chest heaved beneath him, Ranma worked his almost urgent kisses down the line of the Lost Boy’s jaw, leaving no inch untouched by his lips or tongue. The tickle of his breath caused Ryoga to shiver and moan softly.

Still, even lost in being able to release his affection, Ranma was not blind to the other feelings filtering and shifting through Ryoga’s uneasy aura, starkly gentle reminders that all was not right with the Lost Boy. Beneath the shiver of delight was a corresponding shudder of fear, and within the soft moan of pleasure, Ranma heard a restless tone of discomfort. He could feel the increasing erratic beating of Ryoga’s heart beneath his chest, and it drummed deep within himself, as if his own body had become the sounding board for the young man’s pain. He longed to wash those terrible things away with his kisses, to purge them with each touch of his lips to his beautiful companion’s warm smooth skin, and Ranma suddenly realized the extent of trust Ryoga was showing him by allowing him to try.

As Ranma’s soft lips closed around his earlobe and began to suck gently, Ryoga squeezed his eyes shut tightly and ground his teeth together as he fought with himself. The urgency of Ranma’s attentions told the Lost Boy exactly what his friend was thinking, told him that Ranma was trying to force back the fear and destroy the barrier of pain which was wrapped around Ryoga like a suit of armor. And Ryoga wanted him to do it! He wanted it so badly! He wanted to feel safe in Ranma’s arms, he wanted to lose himself in everything Ranma had to offer, but . . . Ryoga’s mind’s eye was filled with twisted fragments of the memory of that bastard American leaning in . . . gripping his arm with steel fingers . . . forcing him backwards into the bed . . . with each of Ranma’s kisses, Ryoga had to battle harder against the panic and nausea that was rising in his throat.

When he took a breath to steady himself and found it laced with a sob, Ryoga died a little more inside. He felt Ranma’s hand grip his tighter and the pig tailed boy pulled back from his kisses, free fingers touching over Ryoga’s face tenderly, finding the tears that the darkness had shrouded. "Oh, Ryo-kun . . ." he moaned softly in empathic sympathy, moving himself so that he could gather the Lost Boy into his arms properly.

"No . . . " Ryoga shook his head, even as he folded himself into Ranma’s embrace. "Don’t stop, Ranma . . . please don’t stop . . . " He clung tightly to the pig tailed martial artist, vulnerability lifting within him like a dark wave, a fragile glass wall that would be far too easily and irreparably broken if they continued. It was too soon. The memories were fresh, and it was still too soon.

Ranma recognized this even if Ryoga didn’t. "I’m sorry," he assured quietly, pressing his cheek into Ryoga’s thick hair, squeezing his own blue eyes shut as he felt the continued shivering of the Lost Boy’s form, felt the way his fingers flexed and tensed as they dug their hold in. As Ryoga began to cry once again from the overwhelming unfairness of it all. Damn it! In that moment, Ranma could only think of how much he hated Stephan Mercer, of how he would have tracked the man down and killed him for so viciously breaking apart this young man he held in his arms if the bastard weren’t already dead.

Ryoga realized that Ranma was rocking him, trying to soothe him in a worried tone of voice, repeatedly insisting that everything was going to be all right, that they were going to go away together somewhere and never look back. Blinking himself into awareness, the Lost Boy fought down his crying and pushed himself away from Ranma almost violently, a growl of angry frustration choking back the tears.

Ryoga hated himself this way! He hated breaking apart at the least little trigger of memory . . . hated the strange pale version of his former self that he had become . . . he tightened his hands into shaking fists, wishing desperately that he could lash out and break something, fury and hatred building within him with a frightening intensity, even as he tried desperately to force it all back down. This wasn’t fair! The years of hostile misunderstanding that had always stood between him and Ranma were now gone, and yet he was prevented from feeling that relief and happiness fully! He was still being punished for crimes he had no clue about!

Dimly, Ryoga heard Ranma talking to him, the sounds of his voice low and calm, comforting, but Ryoga didn’t grasp what was being said. Stephan’s cold green eyes danced mockingly in his vision, and those hard invading hands were sliding all over his body, seeking to snap him apart, to penetrate him, to violate his deepest soul. His body was warm . . . hot . . . and that heat demanded someplace to go. Something rose in his throat, something that hurt, but he released it and vaguely heard as the tortured sound tore from him and passed through the material of the tent to echo off the nearby cliff outside. The anger and frustration were building inside and it needed to be released before it tore him apart. But he couldn’t let it consume him, he -couldn’t-! Damn it all! Something needed to shatter, and Ryoga fought with all of his strength, because he would be damned if it was him!

Ranma winced as the anguished cry tore from Ryoga’s throat, as he began to glow with a slow concentrated battle aura. Scrambling to his feet, the Lost Boy tore out of the tent, not bothering to untie the door flap first, and stumbled into the night. Though he didn’t realize it, Ranma was immediately on his heels.

The moon was just beginning to emerge from behind the cloud that had obscured it, and together he and Ryoga were splashed with its renewed glow, surrounded by a light haze of early morning moisture. The wandering martial artist ran through the clearing they were camped in, as if he had no idea where he was going. But this time, he did. He had been suppressing this trauma ever since it happened, burying it, shutting himself off from it in a manner that was very unlike his normal way of dealing with things. But now . . . now it was building beyond tolerable levels, it was blossoming up to consume him as surely as any fire. It had to be faced, it had to be embraced and released before it ripped him apart from the inside out. Before he sought to kill himself again. Before the renewed fledgling relationship between himself and Ranma was destroyed.

Feeling like a living time bomb, Ryoga pushed his way through the brush at the edge of the clearing, heading for the nearby rock face. The glow of his fury and pain lit the way for Ranma to follow, and the pig tailed boy was sure to keep his companion in sight, for fear of Ryoga losing himself while under the influence of his anguish. However, the Lost Boy did not go far.

When he reached the cliff wall, he felt power and anger tingle in his arms, shiver throughout his entire body, and he attacked immediately, screaming in rage, fists swift and tearing into the rock repeatedly. Everything became a blur of flying debris, jarring pain, and the sounds of repeated explosive impacts. Rocks hit him, bruising and tearing at his clothing and flesh, but Ryoga didn’t give a damn about that. He only wanted to destroy something, to make something fall apart and shatter just as he had. He only wanted to make something hurt . . . throwing every bit of his furious ki behind each shattering punch, Ryoga blew gaping holes into the cliff face with each strike, his throat quickly growing raw with the effort of shrieking out his pain.

Each blow was one that he hadn’t been strong enough to deliver while Stephan used him so horribly, each scream was one that he had honorably suppressed while the American’s hands violated him. He had never been one to hold back his feelings, it was a skill that he hadn’t been taught, and trying to keep it all buried had been foreign and damaging. As he quickly reduced the face of the cliff into rubble, Ryoga violently let go of all the anger he had been holding onto while trying to forget that the terrible ordeal had ever happened, and in that release, he slowly began to feel control of his life and emotions returning to him, he slowly sensed that he was coming back to himself.

He would not let Stephan Mercer win! He would -not- lay down and die!

Ranma stood back, safely out of the range of the flying debris, but close enough that he could be there in an instant when it was over and Ryoga needed him again. Hot tears filled his eyes as he watched the Lost Boy repeatedly punch into the face of the cliff, as he heard Ryoga’s screams of pain and frustration, but Ranma wouldn’t let the moisture fall. He would not. He had to be strong now, for Ryoga’s sake. He had to maintain and keep his cool. Watching as the boy hurt himself to release his pain was almost too much for even Ranma Saotome to take, but, he knew . . . he could feel that this was what Ryoga needed. This was right.

He bit his lower lip as hard as he could to prevent the molten teardrops from breaking and simply watched helplessly. For the first time since their ridiculous charade of a date, Ranma was at last seeing the true focused Ryoga, a fierce and determined warrior that Stephen had almost succeeded in murdering. The Lost Boy was striking out, fighting again at last, remembering himself and refusing to die. And even though it hurt like hell to watch Ryoga tear his fists open, to watch the blood fly each time a rock shard penetrated his flesh, Ranma experienced a strange sense of relief and joy at the same time. His Ryoga, the Lost Boy he knew and had loved since junior high, was not going to placidly wait for death to claim him after all. He was choosing to fight, just as he had always done in the past.

A few minutes later, Ranma was forced to throw himself to the ground and cover his head as all the pain and fury that Ryoga released was culminated in a blindingly brilliant blast which lit up the night like violent rebirth. He was buffeted by hot wind and sizzling bits and pieces of rock, and the howl of the blast rocked in his ears like some sort of vengeful spirit given form and permission to do as it wished. Light and power spiraled into a great round inferno, twisting, rising and popping in a very bubble-like manner. As the heated wind was sucked back toward the origin point of the blast, Ranma sat up and looked, concern and worry shining in his eyes as the light of the cold indifferent moon hit them.

The dark smoke was still rolling wispily off the crater that now marked the spot where the rock wall had been. Jagged blackened stone jutted brokenly from the remains of the cliff, showing clearly where it had been sheered away by the blast. There was a strangely reptilian hissing sound in the air as the heat dissipated, but other than that everything was very quiet. Quickly, Ranma got to his feet and raced forward, admittedly a bit frightened. He could not help but think of Ryoga’s earlier suicide attempt, and without a doubt, this was the most powerful Shi Shi Hokodan he had ever witnessed Ryoga ignite. He came to a halt at the edge of the crater and looked down, yelping out his companion’s name, the tone touched by a spark of fear and worry.

Ryoga was kneeling at ground zero, his head hanging from sheer exhaustion. The clothes he was wearing were tattered nearly into shreds and he was obviously bruised and bloody, breathing hard as he tried to catch his wind after the exertion. He looked up slowly as Ranma slid down into the crater on his feet and came to a stop beside him, but those dark weary eyes closed again almost immediately, and Ryoga lifted his arms imploringly, each joint and muscle involved in the action shaking in protest. Ranma was only too happy to oblige, gathering the battered young man into his embrace and supporting him as he got unsteadily to his feet.

Ryoga leaned heavily on Ranma, almost unable to stay upright. The pig tailed boy shifted his balance to accommodate the extra weight, hugging his companion tight and close, gripping his fingers in the wild and singed tousle of night black hair, pressing a kiss to the sweaty bruised forehead. He pulled Ryoga’s head back so that he could look into the Lost Boy’s face, and search it for any indication of pain, damage, or scarring.

"Ryo-kun, are you all right?" he asked tensely, desperately, almost immediately drawing Ryoga’s head back once again so that he could place another shaken kiss on the young man’s forehead and press his cheek into the soft hair. Ranma continued to hold back his tears, squeezing his eyes shut tightly to stop them from falling, fighting to stay strong and supportive, though he wanted to do nothing more than collapse himself. Fall with Ryoga encased in his arms, let the relentless processes of the land cover them over and never move again.

He felt Ryoga nod vaguely, felt the Lost Boy’s slender fingers grip weakly into the material of his jacket. Ryoga’s dark weary eyes opened and he gazed up at Ranma reassuringly, earthen crystals glinting softly and warmly in the moonlight.

"Hai . . . " he answered in a whisper, a rare and beautiful smile forming on his lips, the soft expression somehow managing to shine even in the darkness of the night, despite the darkening bruises and bloody cuts covering his face. His hold on the pig tailed boy tightened, and he pressed his face close to Ranma’s, cheek against cheek, the softness of his reply shifting into that of quiet conviction, his voice slightly hoarse with the fierce tenacity that was his trademark in combat. "Hai, Ranma. I’m all right. I’m all right . . . "

Ranma scooped Ryoga up into his arms as the Lost Boy’s head fell backwards and his voice drifted into nothingness, turning to carry him out of the crater and back to their campsite. As he went, Ranma returned the smile that was still faintly highlighted on Ryoga’s face, secure now in the knowledge that his companion was indeed all right, and all the implications that went with the statement.

To Be Continued

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