Summary: Ranma's POV. In answer to the RRyaoiML Lyric Wheel Challenge. The objective was to accept a set of lyrics from another author and write a story around them. Complete lyrics used appear at the end of the story.

Event Horizon

It began in the rain.

That's a perfect way to start a story, especially this one. I like how the words immediately create a mood just by being as they are. One can almost picture it in one's mind already. It's instantly apparent that this story is going to be heavy and emotionally drenching, because rain is brooding, dark, enveloping. Well, not always, I suppose. But that's the way that I've always seen it, even before I got cursed. When I was really little and on the road training with the old man, I never liked to see it rain. The water washed all of the colors out of the sky and bled them out over the countryside until they were just a mingled dirty grey and even the black lines which outlined everything fuzzed together and became indistinct. And on those days I would sit by the opening of our tent - if we happened to have one at the time - and I would hate the rain because the old man wouldn't let me train if it was too cold and wet. Mostly because he didn't want to go out in it himself.

Of course, that changed when I got older. Then he would push me out under the drumming raindrops and tell me that being wet never hurt anyone. Working against the cold and damp would toughen me up, make me a man, prepare me for any hardship. Then I resented the rain for daring to stand against me. Me! Ranma Saotome, destined to be the greatest martial artist in all of Japan. All of the world. Just like everything else, rain became my enemy.

No, I never liked it. Maybe some people enjoy refreshing little bursts of spring showers, or the brief cooling downpours that fall out of summer when the humidity is simply too heavy for the air to hold anymore. But I never did, and that dislike turned to hate once I got cursed. After that, it almost seemed like the rain was out to get me, to punish me for some great karmic mistake that I had made somewhere along the way that I had no remembrance of. Though . . . looking back now, I think I can almost imagine what that mistake was.

Picture me - a boy who was indifferent and lonely - picking a dogfight on the daily battleground known as lunch in an all-boy's junior high, the name of which I can't even remember, with a boy who was angry and lonely. And all over a piece of bread that really wasn't very good anyway. That, however, wasn't my mistake. The great tragedy was that I left him behind when the pair of us should have been filling up those empty spaces in each other and moving forward together.

As I write that, I know he's smiling. I don't even have to look up at him to know, I can feel the expression on me. It's not a huge smile, because that just isn't like him. It's that soft fond smile, the one motivated by the forgiving love in his unconditional heart.

Anyway, some people might write cute little poems about how sweet and refreshing rain is, and about how nice it is to have drops fall on their heads and about how spring showers bring flowers and junk, but I don't, and no one is going to find any of that cutesy pussy rain in this story. This rain is just as I've always seen it. Heavy, dreary and damning. Because this ain't no Hello Kitty episode.

It's a ghost story.

And it began in the rain . . .

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

It fell in flashing silver sheets beyond the awning under which he and I took sanctuary, just barely making it before the first demanding drops could hit us and trigger our damned curses. It was getting on toward evening, so the store that the awning was attached to was luckily closed, otherwise we might have been chased back into the downpour. As it was, we had the doorway of the place to ourselves, and in the confined space, created jointly by the sheltering overhang and his open red umbrella, the air was hot and stifling. It smelled like rotten fruit and wilting flowers, both of which had been displayed on stands outside the store earlier in the day.

We were both battered and bruised, drawing in great gasping breaths of air as we individually tried to calm ourselves down after a lengthy battle that had been spread out over most of Nerima before the rain slammed down on us and called time out. Although holding his umbrella up in front of us so that no idiot going by on a bicycle could inadvertently send a splash our way, Ryoga leaned back against the mortar of the store front and looked weary. Flushed. Sweaty. His wild brown-black hair was pasted in damp clumps against his forehead, there was a livid purple bruise just about the size and shape of my knuckles darkening on his cheekbone, and a small trickle of blood teardropped from the corner of his mouth.

I know I didn't look much better. I hit fast. He hit hard. We both wailed the snot out of each other every time we wanted to communicate. That was how we talked - with punches and kicks instead of words.

Thing was, I think I always got worse than I gave with Ryoga, at least until I inevitably delivered the final crushing coup de grace, because my attacks were always indifferent. Unconcerned. Cool-as-a-cuke. And that's what I told him with each punch. I don't care. Who needs you? You're just an insignificant speck in my big world, pal. And in retaliation, his attacks were screaming banshees of anger and frustration. Wordless and all the more powerful for it. The hurt fury behind his wounded sense of honor always jarred me to the core, and the more I struck back with apathetic defenses, the louder the impacts of his fists were. It always hurt, really. Deep down inside. It did hurt.

Now, we stood together in what felt like the only pocket of air left in a world of stinging rain, and he shut his eyes briefly and sighed and looked for all the world like he'd just been run over by a herd of wild boars. "I'm tired," he said, and I knew he didn't mean physically. Just by the inflection of the words as they came out of his mouth, moving painfully past the cut on his lip. "I'm just tired of it all."

I nodded when I was sure that he was looking at me again, obstinately standing without the support of the wall as he was doing, arms crossed over my chest, my clothes feeling heavy under the influence of the close heated air. I gave him a certain glare, one of those hard edged expressions that told him he'd better continue his thought, because I wasn't gonna. I couldn't make the first step in times like this, because these realms are foreign to me. If it was a fight, I would have jumped in with both feet and worried about picking up the pieces of my willfully broken common sense later. But this wasn't a fight in the strictest sense of the word. This was a waltz, and Ranma Saotome just ain't no dancer.

So, it was up to him to lead. He resented that. I could tell. But he knew that if he didn't, I wouldn't, and that would only add to his mounting frustrations and world record levels of angst. So he did what he had to. For himself as much as for me.

"So . . ." he began tersely, an edge of quiet resentful anger honing his low tenor. Sometimes, the sound of his voice is very irritating and strident, especially when lifted in a shrieked threat concerning bodily harm to my person. But at other times it was hopeful and beautiful. A singer's voice, if he'd ever been trained for such a thing. That's when I liked it the best, when he whispered melodious little nothing words as he held me in the darkness of the attic over the dojo, or in one of those little utility sheds out behind Furinkan, or under the covers in his bed at the usually empty Hibiki homestead. That kind of talking was different than combat conversation, but sometimes it hurt just as much.

Right now, though, his voice just felt weary in the close space, and small when compared to the constant maddening beat of the whip dash rain. "How do we end this?" he asked. He'd made the first step, now he was giving me an opening to jump in.

"For starters, you could stop being such a stubborn ass," I told him phlegmatically.

He replied with the expected expression, something that was halfway between anger and hurt with a sprinkling of confusion as if he couldn't possibly understand what I was talking about. Of course, I was immediately sorry that I had said that, but I couldn't take it back, because that wasn't my style. It kinda killed me inside, though, because I could see exactly how he was feeling just by looking into his eyes.

They were amazing gravity wells, those eyes. A pair of seeking graspers, dark brown and softly lethal. I always thought of them as being like those things out in space that they call black holes, where everything in the universe is drawn in with no hope of escape. But nothing that Ryoga pulled in was ever just gone. Anything he had ever felt in his entire life was still in his eyes, just like all that light and matter stays around a black hole because, from our perspective, it will never actually reach the center.

Event horizon. That described Ryoga. Everything was pulled in but nothing ever disappeared.

Not even comments like the one I had just made.

But it was the truth, and he knew it. After a moment, he sighed in a defeat that was definitive and absolute. And out of nowhere, I was startled to realize that this was the proverbial 'it'. He really was tired, just as tired as I was. Weary of the fighting and vicious arguments that totally negated our stolen moments of complete perfect union that we managed to indulge in now and then. Love and anger. Obsession and resentment. It really was an exhausting way to live from day to day, and frankly I was surprised that neither of us had dropped dead from emotional fatigue. The way his body slouched against the wall told me that he was probably closer to that point than he had ever been before, and my arms ached to wrap around him and hold him up.

But I didn't make that move. I couldn't, not until he actually finalized the meaning behind that sigh. Why? I don't know. Maybe because I'd been burned too many times by people who were suppose to care about me. Maybe I was actually erring on the side of caution this time, not wanting to make a move of trust toward my rival until I knew that he had been de-clawed and rendered helpless.

"All right," he finally conceded to my comment, and despite the fact that I'd figured this was coming, I found that I was monumentally surprised by how easily he gave in. Well, I supposed that easy was pretty relative in this case. Most folks wouldn't consider years of grudges, anger and the unhealthy desire to break me into a million pieces as easy. But believe me, this was Ryoga. It was frighteningly easy.

I had a sudden and startling revelation then - Ryoga really had been de-clawed! He had just given up everything that had been defining him for years! Everything that had made him who he was. With just that simple utterance, he threw away the possibility of avenging his tarnished honor or exacting revenge on me for wrongs imagined or not. No, it was true that he hadn't exactly said as much, but I could tell by the tone of his voice and the expectant look he was then giving me, as if he were silently begging to not have to vocalize himself further.

I granted him that boon, smiling to let him know that I understood not only the meaning behind his words, but also the great sacrifice that he was making. And really, it meant so much to me to know that in the span of just a few seconds' time, my most bitter rival and part time - usually combative - bed partner had become my full time lover at last.

I bridged the distance and moved forward, overcome by the thought. Yeah, that's right. Ranma Saotome, ultimately felled by the possibility of being loved. But can I really be blamed for that? How often had actual honest-to-goodness love been shown to me in the course of my life? My father really only wanted to breed the perfect martial artist and he often . . . well, let's face it . . . he often tortured me as a means to that end. And sure, my mother loves me, but would just as soon kill me if I don't live up to her teeny narrow definition of manhood. And for Kami's sake, don't even get me started about all my fiancée's! Not a single one of them loves me in the way that love should be.

Only Ryoga, in whose arms I suddenly found myself, loved me like that. Only Ryoga who, even though I'm suppose to be the hero of the story, was the one who wrapped his strong embrace around me and pulled me to his chest where I could hear the long uneven beats of his wildly pounding heart. He was terrified, I could feel it in that huge staccato, he was frightened of the past, of what he had just given up, and of the future. He needed to hold onto me as much as I needed to be held. His body . . . those wonderful arms . . his infinite eyes, his heart, his soul . . .

Kami-sama! I was overwhelmed. In that moment I became painfully aware of everything - of the cold press of the confining rain against our heat filled bubble of air under the store awning - the sweetly sick smell of lingering fruit that almost overpowered the drifting sweat and anger in Ryoga's musky wild scent - the darkness falling somewhere beyond the rain, beyond the world - the heaviness of my damp bangs in front of my eyes.

It was a perfect moment, that moment in Ryoga's arms. Really, could anyone blame me for wanting it to last forever? All my life I had been alone, even when surrounded by people and chaos. Any friend I had ever made had been left by the wayside as the old man dragged me from place to place for the sake of the Art. He was rarely affectionate toward me. And I barely had a dim awareness of the concept of 'mother'. I had certainly been glomped and attacked enough times, but no one had ever actually hugged me like Ryoga was hugging me. No one had ever made me feel complete and perfect the way he did. He understood me. He held me and asked for nothing more than the opportunity to do so. And as I stood there in his embrace, with the rain blocking out all the rest of the world, I realized that I was already addicted to his closeness and that even the mere thought of being without it was unbearable.

And so, I looked up at him, at the dewed sweat that jeweled on his forehead and into the warm sheen of his event horizon eyes. The fear there was beautiful. The uncertainty was sensuous. And the devotion . . . oh Kami, the absolute devotion! It was there, and it was shining for me, just for me! Ryoga was . . . Ryoga was perfection personified without even knowing it. I had to keep that close to me. I could not stand to think of letting that out of my sight.

"Promise me something," I ordered a bit wildly and suddenly, prompting him to look surprised and a little more nervous.

"What?"

"Promise that you will always be there for me."

He squinted in puzzlement, and perhaps there was a faint alarm starting in his head that was trying to warn him that he was about to step out on unstable ground. I could see the implications of my demand grinding through his thoughts with an almost painful slowness and his arms around me slacked a bit. Oh no no, I was thinking, that would not do.

"How hard is the concept, Ryoga?" I snapped with impatience. "Promise that you'll always be there, whenever I ne . . . " Whoa there! Can't say need, because Ranma Saotome don't -need- anything. " . . . whenever I want you to hold me. Just like this. Whenever I want you for anything. You'll be there. Promise."

"Ranma . . . " He understood exactly what I wanted now, but he looked disturbed as he mentally grappled with the obvious problem. Yeah. I knew it too, but I didn't care. If he could give up everything else that built the man named Ryoga Hibiki just like that, then he could give up the whole 'tortured wanderer' gig too. I wasn't about to let him make excuses, not when I've been hearing them from everyone else my entire life. No way was I going to take that crap from him too!

"Promise me!" I demanded, exercising my right as alpha male of our two member pack by injecting a harshness into my words that I knew very well would crumble him. Make him roll over and expose his belly. I was apparently quite convincing, because he almost seemed to cringe, and there was anger in his expression, but it was a pale shadow of his usual ire. It was anger tempered by the desire to do what I wanted him to.

"But, it's not that simple . . . "

"Promise me!"

"I'll try, Ranma, but . . . "

"Ryoga! Promise!"

"Look, I can't help it if I . . . "

He was starting to get mad, starting to show flashes of the irritation and impatience that were typical of him. To nip that in the bud, I yanked out of his arms sharply, leaving him to embrace empty humid air. This had the desired effect of derailing his temper and stabbed directly into his anxious needs. I saw clearly the pain my action caused, saw the unspoken protest jostle everything else in his eyes out of the way so that it could take center stage. It wasn't his fault! He couldn't help it if he always got lost. He didn't want to disappoint me, but how could I ask . . . ?

I crossed my arms, shut my eyes and looked away from him with the exact same attitude as a spoiled and haughty child. Deep down, I wanted to look like I really felt - hurt and alone again - but I couldn't let Ryoga see that. I've never let anyone see that. And I knew that the 'I don't care' demeanor would wound Ryoga more than anything else. That was always his big hang-up, thinking that no one liked him, cared about him or needed him. He clenched his fists in response, gritting his teeth with a tight jaw. I was making him angry. I was crushing him. Good. But it wasn't quite enough to push him irrevocably toward the promise that I wanted him to make.

Then something completely unexpected happened.

"Do you love me?" I asked. And damn if I wasn't just as surprised by the question as Ryoga obviously was. Where had that come from? We hadn't talked about love at all, not even once during any of our midnight clandestine meetings in the dojo, or at the train yard, or under the cover of darkness in the park. Yet . . . yet we'd both known that the feeling was there, it was just startling to hear the word actually uttered and incredulous to think that I was using it to refer to our relationship. Love. Ranma and Ryoga . . . it was unreal.

And Ryoga, the poor guy, was really looking flustered and befuddled. Even though he had been standing still, he somehow managed to stumble and ended up bumping himself rather harshly against the wall, blushing furiously the entire time. Anger warred with embarrassment, and was backed up by shock in the trenches. Recovering from his near-spill, he looked down at the ground, at the moisture that was slowly seeping into the concrete, darkening it under our feet.

"I . . . I . . . " he muttered ineloquently. "I think . . . I think I do . . . I mean, probably . . ."

Probably! I couldn't help but think how precious that was, how beautiful Ryoga looked when he was fumbling and uncertain. And to think that this adorable hesitation was coming from the very boy who had made the first advance in our relationship. Heh. If one can call nearly drowning me with a surprise hug in the bath an advance. Sometimes he just doesn't know his own strength . . .

But even as amused as I was, I didn't let him see that either. I couldn't be completely open yet, I couldn't give up my indifference entirely, just as he had given up his grudges. He had to make that promise to me first. He had to swear that the moment of perfection I had known in his embrace could be mine whenever I wanted it, because if I could not have that control . . . then I didn't want any of it. Didn't want him, didn't want love, didn't want to even live. It had to be mine, and it had to be all or nothing.

So I gave him a scathing look over my shoulder, nailed him with my own cold eyes, and watched him writhe like a delicate butterfly pinned to a card. "Probably?" I asked sharply, secretly pleased to see him wince, to see the despair mounting within him. The anger was being drowned, and he was slowly realizing that - since he'd given up everything else - he would have nothing if he didn't have me.

"Fine," I continued, knowing that I had him now. "If you love me, then make the promise. You will always be there for me."

I will never forget the expression on his face when he tilted his head to look at me. It was soft, sad in a way, but filled with a love that was desperate for acceptance. Thick black bangs hanging over his eyes, face flushed with close heat and the dampness of sweat, slouching in a defeated manner against the wall, Ryoga Hibiki relented to me and uttered softly what, for him, was an impossible oath.

"I promise."

Then, it was as if the floodgates had been opened. The tempo and noise of the rain suddenly picked up, and the silvery sheet of moisture rattled and boomed all around us. If we had been trying to see through the deluge, we wouldn't have been able to make out any object further than an arm's reach away. But we weren't paying attention to the relentless pounding rain at all actually, because, declaring my love for him, I had thrown myself wide open and back into Ryoga's arms which were spread out and ready to receive me. At last! At long last, I had something that I could call my own, something that I could cling tightly to without fear of retribution or punishment, something that would never abandon me or make me fend for myself when I needed help the most.

Ryoga . . . damn . . . Ryoga loved me!

It wasn't our first kiss, by any means. We'd already stolen plenty of those and more while alone in the dojo, behind the dojo, or on the roof above the dojo. But . . . it was our best kiss to date. A kiss of passionate alliance, of heated compromise and frenetic understanding. A wrestling fighting kiss that quickly established our roles in the relationship, putting me in charge of him with absolute certainty. And hell . . . I never thought of it like this before, but in a way I suppose it was a first. It was the first kiss without the old baggage, even if the new was already beginning to form. Whatever it was, though, it was incredible and for a second perfect moment - Ryoga and I knew absolute dark and wonderful purity.

And that was how it began. With a promise and a kiss.

In the rain.

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

After that, it seemed to rain a great deal, far more often than even Nerima's quirky weather patterns could account for. And if it wasn't raining, then the sky was often grey and threatening, and the clouds hung low as if staying close and watching for the most inconvenient opportunity to let loose with a hail of messy wet showers. I spent a lot of time in my girl form, because it was pretty much a sure bet that it would be raining when I was on my way to or from school.

Around about then, one of my instructors assigned what was, at the time, a very annoying project. It was my English class, a subject that I was never terribly good at in the first place. She gave each of us one of those spiral notebooks and commanded us to keep a journal of daily events and thoughts, in English, of course. I suppose the point of it was to get us used to writing the confounded language on a regular basis, but I found the entire concept an exhausting chore. Each day in class I would fight to get a few words down on paper that maybe described my morning fight with Kuno, or the dinner Akane had tried to make the night before, or how dreary all the damn rain was. Nothing I wrote was of any consequence, really.

But, that changed, gradually. I remember with shining clarity the first time I wrote in the journal in regards to Ryoga, though to this day I'm not sure just what prompted me to do it, to put down such private angst where my instructor would see and grade it. Perhaps part of the appeal was that I didn't have a very good grasp of the language and having only rudimentary words available to express my harsh anger seemed primal and appropriate.

But it all came about simply because I was having one of my typical days and was heartily tired of all the nonsense - a misunderstanding with Akane, a school yard fight with Kuno, a gaggle of fiancée's all vying for my attention, a rain shower that seemed to follow me wherever I went, and finally the old man stealing most of my food during dinner. Nothing unusual there, right? Yeah, that kind of stuff does happen every day, but on that particular day I was in a foul mood, tired of all the hassles and strife, and nursing quite a bump on my head from the impact of Akane's mallet. I needed Ryoga bad by the time the day was drawing to a close. I needed him to hold me. I needed our perfection.

We'd fallen into a routine in the evening after everyone was in bed. He'd wiggle his little piggy body out of Akane's iron clutches and make his way to the hall, where I would scoop him up on my way to the bath. A quick dip in the hot water would make him into my Ryoga again, and we would then be off to find someplace to spend the night together. He submitted himself to me and I opened myself up to him. Come morning, I would slip a drowsily happy and satisfied P-Chan back into the tomboy's room. Nice, neat, and definitely something to look forward to every bedtime.

On that night, however, I slipped out of the guestroom to find the spot in front of Akane's door empty. I wasn't too concerned, because it wasn't unusual for Ryoga to get turned around in Akane's closet or for her to take longer than usual to fall asleep. I silently and very carefully pushed the door open just enough to peek in, using every bit of stealth that I possessed, because the last thing I needed after a long and trying day was to wake the little mallet factory and be violently labeled a pervert once again.

Ryoga wasn't on the bed. He wasn't trapped in her arms. The window was closed, and the rain was drumming a steadily infuriating beat against the glass, casting a strange flickering kind of glow over the contents of the room. I poked my head in a little further and saw that the open closet was empty of any confused piglet.

Next I checked the bath. Nothing. Then slowly and deliberately, feeling a little like a prowler or the old freak on one of his panty raids, I eased open all of the other doors and stole a glance into each room. The only other soul stirring was Kasumi, who was doing some midnight mending and listening to a quiet radio in her room. Cripes, didn't the woman ever sleep? She was always first up in the morning and last to bed at night, it was unnerving. How in the world did she stay so cheerful? Luckily, she took no notice of my brief silent intrusion.

But still, no Ryoga.

I crept downstairs and checked everywhere, feeling a mild sense of panic starting to burn in my chest with every beat of my heart. I peeked out into the yard, looking for a wet and bedraggled piglet that might have been overlooked at bedtime and left outside. I opened all the cupboards in the kitchen. By the time I made the dash from the house to the dojo, I was furious and shaking with that fury. Wracking my brain trying to remember if I had even seen P-Chan after school, or at dinner, or anytime in the evening . . .

Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!

I spent a miserable night, getting very little sleep, kept awake by my quaking anger and a sharp sense of wounded betrayal. I laid in the darkness of the guestroom beside the panda, shivering from the cooling effects of a heated sweat and hating the noise of the rain thrumming relentlessly on the roof. Logically, I knew that it wasn't Ryoga's fault, that he really couldn't help the fact that he had a lousy sense of direction and was always getting lost. I had no right to hold him to his oath for my own selfish needs. But the emotionally driven part of my mind disagreed with that completely. I needed Ryoga and he had promised that he would be there whenever I wanted him. Whenever I demanded that he hug me. Whenever I snapped my fingers. Damn it all! He promised, he promised, he promised . . .

The next day was just as wet and just as trying. Akane, Kuno, Shampoo, Mousse, Ukyo, the old ghoul and the perverted freak . . . each of them took their turns with me, some more than once. When I dragged myself out of bed that evening and out into the hall to find no piglet in front of Akane's door, a huge sense of misery welled up within me and nearly drove me to my knees right where I stood.

I had been abandoned. I was alone again.

The next day was wet. The same chaos ensued. Night brought the same aching empty wretchedness and slowly boiling anger.

The next day . . .

The next . . .

The . . .

I found myself sitting in my English class, staring at the blank notebook page in front of me. The teacher was droning about verb phrases at the front of the room. I could feel Akane's eyes on me as she glared from her own seat, still mad about something I'd said that morning. I was dreading lunch because I knew that Shampoo would be showing up with an order of special ramen for me and that Ukyo, who would likely be waiting with a super deluxe okonomiyaki, would take offense and start a fight. Somehow, I would get splashed with water. Kuno would be there immediately to glomp me.

Beyond the classroom windows there was only rain.

Feeling strangely detached and dispassionate, I picked up an ink pen and put it to the paper. It smelled good, like warm damp wood, and a drop of ink seeped into it, creating a fuzzy black dot on the lined whiteness. Laboriously, English words began to form, each letter achingly perfect and precise as I distantly agonized over the emptiness and anger in my small selfish heart, as I indifferently looked back on all of the hard times in my life that could have been so much better if only he hadn't been absent, as I slowly and steadily began to blame him for something that was beyond his control . . . Each deliberate stroke of the pen was one of resentment . . .

'Never there your never there your never ever ever ever there'

I wrote the phrase over and over again, spelling mistake and all, without ever actually knowing that I was writing. My hand moved of its own accord, prompted by the pain in my soul, prompted by emptiness, prompted by anger. Anger for the one person I loved over all others. In all other aspects of my life, I was a closed book, and it was only when I was in his arms that I allowed myself to be opened. With that option absent . . . I needed an outlet . . . I needed some small way to let all of the pressure leak out and escape . . . that was the attraction of the notebook. It was something that I could control. Control as rigidly as I wanted to control him.

By the end of class, I had filled three and a half pages in the notebook with the same repeated words.

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

It was almost as if I had inscribed a magic summoning spell.

Ryoga was waiting outside Furinkan after school let out, looking battered and tired as he stood beneath the shelter of his umbrella. In fact, I could see his hand shaking as he held the damnably heavy thing up. His thick hair was a mess and his clothes hung on him in a bit of disarray, smudged and dirty in places. He was looking vaguely angry, wonderful dark eyes narrowed as he watched the students emerge from the school building, his gaze darting from one to another while he looked for me.

I slowed my pace when I spotted him, frowning, finding it difficult to locate any happiness or relief that he was back and unharmed within myself when all I had been feeling for days was hollow fury. He finally saw me and our eyes met over the sea of other people and through the haziness of the misting rain, and the moment we made that connection I saw subdued joy at being back come up in his event horizon eyes and a small smile was slowly birthed into being on his slightly curled lips.

But, it died stillborn when I did not smile back.

In fact, I frowned. Hard. Making my displeasure plainly known. And that expression only intensified when Akane continued moving forward to enthusiastically greet Ryoga, taking our joint umbrella with her. Other students eyed me curiously as I stood like a statue and made my hated gender change.

"Ryoga-kun!" Akane beamed at my lover, sweetly and warmly, smiling in that way which really did make her cute, but which annoyed the hell out of me, especially when she was directing her attentions toward Ryoga. "We haven't seen you in quite some time."

Ryoga blushed, the way he always did when confronted with Akane, and I inwardly seethed, but kept my face frowning, which only had the effect of confusing and upsetting him even more. Good. I wanted him to be upset. I wanted him to feel a little of the agony I had been going through without him, never once considering that he had probably been experiencing the very same, lost wherever he had been. I didn't care about his feelings, I was only concerned with mine. And the look on my face told him that with no uncertainty.

I could see the cringe in his eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck and stutteringly offered Akane a spot under his umbrella. She closed hers and handed it back toward me - Thanks Akane, but it's a little late for that - and then walked home with Ryoga, surreptitiously guiding his way. Every few paces, he would glance over his shoulder at me with profound worry, as I followed behind them, barely in command of my anger. Fortunately, any loss of control I might have had was thwarted when I was waylaid from behind by Tsubasa, disguised as one of those British phone booths.

I can't believe I didn't notice that when I walked past it.

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

Ryoga and I sparred in the dojo that evening after eating. After I had calmed down a great deal. In response to the relentless waves of apologetic looks he sent me across the expanse of the dinner table, I had finally conceded enough to gift him with a small quick smile that told him everything was okay, but we needed to talk. And while he looked vastly relieved and was finally able to enjoy the nice meal Kasumi had made, he knew that the promised discussion would be held with fists rather than words.

In fact, calling it a spar is probably a little too generous. It was, I can admit, a beating. I didn't bother with any preliminaries. I didn't ask him where he had been, or if he was okay. I didn't tell him how upset, alone and abandoned I'd felt. I simply turned toward him and sprang forward to attack, fist pulled back for a punch that would have sent a normal man to the hospital. He wasn't a normal man, though, he was far stronger than most, and he let the punch hit, staggering backwards but not going down. I could see the resignation in his eyes. He'd broken his promise. He knew that he had hurt me and was ready to take anything I wanted to dish out to him. He didn't offer any explanations or excuses. He simply accepted, blocking only when it seemed the hit was going to be a little too much, or when self-preservation kicked in.

When it was all over, I had said exactly what I needed to in our private language of violence, and then I felt capable of letting him gather me into his arms without anger or resentment. He was bloody and battered by that time, and I nearly cried at how I had taken out my frustrations on him, but I didn't actually, because Ranma Saotome doesn't cry like some weak little girl. Instead, I showed him how sorry I was with rough apologetic kisses and touches, fussing over his wounds with a heaviness in my heart that truly scared me. What had I done? How could I have punished him for something beyond his control?

"It was my fault, Ranma," he told me in a quiet tone, looking ashamed of himself, casting his eyes downwards. I remember watching with a growing sense of mortification as a thin trail of blood crept along his skin, coming from his temple and closely following the lines of his face. "I made a promise and I broke it. You were right to be angry."

No, I wasn't. But I didn't say that. I should have, but I didn't. Because when he took the blame onto himself, it made me feel better again. It made me feel right again and I was glad to accept that gift from him, even though I knew it was the wrong thing to do. I reached a hand up and gently used my thumb to erase the trail of red which marred his face, and thereby eradicated my own sense of guilt and shame. Then I leaned forward, gripped his head tightly between my hands, and kissed him, slowly . . . deeply . . . with as much love as I could possibly forcibly push into the gesture. His soft mmph of abject desire was all the forgiveness that I needed.

We made love, wild and unchecked, there on the dojo floor. A risky stunt since most of the household was still awake and relaxing in the family room after dinner, but right at that moment we didn't care. At least, I didn't. My only thought was to have my Ryoga in all ways possible, to completely do away with what had just happened and wipe the unpleasantness from both of our minds. To indulge in him while he was here and available, knowing in the back of my thoughts that he would soon wander away and I would be without him again. He seemed to be thinking along the same lines and was perhaps eager to make up for time lost, for he was just as impassioned and eager as I was, despite the beating he had just taken.

We were perfect together. We were beyond perfect. Is there a word that describes that, being beyond perfect? Is there a word in either Japanese or English that can give proper justice to how transcendent Ryoga and I were together on that night? The way we moved in total synchronicity, insistent and with a slow urgency that seemed to build and build until it reached a plateau from which it never returned. The way we climaxed at the same time, as if it had all been planned out and orchestrated ahead of time. No. There is no word for it.

There is no word for it.

And when it was over, I let Ryoga sleep in the fold of my arms. The poor guy was completely spent after having journeyed back from wherever he had been, only to have me lick him good, and then making such perfect love together. Absolutely exhausted. But, even though he was asleep, I treasured the time I spent holding him. I watched the bruises darken on his face as the evening gave way to night and the rest of the household wandered off to their individual beds. I watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the air moving with some strain in and out of his lungs. I watched him blink his eyes in his sleep and thought about how, if those eyes were open, I would be able to see his pain, his longing, and probably a profoundly repressed anger deep within the pulling darkness. And as I held him, I promised myself that I would never again hurt him for something that he had no control over. He was too special. Too fragile. Too perfect to be so abused.

Of course, I was lying to myself.

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

Several treasured days of absolute perfection. Of being open and loved.

Long stretches of time filled with slowly smoldering outrage and a hollow sense of betrayal and abandonment.

Quick intense moments of explosive righteous abuse.

This was the vicious circle, the terrible pattern, that our lives fell into. Mine and Ryoga's. He would manage as well as he could to stick around, spending his days tagging after Akane as P-Chan and filling his nights with me, but the evening when I would come out to find the hall empty was as inevitable as the rain that continued to grey out the entire town. And then would follow the long horrible days without him, during which my resentment would grow steadily and surely, well contained and hidden behind an iron mask of indifference.

All the while, I filled my English journal. Page after page of the same inscription, meant to bring my Ryoga back to me, curled under the influence of my firm pen strokes, growing crinkly and noisy. I eventually fixed my spelling mistake and added punctuation as the instructor taught it to us, and now and then when I was feeling particularly furious and stormbound, I would add an accusing line that I did not mean, in a desperate attempt to keep it all restrained and regimented. I could not let the other people in my life know how I was feeling, I could not reveal that I was existing in two worlds - the world of chaos which everyone saw and believed was my existence, and the more horrible world in which he was missing. They were separate entities even though they overlapped each other, and the dark hatreds which boiled within me permeated everything evenly.

'Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there. I need your arms around me. I need to feel your touch. Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there. I wonder if you even miss me? Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there . . . '

Sometimes - not always, but occasionally - the magic spell would work and I would find Ryoga waiting in the rain under the chilling shadow of his umbrella, or I would stumble over P-Chan in the street on my way home, or he would surprise me in the middle of a brawl by showing up out of nowhere with an in-character shout of "Ranma Saotome! Prepare to die!" Each time, I saw him anew. I saw his life and energy, and the deep depths within his huge heart, and the endless mix of emotions in his event horizon eyes, and I would fall in love all over again. But that love would be quickly blinded by anger, by the pain in my own soul that reminded me bitterly that he had broken his promise, yet again.

We always fought when he returned. If he had been away for some time or was overly tired, then chances were he would just take whatever I wanted to dish out. But not always. Hell, I would have lost respect for him if he had. Much of the time, he fought back, but I always started it, not caring if he was weary or hungry from traveling. If we happened to be on the street, everyone simply assumed that we were having the usual battle and responded appropriately, going on with the pre-written pre-digested lines of the farce since they didn't know any better, while Ryoga and I talked with our fists. Judging by the strength of his words, his frustrations were just as deep as mine, and his anger and guilt often threatened to plow me down.

I always got the last say, however. Always. If I had to beat him unconscious or wait until he had tired himself out and then knock him down, the final word was always mine. My hits were no longer distant and nonchalant, they were just as loud and damning as his had ever been. And when it was all over, I would stare in horror at what I had done. I would watch his blood flow and the bruises flower on his skin and I would scream inside, wanting nothing more than to beg him for forgiveness. It wasn't his fault! He couldn't help it! I had no right! I had no right!

But, I had to do it, because I had been taught all my life to punish the things that hurt. I had been taught that with love comes possession and abuse. I had been taught that my fists were the only things I had that could truly speak for me. And he unfailingly forgave me - granted me the right to punish him - afterwards when we made love, as we did without exception. He took the blame onto himself and absolved me of any wrong-doing. Simply by surrendering his body, he validated my abuse and made it okay.

Why did he do that? Why did he allow me to lash out at him and hurt him? Break him apart a little more each time we laid eyes on each other?

Well, because he was Ryoga, it was as simple as that. He'd given up on his vengeance and replaced it with a pathetic enslaved sort of love for me, and Ryoga was always incapable of truly fighting back or going against those he loved. Just look at all the emotional torture he put up with from Akane. And he loved me far more than he had ever loved her, which meant he was willing to take more from me. Because he needed my love, he needed those moments when I was open and passionate with him, he needed to wrap his arms around me and take care of me as much as I needed him to. That was his nature.

And I was so grateful for that easily scarred nature that I never noticed how the beatings got more severe with each of his returns, how it took longer for his bruises to fade, how he would occasionally whimper with pain if Akane hugged his piggy body too tightly. He gave himself to me, so it was all right. It was all right.

Time wore on. Line after accusing line filled the pages of my journal. The rain kept coming. Our vicious cycle turned and turned. Sometimes when we fought, Ryoga still had bruises left over from the previous battle.

'Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there. I need your understanding. I need your love so much. Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there. A candle's fickle flame. To think I held you yesterday. Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there . . . '

Then . . . unexpectedly . . . the pattern was interrupted.

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

He was gone for longer than usual. Much longer. Grey showers melted the days into murky weeks which washed away into dreadful gloomy months. I trudged through the normal chaos, pretending that it all still mattered, while each hour that passed brought greater empty anger into my heart. Can anyone imagine how hard it is to live two lives at the same time like that? To have to make-believe that there's not a huge gaping hole in your heart so that no one will suspect that anything is wrong? It's hell - pure hell. And slowly, as the rain ticked time away, my normal anger and pain shifted into a deeply rooted hate and resentment.

How dare he do this to me? How could he break his promise, how could he put me through this endless perdition of anger and anxiety without the chance for relief? So steady did my fury grow that I eventually reached a point where just the mere off-handed mention of his name would bring a stab of ice to my heart and it would take every ounce of control that I possessed not to lash out at the unwitting person who had uttered the word. Bitterness was my constant companion, through the endless soggy days and the long wet aching nights which I spent staring at the ceiling above me, because I knew that he wasn't waiting in the hallway.

My stomach slowly and methodically ate me from the inside out and atrocious dreams invaded what little sleep I managed to steal. Nightmares of him - lost and cold . . . wounded and trying to struggle his way back to me . . . maybe dead in an impenetrable wilderness somewhere . . . or most disturbing of all, happily living without me . . . loving someone he'd found who didn't beat him or demand impossible promises . . .

So much anger.

So much hate and resentment.

Such a soul-deep wound.

Such . . . such nothingness . . .

Endless . . . endless . . . endless . . . That is the only word that can be used to describe those terrible months. Endless, forever, an eternity of waiting to disappear but never actually getting anywhere. Just like the emotions in his eyes.

Then, all at once, he was back, sending the long period of monotonous nothing into an abrupt spin that was almost too startling to comprehend. I came home from school, drenched and in a completely hideous mood, to find him sitting at the table chatting with Kasumi. His hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea. Looking like an angel of salvation, despite how bone tired, scuffed and battered he appeared. Acting like four long agonizing months hadn't passed since the last time I had seen him, touched him, made love to him . . .

Words are failing me again. I can't possibly describe how beautiful he was, how relieved I was to see him whole and alive and looking at me with a huge hope in his expression. I can't describe how my whole soul simply opened up with the desire to embrace and become one with him right there on the table, even in front of what would be sure to be a completely stunned and mortified witness.

Nor can I describe the fury and hatred that came right along with all of the love.

I made my position on the situation absolutely clear with a scathing glare that wilted Ryoga on the spot and caused Kasumi to draw back with a small gasp of surprise. In addition to the weariness, loneliness and fatigued desperation that lay heavily in his eyes, I saw fear and guilt and the same cower that a kicked dog might utilize. And I was glad to see those things, because that meant he was at least feeling a fraction of the agony that I had been experiencing since he'd left. It meant that he was already being punished for abandoning me.

I wouldn't meet his eyes during dinner, not wanting to give him the chance to break my righteous temper. My thick volatile silence made everyone uncomfortable, especially Kasumi who had seen my initial reaction to Ryoga's return. She seemed to take great care around me, her patient brown eyes going from me to Ryoga and back again with a questioning nervous flutter. The others didn't seem to notice that, but they could see how tensed I was, how completely stone-like I had willed myself to be, because I simply could not let him get under my skin and ruin my resolve. His eyes, his presence, the feelings of plaintive despair that were palatable around him, as if it were part of the warm outdoor scent that rose from his skin. Kami-sama . . . skin I wanted to touch . . . how I thirsted to pull him into my arms and love him and cover him with kisses . . .

I couldn't. I couldn't. He had to be punished. The infraction was too great. And, damn it all, he was -not- going to do this to me again. Come hell or high water, he was going to stay and he was going to keep his promise. No matter what I had to do to ensure it . . .

We faced each other in the dojo, just as we had the first time he broke the damn promise. Outside, the rain was coming down ever harder, building itself up into a full-out thunderstorm that periodically shook the foundation of the building, even as hard drops battered the roof, beating out a constant maddening uneven rhythm that sounded like a million rocks being dropped on the dojo consistently and all at once. The air within was warm and tight, almost suffocating with humidity that immediately clung to our skin and clothes, weighing us down even more. With the span of the wooden floor separating us and vibrating under our feet, I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine and we both knew that something was going to shatter that night.

Him? Me? Us?

'Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there. Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there. Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there . . . '

He was tired, it was so apparent. Weary in body and mind. He stood loosely, as if he were about to fall down, his bangs hanging over his eyes and casting them into shadow, his hands slack at his sides. The grunge from hundreds of miles of dusty roads stained his clothing, giving a hint to just how far away he had been. He faced me with the same weariness that had been present on the similarly stormy night that he had first cursed himself with the impossible promise, which further reinforced the fact in my mind that something was going to change tonight, just as it had then.

His expression was once again asking the question:  How do we put an end to this?

I replied with my usual opening, a flying punch which was meant to put him down for the beating I had to administer, my blow screaming out all of my frustrations and anger. Like always, he took it and the ones that followed, with a growing sense of resignation and . . . strangely . . . acceptance. Silently and powerfully telling me that if this was the way to end it, then that was what he would do. As simply as that. As easily as he had given up his rivalry and revenge. This time, he wasn't going to defend himself or fight back. This time, he was giving in and granting me exactly what I wanted.

Each of my punches was strong enough to level hills of solid stone. As I wailed out my fury, the sounds of furious suffering tearing up my throat and threatening to strangle me, I took out a lifetime's worth of pain and unfairness and loneliness and suffocation on him, spurred on by the presence of a quietly accepting scapegoat. And damn him anyway, he took it all! When I slammed him to the floor, he got back up. When I kicked him, he went with it and staggered back but made no move to counter. When my hits brought the sickening sound of crunching bones, he didn't even cry out. He was simply a vessel for my emotions, a battered sounding board against which I threw everything, opening up as I had never before. Laying bare and flooding even the darkest places of my soul with light and purifying heat.

Much of that evening is a blur of heat and emotion, but I remember clearly how his blood flowed, how it followed the gentle lines of his face and soaked into his shirt, leaving great humid patches of vile moisture in the mustard color. I remember how he ended up sort of hopping awkwardly on one leg when he picked himself off the floor because I had violently splintered the bone in his right calf. I remember how he spoke throughout it all, with a strange tone of soft comfort and encouragement, prompting me again and again to let everything go. Release it all. Give myself rebirth and baptize myself in his blood. I remember a blinding crash of lightening that whited out the entire room for a moment, and when I had blinked away the dancing spots in my eyes, I saw that I had grabbed him and was kissing him. Hard and passionately, with a sense of sticky salty moisture between us that might have been his blood . . . his tears . . . mine . . . I don't really know. I just know that this final kiss filled up my entire being with light as pure as that which flashed outside.

Burning. Purifying. His light. My light. Ours together, almost as if we had given birth to it. It was sheering.

This was ending right now. This was beginning right now.

'Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there. Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there. Never there. You're never there. You're never ever ever ever there . . . '

The purpose of each blow had become clear. There was only one way for him to keep his promise, for him to erase the dreadful words that filled my notebook and render them powerless. We both knew it. With an endless yell of fury and love and anticipation sounding in my soul, filling the tight close confines of the dojo, I battered him. I hit and I hit. I smashed him to the floor, I threw him against the walls, I kicked him and took a strange wonderful delight in the broken noises of his bones jostling out of their preferred positions. I let loose like I never had, finally utilizing the lethal edges of my strikes and attacks which I had always kept carefully contained before for fear of actually hurting someone.

It took such a long time. He was so strong.

But I knew exactly when it happened. My arms trembling from the absolute power behind the move, I drove him through one of the sturdy wooden walls of the dojo, breaking the stormy night apart all around us. In a flash of lightening, I saw the moment that immediately preceded the violation of the building's structural integrity. I saw his eyes, open and looking at me. Event horizon eyes. So beautiful and capturing. Everything he had ever felt in his entire life still there to share with me. I felt it all invading me and filling me up as it was released from the suddenly dead gravity well of his soul.

His eyes lost all light and color. His neck was broken as it hit the wood just wrong. He was dead before he hit the ground outside. I knew this not only because his body settled into the sopping grass and remained human, but also because I felt - wonderfully - his energies inside of me. Settling in for the long journey, truly becoming one with me at last. I stepped to the hole in the wall, shaking and feeling joyfully weak, a tingle of almost orgasmic thrill racing through my entire being as his presence became mine, as our auras mingled to form one solid wall of armored protection. Distantly, I heard shouting from the house . . . the others had been alerted by the sound of the wall breaking . . . but I didn't care. I shivered, wrapped my arms around myself to hold Ryoga in, and stared at his remains as the driving relentless rain bounced off his pale skin and the lightening illuminated the stains of dark blood that pooled beneath his body.

Here is where this becomes a ghost story.

Here is where it began again.

In the rain.

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

What happened after that night really doesn't matter, as far as I'm concerned. Sure, the police came and there were some investigations, but none of it touched me in any profound way. Some of them asked around the neighborhood and learned that Ryoga was always instigating attacks against me, so they decided that I had probably been acting in self-defense or something, despite the fact that Ryoga's body had obviously been badly beaten, whereas I didn't have a mark on me.

Bah. Idiots.

Others talked to Tendo-san about the inherent dangers of martial arts and came to the conclusion that this was simply a spar that got out of hand, and even though they took me into custody for awhile and recommended some psychiatric treatment, I willingly went back to the dojo in due time none the worse for wear. Yeah, maybe some of the people who thought they knew me were a little creeped out that I didn't seem very upset by the whole affair, but they didn't know what I knew. I was happy, cared for and watched over. I was never alone, not even in the little holding cell the police put me in at the jail.

I felt wonderful. Reborn. Loved . . .

I had gotten exactly what I wanted.

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

Akane happened to come across this notebook the other day. This is not the same one that I filled with hateful words during English class . . . actually, come to think of it, I'm not sure exactly what happened to that one . . . it disappeared during all of the investigations and upset which occurred after that liberating night. And perhaps that's for the best. Those words are meaningless and unnecessary now. I don't need to pen any sort of dark magical spell to bring Ryoga back to me anymore.

This notebook, the one I'm writing in now, the one Akane found, is for myself and isn't the forced product of any English class. It's filled with my thoughts for the future and my love for the soul that I carry with me at all times. It's a record of what happened, how it all began and how it's still going strong. And getting stronger. And, save for a few words here and there, it's all in English, which I've slowly mastered from much practice. For some reason, I'm insufferably proud of that fact.

Of course, my handwriting still leaves a lot to be desired, which was why Akane couldn't make heads or tails of any of it when she opened the notebook and tried to read. Not that it would have mattered if she had been able to read it. I don't care who knows what happened, I don't care if they think I'm insane, or condemn me for what I did.

I have what I want now, and nothing else really matters.

"What's all this?" she asked warily, giving me a worried look. She had taken to doing that a lot lately, especially when she occasionally walked into the dojo to find me sparring good-naturedly with . . . well, with no one that she could see. Or when she would catch me talking apparently to myself, with the proper pauses in the conversation as if someone were talking back. Someone was, but she didn't know that. Or when I laughed and danced under the on-going merciless rain, because it was no longer a hateful thing to me.

"Just some writing," I replied, taking the notebook away from her with a rather cool and distant smile that I had been using more and more. It tended to keep people away, and that was fine with me. More time to be alone with him.

Akane, however, had learned not to back away immediately from my expression. She was doing everything she could to get along with me now because the decision had finally been made, by others, that we would definitely be married after school ended. She'd be stuck with me then and knew that she had to get used to my new personality. So, she tried hard to understand me and the - to her - strange behavior she had observed in me since it all began. Bless her heart, she was doing her best. I didn't really want to tell her that her efforts were pointless, but I had the idea that she was coming to realize that.

"What sort of writing? Is it a school assignment?" Her tone was insistent, but cautious. I'd become a dangerous entity to her, one that she thought she loved, but one who had also killed his best friend in cold blood. Sure, the authorities could babble about self-defense and martial arts gone bad all they wanted. Akane was no fool. She knew otherwise.

I answered in a slow drawl. "No. Just some writing of my own. It's a ghost story . . . " I had a flash of inspiration and offered the notebook to her again. "Want to read it?"

As I expected, that put her off immediately. She drew back, turning a little pale as her mouth tightened into a grim line and she shook her head. Just by the tone of my voice she knew exactly what my ghost story was about, she'd heard me talk to him enough times in the days following that night to understand. That disturbed her a great deal. He'd been her friend too . . .

"No, thanks," she said with forced lightness and retreated as quickly as she could without it looking like she was doing exactly that.

"You should be nicer to her," Ryoga said then, his tone one of half disapproval and half amusement, arms crossed over his chest and beautiful heaven lit eyes sparkling in a fond gentle manner. "And, I'm not a ghost."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow at him, almost challenging him to deny what I could see well-enough with my own eyes. My Ryoga . . . indistinct and hazy, but growing ever more real and solid with each passing day. Never leaving me, never abandoning me, always there to whisper in my ear or squeeze my hand in his when I needed an extra boost of encouragement. Pure love. Pure devotion. Existing in my soul where the event horizon now was, drawn in to never be released . . .

"Then what are you?" I continued, perhaps faltering a little, afraid for a moment I might actually be forced to doubt the perfect little reality that we had created. Had I gotten it wrong, somehow? Was Akane's growing opinion of my sanity the correct one?

Any uncertainty was washed away instantly, however, with a tip of his head and a sweet smile. Washed away with a dark and damning burst of rain, which I was more than willing to gratefully embrace.

"I'm a promise . . . " Ryoga replied.

-----------------------------------------

owari

Artist: Cake
Album: Prolonging The Magic
Song: Never There

i need your arms around me i need to feel your touch
i need your understanding i need your love so much
you tell me that you love me so you tell me that you care
but when i need you baby you're never there

on the phone long long distance
always through such strong resistance
first you say you're too busy
i wonder if you even miss me

never there
you're never there
you're never ever ever ever there
a golden bird that flies away a candle's fickle flame
to think i held you yesterday your love was just a game
a golden bird that flies away a candle's fickle flame
to think i held you yesterday your love was just a game

you tell me that you love me so you tell me that you care
but when i need you baby
take the time to get to know me
if you want me why can't you just show me
we're always on this roller coaster
if you want me why can't you get closer

never there
you're never there
you're never ever ever ever there

-------------------------------------

2001 raptor@lavadomefive.com

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