Warning: Mildly citrus m/m
The Nomad's Gift
\\ Ranma - I will arrive at the Tendo Training Hall on Christmas Eve. Be there. This is important. – Ryoga Hibiki \\
Ranma stared at the letter he held in his hands, at the scrawled handwriting that was so familiar to him from dozens of challenge letters over the years. With a weary sigh bred from constant chaos and unrest, Ranma rolled his eyes and crumpled the letter. The crunching crinkling sound of the paper was somehow both satisfying and empty sounding.
"Yeah right, Ryoga," Ranma tossed the wad of paper over his shoulder carelessly. "You think you’re actually going to be here on the day you say you will? Now, -that- would be a freak’n Christmas miracle."
************************************************
The night was extremely cold, but there was no snow. Par for the course, really, but it still seemed rather wrong. Whether welcome or not, snow was a necessity for Christmas. Without it, there was something simply less magical about the holiday season. Even the icy twinkles from hundreds of stars were harsh and sharp, and all in all, the night rang hollow and passionless.
That was something that Ryoga Hibiki was used to. Most of his Christmases had been spent under skies just as unfeeling as this one was.
He trudged up the walk that lay between the gate of the Tendo compound and the front door of the house proper. Head hanging, feet dragging, seemingly weighted down to the point of breaking beneath the overstuffed pack on his back, the exhausted young man paused for a moment to gaze at the building. Lights were on, casting starkly against the night, and as a chilling breeze caught and tousled Ryoga’s heavy dark hair, the paper lanterns which lit the walk swung and shifted. He caught the crystal sound of the wind chime that hung from the back porch, as it rang through the thin night alone and unnoticed by anyone except for himself.
Shutting his eyes tight, Ryoga straightened, trying to find some strength within himself to drive back his weariness. He had traveled long and hard to make it here on the night he had said he would, against odds others might have found impossible, but which were everyday fare for him. Clutching a sealed scroll against his chest as if it were the most precious treasure on earth, despite the simple bamboo casing, Ryoga shivered and desperately attempted to summon some courage. It took quite some time, and the more he thought about what he was going to do, the more he wanted to turn and run. But he couldn’t do that. He could not back out.
If he ever wanted Christmas to mean more than emptiness, Ryoga knew that he could not lose his nerve now.
Swallowing hard and firmly steeling his courage, he went to the door and rang the bell.
A few moments ticked by, apparently just to try Ryoga’s bravery and patience, and then his ring was answered. Kasumi opened the door and broke immediately into a warm and friendly smile, her soft brown eyes twinkling with delight.
"Ryoga-kun!" she greeted, opening the door wide enough for him to slip in. The warmth within the house hit him immediately, and he took a moment to be grateful for the heat. Hesitating in the front entry while Kasumi shut out the night, Ryoga loosened the top fastenings on his winter coat, knowing that the garment would keep the warmth out as efficiently as it repealed the cold.
Turning toward him, the oldest Tendo girl continued to smile, moving forward to help him with his pack. "Oh Ryoga-kun, you must be freezing! The weather said we were going to have a cold snap tonight."
"Hai," Ryoga nodded, suppressing a shiver. He was already chilled through, despite his coat.
"It’s so nice to see you," Kasumi continued, making him feel as welcome as she always did. "I’m sorry that you didn’t make it to the Christmas party this year. We missed you."
Ryoga tried not to wince. Tried not to show any outward reaction toward the sudden sharp pain in his chest, but he doubted his success. He was sorry that he missed the party as well. Having someplace to spend the holidays . . . having people to share the festivities with . . . these things meant a lot to the wandering martial artist, even if he was only a peripheral part of the celebration. He very much doubted that any one had actually missed him. "I’m sorry," he bowed slightly. "I . . . I couldn’t get back in time . . . "
"That’s all right, Ryoga-kun," she assured understandingly. "I just made some nice hot tea, please come in and have some. It looks like you’ve traveled a long way, and we need to get you warmed up."
"I don’t . . . don’t want to intrude, Kasumi-san," Ryoga said politely. A party was one thing, but showing up on Christmas Eve, when families should be spending time together, was something else entirely. "I just stopped for a moment to speak to Ranma."
"Oh," Kasumi looked momentarily flustered, but covered it quickly. "I’m sorry, Ryoga-kun, but he isn’t here."
Ryoga stared for several heartbeats, as if not quite able to believe her words, and then he felt something start to break within him, slowly and inexorably, like an overhang being eroded by a river.
"Isn’t here?" he repeated, sounding plainly disappointed and distraught. "But . . . but I sent him a letter . . . I told him that I would be here . . . "
Kasumi frowned, an apologetic light in her dark eyes. "He went to a Christmas party at the school with Akane and some of their friends. Since it’s so cold, I doubt they’ll be out late. You’re welcome to wait, Ryoga-kun. Please, come in and have some tea."
Ryoga hardly heard her kind offer. His expression of disbelief crumbled slowly into one of soft unhappiness, and he clutched the scroll tightly in his hand, dropping his face to look down at it. Just moments ago, delivering that scroll had seemed so important, but now he felt only an sorrowful hollowness when he gazed at it. He had -told- Ranma that he would be here, and he had worked so -hard- to make it on time! But Ranma hadn’t waited. He hadn’t waited, even though Ryoga had said it was important. Hadn’t waited . . . again . . .
(( Of course he didn’t wait . . . you never get anywhere when you should, you idiot! Why should he have expected this time to be any different? ))
The young man suppressed angry tears, tightening his jaw and grinding his teeth together. Self-loathing swept over him with the frigid unfeeling force of a blizzard. What an utter fool he was to think that happiness and Christmas were joys meant for someone like him. He should have known better. Some private place within his heart shattering, Ryoga dashed the scroll to the floor, then turned to grab his pack.
Kasumi looked startled. She gazed at the cased scroll for a moment, then watched as he trembled while fumbling to get the heavy pack onto his back. "Ryoga?" she asked quietly. "What’s wrong?"
"Excuse me, please, Kasumi-san," he replied tightly, his voice catching. He quickly bowed in her direction, then retreated for the door, anger and sadness evident even to her in the swirl of his aura as he passed. "I’m sorry for intruding."
"Wait, you can’t go back out there, it’s freezing!" Kasumi protested, upset and immediately worried. "Ryoga, please. Ranma and Akane will be back soon. Stay here and spend the night. It’s no trouble."
Ryoga evaded her extended hand and quickly slipped out of the Tendo residence. Out of the warmth. Out of the only place in the world he had ever really called home. He’d been such an idiot! Wincing, he shut the door up behind him, firmly making certain that no wind or cold could slip in to trouble those who dwelled within the building. The thump of the door hitting home in its frame sounded very cold and very final.
Silently berating himself for ever having gotten his hopes up, the young man raced away into the sharp night, watched only by the cold light of a sky filled with stars.
***********************************
"Cripes," Ranma grumbled to himself, ruefully rubbing his sore head as he slipped into the house. Akane had malleted him a good one this time, and he might have been really mad about it, except that she’d managed to aim him right for the Tendo’s front door when she launched him into low orbit, thereby saving him the trouble of walking home from the school. Convenient, but it still hurt, and he knew he was going to have one nasty bruise in the morning. Luckily his hair would hide the evidence.
With a sigh, he kicked off his shoes and made a bee line for the kitchen. He hadn’t gotten the chance to eat his fill at the party before making the off-color comment that had drawn Akane’s fury, and he was starving. Hopefully, his iinazuke would cool down before she got home, but he wasn’t looking forward to facing her again. Passing through the dining room, he flipped a wave and chirped a cheerful hello at his father and Tendo-san, who were both already deep into the holiday spirit, laughing and talking jovially about the old days while bottle after empty bottle of sake formed a pile around them. They barely acknowledged him, nor did Nabiki glance up from the TV which was showing some dubbed version of an American animation about a jubilant red Christmas ornament. Kasumi, who was also watching, gazed at him speculatively, without the usual smile he would have expected from her.
"You’re home," she stated. "Is Akane with you?"
"Nah, she’s still at the party." Ranma took a detour in his trip to the kitchen to snag a handful of the Christmas cookies that Kasumi had out on the table.
"I hope she comes home soon, it’s getting colder." Kasumi stood, gathering some of the sake bottles as she did. "Ranma, could I speak to you in the kitchen for a moment?"
Though wondering what she wanted to talk about, Ranma wasn’t going to refuse an excuse to visit the kitchen. He followed her in and immediately pounced on the refrigerator, digging into its depths in search of something substantial and filling. Kasumi disposed of the bottles and then patiently waited while he gathered an armload of goodies.
"Whatcha wanna talk ta me ‘bout?" Ranma asked around a mouthful of dried squid as he struggled to get his booty out onto the counter.
"Ryoga-kun stopped by earlier," Kasumi informed him. "About two hours ago."
Ranma blinked in surprise, feeling a little jolt go through him. "Really?"
"Yes. He said he was here to see you, and he was very upset that you gone out."
"Well, geeze," the pig tailed boy grimaced as he set about organizing his leftovers. "He sent me a letter saying he was gonna show up, but I didn’t think he’d actually make it on time." Ranma looked thoughtful for several seconds, then shrugged it off. "Ah, it don’t matter. He was just here to fight me. On Christmas Eve, can you believe that? Some guys got no sense of decency."
Kasumi frowned, looking a little sad. From within her apron she drew out the scroll that Ryoga had thrown away before leaving. Silently, the eldest Tendo daughter offered it to Ranma.
"What’sit?" Ranma eyed the casing dubiously.
"Ryoga-kun left this. It has your name on it, Ranma. I don’t think he was here to fight you." When he didn’t immediately take it, Kasumi set the scroll carefully on the counter and quietly left the kitchen.
**************************************
Ranma took his food up to the guest room he shared with his father, carrying the sealed scroll with him. He slid the door shut behind himself and clicked the lock into place so that he wouldn’t be disturbed. He had no idea what might be on a scroll from Ryoga, as most of the time he couldn’t fathom what was going through the nomad’s mind, but he didn’t especially feel like sharing with the entire household. This could be a new technique or something equally as interesting, and if that was the case, then Ranma didn’t want prying eyes to know about it. Though the chances of Ryoga giving him information on a technique seemed slim, still, it never hurt to take precautions.
Sitting cross-legged on his sleeping pallet, the young man stuffed some food in his mouth and looked at the scroll casing. It was simple bamboo, but appeared to be well-made, despite a few curious dings here and there. In fact, the casing looked like it had been through a tight spot or two, but had held up well, and was still sealed securely, protecting its contents. The characters of his name ran down one side, and were rendered in Ryoga’s familiar hand, though it appeared that the ink had bled a bit. .
Curious, Ranma broke the seal and removed the scroll. A small scrap of parchment fell out first, however, drifting down into his lap. Brows furrowing, he retrieved and read it.
His dark blue eyes widened.
\\ Ranma - \\ the paper said, \\ It was always you. - Ryoga. \\
For several long moments, Ranma could only stare at the small message, as his heart increased its pace within his chest. Disbelief flooded him first. This could not possibly be as it sounded . . . could it? A tiny flicker of suppressed hope followed immediately in the wake of incredulity . . . a hope that Ranma had felt many long years ago when he first laid eyes on Ryoga and felt the initial stirrings of adolescent desire.
Ranma let a brief smile ghost over his lips as he was unexpectedly drawn back to that moment. He saw Ryoga, young and alone, stumble into the school yard with an expression of weary determination on his face. He was immediately beset by older boys who teased him and berated his sense of direction, but Ryoga fended them all off with the sensuous viciousness of a cornered animal. Impressed and fascinated, Ranma sought him out in the line at lunch, and introduced himself in the only way that he knew how - by issuing a challenge.
From the very beginning, Ranma had thought that Ryoga was beautiful. Beautiful in a tragic and solitary way that was at once inspiring and to be pitied. To get the angry loner’s attention, Ranma had pestered and cajoled, teased and just made a general nuisance of himself until Ryoga was almost forced to accept his friendship. He was only just beginning to trust Ranma when Genma bustled his son off to China, and Ranma himself found it hurtful but necessary to bury the unmanly feelings he had for Ryoga, lest he sully his training by pining for his friend.
Ranma looked back down at the bit of paper in his fingers, at the scrawled characters that looked as if they had been hastily written before the author’s nerves were lost. There had been so much hate and anger between them since then that Ranma had never stopped to consider . . . that perhaps Ryoga had felt the same way about him?
Was that what this note meant?
He was so involved in wondering, that Ranma almost forgot the scroll which was resting patiently in his lap, waiting to be unrolled. After several long moments of mental and emotional vacillation, the young man reached down and picked it up, feeling the roughness of the uneven parchment against the skin of his fingers. Curiosity once again peaking and mixing well with the reviving hope, Ranma carefully unrolled the scroll and looked at it.
A soft gasp escaped his lips. It wasn’t often that Ranma was caught off guard, but he was now.
The scroll was canvas for an ink and watercolor painting. A rearing horse done in muted blacks and blues seemed about to burst from the confines of the parchment, mane tossed in wind and movement, long face tapered and elegant. The animal was stocky and well put-together, each powerful muscle perfectly painted and carefully attended to, but it still had a willowy effeminate quality to it. Beauty in strength. Fragility in ferocity. A white stripe ran down its nose and white socks drew attention to its large shiny hooves. Though the brush strokes that made the animal were simple and apparently laid down with purpose, the detail was nonetheless astonishing.
Untamed horse . . .
The animal was framed by a background of lush hilly fields and distant hazy mountains. Around the edge of the picture, circle and spiral symbols alternated, each composed by the same sure hand that had rendered the horse. In the lines of the symbols, Ranma saw and recognized the slight scrawling quality that trademarked Ryoga’s casual handwriting. The pig tailed martial artist found himself staring in complete and utter amazement at the quality of the work and the knowledge of whose hand had wrought it.
He would have never have imagined that Ryoga was such an artist . . .
A strange lump was forming in Ranma’s throat. Ryoga was always so angry or depressed that it was hard to fathom such beauty could exist within him . . . but hadn’t it been his beauty that had attracted Ranma to the boy in the first place? Perhaps he had been refusing to see it all these years, or maybe Ryoga had tempered it with his volatile personality . . . but apparently that strong and vulnerable quality that Ranma had been so captured by did still exist somewhere in the nomad’s heart.
A line of characters ran down the right side of the painting - a haikou.
~ Though mortal hands may desire
~ The untamed wind
~ Cannot be grasped
Ranma lowered the parchment and stared vacantly at nothing while his thoughts reeled. Was that . . . was that how Ryoga saw him? As something unattainable? Perhaps something that hurt and betrayed him every time he dared to get close? (( He wanted me to be here so that he could give this to me . . . )) Had he been hoping to take a final step toward trust, just as he almost had when they were young? Even as inexperienced as he’d been, Ranma had recognized Ryoga’s challenge to fight as a thinly veiled excuse to consummate their growing friendship in the only way either of them knew to express themselves . . . in combat. But he had left before Ryoga arrived, whisked away to China by an uncaring father who wouldn’t listen to his son’s protests. And that had destroyed Ryoga’s growing trust . . .
And the next time Ranma saw him, they were back to square one, with the added element of betrayal to further confuse them both.
Now . . . Ranma almost wanted to cry as he thought about it . . . now, Ryoga had finally reached the point where he thought he could trust again, and once more Ranma had betrayed him. The nomad had told him that he would arrive on Christmas Eve, but Ranma, dulled by the chaos that his life had become, hadn’t given any credence to the promise. Once again, he left before Ryoga arrived.
Once again, the growing trust had been shattered.
"Oh Ryoga . . . " Ranma muttered softly beneath his breath, looking down once again at the beautiful painting . . . at the soul of the young man that he realized he loved . . . had always loved . . . "I’m sorry, my friend. I am so sorry . . . "
*************************************************
The tears had stopped, but the hurting had not.
Ryoga didn’t know where he was. Nothing unusual there, but for once he didn’t particularly care to know. Huddling around himself beneath a bridge, the young nomad stared at the river slipping by, its smooth rollicking illuminated by the stars. It was very cold, but he didn’t especially care about that either. Cold was irrelevant and seemed to be getting further away by the minute. Arms wrapped around himself, Ryoga simply gazed at the water and listened to the internal sound of his own heart splintering.
He was a weak fool and should have known better. Ranma had disappointed him once before, why had he thought it would be any different this time? But as hurt as he was, Ryoga knew that he really couldn’t fault Ranma. The blame was his to shoulder. He’d been an idiot, imagining that the pig tailed boy would actually accept and return the feelings that Ryoga felt . . . had always felt . . . from the first moment he was confronted by Ranma in the lunch line at school.
Ranma had seemed untouchable even then, exhibiting an over-confidence and arrogance that Ryoga sensed covered a troubled and vulnerable soul beneath. The nomadic boy could relate to that, but he’d been so badly abused and neglected himself throughout his short life that he simply did not possess the skills necessary to make a friendship work. Ryoga was frightened by and envious of the masks that Ranma seemed to wear and change so freely. He did not have that sort of ability, and he held Ranma in awe for the ease with which he wielded such protection.
Eventually, however, Ryoga had learned to look beneath the masks, and grew to trust the boy he found there. Ranma was, in fact, the only person in Ryoga’s life that he -could- trust. His early years had been dominated by periods of abandonment and abuse, so he placed no faith whatsoever in his parents, and he’d never actually had a friend to confide in before. To arrive at the vacant lot and find that Ranma had gone was a great shattering blow to a fragile soul which had only just started to open up.
And the dark years that followed only served to crush him further.
But now . . . Ryoga had been away from Nerima for quite some time and had nearly lost his life helping to rescue victims from a devastating mudslide. The event forced him to take a close look at himself and evaluate how he was living his life. While recuperating in the home of an Elder who ran the village he had helped protect, Ryoga had the time to re-explore a side of himself that he had given up on as a child.
He’d liked to draw, and remembered that he had experimented with a few different mediums, including watercolor, but his father had rather firmly discouraged him from such activities. In fact, Ryoga still had a scar on the back of his head that was the result of falling against a bookcase when his father hit him, punishing him for engaging in his unmanly interest. The trauma had forcefully driven away any artistic urges that Ryoga might have felt, though he did remember crying when his father threw his drawings out.
The Elder had a daughter who was a watercolor artist, and when Ryoga shyly showed an interest in her work, she took him under her wing and gave him instruction. At first he balked, his father’s disapproval firmly ingrained on his psyche, but he found that he couldn’t resist for long. Being nearly buried alive under several tons of mud had given him a new appreciation for beautiful things, and he had to admit to a fascination toward art. He was especially surprised to discover that he had a real talent for it, and while he healed, he worked hard to develop his skill.
He also spent a great deal of time mentally working through the various relationships in his life . . . coming to the painful conclusion that he loved Akane only for her kindness and that it was doubtful she would ever return his feelings . . . realizing that Akari cared for him only due to the unfortunate fact that he turned into a pig . . . and remembering that the only time he’d ever truly felt a sincere longing to be with someone was when he was friends with Ranma . . .
Ranma. The pig tailed boy dominated his thoughts, just as his presence had dominated Ryoga’s life since junior high. It took wading through a turbulent flood of denial and pain, but eventually Ryoga came around to the conclusion that . . . that he loved Ranma. Loved him with the same type of quiet passion that kept a man chasing after something he could never have. Loved him for his casual ability to hide what hurt him, for his fierce and beautiful power, and for the all the brief quiet moments of companionship they had spent together while pretending to be enemies.
A deep part of Ryoga’s soul wanted to resist such feelings, and that part spoke with his father’s voice, ruthlessly dictating how a man should conduct himself. Memories of dozens of blows and punishments tried to chase Ryoga’s emotions away, tried to turn him from this path, as they always had. Most of the time, the nomad followed that herding. When the situation was bad, or he hurt inside, he always ran. It was a defense mechanism forged from countless years of avoiding his father, one that carried over into other aspects of his life.
But he could not run from this. Ranma was within him, a part of him, and would always be there no matter how much distance actually separated them, physically and mentally. As he healed, Ryoga worked hard to tamp down those frightened fluttering feelings, dealing with them by utilizing his new-found outlet. Painting after painting illustrated Ryoga’s fears and his feelings for Ranma, but none quite as vibrantly as that of the horse. The horse painted in the dead of night when he found himself unable to sleep.
The untamed horse. The one that couldn’t be held.
Realizing that he couldn’t go on living like a wraith without focus or closure, Ryoga gathered together the jagged shards of his trust and hope, and decided to present the scroll to Ranma as a gift. A Christmas gift. Christmas was suppose to be a time of miracles, after all. Perhaps the holiday would work a bit of its magic in his favor at last . . .
Ryoga shivered. It wasn’t from the severe cold . . . that was distant and unnoticed. Instead, he shivered from knowledge . . . the knowledge of how wrong and stupid he had been to allow himself to dream . . .
He was a fool. As he huddled beside the river, all the things that had given Ryoga the courage to confront the young man he loved, broke and fell away into nothingness. The river sparkled harshly, and the nomad came to the conclusion that he was destined for nothing more than constant disappointment and pain.
And he had to wonder why he was bothering.
The cold was growing ever more vague, as Ryoga closed his eyes, shutting out the river and the unfeeling sky of stars. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized his situation as dangerous, but couldn’t summon up enough interest to be concerned. He leaned his head back against the concrete of the bridge and vaguely wondered how long he had been outside, three . . . perhaps four hours? But the alarms that should have been going off in his head were now disconnected. It simply did not matter any more.
The night continued around him. Sometime later, from someplace very far away, he heard the bells of an orthodox church toll the coming of midnight, but Ryoga didn’t particularly care about that either. Christmas had arrived and as it came in . . . Ryoga passed it disinterestedly on his way out.
*********************************************
From the lounge at one end of the room, to the chair at the other. Back again. From the lounge to the chair. Back. Lounge. Chair. Back.
(( Let him be all right . . . please let him be all right . . . ))
Lounge. Chair. Back. Ranma paced tirelessly, fidgeting his hands together nervously, even as he tried not to show his concern. Though he was currently the only one present, hiding his feelings was a deeply entrenched habit, and he fought to keep from giving into the fear which grew in his chest as each moment ticked slowly away. The night edged forward . . . hitting 1 a.m. almost casually, then starting the trip toward 2 . . . Still Ranma paced.
Paced and waited. Lounge. Chair. Back. He’d never been quite so worried. Never. And in some distant analyzing part of his mind, he recognized his extreme concern as proof positive that he really felt the way he thought he did.
(( Ryoga . . . be all right . . . ))
The door to the exam room opened, and for the first time since being shooed out into the waiting area, Ranma halted his pacing. Dr. Tofu stepped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. Anxious, Ranma wanted to pounce on him, shake him, demand to know what was going on. But the physician looked tired, bleary and ruffled, so Ranma resisted the urge. Instead he stood awkwardly in the center of the room, wringing his hands and waiting breathlessly for Tofu to speak first.
"He’ll be fine, Ranma." Tofu assured, flopping wearily down into the chair that Ranma had been using to mark his pacing. "Just a moderate case of hypothermia. It’s a good thing that you found him when you did, otherwise it could have been much worse. He’s asleep again now."
Ranma breathed a sigh of relief, feeling as if someone had just wrung him out and hung him up to flutter in the wind. He considered sitting down as well, but decided against it. "He woke up?"
"Hai, briefly, though I don’t think he knew what was going on. I have his body temperature up to safe levels, but I’m going to keep him here overnight to be sure that he stays stable. I’ve set him up in one of the rooms in the back."
Ranma absorbed this information, knew that it was his cue to thank the doctor and head for home, but he didn’t think he could do that. Not now. Not after the conclusions he had come to on this night. "Tofu-sensei, would you mind if I stayed with him? I could keep an eye on him 'til morning, you know? Make sure nothing happens."
"Sure," Tofu was fairly easy-going and wasn’t the type to question anything that his most unusual clients seemed likely to do. He yawned and pushed himself back onto his feet. "I’ll get you some blankets."
"Arigato, Tofu-sensei, but I know where they are. I can get them. You’ve done enough, and I’m real sorry I woke you up so late, and on Christmas too." Ranma bowed gratefully.
"It’s all right, Ranma. I’m glad I could help. I’ll see you in the morning."
******************************************
Ranma stepped into the room, his eyes going immediately to Ryoga, who was wrapped securely in blankets on the bed. The room itself seemed to be much warmer than usual, and Ranma realized that Dr. Tofu had probably adjusted the thermostat to better suit his patient. The pig tailed martial artist slid the door shut behind him and moved over to click on the bedside lamp. Ryoga stirred, obviously disturbed by the light, which was rather harsh, but he didn’t wake. Instead, he frowned hard in his sleep and turned his face away.
Ranma glanced around for something that he could put over the lamp to mute its light, but really couldn’t find anything appropriate. Shrugging to himself, he undid the ties on his red shirt and removed it, draping it over the shade. The material filtered the light nicely, casting a gentle red glow throughout the room.
Ranma quietly pulled a chair over and sat beside his friend, gazing at him for a long time. When eventually Ryoga turned back, Ranma smiled slightly and reached out to brush a lock of heavy dark hair aside so that he could see the young man’s face better. See the angry scowl that creased his vulnerable and beautiful features.
This . . . this was the expression that Ranma remembered from the first day they had met . . . the expression that had drawn him in and captivated him.
"Sorry Ryoga," Ranma muttered, continuing to stroke his friend’s hair. "I didn’t mean to hurt you again. I didn’t realize that you meant to give me that scroll. If I had known, I wouldna left. I woulda waited for you."
At least, Ranma liked to think that he would have. Before seeing Ryoga’s scroll, the pig tailed boy probably wouldn’t have given the subject much thought. Even if he had known, chances were that he might have just brushed Ryoga off anyway, not even realizing what the young man was trying to do. But now that those old buried feelings had been reawakened . . . now everything was different.
But it seemed right. It all seemed so right.
Ryoga shivered in his sleep, a small sound escaping his throat. Breaking out of his thoughts, Ranma returned his attention to his friend and began to worry again. Was he still cold, despite all the blankets and the heat of the room? A fluttering fear beat in Ranma’s chest . . . echoes of the frightened feeling he had experienced upon first finding Ryoga beside the river.
As soon as he had recovered from the shock of the scroll, Ranma had torn off into the night to look for the nomad. The thought of Ryoga being alone in the cold on Christmas Eve seemed tragic and unacceptable, and it was a situation that Ranma was determined to rectify. He planned to find Ryoga, bring him back to the dojo, and have a good spar with him, during which they could hurl words and insults at each other and perhaps work out what they were both feeling. That was how they had always dealt with things in the past, it was the only way in which they were both comfortable.
But by midnight, Ranma was beginning to worry. He’d checked out most of the usual places that Ryoga seemed to end up at, but had found no sign of the wandering martial artist. It was pretty much chance that Ranma happened to spot Ryoga’s still form beneath the bridge as he looped back toward the dojo to begin the search again. His skin had been so cold and ashen-looking, and when he didn’t respond to Ranma shaking him, the pig tailed boy had gathered him up and taken him directly to Dr. Tofu’s.
Now, as the young man continued to shiver, Ranma didn’t even think to hesitate. He carefully eased Ryoga over to one side, unwrapped and lifted the blankets, and got into the bed. He faced Ryoga, inching down until he was comfortable, and then tucked the blankets back around them both securely. Wiggling a bit, Ranma slid an arm beneath his friend and drew him close, slinging his other arm tight around the young man’s waist. Tofu had stripped Ryoga down to his boxers, and his skin felt cool against Ranma’s.
Cool, yet warm at the same time. Or was the warmth coming from Ranma himself? He paused for a moment, feeling an inkling of hesitation and even fear trickle through him. What on earth was he doing? He was in bed with Ryoga! Hugging him . . . pressing close to him . . . feeling the firm silkiness of his skin and smelling the clean scent of his hair . . . Ranma was, at first, startled by the realization of his own action and the flood of fluid heat that seemed to fill him up uninvited.
Then Ryoga stirred, making another small sound in his throat. It was close to a whimper, but halfway to a plea . . . a plea from a young man who hadn’t been held nearly enough in his life, and who desperately needed arms wrapped securely around him. Still asleep, Ryoga snuggled in close to Ranma’s chest, resting his cheek against the pig tailed boy’s smooth skin, and sighed softly.
Any misgivings that Ranma might have harbored melted away. Curling as tight around his friend as possible, he shut his eyes and slipped a kiss onto Ryoga’s forehead. "You’re gonna be all right, Ryoga," he assured softly, breathing his words into the nomad’s hair. "And when you wake up, we’re gonna talk . . . "
***************************************
Distantly, Ryoga heard a clock strike three. Somewhere in the dubious half state between sleep and waking, he wondered about that. The last he recalled, he had been outside, and church bells had been tolling midnight. For some reason, his mind found the time discrepancy and the presence of a clock difficult to reconcile.
He woke to warmth . . . almost claustrophobic closeness . . . a firm heavy feeling beneath him and around his waist. This didn’t seem right either and he squirmed slightly, trying to stretch and rid himself of the sensation. It didn’t seem to work, and in addition to this, he thought he felt the soft tickle of someone else’s breath on his cheek. That -definitely- wasn’t right, and Ryoga forced himself awake, realizing that he needed to deal with whatever was going on.
Ranma’s large anxious eyes were the first things he saw, and there was an odd red glow all around. Startled and confused, Ryoga tried to pull back, only to realize that the heaviness he was experiencing was actually Ranma’s arms wrapped tight around his body. Trapped as he was, Ryoga could only freeze and stare, his dark brown eyes being captured easily by Ranma’s, which weren’t quite the blue he remembered, due to the strange lighting. Ryoga felt himself tremble slightly, like a cornered animal, mentally questioning the reality of this situation.
Ranma . . . holding him . . . ? This wasn’t right . . .
Ranma stared back, captivated by the bewildered expression on the nomad’s face. With a soft faint smile, he leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on Ryoga’s nose, causing the boy to jerk his head back sharply.
"Sorry," Ranma muttered, though he wasn’t . . . not in the least bit.
Ryoga gasped and shivered. This time it wasn’t because he was cold. As his body woke further, he became painfully aware of Ranma’s embrace, of the feel of skin brushing skin. The nerves being awakened by Ranma’s touch sang silently, sending little electric jolts up and down his spine. He wondered . . . wondered if perhaps he was having some sort of delusion brought on by hypothermia, because something like this simply could never happen in real life. No one ever touched him . . . kissed him . . . least of all Ranma . . .
Ranma . . . whom he loved. Ranma . . . who was unattainable.
"Is . . . is th - this a dream?" Ryoga whispered.
"Do you want it to be?" Ranma whispered in return, maintaining the eye contact and rubbing his hand slowly up and down Ryoga’s back.
The young man shifted in response, wincing lightly as he was assaulted by pleasurable feelings he had never experienced before. Ranma’s fingers felt so good, so comforting against his skin. "No . . . " he admitted, barely getting the word out.
"Good," Ranma smiled. "Because it ain’t."
He leaned forward and kissed Ryoga again, this time on his mouth. It wasn’t a real kiss, more just a pressing of lips against lips, but it shook Ryoga to his very core, to a place that had never quite been touched before. Dizziness assaulted him as his mind registered the foreign feel of Ranma’s kiss, of the heat of his closeness and the feel of his fingers stroking the skin on Ryoga’s upper back. The world spun rather crazily and the young nomad gasped for breath in an attempt to maintain his sentience, prompting Ranma to draw back.
The pig tailed boy looked concerned, his features shadowed strangely by the surreal red lighting. "Are you all right?" he asked as Ryoga continued to gulp down air, coming close to the point of hyperventilating. Ranma sat up, pulling Ryoga with him, and rubbed his back comfortingly while the wandering martial artist regained his composure.
Ryoga was shaking hard. Had what he thought just happened . . . actually happened? Now that he was sitting up and more awake, he couldn’t quite be sure of whether or not that kiss had been real, or just a part of some lingering dream, his imagination getting the best of him as he woke up. That space between sleep and awake was often deceptive, and Ryoga had learned not to trust it.
But . . . the feel of Ranma’s hand on his back was real . . . very real . . . Ryoga tipped his face enough to look up at his friend, a question in his eyes and dumbfounded expression. "Ranma?" he breathed, hardly daring to hope that he was seeing the situation correctly. He’d gotten his hopes up too often in the past, only to be crushed repeatedly like a bug underfoot. He did not want to feel that pain again.
"Yeah?" Ranma replied, plainly seeing the hesitant desire that rose in Ryoga’s beautiful dark eyes. He mentally berated himself for having been so blind for so long. How could he have forgotten the feelings of fluttering need that Ryoga could inspire deep in his gut, with just an innocent look? Just as he was doing now. Groaning inwardly, Ranma wanted to gather him up and drown him with worship and affection, but resisted the urge. Not only had Ranma never done anything like that before, but Ryoga was skittish, and the pig tailed boy didn’t want to frighten him off.
"You kissed me?" Ryoga asked lowly in disbelief, putting his fingers to his lips.
Ranma nodded.
The wandering martial artist processed that for a moment, briefly glancing away from the other, fingers still held to his mouth, as if he could feel the memory of the kiss somehow. Ranma -had- kissed him . . . had kissed him . . . and that meant . . . oh Kami-sama! It meant . . .
What did it mean?
"Why?" Ryoga breathed out, looking back at Ranma. Tears were forming in his dark eyes, in anticipation of disappointment or rejection. His entire body tensed as he waited for an answer.
"Uhm . . . " Ranma hadn’t exactly anticipated a question like that and didn’t really have an answer prepared. The kiss had been complete impulse, but it had obviously come from somewhere, or else it wouldn’t have happened. Ranma frowned slightly, then met Ryoga’s anxious gaze.
"Kasumi gave me the scroll," he began quietly. It wasn’t often that Ranma was serious in matters such as this. After all, he had blown off just about every attempt any of his iinzauke had made to snag his heart or interest, unless it was of direct personal benefit to himself. But this situation was different and seemed to call for a more subdued attitude. He’d never really wanted to kiss any of the girls in his life, but he had just kissed Ryoga, without second thought. This time - he was the one making the attempt . . .
Ryoga looked away, somehow managing to turn pale and blush at the same time. The scroll . . . he’d almost forgotten about that . . .
"It was beautiful Ryoga . . . I . . . well, I never knew you could do anything artsy like that. I really liked it." Ranma kneaded the back of his friend’s shoulder, losing himself for a moment in the firmness of the muscles there. His voice lowered as he continued, finding the proper sounding words deep within himself. "And the note . . . Ryoga, I wanted to let you know that . . . that it was always you too."
He felt a tremor run through the young man’s body, and Ryoga turned back to face him, unexpectedly bringing their faces close together. They exchanged breath for a long endless moment while Ryoga searched Ranma’s eyes, looking perhaps for any hint of mockery . . . truth . . . sincerity . . . The pig tailed boy felt oddly pinned and studied, like a butterfly in a collection. It was strange to realize that, for the first time in his life, Ranma really -wanted- Ryoga to believe what he was saying.
Ryoga’s mouth tightened as he swallowed. "That’s a lie, Ranma . . . " he whispered tightly.
His first instinct was to get angry, to fight, to hotly deny the accusation. But as Ranma stared back at Ryoga, he was forced to face the truth that he found in those dark sad eyes.
He -was- lying.
It hadn’t always been Ryoga, not since junior high when just the thought of his friend could light him up inside.
Since then, it had been Akane . . . Shampoo . . . Ukyo . . . and various others along the way. He’d complained about their constant presences in his life, but when it came right down to it, he was comforted that they were there. It disturbed Ranma’s ego whenever he thought that one of them had lost interest or didn’t love him anymore. It worried him whenever there was trouble, but he always felt a certain arrogant satisfaction whenever he had to come to the rescue. He needed and craved their revolutions in and out of his life in almost the same way that he needed to eat daily. At any given time . . . one or more of them were always there, and they dominated his attention.
Never once, in all the time that had passed since the Lost Boy had thrust himself back into Ranma’s life, did the pig tailed boy ever turn his attention in Ryoga’s direction. Not seriously. Not without ulterior motive.
Ranma sighed softly, letting his hand drop from Ryoga’s back. "You’re right," he replied. "It’s been different since you came back, but before . . . "
He made sure that he had eye contact with Ryoga again, and smiled slightly, warmly. "When we were in school together . . . then it was you. Ryoga, it was you from the first moment I saw you."
That -was- the truth, and Ryoga recognized it for what it was. A tear escaping the corner of his eye and sliding gently down his cheek, the wandering martial artist blushed and looked away again. Something nervous and excited quivered in his stomach, the effect making him want to rejoice and be ill at the same time. So, Ranma -had- felt the same way . . . all these years, Ryoga had wondered . . .
Ranma leaned forward, gently touching Ryoga’s chin and nudging his attention back. He carefully pressed another light kiss against the young man’s cheek, tasting the saltiness of the single renegade tear. "And now that you’ve reminded me of that . . . I want it to be you again, Ryoga."
Ryoga trembled, glancing up. "Are . . . are you sure, Ranma?"
"I ain’t never been so sure of anything in my life. I want you, Ryoga. Is that all right?"
Yes, it was all right! It was more than all right. It was beyond anything Ryoga had hoped for. That fluttering feeling overwhelmed him, and he found that he couldn’t reply beyond simply nodding, a slight hesitant smile forming on his lips.
Ranma grinned, his entire body lighting up suddenly. His arms slipped back around Ryoga’s waist and he drew the nomad in, fairly dragging the young man into his lap, and pressing close for another kiss. It started out just as the first had - simple and unassuming, but as Ryoga relaxed and began to respond, Ranma kicked himself into action, jumping right into the thick of things as he preferred to. If he thought too much about this, then he was afraid he might stop, and Ranma didn’t want that to happen.
His mouth tightened and he nudged Ryoga’s open with his lips, deepening the kiss and invaded with his tongue intensely. His hands began to wander of their own volition, seeking to explore and become familiar with the Lost Boy’s firm appealing body. Kneading with his fingers, Ranma ran his touch lightly over Ryoga’s muscles, mentally marveling at how perfectly sculptured and developed they were.
Ryoga made a soft startled sound, and tried to resist the returning urge to pass out. Every place that Ranma touched him seemed to be on fire, and the heat warmed his chilled body slowly, as a strange liquid weakness spread through him from the inside out. He felt like he wanted to drift away. Supported only by Ranma’s arms around him, Ryoga became heavy and almost unable to respond. The pig tailed boy lowered him back down into the clean warm bed and hovered above, mouth moving down along his jaw line and neck . . . tasting and exploring. His hands also shifted easily, and he began to concentrate on Ryoga’s chest and torso, seeking the places that would prompt the most reaction from the young man he loved.
Ryoga blissfully endured the exploration, dizzy and completely overcome by what was happening. His body sent his mind signal after wonderful signal, cheerfully letting him know whenever Ranma found a particularly sensitive spot with his fingers, or kissed just right with his wandering mouth. As the pig tailed boy nuzzled in Ryoga’s hair and wiffled soft breaths into his ear, the Lost Boy was wracked with disturbingly delightful shivers. Ranma chuckled, apparently pleased to have discovered such a trigger, and concentrated his efforts there, gently sucking on Ryoga’s earlobe and breathing gently.
Ryoga nearly passed out. He’d never experienced anything that could be so delightfully wonderful and torturous at the same time. The warm fearful heat that was spreading throughout his body suddenly shifted and concentrated itself down into his nether regions, letting him know in no uncertain terms that Ranma’s breath in his ear was quite obviously a major turn-on. With a soft, ill at ease moan, he let Ranma know too, and in response, the pig tailed boy’s hand drifted down the line of his stomach and slipped beneath the elastic waistband of his boxers.
Ranma felt Ryoga jerk in surprise. Not wanting to overload his lover, the Saotome heir paused, resting his hand on the Lost Boy’s lower stomach. He shifted himself, softly licking and tasting down Ryoga’s neck. He placed a line of kisses along the soft skin over young man’s left cervical bone, then ran his tongue in a spiraling line to Ryoga’s right nipple. As he drew that dark pink nub into his mouth, Ranma felt his own body reacting with eagerness and anticipation.
The nomad dug his fingers into the mattress beneath him, tearing the white sheet. Ranma’s mouth on his nipple and his hand paused so close to the heat that was swelling between his legs was almost too much. Too much, too fast . . . Ryoga tipped his head back and fought for breath, wiggling uncomfortably, nervous dread gripping in his throat and chest. Ranma’s sucking on his nipple increased and an irrational sense of fear began to grow within Ryoga’s chest. It all felt so good, but . . . but it also felt wrong. Ryoga was not ready to move things so quickly. He was not ready to trust this much.
"Ran . . . " he muttered, half pleading and half protesting. He twisted, breaking Ranma’s hold on his nipple. "Ranma . . . don’t . . . "
"Ryoga . . . " Ranma gasped out a reply, slipping his free hand up to stroke his lover’s damp hair. Brown eyes opened and met his gaze, and the fear of the unknown was clear in those dark crystals.
Ranma understood, he really truly did. Neither of them had ever done anything like this before; truthfully, Ranma didn’t even know quite -what- he was doing. He was operating on pure instinct, on what his feelings wanted and on what his body was demanding. Closeness. Intimacy. He craved these things, and he craved them from Ryoga. Only Ryoga.
Ryoga wanted the same thing, wanted it so badly, Ranma could see it, but he was frightened. Slowly, the pig tailed boy removed his hand from Ryoga’s boxers and gathered the Lost Boy into his arms, holding him close and rolling them both deeply into the blankets together.
Ranma felt Ryoga trembling, and the splash of the young man’s tears against his chest. He stroked his fingers through thick black hair and pressed his cheek to the top of Ryoga’s head. "It’s okay, Ryoga," he said quietly, not so much to comfort as to reassure him.
"It’s j - just . . . " Ryoga stuttered. "I . . . I’ve never d - done anything like th - this before and . . . and . . . "
"Neither have I," Ranma admitted. "And we don’t gotta." The thought was almost a relief to him as well. As much as his body wanted to continue, and as much as Ranma knew that he wanted Ryoga, it didn’t really feel right. It was rushed, almost as if he felt he had to do it in order to make this new relationship permanent. But that wasn’t the truth. Ranma knew, now that he had Ryoga, he wasn’t going to let go of him easily, but everything would take time. Time to get to know each other. Time to grow used to not being enemies. Time to trust.
Ryoga sniffled and turned his face so that he was looking up at Ranma. "Are you sure?" he asked softly. He was scared, but he didn’t want to disappoint Ranma, or push him away just when they were getting close again.
"I’m sure," Ranma nodded with a fond smile, pushing the bangs back away from Ryoga’s face. "For one thing - you just almost froze to death and ain’t in any condition to be playing around like that. And for another thing . . ." Ranma paused for a moment, hoping that he was wording this right. "Ryoga, I care about you, a lot. And I respect you. We’re not gonna do anything that you ain’t comfortable with until you -are- comfortable with it. Until we’re both comfortable."
Ryoga stared at him for a long quiet moment, at the pig tailed boy in the soft red lighting whose eyes were large and shimmering softly. As he replayed Ranma’s words in his head, something large and wonderful began to fill Ryoga’s heart, something he had never experienced before. Ranma said he cared . . . respected . . . Ryoga had never been on the receiving end of such consideration before. It was just as overwhelming as the intense touching and kissing had been only moments before.
Ryoga pressed forward, throwing his arms around Ranma in return and hugging tight. "Thank you, Ranma!" he whispered happily. "You don’t know . . . you don’t know how much that means to me . . . "
How long they remained twined together, holding each other in a close cocoon of warmth, neither could say. Ryoga was exhausted, his body reminding him of the fact that it had suffered hypothermia, and he eventually lay heavily in Ranma’s arms, content to simply remain where he was and let his strength return. At some point, Ranma disturbed them a bit by reaching over and clicking the light off, plunging the room into a heavy comforting darkness, interrupted only by the subdued glow of a street light beyond the window outside.
Close and at peace, the two young man slept together, and neither had ever felt more secure.
The clock’s announcement of 6 a.m. drew Ryoga from his healing slumber. Still laying on Ranma’s chest, he opened his eyes and gazed blearily at the window, and slowly a soft smile formed on his lips.
Somewhere beyond heavy silvery clouds, the sun was coming up and casting a grey pink and orange glow over everything. The snow was finally falling, drifting downward in large soft flakes which moved slowly and lent a surreal aspect to the morning. There was just a bit of sparkle to each flake as it caught the new light, that hint of magic that Ryoga had been looking for the night before.
Ranma moved and, beneath the cover of the blankets, his hand sought out Ryoga’s and their fingers twined together in a clasp. The Lost Boy turned toward his new lover, a soft hesitant twinkle in his eyes.
"Merry Christmas, Ryoga," Ranma told him quietly, leaning forward to place a loving kiss on the wandering martial artist’s lips. They held the embrace for an extended moment, both simply drinking in the other and marveling at this new feeling between them. There was sincerity, closeness, relief . . . trust was growing with each passing moment . . . and there was love.
Love . . . which was something Ryoga had never known or really experienced before.
"Merry Christmas, Ranma," he replied softly.
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