Wishful Thinking A Fruits Basket vignette Sephy Absence is never the answer, I know, but it serves as my shade. -- Delerium Yuki watches. It's something he's become adept at of late -- watching the world whenever he can, through the large, gloomy windows of Sohma house, too afraid to lean over them as Akito does or through the grating of his cell at night, always listening for footsteps, resigned to a summons that sometimes comes. He can't really remember the last time he slept, truly and deeply, his blanket drawn tight around him, unafraid and unwitting that the world around him could change in an instant. Until that one day when it did, when his mother shook him awake in the early dawn one morning, bundling him up tightly and putting him in a car, already cranked, his father looking ill at ease behind the wheel. He remembers that drive so clearly, never questioning or doing much more than blinking drowsily and snuggling closer in on himself as if fighting against the early morning cold threatening to seep in his bones, a cold damp that seemed to settle in his clothes. How long he lay there, sandwiched between his parents, he can't say though he's old enough now to know it wasn't long, Sohma house looming as he opened his eyes to a new world, one in which his parents dragged him down Byzantine hallways with shadows that threatened and excited whispers, faces peering out of the gloom as his father carried him with ginger care. The Rat. The Rat is here. The Rat. Always the Rat. Never Yuki. It was as if by virtue of his zodiac form, all traces of his humanity, of individual self had been completely obliterated until Sohma Yuki was simply the skin the Rat wore, the little boy underneath it all forgotten. His parents had forgotten that easily enough, placing his hand that day into another small boy's, explaining that he would stay with his cousin Akito now and not to be a trouble and how they were sure it would all be fine. He was to mind Akito, who would one day be the head of the family and was sickly and therefore, needed companionship as he couldn't go out and find it himself. Maybe if he'd been older, even by just a couple of years, he might have understood but at the time, all he knew, all that mattered was that his parents were leaving. They were going and he could not go with them. And when he'd started crying, trying to take a few futile steps after them, he was yanked backward, Akito's grip on his hand surprisingly strong, the other boy watching him as if he weren't sure what to do, torn between disgust and a possessive sort of sympathy, finally rousing himself enough to tell Yuki to shut up and stop crying. Which he had done, more out of shock of being talked to in such a manner than anything else. In the entirety of his young life, he had never had an unkind word directed at him, and those first ones were enough to leave him breathless, staring wide-eyed at the one person who, like it or not, was to become his world, his life. Life after that changed so dramatically that those early years at home, with a mother and father and brother seemed more like a dream than anything else, some half-drowsy musing of things other people had but he himself was denied. Outwardly, he supposed there was little to complain about. He was well-fed and clothed, given the finest tutors and books money could buy (that sort of expenditure more a trifle than anything else for the Sohma family). No one asked anything of him but that he remain with Akito though that in itself was often a trial, the older boy torn between bouts of being deathly ill or completely enraged, his mood mercurial enough to turn on a dime and there was no way to tell what it was Yuki would do to set him off. There were other children around, other Sohmas, but his contact with them was kept at a strict minimum, often by Akito's side, listening to him pass comment or judgement about them, regal as the king of cats and twice as malicious. And being with Akito, they looked at him with different eyes, distrustful, as if suspecting the malice from their sickened master was his own. There was no way to tell any of them otherwise for to speak would only incur Akito's wrath or worse, his attention on whoever was unfortunate to catch Yuki's attention. Even his parents, on those rare instances when he saw them, treated him differently, more formally and with a distance that hurt more than he could ever begin to acknowledge, shattering whatever childish hopes that they had been forced to give him, that somehow pressure had been brought to bear on them but they still wanted him, still loved him nonetheless. All those phone calls and letters he hoped for, prayed he wasn't getting, were only a figment of his own mind. They hadn't been forced into anything, they had given him up, for a better position, for a better house or whatever it was they'd been bribed with. They had given him and they didn't want him back, behaving as if seeing him during those few family functions and holidays they attended was a chore. There were only so many times he could have stilted conversations in which both his mother and father all but ran from him by the end of it before even he had to give in and concede defeat. Even now, after being let out of the main house for the day, given the chance to visit as Akito was having another bout of sickness, this one actually contagious enough for Yuki to be banished from his presence by the family doctor until the danger had passed, they weren't here. They were off doing some errand, visiting with people who were more important than he was because what right did he, their son, have to expect them to want to see them now that there was actual time. The best they'd managed was lunch, an awkward affair at best, asking him stiff questions with little real interest behind them except when his mother had sharply asked him if he was behaving and minding Akito. Perhaps those hurtful pauses and forced questions wouldn't have been so noticeable without his brother and two of his cousins at the other end of the table, laughing and so visibly having a good time, loud and boisterous as only his brother and Shigure could be when thrown together. He couldn't help but let his attention shift towards them, wishing he were sitting with them and envying their closeness, the way they laughed so carelessly, even envying the way Shigure felt free to act up and throw peas at Hatori in order to get his attention (Yuki had bitten his lip hard to keep from laughing aloud at the stoic boy's expression of long suffering annoyance). And then there was Ayame. If there was ever anyone Yuki had looked up to, it was his big brother. Granted, they'd only met a few times, mostly because Ayame was busy with school or some other function that demanded his attention but wherever he went, Ayame instantly became the center of attention, talking easily with people as if he'd known them all of his life. He laughed as only one who had never truly known hardship could, free and hearty, flipping his silvery hair over his shoulder as he talked, sometimes so fast that Yuki, who always strained to listen, could barely keep up. Ayame was brave too, unafraid of other people, unafraid to take chances. When their parents scolded him for being too loud, he just rolled his twinkling eyes, winking at Hatori and Shigure before resuming the conversation again -- at twice the volume of before. More than anything, Yuki wanted to be like that, unafraid and able to talk people without being afraid they'd reject him because of who and what he was. He wanted to be someone who other people were naturally drawn to, who could make close friends like Hatori and Shigure. Someone who could step boldly into the world and leave Sohma house behind forever, making his own way without being labeled because of the curse he bore. Maybe that's why he couldn't stop staring at Ayame even now that lunch was done, sitting in the backyard, ostensibly bouncing a ball around the yard but really keeping one eye on his brother and cousins, wanting nothing more than to join them where they were sitting on the porch, Ayame leaning in close to Hatori as the quieter boy murmured something. Shigure was sitting at their feet, playing with a pencil and scribbling something down, legs scissoring back and forth, occasionally pausing to balance that pencil against his lips, pleased when Ayame cheered him on. Their parents had left them out here after lunch, telling Ayame to watch out for his little brother, which had gotten an impatient nod before Ayame had scampered halfway across the yard, all but jumping onto Shigure's back, the two of them running around like that until Shigure had tripped and down they'd gone in a heap. It had taken him forever to work up the courage to get even this close, careful to make it look like he was just chasing after his ball, wondering what it would be like to talk to Ayame, to reach out and just take his brother's hand, as Kyou's mother did with him, fingers entwined, seemingly inseparable every time he saw them. Maybe he would even hug him though that seemed almost too much to hope for. At the very least, he hoped Ayame would smile at him, the way he did their cousins, like he was so happy to see Yuki because he was here, because he mattered. Maybe he'd pick him up on his shoulders and carry him around and they could laugh together, freely, in a way their parents would never understand. And if that happened…Yuki was certain that Ayame would come to the house more, come to see him and not just Shigure and Hatori, and they could be a family together, close in a way he felt with no other human being. It was his dearest wish and perhaps the only thing that could make him pluck up the courage to kick his ball towards the other three boys, half holding his breath -- --- for nothing to happen at all beyond Hatori's eyes flickering over him as Shigure called something about wanting something to drink, bounding into the house and tugging the sober boy after him, leaving only Ayame standing on the porch, apparently surprised to find himself alone. Yuki didn't pause to wonder if Shigure had perhaps somehow understood his intent, if he was trying to help, taking it for granted that he was, calling out to Ayame for the first time that afternoon as he ran on stubby legs towards his brother. "'Niisan!" Ayame paused, his face slowly turning as Yuki watches, out of breath and not caring for once, reaching out to him, silently pleading, 'Please like me, pleasepleaseplease --' There was a moment, one of rife with possibility and hope, Ayame's elegant features curiously blank as if he were trying to figure out what it was Yuki wanted and then and then … Silver brows slashed downward in evident disdain, pushing his hand away just as Yuki's fingers grazed his, staring down at him for such a long, long moment with nothing so much as remote disinterest as Yuki felt his heart crumble, unable to even lower his hand, feeling his face warm as Ayame turned away, leaving him in the now empty yard. It shouldn't hurt, he tries to tell himself. It shouldn't hurt at all. And if he does, it's his own fault. He should know better than to hope for anything but being the one on the outside, always watching and never able to go in. ***End return to splash page