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    Ranma 1/2 and all associated properties belong to Takahashi Rumiko, Shogakukan, Kitty Film, Viz and others.
    In other words, NOT ME. Darn.

I hate him.

That's the only thing I can think as he walks up to the door. That I hate him.

The sunlight catches in his brown eyes, turning them golden. They're dancing. They look at me and they're smiling at me. He's happy to see me.

"How are you, Ranma?" he asks cheerfully.

What would he say, I wonder, if I told him the truth? That the world is a dark and lonely place, and I am alone within it?

But instead I hear my voice telling him that I'm fine, and asking if he wants to spar.

It used to be that I didn't ask. I wouldn't have this cheerful, peaceful chat - instead I'd hear a "DIE, SAOTOME!!" and I'd have to jump and dodge a wild rush. All the while my heart would be singing.

Not now. Now, his eyes have gradually become unclouded, the dark mists of unthinking anger melting away under time and care.

If only it had been my care....

I can't blame her. How can I blame her? She only has done openly what I have longed to do for years. She saw him, wrapped her arms about him, and swore that she would never let go. She looked upon a hero and saw him for what he was.

Still, I hate her. He is so starved of affection that when she presented her love he had no response but to begin to give it back. I hate her, that she was wise enough to love him and honest enough to tell him. I hate her, that she is a woman and can openly and without censure give herself to him.

And I love her. I love her, that she saw his need and strove to fill it. I love her, that she succeeded. I love her, that he loves her.

I lead him to the doujou, beginning the stretches that will limber my muscles for the bout to come. He has never lost the edge that makes him my closest rival, the only one who can meet and match me on my own terms.

"I don't think we should do any ki attacks or nothing. After all, we don't wanna wreck the doujou again, do we?" he smiles, one adorable little fang peeping over his bottom lip.

How I love him! I love him for that consideration he's just shown. I love him for the honour that shows as he bows to the doujou's shrine. I love him for the strength in those graceful arms as he begins his own stretches.

It doesn't hurt that he is beautiful, either. His hair flops over his face, as if to hide his beauty, while his eyes are golden topaz in the gloom of the doujou.

How bitter that love tastes as I swallow it down, so bitter that it almost tastes like hate. It curdles in my stomach and sours in my belly.

But I must swallow it. It can never show. I must content myself with a wife who may never be his equal, who tries her best but can never match his perfection, whose resemblance to him only makes me more impatient and less understanding with her. How can she be anything but clumsy when I compare her to the graceful beauty before me?

He is not interested in my love. She has won his heart, and I can never be more than a friend. Most times, it is enough.

But this is what I long for - the rush as he moves towards me, the brush of his skin against mine, the thrust of his muscles as they move to his bidding as mine do mine.

I hate him. I love him. And if Hibiki Ryouga never got lost again, never found his way to me again, I think that I would die.