This is based on Ryo's RW background (i.e. his dad's dead, went to live in city orphanages, etc etc.) You people do know that YST's Ryo's dad isn't dead . . . RIGHT? ^^

 

Warmth

 

Cold. I've always hated it, hated the chilly grip that would snatch me up and make me shake uncontrollably, the icy fangs that sank deep into my flesh, pumping their frigid venom into my veins that I'd work so hard to get rid of. I've always associated cold with pain, no matter what type, physical or emotional, even though back then I didn't know.

Warmth meant being with obachan on the porch on perfect days, reveling in the sunshine, or sitting next to the fire roasting whatever we could find. I was never warm enough as a child, having at least a jacket on even in the middle of the summer, buried under mountains of blankets at night. Obachan commented on my quirks once or twice, but I don't think she thought much of it. And for awhile, I was happy.

Then dad came.

He took me away from obachan's comforting warmness, instead placing me in a house where I was usually alone when I got home from school. Dad never understood my need for heat and flame so I shivered in my bed at night, curled up underneath a thin quilt, wishing for all the gods to take me back, to bring me my fiery obachan back again. I missed her so badly, feeling the big, empty hole inside me where she used to be, and though I didn't really know what it was or what I felt, I knew that it was cold. And cold was bad.

And then dad died.

The icy place grew bigger as I was shipped off to the Center, and even more lifeless as I adjusted to life there. We were worked constantly, never having time to even talk and it was a rare moment to relax, much less play. I stayed away from the other kids; they couldn't warm up that space in my heart, so why bother hanging around them? Eventually they left me alone, thinking me strange. And I grew colder.

There were never enough covers on the beds at night.

My only source of warmth, real warmth, was in my dreams, where I could escape reality and feel that hole inside me grow smaller, warm up. My favorites were the ones where I'd be in a ring of fire, dancing giddily in time with the flickering flames. I wouldn't be cold there; it just wasn't possible. Just blazing inferno rushing across my skin, touching and skittering lightly, enough to make me laugh.

It never hurt, even when I stuck my hands directly into the searing heat. Warmth was never something hurtful, always welcomed, never to be turned away. A good thing. Always so.

But I'd just as always wake up to find myself shuddering under thin, greasy cloth, reaching desperately for that enchanted circle, trying to feel it's caressing touch on my skin. And then I'd cry myself back to sleep.

The tears were always cold.

==========

I guess I started to find warmth in other places after a couple of years, when I was in my mid-teens. There were always the "street-smart" idiots passing in and out of the Center, usually in, and most of the time they were real jerks, especially to the younger kids. There'd always be some poor child who'd lose part---if not all---of his or her lunch, or be forced into even more back-breaking chores on top of the regular ones. Every time I watched something like this happen, I felt something burning inside, sort of like the warmth I sought and still not. I kept all of it bottled up, not knowing where else to put it other than the meager physical activities or sports we could actually participate in, where I could really pour my heart into making a goal or catching a pass.

When I saw a girl being forced into the dirt because she wouldn't give up a swing to some guy at least five years older than she, I found out what it was. Rage.

The guy ended up with a bloody nose, and the girl's thankful eyes warmed my spirit a little. Just enough to make me want more. I sort of became the defender of all the picked-on orphans at the Center, every time rewarded with that flash of reassuring glow. But it was not enough, never completely filling in that hole inside.

It was only when I received my kanji sphere and donned my armor for the first time that it almost went away.

Now I have the guys to help me find that heat as we live and fight together. Every time it starts to come back, they're always there to stop it until it gets too far. Rowen, with his easy smile and quick wit; Sage with his soft smirks and small habits that make you just want to enjoy a simple day to the fullest; Kento and Sai, ever the pair.

And Mia.

Mia's constant care, her help, is what has gotten us so far, what played such an integral part of defeating the Dynasty for good. Without her, we'd not have even gotten back together when Tulpa separated us that first time. But there's more to her than that.

Ever since we were "officially" together, I've only had a couple times when the cold is enough for me to realize that it's actually there, usually when I'm in the middle of a nightmare, seeing my dad torn from me again, my friends killed, all that I've ever cherished ripped from my grasp. She and the others have always been there when I wake up, panting and in a cold sweat, trying vainly to reach the warmth that I seek once more. And it's usually enough.

But when I'm alone, or with only Blaze, it always hits me full force, the shivers, the quiet trembling, the gnawing in my soul that widens that space again, to let it all back in. My fears, my darkest desires, the hidden pain, and always, always, the icy cold.

The guys understand what I feel; they all have their own versions of that chilling hole: Sage, the darkness, Rowen, the subterranean, and so on and so forth. And they all have their way of banishing it. Sai swims at all hours of the day, Kento gardens. Yes, the Hardrock warrior finds the most solace in burying his hands in the earth, encouraging life to grow. Funny, if you think about it . . .

And me? I sit in a bonfire out back. Mia sometimes complains about the wood smoke, but I always found comfort in my old dream, surrounded by fire on all sides, and quietly meditating. Sometimes the guys came out to watch me, though I didn't always sense them at first. When I'd open my eyes, we'd share a look, born of fear and passion and shared grief. Familiar pain. Happiness.

And I wouldn't feel so cold anymore.

 

~owari~