Breathe.

None Of This Is Real.

.:Breathe:.

It had been roughly two, possibly three or four years since her master has mysteriously disappeared. Having taken more than just her chances at becoming a real martial artist with him, she did her best to press on without him or his extremely cryptic lessons. For those four years she did what she had to in order to survive in the foreign place called Japan. She bound her chest to hide that she was female, chopped her hair short, and challenged anyone who she thought might be worth her time. By the end of her fourth month on the streets the roses her master had so carefully pruned and watered and sheltered were as wild as an un-tamed fire.

And as the months turned into years, they just grew more and more out of control.

However, if she thought her teacher was through with her then she hadn't truly learned his first lesson.

"If you're not prepared to see something to its end, then you have no right to start it."

.:Breathe:.

"You're a demon!" A man yelled as a fiery eyed, dirty-golden haired boy stood beside the three fallen bodies of his violent comrades. The young male still held a threatening pose, looking ready to unleash hell on the only person other than himself still standing in the ally. But before he could the gang member ran from the bloodied scene.

Akira relaxed and wiped his bloody fists off on his tattered jeans. Tokyo had become increasingly dangerous, and for an odd-ball like himself, who looked no more Asian than a white bull in a china shop, the local gangs seemed to want him out of their city.

Of course, Akira wasn't about to let some over grown bullies run him out of anywhere. If he had to he would fight them all, and when he was victorious he would claim the city. And if he didn't want it, he would leave it for the defeated gang leaders to salvage.

Cities were disgusting places to begin with.

As was his right, Akira took the fallen's wallets, plucking out the yen they'd carried before returning the personal property. He made his way out into the street afterwards, hoping no one had heard the commotion.

Tokyo was huge and busy and loud and, to someone who had spent the majority of his Japanese life in the mountains, a frightening place. After locating a market and buying easily carried provisions all Akira wanted to do was turn around and return to the master's dojo. It was all Akira had wanted to do since the day he left, but he knew it could not be, could no ever be, so instead he turned away from the mountains to look for a place in the wild where the lights of the city did not reach. A place where the sun shone and the bamboo grew high.

.:Breathe:.

This place was perfect.

Akira crouched beside a clear pool, fed by a tiny stream which spilled over a jutting ledge, creating a small, cool cavern behind the gentle waterfall. All around him green bamboo grew wild and beautiful, and as he drank from the crisp water he felt as if he had been here before. As if he were meant to dwell in this forest…

At peace was the young teenager, and the warm afternoon sun found him sitting in the shallow water beneath the fall, allowing it to drench his head and shoulders and shirt. He could meditate, finally, which was the only thing that brought him any rest. The one thing that silenced that which he wished would be rid of him.

The thoughts of his master were slowly drowned out by the beat of the water.

The pain from the old and new wounds slowly faded into a dull, ignorable ache in his chest.

Tokyo was behind him. City noises from an age he felt completely detached from couldn't reach this place. The pollution of modern life hadn't taken a hold on this small haven yet. The ruins of a long forgotten shrine lay, broken, with bamboo and once well kept flowers growing wild in the cracks where stone once melded with other stone. Akira watched through watery eyes as scenes from old times unfolded before him.

.:Breathe:.

Students of a master who's name was forgotten with the shrine crowded around the ancient stones. Together they pruned, weeded, raked and honored those who's spirits resided in the holy place. They all hoped for their blessings, and they all prayed from their safe return to the physical world in a new life.

Among them a very young boy who's eyes were as silky as dark chocolate raked pebbles back into place in the garden. He was smiling wide, his shaggy hair falling into his face as he worked. His lips whispered a gentle prayer, and Akira felt as if the boy had ancestors resting there. It would account for the care he took with the small stones, making sure each one was in a place all its own. Making sure each one had somewhere to feel important in the world.

One of the students approached him.

"Satoshi-chan." It was a woman, her hair dark and beautiful, tamed by a red ribbon. The chocolate eyed boy immediately stopped and bowed.

"Sensei," he said reverently, and Akira realized the woman was the master. Curious to see her face he ventured into the shrine. Soft, strangely cold wind was created in his wake, and all of the students lifted their heads from their work. Of course, they looked right through the blonde boy, but the two who he was most fixed on didn't move an inch.

"My time is close at hand, and I am leaving my son to pick up the pieces."

"Must you leave us? You are so beautiful and young, isn't it too soon, sensei?" The sensei smiled gently and knelt down, stroking the boy's chocolate brown hair.

"I will tell you a secret, my smallest child." And she leaned in to whisper something so fantastical into his ear that it caused his eyes to grow wide. When the woman pulled away she laughed. "You'll learn how to do it when your time comes."

Akira wished he had heard what had been said, but at that instant the vision faded, and the shrine returned to its sorry state. But Akira's attention was on a tall figure, shadowed and hidden under the archway of the shrine.

And Akira knew exactly who it was.

.:Breathe:.

"Akira, is it?" The figure asked gently, and the dark chocolate eyed boy stepped forward. Though now he had aged to a handsome twenty-five. "Interesting choice of a name. It's a bit too masculine for you, though."

"Don't come near me," Akira hissed, clutching his hands into fists. The man came forward, his garbs that of old Japan. A tied kimono of bland colors; bamboo shoes crushed the disheveled pebbles that he once so lovingly raked beneath him. "I mean it," he warned, taking a stance. His voice was filled with anger and hatred when he spoke. His eyes stung with pain he tried to blink away.

You Are My Wild Roses.

.:Breathe:.

I loved you…

.:Breathe:.

Akira sprang when the master came too close, and his fist connected on the taller man's chest. He looked into the chocolate eyes and the face that showed not a wince of pain.

"Ow…," He breathed softly, and Akira snapped. Blind with furry he punched and kicked, all of the anger and hatred and bitterness coming out as he pummeled his old master. And after a time Akira realized that he was taking the blows wherever they connected, not even blocking the painfully obvious attacks. Akira paused, panting, blood dripping from his tightly fisted hands.

Sharp nails dug into his palms. Blood tricked from the corner of his master's mouth.

"Ow…" The look he was giving Akira wasn't pity. It was sorrow, sadness. He was pleading. Pleading to be forgiven.

The boy swiped his legs under the older man, bringing him with a sickening thud to the ground.

"Why aren't you fighting back?" Akira screamed, fists tightening until more blood flowed and his knuckles turned white. When there was no answer other than that in the shimmering pools of dark brown silk he straddled the master's chest and punched him square in the jaw. He barely flinched. "Fight back!" Akira demanded.

"No."

Another punch.

"Fight me, you bastard!" He yelled, tears collecting in his eyes.

"No."

Another punch. Deep purple bruises were beginning to show themselves littered across the man's body.

"Fight me!" Another punch.

"No." Another punch.

"God dammit, hit me!" And yet another punch, this one harder than the others.

"I won't." He spat blood out onto the ground beside his head. "I willingly submit."

When this came out of his mouth the anger in Akira's chest boiled again, and another barrage of fists found their mark on the master's face and chest. All the while Akira begged him to fight back, to hit him in return, until his demands dimmed into whimpering sobs and his punches became half-hearted thuds on the solid muscles.

Akira crouched over Satoshi, his face buried in the blooded cloth of the kimono.

"W-why are you letting me hurt you?' He asked meekly, his voice quivering terribly, and slowly the older man wrapped his arms around Akira's shoulders.

"Because karma dictates it."

Akira collapsed on top of him, a heaving mass of tears and blood that mostly belonged to himself. Satoshi pulled him closer, and the blonde willingly melted into the familiar body.

.:Breathe:.

A-K-I-R-A: Autumn Thorn.

He stood in his garden lovingly snipping away roses and branches from the bush as precisely as a surgeon. The sounds of the distant city resonated in his finely trained ears, accepted by the harsh claps coming from his giant shears.

A young woman emerged from the house, her long, dirty-golden hair tamed by a red ribbon into an animated pony tail. Her early autumn dress blew in the breeze gently, catching the light in the silken cloth. She giggled and came up behind the dark chocolate eyed gardener, wrapping her arms around his waist and nuzzling into his back.

"I love you, Matthew Pryor," she whispered, smiling happily. He turned around and stole a gentle kiss from her lips, whispering back;

"I love you too, Akira."

.:The End:.

To Matthew.

My hate for you is as expansive as my love.