Imperfection - Inuyasha - PG
Fandom: Inuyasha
Title: Imperfection
Rating: PG
Word Count: 300
Notes: General. Posted March 30, 2005.
Summary: He was her exception, her one imperfection.
Sango did not like rain. It was messy and unpredictable and wet. It seeped beneath her hair and lined the inside of her taiji-ya uniform, slipsloshing against her skin with a slicksickening ease. It left her feeling dirty and gritty and needing to feel clean, an itch in her fingers to scratchpeel the taint away.
Sango liked things perfect. She liked when things did what they were supposed to do. The sun was made to light the darkness, the earth was made to walk on, the air was made to breathe; she liked all these things for they were her allies and not her enemies. Rain, though, rain was not restricted to its purpose. Rain did what it was supposed to, and then some. It did terrible things: flooded villages, drowned crops, killed people with its persistent pitterpatter.
No, Sango did not like the rain.
Kohaku had.
Kohaku, with his crooked smile and his nervous energy and his imperfect aim and his scarfreckles. Way back when, on stormy nights, she could remember he liked to not-quite-secretly escape the warm house: he would run and play and when he came back in, guilty and muddy and wet, she would forgive and let him in because she loved him.
He was her one exception, her one imperfection.
So though the sun was shining and her skin was scourscrub clean and the sky was perfect blue and he was here, right here in front of her, Sango was discontent.
Somewhere along the way, between then and now and here and when, he had slipslid into her head and fumbledtumbled back home, wet and crooked and smiling. The muddy trackprints he left on her skin were not dirty; they were beautiful. This feeling, this oncetaint, if felt alright.
Longingly, Sango wished it would rain.
Title: Imperfection
Rating: PG
Word Count: 300
Notes: General. Posted March 30, 2005.
Summary: He was her exception, her one imperfection.
Sango did not like rain. It was messy and unpredictable and wet. It seeped beneath her hair and lined the inside of her taiji-ya uniform, slipsloshing against her skin with a slicksickening ease. It left her feeling dirty and gritty and needing to feel clean, an itch in her fingers to scratchpeel the taint away.
Sango liked things perfect. She liked when things did what they were supposed to do. The sun was made to light the darkness, the earth was made to walk on, the air was made to breathe; she liked all these things for they were her allies and not her enemies. Rain, though, rain was not restricted to its purpose. Rain did what it was supposed to, and then some. It did terrible things: flooded villages, drowned crops, killed people with its persistent pitterpatter.
No, Sango did not like the rain.
Kohaku had.
Kohaku, with his crooked smile and his nervous energy and his imperfect aim and his scarfreckles. Way back when, on stormy nights, she could remember he liked to not-quite-secretly escape the warm house: he would run and play and when he came back in, guilty and muddy and wet, she would forgive and let him in because she loved him.
He was her one exception, her one imperfection.
So though the sun was shining and her skin was scourscrub clean and the sky was perfect blue and he was here, right here in front of her, Sango was discontent.
Somewhere along the way, between then and now and here and when, he had slipslid into her head and fumbledtumbled back home, wet and crooked and smiling. The muddy trackprints he left on her skin were not dirty; they were beautiful. This feeling, this oncetaint, if felt alright.
Longingly, Sango wished it would rain.