Contact
Title: Contact
Fandom: Inuyasha
Character/Pairing: Miroku/Inuyasha, implied Miroku/Sango & Inuyasha/Kagome
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~760
Notes: Originally written to fulfill aubreywitch's request in iy_flashfic.
Contact
“I’m sorry, Houshi-sama.” Though her voice is steady, the words have a fragile edge to them, as if they--as if she--might shatter at the lightest touch. Miroku longs to take her in his arms, to offer comfort with an embrace, but it is that very contact that she cannot abide. Instead, he reaches for her hand; slowly, giving her ample time to avoid the touch if she so desires. She doesn’t, but he can’t help but notice the way her entire body tenses up even at this innocent contact. He’d hoped things would be better after they destroyed Naraku. Instead, it is much, much worse. She has become so accustomed now to building those walls around herself that she is cut off, cloistered with her sorrow where none can touch her.
“Sango,” he says gently. “I won’t force you. You said before that you would bear my child, but if that has changed...”
She shakes her head. “I want to marry you, Houshi-sama. I just need...some time. Just a little more time.” She won’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry...Miroku.” There was a time when he thought he would’ve given anything to hear her call him by name, but the effort it takes for her to say it--the difficulty and strain in her voice--kills any joy he might feel.
He loves her, and it’s breaking his heart.
---
Inuyasha is sitting near the well, as he often does these days when he thinks no one is watching.
“Are you going to visit Kagome-sama?”
Inuyasha hesitates before answering, his face half-scowling, half-shamed at being caught so vulnerable. Finally, he shakes his head brusquely. “No. She wouldn’t be home anyway.” His hands grip the hilt of the broken Tessaiga, just an ordinary rusted sword since Naraku shattered its blade. Just one more reminder of what he’s lost. “I would have gone with her. If she asked me.” He doesn’t know why he says it, except that he’s sick of pretending, maybe, that she wasn’t important. That it didn’t hurt that she hadn’t asked.
Miroku gives him an appraising look and smiles sadly. “We are undone by the women we love.”
Inuyasha doesn’t have a reply.
---
Though Miroku is sadly not as familiar with the feel of a woman’s body beneath his hands as he’d like to be, this is still very new, very different. Places that should be soft are firm with taut muscle, flat where they should be rounded. Still, it seems mostly superficial. It’s the contact that’s important, the feel of damp skin beneath his fingertips, the shudder and shiver of another person moving beneath his touch and not pulling away.
“Is this all right?” he asks for the third time, and for the third time is unsure which of them he is really asking.
Inuyasha makes a nonverbal sound of affirmation, gruff and barely committal, gazing resolutely ahead of him into the darkness. Inuyasha hasn’t made any effort to look back at him, and Miroku doesn’t expect him to. It’s probably better that way. It doesn’t matter. It’s the contact that’s important.
Miroku moves his hands lower, nudging at the edge of fundoshi, testing. Slowly, he leans forward and now his chest is pressed against Inuyasha’s back, skin to skin, with hair sandwiched between. He pauses, waiting for the rebuke, for Inuyasha to freeze and pull away, but the moment never comes. Instead, clawed fingers grasp his wrist clumsily, not to remove Miroku’s hand, but to keep it there for a small eternity before guiding him down.
---
It’s funny, Miroku thinks, inspecting the palm of his right hand, how some scars are invisible.
The Kazaana is gone, vanished from his hand with the destruction of Naraku, yet he can still feel it there, and he supposes he always will. He tried, for a time, to leave the hand bare, but found it made him too uneasy to go without the tekko and prayer beads he’d worn over it for most of his life. Most days, he almost forgets that anything has changed, until he stops to remind himself that his curse is gone now.
Or is it? He wonders, because even though that dread opening in his palm is no more, he swears there is still a void in him, some great emptiness that nothing seems to fill. The touch of another helps; it’s that contact that reminds him he is still alive.
He supposes it might be the same for everyone. Contact. A connection that reminds them they are not alone.
Fandom: Inuyasha
Character/Pairing: Miroku/Inuyasha, implied Miroku/Sango & Inuyasha/Kagome
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~760
Notes: Originally written to fulfill aubreywitch's request in iy_flashfic.
Contact
“I’m sorry, Houshi-sama.” Though her voice is steady, the words have a fragile edge to them, as if they--as if she--might shatter at the lightest touch. Miroku longs to take her in his arms, to offer comfort with an embrace, but it is that very contact that she cannot abide. Instead, he reaches for her hand; slowly, giving her ample time to avoid the touch if she so desires. She doesn’t, but he can’t help but notice the way her entire body tenses up even at this innocent contact. He’d hoped things would be better after they destroyed Naraku. Instead, it is much, much worse. She has become so accustomed now to building those walls around herself that she is cut off, cloistered with her sorrow where none can touch her.
“Sango,” he says gently. “I won’t force you. You said before that you would bear my child, but if that has changed...”
She shakes her head. “I want to marry you, Houshi-sama. I just need...some time. Just a little more time.” She won’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry...Miroku.” There was a time when he thought he would’ve given anything to hear her call him by name, but the effort it takes for her to say it--the difficulty and strain in her voice--kills any joy he might feel.
He loves her, and it’s breaking his heart.
---
Inuyasha is sitting near the well, as he often does these days when he thinks no one is watching.
“Are you going to visit Kagome-sama?”
Inuyasha hesitates before answering, his face half-scowling, half-shamed at being caught so vulnerable. Finally, he shakes his head brusquely. “No. She wouldn’t be home anyway.” His hands grip the hilt of the broken Tessaiga, just an ordinary rusted sword since Naraku shattered its blade. Just one more reminder of what he’s lost. “I would have gone with her. If she asked me.” He doesn’t know why he says it, except that he’s sick of pretending, maybe, that she wasn’t important. That it didn’t hurt that she hadn’t asked.
Miroku gives him an appraising look and smiles sadly. “We are undone by the women we love.”
Inuyasha doesn’t have a reply.
---
Though Miroku is sadly not as familiar with the feel of a woman’s body beneath his hands as he’d like to be, this is still very new, very different. Places that should be soft are firm with taut muscle, flat where they should be rounded. Still, it seems mostly superficial. It’s the contact that’s important, the feel of damp skin beneath his fingertips, the shudder and shiver of another person moving beneath his touch and not pulling away.
“Is this all right?” he asks for the third time, and for the third time is unsure which of them he is really asking.
Inuyasha makes a nonverbal sound of affirmation, gruff and barely committal, gazing resolutely ahead of him into the darkness. Inuyasha hasn’t made any effort to look back at him, and Miroku doesn’t expect him to. It’s probably better that way. It doesn’t matter. It’s the contact that’s important.
Miroku moves his hands lower, nudging at the edge of fundoshi, testing. Slowly, he leans forward and now his chest is pressed against Inuyasha’s back, skin to skin, with hair sandwiched between. He pauses, waiting for the rebuke, for Inuyasha to freeze and pull away, but the moment never comes. Instead, clawed fingers grasp his wrist clumsily, not to remove Miroku’s hand, but to keep it there for a small eternity before guiding him down.
---
It’s funny, Miroku thinks, inspecting the palm of his right hand, how some scars are invisible.
The Kazaana is gone, vanished from his hand with the destruction of Naraku, yet he can still feel it there, and he supposes he always will. He tried, for a time, to leave the hand bare, but found it made him too uneasy to go without the tekko and prayer beads he’d worn over it for most of his life. Most days, he almost forgets that anything has changed, until he stops to remind himself that his curse is gone now.
Or is it? He wonders, because even though that dread opening in his palm is no more, he swears there is still a void in him, some great emptiness that nothing seems to fill. The touch of another helps; it’s that contact that reminds him he is still alive.
He supposes it might be the same for everyone. Contact. A connection that reminds them they are not alone.