The Words
By, Tia-chan
Water dripped off the edge of the roof in a steady stream of succeeding drops. Sango watched them with a somber face. Her body was wrapped in the most beautiful kimono, her hair washed after many days of tireless trekking, sweat, and dust. She had even allowed Kagome to use her makeup from the future to "enhance her looks", and yet he still looked the other way.
He had naught eyes only for her, his hands roamed where they may, and his heart was only for himself. Sometimes she wondered how she survived, in love with a man who simply did not consider her feelings.
Miroku…
She rested her forehead on her drawn up knees, eyes wet. How could he stray when she tried so hard to get him to realize that she loved him? All he had to do was show her that he felt the same…and she would be okay with that. She didn't need any grand gestures of love, bouquets of flowers, jewels, or pretty clothing.
All she needed was…
"Sango?" …Miroku.
No! He couldn't see her like this, vulnerable, hurt, he couldn't know. She discreetly wiped her eyes.
"Yes?" she was shocked at how weak her voice was.
The stairs gave a little creak as he sat down beside her. She tensed, ready to spring into a full-blown attack, just waiting for his hand to roam.
She waited, and waited. Simple silence greeted her.
"Miroku?" she asked, turning her head slightly. He was there, staring up into the dark, cloudy night sky. His eyes met hers, making her heart thud uncomfortably in her chest.
"You'll catch cold out here," he replied sagely.
"Miroku…"
"Really, Inu-Yasha will be quite displeased, you know how he gets." She broke the eye contact, sighing, steeling herself.
"Miroku, why?" she suddenly released her legs and stood, trembling hands clenched. He looked surprised, unprepared for the sudden words. "Why do you…" her hands made a big gesture, in the vague direction of the home they were sleeping in—to the pretty daughters who had flocked around him.
His eyes were shadows. "Sango, don't…"
"No!" she snapped. "Why do you touch them like that? Do you…am I…" her throat clenched, unused to this cruel dialogue. "You know what, no, never mind, I can't…" she shook her head, turning to flee. He caught her hand. She faltered.
"You didn't let me finish." He slowly pulled her back down, gently, and her heart noted, with generosity, that he still held her hand when she was once again sitting. Her brain noted the mistake. "Do not think that what I do is meant to cause harm." His eyes were boring into her, and she swore he knew her thoughts, exactly. "Sango, I do what I do, because when I see your eyes, I can tell."
Her heart flipped over. "Can tell what…?" she whispered.
"You're jealous," he replied. "Not angry, but jealous. Perhaps this is the wrong path to take, but it's the only way that I can truly see your emotions, in such clarity. I couldn't think of any other way."
"You can't tell…" her voice was unbearably quiet.
"Can't tell…?" he prompted, gently.
"You can't tell that I…that I love you, Miroku?" her ribs ached from the pounding reality of her truthfulness, of the words that she never could find a way to say. But she felt free—free from them because they had haunted her mind for so long.
He squeezed her hand.
"Now, was that so hard?" a smile broke her face, but at the same time, the dam holding her tears back broke. She threw herself into his arms, laughing and crying and nodding.
"Yes, it was!" his robes muffled her voice. He stroked her hair silently. As much as he felt his heart giving way, he knew it was still not her time. But he would wait until her, and his, wounds were healed.
"Sango, love?" he tilted her wet chin up, face serious. "You know, don't you?" her smile slowly disintegrated. Her lashes touched her cheek. A nod. "I will wait for you to heal, and when you're sure you are ready…come back to me."
Suddenly she could feel everything so well, like her life had been shielded by a veil before, and it was most incongruously lifted.
She felt her love, but she also knew it was in the shadow of something that she needed to fix before she could completely give herself to him, heart and soul. Kohaku, her brother, still needed her to save him. Naraku needed to be killed. Neither of them were ready, as much as it broke her heart to know what Miroku had known all along. They weren't ready to love each other, even though it had happened.
"One favor, Miroku…" she said, pulling back gently.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Don't grope any women."
His face was the epitome of naivety.
"Why my dearest Sango, I would never dream of touching another woman's backside."
"Pervert,"
But she smiled.