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Kuwabara has heard the legends that haunt Kurama's past. His lover has recounted the tales, one by one, in those quiet times when they lie together, warm and comfortable, with arms and legs entwined.

He has heard of the thief in the shadows, of the silver mist that slips past guards and barriers to secret away the greatest treasures ever found. He has heard of the celebrated lover, the amber-eyed demon whose name is murmured, cried, screamed in every room of every brothel in the Makai. He has heard of a favored companion, all wind and grace and witty banter.

His lover tells these tales and more, huddled in the safety of Kuwabara's arms, but what he doesn't know is that the human's spiritual awareness also lets him pick up the emotions that accompany the legends.

Kuwabara knows the thrill of a successful heist, the shock of adrenaline that surges through his body after a narrow escape. He feels the pride of a reputation that precedes him, the cocky air of superiority that comes from the hungry looks Makai whores shoot him when they are sure he isn't watching. He shares the sharp and lingering pain – and the twinge of jealousy that is purely Kuwabara Kazuma – that pierces his heart with the loss of his lover: the absence of near-transparent skin, powerful wings, cascading waterfalls of black silk.

Yet he tells his demon lover none of this, because – to him, at least – it doesn't matter. He has fallen in love with the Kurama of now, knowing full well that the demon has left years of history behind him, and these tales – no matter how cold, how painful, how utterly demonic – can no more alter his emotion than a man can change the path of a flood.

So he merely sits and listens in silence – large hands stroking gently across slim hips, lips and teeth grazing the curve of bare shoulders – and lets emotions that are not his own echo dimly in his head and in his heart.