For Him
by Anino
It was a lovely day. The sun was shining brightly and downy, white clouds floated lazily up in the sky. Despite the warm sunshine, the day lacked the unbearable heat that usually draped over a summer's day. It was, a small part of my mind registered, a perfect day for a picnic. Too bad my mood was better suited for a dark and dreary, rainy afternoon.
The first time I became aware of his presence was when he sat down beside me on the park bench. I have long ago stopped being startled by his sudden appearances. When he wants to he can be as silent as a cat hunting a mouse. Or an accomplished thief entering well-guarded room.
"It's a lovely day."
The totally innocent words delivered in his low, melodious voice made irritation flare up within me.
"Hmm," I said in a non-committal voice.
We sat together for a time, he content to watch a group of children chase each other, each little face alight with the healthy glow of youth. I, on the other hand kept still, keeping a tight rein on my feelings and an even tighter one on my sighs. Any hint of anything less than total contentment from me and he would become all solicitous, green eyes full of concern, a worried frown on his brow, caring, probing words falling from his lips. I don't think I can stand it. Not today.
The big clock that hung on the face of a giant billboard struck the hour. He pulled back his sleeve to check his own watch. I didn't bother.
"He's late," he said, stating the obvious. And behind the amused words were a wealth of meaning. There was affection, a good dose of exasperation and the unspoken willingness to stay at this spot and patiently wait. For him. Always for him.
I looked at him as he went back to watching the laughing children. He was beautiful. A small smile played on his lips. The gentle amusement was reflected in his eyes, eyes that were as green as life. His long red hair, now tied neatly back in deference to his stylish but somberly-cut business suit, was still as thick and lustrous as it had always been. His skin was as soft and smooth as when we first met.
I resisted the urge to touch my face. I knew what was there. I saw them every morning. Every goddamned morning as I walk bleary-eyed to that goddamned mirror and see the ravages that time has wrought. I fidgeted, unable to suppress the burst of annoyance. As expected, he turned to me with gentle, caring eyes.
"He's late!" I exclaimed, venting a little of the frustration that was building in me. These get-togethers always filled me with mixed feelings. I loved each and every one of them. And they loved me. But each time I see them, see their familiar, unchanged faces, I am reminded that I do not belong. Not with these beautiful, youthful creatures who walk through their charmed lives with cool unconcern at what tomorrow will bring.
He smiled. The irritation flared up and then was swept away like so many leaves on a breeze. Even with my hidden pain and insecurities, I have never been able to hold out against their gentle, protective love. It binds me to them as much as it binds them to me.
"We really should be used to it by now," he said, green eyes teasing, cajoling me to smile back.
I obliged ruefully, acknowledging the aptness of his words. Yes, I SHOULD be used to it by now. I allowed myself to bask in the genuine warmth of his smile – he who loves my husband, he whom my husband loves back.
And once again, I am forced to admit why I can't hate him -- we love the same man. If it would take his presence to make his brown eyes light up with happiness, then by God, I will invite him into my home, ask him to stand godfather to my child, welcome him with open arms into my life.
And if it would take marriage to me and a normal ningen life beside me to make him happy, then he was willing to wait. For my death. For his grief to pass. For him to be ready to love again.
And beneath the pain, beneath the petty jealousies, I am grateful. Thankful for his patience and for the fact that he will be there. For him.
"Here he comes now," he said, a tender smile on his lips. The look of love on his face was so intense I had to look away.
So I looked to my husband. The man who sat beside me looked youthful but his ningen body had changed from that time of long ago. Though his body remained lithe and slender, his features had matured, became more manly. My husband on the other hand, remained the same, untouched by the hand of time. My husband who now looks like my son.
Sometimes I toy with the idea of leaving him, of breaking free from this well-meaning web of love and concern that ties me to a world I don't really understand and can never belong to.
"Oi Keiko, Kurama, c'mon. Let's get going. Yukina's expecting us in less than an hour and we're still here."
Sometimes, I long to find someone whom I can grow old with, who can grow old with me. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be better for everyone if I just left and let him find comfort in a pair of sinewy arms and hauntingly beautiful green eyes.
"And who's fault is that Urameshi Yuusuke?" I asked fiercely. But even when we were kids he was able to see behind my mask, to know that in my eyes he could never really do anything wrong. So he grinned, unrepentant, brown eyes twinkling with merriment.
I've lost count of how many times I have decided that I can't do it anymore, that I can no longer live as second best. But no matter how fleeting the thought or how deep the conviction, it always ends up the same way. I would see his bright eyes silently caressing my face, oblivious to the changes, his lips smiling a crooked grin, his gaze telling me the things he couldn't bring himself to say. And so I stay. And despair. And love. For him.
Owari
May 20, 2001