A/N/Di: A character sketch approached in shots rather than in the traditional one-shot block; I felt it an injustice to both the subject and the characters involved to try and sum it up all in one scene. Everyone should have a friend like Kuririn, I think; out of anyone, he'd be the one to always go the extra mile.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of alcohol abuse, extraordinarily irrelevant, faintly incomprehensible.

Dedicated to my sister, who found the strength, and is still finding the strength, to fight her battles and win.

--and for the dawning

Like beautiful bodies which never grew old

Tearfully sealed in a bright mausoleum,

At their heads roses and at their feet jasmine—

So look desires that grow cold unfulfilled,

Forever denied even one night of pleasure,

Or one of its light-filled mornings…

'Desires' –K.P. Kravis

He had actually spent more time at the kitchen table than anywhere else. His cooler, which, at that point, had long ago ceased to hold anything save Blue Moons and Jack Daniels, had sat in the corner of the kitchen with a kind of long-suffering silence. Now, devoid of bottles and, as tradition dictated, food as well, it whirred gently, absent and under-utilized; consequently, he moved his favorite spot from the kitchen to the quiet living room, and spent his time wondering which kind of silence was worse.

Yamcha shifted his weight, tipping his head back until it rested on the top edge of the couch pillows. Over on the other side of the room, cat-like in an armchair, Kuririn looked up. "You okay?" he asked.

Yamcha rolled his head to the side, and the headache that had been steadily working at his temples casually proceeded to try to split his head in two. "What do you think?" he said.

Kuririn didn't respond for a moment, but regarded him through slightly narrowed eyes. His pencil, which had been busily working away at the pages ('CROSSWORD PUZZLES FOR THOSE WITH TOO MUCH TIME', read the cover, and it was dog-eared) now hovered, forgotten. "I don't know," he said at last. "You never—"

"Tell. Right." Another surge of pain, this time behind his eyes. He closed them. "Shit."

Kuririn hesitated, then shut the book slowly. "Listen," he said, "I… don't think I have any idea what you're really going through—"

"You don't."

"… but I can sympathize, Yamcha, and if you'll just let me—"

"Butt in?"

Kuririn's expression was pained. "Please stop interrupting me."

Yamcha's eyes opened briefly. Their gazes met; after a moment, his flickered away. "I don't want to antagonize you, Yamcha," said Kuririn. "Really I don't. I just… I'm trying to be here for you, that's all."

There was a click as the automatic system in the house went into effect; in the plug next to the front door, the nightlight flickered on obediently. Yamcha was silent, arm trailing over the edge of the couch. "I know this is hard," Kuririn continued, a touch more hesitant, "but you're a strong person, and I know you can do this. Heck, if it wasn't for Bulma—"

Yamcha's eyes opened again, bright with fury. Taken aback, Kuririn closed his mouth. Another click, and the crystal lamp in the corner came to life with a rude buzz. Over on the wall, the chime on the clock began the nine-count. "Shut up," said Yamcha, very softly.

This time, Kuririn was the first to look away.

—-at his feet—

walking into the bar was almost as good as sitting down in it, because the rush of memory that accompanied the swell of noise and the smell of sweat and whiskey was as rich as wine, and richer with time. he could stride to the counter, like that, and twitch his index finger ("good to see ya back!") and the usual would be shoved toward him. the familiar, comforting atmosphere helped to drive away the specters dancing away at the corner of his eye as well as help to link the jumble of disjointed images that plagued his realities. he hated the distraction, hated the blank nothings that set him to weaving on his stool, hated seeing his reflection in the clear paths his fingers made in the mist on the glass.

…

A scuffle by the door, followed by a raucous jeer and a quiet dissent. Someone shook his shoulder lightly. "Hey," Kuririn said softly. "What do you say to you and me heading home, huh?"

Anger held a brief battle with shock and won. Yamcha shrugged him off. "What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped.

Kuririn shook his head. Behind him, several men looked toward them and began snickering. "You know you're trying to quit, Yamcha," he said.

"Oi, Yamcha!" one of the men by the door called. "You're supposed to leave the wife at home!"

Yamcha flushed an ugly red. He shoved Kuririn away from him. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he demanded. "I don't need you following me around telling me what to do!"

Kuririn stumbled, but recovered his balance quickly. Yamcha, aware of the attention they were receiving, lowered his head and reached for his glass. A hand caught his forearm. "I mean it, Yamcha." Kuririn's gaze was hard. "You're the one who asked me to help. I don't want to embarrass you by making a scene. Please."

Yamcha whirled, slapping Kuririn's hand away. He was trembling, lights kept flashing in and out and around, and the noise was deafening; his fingers clutched the edge of the bar so tightly they began sinking into the wood. "I don't need your help," he said. "You come in here, acting like I don't know what you're doing…"

"I'm not trying to hurt you," said Kuririn. He didn't seem to acknowledge the crowd. "But I don't think this is the best time for you to be making this decision, not while you're still influenced."

…

he seemed to shiver and fade out, because

("this isn't the best time in the world, yamcha," and bulma was all teeth, i have somewhere better to be. "i promised vegeta that i'd fix the gravity chamber before eight tonight. besides, i have work to do… you understand, right?")

…

Yamcha shook his head, and when he looked again Kuririn was standing in Bulma's place, uncertain. "Are you all right?" Kuririn asked.

"Get away from me," he whispered.

…

he turned back to the bar, closing his eyes against the sudden wash of color. the sounds hammered into him from all sides, and there was laughter and then jeers and shouts, and he was shaking so hard he could barely stand, and his heart was ham-mer-ing and god, there was bulma: you understand, right?

Something tugged his arm. He whirled, swinging his fist as hard as he could, and caught Kuririn full in the cheek, sending him flying back into the tables. There was an instant tumult. Behind him, the barkeep shouted an unintelligible warning while the men at the door roared with laughter. Yamcha froze; the world suddenly tumbled back into a single dimension. Kuririn struggled upwards, ignoring the uproar around him, and grabbed his arm. "Come on, Yamcha," he said. His tone was not as snappish as much as it was weary, and concerned. "Let's get you out of here."

Too confused to object, Yamcha stumbled along behind him,

and somewhere in a corner that shifted bulma sat and laughed and laughed and laughed fit to kill while time

            s l o w e d

—bright mausoleums—

He found that if he concentrated he could sometimes will the longing away, though the effort seemed to reach up into time and undo its need to give every minute the same length and weight as the rest. The hours that he spent concentrating on all the 'right things' turned days of drudgery into lifetimes of regret, because it wasn't the taste he missed so much, necessarily, or even the affects of the alcohol, but the freedom that accompanied the action. It was his decision whether or not he wanted to go into a bar and have a drink, or two, or three, depending on the atmosphere and his own predilections. At any rate, he had at least received some perverse satisfaction of knowing that by waking up every morning, despite the trembling and his body's repeated attempts to heave up his insides, he was alive, and had outlived those who had attempted the same thing the night and failed: he was stronger.

It was Friday and the night breeze was cold and brusque, scraping the branches of the trees up against the side of the house. Yamcha took refuge under the open window in his bedroom, cigarette in hand, and reveled in the subtle pleasure that was a by-product of merry self-delusion; Kuririn had always had an ability to hone in on the exact things that need not concern him. Open window or not, he would soon detect the smoke.

Another breeze descended from the treetops, brushing across the sill and causing the curtains to fold in on themselves morosely. Yamcha tipped the cigarette from his mouth and blew out gently. The fan at the ceiling, as if sensing the impurity, gave a half-hearted groan of effort and doggedly continued whirling, allowing the amber tassels in the center to wave back and forth, languid. Yamcha watched them with a kind of affected fixation, cigarette hovering before his mouth.

Fingers closed gently around his wrist; Kuririn plucked the cigarette away with his other hand. "I thought we said no smoking," he said.

"We didn't say a goddamn thing." Yamcha's tone, low with fatigue, was nevertheless acerbic. "My smoking doesn't have anything to do with any of this."

"It's an addiction." Kuririn dug the cigarette into the ashtray at Yamcha's feet. It sputtered sullenly, then went out. "It's no good giving up one bad habit just to abuse your body in another way."

The moon managed to wrestle its way from a cloud. Yamcha frowned as Kuririn's face was illuminated, revealing a livid bruise stretched from temple to cheek. Though his eyes remained on the ashtray, Kuririn seemed to sense the scrutiny and mumbled, "S'not as bad as it looks."

Yamcha shook his head, running his fingers through his bangs and stopping halfway to grip them tightly. "Dammit, Kuririn," he muttered. "Why did you let me do that?"

"It calmed you down enough for me to get you home without having to resort to knocking you out." Kuririn shrugged a shoulder, offering a tentative grin. "Though it did make a scene. At least I'm gaining a reputation, even if it is only with the regulars at The Row. Nobody's going to mess with me now that they've seen I can pull the toughest guy in the bar off his stool and out the door, and live. Anyway, it's my fault—if I kept a closer eye on you, you wouldn't be able to escape to bars in the first place."

"If you kept a closer eye on me I think I'd have to resort to shoving a chair down your throat."

"I've considered that," Kuririn admitted. "Unfortunately for you, I've decided that, should that particular scenario come to pass, I'll console myself with the fact that I'll always have a place to sit." The overhead fan whimpered and he looked up, frowning. "Your fan sounds sick."

Yamcha's grip on his hair tightened momentarily, pulling his brow smooth, before his hand abruptly dropped away. "Its base might be loose," he said wearily. "I'm not sure, I haven't checked."

Kuririn looked back at him, gaze suddenly shrewd. Yamcha avoided it, folding his hands to prevent them from trembling. "Well, I'd say you were pale," said Kuririn, "but we're under moonlight and it therefore would be a really stupid thing to say."

"That's never stopped you before." When Kuririn made as if to feel his forehead he jerked away impatiently. "And how about you quit acting like my nursemaid and back the hell off?"

"I just wanted to see if..." Kuririn cut himself off with a sigh and lowered his hand. It curled into a fist at his lap. "You're right. I shouldn't… I should ask before I do that kind of stuff. I'm sorry, it's my fault."

He stood to leave.

"Don't."

Kuririn blinked down at him. The ex-bandit's gaze flitted to the ashtray, to the foot of the bed, the floor. "I mean, I didn't mean to run you off," he muttered.

Kuririn looked at him a moment longer, then smiled suddenly; sun in moonlight. "Sorry, buddy, but there's no way you're ever going to be able to run me off," he said. "Believe it or not, I was just going to fix the fan."

Yamcha didn't return it. "Oh."

"However," said Kuririn, "it has stopped squeaking, so maybe it doesn't really need to be fixed after all. Oh, wow, I think I just got an idea. Be right back, okay?"

Yamcha watched him dart from the room. There was the sound of someone rummaging through the utility drawer in the kitchen, and less than a minute later he was back again, carrying two sheets of paper, two pieces of string, and a black marker. "Should I be worried that you seem to know where absolutely everything is in my house?" asked Yamcha. "And. That's my jacket."

"I brought it in here for you to wear." Kuririn nudged the door shut with his heel. "And no, you shouldn't worry. There's always a chance I'll give out the information to the general public, but I think for a small fee I can be trusted to keep your secrets to myself. But at any rate, it's only mostly everything –I can't find the scotch tape."

"Oh, well, I gotta thank you, because 'mostly everything' is just so much more reassuring than 'absolutely everything'. Desk, middle drawer. I don't want that."

"Fine, I'll wear it then. S'okay, right?" Kuririn dropped the materials to the floor and slipped the jacket on, sighing with pleasure. "I always feel so cool whenever I wear this thing," he said happily. "I've never had anything leather of my own."

Ignoring him, Yamcha ran his eye over the supplies. "What the shit is this?" he asked after a moment, bluntly.

"Hold on a sec." Kuririn retrieved the tape and returned, dropping back on the floor in front of Yamcha. "My mom's side of the family originated from the colonies up north," he explained. "They're really big on legends and stuff up there. Mom was always telling me about stories about them."

"Your mom?"

"Yeah." Kuririn threw him a quick grin. "I did have one at one point, you know."

"No, I just… I thought that…" Yamcha cut himself off impatiently, lifting his wrist to rub his upper lip. He was beginning to sweat. "Fuck. Never mind."

"No, no, I'm sorry. Actually, my mom's influence is one of the reasons I'm so short –they're like pygmies up there. There's a legend about that, too, but I'll save that for another day. Anyway, my point is, I picked up a lot of info on their culture via bedtime stories. One of my favorites was the story about how the elders used to make important decisions." As Kuririn spoke he began to work, folding up one of the pieces of paper. "It was said that if they weren't able to make up their minds, or they couldn't figure out whether or not something was going to work or have a positive outcome, they'd say that it was something not meant for humans to figure out—you know, the spirits were preventing them from seeing the answer."

"Bet that was handy for politics."

"I'm not all that sure they were smart enough for politics," said Kuririn.

"Everyone's smart enough for politics." Yamcha rested his head back against the wall, trying not to shiver too obviously. "Those who aren't become the figureheads."

Though Kuririn's face was tilted downward, the grin was impossible to miss. "Anyway, Mr. Cynical—you are ready to hear the theory, right?"

"Only if you're ready for me to debunk it."

"There's nothing to debunk. It's all true." Kuririn made an impatient noise to himself and reversed the direction of a fold, studying the shape for a moment before continuing. "The elders figured out how to do it in such a way that the spirits could actually decide for them. See, legend was, if you went up to the highest ridge of the mountains and asked the spirits to help you out, they'd send two birds –a raven and a dove—to circle the sky above you. If the raven was the first to drop, it meant good fortune. If the dove was, then you were pretty much supposed to be out of luck."

He made a final adjustment and presented the shape to Yamcha. The ex-bandit blinked. "A bird," he said.

"I sure hope so. I'm kind of out of practice." Kuririn tossed it into his lap and started on the next one. "But anyway, as time went on, people became less and less willing to travel all the way up the mountains to get their answers. They eventually figured out another way—one that still had the chance factor in it, but with less mess. They'd find anything that could go in a circle –fans, weather vanes, you name it—and attach two paper birds to it with a string, one on either end of the circle. After they designated which one was which, they'd give it a whirl. Whichever one fell off first was the one they disregarded." Quickly finishing the second bird, he uncapped the black marker and drew it along the edges of the paper.

A breeze coaxed the curtain toward Yamcha and he fended it off gently. "So, basically, whichever knot was tied the strongest."

"Basically. Or, whichever adhesive better stood the test of time. Okay, this is it!" Kuririn absently stuck the marker in the jacket pocket and fastened the strings on both birds, tearing off two extra pieces and letting them dangle from his ring fingers. He then stood to drive an elbow into the knob controlling the fan. It powered down with a groan. Grimacing, he rose in the air to tape the birds to the fins, then turned the fan on again on a lower setting. It gave a low whine of protest, but reluctantly started back up. "That's that," said Kuririn.

Yamcha watched the birds begin to chase each other around in circles, wings fluttering with a vague sort of distress. "This is crap," he said. "Nothing's this simple."

Kuririn settled back down in front of him. "Well, you know that, and I know that, but sometimes you just kind of want someone else to make decisions for you. Besides, I think it's kind of fun watching them go."

A particularly stiff wind tumbled through the window, bringing with it the scent of rain. This time Yamcha's shudder was obvious. "Shut the window," said Kuririn, predictably.

"I want it open."

Without looking, Kuririn reached behind him and snatched the afghan folded up at the end of the bed. "Then cover up or do something. You know it kills me to see you getting the shakes."

"What else am I good for?" he said bitterly.

Kuririn froze. After a moment he slowly shook out the blanket, holding it out to him. "Look, Yamcha," he began hesitantly, "I didn't realize you… whatever I can do to help, I…?"

Yamcha exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "It's not that. It's just… it's just tough, you know? Like, I can't concentrate. My mind's wandering all over the place all the time. Sometimes I'm on the bed pulling on my socks and I end up sitting there for, like, half an hour, just because I keep getting distracted."

"That's normal, Yamcha. It's not your fault."

"I don't know, it's hard to explain." Yamcha took the blanket and bunched it between his hands. "It's like cutting off a leg. You can live without it, but man, y'miss it like a bitch."

"The alcohol didn't do anything for you." Though Kuririn's tone remained soft, there was no mercy in his expression. "It was only hurting you."

"That's only because I was being careless." Yamcha sat up a little straighter, his tone suddenly edged with desperation. "Seriously, Kuririn, I just made some mistakes, that's all. I swear. I could have stopped any time I wanted to. If you just let me have one drink I can prove to you that I can control how much I take in."

Kuririn regarded him silently, eyes bright with moonlight. In them Yamcha could read compassion and patience, but no pity. Frustrated and hurt, Yamcha looked away, fingers finding the cigarette in the ashtray and grinding it into the ceramic. "Listen," Kuririn said at last, very quietly. "Contrary to what you may think, I'm just here to help you out. I'm not your mother, and I'm not trying to prevent you from living your life. If you decide you want to keep drinking after all this, there really isn't a whole lot I can do. Ultimately, it's going to be your decision whether or not you want to stop."

"But I can't—"

"You can." Kuririn took the blanket from his lap and draped it over his shoulders instead. "You can, you can, you can. Or, at least you'll be able to, eventually. In the meantime, that's half the reason I'm here."

Yamcha made as if to protest, then relaxed reluctantly, huddling beneath it. "What's the other half?" he asked grudgingly.

"Yamcha, buddy, you're a slob. If I didn't clean your stupid house for you you'd end up drowning in a sea of used Kleenexes, empty cheese whiz cans, and root beer bottles." Something thunked off Yamcha's forehead. "Hey," said Kuririn, picking it up, "look who dropped in."

The ex-bandit took the paper bird from him silently, fingering the angry black stripe across the wings. "It's the raven," he said unnecessarily.

The wind outside settled into silence, which soon gave way to the sound of rain. "That says something, right?" asked Kuririn.

"Maybe." Yamcha's gaze flickered upward, then around the room. He shook his head. "But then again, so does that."

Kuririn turned to look. On the desk, resting against the haphazardly sculpted, clay pencil holder, sat the other paper bird. "Huh," said Kuririn. He stood and retrieved it, handing it Yamcha. "So it does. What do you make of it?"

Yamcha stared at them both intently, turning each one over in his hand, before smiling humorlessly. "I don't waste time wondering anymore," he said.

He half turned, tossed them out the window, and let the rain beat them away.

—past crucifixion—

It could have been any number of things and he would've been satisfied. A kind of 'woah-that's-cool-shit' realization, maybe, or an explosive reaction that made a lot of little kids scream. Instead it was a bit of nothing and everything, like a void held to light. Bulma said no: that was everything else.

Sometimes he would turn the pages past the half-hearted attempts at journalizing and get to the meat of the book, as if he'd been writing for weeks. There he would scribble, 'to be married _________', again and again in again, holding the pencil the way she used to scold him for ("On the middle finger, not the ring!") and in as frank a script he could manage. It was only when he had no more will to write that he would sharpen the pencil again and draw a neat line in the tally chart in the back of the notebook (she said YES this many days ago, reallytrulyhonestly) because when it came right down to it the way things ought to have been were much better than what they actually were, and he liked nothing more than to live in the worlds that made more sense.

For that he lived; for her he died again and again, regardless.

—the more he knows—

At first Yamcha had enjoyed rainy days. Being raised in the desert, he had a healthy partiality for water in any form, though his appreciation for snow was tempered somewhat by the fact that his tolerance for cold was zero to none. Water was something to treasure and to never be taken for granted; upon moving to the city he could remember how appalled he had been by the flippancy in which the city dwellers regarded their nearly limitless supply.

But now, with the headaches and the shuddering, the old-man edginess that hit him at his lows was only exacerbated by the sounds of rain driving against the glass. In addition, he couldn't go outside without beginning to shiver uncontrollably; his tolerance was no longer zero for snow alone. He spent one such afternoon relieving some of the tension by finally gutting his cooler. In a way he felt vaguely guilty about how the parts scattered despondently across the kitchen tile, but then, he was now able to sit at the table without thinking about the noise, or the lack thereof, and he could eat from his bowl of walnuts with dogged, mechanical persistence…

Kuririn sat down across from him, plunking a box down between them. "Scrabble," he said.

Yamcha looked down at it intently. The box was faded and gloomy with age, harboring a thick layer of dust along the top that was unbroken, save for a set of thumbprints on the sides. "I didn't know I owned any board game, let alone Scrabble," he said.

Kuririn lifted the lid and set it to the side. Though the bags holding the squares were doctored up with duct tape, the rest of the materials looked unharmed. "Actually, I brought this one from Master Roshi's," he said, beginning to extricate the supplies. "I know you hate rainy days, so I figured we could do something to take your mind from it."

Yamcha studied the lid. The game that challenges your creativity and your mind! it said in austere, white lettering. Somehow he couldn't quite find the energy to necessarily disagree. "You have played, right?" asked Kuririn.

"Yeah."

"Mind if I ask with whom?"

Yamcha watched as he poured the squares from the bags. "Bulma."

To his credit Kuririn did not flinch; his expression, however, slowly softened. "Oh."

"S'okay." Yamcha finally reached out to help. The job was finished quickly. "'Course, she always beat me. She has the whole genius thing going for her, you know? I think that's why she always wanted to play with me. I'd be sitting there choking out 'dog' and 'book' and she'd be slamming down things like 'ascetic' and 'bucolic'… what the hell does 'bucolic' mean, anyway?"

Kuririn, who had lifted the lid to scan over the directions, said absently, "Rustic."

"I'm gonna lose," said Yamcha, glumly.

His tone brought Kuririn's attention back up. He smiled wryly. "I wouldn't worry too much," he said, putting the lid back down. "Just be thankful you're not up against Master Roshi. I swear, for a fossil that man is really, really good. What do you think I hid this game so far back on the shelves for?"

Somehow he couldn't imagine Roshi, at any point in his life, having enough self-control to sit down for more than twenty minutes without pawing through a magazine. "Are you serious?"

"Gosh, yeah. At any board game, really, but Scrabble's his forte. I guess when you've been around for three hundred years or so you pick up a word or two. The only game I beat him consistently in is chess. Monks are natural chessheads; you'd think the guy would realize that. You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

They played in relative silence, listening to the sound of thunder rumbling above them. The only other sounds were the quiet clack of tiles on the board and the occasional sigh, at first from Yamcha and then increasingly from Kuririn. At one point Yamcha suddenly grinned, throwing a C, L, K, O, and a blank down between two pre-set lines. Kuririn looked at word it formed, began to speak, then silenced himself, nudging the squares aside slightly to check for bonuses and recording the numbers on the score sheet. Noting the hesitation, Yamcha said, "You're not going to challenge me?"

"I know what a cuckold is," Kuririn replied curtly.

"You just didn't think I knew what it was."

"I didn't say that."

Yamcha crossed his arms. "So what's your problem?"

Kuririn made a quick calculation, tallying up the final score, before gesturing to the board with his pencil. "'Lose', 'dump', 'break', 'defeat'…"

"So I work with what I get. It's not my fault you toss me crummy squares. Besides, there's no shame in saying what's on my mind."

"This is a game of Scrabble, not an application to the society for the defeatists of Chikyuu."

"What would you rather I put?" Yamcha picked up a nut from the bowl and crushed it between his fingers. "I can't make anything else with them."

"Mm." Kuririn flipped over the pad and wrote down the words, then said presently, "'Sole', 'mud', 'rake', 'feat'."

"And not get as many points. Thanks, but I kind of like the fact that I'm winning for once."

"I just don't think it wise to kindle depression. And cut that out, you're getting crumbs all over the table." Kuririn tossed the pad to the side and studied his own rack. Now that his fingers were unoccupied, Yamcha drummed them against the table restlessly, then lifted his hand to run them through his hair, again and again. Kuririn looked up briefly, in the process of nudging his squares into groups. "Relax," he said.

Yamcha jerked back to attention. "What?"

Kuririn's brow tightened and smoothed in the span of an instant in what had become an increasingly familiar sign that he had found something to his liking. Sure enough, a moment later he began plucking up squares. "You're going to make yourself sick." His voice dropped a level. "You're really pale, and I just… I thought maybe if you relax a little…"

Yamcha felt a surge of unwarranted irritation. "Only thing I'm sick of is your nagging," he muttered.

"And you're shivering again," Kuririn continued, appearing not to have heard. "Are you okay? Because I can turn up the heat and—"

"S'none of your damn business how I feel!"

Kuririn looked up, startled. Yamcha half-stood, suddenly and unduly agitated. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he snapped. "How many times do I have to tell you before it registers? You can't tell me what to do!"

Pain slowly began to overtake the surprise on Kuririn's face. "Yamcha, I'm just trying to help."

"You can start by realizing you don't know what the fuck you're doing." Yamcha's hands curled into fists. It took a moment to realize that his pulse was racing; he sat back down slowly, trying to keep up with emotions that refused to yield to better judgment. "You're always trying to butt into my life. That's all you've been doing. That's all you've ever done."

Kuririn didn't respond. He slid the squares into position with a few deft flicks of his fingers, forming the word 'garner', and jotted down the scores before standing. "I'll get you a glass of water," he said.

Yamcha said nothing as the smaller man passed him. The tremors eased as quickly as they had come, and his annoyance tumbled into weariness, and regret. When Kuririn returned he muttered, barely audible, "I'm sorry."

Kuririn tossed a coaster onto the table and set the glass on it. "It's all right. It's not your fault."

"Yeah, it is." Yamcha rested his head in his hands for a moment. "It's been a couple days since I… it's no longer an excuse."

"It's only been a couple of days." Kuririn made as if to sit down, then changed his mind and went over to the thermostat on the wall. "Withdrawal symptoms are always more intense for those who stop cold turkey," he said as he turned the dial to 70. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

"I'm sick of this," he said. His voice was flat. "I'm sick of this, I'm sick of my life, I'm sick of… of…"

"Me, obviously." Kuririn returned to his seat, half-smiling to show he was joking. "But really. Forget about it. You'll pull through this, Yamcha. You've come so far already, it's amazing."

Yamcha swept the crumbs from his snack off the table. "It's because of you," he said.

Kuririn made a noise of dissent, selecting new squares for his rack. "Well, it is," said Yamcha. "I would never have gotten this far if you hadn't, you know, been such a bastard about the whole thing. Besides, the only reason I'm not out drinking right now is because you're tacking my ass down in this chair."

"You're getting through this because of you." Kuririn's eyebrows had lowered in either annoyance or concentration. "I'm just in the background, buddy. It's your turn, you know."

Yamcha ignored him. "What, so now you're a decorative smudge?"

"I'm only here to supervise and nag at will."

Yamcha shook his head.

"You're one of the strongest people I know, Yamcha," said Kuririn. He looked up and tapped his chest, earnest. "Right in here. Don't doubt it, okay? It's what's going to get you through all of this, not me."

Yamcha looked down at the squares to avoid his gaze, annoyed at the burning feeling behind his lids. Clearing his throat, he snatched up four squares from his rack and began plopping them down on the board. "In the meantime," he said gruffly, "I'm going to proceed to give the final kick to your ass. Behold."

He slid the last square into place. "Oh, right," said Kuririn.

"Grink is a word," said Yamcha, unperturbed. He straightened. "It's a cross between grey and pink. You can look it up."

"The only place I'm looking up is to the sky so I don't end up immersing my face and thus inhaling your bullshit."

"In any case, it's a term commonly used to describe newborns." He folded his arms, managing an expression that looked both wounded and spectacularly sanctimonious. "It is no longer cool to say, 'What a beautiful baby', but 'Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So, your baby is tremendously grink', and everyone is satisfied."

"If you just take off the 'k' you have a perfectly legitimate word…" Kuririn blinked as Yamcha confiscated the pad and pencil, then shook his head and sighed. "Yamcha, I'm serious, you're full of it," he muttered. Then, as if to spite his words, a gentle smile came to his face. "You're gonna stay that way, right? "

Yamcha ducked his head briefly, jotting down the scores with a steady hand. "That's the plan," he said quietly.

—tryst, resist—

It was midnight, and Yamcha was unsure as to how to escape from the house. For a while he had been convinced that sneaking out the window was probably the best course of action; the darkness would conceal him from being physically spotted, and it was difficult to resist an idea so thoroughly backed by tradition. Kuririn's ki sense, however, was keen at its worst, and the chances of him being intercepted before he even hit the ground were far too high to chance it. In addition, Kuririn's hearing was unremarkable, and going out the front door, while unsubtle, was a lot less suspicious and ultimately a lot less risky than trying to slip out the sides.

In the kitchen, the clock gave a low, uninspired two-tone. Yamcha slipped down the hallway toward the front door, raising his ki very slightly to take some of his weight off of the floorboards. As he entered the living room he came across a sweeper in his path, and in sidestepping it almost tripped over the taut cord. Surprised, he moved to unplug it, brushing against a rag bunched up against the baseboards. He blinked at it, then on a hunch glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, Kuririn was sprawled out on couch, fully clothed and fast asleep.

He felt a sudden rush of guilt. Kuririn was meticulous to a fault; not putting the cleaning materials away or changing for bed was a significant indication of fatigue. It had been a long week, but until now Yamcha hadn't realized that he wasn't the only one it had taken its toll on. For a moment he considered taking the opportunity to slip past (at this point, Kuririn probably wouldn't have noticed if he had in fact flown out the window) but something deep inside of him –deeper, somehow, than the driving need for alcohol—prevented him from walking out the door. Exhaling slowly, he moved to the couch and bent to begin unlacing the smaller man's shoes. At least he wouldn't have to go hunting for a blanket; there was always one folded over the edge of the couch. As he finished pulling off the first shoe a sleepy murmur broke the silence: "You okay?"

"Yeah." He started on the other shoelace, which he soon found to be knotted too tightly. He rolled it between his fingers for a time, then tried again. It came apart easily.

Kuririn made a noise in the back of his throat, reaching up to run his hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was husky with exhaustion. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Something like that." He got the other shoe off and placed the pair at the base of the coffee table. Kuririn's right leg hung over the side; Yamcha nudged it back onto the couch, then bent again to undo the buttons at his collar and his cuffs.

Kuririn's eyes were already drifting shut. "If you're hungry, I picked up some turkey'n stuff for sandwiches. Tylenol's on th'counter, there's about four left, m'picking up some more tomorrow… had the thermostat set to sixty-seven, but if you're cold…"

"Shh. I got it."

"Sorry I didn't finish cleaning," Kuririn mumbled, barely audible. "If you need anything, just…"

Yamcha slid the blanket from the back of the couch and unfolded it, glancing at him. Kuririn had fallen back asleep, hand curling under his chin. Yamcha draped the blanket over him, taking care to cover his feet, and straightened. Raising his ki once again, he made his way back over to the door and opened it cautiously, mindful of the squeaky hinges, then hesitated. The room was still, save for Kuririn's steady breathing and the faint clicktock of the wall clock. Guilt once again twisted his gut. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He shut the door quietly behind him.

The outside air was over-crisp and misty. Yamcha shivered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, and started off in the direction of the nearest liquor store. The walkway was deserted, lit by the occasional orange street lamp. On a whim, he looked up, watching his breath hover on the air, and checked for stars. Even on the outskirts of the city it was still too bright to really see much of anything, though the light of a couple constellations around the three-quarter moon had managed to struggle through the smog.

His toe caught on a rise in the sidewalk and he stumbled, bringing his attention back down.

The southern bridge over to the city had surprisingly little traffic. Yamcha kicked an empty pop can over the side, watching it splash into the water, and turned his collar up against the wind, hurrying onward. There was something about bridges that made him feel vaguely exposed, and though he could still testify to having been out on a walk and nothing more, he was thankful to finally be off of it and picked up his pace accordingly once he hit the sidewalk. A few hundred yards ahead, a small building squatted between two other, much higher establishments, and sported a sullen, irreverent yellow neon sign simply bearing, 'Hal's Kegs'. Underneath, confiding its message to the world in flickering red, 'beer to boost your nutter'. Yamcha paused in front of the doorway, glancing over his shoulder uneasily, then cautiously pushed his way inside.

Over behind the counter, a man looked up. His clothing was an aggressive mixture of punk and the grudgingly conservative, and his hair had the appearance of being anything but. Above his breast pocket, in small letters, a white nametag did indeed boast the name 'HAL'. "You son of a bitch," said Hal.

Yamcha let the door fall shut behind him. A pudgy grey cat stared at him mistrustfully from the ledge at the base of the shop window. "Or," he said, "I could just take my business somewhere else."

"You'd no sooner go somewhere else at this hour than you would piss into the wind," said Hal. His smile became faintly nervous anyway. "What's up, Yamcha? How you been?"

"Okay." Yamcha headed for the racks along the left side. As he passed the cat it yowled low in its throat. When he was sure Hal wasn't looking he shoved it off with a quick heel thrust.

"Haven't seen you in a while." Hal was rummaging beneath the counter. He came back up a minute later, magazine in hand. "Things all right with you?"

"Yeah." Yamcha scanned the rows, feeling an old surge of satisfaction surface from beneath the uncertainty. It was a dusty rack of old friends; the only better place to see them, he decided, would be in a bar. He considered going to visit one and to his own surprise dismissed the idea immediately.

"Wife been reining you in?"

He almost laughed. "You could say that."

"Yeah, well, tell the broad to lay off. You're a valuable customer. Strong as'n ox, too, or so's I hear –you've drunk more than your share of men under the table, eh?"

You're one of the strongest people I know, Yamcha. Right in here. Don't doubt it, okay? It's what's going to get you through all of this. "Right," said Yamcha.

After another moment's deliberation he slid 'Naked Lady' out from beside Blue Moon. "Good choice," said Hal as he walked up to pay. "Unlike most ladies, this one keeps her peace. You looking for new digs?"

"Not really." He slapped the twenty on the counter.

"You should check out that joint on 23rd. Trashy as hell in fall, but damn they got good dancers. Penny for a gallon, if y'get my meaning."

He tapped a sequence of keys, causing the register drawer to pop open, and handed Yamcha a handful of change. Yamcha didn't look at it. "All of it, Hal."

Hal complied. "Ain't you baseball bums s'posed to be stupid?"

"You don't need to be able to count to know somebody's scamming you. You can see it in their eyes." Yamcha pocketed the change and turned on his heel. "G'night."

"You a cold man," said Hal to his back. "Say hi to your broad for me. And you come back, y'hear? Less sober, too, if you can manage it. I need that little extra to put towards my airbike."

Yamcha let the door fall shut behind him. There he hesitated, unsure of where to go. Though the drink would warm him up fairly quickly, the idea of sitting in the middle of the street, open beer bottle in hand, held a certain lack of appeal. Flying was also risky now that Kuririn was alerted to the fact that he wasn't sleeping. Not knowing what else to do, he began walking back home slowly, bottle tight in hand.

When he reached the bridge Yamcha walked slowly along the side, running his fingers along the metal barriers. The moon had risen slightly, casting an eerie pearl-glow to the surface of the river. His initial misgivings fled, and he stopped in the center of the bridge, leaning over to look. The bottle clanked against the railing.

He found he wasn't feeling anxious at this point as much as uncertain. He didn't figure what he was doing was terrible thing, necessarily –the symptoms of withdrawal were almost completely gone, and a sip or two wouldn't really hurt. He had gone a week without it, after all; wasn't it time for a reward? But Kuririn had worked so hard, and he himself had…

…

A splash below; the fish slipped back into the water, leaving behind a storm of ripples. Yamcha kicked a pebble from the ground off over the side, annoyed with his own insecurity. There was no denying he wanted it, and he deserved it –didn't he?—but the same something that held him back earlier reared its head now, doubtful. What did he want?

One thing was for sure, though: it was cold outside and his hands were getting numb. He set down the bottle and stuffed them back into his pockets, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring gloves. To his surprise his left fingertips brushed against something smooth. He pulled it up, expecting to see his Swiss army knife or his lighter. It was the black marker.

See, legend was, if you went up to the highest ridge of the mountains and asked the spirits to help you out, they'd send two birds –a raven and a dove—to circle the sky above you. If the raven was the first to drop, it meant good fortune. If the dove was, then you were pretty much supposed to be out of luck…

"Shit," he said.

Headlights approached the bridge. Yamcha waited until the car had passed to stoop and pick up the bottle. The Naked Lady stared at him, one eyelid lowered seductively, a finger crooked; come here. The Surgeon General's warning wrapped around the bottom like a tired storm advisory. He slowly uncapped the marker, hesitated. As if sensing the poignancy the breeze quieted, throwing the bridge into silence.

Yamcha began to draw.

Contrary to what you may think, I'm just here to help you out. I'm not your mother, and I'm not trying to prevent you from living your life. If you decide you want to keep drinking after all this, there really isn't a whole lot I can do. Ultimately, it's going to be your decision whether or not you want to stop.

The moon slid behind a cloud, ducked out again. Yamcha finished, tucking the marker back in his pocket. The sketch was crude, but it showed what he intended it to show: a large bird, ink-black, and it was profoundly ugly; he had never claimed to be an artist. He grasped the bottle by its neck and paused to allow judgment a brief with desire. To his irritation, but not his surprise, judgment held its own. "Damn you, Kuririn…" he muttered.

And there was absolutely nothing at his back, and there was nothing standing in his way, save for sense and a whisper of something he had long ago given up for dead. It was truly, at last, as Kuririn had said it would be, utterly and completely up to him.

That says something, right?

"Screw it," he said resignedly.

He drew back his arm again, pitcher-style, and hurled the bottle forward. It flew high into the air, spiraling wildly, and began its descent. The moon caught on the glass a final time, flaring green to silver, before the bottle finally crashed into the water, sinking rapidly out of sight. Yamcha watched it for a time, then slid his hands back into his pocket and turned to head for home.

Down below, the ripples calmed, smoothed, then disappeared completely.

(fin/ed 10/28/2k3)