Cold.
That used to be all I felt.
Sometimes it still is, but things are better now.
I cannot help but think that I have brought the frigid air upon myself, because I am certain it's long past the point where I can legitimately blame my past — no matter how painful — and take myself seriously. There comes a time when everyone must move on, I tell myself. Mine just happened to be thousands of years ago.
I am not always angry. Even that has been taken away from me now, along with much of my bitterness and my hatred. Withdrawn, perhaps, is a better word. Empty. I have only myself to blame. I am not angry.
Just cold.
He understands that; he always has. But as I struggle, he tackles his feelings in a blistering rage. He does not understand that emotions are far more indestructible than any brute force he has ever encountered in battle, and that he cannot tear them down at will. A part of me hopes this realization never strikes him; I would rather have him the way he is — hot-headed, impulsive, and blunt. Secretly I hope he stays this way forever. He is not as cold as the front he puts on.
The next demon world tournament is approaching, and I hold weekly meetings to discuss strategy with a group of my strongest soldiers. They could spend hours at a time plotting and shouting across the table — they're absolutely determined to have either me or one of them crowned victorious this time. I am always surprised that he makes it through the meetings the way he does, sometimes without saying a word. I know how he hates to be a part of the group, and I always expect him to get up and leave when a particularly idiotic idea is proposed, but each time, he remains in his chair, and not a word escapes his lips.
I know what he's thinking. When the tournament begins, we won't be a team, so there is no point in strategizing. In fact, I am sure he only attends the meetings to get an edge on the competition, but at times I am forced to wonder if he even cares about that.
Even though he is theoretically my second in command, he refuses to sit next to me, always taking a seat midway down the table. He thinks nothing of titles, and sometimes it seems he purposefully avoids acknowledging them.
Today my men have left in a rage, arguing about this or that. It seems someone has heard rumors of foul play, and cannot decide whether they are legitimate. They exit the room in the heat of debate, leaving Hiei and I alone. For a while, we sit in silence, neither of us pressed to speak.
Then, he says, "What's your opinion?"
"I don't believe I was listening closely enough to have one."
Moments pass. "Hn," he concedes. I can hear amusement in his tone.
"Something funny, Hiei?"
He rises from his chair. "You have no interest in winning this tournament at all," he says, and begins to walk toward me, slowly, barely escaping contact with the disorderly chairs at the table as he passes. He is fully aware of where he's going.
I lean back in my chair as he approaches. The door is some distance behind me, and I expect him to walk straight past me and take his leave, but he does not.
Still I have not responded.
"Week after week you call us here," he continues as he comes to a stop beside my chair. "Yet you know that these meetings are wastes of time. Does it give you comfort to listen to the bickering of idiots?"
"I suppose the tension is having an effect on me," I say. I do not mention how right he truly is; the drone of their banter is a distraction, and I welcome it.
"Tension," he repeats. Nothing more. He holds my gaze, expression unchanging. He is standing close, and I am forced to tilt my head up to look at his face, but considering his height and mine, it is not much of a strain.
"I've neither invited nor encouraged you to come. If you don't like being here, why don't you stop attending?"
"Would you prefer it if I stopped?" he asks.
"I give very little thought to how you spend your time," I say. "You know that."
Something flickers in his expression, but he steadies it. "Yes." Slowly, carefully, he lifts his right hand to the scarred portion of my face. One by one, the fingers make contact with the skin there, trailing along my cheek. "Do you think this will solve anything?"
He is ambiguous because he knows he doesn't have to specify. He knows that I will understand. He knows that I can think of every problem I've ever had with myself and come to the conclusion that sitting here now in this room at this table will not solve any of them. Sometimes it is troublesome to have him know so much, but it is also a relief a relief that anyone should know anything at all and still be here by my side.
But my mind is elsewhere. No one has ever touched me like this before, but I've imagined his touch so many times, and all I can think about is how I wish he had chosen the other side of my face to run his fingers over, because whatever he's doing now feels dull behind the millions of dead nerves.
"It might," I say distractedly.
He grunts in a language I can't determine.
I can feel my face beginning to grow hot, but I fight the feeling, willing away my desire to turn my face into his hand. Even standing next to me, he feels warm.
I close my eyes. His touch is so feather-light that I can't feel it anymore, but I can imagine it, and it feels incredible, like something I've wanted for a long time. I wonder if this is what living feels like.
"Will it stay this way forever?" he asks suddenly, and when I look at him again I realize both his hands are at his sides again, and I feel ashamed.
Ashamed as only he could make me feel.
By the time I've found my voice, he's already gone.
Slowly, I touch the undamaged half of my face. I imagine what I can of him, filling in the blanks as I try to mimic it with my own hand, but I know it is not the same.
I feel anger and disappointment, but it thrills me. I answer the empty room:
"No, it won't," I say.
And I do not feel as cold anymore.
A/N: Found this in an old writing folder from last spring. I had 75% of it written but had apparently stopped because I couldn't think of a way to end it. Luckily, over a year later, the ending came much more easily!