A very wise author on here said that every writer should write a death fic at least once. And since I suppose Hiei/Kurama is my OTP (or at least my oldest), I figured it would be good practice and a good foray into the YYH fandom. Also, I've written a suicide fic for the Naruto fandom, but it was more post-death. So it doesn't count. And YYH will forever be my favorite fandom.
For those of you who don't know, heliotropes are flowers. Heliotrope is also a reddish-lavender color. There are probably heliotrope-colored heliotropes. At least there are in this story.
Also, for those of you who also like Hellboy, please go check out our story Thicker Than Water. The people of the Hellboy fandom have been most unkind to us. Reviews would be lovely.
Warning/Disclaimers: This is almost pre-slash, carrying into slash. Not too graphic, but it does swear a little. YYH characters belong to their respective owners, but the plot is most certainly mine.
His blood was slowly turning purple.
Once he noticed it, it was impossible to stop. The vein that pulsed in his temple was lavender now, his wrists violet under pale flesh. He could only care for his garden from a distance—the chance possibility of a thorn pricking him and fuchsia blood welling up made him dry-heave. The mirror that once rested on his desk was shoved into the far recesses of his closet; if he saw the lilac vessels in his eyes one more time, he was carve them out.
Kurama was dying.
He told no one. No one needed to know. Only Youko, in the back of his mind, had an inkling of what was going on—he was the fucking cause of it.
The fox had compared it to planting a sapling in a pot. The more the sapling grew, the more room its roots needed. And when, eventually, the roots had no more room to grow, they would break the pot open in their quest for freedom.
If it wasn't just a thinly-veiled metaphor about his death, Kurama might've been insulted that he was being compared to a pot.
That wasn't to say, however, that no one noticed.
Kurama soon discovered that he couldn't meet Genkai or Keiko's eyes anymore—one woman because she would see right through his bullshit and the other because she was just so damn optimistic. Because she would say, "You can't die, Kurama!"
Clearly, he could. It was exactly what he was doing. Dying.
He shied away from Yukina's touch, staunchly ignoring the hurt in her eyes when he did. And it was no better with her brother; Hiei he avoided like the plague—the plague, how ironic—somehow managing to not be found by the three-eyed man who could, literally, see everything.
Kurama figured that becoming a social pariah might actually kill him if his blood didn't get there first.
When his body, not just his blood, begins to fail him is when Kurama truly begins to despair.
It was Gama's body-paint all over again, only this time he couldn't blame a pathetic demon with fucking make-up. This time it was his fault he couldn't hear the demon creep up behind him. It was his fault he jerked back too late, a claw catching his cheek and violet blood splattering the grass. The contrast of green and purple—like another contrast of green and purple that too easily came to mind—was enough to bring him to his knees, his stomach roiling.
He'd barely escaped that fight alive, and it had taken all of his charm to keep Yukina from healing the gash in his cheek.
Now, as he stumbled away from Kuwabara's clumsy, sloppy thrust, he felt the blood pound in his head, fogging his vision in a haze of lavender-gray. His limbs grew heavy, and he heard the hot crackle of the sword whiz toward his chest, and the thought crossed his mind that maybe this would be easier than his slow torture.
Kuwabara pulls back just in time and Kurama's lips pull back in a snarl of frustration. He isn't even sure if it's because Kuwabara almost gutted him—
Or if it's because he didn't.
"How long?"
Kurama turns—so much for avoiding him. "What?"
Hiei is leaning against his window, the cool air a blessing on Kurama's too-hot skin. "How long have you been sick?"
He stops to ponder this. "You want to know how long I've known I was going to die?"
Something flashes in the other man's eyes—fear? That was ridiculous, Hiei fears nothing. His voice is as hard and blunt as usual. "No. You are not dying. I want to know how long you've been sick."
Kurama laughs, belatedly noticing how hard it is to draw air into his lungs. "That's noble of you to say, Hiei. One of us should keep hoping." He pauses. "I've known for as long as I've also known that I loved you."
"Love. Not loved."
That makes him grin, but also frown—how much did this pain Hiei, that he quibbled over the tense of words, rather than the words themselves? "Since the Dark Tournament. After Karasu."
"Genkai."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a suggestion. Kurama can't meet Hiei's eyes; he knows the fire demon is finally putting together everything that had happened over the past year. "She can't fix this." Hiei starts to speak, but Kurama cuts him off. "Neither can Yukina. Or Botan or Koenma. No one can fix this. This is my own fault, for thinking I could inhabit a human body without any side—"
Lips; hot, chapped lips on his silence him. Hiei pulls back only far enough to murmur, "Stop talking," before his lips are back, kissing, claiming. Kurama, stunned, tries to pull back, but Hiei winds his fingers through the fox's hair and yanks him down to his level, the pain sparking bright behind Kurama's closed eyes. Hiei's sharp fangs close on his bottom lip and bite down, and this time Kurama really does pull back, ignoring the sharp snap of hair ripped from his head.
He stumbles, the backs of his knees hitting the bed and his legs suddenly deciding that they would no longer hold his weight. Hiei looks at him strangely, forgotten strands of red still tangled in his fingers, and Kurama can tell that his eyes are fixated on the blood running from his lip.
His next words cut Kurama to the bone. "You really are dying."
Kurama tries for a wry smile. "I told you so."
The other man considers him for another moment before shaking the strands of hair from his hands and closing them around the hem of his shirt, yanking it off. It was forgotten on the floor almost a moment later as he climbs onto the bed, straddling Kurama and pushing him into the sheets. His teeth sink into the soft junction of Kurama's neck and shoulder, and the fox gasps. Struggling for his voice, he says, "You know this won't heal me?" He doesn't know if he means it to be a question—it just came out that way.
Hiei stills above him. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. "I know."
It is the pain that wakes him.
Fire tears through his veins and he writhes, tangled in the sheets. He cries out and his eyes snap open to a world of lavender. "I can't see!"
Arms wrap around him, hug him tight. "I know."
He can feel his lungs struggling for air; his breath comes in wheezy gasps that make him cringe. "It hurts. Everything hurts."
Again, that voice, those arms. "I know. Relax, fox."
Fox? In the back of his mind, he can hear Youko scream—how could he have forgotten? He isn't the only one about to die. That thought rips the last semblance of his composure to shreds. He is dying. He is going to die. Tears stream down his cheeks and he wonders vaguely what color they are. His chest heaves with a ragged sob that sends more pain cascading down his spine and his voice is not his own. "I don't want to die!"
Hot lips rest on his neck—he can feel them moving to form words, but he can't hear them. He thinks he knows what they are.
And just as suddenly the pain is gone and he understands how death can be a relief. The world rushes back to his senses, and he realizes how much sound there is in silence, how much color there is in darkness. Heliotropes are twined up and down his limbs, their purple faces turned towards the rising sun peeking through his window. They ensnare the man behind him, and Kurama turns his head to face him. Hiei smiles.
He smiles back. "How I've loved you."
The fire demon's smile falters for a moment, but his grip around Kurama's chest tightens. "I know," he says, his gaze fixed on green and purple eyes. "I love you too."
The pot is breaking—the roots want out.
He drowns in purple.
Reviews would be lovely. Writers thrive on them, they make us better.
Kit