Characters:
Dōmeki-centric.
Some Yūko and Watanuki.
Disclaimer:
xxxHOLiC and its characters belong to CLAMP.
Warning:
Character death. But of the fluffy kind.
Pass it on
It's Kunogi who calls you, all tears and needless apologies, begging forgiveness for something that, for once, wasn't her fault. You give her nothing more than a one-word acknowledgment of the news. It's blaming the messenger. You don't care.
Only yesterday you polished your grandfather's heirloom and put it back in its stand, thinking it had served its purpose.
Hitsuzen, it seems, has a healthy sense of irony.
You pick it up.
Your didn't expect to go back there, and certainly not so soon, but your feet know the path perfectly. You don't run. There's no point in running anymore. You walk, outwardly as calm and composed as ever. Stop once or twice on the way to exchange a greeting with a parishioner. Hurrying isn't necessary. You'll get there.
When you do, she's waiting, her face quiet and serious. She's no longer the woman you've shared drinks and jokes with, but the Dimensional Witch. Nothing more or less, anymore.
The Wish Granter holds yours in her hand, an immaterial heap of tangled threads that palpitate repulsively, like a heart freshly ripped off. No one, seeing this, would doubt that it's a curse.
"Give it to me," you say.
"There is a price," she answers. Old dance of the dealer and customer, albeit slightly different than her usual. You've danced with her before, and the layers of are you sure this is what you want and it can't be taken back are unnecessary.
When you hold out the bow she doesn't spell out what exactly it is you're giving up. You know.
It's your decision, now as always.
When the components of the deal change hands, the throbbing mass jerks away from the bow as if burned. For a moment you feel strangely empty, like something you never noticed has been ripped from you; then the curse seeps in, penetrates your skin and you can feel it crawling inside.
The deal is done. You walk away without a word and step firmly out of the kekkai's protection.
"You are the most infuriating idiot I have ever had the misfortune to encounter." He's leaning on the wall opposite the shop, looking outraged and see-through and almost imperceptibly touched. "And you were mean to Himawari-chan, you jerk."
"I'll apologize to her. And I'm not the one who can't check for trucks when he crosses a street," you point out in as deadpan a tone as you can manage.
It might be that some relief pierced through, so you add "moron," for good measure.
As you walk away from the kekkai something shapeless and purple appears at the edge of your vision, takes in the intensity of Watanuki's glare and crawls away with deliberate, conscientious indifference.
"I'm going to haunt you," he spits in annoyance, falling in step behind you just like old times. "For ever. You'll never be rid of me. How's that for turnabout?"
He always had to do things on his own terms. And you always let him.
Most of the time, anyway.
"It's fine," you say, like you couldn't care less. "You can teach me to cook."