Title: The problem is Eternity

Author: Serra-Winter

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: It's really short, but cute. Don't let the fact that these are just a few words discourage you from reviewing. Thank you!

The problem is Eternity

The sun peeks through the curtains, reflecting on his hair, on their sheets, making the upturned cd's on her desk light up in the colors of the rainbow. She makes a sleepy note that she should really try to handle her music with more care. Sesshoumaru would love to see the glimmering little disks in ruins, so that she may never listen to that "racket" again. Remembering how much he resembles her granfather when he says that, a giggle rises in her throat, like a little butterfly, begging her to let it tickle her tongue and wake the sleeping beauty next to her, but she suppresses it. There really isn't much to laugh about, after all, except maybe the fact that he sometimes acts as though he really is someone's grandpa. She can see it now, Sesshoumaru, bend with old age, smoking a cigar with a little princess in his lap. Telling the children stories about 'the old days', and then he won't be talking about WWII, or the digital revolution, but about the really old days. When there were still youkai, and miko's. When there were still hanyou.

Whenever she thinks about a certain hanyou these days, the things they've done together almost seem just that. A story, retold after thousands of years, the words just an echo of the things they did together, but still never losing their glimmer. She likes to cling to that echo, because it would seem so wrong to just let it fade to the back of her mind, even though she has known, all this time, that an echo consist of nothing but soundwaves playing tag through the cave of her scalp. Sometimes, she almost thinks that the little glimmer they still have isn't enough.

Almost.

He is sleeping, or at least, she thinks he is; his eyes are closed, but then again, he might be faking it. He has probably even refined the art of feigning sleep.

How wrong they are, the human miko and the youkai prince. But their love seems tailor-made, old and wanting and fiery, like it is the only one in the world, so maybe it is God's doing after all. Maybe they are supposed to be.

Or maybe her almost-human heart is no exception, and their love won't really last, because love isn't an emotion that's forever, even though she likes to think that she is the exception. She likes to think he is the exception.

She'll probably hope for that, even after he has left her. It might be fifty years away, it might be a century, but it will happen, when he has tired of her.

"Change of season, love can die," she quotes, whispering against his delicate skin. His eyes snap open -- it seems that he really was faking it -- and he bends down to kiss her. She remembers that she once thought that he kisses her as though she is made out of cotton candy, and that she will bruise and melt when the pressure is too high.

"Not right now, koi," he says, and it makes her feel loved, better, more secure, like it has done for the last five years.

No, not right now. Their minds shouldn't be burdened by what is yet to come.

She wonders if he likes cotton candy.

- fin-