Not Again

Not again.

He's doing it again. I can't take it when he does this-he thinks we don't notice, but I do. How could I not? He's so different, so pensive and serious, and well, sad. He's normally so jovial and lighthearted, always smiling, talking, teasing.

Now all he does is silently stare at his hand.

Now all I can do is stare at him. My mind has long forgotten the conversation of a moment before, the others swiftly become as distant in my sight as the hazy horizon, their chatter only the slightest hum to my ears. Even the solid feeling of the Hiraikotsu on my back fades away; I am nothing but a pair of eyes, eyes that cannot look away from him.

He is tense. You'd think those robes of his would be able to hide it, but they can't. Not from me anyway. I can see it in the way his shoulders are set, the expression on his face, the cords in his neck, most of all in the way he holds himself so still.

When he's relaxed, he's never that still. Even when he's injured, he manages to move somehow, whether it is merely to shift from side to side in slumber-or to indulge his wandering hand as he is so prone to-he moves.

As much as I detest the feelings of disrespect, not to mention the embarrassment that hand brings me, I can't help but prefer it to what I see now.

His hand, rather than an extension of his hentai personality, meant to touch rather than be seen, is now the object of his scrutiny.

Covered in glove and prayer beads, it looks harmless enough right now. But we all know perfectly well that it isn't.

He doesn't even seem to notice the beads or cloth that cover it; he sees beyond them, to the abyss within; the Kazaana.

His eyes look straight at them, and yet they are far away; he sees something worse, I fear.

The grim line of his mouth, normally curved in a winning, if fake smile, not a little flirtatious, is now tight and strained, like everything else about him at this moment; the total opposite of his natural countenance.

It makes me sad just watching him. Where has his groping gone, his unashamed flirting, his ease with lying to get us a comfortable place to sleep? Where has the light gone from his eyes, the animation from his face, the vigor from his movements?

Where has the life gone? Has it all been sucked into that damnable abyss?

Sometimes I wonder.

I wonder if all his grins, his teasing, his lecherous nature and fun loving attitude are all a facade, meant to keep us from seeing the real him.

I wonder if the man I see now, expression morose and somber, his hand rather than a woman the object of his attention, isn't the real thing.

I hope with every part of me that I'm wrong.

I can't lose another man I love to Naraku.

Not again.


A/N: Here you go. Miroku's will pop in as soon as I decide what aspect of Sango I want to write about from his perspective. Suggestions are appreciated, although I can't promise I'll follow them if my muse does decide on something after all.

Hope you like it.