*snip, snip*
I watched as the long, dark tresses slid over my fingers, to mingle where others of its kind had fallen at my feet. I changed my hold on the locks and cut another section. I had been surprised at how soft and silky it felt. It looked like a rat's nest. I had assumed it would feel the same way. I ought to have known better. He had always been unpredictable.
//Kurama stood by and watched as his friend battled the paid assassin. The dark haired youkai may be strong but he was no match for the winged executioner's supernatural agility and expertise. His relative youth and inexperience made the outcome of the confrontation all but a certainty. Kurama couldn't suppress a wince when he saw the sharp blades connect. The young youkai went down, torrents of blood streaming down his face, screaming in agony. Deep beneath the ice-cold water that shrouded his Youko heart, he recalled that his friend's face had been a beautiful thing to behold, and that he had eyes that were as clear as the Makai night sky. Perhaps he should have cautioned the assassin to make the death clean. But it was too late now.//
Dark hair. Long lengths of soft, silky dark hair. I ran my hands through the remaining strands. Perhaps opposites DO attract.
//"Ugh. Another silly conquest. Let's go for some bigger game Kurama." He smiled indulgently at the half-hopeful, half-encouraging look at his friend's face, admiring the long, dark hair framing it. This dark-haired youth, with an impish smile and an irreverent attitude reminded him of someone. Someone who betrayed him. Someone he betrayed. Someone who used to be his friend. It was all so long ago.//
I had always wanted to do this. Not that I had much opportunity to do so. I could count in the fingers of one hand how many times I had seen him without his hair all gelled-up. And now I could. I wonder how Keiko-chan restrained herself from touching his hair all day long. I wonder if Keiko-chan knew how soft it felt. Perhaps she did. They didn't always fight, after all.
//"My pendant!" The silver thief turned his head, appalled at what he saw his young friend was doing. He tried to call him back. "I need it." He looked back from where they had come. He could feel the presence of the guardians. They were coming. Coming too fast for him to save…Inari-sama, there was so much blood.//
I ran a comb through his hair, checking to see if I had left any uneven spots. He looked the same, exactly as he was the day before. The marks on his body and face were gone, the long hair now lay scattered on the floor and his eyes had returned to their brown color. Beloved brown color. Nothing to mark his change. Except that he WAS different.
//The young ningen stood before the devastation that used to be the stadium, facing an opponent that was a thousand times better than him in both power and experience. His face was a mask of intense concentration. Kurama felt his friend gather what was left of his ki, preparing to use it in a last desperate attempt to destroy the ningen-turned-youkai who were threatening all their lives. A blast of power and light flared in the arena. Kurama's throat closed up, repressing a mourning keen when he saw his friend fall to the ground. Not again. Inari-sama, not again.//
I took off the white cloth protecting his shoulders, handed him a large hand mirror and stepped back. He brushed away the soft tendrils that fell on his forehead. He looked adorable. Nothing like the hard, brash youth he generally paints himself to be.
By tacit agreement, we never told him how young and vulnerable he looked with his hair down. Had he known, he would never have appeared in public again without gel on his hair.
I treasure the few times he had inadvertently shown us his softer side. I suspect everyone does. I KNOW that Genkai-shihan and Keiko-chan were less likely to bap him in the head when he wears his hair like that. I wonder if he ever figured that one out.
"Oi, not bad, Kurama. Not bad at all. Maybe you should think of having an alternative career," he said with a cheeky grin.
I smiled back, but my lips didn't quite move as I intended them to. "Yuusuke…"
"What?"
I opened my mouth to ask – not to rail, not to rant – but merely to ask why the youth did what he did. I opened my mouth and no sound came out of my throat. All of a sudden it became difficult to breathe.
//He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, drowning out all sounds. 'Hurry, hurry, hurry', it seemed to chant. And once again, from beneath the frozen icy exterior, his heart screamed a long-forgotten cry. 'He's not going to wait for you. HE didn't wait for you. You must reach him NOW'. From the corner of his eye he saw a blaze of orange light, and the barrier was broken. They were free…and they were too late. He didn't know one could feel this cold and not die from it.//
"Kurama?"
I swallowed and made another attempt at a smile. It was marginally better than the first. "How does it feel to be a youkai?"
He shrugged, eyeing me in concern. "I don't feel any different. Not physically anyway."
"And non-physically?"
He shrugged again, this time it was more because of discomfort than lack of care. "I feel as if there's an itch that I can't reach, can't scratch and I don't even know where the hell it is. It's driving me crazy."
I could only nod. I, out of all of his friends, could understand best what he meant. Over a thousand years old and still I'm not able to find where in Inari's nine tails the discontent stems from.
Perhaps it has something to do with all the friends I had seen die in front of me. Or perhaps it was something as simple as having to eat pancakes that morning when what I really wanted was cereal. A bad breakfast can ruin your whole day. And the sight of a dear one's blood on your hands can put you in a lousy mood for a long, long time.
"At least you're alive to feel the itching."
"Yeah," he replied with a grin. "Ofukuro would never have forgiven me if I had died in that cave."
"Yuusuke, you DID die in the cave."
It was amazing, really. The way time had seemed to stand still. Or maybe, it wasn't. After all the times it has happened to me, perhaps I ought to be used to it by now. I should be welcoming the numbness, the cold, blessed numbness that settles over my heart and the way my body seems to move without conscious effort on my part while my mind catalogues useless pieces of information — like how aesthetically pleasing it was, the way he glided gracefully in the air; how life-like he looked lying there on the cold ground; how amazing that a wound that must have literally shattered his brave, little heart could produce so little blood.
Yuusuke waved a hand in unconcern.
He could afford to. How many times has he cheated death? Three times by my count. Once, before I even met him; second, when I hardly knew him at all; and third, when I would have given anything to keep him alive.
Only sixteen years in this world and already he has faced Death that often. But in his case, Death wears a lovely, pink kimono and looks after his well-being like an over-protective mother hen. We should all be so lucky.
If Kuronue had his own personal ferry girl hovering over him, perhaps he would still be roaming the wild plains of Makai. But Kuronue didn't have the favor of the gods. He didn't have Yuusuke's inexhaustible supply of good luck. He didn't have my age and experience. He wasn't cunning enough, or fast enough or smart enough. He didn't have anything except the small slice of my life that I gave him. But he loved me. And sometimes, I remember that I loved him too.
The mind is funny that way. There are days when I can't even recall Kuronue's face. And then there are days when I can't find any reprieve from my memories. He haunts me sometimes. He and all the others.
I watched Yuusuke as he rummaged in his closet for a shirt. He had just died yesterday. Died and resurrected as a youkai. And yet he seems unfazed by it all. He is like a child, resilient and blissfully unconcerned about what tomorrow will bring.
I envy him.
Yomi would have laughed long and hard if he had known. My old friend would never have understood how a simple life with its simple pleasures could ever satisfy me. And it wouldn't have, if I still was only Youko Kurama.
I bent down to pick up the hand mirror that he had left on the chair. I saw my own reflection looking back at me. Minamino Shuuichi may have a birth certificate and various school records, but he doesn't really exist. There is no Minamino Shuuichi. There is only me, my memories as a wild and free Youko and my current life as a ningen. And yet, Minamino Shuuichi's life feels more real than my old one. I sometimes find myself believing that I am in fact just a normal high school student. As if it was my thousand-years struggle in the wilds of Makai that is the dream and not this ningen existence.
It never lasts though. Just as I finally begin to feel contentment and sometimes, even peace, memories of a dark-plaited lover would intrude. Minamino Shuuichi would not have known him. He wouldn't have known any of them.
But Hiei, he would have understood. He would have understood how the burden of so many memories can take its toll on one's soul. He would have understood how one can wish that once, just once, one can close one's eyes and not see them staring at you with their open, lifeless eyes. The worst part is when you see them as they were before; so life-like with their brilliant eyes and full, smiling lips; so heart-wrenchingly real that you can only hold your breath and pray they don't disappear as your blood slowly pools on the ground from wounds that never really heal. And still they fade away. And you are left with nothing but the hope that tomorrow, surely tomorrow will be different.
How this life wearies me. I long to sleep and never wake up. To no longer be bothered by memories of the past and the pain of the present. But it seems in this, like in most things in my life, I have no choice. I must endure. I run, and fight and endure. And as the years pass, my heart becomes more and more encased in ice until I fear that nothing and no one can break through it anymore.
He puts on his denim jacket. The adorable look is now gone, I think wistfully, doused by the gel he poured over his head.
"C'mon, Kurama, Kuwabara and the others are waiting for us."
Will *you* be different? Will you escape the fate of all the others that I have loved? You with your dark hair, and sweet smile, and eyes that gaze at me with so much trust, will you stay with me this time? Or shall I lose you again, see an assassin's blade cut through your flesh, forever damaging your beautiful face? I already have nightmares about your last fight in the tournament. And I will surely carry with me the image of you lying dead on the cave floor for eons to come.
But you are alive for now. Just as I am. But if you should die tomorrow, and if I should still be alive, I will go on. And in time, I will find someone else, hoping all the while that he be the one.
But for today, I hope and pray with all the fervor that my cold, lonely heart can muster that my search ends with you.
Owari
23 April 2002