It is a cold night in the forest; tree leaves rustle in the wind. An arrow slides from its quiver into pale fingers, within seconds it is nocked and ready to fly. Kikyo's eyes scan up the bark, across the tangle of tree limbs, until they land on her target. Inuyasha crouches on a branch just above shoulder-level and she meets his gaze with cool composure. His eyes flicker, duller than in daylight, and she thinks she'd rather stare straight into the summer sun than admit she's memorized the gold of them.
They've played this game often, one perched tight above and one pulled taut below, neither moving, nor making a sound. In some other life, she'd shoot him and the night would sing with his screams, or he'd reveal his undying love as his claws skimmed her skin and the silence between them filled up with her moans. Instead, they only meet in this clearing far away from home, pushing the bounds of what is acceptable, his gaze always breaking first to spare her human arms.
They'd screamed at each other once. Her arrow nicked his ear and he'd called her a bitch. He came back two nights later, though, ear healed but flicking more than it did before, his gaze harsh as lightning. Kikyo dutifully took aim once more, and it was then she knew herself to be the village skeleton, aching little by little until she crumbled to the earth.
Kikyo lowers her weapon first. Inuyasha startles—she has never moved before him.
She turns and waits, and it takes him a second to jump down and join her at her side. They press deeper into the forest, away from shrines and huts and jewels, walking in silence for the sake of it, and this, too, is a type of confession.