Kikyou/Kagome. 311 words.
To Kagome, the world is colored in autumn, cool and crisp and vivid, and turning to the dead time. She shivers and wraps her arms around herself tightly. Kikyou is water standing still, eternity frozen for a moment, and Kagome wants to hold her in her hands.
The cold creeps under her skin when Kikyou touches her, icy fingers on the curve of her cheekbone, and she imagines them at the hollow of her throat and the crest of her thighs. She blushes, so hot, her world full of ambers and reds, fire and blood, and Kikyou's hand hovers on her face a moment longer.
Her mouth is open for a dozen words, but then she shuts it, because in silence, she is somehow other than herself. So she can bring her mouth against Kikyou's, lips shut tightly so that it could be platonic if she wants to pretend later.
Kikyou tastes like winter tastes, like the nothing left after the snowflakes melt on her tongue.
She's so pretty, Kagome thinks, pulling away. So pretty. It should be arrogant, because Kikyou should be the face in the mirror, but instead Kagome feels like the girl in the mirror; she's the reflection and Kikyou can make her go away if she doesn't like her.
Kikyou just watches her, distant and untouchable, and
oh, Kagome wants to touch her. "It smells like a funeral," Kikyou
says to her, and Kagome inhales so deeply she begins to cough, strangling on
the burning scent of the air, but that's okay. It ought to twist in her chest
like this.
"It is one," she chokes out, face contorting. "Everyone's.
Yours. Mine."
She wishes she could go back and change things around, so that Kikyou could've liked her; right now, she wants Kikyou to like her. She knows she could've loved her.
"Hush," Kikyou says, almost tenderly.