In Japan – China – most Asian countries, for that matter.. to commit suicide was the put yourself into an eternal limbo. A limbo in which you continuously repeated your act, neverending, for all eternity. Or – the other, which was just as likely – you went straight to hell.

Neither were pretty thoughts. Not in the slightest.

She didn't want to imagine Kikyou repeating the same thing over and over, waiting for some ultimate realization that what she was doing was wrong. She didn't want to imagine her suspended in nothingness, and exactly that : nothing.

And Inuyasha, who had been a shell. A cheap trinket from some tourist shop that was painted and glittering at the outside, but inside there was nothing but stale air.

To be so broken. To be so hollow. Kagome had never even scraped the edges of something like that. Her sadness had sprouted from her ignorance. She'd gotten so sick and tired of clinging to the fragmented memories of a father she didn't know and barely remembered.

Sometimes her mother didn't understand anything at all, and a part of her ultimately knew that /he/ would understand. That /he/ would hold her and tell her that everything was alright. But /he/ was also underneath six feet of earth, a stone plaque engraved with 'A Wonderful Husband and Father'.

After the funeral, a good six years later, she felt such contempt when visiting his grave that it startled her. Souta barely ever remembered who they were visiting. Okaa-san had played as his father, and he'd accepted that. He hadn't needed anything else.

But always .. always she asked the same questions when she looked at the sentimental statement that only inspired scorn…

A father to who? When had he been there to kiss her cheek .. hold her hand?

When had his appearance actually mattered?

When he was dead and gone.

Only when he wasn't there did she need him. Only when his voice was nonexistent did she want to hear him scold …

She opened the door after he'd spoken, hands wringing and body rigid with concern. The hanyou looked like he could be the same boy in the picture – that he could actually pass for being so young when the pillow he was holding was clutched in a deathgrip.

The girl walked over and sat beside him, not knowing exactly what to say. It wasn't alright, it wasn't going to be okay, and she couldn't fix any of it. So she was left silent, hoping her appearance was enough to help.

He wished he could go back. Back in time, to when things were simpler. To when he was younger, before his mother died.

Kami, she'd been so wonderful. Smiling just when he needed her to. Kissing his forhead when he cried about people making fun of him for being 'half breed.' Rubbing his ears so he would be able to sleep.

If only she were here to calmly explain all the answers to him. To explain what the hell he was supposed to do about his whole situation. What was he supposed to do or say or act when he found himself drowning in his own heart. A heart he thought had died with Kikyou. His affection for Kagome suffocated him in confusion and guilt. He was afraid to fall in love with anyone else; at every happy moment, he would be wondering "What if Kikyou was still alive?" Would he still be hugging this girl, or kissing that girl, or marrying yet another? Would he and Kikyou still be together if she hadn't killed herself, still be happy?

Sometimes he wished he could be a bit more like Miroku. Kami, that guy had no fear when it came to women. He wasn't afraid to admit he liked this one, or that one, or the girl over there. He wasn't pained when he obsessed about one girl while still developing a crush on a second. Lucky bastard.

Well, except the groping thing. That, Inuyasha could live without.

The hanyou pulled his face out of the pillow, feeling more like a child than ever. Like the little boy who had scraped his knee, who was trying not to cry because his father had told him not to. Because he was trying to be tough.

Forget about being tough, forget about honor, and pride, and any other stupid restraining quality he tried to have. The hanyou rested his forhead on Kagome's shoulder, eyes closed and streaming tears.

"It's not fair, Kagome. Why couldn't I save her?"

He may have been half demon....

...but half of him was human, too.

And humans cried.

"I should have been able to...she shouldn't have had to die..."

"None of it was your fault."

She took his hand and squeezed it, feeling his tears sink into her uniform and her heart sink to somewhere near her abdomen. It was so strange to see him like this, the stone wall crumbling, the classic bully crying … it was almost depressing in that sense as well. Before Kikyou had died, he had been an everlasting constant. Unchanging. But now … now…

God, she hated to see him so sad.

"If you were supposed to save her, you would've … don't think for a second that you're to blame for her passing, alright?"

Forget about being strong, and brave, and tough. The act isn't necessary right now - not that it ever is.
vinyl rainb0w: She didn't care if he was crying … because she was always going to be there as a shoulder to lean on. If she was needed, she'd be there.

Nothing is fair, Inuyasha - nothing at all is fair. The rules in life are oxymorons, and come to always be a constant paradox. If things were fair you'd still have Kikyou, I wouldn't love you, and our parents would be alive. Things would be so much easier.

"It wasn't your fault that she died."

Kagome repeated, resting her head to the side.

Her fingers calmly ran through his hair as she fell silent. Sometimes crying made things slightly less foggy. The bottled feelings were let loose and the clouds of emotions could drift away, even if they gave you a terrible headache in the meantime.

If only he could believe her. If only he could get his heart to agree. To say it wasn't his fault. She wanted to die. She would have died either way.

But it didn't /feel/ so damn simple as that.

The guilt still ate him alive, still throbbed as painfully as his heart against his ribs.

Kami, she was so warm. So comforting. His ears twitched as her hand glided through his hair; an old feeling surfaced, the feeling of being small. The kind of small that made it easy to be comforted. Either that, or Kagome seemed the kind of comforting big right now, like that old, big comforter you had on your bed for years on end because it never failed to make you warm.

Crying wasn't making things more clear, but it did feel good. Better than he would have admitted. It emptied you a little, releasing tears and worry, pain and sorrow. It was a release, a sorely needed release. He could be the protected instead of the protector, the child instead of the guardian, the comforted instead of the comforter.

That was something everyone needed at one point or another.

Even if he /was/ Inuyasha.

Love hurt so much. But it could heal as well, mending a broken heart. Love wasn't always boy loves girl, boy marries girl, girl and boy have children. There was the love of friends, which could sometimes prove even more powerful than that between spouses.

Already half asleep, one clawed hand reached up to grip her sleeve as he shifted a little closer. His breathing evened out, unable to keep his eyes open much longer.

"Thanks....Kagome...."

Things were never that simple. All Kagome could do was try to remind him of what was the truth.

A smile twitched at the corners of her lips.

"No problem."

The girl whispered, not wanting to make him stir.

She was so comfortable here, being the one with protective surges spiraling deep inside her chest. It was nice, and then all at once scary to see Inuyasha so vulnerable. Sometimes she forgot he was just a teenager.

After a few minutes, she stopped running her hand through his hair. Slowly, and almost unwillingly, her lids shut and her mouth parted, steady breaths that of one fallen into a light sleep.

Miroku, on the other hand, had been slightly worried about his friend for the end half of the day, and had dragged Sango with him to the hanyou's house to figure out what had happened. Sporting a few new bruises and a hefty backpack, his limp was still there. Maybe his grade-mate had reinforced the bruised muscles sometime during the day.

He pushed back the already slightly opened door, taking it as a not-so-good sign.

"Miroku."

Sango was barely breathing in the effort not to disturb the hanyou or her friend.

"Miroku, maybe this isn't a very good idea...."

True, she'd been worried as well, but...

What if they didn't want to be disturbed?

She shouldn't really be one to complain, though. After seeing Inuyasha run out first with Kagome on his heels, she'd been tense all day. The girl hadn't eaten lunch, had zoned out in class and did nothing but tap her pencil on the desk.

Despite herself, Sango peeked in, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw nothing was terribly wrong. Both of her friends were fast asleep, sitting together like they had when they were little and used to share naptime. Except....were those tearstains on Inuyasha's face? It was so unlike him to cry, let alone sleep in front of - or in this case, on - someone else.

Inuyasha, meanwhile, stirred ever so slightly. His sleep had been pleasent, dreamless. The first time in a long time that old memory hadn't haunted him while he rested. Kagome's scent was strong in his sensitive nose, acting like a warm blanket around him. He was reluctant to leave the peaceful slumber, the rare moment devoid of guarding himself. He moved again, more prominantly this time.

Damn. Life had been so perfect.

And then he'd woken up.