Disclaimer: Not mine. I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, sadly.
Author's notes: Hope this is alright. Using second person POV here—do tell me about the things that are lacking in my writing. Criticism and comments are welcome.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed previously, your comments are treasured eternally. : ) FengShuiSensei, I'm really grateful for that. Ahh, enjoy the read!
Holding You
Morning has broken, and the wintry light falls through the windows in weak shafts that illuminate hi face as he lies sleeping, arm thrown carelessly across the covers in the innocent manner of a young child.
The sunlight brings the colour to his ivory face, lingering over each feature like the caress of a whispery wind. You can't help but watch mesmerised in the contours of his face, losing yourself in the delicate, ethereal perfection that is his. The scar on his cheek does not escape your notice instead it burns in your memory leaving a red welt across your mind, how you long to reach out and make those gashes disappear in the softness of a kiss. If it hurts this much for you, you think he pain for him must be unbearable. And you are not wrong.
He cries out softly and you immediately grasp his curled fish in yours, gently prying the tense fingers apart, lest he hurt himself. You see the frown etch itself across his face; eyebrows arched and mouth slightly pouting.
Another whimper, and he instinctively rolls towards you, an you feel the warmth from his body against yours, soothing, comforting, like the touch of something from long past. The rich red makes a stark contrast against the pure white of the sheets, and you can't help but marvel at the silken strands as they spill onto flawless shoulders.
Snaking an arm around his waist you hold him close, pleasantly surprised when he snuggles up obligingly against your torso. You lie like that for many minutes. You really don't know how many, and neither do you care, because you can feel his pulse relax into a steady rhythm, slow and calm as the falling of the snow outside.
You know the worst has passed.
There are days like this; other days where the nightmares descend in a horrifying whirl of faces and names, an endless roll call of the long deceased. His memory is superb—you don't know if that is a curse or blessing—and each victim is inscribed on a golden tableaux hidden in the deep recesses of his tired mind, a burden so heavy that even he cannot put it down after all this while.
You wish that you can help, but you know there can be nothing you can do. All that remains is being there for him, when he needs you the most. Fervently, you pray that that is enough. Perhaps it is.
You don't have these kinds of dreams. You think it's because you've long accepted killing as part of your philosophy—you like to think it doesn't affect you, doesn't bring a twinge of guilt to your aching heart.
But you do recall times where you awoke abruptly in the night, silence punctuated by the harsh sounds of your won breathing, only to feel a pair of arms wrapping themselves around you, their touch warm, gently massaging till the tenseness drains out of you shoulder and sleep once again pervades your mind to lull you into a dreamless slumber.
Those nights, they come and go.
His chest rises and falls softly with each breath. The square of light that the open window casts upon the floor has moved a good distance, so you know that at least an hour has passed, It's so uncharacteristic of you—this unwillingness to move from the comfort of the bed—but for him only you're willing to make exceptions. You've never quite met anyone like him before, and you aren't going to let him go. The stakes are too high for that.
You part your lips and murmur his name into his ear, drawing out each syllable. "Kenshin," you whisper. He stirs, and you immediately regret your action; he needs his rest, and you have just disturbed the precious hours where he can truly fall asleep in the darkness of nightfall. You are one of the rare few he allows himself to fall into a deep sleep in the company of.
Remorse floods you as his eyes flutter open; clouded orbs gazing at you before he breaks out into a sleepy smile. "You should be asleep," you say, voice gently reproving, as though chiding him for being awake although you're the one who has cause it so.
He laughs, and you revel in the wound, light musical. "So should you," he teases, tugging at a lock of your hair, brushing the bangs away from your face.
You can't help but he drawn into the sparkling eyes, blue and pure as the highest sky, boundless as infinity.
He stands up and pulls you after, wrapping a blanket around the both of you for warmth. He is at the window, resting against the frame, half leaning out, half standing, arm looped around yours to steady himself.
His hair catches the glint of the sun and turns fiery red, igniting his face with his glowing mile. You gaze out of the window and the landscape is bleak, dusty white tinged with the greyness of icy frost, barren and stark like the wasteland of your past.
The fire that is him consumes you and ravages each fibre in your frame with its eager tongue. He is your reason, your life and your flame. With him you burn with intensity far greater than you won, lost in the blinding brilliance that shrouds him like a cloak.
You want to hold him close and see him light the world around him with his fire, not caring it you became the fuel for his flames, burnt to powdery ash as he grows stronger.
For he is your fire; he has been and always is. Eternity is but a flicker in his dazzling radiance.
The End