Disclaimer: Disclaimed. Enough said.

Author's Note: I was surprised with myself, actually, for working on this chapter with my finals week looming before me...it's a matter of fourteen hours left, to be exact...but it kind of just wrote itself in the midst of all my stress and bouts of free-floating anxiety. I hope it's all right—I know most of you are longing for some Kag/Inu action, but that had to take a backseat in this chapter for a bit more of plot development. This is actually the longest chapter I've ever written (whoopee!) and I was going to continue, but then the theme of the coming events seemed better suited to a fresh chappie. That's when some major Kag/Inu is going to be up, so I hope you'll bear with me in this one! I know I promised to have the casting for the play out with Chapter 9, but a new idea occurred to me and I decided to postpone it. :P Just as well—I still haven't decided whether or not to cave in to the threats of die-hard Kag/Inu lovers, or go with gut feel on this one, so give me a little more time, ne? ;;)

THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MY REVIEWERS FOR YOUR REVIEWS, AND TO MY READERS FOR YOUR CONTINUED PATRONAGE! It means the world to me. :P ;;kiss;; ;;kiss;;

Oh yes, and warnings! There's something just a little bit graphic near the middle of the chapter, so make sure to cover your eyes and skip over if you're not into that kind of thing.

Chapter 9

Auditions and Changing Winds

She reeled from the pain, her entire body tensing from it and from the anticipation of crashing into something else now that she was disoriented. Instead, the second the shock had lifted from her senses she realized that though she wasn't standing, she wasn't exactly flat on the floor. She felt strange—suspended awkwardly, but comfortable somehow. It took another second for her to realize that she was pressed up against the wall she had first bumped into—only now that her mind wasn't numb, it occurred to her that walls didn't dip forward, and they certainly didn't smell faintly of crisp paper, tea, and grass.

Sango cracked an eye open but only managed to do so halfway, considering the way her head was held tightly against what she realized was a part of someone's torso. Against her forehead she felt a steady rise and fall, and the full nature of her current state hit her as the heat of another person's body seeped into her own and a soft voice murmured against her ear.

"Are you all right?"

She jerked backwards, and the arms that had been locked so securely around her moments before gave way as their owner seemed to sense her distress. Sango flailed for a moment as the sudden absence of those arms and the rest of the body that had kept her from falling disappeared, along with their warmth. She steadied herself against the wall, cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed red, as she fought down the sense of loss and denied the sense of security she had felt within the stranger's arms.

For one wild moment, she had believed him to be Miroku.

But that voice had shattered everything.

Because it was not in her nature to do otherwise, she looked solidly up at her assailant and rescuer.

It was so strange how the darkness she saw in his eyes could dazzle. For a moment, he was too beautiful to even look at and she couldn't help but lower her eyes to the darkness of his shirt. She knew she was looking beyond stupid at this point, as much as she knew that her heart was hammering wildly in her chest, but she seemed unable to pull herself together. It was the damn heat in her veins that was destroying her! She was almost completely sure that if someone were to toss a bucket of water on her right now, it would evaporate inches from her.

"Miss?"

Despite its softness, there was a strange kind of authority in that voice that compelled her to look back up at him. Her gaze slid over the deep whiteness of his skin, the slim, upturned lips, the fine, straight noise and slight cheekbones, and locked back onto the aching vortex of splendor in his eyes. Without knowing it, she had taken a step towards him.

"Miss?" he repeated politely. "Are you all right?"

Am I what? Huh?

She could've kicked herself.

"Y-Yes," she said hastily, bowing swiftly. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

"As was I," he replied, bowing slightly in turn. "I apologize."

"Oh no," Sango insisted, embarrassed. "Please don't. It's my fault—I was so distracted that I—" She froze, realizing as she brought her head up with both of them bowing, their faces were now inches apart. She looked up at him, his face slightly shadowed by his dark hair, and forgot what she was saying.

"Miss," the stranger murmured softly, lowering his tone in a way that was dangerous to her overall state of being, judging from the way her knees began weakening, "you really should allow me, as a gentleman, to take the blame."

"Oh—oh, yes of course." She lowered her face again, the Sango she was familiar with surfacing from beneath the swamp of feeling and taking charge, knowing that if she looked at him looking at her any longer, she'd do something incredibly idiotic.

"Please, right yourself," he went on, sounding pleased. She jumped when he laid a slender hand on her shoulder to make her stand up straight, and his tone shifted into concern once again. "Miss, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Sango burst out a little desperately, wanting to bolt that very instant. Every second in his presence seemed to turn her more and more into a flustered little chicken, which she most definitely was not, under any given circumstances! Miroku, for crying out loud, had never even gotten her this far undone!

"I'm glad," he smiled. "For a moment, I thought you were going to faint."

"M-Me?" she laughed nervously. "Oh, I don't faint. Ever."

"That's good. You're very fortunate, then." He smiled again, his eyes warming, before he looked away and back down the hall, where he seemed to have been heading. "I seem to be particularly unlucky today. Barreling into such a lovely young lady without her reacting adversely seems to be the only good thing that's happened to me as of yet."

Sango, they're just words.

Oh, but words could do so much. She managed to keep herself from giggling by a mere shred of self-control. And, of course, the dampening thought that she had often heard Miroku say something like that more than a few times—always addressing a different girl, a girl other than her.

That bastard.

Somehow, thinking of Miroku both soured and improved her mood. No doubt she felt the familiar anger she felt towards him creeping in to corrupt the strange, tenuous pleasure twisting through her system, but at the same time she felt a smug satisfaction. The fact that someone who made her respond to him so strongly was using such a line on her—it proved that some men still had taste.

Some part of her composure restored, she gave him a winning smile to show that she had taken his compliment with pleasure, and feeling slightly more at ease, she allowed the teasing part of her nature to get out.

"Sounds like you did it on purpose," she smirked impishly, biting her lower lip as she raised a brow at him. "Maybe I should blame you completely for what happened."

"If it means I'll be receiving more of your attention," he shot back, his eyes positively liquid. Her breath caught as he reached out suddenly, his hand coming to rest beneath her elbow in a light, tentative grip. "For instance, to get me out of your way, would you consider helping me find someone? A cousin of mine was said to be here and I have a need to speak with him. If you would be so kind...?"

"Of course," she affirmed, feeling a warm claw of something rake down her belly as his grip tightened and he twined her arm with his, inescapably bringing her closer to him. "Although I would think you're only trying to prolong your being in my company, as I'm certain you could find your cousin quite well by yourself."

It was his turn to smirk as he looked down at her. "Do you mind?"

Her eyes dancing with mirth, she shook her head shamelessly. "Not at all." Giving him a playful nudge, she shot him a measuring look. "So...does this cousin really exist? Or now that you've gotten me where you want me will I find out he was just a ruse?"

"Oh no," her new "friend" answered with a surprised laugh. "He's quite real. In fact, he's the head of the theater guild at this university."

Sango's laughter dropped and her eyes rounded out. "You mean Ayame-sempia?"

The stranger nodded, something in his expression shifting. "So you know him."

"I know about him," Sango corrected quickly, wondering what this strange feeling was that was now beginning to seep off of him in waves. "He's quite famous around here. I'm surprised you aren't, considering you're cousins. Don't you go to this university as well?"

He shook his head almost wistfully. "Sadly, there are other things past school that occupy my time. I'm the head of the Sohma family to which Ayame belongs. My name is Akito."

---

When Inuyasha had first asked him to go to the theater and see if Koga was up to anything suspicious on the day before the auditions, he'd been beyond pissed. Not only was he irked by the inconvenience he was putting himself through to ease the depth of paranoia capable of by only an inu-hanyou, he was mightily ticked with the inu-hanyou himself. Not only did Inuyasha owe him an apology, he bloody owed him a whole round of drinks for the pain he had—and was still enduring for his sake.

He hadn't found any trace of Koga, which had initially made him even angrier, but he had found a beautiful girl in the technical crew who had, of course, helped him dispel all of that troublesome emotion within the confines of one of the theater's many dressing rooms.

"Oh!"

Miroku winced.

Not from Asato's shrill cries—those he enjoyed immensely—but rather from the way her fingers clamped down on the just-closed wound in his arm. He slid his mouth deliberately from the base of her neck up to her ear, stilling the hand that was literally a fine thread away from the gates to heaven. He took in the sweet scent of her perfume and sweat, which was rolling off her in waves of musk now that her overheated body was sending out steam.

This is what he lived for. The familiar, delirious response he evoked in his lovers—the knowledge that for the countless nights to come he would be remembered and welcomed achingly back into their arms. The simplicity and pure ferocity in a love that was short-lived, the variety he enjoyed uninhibitedly and the way he could, in turn, share himself unselfishly.

Their love was an easy one that grew easily but never ran deep. It brought pleasure but never entered places that were deep enough to harm him—it sprung up and ended in the flesh. He knew it, and Asato and every other girl like her did as well. They accepted their relationship as it was and didn't expect any more from him, just as he didn't think any less of them.

She ground her hips against his hand, whining loudly at his inaction, and he lowered his eyes sensuously in order to conceal the emotion that was really running through them.

It was all imperfect in just one tiny way. Their responses—arduous and heartfe—well, bodily felt—as they were, always failed to elicit a similar response in him. As the days dragged by and the women came and went, it was almost an effort to keep himself from actually abstaining.

"Miroku," the girl moaned, twisting against him deliciously, her fingers digging in harder. "Don't stop."

Yes, Miroku, don't stop, his mind chanted determinedly. There's no reason to.

But there's no reason to continue, either. Not when I don't feel as much want for her. It's bad enough to make love without love in the equation. Now you're going to do a girl you don't really want?

"Yes," he whispered determinedly, his hand moving again, making Asato writhe and scream even more harshly than before.

Why?

He allowed another girl's face enter his mind as he looked down at Asato, who had tears of ecstasy leaking from her eyes as her head thrashed from side to side.

Because she wants me without reservations, without wanting more than what I am. Because she doesn't want me to change. Because around her I don't feel lousy and inadequate.

Because I don't really care about what she thinks of me as long as she has a good time.

Because for her a good time's enough.

Minutes later, he was pressing a chaste kiss on the girl's damp forehead and pulling himself from the stranglehold of her lovely arms. He took a moment to straighten himself out and give her a soft smile as she looked at him through dazed, sated eyes.

"Miroku," she whispered, her voice hoarse from her cries. She licked her lips and pulled herself up, her sweet body still rosy from the passion he'd drawn out with the expertise of a virtuoso on his violin. "I want to do that again."

He nodded, caressing one of her calves familiarly. "Soon," he promised sincerely, already fitting her into the schedule he'd mapped out in his mind. "Right now I have to get to class."

"So do I," she replied, flicking her curly red hair over her shoulder as she let slid herself off the dressing table, chuckling at the steam on the mirror as she began to hunt for her clothes. Miroku watched her dress, wanting to leave but not wanting her to feel unimportant to him. She was—all women were, to some extent—and if he was going to bed them (of course, bedding a woman didn't necessitate the need for a bed) he didn't want them to feel like tools for his pleasure.

They were beyond that. The liaison could last a night, a week, a month, die, and then be taken up again—it was open-ended and uncomplicated, but they were friends and they enjoyed each other without taking things too far. In that he was intrinsically different from Inuyasha, though from the way equal amounts of women chased them it appeared to make no difference.

Asato had picked up her heels and was now twining her arm with—thankfully—Miroku's uninjured one, as they made for the door. He knew he wouldn't be accompanying her to her class—he needed to make a few stops before his own, and he was certain she'd find a way to twist his "Soon" into a "Now" if he stayed in her presence for much longer. That was why he allowed her to give him a long, lusty kiss even as he pulled open the door.

"Down, girl," he murmured teasingly, nipping her lower lip even as he pulled away.

She pouted up at him adorably before balling up something pinky and silky and incredibly familiar before putting it in his hand.

"Don't forget about me," she whispered, winking at him before she tossed her hair over her shoulder and began walking down the hall.

He smiled appreciatively as he watched her beautifully rounded bottom swing provocatively—but on purpose—and shook out the pink material in his hand.

Her panties.

Laughing, he shut the door and turned to make his own way to his class—the closer exit to where he'd parked being up the hall.

The panties slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

Strangely, he felt incredibly stupid.

"Sango," he murmured in greeting, insanely not knowing how to greet her.

Her cheeks were flushed but the rest of her face was dead white, which was definitely not a good sign. Her lips were pressed into a harsh, thin line, and her dark eyes were sparking and sparkling at the same time, telling him that whatever else she was feeling, she was not very happy with him at this time. She didn't even respond to his greeting—merely kept staring at him in a way that looked like she was about to scream at him—and cry.

Then someone put a hand on her shoulder, and for the first time Miroku became aware of the tall young man behind her, who had a face he would never pass up if it belonged to a girl. The only way he could tell, apart from the telltale signs found in clothing, was the hardness in his stance and the virility that was palpable despite the stranger's slender frame. When the man put one pale, elegant hand on Sango's shoulder and said her name in a soft—sinister?—voice, he was even more certain.

This stranger was definitely a man.

And—as the part of Miroku that was true to himself was sensing—a rival.

That is, if one listened to that part. The dominant consciousness of Miroku, however, did not, which was why he was barely aware of the twinge of jealousy in his heart as Sango's fierce expression went slack and she seemed to immediately compose herself, as though calmed by a mere whisper and a soft touch.

"Please excuse me," she said—not to him, but to the stranger—before giving Miroku a brief nod. "Miroku, this is Akito Sohma, a cousin to Ayame-sempai. Akito, this is one of the resident..." she cast the undergarment on the floor a slight sneer—"well, you know what he is—Miroku Hoshi."

"How do you do?" Akito said with a respectful bow.

"As well as any of the resident you-know-what-s, thank you," Miroku responded with a wide smile and a bow of his own. "And you?"

"Quite well, thank you," Akito replied, with an answering smile.

That's it, Miroku. Take it into stride.

"So you must be here to see your cousin then," Miroku surmised, projecting utmost ease even if he did not really feel it. "I haven't met you yet, so I assume you don't go here."

"No," Akito confirmed ruefully. "As I was telling Sango, I finished my degree just last semester in Osaka. I had a few problems with my health, you see, and the climate of that region agreed with me better."

"It's a shame, it would have been nice to get to know you. Your cousin and I aren't close, but the times I've been in his company were very entertaining. I must ask, however—are you older than us? You seem quite young for someone with a degree in...?"

"Philosophy. I was planning to advance to law, but business got in the way. I'm actually just your age—I finished early because I enrolled during the summer."

"You're very diligent! Myself, I..."

Their voices faded into the background as the buzz of blood began to roar in her ears. Sango watched with narrowed eyes as Miroku just stood there, conversing with Akito with his signature easy charm, as though a girl's panties—a girl who hadn't even been out of sight when he'd dropped them!—weren't lying at his feet. She felt her heart pounding uncontrollably even as something prickled her eyes and constricted the muscles of her throat. She didn't need a very creative imagination to picture—

Urgh! Stop it Sango!

She couldn't believe what was happening. When she'd first stopped and heard the door open—heard Miroku's voice—she'd almost jumped with surprise—and guilt. She had been standing so close to Akito, talking so intimately and easily with him about her college life and his job—as well as light, somewhat flirtatious banter over things she couldn't quite remember—and then she'd seen Miroku.

And felt the ice bucket empty itself over her head even as she was swamped by a tide of mixed emotions. She was angry and ashamed and pleased all at once, uncertain of which feeling was dominant over the others. She was irked that Miroku was there, interrupting her intimacy with Akito even as her mind rushed to defend her actions against the guilt. There was nothing wrong with having conversations and being in another man's company. Miroku had no hold on her whatsoever, and had never been entitled to have one. So if he got all unreasonably miffed and jealous over Akito and maybe call him a few names, stake his (irrational, of course) claim on Sango without her (direct) approval, then it wasn't her problem.

Then of course he'd unfurled girly-girl's panties like some symbolic flag of conquest and it had ruined everything.

The son of a bitch.

He wasn't even looking at her. How could he? Why didn't he even look the least bit uncomfortable or guilty at being caught with that—that—

"So, you two," she cut in abruptly, trying to direct the anger that threatened to ricochet in all directions if any more time passed with things the way they were. Both men—who appeared to have been enjoying their conversation—turned to her with surprised looks on their faces. She felt more than a little embarrassed by her behavior in front of Akito, but seeing Miroku look at her like she was strange drove her past the shock of her own actions. Pasting an apologetic smile on her face, she touched Akito's arm and spoke as sweetly as she could. "It's about time we got going, don't you think? Ayame-sempai could very well be leaving the theater at this time—most classes are about to start."

"Oh yes, of course," Akito murmured, turning to Miroku and giving him a smile. "You're an interesting man, Miroku. I would shake you hand, but..." He gave the panties a pointed, laughing look.

"I wouldn't let you," Miroku laughed in turn, pressing the hand that had held them to his cheek with a sigh, apparently unaware of the way Sango's face burned and murder flashed in her eyes. Casting a quick look down the hallway, he tilted his head in the direction that Asato had gone. "If you like, maybe you can ask Asato for Ayame's direction. She's part of the technical crew and since Ayame's the head, he's probably had some hand in directing them today."

"Asato," Sango repeated, in a deadly sweet tone that was more appropriate for saying the word "Bitch". She nodded in acknowledgment of Miroku's help before turning to Akito. "Shall we then, Akito?"

"Of course. Miroku." Akito tipped his head in farewell before he allowed himself to be guided away by Sango, who didn't as much look in his direction. She was so caught up in her hurt and anger to notice the look in Miroku's eyes when she passed by him.

Akito, however, noticed it very much. It made him tighten his grip on Sango's hand ever so slightly, and the business that he had come to see his cousin about was suddenly displaced by the need to have a meal.

With Sango.

---

"I'm not sure I believe what I'm seeing here," Sesshomaru murmured softly, leaning casually against the doorframe of his younger brother's room.

His hanyou sibling was looking decidedly distracted, his jacket swinging haphazardly off one arm—as though he'd forgotten he was taking it off halfway. His shoes appeared to have been kicked off absently, as there was a distinct imprint of mud against the pristine whiteness of one of the ottomans, and one of his socks lay not far from them, the other still on his foot. His belt was undone but not removed, and he was pacing about the room in strange, lilting steps, a thick blue slide folder in his hands.

"I would be filled with the utmost gratitude if you were to leave it at the door, Myoga," Inuyasha called over his shoulder, his voice carrying an accent that was impressively authentic—if not absurd when paired off with the rest of the package.

One of Sesshomaru's brows lifted and he advanced into the room, casting a disparaging look over the state of disarray that was his brother's trademark. It seemed that no matter the size of the army he employed to keep it tidy—youkai and humans alike as members of it—Inuyasha found a way to keep them on the payroll. He sighed, knowing that despite all of that, he didn't mind in the slightest, and not simply because he could more than afford to keep such a large staff solely for his brother's comfort.

Inuyasha, for all his idiotic, incomprehensibly temperamental ways, and his disgraceful human lineage, had gotten to him—burned away the icy contempt he'd felt for him since he'd learned of his existence with his bluster and—as Sesshomaru had proven to them both on many occasions—bluffs. After that he had been left defenseless to the sentient nature of inuyoukai, been powerless to stop it from taking over. Before he truly knew it, his formerly despised hanyou sibling was firmly entrenched in the practically barren earth that was Sesshomaru's heart.

It was horrifying, but it was the truth.

So much so that with five meetings waiting to be seen to and two already rescheduled, three evening engagements to prepare for, and a sack of paperwork that needed his attention, he was still finding the time to check up on his only sibling. Several years earlier, he'd have shocked himself—and then promptly dragged himself over to the old tree, Bokuseno, for an assessment of his state of mind. Being foolish and subject to such trivial emotions such as love—as Inuyasha was—couldn't possibly be contagious, could it?

But he was Sesshomaru, and Sesshomaru had no need to justify himself to anyone—no need to fulfill standards of what a youkai was supposed to be like because he set those standards. And if he felt the way he did—despite being a youkai—then there was nothing amiss with the situation. He knew exactly how to convince anyone who thought otherwise.

"Inuyasha," he said, lending his voice the impatience it needed to be sharp enough to grab his brother's notice. "What are you doing?"

Inuyasha's shoulders jerked convulsively and his feet—which had been gracefully positioned in preparation for a courtly bow—lifted an inch before crashing solidly into the floor. His claw clenched around the slide folder, crushing it in the middle, and his face flushed a dark shade of scarlet as he whirled around to face Sesshomaru, occupied hand behind his back.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he snapped angrily, teeth bared. "Don't you know how to fucking knock?"

"I did—twice," Sesshomaru answered, vastly amused and letting Inuyasha know it as his lips tipped up into a smile that was made to mock. "I can understand your distraction, however, and there is no need for you to apologize for being inconsiderately negligent of your surroundings. Your reading material is certainly...captivating."

"Shut up," Inuyasha ground out, flushing even more deeply. "What the fuck are you doing here anyway, Sesshomaru? Shouldn't you be meeting with those Malaysian investors?"

"My, my, Inuyasha, have you been checking on my schedule? If there is something you wish to bring to my attention, you have but to say it. We do live in the same house, you know."

"Get over yourself! Like I'd do that! It was my fucking dean that told me—your secretary let him in on your schedule when he called to set an appointment."

Sesshomaru nodded—he'd been informed minutes after the call had been terminated, but work and his own reservations had kept him from confronting Inuyasha about the incident right away. Obviously, now was a better time than yesterday to talk about it, given the hanyou's currently—well, comparatively—upbeat demeanor.

"You got into a fight with that wolf yesterday."

Inuyasha scowled. It was embarrassing enough to have Sesshomaru walking in on him while he was rehearsing—if he'd had a choice, he'd have died before allowing that. It seemed, as of late, that his older brother was peeking into a lot of things in Inuyasha's life. First there had been that freaky incident some days ago wherein he was mockingly repeating the same phrases Inuyasha had used on one lover, then dropping weird hints and pieces of advice, and now he was actually facing Inuyasha in a way that was weirdly reminiscent of a parent.

"You going to whip me for it, Pops?" he challenged, squaring his shoulders and assuming a decidedly aggressive stance, forgetting that he had been hiding his copy of the script behind his back.

Sesshomaru's mouth lifted into a slight smile. "It's usually tempting, but no. As much as giving you the sound beating you deserve for such conduct has its appeal, I'm here for answers."

Inuyasha rolled his eyes, tossing the script on his bed as he lost his taste for rehearsing. Walking over to where he'd stashed a bottle of Cuervo, he gave Sesshomaru a warning look.

"Don't start. Miroku's bad enough. And don't tell me you actually care about the repercussions of it because I sure don't. Koga's not your fucking problem, and neither am I."

"I don't recall implying either." Sesshomaru's smile hardened somehow, and the glint of humor in his eyes sharpened into something unthreatening but definitely more serious. "The Ookami do not do business with us, and for that you should be extremely grateful, because if they did Father would be tanning your hide as we speak. What does concern me are your reasons for the fight, Inuyasha. Giving in to your baser needs for petty reasons does seem to be in your nature, but I had hoped that even you would be above them."

"What? The punk was asking for a punch! It's not like you would have backed down. You're one to talk about being petty. You've taken out more than your share of youkai and humans alike for less." He glared at Sesshomaru as he poured a quarter of the bottle down his throat.

"For less than what, Inuyasha? I crushed those who went up against me, put those that challenged me back into their places. If what was reported to me is correct, you ripped into Koga over a few meaningless words."

Inuyasha's teeth clenched and his hand tightened dangerously on the bottle. "They were not meaningless."

Sesshomaru was silent for a moment as he considered the pain that was twisting his brother's features. Part of him wanted to continue with the taunting, the provocation that would lead Inuyasha into confronting the issue that still ate at him, even after three long years. As a youkai, he understood the depth of feeling that Inuyasha was capable of. But that Inuyasha had allowed himself that flimsy, flighty emotion, had actually let it plant its roots so deeply into his being when its nature was so untrue—it disturbed Sesshomaru greatly to see one of his bloodline—diluted though it was in Inuyasha—be thus so affected. It was why part of him wished so badly to reach into Inuyasha's and dig out what ailed him, regardless of the pain of the process and the ugliness of the task.

But the other part of him—from which it stemmed he was still unsure of—told him to wait. Inuyasha was not like him. Inuyasha was infused with human blood, and humans did not often make it through the process Sesshomaru had in mind as wholesome as they had been. In Sesshomaru's mind, humans broke under the force of such a purging, and knowing that Inuyasha was still, in part, human, things told him that he had to wait. That he had to give his brother time to deal with things on his own terms, no matter how long it took Inuyasha's oh so human heart to do that.

"Fair enough," Sesshomaru acceded quietly, and Inuyasha's mouth dropped open in surprise. Seeing it, he resisted the urge to laugh, and his grim mood lightened considerably. "I do not presume to understand why you feel that way, but if you say that it is so I will not question you. I will, however, insist that in the future, you find less explosive means of expressing your displeasure. Your dean was very concerned over the welfare of your schoolmates and the facilities with you and that wolf in such temperaments."

Inuyasha's sharp laugh was almost a bark. "That old bastard. You mean he wasn't concerned about me but he was worried over a bunch of nobodies and the fucking building?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that all the other people nearby were such 'nobodies', little brother."

Again with that creepy and knowing gleam in his eyes. Inuyasha resisted the urge to growl and raise his hackles. Fucking Sesshomaru, what the hell does he know and what the hell is he hiding? Is he actually talking about Kagome? How the fuck would he know about her?

"Whatever," he muttered, trying to hide his discomfort. "Don't worry about it. You can tell that old geezer that I've...found an alternative means of dealing with the situation."

Shooting the slide folder on the bed a bland look, Sesshomaru nodded in approval. "I can see that." He was about to say more when the shrill note of his ring tone alerted him to a call. Signifying that their discussion was over with a single dismissive look—which irked Inuyasha considering that it was his room—Sesshomaru flipped open the Ericson as he exited the room.

"Fucking weirdo," Inuyasha snapped as the door shut on Sesshomaru's back, putting the Cuervo down as he lost taste for drinking. Tossing himself onto the bed, he picked up the discarded script and began rifling through it, wrinkling his nose at the crumpled state of it as he tried to look for the scene he had been considering. Damned if he was going to take the time to psychoanalyze his eccentric older brother's complicating disturbing behavior.

He had a play to get into.

In the hallway, Sesshomaru had put the phone to his ear and murmured a cursory, "Hello" before the voice on the other line made his blood freeze and sharp tingles race down his spine.

"Lord Sesshomaru?"

He cursed himself a thousand times for not checking the screen first.

Taking a moment to school his voice into neutrality, he responded as he began walking down the hall.

"Rin."

---

Charles de Gaulle airport was packed, so filled with people that it was as difficult to move as it was to breathe, hear, and speak and be heard. At the head of one of the phone booths was a young woman with two large suitcases on either side of her and two plane tickets—one to her artistic haven and one to where she truly wanted to be—in one of her coat pockets. Not far from her stood a group of young women—obviously friends—with their fingers crossed and their nerves strained with anticipation, waiting to find out whether or not they'd be waving off a jubilant member of their group as she made her way to her home—and the possessor of her heart—or comforting a forlorn and heartbroken sister as they made their way to the Boot of Europe.

Twisting the phone's cord nervously in her hands, Rin groped wildly for something to say to him. A dozen thoughts, a dozen questions were all racing from her mind to make it to her mouth, jumbling on the tip of her tongue, and she found herself aggravated once more by his waiting—with the heavy implication of impatience—silence.

Why have you been avoiding me?

"I..." She swallowed as her voice cracked.

"Yes?" Still calm, still composed, still distant. She resisted the overwhelming urge to cry.

Was he being deliberately cruel? Didn't he see that he was hurting her with his indifference? If he did, would he even care?

The answer was no, and Rin knew it even as she berated herself bitterly for feeling so much pain over it. She had never minded it as a child, but children grew up. Children changed. Lord Sesshomaru was Lord Sesshomaru, and he did not change. She was the one more adaptable, less set in her ways, and she would have to be the one to shift for him if she wanted her relationship with him to continue. She didn't want it to continue the way it was, but faced with the possibility of it coming to an end if she pushed things...she wasn't ready for that kind of loss.

"I just thought I'd call," she managed, choking back the tears. "I haven't been able to reach you lately, Lord Sesshomaru."

"I've been occupied with work."

No apology, just an explanation—something that, alone, she would have been grateful for as a child. Lord Sesshomaru did not explain himself often to anyone, and she had been pleased when he did so for her on occasion. But things were changing between them now—she was certain he could feel it as much as she—and yet he refused to give her more, to adapt and thus extend his hand in a gesture that made clear he welcomed the change.

Obviously, he did not.

And she was just going to have to deal with that.

So she tried to put an understanding smile in her voice when she replied. "Yes, your secretary told me so."

She ignored the response that was in his silence.

And yet you still called.

"I just wanted you to know that I'm going to Italy after all," she continued, desperately trying to infuse her voice with excitement instead of the misery welling in her throat. "Some friends of mine are going, you see, and since I'm not really needed over there, I thought I'd go with them instead of coming home. I was hoping it would be all right. Would it, Lord Sesshomaru?"

She should have expected it, should have anticipated the knife. But she had wanted so badly to hope that he would want her by him somehow, no matter how her friends discouraged her from setting herself up for the pain.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

Shutting her eyes, letting the hot tears slide down her cheeks even as the people around her gave her uneasy looks, she took a deep breath, willing herself to face his indirect rejection with the dignity she had cultivated to please him.

"Of course," she murmured, nodding more to herself than him. "I was merely checking, Lord Sesshomaru...goodbye. I..." She erased the two words she had been meaning to say and wiped the tears from her cheeks, giving the people around her a falsely bright smile. "I won't disturb you again."

She put the phone back into its holder and promptly took out the ticket to Japan, shredding it into tiny, unsalvageable pieces.

---

Ayame Sohma fiddled with a stray strand of fine silver hair that had managed to come loose from his thick braid. Sitting in the middle of the long table that was reserved for the panel, he represented everything that the theater guild was and aspired to be. Gilded honey pooled in eyes that were bright with the humor that shrouded the impossible depths beneath, and fine features assembled a face that ladies both craved and cursed. His expression was easy and open, and the elegance of his bearing was not lessened by the presence of three gold loop earrings on his right ear and one loop and a stud on his left. His red coat was unbuttoned, revealing the dark slacks and simple white polo beneath. With his collar unbuttoned, the traces of a snake—cobra—tattoo could be seen on the part of his chest that covered his heart—something that more than a few people were trying—discreetly—to admire.

It was the morning of the auditions for that semester's first production, and as was customary, he and the rest of the handpicked panel had shown up to do the judging that would determine the cast. Although it was very possible that he would be stepping in himself for a role, the guild's faculty adviser Mr. Izanagi had insisted that he be part of the panel and help sort through the amazing turnout of non-guild members who were auditioning for the play. Mr. Izanagi maintained that they welcomed new talent, but he himself was too biased towards the members he had coached and trained, and he needed someone like Ayame, to whom personal association was unimportant so long as one had what it took to be in, to preside over the judgment of the non-members, who they had agreed to audition before the members themselves.

He checked the Gucci watch one of his many girlfriends had given him, seeing they were due to start in a few minutes. He cast a scrutinizing look over his shoulder as he observed the people who were pooling in to audition or watch the auditions. Their number was surprisingly larger than usual considering it was still 7 in the morning and the real crowds turned up two or three hours after the auditions were underway. He wasn't about to believe—didn't want to believe—that the multitudes that now filled more than half the theater were the non-members who were about to audition. The members of the guild who occupied the first four center rows were shifting and looking around uneasily as well.

"Quite a crowd," his cousin, the guild's writer, Shigure commented, rubbing his hands in anticipation. "Looks like we're going to have our hands full. Best of luck to all of them."

"And us," Ayame agreed, giving the members—and everyone else—an encouraging smile. Trying not to look anyone in the eye long enough to imply marked interest, he turned back to the desk, where members of the guild's admin branch were setting coffee and the list of the people auditioning. As with the auditions themselves, the non-members had been separated from the members, and Ayame winced at the inch-thick list that was exclusive of the individual grading sheets.

"I can't believe this," Jakotsu, the guild's notoriously gay makeup and fashion coordinator muttered, flipping through the list. "How can this many people have developed a sudden passion for drama in a single semester? There are about two hundred more people on the outsider's list than there were last semester."

"And we thought that was hell," Shigure reminisced with a shake of his head. "God, we spent three 16-hour days sorting out who would snog Ayame. What incentive could they possibly have now, when Ayame isn't even actively going for a role?"

"I think I know," Rankotsu—head of the guild's technical department—said with a smile, his head tilted in the direction of the crowd. Smirking, he turned to his list and began rifling through the pages, settling on the third page marked with a "T".

"What is it?" Jakotsu asked eagerly, looking frantically in the direction Rankotsu had been staring, going through the trouble of digging up his glasses so that he could see more clearly.

"Right here—number 684," Rankotsu indicated to the other members of the panel, who were also scanning the crowd curiously. His finger had settled over a name near the middle of the page, and pages were shifted as they all scrambled to find what he was pointing out.

"You mean..." Ayame breathed, disbelief palpable in his voice as he stared at the name next to the number.

At that very instant, Jakotsu spotted him and his glasses slipped down his nose as he shrieked in delighted surprise and excitement.

"Takahashi! Takahashi, Inuyasha!"

Further Author's Notes: To my non-member reviewers, this segment is for you. ;)

yay: Thank you! Chapter 9 and I'm not even getting into the thick of the main plot yet, haha! ;P I hope you stick around to see the rest of it. ;P

fire: I love YOU! ;P Heehee, I know! Here's the update—it's pretty long compared to what I usually write—and it's got more drama in it than the last few chapters, so I hope you had fun! ;P The next chapter will be similarly dramatic but on a different scale and I promise you and all my other readers that I'm going to have some fun with Inuyasha next time. Mwahahahahahahaha... ;;evil look;;

Can you guys believe I almost lost this whole chapter? There was a black out just as I was typing my message to fire and when I got to access my computer again MS Word kept popping up and saying, "Sorry, Windows needs a converter to open this file...the converter required is not in your network operations system..." and I nearly cried. Then I saw something named MWRS09 and tried clicking it and viola! Here it is! Anyway, thank you so much for your support guys! You can't know how much it means to me! ;P