Chapter 15: The Great Wall of Co-Sleeping Separation

X

As Kurama sat on the hotel bed listening to Yamato sing (off-key) in the shower, he wondered how he had managed to get himself into this mess.

After learning that their only options for the night were two rooms featuring a single queen bed apiece, and with no couches to spare, decisions had to be made. Kurama floated the idea of finding another hotel, but he knew even before Yusuke and Yamato reacted that his idea was dead on arrival. It was far too late to find another hotel, for one thing, and looking at the somnambulant Kuwabara swiftly reminded Kurama of the demons haunting the city in pursuit of Yamato. Surely the demons would attack if they sensed weakness during a relocation. Thus the party quickly came to the conclusion that they should stay put at the hotel. The fact that the rooms were now free was additionally attractive to Yamato, who—as she reminded them—was footing the bill. Unfortunately the ultra-modern hotel didn't have futons to lay out upon the floor, however, necessitating that they would have to double up in their allotted rooms. The only question was who would room together.

And Yusuke, fidgeting while staring at the floor, was first to voice his opinion on the matter.

"I, uh… I hate to be that guy," he had said with an apologetic shrug. "But I think you two should room together."

Yusuke had been looking at Kurama and Yamato while he spoke, of course, and he appeared as awkward posing this suggestion as Kurama felt hearing it. Oblivious, Kuwabara's snoring form lay prone upon the nearby luggage cart, snoring away without a care as they wheeled him toward the elevators.

"And why have you come to this conclusion, Yusuke?" Kurama said.

"Well, for one thing, I'm about to get married, and sleeping next to another women feels a little… gross?" Yusuke shot Yamato a glance. "No offense."

"None taken," said Yamato. "Makes sense to me."

"And Kuwabara's in a relationship, and somehow I doubt he'd be into the idea of sleeping with you, either," Yusuke said, looking relieved that Yamato had not seemed off put. "And just because he's already asleep doesn't mean I shouldn't think about what he wants, y'know?"

"Aww, you're respecting his consent! That's nice," said Yamato, appearing as though she meant the sentiment. "And I agree." She giggled and tweaked the comatose Kuwabara's nose. "Plus, he snores pretty loud, huh?"

"Yeah." Yusuke appeared pained. "I'm falling on the real sword, here—not you two."

To illustrate the gravity of Yusuke's martyrdom, Kuwabara snorted in his sleep like a car backfiring. Kurama, Yamato and Yusuke stared at him for a moment in silence, then gave a triple nod of succinct agreement.

And thus, they had all agreed on the sleeping arrangement.

Not that Yamato had seemed terribly bothered at the idea of sharing a bed with Kurama. She simply requested three extra pillows from the front desk before they boarded the elevators, and the night manager was more than happy to oblige. Kurama was not certain what Yamato intended to do with these pillows, but after they parted ways with Yusuke and Kuwabara on an upper floor of the hotel, he soon found out. As soon as they reached their room, Yamato wasted no time in kicking off her heels and violently stripping the single queen bed in the middle of the room of its comforter and top sheet, laying the pillows in a line down the center of the bed with a few quick pats of her slender hands.

"That," she said, stepping back to point at the line of pillows, "is the Great Wall of Co-Sleeping Separation. Cross is it at your peril."

"I will mind the border as best as I'm able," said Kurama, minding the fire in her gaze (and trying not to raise an eyebrow at the bedding tossed so haphazardly to the floor). "Would you prefer to sleep near the door or closer to the windows?"

"The door," she said at once, shuddering. "Those demons can jump. You get murdered first."

"From the way you tell it, the demons will have trouble with neither the window nor the door," Kurama observed.

"Don't remind me." Another shudder. "Anyway. So." Yamato shifted from foot to foot. "Um?"

In silence they stood there. It was as awkward as one might expect of the situation—or perhaps even worse, per Kurama's estimations. He found himself quite unable to meet Yamato's dark eyes, but the room's simple bed, modern desk and sleek armchair provided little by way of distraction. There was no couch to be had, of course. Kurama was not destined for such luck…

"It's late," he said when the silence grew unbearable, "but I'm afraid I need to make sure I haven't been asked to do anything for work." He gestured toward his laptop bag, which the hotel staff had placed helpfully upon the room's desk. "Will I bother you if I stay up for an hour or so? I can go to the lobby if…"

"Oh, you're fine. I'm wired." She edged toward the suitcases that had been arranged near the door. "And I still need to do my skincare routine, so…"

Kurama watched in silence as Yamato hefted her suitcase onto the luggage rack near the bathroom door, unzipping it with a hiss. The AC kicked on, a quick pop and whoosh that stirred the hair on the back of his neck. Yamato shivered as the breeze caressed her, too, but her fingers did not pause as she fished through her luggage.

"Do you need the bathroom before I annex it in the name of clear skin, or…?" she said, shooting him a curious glance. "I'm probably going to be a while, so you should use it first."

He nodded after a moment's consideration. "Thank you."

"Sure."

Trying not to step on Yamato, trying not to look at her for too long, trying not to consider the sheer discomfort of the situation, Kurama fetched his own luggage and removed from it his toiletries and a change of clothes. He showered quickly, maximizing efficiency over comfort as he dried off, changed into his clothes, and combed his hair. After brushing his teeth, he exited the bathroom (which had felt like a private sanctuary, he had to admit) and found Yamato organizing her suitcase, which she'd transferred onto the bed—one she'd made back up again, comforter hiding the Great Wall of Co-Sleeping Separation from view. He started to thank her for putting the bed back to rights, but as soon as he spoke, she gave a little shriek and slammed her suitcase shut.

"You scared me!" she said, hand pressed to her heart. Her other hand clutched a bundle of cloth (clothes, clearly) and a silvery toiletry bag (or so Kurama assumed). Black eyes blazing, Yamato said, "Warn a girl next time, huh?"

"Sorry." Stepping out of the bathroom doorway, he gestured. "It's all yours."

"Thanks." Yamato flounced past, apparently heedless of how closely to Kurama she passed—clad in nothing but a shirt and sheer hose, no less, an ensemble at which Kurama did his best not to stare. "See you."

And that, of course, was how Kurama found himself sitting on the hotel bed with his laptop opened upon his thighs, listening as Yamato sang her way through a shower and the rest of her nightly routine.

He'd said he needed to check his email before sleeping, and this was true. It was difficult to concentrate on the numbers on his screen, however, when Yamato kept humming the way she did. In spite of knowing he should focus on his work, Kurama's eyes instead wandered, fixing upon the suitcase at the foot of the bed. He wondered, why had Yamato slammed her bag shut? It seemed as though she had been trying to conceal its contents from him. Briefly Kurama considered snooping (to ascertain the presence of any potential threats, he reasoned) but that hardly felt gentlemanly of him. So sit was all he did, glancing now and then at Yamato's bag, wondering what she had so desperately not wanted him to see.

When his computer beeped to indicate low battery, Kurama stood and walked over to the desk to fetch his laptop charger. On his way back to the bed, he craned his head, trying to divine a clue with a bird's eye view.

The mirror—the one that contained the spirit of Yamato's ancestor—flashed at him like a winking eye. Yamato had left the mirror atop the suitcase, jade handle and bronze face gleaming in the room's dim light. Did Kurama see a face flash within the mirror depths? He couldn't be sure. But perhaps Himiko, the warrior queen, was watching.

It was a good thing, Kurama concluded, that he had not snooped.

While Yamato continued to sing, Kurama sank into his work, green eyes locked on spreadsheets of data and analytical reports thereof. The shower eventually switched off; he heard Yamato banging about, water splashing in the sink, singing off-key, zippers pulling and cloth rustling as the faint scents of skincare and botanical oils drifted under the door. Yamato appeared to use natural products, a fact for Kurama's sensitive nose was grateful.

Soon (almost so gradually Kurama did not notice) Yamato fell quiet.

Too quiet, as the saying goes.

He wasn't sure when he noticed the absence of sound. Perhaps it was around the same time the scents of her skincare started to fade, no more splashing or singing to be heard. He found himself sitting in edgy silence as the quiet dragged on, Kurama as tense and still as a predator stalking prey in the wilds of Demon World. Twice he thought her heard Yamato speak, low and soft—possibly to herself—but he did not catch the words. Still, her quiet was odd after so much splashing, and the length of time she'd spent in the bathroom was also strange. A glance at his watch revealed she'd been in the bathroom for nearly an hour. It was already quite late, nearly 3 AM. How much longer was she going to take? He certainly could stand to go to sleep…

Eventually Kurama put his computer away and sat in silence upon the bed, staring at the bathroom door. He considered turning off the light and going to sleep even if Yamato was not ready to do the same, but turning out the lights seemed… rude. She might trip and fall in the dark. They had already had a rough evening; they did not need to add injury to their growing list of perils. But despite this logic, Kurama felt impatient at the wait. What was taking Yamato so long to—?

Yamato's voice, soft and muffled behind the panel of wood, hesitantly said, "Kurama?"

"Yes?" Kurama replied at once.

"Eep!" Something thudded in the bathroom (likely Yamato falling over). "You're still awake!?"

"Yes." Kurama frowned. "Were you hoping I wasn't awake?"

"Well…" she wheedled. "Kind of?"

"I thought it would be rude of me to turn out the light before you were finished, so I waited up for you." Before she could reply, Kurama put the pieces of Yamato's implications together, his conclusion somewhat unpleasant. "You were waiting for me to fall asleep before leaving the bathroom. That's it, isn't it?"

Her sigh rushed like a wintry wind. "Has anyone ever told you that you're smart? Like, annoyingly so?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm gonna say it again: You're smart and it's annoying."

"Thank you." He paused, and when Yamato did not exit the bathroom, he asked, "Why?"

"Why what?" Yamato grumbled.

"Why were you waiting for me to fall asleep before leaving the bathroom?"

Another sigh, this one rather wistful. "What are the chances you'll let this go and just turn out that light, nice and easy?"

"Slim to none."

"Damn."

She didn't say anything else, nor did she leave the bathroom. Based on her behavior and words, Kurama sensed that Yamato may have been waiting to see the light go off under the bathroom door before leaving it, and his waiting up had thrown a proverbial wrench into her plans. He crossed his arms over his chest, still staring at the door, now with a frown adorning his full lips. He'd been curious as to why Yamato did not want to leave the bathroom, but now he felt doggedly determined to find out. She was an odd one, to be sure, and if she had been planning on doing something reckless whilst he slept… well. He wouldn't even let her attempt such a thing. But what could she possibly have been planning in there?

Once more, the pieces fell into place quite neatly. She'd been in the bathroom primping, judging by the products he'd scented. Pairing this with her intention to sneak out unobserved, and there was only one conclusion that Kurama could draw. He could only think of one thing she might be planning, one that hinged upon both primping and upon sneaking out.

And there was only one person he could think of who she might try to see.

"Yamato. I'll ask again," he said, voice stern this time. "Why were you waiting for me to fall asleep before leaving the bathroom?"

"Don't take that tone with me, Mister!" she shot back at once. "It's nothing nefarious! I just…"

She trailed off. Kurama scowled.

"If you're hoping to wait me out or outlast me," he said, "it won't work."

Yamato sighed. "I know that, but…"

He took a deep breath. Said: "If you're hoping to leave here and find Nobuo—"

"Nobuo?" Yamato yelped. "What? No! Why the hell would I do that?"

Why would she do that? Wasn't it obvious? He'd seen them dance together a few times during the bachelor party—swift, sweeping ballroom dances that necessitated Nobuo wrap an arm around Yamato's waist, pull her close as they spun and swept across the floor. People had stopped to stare as they danced, Nobuo and Yamato an extremely handsome couple by even Kurama's standards. More than once Yamato had thrown back her head and laughed at something Nobuo said, her long neck arching, eyes black crescents of pleasure. And Nobuo's eyes had sparkled in return, gazing at Yamato with undisguised affection. The pair claimed to be just friends. Perhaps this was true. But they had a romantic history together, and thus, Nobuo was the only person Kurama could fathom Yamato would sneak out to visit in the dead of night.

"I can fathom no reason good enough to attempt such a thing, especially with those demons in the vicinity," said Kurama with smooth assurance. "Hence why I am determined to stop you from seeing that plan through."

"Oh, for the love of…" Yamato swore. "I wasn't waiting for you to fall asleep so I can sneak out and see a boy like some teenager with a curfew."

"Then why—?"

"Because I don't want you to look at me, dammit!" Yamato all but shrieked, and then she fell into deep, tense silence.

For many moments, Kurama did not move. He didn't understand what Yamato had said. He had heard her, yes, but her words didn't make sense to him. He'd been looking at her all night. What was the problem with looking at her now?

"Yamato," Kurama said, words coming at a crawl. "Did you, perhaps, forget to bring a change of clothes into the bathroo—?"

"I didn't forget my pajamas," she said in a tone that suggested she was sulking. "I'm not stupid."

Kurama recalled the amount of time she'd spent on skincare; Yamato was the self-absorbed sort, so his next guess came quickly enough: "Did you forget to bring a pair of cute pajamas?"

Yamato huffed. "You think I'm that vain?"

If he'd been standing, he would have jerked back in shock. Yamato could see the future, but mindreading? Was that skill also without her purview? She did not give him a chance to ask, instead issuing another sigh. Something clunked against the door, the shadow of two feet appearing in the crack below it. She had leaned her forehead against the wooden panel, or so he could only assume. But was this an expression of defeat, fatigue, or…?

"Look, Kurama," Yamato muttered. "I haven't shared an overnight room with someone in… years, actually." She sounded almost surprised by that admission. "I live alone and I don't have sleepovers with anyone, for any reason." She took a deep breath. "So this is…"

At last, it clicked, and Kurama felt ashamed for not putting it together sooner. Yamato wasn't being vain and primping in preparation for a visit to Nobuo. She hadn't been waiting for Kurama to fall asleep to sneak out of the hotel. She'd been waiting for him to fall asleep so she could sneak into bed. She'd been waiting for Kurama to fall asleep because she—or so Kurama could only assume—likely didn't sleep in her wigs. Given her peculiar form of vanity, it only made sense that she didn't want him to see her without one.

Truth be told, Kurama had all but forgotten about her hair loss. It had been out of sight, out of mind. He'd only caught a glimpse of her sans wig once, back in her apartment, and that had only been for a moment. But that was different from seeing her without a wig tonight. To see her tonight would be to see her completely bare, vulnerable, and with no choice in the matter, the pair of them shoved into one another's orbit without ceremony or preparation.

Kurama knew the value of having a choice, and the agony of being denied one.

"I apologize, Yamato," he said, leaning toward the lamp on the bedside table. "I should have realized. I can turn out the light."

"No. It's fine," she said, words sharper than expected. "I need to put my stuff away, anyway, and I can't do that in the dark, so… promise not to laugh at me, at least?"

She spoke those final words with breezy self-assurance, yet something brittle and sharp lay beneath her easy words—but he had no time to analyze this, because just then, she opened the door. Kurama had but a split second to wonder if he should cover his eyes, but she stepped out of the bathroom before even his demonic speed could kick in. He needn't have worried about averting his gaze, however. Yamato wore a silk head wrap that hid her scalp from view, and for a moment, Kurama thought he had been spared the awkwardness of beholding her so exposed… but then he noticed that beneath the cap, Yamato's face was bare. Totally bare. She had no lashes, no eyebrows whatsoever—a startling lack of hair as unexpected as her exit from the bathroom.

Kurama wasn't certain he'd ever met a human without lashes or brows. How often did he take those features for granted in others? In himself? The effect of their absence was subtle, an elusive morphing of her features that took them from human to slightly other. As she had when she gave herself a makeover in the club, she looked completely different upon exiting the bathroom than she had upon entering it, the removal of the last traces of makeup—brows very much included—changing her completely.

She was a chameleon, this Yamato. If Kurama hadn't felt so shocked, he might've been impressed.

Yamato barely noticed any of his reactions, however, even as he made little attempt to hide them. She stared first at the ceiling and then at the floor, clad in plain shorts and a t-shirt far plainer than any clothes he'd seen her wear before. She smiled at him eventually, but only in brief.

"Fox got your tongue?" she teased in the same brittle, breezy tone as before.

Kurama tore his eyes away. "I apologize."

"Nah. It's fine," said Yamato. "Not often you see a girl with no eyebrows."

Then Yamato, she… flexed her forehead. An eyebrow-waggle with no brows to speak of. It took him a minute to catch onto what she was doing (because this was a sight Kurama had not beheld in any of his lives), and her gesture pulled a laugh from him he did not expect to voice. Yamato merely grinned at him, seemingly satisfied by something to which Kurama could not put a name, before flouncing over to rummage in her suitcase.

Kurama—work for the evening long since finished—reached for the remote on the nightstand and turned on the TV, flipping through channels in an attempt to not fixate on Yamato. He wondered if he was successful. He couldn't help but notice when she retrieved a silver bag from her luggage and set it out on the bed, across the line of pillows down its middle. The bag was made of multiple overlapping panels of silver leather, like plate mail; an odd bag, to be sure. Yamato set it beside her as she sat on the bed beside Kurama, a towel spread across her lap. She had her button-up shirt with her, too, which she likewise spread over her bare thighs.

"What're we watching?" she said, glancing at the TV.

He looked at the TV to check, because he hadn't been paying attention. The lions and leaping gazelle informed him that they were watching a, "Nature documentary."

"Boring," Yamato declared. "Channel surf, please."

Kurama obliged her. He watched her askance, noting as she fished in her button-up's breast pocket for something. He didn't immediately recognize the objects she revealed, however. They were tiny strips lined with long fibers, and they left dark streaks on Yamato's fingertips and the white towel upon her lap. From the armored bag she removed a q-tip and a bottle of makeup remover, using both of these things to swab at the tiny strips in her hand. Cleaning them, perhaps?

"May I ask what you're doing?" Kurama asked when his curiosity got the better of him.

"Cleaning my false lashes," Yamato said without looking up (ah, so they were false eyelashes; of course). "They're my favorite pair."

"What makes them your favorite?"

"I like this brand and this style. They're thick, but not so thick that it immediately looks like I'm wearing fake lashes." She grinned at the tiny strips of fiber on her palm. "Plus, the magnets are very strong, so…"

Kurama frowned. "Magnets?"

"Mm hmm."

"I don't understand."

"Here." She held out a hand. "I'll show you."

Gingerly, Kurama placed his hand into Yamato's. She flipped it over and placed it upon her upraised knee, seemingly unbothered by the close contact. Without a word she removed a tube of eyeliner from her strange silver bag, unscrewing the cap to reveal a thin wand tipped by a miniscule brush. Bending over her knee and his hand, she painted a thin line across his skin, ink of the eyeliner as black as her dark eyes.

"The lashes have magnets along the strip at the base of the strands," she said, pulling away and then grabbing the clean set for him to view. Pointing at the band at the base of the lash fibers, she said, "Here. See?"

He took them from her and examined the offering. Five tiny squares of metal sat at the lashes' base, as she'd said. With a nod he handed them back over, allowing her to paint another layer of eyeliner atop the first she'd applied on his hand. The ink looked glossy at first, but when it dried to a matte finish, and gently placed the lash strip atop the line. The magnets clung to it at once, all but snapping into place at the nudge of her fingertip.

"That eyeliner has iron particles in it, so the magnets stick," Yamato said, smiling. "It's really strong. See?"

Yamato pursed her lips and blew across the back of Kurama's hand. The lashes wavered in the breeze, but they didn't budge—not even as the hair on the back of Kurama's arms rose with a prickle and a chill. He pulled his hand off her knee, pretending to examine the lashes on his hand.

"I like them better than the lashes you fix in place with glue," Yamato was saying. "The glue tears up my skin after a while, but this is cruelty free, vegan and hypoallergenic." Her grin widened, true enthusiasm leaking into her voice. "I've tried on quite a few pairs, and these are definitely at the top of my battle regalia."

Kurama raised one red brow. "Battle regalia?"

"Oh." Her face fell. "Um…"

For a moment or two, Yamato said nothing. She simply took back Kurama's hand and used her makeup remover to wash away the eyeliner, lashes slipping free of their mooring with a gentle tug. Once removed, she began to clean them again, q-tip slipping along the magnetized base with a whisper.

"It's just what I call my makeup, I guess," Yamato eventually admitted. "And it's why I bought that makeup bag. Reminded me of a suit of armor." Her eyes flicked to the side, toward Kurama. "Do you know the saying, 'a woman's hair is her pride?'"

"No." Kurama shifted in his spot with a creak of mattress springs. "Should I?"

"Men maybe aren't as aware of it as women. And women with hair probably aren't as aware of it as I am. They hear it and forget it a minute later. But me…" The q-tip swept along her lashes more sharply than before. "I hate that saying."

It was quiet, the only sound coming from the TV's small speakers. Kurama said nothing, watching Yamato finish cleaning her lashes before stowing the pair in a protective case. Overturning her makeup bag into the towel on her lap, a tumble of compacts and tubes spilled free, an array of sparkling cosmetics falling together in a heap. With a glance Kurama spotted a dozen shades and tints, glitters and powders, lipsticks and glosses, pots of color for cheeks and eyelids and lips. Yamato's fingers trace across them one by one, eyes distant yet focused.

"For Japanese women, it's said that their long, black hair is the source of their beauty. Of their strength, even." A bitter smiled; Yamato's hand crept to her bare neck, fingertips tracing along her spine. "So what does it mean for a Japanese woman who has none?"

"I'm sorry," Kurama said, because he did not know what else to say.

"Thank you for your empathy. See this?" She held up a golden compact, flipping it open with a thumb to reveal scintillating pink powder within. "This is highlighter, iridescent pink, with a strobing effect. I wear it when I feel sad, because looking at it makes me happy." She put it down, lifted a silver and red tube. "And this lipstick makes me feel bold, so when I have to confront someone, that's what I wear." Again she exchanged one product for another. "And this lotion has green tea in it, so when I'm worried, it soothes me a little."

Kurama listened in silence. He had never looked at cosmetics quite that way before—at least, not the kinds that humans used (he had not forgotten his fight with Gama, but that was a memory for another time). Clearly Yamato had put quite a bit of thought into her collection of makeup. She smiled as she skimmed over the products in her lap, colors and glitters reflecting back in her black eyes.

"Looking like I do," she said, "it would be easy to hang my head and just be invisible. Take refuge in invisibility. This makeup, those lashes, they empower me to feel seen. I wear them like armor in the eyes of the world."

Kurama frowned. "The world…?"

"Most women can express themselves through their hair. In fact, the world expects them to." Raising her chin, Yamato declared as imperiously as her royal ancestor: "I express myself in other ways. Some people think it's vain, but I know better. When the world sees you as ugly, you have to find your own way to feel beautiful."

"You aren't ugly, Yamato," Kurama said—and he meant that, he realized as he said it. "You are far from ugly, in fact."

"Well, I know that!" She smiled a cheesy little smile, pretending to flip hair she did not have. "But sometimes other people have to be convinced." Shaking her head, she put her makeup back into its bag and stood. "Well. Enough of my maudlin garbage. What do you wanna watch?"

They watched TV beside each other for a time. They settled on some strange American cooking competition in which the contestants have to compete handcuffed, or with children's cooking supplies, or with only carpentry tools. It was humorous enough, Kurama supposed. Meanwhile, Yamato laughed loudly at every antic, every dropped ingredient or burned appetizer… but when one of the contestants got squirted in the eye with lemon juice, Yamato didn't laugh. Kurama looked over to find her sleeping, drifting sideways over the pillows between them, head lolling back against his arm.

Her face lay beneath a blanket of serenity, composed and still. Looking at her, Kurama recalled what he'd said before—that she wasn't ugly. Far from it. In fact, she was… pretty, in her own way, and in spite of her absent lashes and brows. Her features were delicate and symmetrical, well-formed with full lips and smooth cheeks. And that skin of hers was perfect. It was a pity that so many apparently could not look past her superficial flaws, as she so severely claimed.

Promise not to laugh at me, at least?

The words she'd spoken before emerging from the bathroom rang inside Kurama's head as he beheld her sleeping face. She's spoken with casual ease, but he could not forget the brittle undertone that had belied her words. He hadn't understood that tone at the time, but he understood it now. She'd said she hadn't had a sleepover in years, after all. She'd likely been laughed at too many times to risk such a thing again—and that thought gave him pause.

Was he the first man to see her like this in all that time?

Who had laughed at her, to make her feel like she could not share a bed with someone?

And what did it say that she'd trusted him to do just that?

He sat alone with his thoughts for some time, but eventually Yamato stirred. She yawned and stretched her neck, head lifting from his shoulder… although she still leaned over the pillow wall, boundaries tangibly crossed. Watching her mop her bare face with a hand, Kurama decided some gentle teasing was in order—to turn what could become awkward into a moment of humor, instead.

"Oh my," he said, tone mild as he turned off the TV. "What have we here?"

Yamato blinked rapidly. "What?"

"You've infringed," he stated with a pointed glance at the pillows between them, "upon the border that is the Great Wall of Co-Sleeping Separation."

"Aw, damn." Yamato sat up and laughed. "We've got an international incident on our hands."

"Who knew World War III would begin this way?" Kurama said mournfully.

"Not with a bang, neither literally nor figuratively, but with a 'and there was only one bed' situation." said Yamato.

"I'm going to ignore that first part," said Kurama, "and ask, 'and there was only one bed' situation?"

"I take it you're not a fanfiction fan." Rather than explain further, Yamato slipped under the comforter and rolled onto her side, silk nightcap bunching up beneath her head. "Night, dude. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

Kurama reached for the light. "You too, Yamato."

"Call me Rei."

She spoke her name into the darkness like a candle casting light, small yet anything but insignificant. He drew in a breath. Held it. Kurama wondered if this was allowed, if calling Yamato by her first name was appropriate. They had only just met two—no, three days before, after all.

And yet… she had already shared a form of intimacy with him, hadn't she? They had shared a bed, an embrace, a confession most personal. It would almost be rude to refuse to call her by her first name in light of that, would it not? It would like refusing to acknowledge all that she'd said, the vulnerability she'd shown him. And that was an insult most grave.

Kurama knew what it meant to share a hidden part of yourself with another. He knew what that trust meant. And he knew all of these things too well to devalue the gift of her confidence.

Thus, he said, "Good night, Rei." Her name tasted foreign on his tongue. "Sweet dreams."

"Heh," said Rei. "Night, Kurama."

Judging by the sounds of her breathing, she fell asleep long before he did—and when he joined her at long last, it was with the smallest of smiles on his face.

X

"My child," said Queen Himiko of Yamatai-koku in a voice of thunder. "You—"

But the fake-fortune-teller-turned-true-psychic Rei interrupted her to say, "I told you to stop calling me that!"

The pair occupied the same space they had shared once before, the interior of the mirror stretching long, and black, and dark around them, fading eventually into the nothing of distance. How Himiko had pulled Rei into the space, Rei wasn't sure. Himiko stood before Rei in her luxurious kosode and uchikake patterned in leaping cranes and shimmering koi, her long black hair falling to her knees like a curtain of raw silk. But she wore her lovely, milky face in a mask of contorted displeasure, one slender hand toying with the necklace of jade magatama beads hung around her long neck. The queen's symbols—enormous bronze bells on a wooden stand and a sakaki branch in a white vase—stood behind her, just as they had the first time they met.

"You are playing a dangerous game, Rei," Himiko said.

Rei put a hand on one cocked hip. "Really? Do tell."

"I warned you that a fox cannot be trusted, and yet you share your bed with one?"

"We're sleeping in a bed together, not sleeping together. There is a difference!"

"Semantics." Himiko's nose thrust skyward. "But you know that if this continues—"

"What do I know? You tell me."

"I sent you that vision in the depths of his teacup as a warning, Rei." Himiko spoke with the razor accuracy of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. "That demon will be your undoing if you are not careful."

Rei's mouth felt dry, even in her dreams. "I'm always careful."

"Are you?" Himiko countered. "Because tonight you appeared to act impulsively indeed."

"What was I supposed to do?" said Rei. "Make him sleep in the hall?"

"That is not what I'm talking about." Himiko's hand extended, sweeping through the air with a lash of her long sleeves, silk following fist like the tail of a white-hot comet. "You danced with him. You let him hold you. You told him of your innermost thoughts. If you think he will shield you from the demons who mean you harm, you are wrong. You associate with him at your peril."

"And showing me a vision of us in bed together conveyed that?" Rei said, baleful and bold as she met her ancestor's dark eyes. "It didn't even play out the way your vision said it would."

Silence fell over them. Rei stared at Himiko without blinking, daring her to raise a challenge. The vision she had glimpsed in the bottom of Kurama's teacup—the one of them waking beside each other, his ruby hair a mess, green eyes sleepy, a hazy smile on his lips as sun poured through the window onto his handsome face—hadn't been much of a hint. At first Rei thought it had meant she'd end up sleeping with the man, but now that this 'only one bed' scenario had played out, she expected to see her vision play out in the morning. Time would tell, obviously—but the fact remained that as far as warnings went, it wasn't a very good one. The only truly alarming thing about Himiko's 'warning' was the fact that Rei hadn't brought any condoms on this trip, and if she was gonna sleep with anyone (in the metaphorical sense, not the literal) she'd damn well protect herself in the process.

"Rei—demons are not to be trusted."

Himiko spoke softly, that time, and with the conviction of an opinions held for hundreds of years. But her words only grated on Rei's nerves. She couldn't help but think of kind, gentle Takeshi, the boisterous and hilarious Yusuke, the intellectual and insightful Kurama. None of them were bad people, and to Rei, these facts were as obvious as her own bald head. How could Himiko not see the truth when it had been presented so damn plainly for her to see? How blind could this seer be?

"Know what I think?" Rei said, frustration spilling over like a cup under siege. "I think you just don't like demons in general. Well, guess what? My best friend is a demon. I've made two more demons friends in the past two days, and they've protected me—from other demons."

Himiko started to speak. Rei held up a hand to stop her.

"The world isn't black and white, Grandma," she said. "Maybe you've lost sight of that after being trapped in a mirror for a hundred years or whatever, but don't think you can bring your prejudices into my life and that I'll swallow them without critical thinking. If you think I will, you've misjudged me. I'll judge Kurama's character, any demon's character for myself. And that's final."

Himiko drew herself up, looking as queenly as Rei had ever seen her. "Then upon your head the consequences will fall," she proclaimed, imperious and unflinching.

But Rei just shrugged and said, "Cool. Can I go now?"

Once more, Himiko drew herself—but then she deflated, shoulders sagging as though under some great weight.

"Yes," said Himiko, defeated. "You may."

Rei turned to leave, intending to walk into the black of the mirror's depths. A cool hand on her wrist stopped her, though. Somehow Himiko had materialized at Rei's side, a soft smile adorning her lovely mouth.

"My child… ill of me though you may think," said the ancient queen, "I need you to know one thing."

"What?" said Rei.

Himiko's smile faded into the depths of solemn sincerity.

"No matter to whom you ally yourself," she said in a voice of royal decree, "I will always be here for you."

And Rei knew she spoke the truth. The look in Himiko's eyes said it all. Rei curled her fingers around the ones circling her wrist, patting Himiko's hand as she gave her a chipper grin. Himiko smiled back ,relief etched into the fine lines around her eyes—eyes that looked so much like Rei's, and Rei's mother's, and Rei's aunt's—

Don't think about her, Rei told herself, and she didn't give her aunt another thought.

"Thanks, Grandma," she said to Himiko. "Now let me go to sleep."

Himiko snapped her fingers, and Rei fell at once into a restless, dreamless sleep. When at last she awoke, she found herself in her hotel room lying beside Kurama, bodies separated by the Great Wall of Co-Sleeping Separation. Still, somehow they were almost nose to nose, his red hair fanning across the pillows in a silken tumble, sooty lashes staining his porcelain cheeks. An intimate portrait of a man, vulnerable in sleep. He didn't look dangerous. He didn't look dangerous at all.

"Feh," Rei muttered to no one. "What does Himiko know, anyway?"

Kurama stirred. "Rei?" he mumbled as he blinked awake. "Is it morning?"

Rei glanced at the clock and smiled. "Yup," she said. "Good morning, handsome."

Kurama smiled. "Good morning to you, too."

He was as groggy as he was gorgeous, though he woke up quickly indeed, sharp acuity returning to his green gaze in mere minutes. As they traded off use of the bathroom and got ready for the day, Rei tried her best not to stare at him, just as she tried not to think about what Himiko had said. Likewise she tried not to think about the vision Himiko had apparently placed in the bottom of Kurama's teacup.

In that vision, Kurama had blinked awake in the gentle glare of early sun, eyes glittering and warm as he smiled, lying beside her in bed.

This morning, however, no light had streamed in the windows. Rei had woken to find the curtains tightly shut.

She had thought, when it first became apparent they'd be sharing a bed tonight, that that vision had been in regard to the night they spent in the hotel. But the details didn't match, and thus she was forced to wonder when the vision really would come to pass. And as she slipped into the day's chosen wig, she wondered how she might stop such a thing from transpiring again—or if she even wanted to try to prevent it at all.

X

no update next week (Wednesday the 23rd) because i won't be around. see you on December 30, instead, to end 2020 on a high note.

did you guys hear about the YYH live-action adaptation they're gonna make? it's going on netflix. this isn't a joke!

i think the part about "there was only bed" i like most is that it's kind of a shortcut to intimacy, and not just because you might cuddle them in your sleep…living with someone is intimate, because you see them in their element, unadorned.

thanks to Sorlian, Midge Evans, Freaky Shannon-igans, NolwennVanerssen, GinaLiz and Damaged Forest Spirit for getting this story up to 100 reviews…it means a lot. thanks for making my winter holiday a merry one.