"...Look at yourself!"

Miroku could feel the cold beads of sweat fall rapidly down his half covered face. He was dreaming-no- he was having a nightmare! Or rather…he was having a memory…and a cruel memory at that.

"Look at yourself in the mirror, you devil's child! See why you must wear a mask. Christ all-mighty, look at yourself!"

He was restless. Miroku tossed and turned eagerly in his bed. Within his mind, the memory seemed to rewind itself.

She was in the kitchen. Batches of cakes were produced in an immense amount. Why, there was enough to feed the entire city, if desired. But still the woman went on mixing and stirring vigorously. And all the time she worked she was aware of the piano playing softly in the drawing room. He did not come bothering her, like a normal child would. He was not begging to lick the spoon or trying to pilfer a small piece of cake from the serving dish. Food meant nothing to him.

"Put on you're clothes, Miroku." She said sternly, wiping her hands on her apron and proceeding into the drawing room. She stood over his shoulder, staring down at the piano. She watched, as if in a trance, to the small, gracefully movements of Miroku's hands against the keys.

He looked up at her through the mask. "It isn't Sunday ... is Father Motosuwa coming to say Mass again?"

"No," the lady replied, wiping her hands again on the apron. She averted his gaze and added, in a low tone, "It's your birthday."

He stared at her blankly for a moment, as if not comprehending what she had said.

"The anniversary of your birth," she blurted out, irritated by his childish ignorance. "You were born five years ago today and the event should be celebrated."

"Like a requiem?" He comment was entirely serious as his innocent yet puzzled cobalt eyes, fixed on her with interest.

"Not exactly," the woman replied, shakily..

"Then there won't be any music to rehearse?" His voice was clearly filled with disappointment.

"No ... but there will be a special supper."

Interest wondered back into his eyes and he continued to play the score he had been working on.

She then added quickly, "And a present! Mushin is bringing you a present, Miroku. I expect you to remember your manners and thank him nicely."

He turned to look at her curiously.

"Go upstairs and change into your dress clothes. I must set the table."

As she pulled a tablecloth from the drawer, she was aware that he had made no effort to move.

"Mother?"

"What is it now?" she cried out irritably.

"Will I receive a gift from you? Will you give me one as well?"

Miroku watched as she placed the napkins on the table with a shaking left hand.

"Of course," her voice sounded as though she had been programmed to say that. "Is there something particular that you want?"

He came to stand beside her and something about his sudden silence made her shiver uncomfortably. He doubted whether to believe his mother's words. She had never given him a present, why start now…when he was already five years into his life?

"May I have anything I want?" he asked nervously.

"Within reason."

"May I have two of them?"

"Why should you need two?" she groaned.

"In order to save one for when…when the other is used up."

"What is it you want?" His mother asked, beginning to feel relaxed.

Silence.

She watched him playing with the napkins.

"Miroku, I've had quite enough of this silly game now. If you don't tell me what you want straightaway, you will have nothing at all."

He jumped at the sharpness of her tone and began to twist a napkin between his thin fingers.

"I want— I want two ..." He stopped and put his hands on the table, as though to ready himself.

"For God's sake!" she snapped. "Two what?"

He looked up at her.

"Kisses," he whispered "One now and one to save."

She stared at him in horror and without any warning burst into uncontrollable tears.

"You must not ask that." His mother sobbed. "You must never, never ask that again ... do you understand me, Miroku ... never!"

He shrank from her noisy wails in horror and backed away to the door.

"Why are you crying?" he stammered.

"I'm not ... crying." She gasped.

"Yes, you are!" he shouted in a voice that was suddenly ugly with rage. "You're crying and you won't give me my birthday present. You made me ask—you made me ask—and then you said no. Well, I don't want a birthday. ... I don't like birthdays. ... I hate them!"

The door slammed behind him…

And the vision blurred for a moment, suddenly regaining its previous state.

The door behind his mother opened and she stood in horror, watching Mushin's face turn white and his pudgy, rose-colored hand fly instinctively to his mouth. The terror in his black eyes lasted for only a split second before he regained his composure well enough to force his lips into a strained smile.

"Good evening, Miroku, my boy ... how nice you look in that new suit. Your father, god bless him…he would've been so proud to see you in that. Come and sit beside me and have supper. We'll feast together! And let's not forget about the present I am to give you."

When Miroku's mother turned and saw him standing there in the open doorway, without the mask, she screamed in fury. He had done this for spite; he had done this to punish and humiliate her...

"How dare you!" she spat. "How dare you do this, you wicked child!"

"Nanami…It really doesn't matter-"

"Be silent!" She snapped. "I will deal with this without your interference. Miroku! Go back to your room and put on the mask. If you ever do this again I shall beat you for it."

He shivered and the grotesquely malformed lips puckered, as though he was about to cry, but still he stood there stubbornly, both hands clenched into fists of defiance.

"I don't like the mask," he muttered. "It's hot and it hurts me. It makes my face sore."

"Go to your room," she shouted. "I shall make a new mask after supper, and you will not come down without it again. Do you hear me, Miroku? NEVER!"

"Why?" he demanded. "Why must I always wear the mask? No one else has to."

She flew at him and began to shake him so savagely.

"Nanami!" said Mushin helplessly. "Nanami, my girl, stop this—"

"He wants to know why!" She screamed at him. "Then he shall know ... by God, he shall know!"

She dug her nails into the thin material of Miroku's shirt and dragged him from the room, up the stairs, before the only mirror in the house.

"Look at yourself! Look at yourself in the mirror, you devil's child! See why you must wear a mask. Christ all-mighty, look at yourself!"

Then it went black. Miroku woke up abruptly, gripping the sides of his coffin with shaking hands. (That is where he sleeps, for it is the only place when a person of his standards, truly belongs) He swung his legs over the edge of the wood and jumped down onto the floor. Sango was still asleep. Good, Miroku had to be careful not to wake her. If he did, Miroku wasn't sure if he could pull himself together in time. He walked hastily over to the organ where the phantom drowned out his memories in music.

After a good 20 minutes, Sango's eyelids fluttered open, quietly listening to his melancholy tunes. They seemed so sad, so deprived of life; it made Sango's heart ache.Shelost herself in the music. Miroku was a master at playing the organ, and for a moment she could almost believe that… after all, he was the angel of music.

When he ended the piece, Sango realized that she had been holding her breath. There was a moment of silence and she lay perfectly still on the sheets.

Then Miroku removed his hands from the organ and stood.

"If you hold your breath like that, you'll most likely turn blue. I wouldn't advise it…" He sighed, walking over to her. "That wouldn't be wise on your part, would it?"

Sango's blush deepened. "Oh…no, I guess not."

He crossed over to her and placed a finger to her lips, then turned from her. "Shhh, go to sleep now. You still have two days to spend in my company. However horrid that may sound."

Sango studied him, and nodded. She tried to drift back off to sleep, but every time she was almost there, she was brought back by the thought of his mask.

It was foolish, idle curiosity, but it wouldn't let her go to sleep, not now that she was up. Her mind searched around for a reason that she would be able to take the mask off, but failed to find one.

Sango sleepily looked up at Miroku, only to find that he was back at his organ. He was into the music, swaying gently with the rhythm. Surely Miroku wouldn't notice if she just took a quick peek…

She silently crept over behind him and was about to reach for it, but then stopped herself. It was wrong. She couldn't take his mask off—he obviously trusted her not to. Even thinking about trying to like she was now was betraying his trust.

Sango, instead, sat down on the bench beside him and leaned her head on his shoulder, trying her very best to fall asleep. Miroku looked at her with astonishment, but never failed to miss a beat. Sango closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, losing herself in the music again.

Yet still, even though she knew it was wrong, her sub-conscious wouldn't leave her alone. What was Miroku hiding from her? Surely, if he loved her, he wouldn't mind if she took his mask off. After all, if she was to love him as much as she had when he was her angel, he couldn't keep secrets from her. She wouldn't allow him to.

After all, the foundation of a relation is trust…

Isn't it?

Certainly Miroku would understand that Sango didn't want to keep anything from him.

Was he keeping things from her?

Clearly he wouldn't mind if she just took a quick look? He probably wouldn't even know if she did! He was so lost in the music right now… he most likely wouldn't feel her remove his mask.

So, her heart telling her it was wrong the entire time, Sango reached up and touched the surface of his mask.

She looked at Miroku. He was still completely lost in the music, and didn't feel her touch.

Sango moved her fingers over to the edge of the porcelain, and then lost heart. This was wrong… she knew it was wrong! It was a violation of Miroku's privacy… and yet, she needed to know.

Sango squeezed her eyes shut and began to pry the edge of the mask off…

There was a sudden silence as the music stopped. Quick as lightning, Miroku's hand came up and grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully.

Sango cried out in agony and let go of the edge of his mask. For a moment she thought he had broken her wrist, but then she realized she could still move it.

'What have you done?' Miroku thought in a fiery rage. Quickly, he released her hand.

There was a long moment of silence as Sango cradled her wrist. She didn't dare look up at Erik-er-Miroku. She knew he was upset with her, really upset with her, and she completely understood why.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she brought her eyes up to meet his.

His deep violet eyes were ablaze with anger and hurt. She saw his despair at her betrayal in them, and she wanted to try and comfort him.

But she couldn't. This was all of her fault in the first place.

"Mir-Miroku… I… I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean—"

"Don't you ever," his voice came out in a low hiss, "Ever try that again!"

There was another pause where neither said anything. Finally, Miroku broke it, his voice cool and distant.

"Sleep now, Sango!" And he picked her up and thrust her, almost savagely, into the swan bed.

A/N: Honestly…I just made Miroku's mother's name up...
And the part of Miroku's memory was rewritten out of "Phantom" by Susan Kay. And sometimes I forgot what I'm typing and just write Erik...heh heh.