Author's Note: I do not own Inuyasha. Inuyasha is property of Rumiko Takahashi.
This was a joke challenge sent to me by a friend, however, it soon took on a life of it's own and I started writing it seriously. So yes, it's a crack pairing but unless it's gone horribly wrong (which it may have) it's not a crack fic as such. This baby caused me a lot of difficulties, as I was exploring a new writing style I'm not very confident with, so any and all criticism and notes for improvement are more than welcome and probably needed. And no, it's not as dirty as it sounds.
I. Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Cool water dribbles in tiny rivulets along the valleys of his hands.
They are dirty.
The grit hides under his nails and between the creases in his skin and it's only when he rubs and rubs that he'll ever be clean. But the dirt always comes back. It's because of what he does (the shit that makes the flowers so beautiful) and he's so used to the dirt that he doesn't notice it anymore than he notices the fit of his skin.
But then, he doesn't like his skin—all deformed and loose and stretched at the same time. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to live in another body. He wonders how it would feel to touch his face (what would it be like to shave? would he be scared of the blade at his throat?) or if he would have to stand differently and walk differently. Maybe he wouldn't be as clumsy.
The deformed hanyou pulls a weed, twists the stalk and throws it away. He's alone today. The village lies nestled in the distance, his mother sleeps behind the cabin, under the flora he planted so haphazardly.
Birds sing softly but hide from his sight (the pretty ones always hide—might be hurt).
She came back.
He remembers her from years ago and recognised her instantly, though they had only met for a moment (frozen moment, golden moment).
Sometimes he wonders if he can really touch life or if it's happening to someone else and he's just cut off in a mind, watching the scene unfold beyond the fringed curtain of his eyes (tell me what you see).
It's why, when he first saw her, he wasn't surprised.
He didn't think it was real.
Her face was leaner, her legs long and gangly and bare but she still smiled.
She smiled.
And with that, he didn't see the two-headed dragon, didn't hear her minder talking to him, didn't notice her guardian.
Later that day, she watched him mix the potion, her head cocked and supported by her long slender fingers. She wanted to know how to turn flowers into medicine, cheeks flushed with curiosity, eyes shining as if asking his permission.
He almost dropped the pestle.
Stuttering, (she laughed when he stuttered which made him stutter more but he didn't mind because he liked it when she laughed) he started telling her what to do. He gave her berries to crush and her slender hands dipped in slowly and then worked the pestle (in and out in and out) and her fingers were dripping and wet and stained red.
She asked him questions. The little toad complained and hacked and coughed at her but she never stopped asking him questions. And when she asked a question the world shrank to the importance of her query and the little crease of her nose.
And when he answered she looked at him as if his words were the only thing left to fill up the world again (they flowed like air in his choking lungs).
Her hands don't have dirt on them and he wonders what it would be like to be clean.
She grips the paste for the toad's aching limbs so delicately and he can tell she's scared for her minder.
She smiles anyway.
She says goodbye.
And today he pulls out another weed and listens to the birds (he thinks that he sees one fly above him).
II. Once in a Lullaby
A week later, she came back. Her guardian glares at him and cracks his knuckles and tells him to teach her. The guardian leaves.
She stands tracing the dirt with her toes and her hands behind her back, head bowed. He doesn't know what to do, so he doesn't do anything (seasons and worlds and time roll by in a waltz of stars). She lifts her head impishly and grins and takes his hand and drags him forward.
She waltzes through the forest, laughing and pulling him (wake of wind in the snap grass) and she sings. He doesn't understand what it means and he doesn't think she does either but that doesn't matter as much as the notes flying off into the sky (bird flying away).
He teaches her (he never knew he understood enough to teach anyone anything), all about which mushrooms to pick and how to find them. What they do and whom they heal.
They tumble beside a log and he lifts it so that she can see the fungi hiding underneath. She slowly slips her hands in the moss and closes her eyes at the sensation of moist springing through her fingers (slipping springing through; away).
He tries not to stare.
He tells her about all the berries. She knows all the poisonous ones already and candidly explains that she eats not much else but berries.
They pick some (round firm between fingers) and she hitches her skirt high to carry them. She laughs at his embarrassed face. He's somewhat used to laughter (it's scarier than terror) but this kind is different. She hitches it up just a bit more to provoke him and to make him turn red.
She sees a sprig of blossoms on the top of a tree. She likes the flowers with their delicate little petals that fall off so easily. They aren't so special but they are far away and hard to reach, which makes them more precious than the finest silk. He stands (muscles pop; unusual movement; sinews stretch) to his full height and she claps her hands in admiration.
He climbs up the tree and she's looking at him, eyes round, mouth a little "o". When he gives her the flowers she smiles and lowers her eyes.
He takes her to the clearing where he gathers the wild flora, where they grow best. In her delight, she hugs him. It takes too much effort for her arms to fit around his large clumsy body, so she wraps them around his neck instead and he can feel her hair on his shoulder.
She picks all the daisies and threads them into little chains, crowns him lord.
She wears a daisy behind her ear and makes another chain for her minder. Her minder is still ill and the paste isn't helping much but she is certain that her master will do something. Poor frog. He coughs and hacks so much now. When he moves it's very slow and creaky. But it'll all be all right, anyway. He'll get better soon.
He doesn't want to tell her that sometimes time lays heavy and wraps around the joints and the heart and smothers it.
She's young. She wouldn't understand.
She tries to teach him how to weave the flowers but his hands are too big and it doesn't work.
He picks them instead and gives them to her.
And then she sings (and I can hear the mermaids singing) but has to leave him when her master comes.
(I do not think that they shall sing for me)
III. Dreams That You Dare to Dream
The routine they set continued for several weeks. She would arrive, he would show her how to prepare the medicine, she would bring him a chain of flowers or a song in exchange, and then she would leave.
At night he hears the wind blowing it's own song and feels like joining in. Sometimes he's upset at her for showing him that everything could be different, because even if it is all a dream (how could it be anything else?) he now wants it more than anything.
She is so pretty but so strange. She has grown up adoring a monster that scared him even more than the villagers feared him. All those she loves are so different from everything; the toad, the dragon (Or would that be a plural? Are the minds separate? Even if the body is the same? Do they share a soul? He is reminded of someone long ago). She never even seemed to realise how ugly or abnormal he is. She makes long days flow by in a summersault of light and cool water and petals.
He comes to love the way she laughs at him. It makes him blush and stutter but he never really minds. From anyone else it could be construed as cruel but he never has heard anyone laugh so much and he reflects that she was born laughing because no one would have taught her, certainly not the stoic guardian (no one in his world could laugh like that; an angel).
She has a natural aptitude for medicine and herbal remedy preparations. Her boundless curiosity means she learns quickly and never bored of the endless task of crushing leaves, collecting pollen, making balms. Sometimes he needs to guide her hands, show them how to manipulate paste. She leans into him.
But that night, that night… (everything had always been night)
She is crying. Hiccupping words (were they words or guttural feelings?) that were swallowed before she released them.
She stands, wet, dirty, red-faced in the middle of his hut, and he tries to hold her still (shaking shaking shaking) but she won't let him.
The bird has stopped singing.
Her minder is dead.
And her guardian refuses to do anything.
He knows that she (such a tiny girl) had loved the toad-minder so much and it had blinded her to the advance of time (time was always coming, carrying a scythe). But maybe if she feels so much for her little minder, maybe…
(He is always scared of "maybe" with its impossible implications and contradictions.)
He wraps her up in his Mother's quilt and feeds her soup and puts her to bed.
He doesn't sleep.
The next day she is quiet and winces when he cuts up the herbs into neat little piles (little piles, little compartments for big hearts).
In the evening, when the fireflies come out, he tenderly sets her in her makeshift bed once more.
He wakes up to her slender hands pulling the blanket off him. He doesn't say anything as she curls up beside him and drags his arm around her little waist.
He doesn't sleep that night either.
He watches a solitary tear trace her cheek and disappear (like so many lives, gone gone gone). She shakes until he tucks her closer to him.
Day is followed by night.
She timidly kisses him, laughs at his shock—a bitter little laugh that turns into a hiccup, into a sob. He feels lost. Holds her. Strokes her back.
That night he doesn't sleep much but neither does she, so that is okay.
(More and more and never enough but filling the edges and more than enough at the same time.)
When he does sleep, he dreams in colour.
IV. Happy Little Bluebirds Fly
They spend the next few days together, trying to grasp the minutes in their hands and freeze them forever. She needs to purge all her grief, transform all her pain into something physical, and he is always willing to help. Sometimes she loves him like she hates him, and other times it is all tenderness and whispered nothings (all his mind heard and said - nothing nothing nothing).
He knows that they can't last, twisted together this way. He thinks of the weeds in his garden that grow beside beautiful flowers, intertwining and eventually choking them in a mess of limbs. The longer she stays with him the more her life would be ruined. She would grow old like his mother; an outcast.
But then, when everything grew dark, she smiles or does that with her hand so the world narrows back down into the cocooned hut.
They both know everything that is wrong, so they drink each other's presence like parched travellers at an oasis.
Desperation. They are desperate.
She needs affirmation of life—someone who would respond, someone who isn't dead.
He needs a lifetime of love (tired and broken but still holding together for the end of it).
Her skin is coated with sheen and her hair falls in a tangled mess around her shoulders, making a curtain. They are both clumsily uncertain, but he is so scared of breaking her, of hurting her, that inevitably it is she who takes control.
Her natural curiosity, he guesses, was what prompted her to take the initiative. She has always been confident, even when she was little, the first time he'd seen her.
Besides, the logistics of the operation are… difficult, to say the least. He follows her lead.
She traces the outline of his hand.
(Hold her, drop her.)
They eat little, feeling slightly sick. It is a mixture of pleasant and disquiet—a sweetness that lingers but rots the teeth, a wonderful meal that is too much to digest and drops at the bottom of the stomach (but never full). Heavy. The air hangs heavy and stale.
He is consciously aware of how young (soft and new and supple) she is. He is scared to think what he is taking away from her.
He knows this isn't going to solve anything.
The last night is spent in silence.
They lay side by side not touching. Breathe deep. Out. In. Out. In. Funny how breathing is so similar to love (and you don't feel it until it goes).
He slowly turns his head to look at her. She is no longer crying but holds an unfocussed, bloodshot gaze at the cobwebbed ceiling. He notices how skinny she is.
Outside a rabbit nibbles at his herbs.
The morning creeps slowly but without respite, fingers of light grabbing everything in its way. A bird is singing in the distance, quietly chirping a requiem. She blinks; once, twice, un-sticking the dusts of sleep that have clung to her lashes. She runs a hand through mussed brown hair.
Her guardian has not come for her and probably never will again. Not now.
She needs to leave anyway. Maybe somewhere far away she can start again.
She tries to smile goodbye but the corners of her mouth are pulled up by invisible strings; a marionette smile, a broken, wooden smile.
So he is alone again; weeding.
It has been five weeks.
Overhead, a little bird flies away.
(Why can't I?)
All reviews and constructive criticism is much loved.