Kagome is twelve years old when she decides what she wants to become. Someone who speaks the ugly truth. Someone who opens closed doors and liberates the secrets. Someone who shows that what hides in closets is not monsters but helpless fear.

There is only glass breaking and the sound of throat-bleeding mania. Kagome's arms are wound tight around her brother in the dark space of their bedroom's closet. She covers his ears and mouths that we're okay as if there is spell-power in the silent words. Her mother is drifting above and beyond, somewhere between hysteria and ecstasy, veins bloated and mind falling apart for a few hours. It won't last. It never lasts.

Sōta is only four years old. He doesn't know fear and he will never learn the concept of the boogeyman. Only his big sister waits in the closet and under the bed. For him…those places mean safety, warmth, hugs, kisses. Kagome has made it so.

And by the time he is old enough to know fear…only clothes will be in the closet.

Inuyasha has come out of the bathroom and into the kitchen one hour ago. Feet dangling off the chair, head hung low between his shoulders, ears flattened, lips puckered.

Kagome drowns a small sigh, brings plates, spoons, and one glass of milk on the table. Then the hot-chocolate cake and candles. He peeks at her from under his bangs when she sits down. Unsure, nervous…with the slightest pout.

"Did niisan…leave?"

"Yes. He said he had work to do."

His pout magnifies, spreads across his face, and she chuckles, pinches his cheek. "But he'll be coming to visit you often."

Light enters his eyes, sparkling gold, bubbling excitement. "Really?"

It suits him much more than that pout…though both are cute.

"Yeah." Kagome laughs – but then she remembers that she has overlooked one important fact. "That is…if you want to stay with me. You can always live with your brother and his –"

"No!" His eyes are wide with panic and he is shaking his head compulsively. He lowers them to his lap two seconds after that yell tears itself out of his throat. Bashfulness, flushed cheeks, slow murmurs. "I – wanna stay – with you."

"Okay." She strokes one soft-furred ear and soaks up the sound of his giggles. Picking up the candles, Kagome starts putting them on the cake, and is almost done when he peeks another glance at her. Half-expectant, half-sulking.

"Will he really come see me? Niisan?"

She smothers another sigh, abandons the candles, and drags him on her lap. "That's what he said. Has your brother ever lied?"

Body shifting, head shaking. Kagome gathers him deeper in her arms, hums in his ear.

"You know, he used to come see you a lot when you were younger. Do you remember that?" Another shift, another shake. "It's alright. You must have been a baby then."

"Why did he stop coming?"

It is so low-spoken that she almost misses the question, and to be frank, Kagome wishes she can pretend she has missed it. How can she explain the reason to a five year old? Actually, she doesn't want to explain this mess to him no matter his age. There are some things that should remain unsaid, untouched. Only one word comes to her mind.

"It's complicated."

"Mama said that, too. She said it wasn't my fault and she was crying." His voice goes away for one lagging moment. It comes back hurt, sad, confused. A faint whine. "She cried a lot…so I stopped asking."

"You didn't do anything wrong." Her arms tighten around him, and she is rocking him. Gently. Back and forth. "Sometimes, things just happen."

Kagome hopes to gods it is enough because she has nothing else to give him.

"So niisan…likes me?"

Isn't that another landmine? Kagome bites back her sigh. He probably does…but it's not her place to tell him. She smooths his bangs out of his eyes, tilts his head up until she can see bright gold and innocence.

"Do you like him?"

A softly whispered un. No surprise there.

"Have you told him that?"

A softly whispered no. No surprise there either.

Kagome kisses his forehead. "Then maybe he's the same."

It is dark hours when Sesshōmaru returns to the mansion. He has gone to the mountains after work and the tang of blood is clinging to his skin, saturating the smoky traces, potent and heavy. But it has not been enough…prowling, preying, hunting, gormandizing. Her scent is smeared on his tongue beneath the taste of raw flesh and fear. She is molten honey and sizzling. He slings off his coat, loosens his tie, unbuttons his dress shirt down to his sternum and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows, muscles rippling and the grunt of a sigh. Maybe he needs to fight fire with fire. It's late and he doesn't have the patience for meddlesome maids, so he goes down to the cellar himself.

The old cellar is brimming with bottles and jugs – yōkai and human brews, the moonshines he prefers and the liqueurs his mother favors. Sesshōmaru is reaching for his usual choice when he catches a glimpse of green and gold on the upper shelves to his right – Jameson 12 Year Old Special Reserve. Is she stalking him even in his own home? Who is the hunter and who is the prey? His throat vibrates with an intrinsic sound, rough and dry, not quite laughter. He grabs the damn whiskey and retraces his steps back to his study room, pours himself a drink and sinks in his leather chair.

Once a month. He knows it will not be once a month. He knows just as his father must have known. That is the way of humans. Once a month is…not enough – not enough for creatures who are gone with the wind. Is it fortune that she is the one to nurture his brother? Is it hell to want her?

The real curse is his nature.

On his first visit, she thanks him for coming and smiles. He has seen that smile on her lips the day they have visited Izayoi's grave – but she hasn't made it for him then. It is bright-tender-warm and he envies his brother for seeing it every day.

Women are soft-skinned, their tongues raw nectar, their eyes whispers of things better done in the dark. They are made for touches and words and stares, insidious traps, visceral. He has known many women but none like her – she is all that and more. He sees it in the way she bends her waist when she serves his drink, the way she slants her neck when she speaks his name, that flutter of thick lashes, that cat-curling of red lips. Her manner is direct, caustic, bold. She never hides from his eyes.

Sesshōmaru never hides from her eyes either.

On his third visit, she brings out playing cards for a game of iroha-garuta. He can tell that she is trying to make him engage with his brother, and that she does so in ways that stimulate the mind and serve as an educational exercise for the pup. It is clever and he plays, if only for the fact that it is his brother who asks him to join. Inuyasha has never approached him of his own will before – Kagome usually pats his back and urges the pup to talk to him or Sesshōmaru calls him himself – and that is good.

She is always the one to welcome him when he visits and never wary of his visits. Sesshōmaru can read the subtle signs. His eyes map the contours of her back, the slope of her spine, the sway of her hips as she leads him inside.

"Coffee, Sesshōmaru-san? Or something stronger?"

Her voice is narcotic tones and mellisonant, as if she is taming a wild beast, and the way she pronounces that suffix is a veil of intimacy. She wants him in her home, beside his brother, near her skin.

Sesshōmaru wants to be there.

On his sixth visit, she tilts her head and demands more than asks to see what he really looks like. He laughs – because she already knows. Sesshōmaru alters his bone structure in his human guise, enough to appear different though still retain some family resemblance to blind human eyes. But not this time. It is the first time in centuries that he walks the earth with no other difference than mere colors. Still, he sheds his human skin, as she asks, demands. Her eyes never stray from his face and she is tracing the crescent-blue on the center of his forehead. She stares – and keeps staring. Eerily. Silent. An indrawn breath then. In the name of the moon, she deadpans. And she is laughing hysterically.

His visits become more frequent, more lasting. She never asks the reason, bends and twists and smiles as if it is natural. It isn't. Her vocal cords constrict unnaturally around his name and she always speaks too much. His presence is an aberration, a riddle she wants to unravel. Pleasure. He knows – but it does nothing to stop him. His eyes linger on the arc of her neck, slender curve and hints of nude skin. He wants to take that throat between his teeth, soft flesh bitten, ravaged. How will she speak his name if he does that? What sound will she make if she can't speak?

On his ninth visit, she asks him to stay after his brother goes to sleep. He wants to stay as much as he doesn't…but what he wants doesn't matter – because he'll stay anyway.

Curled up on the couch, feet tucked underneath her, she sighs. Sesshōmaru chooses to sit on the armchair, studies her features, her body, the slices of black under her eyes, the curves of her shape that have become slimmer. She is tired and works too much and he is agitated.

"Is there no way for him to conceal his features?"

Her voice slips between his thoughts, husky and hauntingly whispery. It gives him something else to think about, something that doesn't make him want to take her up to the mountains and keep her there until she is swollen with life.

"He's too young to learn how."

Brows knitted, seeming unconvinced, she taps a fingertip against her chin. "He knows how to scent-track."

"That's different. It merely requires use of the senses." Now that she's brought it to his attention though, he needs to take Inuyasha in the wild to hone his tracking skills. "And he's still not adept at even that, or he'd have found me easily. It took me less than one hour to track his scent to you once I knew he was looking for me in the city, but he wandered for two weeks and still couldn't find me."

An inaudible oh plumps her lips. Her expression tells him she's both surprised and impressed. He chuckles.

"Well, I just wanted to take him outside sometimes. I work long hours, and there's only so much for him to do in this small flat by himself with only Buyo for company."

There is no dispute about any of that.

"You can take him up to the mountain on weekends if you want. The house has been ready for months. He still won't be around people but he can be outside."

His solution is easy, sensible. It solves more issues than the ones posed as well. Sesshōmaru has things to teach his brother that he can't do in the city.

A smile. A nod. "I'll do that. Thank you." A frown then. "What else can he do?" She's chewing her bottom lip, humming. "I mean, do I need to watch out for anything? Like him shapeshifting or…I don't know, yōkai abilities he's going to develop?"

"Not until his coming of age."

It's obvious that she asks because she wants to raise the pup right. Not out of passing curiosity. Sesshōmaru has suspected this for a while but now it becomes crystal clear. She doesn't want children because she cares too much. Because she knows whata mother is. There's only one way to learn that without having children…by knowing what a mother isn't.

Another smile. Another nod. "Okay. Thank you."

It is he who should thank her – for taking care of his brother, showing him that smile, teaching him what he needs to know to blend in. For being his mother better than his real mother. Izayoi may have been his mother – but at times…she has been more woman than mother. It is ironic that the one he wants is more mother than woman.

Maybe that works in his favor. Maybe he can guilt her in taking some time off. "If you want to spend more time with him –"

"No." She cuts in on his sentence, doesn't even allow it to come to fruition. "You were gonna say that you'll take care of my living expenses as well, right?" Her eyes are blue copper and gleaming heat. "No thank you. I've worked since I was sixteen and nobody is paying my bills but me."

Sesshōmaru has predicted this response but still… Stubborn woman. He closes his eyes and stretches his neck. Agitation being expelled in thick waves. Or he'll throw her over his shoulder and carry her up the mountain himself. Right now. When he opens them again, lips soft and wet and curled with amusement greet him, as if he's transparent, and maybe he is. He wants to lick and bite that smirk off her lips and doesn't give a damn for what shows.

"Suit yourself. The offer is always on the table, though. Money is not an issue."

Intrigue swims in her eyes. Cool zaffre, liquescent.

"What does your family do exactly?"

It is a harmless enough question, and he might have answered five minutes ago. A half-smirk ridges his cheek.

"What does yours?"

Laughter fills the room. Pure, electrifying. "Fair enough." It ebbs much the same way it begins. "You know, though, don't you?" Her stare is keen, open demand. "I can't imagine you entrusting me with your little brother without running some background check on me first."

He nods. Naturally.

"Editor for The Sentinel. One younger brother studying Law at Meiji. Both parents deceased. Never married. No children."

A thin brow quirks. "Just that?" Playful, challenging.

"That's on the papers."

She's staring at him, staring through him. Thin-lipped, narrow-eyed. Knowing, waiting.

"Antisocial. Cynic. Honest. Independent. Open-minded. Sharp-tongued." There's more of that laughter with each adjective that comes out of his mouth. It runs wild across his skin like an electric storm. His brain is numb, transmitting all the wrong signals.

"Soft."

Silence. Air crackling. Charged, static. One twist of her lips, and she is huffing.

"Soft?" The meaning is discrepant when she says it. Bitterly true. "I don't have a bleeding heart for just about anyone. Inuyasha was an exception."

"Yes." He laughs but it is bitter with that truth, and if she knows, it will become more bitter. "Still –" He can't help but say it again. "Soft."

Sesshōmaru leaves then – because if he stays…he will say things he doesn't mean and she will say things she doesn't know the meaning of.

You're nothing to him, he has said to her. You're nothing to me, he has said to himself. It is a lie no matter how he distorts the words and he hates lies just as much as she. It's not complicated for us, she has said to him. She is right and she is wrong. Terribly. He has let the truth go unspoken because it is so facile that it becomes Gordian. It begins as a little thread, spinning and twining and writhing, until it weaves itself into a knot of diamond-hard silk. Deathless and severed by death. That is the way of yōkai. He knows. He sees. He feels.

The katabasis has begun the first time he meets her eyes in that dim alley. He hasn't meant for it to happen. It merely does. Perhaps it is fate preordained, karmic infliction for horrors inflicted unto others, sin bestowed upon him for sins inextirpable. He has too many to count. It lasts no longer than one flap of hummingbird wings…but it is more than enough. He has never seen such eyes – naked shadow, naked color. They are depthless, bathypelagic deep of murmurs and snares – they can swallow and shackle creatures of the darkest nature. Like him.

Sesshōmaru has fallen before he knows what falling means and it is too late to unswing the pendulum. It will swing back and forth and measure the acceleration of gravity until he is down on his bended knees and cursing the ground she lies beneath.