Kagome is sixteen years old when she learns that hypocrisy is merely another form of self-blindness.
The playground is brimming with children and laughter. She is sitting on a bench, half-working on her history assignment, half-watching Sōta out of the corner of her eye. Grains of brown-gold dust are sticking to his skin and he is grinning and building sandcastles alone in the sandbox. He is always alone – Kagome will join him once she has finished her homework – but the eight year old doesn't seem to mind.
Mothers congregate under the shade while their children play and talk of inconsequential things – the latest gossip, their husbands' bad habits, their children's accomplishments, their in-laws' meddling, and so on and so forth. It is a changeless pattern – but sometimes, they'll steal glances at her and Sōta and their voices will lower to whispers and their eyes will fill with things they are not supposed to feel.
Kagome ignores those sighs and looks and pity – because it is nothing but hypocrisy. They don't let their children play with Sōta because the boy may share things their precious angels aren't supposed to know. They don't include her in their gatherings because she is too young to mingle with their ilk and have adult conversations.
People aren't blind – they choose to close their eyes.
An adumbral vastness is spread over the sky when they slip out of the city roads and into the highway. Amorphous shapes, breaking dawn, silence. Kagome yawns then sips at her coffee, melting into the warm leather, head rolling to the side. Sesshōmaru has one hand on the wheel, staring ahead, the white of his shirt stretched over lean muscle. Her eyes move up the length of his arm and over the jut of his collarbone, the line of his neck and along the angle of his cheekbone, stroke every inch of exposed skin…perfect skin. I've got it bad… A sigh tickles her throat but goes unheard under Inuyasha's loud squeal.
The boy is excited, hyperactive, almost bouncing despite the buckle of the seatbelt keeping him in place. A torrent of questions and high-pitched sounds pours out of his mouth, three quarters of them addressed to Kagome and one quarter to his brother. It takes three hours before he exhausts himself into sleep. Kagome shakes her head, chuckling softly.
"He got overexcited about the trip and didn't sleep much last night."
"It appears so." His voice is the same, deep and low tones, but his looks hold a rugged appeal. If she squints hard enough, Kagome can see the dip of a smirk in the hollow of his cheek beneath the hints of scruff spreading on either side of his face. It adds another layer of something masculine and irresistible.
She doesn't need more, to be more chained than she already is. More ruined. To know more of him. She has seen more than enough these past eight months. He burns with primordial fire that harbingers torture in the hands of mortals. Suffering for the giver and immortalization for the taker. He speaks of death so callously, so bitingly, because even if he dies a thousand deaths, he can never die a true death. But she can…and she will – and if she touches that fire…then it is she who will give him those undying deaths.
How late is too late? She doesn't know. All she knows is that it will not be she who makes it too late.
The mountain road is nothing but dirt and twists and turns. Kagome stares out the window – trees with full-red leaves and forest-deep, deepening, thickening. They must be close now. She turns her gaze back to Sesshōmaru, wanting to escape these thoughts, even though she can't allow herself to do so. She…cares too much for that. For him.
"Is the house going to be like he remembers it?"
"For the most part, yes." He takes a steep turn without as much as blinking. "It's a log home, nothing big. I had them replace most of the wood and add some stone, but the interior didn't change much. There's an onsen near if you want to go. As for personal items, I kept only the photo albums."
Kagome is surprised to hear there are photos, and pleased that he has made sure to keep them. Her mouth softens, and she smiles, a mellow curve of lips. "That's good. Thank you." But being soft is what has inculcated this vicissitude. "Don't you have work to do?" That earns her a sideways glance. She merely shrugs. "I mean, you could have just given me a map."
"I do." There is laughter in his voice – and fatigue. "But it's a good chance to take him hunting."
It hits her then. He didn't even have time to shave. If she tells him not to overwork himself though, it will be like the pot calling the kettle black. Kagome can only sigh. He needs this weekend off as much as she does.
"What kind of work?"
"TaishōCorp." Quick-spoken, almost absent-minded.
She blinks once, twice. Did he just say –?
"Wha–" Disbelief growls in her throat. "I can't believe this."
It chafes that she hasn't realized this sooner. He may have never divulged his last name but there aren't many people with his goddamn first name. And she works for a paper for gods' sake. It is comically absurd. And rather convenient. It's partly her fault for not making the connection…but she can't let him off the hook that easily.
She laughs, eyes him darkly. Calculative glint and sly undertones. "My editor-in-chief has been raving about Chiron Labs for months, but they keep turning us down."
"The cancer research we're funding." His mouth splits in a slow grin that more than implies he knows what she wants. And that he won't make it easy either. "The head researcher despises the press. Kaede is rather…idiosyncratic, more so ever since the clinical trials began."
Kagome can't help but notice the attraction of the man, especially with that lick of grin hovering on his lips. It's not enough to make her give up, though.
"Aren't all geniuses?" She laughs again, eyes him curiously. "But you're the one paying for the research. How come you're interested in cancer? I thought yōkai were immune to human diseases."
"We are." Sesshōmaru fixes her with a stare she can't quite decipher – maybe pity, maybe anger, or even a mixture of both – then assumes his usual expression, black steeped in traces of ennui. "But we're mingling more. Some yōkai choose to mate humans or have human lovers these days. Your lives are short enough without the addition of such ailments."
It is beyond facile to grasp what his words connote, all the things lurking behind that expression, but shock doesn't come, and maybe it isn't supposed to come. She already knows.
"I see." Nothing more, nothing less. She doesn't want to see – but even if she gouges her eyes out…she will still be able to see.
Kagome peers at him under her lashes, and though her voice is heavier, deeper, she tries to play it off. "Can I maybe interest you in an interview?" Consonants whispery and vowels dragging and sultriness.
"You can –" His lips peel back in a fraction of that decadent grin. "– try."
A flare of heat simmers beneath her skin. "A challenge." Kagome licks her lips, stares into his eyes. No pretense, no disguise.
His gaze falls on the curve of her lips, pursues the strokes of her tongue, and he laughs.
Ah. That laughter. It is raw and molten on her palate but wanes before she can taste all the flats and sharps in the delicious sound.
"We're here."
Her eyes widen at the sight of the large construction he has shrugged off as nothing much to look at. It's exquisitely rustic – rows of cypress wood that shimmers bronze under the autumn sun, floor length windows that create illusions of light and urge physicality. The urge to stand naked behind that glass and stare into the heart of wilderness, to be taken down on animal pelts and claw her way on top then be pushed down again until the fire-shadow turns to flesh-burn and the blood-howling of wolves is but an echo of the dark.
She shivers, near breathless. It is fortunate that Sesshōmaru has taken that time to carry their luggage inside and is only now coming back. Kagome unfastens her seatbelt with a long sigh then steps out of the car just as he reaches her.
"If that is your definition of nothing big then you must think my flat is a rabbit hole."
Sesshōmaru chuckles. "Close enough."
Inuyasha is still asleep in the backseat. She is contemplating whether to wake him now or after she makes lunch since it's nearing noon when Sesshōmaru opens the back door and scoops him up with ease. Quietly, naturally. The boy shifts and sniffs once or twice but doesn't wake, then buries himself deeper in Sesshōmaru's arms, all soft, breathing sounds and maybe…drooling over the collar of his shirt.
Kagome watches the wide expanse of his back as he walks inside and doesn't know what to think – because each thought is more dangerous than the other. He looks hot from behind is a bad thought. Because all that perfect skin is not hers to lick. I need to wash that shirt is an even worse thought. Because then he'll have to take off that shirt. He'll make a great father is the worst of them all. Because he won't be having children with her. She doesn't want children. Doesn't. Want. Children. Oh gods…need to kill myself now.
"Do I have to carry you inside?" His voice flows over the bend of his shoulder. A wicked tease, an iota of eagerness. He will do it. He wants to do it.
It rattles her, spurs her into motion, and she follows him at a more sedate pace, keeping some distance. Sesshōmaru lowers Inuyasha onto the piles of tawny fur strewn before the fireplace once inside, then straightens up, exhaling deeply, lids closing, one palm rubbing the base of his neck. Another thing she has never seen him do. He must really be tired.
"You can choose whichever room you like."
Kagome half-smiles, half-nods. "Okay, thanks."
"I need to make some phone calls."
More work. A scowl descends on her face, and she is sighing. "I'll get settled in then…make lunch." He's gone before she can get the reply out of her mouth, though she's sure his hearing can catch it.
Her gaze flits over to the napping boy. Inuyasha is gripping fistfuls of fur between his small fingers, face down, completely at home. He won't wake anytime soon. Kagome smothers her chuckle and grabs her travel bag, going up the stairs and choosing the first room she stumbles on. Once she has unpacked and put her clothes in the closet, she comes back down and strides into the kitchen. A stack of photo albums lies immaculate and evenly aligned on the table. She slides the pads of her fingers across the cover of the top album then sits down and opens it.
A woman in her early twenties graces the first photo. She is smiling and she is beautiful. Breathtaking. Her facial bones are high and cut delicately, her eyes coffee-cream gentleness, her lips heart-shaped rosebud. She seems like the kind of woman who can be crushed easily…not the kind to be tangled in an affair. To survive alone. She seems…like her mother. Perhaps the reason Izayoi hasn't been crushed isn't because of Inuyasha but because of Sesshōmaru. She hasn't been allowed to be crushed.
More pictures follow, more smiles, loving hugs, loving kisses. Kagome closes the album then, unwilling to stare at the mirror-image of what her life could have been.
Inuyasha wanders into the kitchen one hour later, gold hazed with sleep, sluggish, when Kagome is almost done with cooking.
"Hey, sleepyhead." She wipes her hands on the fabric of her apron and comes to sit beside him.
The boy remains unresponsive, eyes and mouth downcast, and Kagome smiles, ruffling his hair.
"What's wrong?"
"It doesn't smell like mama anymore." Hushed murmur. Bound to happen. Nothing she hasn't expected.
Kagome pulls him on her lap and reaches for the stacked albums. "Is this Izayoi-san?" Smile sweet, tone sweeter.
He bobs his head once, less gloomy, more wistful. Kagome buries her fingers in his hair and gives a light nip to his ear. A giggle then.
"What was she like?"
Slowly, he opens up, speaks more animatedly, squirms and blushes when he has to admit to past mischief, squeals and laughs when she tickles him as playful reminder to be good for her, and that is how Sesshōmaru finds them when he comes back.
It is a rainless, fading season, winter baying at the heels of autumn. Sesshōmaru lounges on the front porch, watches the pup chase the doe in the coolness of the afternoon. It amuses him, that she wants to help hone Inuyasha's instincts, that she becomes the hunted for the pup when it is she who lays the traps for him. Her face is flushed with color, and every time the pup comes close to catching her, she sprints away on light feet and laughter. It goes on like this for a while until she bids the pup to close his eyes and count to one hundred while she sneaks deep into the woods.
Hide and seek. Clever. An arithmetic exercise and a way to improve his tracking skills. Sesshōmaru, too, closes his eyes and samples the air. Earthly smells and animal odors and her scent – dripping honey and sweetness, the gardenia oils she lathers on her body after she bathes, smoke on skin and the zest of perspiration. Her scent clings to particles in the air – but it soon changes, brings the rush of hunger that rouses a hunter's instincts. Sesshōmaru tastes the air once more, senses sharpened, tuned to the beat of that hunger. Blood-copper, sultry and potent, primal impulse seeping in the flesh of his tongue and edging the points of his canines. Human blood. Sesshōmaru is moving before he can swallow down the implications of the blood-scent, teeth gnashing, muscles blazing in his thighs.
His speed slows once he comes upon her trail then stops altogether. She is leaning against the bark of an old oak, cursing under her breath, pressing slim fingers against the left side of her neck. Her hair is a wild mess of black ink, her features contorted in a mask of aggravation. It is but one superficial cut, more throbbing annoyance than pain, carelessly acquired.
She is…fine – but he isn't. His lips peel back for a soundless snarl, more baring of teeth than sound. Her head snaps up, fingers stilling, quick puffs of breath, chest rising and falling. Teeth sweep across her bottom lip as she watches him through a tangle of matted locks. She swallows once, twice, and again. He can see tension rippling in the cords of her neck and blood-red snaking down low between the swells of her breasts. And her scent changes again, grows thicker, sweeter with arousal.
He needs to leave. He needs to stop. He needs –
He is licking the honey off her skin, the blood, the need, the madness.
"Sesshō–" Made unwhole, sliced in half, more curse than name. Fragments of insanity and throat-lust, flesh sucked and soft between his teeth. She draws his name inside her as he draws blood to the surface and devours the echo of its syllables beneath the wet skin. A moan spills and threatens to become his name. Sesshōmaru drags his teeth away from that neck, drags his eyes higher and into hers – ripples of sunless water, falling into that curse, eyes gone dark with want, lips open and stroking the shape of his name. He resents his own name, the throat that moans it. She is perfection and she is the killer.
He burns inside out, and for one tortuous moment, he doesn't care if she kills him. The faint sound of small feet running then. Close. Soon to come. Sesshōmaru wrests himself away from her. He will leave. He will stop. But he wants to hear what death sounds like one last time. His eyes trace the contours of her lips, the fullness of their shape – they are parted and slick-red and gasping his name.
The mountain night is strewn with stars, in threes and fives and tens, points of overarching light, naked outlines of things rarely seen in city night skies. It's pretty…but cold. Kagome zips up her leather jacket then heads outside once she has put Inuyasha to bed. The smell of hard liquor is the first thing she notices before she even comes out to the porch, and when she does, Sesshōmaru's keen eyes. He is lying on his back, one arm under his head, one knee bent, and smoke rising. Languish. Deceptively. Kagome is certain he has felt her long before she sits beside him on the cool wood, but she knows he won't speak first.
She begins with something casual, harmless. Or at least compared to what else hangs between them.
"I need to tell my brother about Inuyasha. It's been over a year now and he's starting to get suspicious that I never invite him for home-cooked meals anymore and we only meet up outside." A humorless laugh escapes her lips, nearly turns to snorting, when she recalls Sōta's latest words in regards to this matter. "He thinks I'm shacking up with a guy…which technically, I am."
His mouth quirks into something wry, thinly amused. "I hadn't pegged you for a pedophile."
She bursts out in genuine laughter. "He's twenty years old even if he looks like five."
A ring of smoke is all he gives, and she steals one of his cigarettes. Bad habit…but somehow, they taste better than hers.
He chuckles, lets her. "I don't see the problem."
Kagome casts down a half-lidded stare. "You don't mind me telling him?"
He exhales slowly. "He's your brother and he needs to know."
She can't argue with that, and she does want to come clean, or she wouldn't have broached the matter. Secrets aren't the same as lies, but sometimes it feels like they are, and sometimes they end in lies.
Her lips curl in gratitude – and relief. "Alright then. I'll tell you how it goes."
Silence stretches, laden with complications, needs, truths, too late. If they remain unsaid then they will become secrets, maybe even lies, and there is no room for those between them.
"You said that you're starting to mingle and take human mates or lovers. Do they know what you are?"
"It depends." Something stirs beneath the calm, languorous but curious, one glance of dark eyes. "Usually, no."
They both know where this is going but it's still too soon to go there.
"Why?"
"Unless they want to sire offspring then it's just easier to never know."
Easier for who? Kagome thinks, and still…she doesn't ask. They fall quiet again – but there is awareness in the silence not there before.
"About that interview." Her voice is soft and heavy with all the things that need to be said.
There is more than awareness now, more than curiosity, silence thicker, eyes darker.
"If you agree to give The Sentinel an exclusive…" She takes a slow drag of her cigarette. Her eyes lower to his mouth. "…I won't ask about what happened in the woods." A thin line of smoke overlaps her gaze, slips between his lips and mixes with his own. "Or what's been happening for months now."
His neck tilts, cords strained with the motion, eyes black and knowing, mapping the swollen welt of crimson where neck fuses with shoulder.
"No deal." He crushes his cigarette violently, and laughs. "You don't want to ask anyway."
Kagome is crushing her cigarette and straddling his waist – she slams her hands down on either side of his face and bends low. Lips on hot lips and anger hotter.
"That's because I already know."