So Sankonntesu pointed out to the Inuyasha Fanfiction community that here on the FF we are just about to be overtaken in how many fics we have, and in response to her call to up the antes, I'm posting some of the drabbles I've written for my blog on tumblr (I was skeptical about the medium, but it really turning out super fun over there. Made many friends. :3 [ShinjiteFlorana . tumblr . com] if you're interested.)

This fic was honestly an elaborate setup for the final chapter, so if you're not feeling it, just skip to there.

Some of the songs I listened too: Clint Mansell - The Last Man / Young the Giant - Cough Syrup (acustic) / Lifehouse - Storm

Getting Used to Drowning

In a rare moment of vulnerability, he had once confessed that it was like getting used to drowning.

Miroku was desperate. Because at first he seemed fine. Of course he acted a bit dull, a bit sad, but Kagome had returned to her time, so of course he would be depressed. Of course he would have to go through that process of loss, of pain and then acceptance. In reality, it almost upset him how normal he was able to act about it. In the first few days it seemed like he and Sango were more upset by Kagome's absence than him.

His appetite was the same, attitude just as gruff and sandpapery. If they brought it up at all he was quick to tell them to "quit yer yapping," and "she's safe, what else does it matter?" Shippo seemed the most upset by it. Miroku and Sango knew well enough that this was his defense mechanism, that really he must be feeling her loss from their lives more acutely than any and all of them combined. But Shippo was only able to see the surface, to see a scoff and a fidget and a feh. More than anything else, that seemed to be what drove him away, to the fox demon temple to train. Too many fights with the half demon, obstinate in his refusal to play elder brother or father to the mourning child, had ended in tears, hot and angry. Too many moments the feuding two held their breath, willing the impossible voice to shout sit, to break up the fight and the sadness, thinker and heavier than a storm front.

But there was no voice.

So Shippo left.

By this point, Miroku had been relieved. They were making no progress with the two together, picking at each other's scars. Shippo would heal—regain his unshakable optimism in Kagome—with distance.

Inuyasha too, would heal. He would mourn and brood and sigh and move on. He would get better, with time.

Except he hadn't gotten better.

He had gotten worse.

The first year was the hardest. Scratch that, the first month. Except then the next month was worse. Then the next. Then the next.

He started sleeping a lot. Or pretending too, at least—an excuse not to talk to anyone, to force them into silence, force himself into solitude. When that didn't work, when Miroku and his now wife were worried enough that they would speak to him even as he lay, arms crossed behind his head, eye closed, breathing soft and steady—when Miroku would poke him with a big toe and tell him up and at em'—time for food, no thanks to you—haven't you slept enough? He thought that might help, when at first Inuyasha would open his eyes, right himself, dutifully and gruffly take his bowl of rice, unhappy snarl on his face.

But then he wouldn't touch it. He would stare. At the dish or out the window or through the door, curtain swept away to reveal the good weather. And that was very worrying. Because Inuyasha loved to eat, he loved food, and if this was simply a pouty depression, he should have shown this symptom of lost appetite when Kagome first left. But it had been weeks now. And he was eating less and less each day, 'sleeping' more and more, when they would let him. It left him sluggish, dazed, stemmed the flow of what little he had to say or complain about before. He remained silent many times they spoke to him, registering them with soulful eyes or, more worrisome, ignoring them completely, in a way that didn't seem purposeful. In a way that had Miroku repeating himself, pulling genuine head turns and "huh? What?"s from the half demon.

And this was worrisome because Inuyasha heard everything. Even when distracted, when in pain or sad or cranky or thoughtful, he still heard everything with those ears of his.

He suspected by the end of it he wasn't really sleeping. Whereas before he was sure in his lethargy, anything to pass the time, the endless hours, would be welcome. He embraced sleep when it did come, desperate—desperate for its release, its unconscious embrace, its dreams—she was still there in the dreams, he was sure. Still nagging and laughing and angry and smiling and forgetful and strong and everything she was to him. So he slept. But for this same reason, for the dreams and for her, he stopped sleeping. He started avoiding it, faking it, laying there, eyes closed, breath steady, faking sleep but being oh so careful to never fall into it, not when it was so impossibly close.

The dreams were release but waking from them was torture. Miroku had seen it, him waking from genuine sleep, the jerk, disorientation, her name on his lips but never spoken. The dream her was like sunlight and the warmth it produced small, brief, and only left him colder from its sudden and inevitable absence. Slipping through his fingers, over his face and down his arms, soaked up by the earth a million miles deep and oceans of time apart. Perhaps it wasn't sunlight. Perhaps it was moonlight. A cold, dim imitation of the reality.

So Inuyasha didn't sleep, and his eyes darkened and he spoke less and ate less, and when Miroku and Sango started bugging him, trying to be as tentatively supportive in this intensely personal loss, he started leaving.

Miroku felt intensely responsible. Because yes, he was saddened by Kagome's absence, yes Shippo had been driven off and there was so much to mourn, but Miroku had Sango. Miroku finally had her, free, guiltless, completely. He had love and life and as much as he tried to keep a level and attentive head for his friend not privileged with this same gift, he was lightheaded, head over heels for his wife, so many thing his head shouldn't be, distracted, when attending to his depressed friend. He was ready to suffocate in Sango. His curse was free and she had a family again and seeing them get their happy ending was too much. Seeing them together, all smiles and laughs and gentle touches, were nails in his wrists and legs and head.

Miroku tried to be sensitive about it, dim his affection in front of his friend, but they were married. The nights, in which Inuyasha left to adopt a tree for the night or borrow a space near Kaede's fire, were not enough. They shared a hut Inuyasha himself helped them build. He fained sleep near their hearth, dined with them—and Miroku was so much more in love with his wife, his scale instead of staying perfectly balanced, spilled over to her side so many times and a kiss and a whisper and a caress were knives only seen as thrown after their contact—after looking up from his love to Inuyasha. Inuyasha with one knee bent to his chest, arm draped lazily over it and head dipped to press lips pulled thin and tight, bitten in restraint, eyes purposefully averted, blood from the sharp pierce of his fangs only visible in a brief instance as he stood and existed in a single swift movement.

Sango's pregnancy is what pushed him over the edge, he suspected. He had left for a few days. It was longer than normal, but not an uncommon occurrence. It had been nearly a month since Kagome left. Inuyasha entered unannounced and Sango stood in elation, happy at her friend's return. She had set aside whatever task occupied her time and strode over to him to give him a long meaningful hug and when she pulled away, Inuyasha looked confused. Miroku had watched as he quirked his head, and leaned further into the space between them to give Sango a sniff. She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Are you pregnant?"

And that was it. Confusion and tears and happy laughter. Inuyasha crooked a smile and in that moment looked like his old self again, like when he was complete, with her at his side. Miroku let himself believe for a moment that this was it, that he would get better. But one more half hug to Sango, an affectionate cuff to the back of Miroku's head, and he was gone, before Miroku in his joy could even register it.

He didn't come back.

Not to their hut

Not to Kaede's.

Not to aid Miroku in fighting the petty demons that plagued the neighboring villages as he usually did.

He was gone and Miroku was desperate, racked with guilt and his pregnant wife was beside herself trying to console him. But he couldn't do this, not when he had family to prepare for, not when the one he was receiving counsel from was going through her own trial.

Because Miroku had seen Inuyasha grieve death and loss before. He had seen it with Kikyo and he had seen it when he slaughtered the bandits and he knew that he had moved on from the death of his mother, enough to live on as he had. He knew how Inuyasha grieved and grew and moved on and got better.

Kagome was gone. Not dead, but away. Left in a strange gap filled with so many unanswered questions. Kagome wasn't dead and this was not proper grieving. Inuyasha wasn't getting better. He was getting worse.

And now he was gone.

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Please don't Forget to reveiw! :D