Title: Pretext
Summary: Because everybody needs one. (The disease was forged in his blood.)
Pairing(s): Miroku/Kohaku, Miroku/Sango, implied Sango/Kohaku
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: This story will be between 2-3 chapters.
Warnings: slash or male/male relationships. incest. chan. gore. angsty-Kohaku. Kohaku-sufferitis.

His fingers came away yellow.

Which was odd, really, because the last he remembered, blood was always supposed to be red, whether it was youkai or human or not. But then—no, that wasn't right, because he had seen blue blood, blood tainted with maggots and flies. He had seen black blood, green, white—all different kinds and colors, but all as disgusting as the next. He was used to it though, used to the thick, rich scent of the blood that was always around him whenever he made the kill (something he was never made for, something he always fought against, but submitted to, regardless because…). It all smelled the same, at least.

It was still yellow.

It had been red at first, warm and red, and for one quick, disturbing moment, he had thought to lick his fingers clean, but instead he merely smeared the blood over the blade of the kusarigama, watching as it dried and crusted on the dull surface. He had felt the chipped metal pull at the tender skin of his fingers, wondered for a second if he'd be cleaning his own blood from the blade, but then there was that yellowish stain—reddish-yellow really, and it coated his fingers so strangely, so oddly, that he couldn't help but stare at it.

Sango was there, watching him, as was Miroku, and something was odd about the way that they were staring at the carnage all around them, something was different about it. There was a thick cold feeling working its way down his chest, into the pit of his stomach, and he could almost feel the sickness rise, could almost feel the heat of fever wash over him, and then the feeling was gone.

But the blood was still there. And it was still yellow.

"Kohaku." (Sango.)

Her voice was gentle, soft, and a worried frown marred her face. Kohaku let his hand fall to his side and he turned to face his sister, his face neutral, blank, and he could see the way it hurt her, could see the way it cut through every defense she ever had. Because this was Naraku's face, the one he had owned so beautifully, the one Kohaku didn't mind giving, not ever. It protected him from other things, like how the monk was always so close, but so far away, and how had things gotten like this?

The remains of the blood burned on his fingers, and Kohaku wondered if Sango felt it, too.

"Kohaku," she murmured again, moving forward, her hand resting against her boomerang strap.

Always so careful. So fearful. He hadn't felt the pain in his back since before… well, he couldn't remember, but he knew it had something to do with the blood on his fingers and the face that belonged solely to Naraku (that would, no matter how they fought against it, because Naraku molded him almost as well as Sango had.)

Even now, when he was becoming his family legacy (a legacy made of blood and death and lives that hardly mattered, but should have, anyways) they were always so cautious, always so frightened. Because it was so easy for him to leave, to run, and the heat that surrounded him as Sango touched his forehead was scorching against his paper thin skin, and something was wrong. Something was wrong and not right (never right, never Sango) but no one had noticed it yet. No one had noticed because they were too busy noticing him, and so what if it was Naraku's face? It was better than Sango's face, a face that would have been filled with tears and hatred and a thousand emotions Kohaku didn't think he could control and would never want to.

"Are you all right?"

He didn't know what type of question it was, whether he was supposed to answer, but he felt the fascination rising, growing, because the blade of the kusarigama was glinting yellow when it had only been red moments before. There was something wrong. Something not right.

Miroku's expression matched his perfectly.

"Sango-san," Miroku called quietly, and she turned her face away from her brother. She always did that, Kohaku realized, whenever he called. Always so quick to follow through with whatever command he was going to give, just like the willing, subservient wife she should have never been. But then he remembered that they weren't married, not like they were supposed to be. Never had the chance to.

Things were still so wrong.

"The villagers will be waiting for confirmation that the youkai is dead."

"Ah, right," Sango replied, and she was already moving away from him, from her brother and (always) towards Miroku.

The blood glinted yellow once again, and he was entranced, just as he had been before. But then Sango was calling him again (always calling, never forgetting, even though he had) and he had to forget the blood despite the heat that continued to dance along his nerves. He wanted it to stop, but somehow, he didn't think it would.

So he followed, just like he knew he always would, despite the burning resentment hidden behind the face that was Naraku's.

The trek back to the village was unnaturally slow.

The next summons came on queue, never changing, because despite the world of difference Sango and her friends made, there was still too much violence and anger hanging about, choking the people of the land, and they were always too weak to handle it by themselves. Always relying on others. Screaming and running in terror.

Kohaku could almost hear them ricocheting off the far reaches of his mind, and he stared at his hands, wishing that the yellow tinted blood was back. Blood that made his veins burn in curiosity, because what else could it be?

Sango had worried over him constantly, but it was nothing more than another distraction to his already pressing problems, nothing more than some sick, twisted fantasy. And as hard as it had been to stay away from his sister, as hard as it had been to keep the slipping sanity away from her watching eyes, he had done it. Because Miroku was there. Because Miroku was always there, calling her name, diverting attention from him, and although he was grateful, it boiled his blood in a way that he never thought possible.

His fists clenched, and he could almost see the yellow ooze through his fingers, through hands scarred by his very own weapon, and his chest ached.

"Kohaku." (Sango.)

He unclenched his fists and flattened them against his thighs, palms down. His scars weren't nearly as visible, but they were still there, and when he turned that horribly blank expression on his sister, he could see her flinch back, as though slapped.

The worry was shining in her eyes once again.

Kohaku hated it.

Sango regarded him quietly for a moment before a sigh hefted her chest, and Kohaku watched as it expanded then deflated, fascinated. But then his eyes strayed back towards her eyes, eyes that, if possible, portrayed a strange sort of indecision before Sango came to some sort of firm decision.

"We've been summoned," Sango answered, and Kohaku hated the way her voice sounded. He nodded slightly, refusing to talk. Sango opened her mouth once more, as though wanting to add something to that statement, but Kohaku's eyes were too blank. Too painful.

She turned and re-entered the hut instead.

Kohaku's sense of awareness heightened.

"Yes?" he asked quietly, and the almost non-existent rustle of fabric sent chills up his spine. Miroku was silent as he sat besides him, keeping his dark eyes off of the marionettedollboy beside him and on the sunset that turned the sky a myriad of beautiful colors that only reminded Kohaku of that beautiful, curious yellow blood.

The annoyance spiked painfully within him as the silence continued, but Miroku had always been a monk, a man of patience, and Kohaku knew that the older man was just waiting for his to wear thin. Kohaku didn't care. He didn't want to be there, not next to the only person who could make his sister forget that he existed.

But then again, it had always been a half-existence to begin with, so it would make sense if Sango could only half-remember, and the scars were suddenly bulging on his colorless hands, thick white lines that seemed to map out a perfect diagram of a distorted web. A spider's web.

(Naraku's web.)

Perhaps this had been his final assault, his final act of resentment, because why else would Kohaku be living that horrible life, only half-remembered and half-existing? It made so much sense, and the fact that he was still nothing more than marionette controlled by someone else's hands left a sick feeling in his stomach.

"I am beginning to think that bringing you along would be detrimental to our cause."

Miroku's voice was clear and insistent, and the half-thoughts disappeared almost instantly. Kohaku didn't say a word, just stared out over the quiet village.

The silence stretched on continuously, but Kohaku had gotten used to silence, gotten used to the way the fog reverberated through the contours of his mind, and although Miroku was better at it than he was, Kohaku still knew how to play the game.

(Naraku led him well.)

Kohaku was still the first to break.

"I'm going."

Miroku's brow furrowed at the quiet tone, and without looking at the older man, Kohaku could already see the thoughts running through his head. Thoughts that were lies. Thoughts that were plans. Thoughts that were things Kohaku could never hope to think, but strived for anyways. Thoughts that Sango always asked to hear, because at least Miroku could think, and even though Kohaku thought in half-thoughts and half-strands, they were still halfway there, so they had to matter. He wanted them to.

They never did.

The anger was hot as it surged to the forefront, and the scars bulged again as Kohaku's fists tightened. Then he was standing, because sitting so close to the man who took his sister away (always when it counted, never when it didn't) was stifling and difficult, and the hate was still strong.

"Why are you here?" Kohaku asked suddenly. But Miroku wasn't blindsided (never could be). He just curved his lips into another smile, this one kind and cautious, and Kohaku scowled.

"While I think you are a talented demon slayer," he began cordially. "I believe this is a summons that should be handled by Sango and me." He paused, and Kohaku's anger spiked at tone. "Alone."

"I'm going," Kohaku reiterated, and he turned to leave.

"You really don't like being without her, do you?"

It was spoken so softly, so gently, that Kohaku couldn't help but stop. His body tensed and his eyes narrowed. He could feel the gentle smile adorning the monk's face as he thought of Sango, of something that didn't belong to him, of something that was supposed to be Kohaku's and Kohaku's alone and—blood could be red, too. Kohaku knew this as intimately as he knew death, because he had seen red blood, seen it spurting from open, festering wounds. Seen it spilling from jagged, scarred skin and—he had spilled it once, taken it from children and women and men, just as his master had ordered.

But puppets were always supposed to do as their masters ordered, even when they didn't want to. The strings had been driven in too tightly, controlled too stiffly, and there were times when Kohaku was meant to kill Sango, too.

But he never did. Never could. Never wanted to.

Because he was hers, and she had told him not to.

(He could never not listen to her, even when he didn't want to.)

"Why are you here?" Kohaku asked again.

Miroku stood then, and walked towards the boy, his robes rustling as his feet scraped against the wood underfoot. It grated on Kohaku in a way he never thought possible. It rankled and irked and Kohaku knew why it always bothered him, being so near the monk, because he took from everything and gave little. But Kohaku never gave anything anyways and he knew that Miroku was waiting, just as he had waited for Sango. Just as Naraku had waited for him.

The strings tightened painfully, but Kohaku ignored them, barely sparing Miroku a glance as he came to a stop next to him.

"Do you hate me, Kohaku?" Miroku asked as he leaned forward to inspect the younger boy's face. Kohaku scowled, hating the way the monk was acting so curious, hating the fact that he thought he should know (taking, taking, never giving), hating the fact that he was so selfish.

"No." Yes.

"Ah," Miroku answered genially, his lips curving up into a curious smile. "That's good then."

The irritation spiked again, and Kohaku's fists clenched. "Why—"

"Sango would be sad," Miroku continued over him, that same magnanimous smile stretched over his face.

She wouldn't miss you, Kohaku lied venomously, longingly.

Hmm, but she wouldn't miss you, either. (Never did).

"She doesn't—"

"Love me?" Miroku interrupted, settling a hand on Kohaku's shoulder gently. It was hot and heavy, and left him feeling angry, but he didn't try to dislodge it. "Hmmm," he continued imploringly. "I think she does." He paused again, and Kohaku felt the anger bristling. "What are you so afraid of?"

"Nothing," Kohaku murmured, jerking away from the monk's touch. "I—you don't need her."

Miroku just smiled.

The silence settled thickly over them, and Kohaku could feel the half thoughts piling up again, could still feel the heat of Miroku's hand against his shoulder even though it had left, even though it was gone (but everything was never there, never when he needed it) and he hated the way Miroku continued to smile at him, hated the way he continued to regard him with those dark, horrible eyes. They were so kind, so gentle, so—not real—and he hated the way Sango turned to them, always always always.

Kohaku was the first to break.

"I won't leave her," he said quietly, and Miroku tilted his head towards him curiously.

"I didn't think you would," he replied, turning around to leave. He took a few steps, his robes rustling, and Kohaku could feel them as they brushed against the scars of his hands, burning and hot and uncomfortable.

"Then why did you…?" Kohaku asked, turning to face the retreating monk. Miroku glanced at him carefully, his eyes unnaturally unreadable.

"Because you make her sad."

The reeds lifted slowly, carefully, and Miroku ducked his head disappearing in the hut quietly.

Kohaku's scars bulged as he tried not to scream.

Sango made him sad, too.

He thought not to go, but as soon as it entered his mind, the thought flittered through the gentle breeze, and all he could see was red. Red for Sango. Red for Miroku. Red for him.

Colors flashed through his mind, black and pink and purple and teal and—yellow—

The chain of his kusarigama was heavy as he fastened it to his hip, but he ignored it, even as he exited his room to find Miroku and Sango waiting patiently.

Miroku's face was blank; Sango's was sad.

Kohaku forgot how to exist.

(Again.)

He bled rivulets of red.

Red that was sticky and warm, but cold to the touch, because no one could wipe away the stain on his soul.

They had tried, so valiantly, so pointlessly, but still they had tried, and part of him wanted to thank them. Part of him wanted to take them by the hands and whisper thank you, because no one besides Sango had ever cared, and now there was another. Another whose name he had forgotten to remember, and probably wouldn't remember, because even though he had thought to care, Kohaku knew it was just because of Sango.

Because Sango was strong and graceful and everything he wasn't, so there was no point in pretending, not really, and if it hadn't been for him (always there to blame, always there to lay waste, just like he wanted) the hatred wouldn't be nearly as strong.

But there were moments of absolution, moments of clarity that shocked even him, and when he saw them outside of the feverish poison, saw the fire that clashed between them, even when it shouldn't, and accidents were never meant to happen.

But demon claws had been rough and vicious, and rivulets of red had changed from yellow to orange to blue and black—he was human—and blood wasn't supposed to be so cold or dry, but when her scream broke through the façade that kept him grounded through the agony, he could feel the face he built start to crumble, could feel the darkness receding even though it begged to choke him like a thick, poisonous miasma. One he was familiar with. One that haunted him.

One that comforted him.

And he hated to admit it because there was no way he should have ever felt something so disgusting, but the pain was burning him alive, hot and fierce and he could remember being non-existent, but still existing, and even as she fell to her knees beside him, pressing her strong hands to his chest (warmsoftgentleprotectme) he knew that there had to be something better than this. Something better than this half-existence, because he could feel it eating away at him from inside, dark and potent and oh so wrong.

The rings of the shakujou jangled as they got closer, the sound musical to his ears, but it was one that hated. Because when she was near (Sango, Sango, always Sango) he was never far behind, and gods he wanted that to stop, because she was the only thing that made him feel alive.

He was the only one that could take it away.

"Kohaku?" Sango asked gently, and there was a worry in her voice. A worry that he could do without, because why worry when war was what he lived for? Battles and death and bloodshed and it hardly mattered if it was own, even if he was afraid to die. Because repentance only came in so many forms, and repentance was something he had yet to do, and perhaps that was why the sickness was churning so deeply inside of him, half life and half lies, because someone could never half-exist, only be non-existent and—

The fever crept up on him, choking him, suffocating him, and it was only when the staff jingled once more that his mind was coming back to him. It was only when he saw Sango's dark eyes looking down on him that he remembered he couldn't do it, not then, not now, not when his mind was only half way in tact, even if it did want to creep away from him. Even if it did want to reced back into the nothingness that kept the guilt from killing him.

"Aneue," he managed to whisper, and he could almost sense the poisonous thick of blood wash over his tongue.

Sango's lips were red and parted, and he could feel her breath on his cheek, could see the worry in her eyes, but the nothingness was coming back, and his chest was wet and sticky, but warm, even when it should have been cold. It had been cold, especially when claw had gone through his ribs, because nothing could ever burn as cold as pain. And he was used to pain, used to devastation, especially when the marionette strings gripped his skin with tight, vicious jerks of power.

But that power was gone, and the light that burned at his back was gone, leaving nothing but a dull ache to forget him by, because why would he want to remember?

But Sango hated the blankness, hated the face that belonged to the marionette, and part of her was still afraid. Still afraid that she would have to take that final blow, afraid that she would have to pull out her sword, just as she had done so many times before. So many times, and he had just watched her blankly, forgetting because he didn't want to remember.

The shame was almost as intoxicating as the fever, and just as the monk bent down to inspect him, he could see Sango's lips moving, could see her chest heaving and—

Words spilled from her mouth like poison, moving and stretching and morphing, and he could see the purple mists settling over him again, could see the darkness shift until his sister no longer existed (just like him, never existing, never alive), but he could still hear the gentle jingle of the shakujou, comforting and calming.

But oh, Kohaku thought as the darkness closed in, laughing and mocking. He could see the image playing in front of his eyes again, could feel the claw ripping him from the inside out and poison had never tasted so sweet, not even when he was dangling from the strings of his master like a crumpled little marionette.

And then the strings twisted, beautifully, frighteningly and (whisperswhisperswhispers, still calling to him, still wanting) his body was twisting and his bones crunching, and this was not something he had ever wanted to become, not this empty shell, even if he already was. The strings weren't controlled by him, had never been, and Kohaku was so used to the nothingness that he accepted it, even when it erupted in flames around him.

Sango screamed, but he didn't hear.

The fever was so much sweeter.

They failed. In every sense of the word.

People fought, people cried, people ran. They died, and like a subtle sigh caught in the wind their lives were snuffed out, bloody and violent and unneeded. Children had been lost, women slaughtered, and men left to work through the desperate fog of uncertainty as the creature was left, spared by the demon slayers, to escape.

Hatred came in waves. Waves that Sango didn't know how to handle, waves that Miroku bore with a strained smile, his eyes less dark than usual, but his gaze heavier than it needed to be. Darkness was like a disease, spreading throughout the little village, and Kohaku was nothing more than a broken, decrepit little boy that hovered on the edges of life and death, bleeding dry what once made it possible for him to exist.

But he didn't.

He didn't, and Sango knew he couldn't. Knew it like she knew her own name, like she knew her own heart, and the tears threatened to spill, threatened to choke her and maim her and the anger spiked hotly in her. It was a festering infestation that was only battled back by worry and despair, because Kohaku couldn't leave her, not now. Not when she needed him. Not when she longed for him.

(But things would never be the same, not again, not like they should be.)

Fever was poison to her brain, and the poison arced through her brothers veins as he thrashed and screamed and pleaded with people that weren't there, but he thought were anyways. Fingers scratched and pulled and tore through flesh, leaving more scars even though Kohaku had enough for the three of them.

Sweat clung to his body, slicked his hair, and Sango watched as his skin turned red and the skin on his lips went dry. She watched as tears leaked between his closed eyelids repeatedly, watched as the wound on his torso refused to heal, watched as his bandages were redredred. She saw the heat consume him, saw death tug on him restlessly, and oh how she wanted to save him, wanted to heal him, but there was nothing she could do—absolutely nothing.

Kagome was a distant thought of a distant dream, and she never left anything that could heal, that would help break through the fever that was consuming her brother as quickly as it could.

He came to in random spurts of consciousness, but they never lasted long. There was hatred and anger in his voice. Need. Want. He ate and drank sporadically, but it was all choked down with a bitterness that Sango didn't know existed. It ate her alive because he wasn't supposed to be this way, not after he had been saved, not after the final sacrifice that should had freed him from his nightmares. But the nightmares were there, and he blamed her for everything. Blamed himself. Blamed Miroku.

Miroku couldn't calm her any longer. His hands were hot against her cold skin, and she took and took and took, but it never made a difference. Kohaku's expression wasn't blank, wasn't gone, wasn't non-existent, but he was and—oh, how delirious he had become, how frightened. How sick.

Ugly.

Insane.

He called for her.

She couldn't answer.

Time rolled by like battered scenery, and Kohaku was still delusional and ill, but the youkai ravaged everything in sight. She could feel it prickling on the edge of her senses, taunting her, teasing her, and it was hard trying to repress the anger. Kohaku's skin grew paper thin and pale—she could see his veins weaving an interesting pattern, bulging slightly against the restraints, and the more she saw them, the harder it became.

She was breaking.

Regrets meant nothing unless Kohaku was awake, but he wasn't.

She wanted to whisper assurances in his ear, wanted the horrible heat of his body to disappear as she laid beside him, wiping the sweat from his face. From his arms. His chest. Legs. Back.

The sweat came away just as easily as the blood did, and it ravaged her in a way she never thought possible.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not when he was healing. Not when everything was working—

(but not.)

"He's not getting any better," she whispered as Miroku curled his fingers around her wrist, tugging her towards him. His face was blank, as blank as Kohaku's, except Kohaku couldn't be expressionless, not when he writhed and cried in pain. Sango knew this. It was impossible.

"It takes time, Sango," Miroku answered, his voice lilting as he said her name.

It sounded like poison.

"Miroku—"

"It takes time," he said once again, quietly. His lips brushed against her temple, but she could tell he was uncertain. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes said all.

At least she liked to think so.

They reminded her of poison, too.

"I don't know what to do. Nothing's working." Her voice was bordering on hysterical, and she could feel herself drawing away from the heat, into the cool, desperate solitude that once pervaded her mind. She was helpless. So helpless.

She wanted her brother. Needed him.

He wasn't there.

Miroku didn't answer. He just adjusted his grip on her arms, held on tighter, careful not to let her slip away.

It wasn't working.

Nothing was.

Sango knew this.

Time rolled by like battered scenery. Kohaku screamed and cried and tears slipped through his closed eyelids. Blood welled up on his chest, soaking his bandages. Ointment was greasy and oily and coated her fingers so disgustingly, but she could see the edges of his wound, puckered and red. Could see it healing. Blood slipped through the cracks of the half formed scab, and oh gods, this was not how it was supposed to be.

It wasn't working.

Fever was poison to her brain, poison on her lips as she kissed his sweaty forehead, and the delirium crept up in waves, trying to over take her.

Still, he didn't wake.

But he couldn't die. Not then. Not with her. Not when everything was finally working—

Time rolled by like battered scenery.

Desperation choked her.

Miroku's words were poison.

His touch left fiery trails cross her skin, left her aching and arcing into him, seeking a heat that only he could give.

Kohaku woke in sporadic fits of awareness, but he still wasn't there. His skin was red and his lips dry and chapped, but he choked down food and water whenever he could.

It wasn't working.

The youkai taunted her, taunted her, taunted her—

Greasy. Oily. Blood and scabs and Kohaku, oh gods Kohaku—

"I hate him."

Sango's heart clenched as she wiped away the blood from her brother's wound, as she listened to his raspy voice, as she saw the fever leave beads of sweat across his forehead.

"Who?" she asked quietly, gently, attempting not to startle him.

His eyes were yellow with fever, but then Miroku was entering the room, his robes rustling quietly. Kohaku's fingers curled harshly around her wrist, and he was hot, so hot, so unhealthy, so sick, so—

He couldn't die. Not then. Not with her. Not when everything—

Kohaku's yellow eyes settled on Miroku. Sango gave him some water. Kohaku choked it down absently, fading in and out of consciousness.

The youkai reared then, his youki prickling violently against her senses.

"Who?" she asked again, almost desperately, but Kohaku's eyes never left Miroku.

His fingers relaxed around her wrist.

Sango wanted him to hold on.

He didn't.

"Him," he breathed out angrily, violently.

Sango's heart clenched. "Kohaku," she breathed, her chest heaving slightly. "Don't—"

"Sango," Miroku said quietly, his hot hands grabbing her arm and heaving her to her feet.

Kohaku's lips twisted. Cracked. Bled.

Sango tried to reach out to him.

It wasn't working.

"I hate you," Kohaku said to Miroku, but the sweat was already beginning to roll down his forehead. His eyes were already beginning to close.

"No," Sango whispered, struggling against Miroku's hold. "Kohaku, please, please just look at me."

It wasn't working.

He didn't.

"He's dying," Miroku said sometime later as Sango wiped away the blood, disregarding the way it soaked through the cloth and stained her fingers.

"No," Sango said vehemently, ignoring his poisonous words. Allowing the hate and anger to fester.

The youkai was still taunting her.

Kohaku shuddered.

His body arced.

Taunting, taunting, taunting—

"He's—"

"—not dead!"

Miroku frowned, and he placed his hand against Sango's shoulder.

It was all she needed.

Sango broke.

Miroku pulled her away, cradling her to his chest.

Kohaku's blood was still on her fingers.

It stained them yellow.

"I'm going to kill it," Sango whispered.

Miroku nodded, releasing her.

"I don't know what else to do," she confessed.

Miroku didn't answer.

"Watch him," Sango pleaded, hefting her boomerang onto her back.

Miroku smiled at her.

"Of course," he answered, and Sango let out a sigh, her eyes burning.

"He doesn't hate you," she whispered, but Miroku's lips just twitched slightly.

Sango couldn't hold his gaze. Her eyes dropped to the floor.

"I'll see you soon," Miroku said a few seconds later; his lips brushed her temple.

Sango nodded, unable to answer, and looked in on Kohaku.

He was still sick. The fever still gripped him.

Her fingers were still yellow.

The youkai taunted her.

"Take care of him," she said, turning to leave.

Miroku smiled and regarded her curiously.

Sango left.

The youkai stopped taunting her.

Kohaku stopped screaming. Stopped crying. Stopped thrashing.

A few seconds later, his fever broke.

Consciousness gripped him violently, angrily, and he could feel something cool against his forehead. His chest was hot—too hot, hotter than he was used to—but the delirium he had felt so many times before was gone. His could feel his limbs—so thick, so heavy—weighing him down, refusing to move. His throat was tight and sore and raw, and if he tried, Kohaku was certain that he could speak up blood.

He didn't want to.

But his head was aching almost as fiercely as his chest, and it was all he could do to open his eyes.

The sun light was sharp and agonizing against his eyes, but he just lifted a heavy limb and tried to shield it from his face. Tried, but he could still see the light filtering in through this fingers, fingers stained yellow and—Kohaku frowned, trying his best to ignore the disgusting, cottony feel of his mouth.

His sense came back, little by little. It was easier to move than it was to feel, because with feeling came pain, and he was suffering from it in abundance. It was something that was almost not-there, almost non-existent, but existed anyways. He could feel the soreness of this throat, the thickness of his tongue, the heaviness of his limbs. And he could see. And taste. And oh, how he wished he couldn't do either, because it was so disgusting, so painful, but it happened anyways.

Everything played in slow motion around him, moving and shifting, but there was no sound to accompany it. Nothing but the sight of his scars hovering above him in a silent remembrance.

Kohaku couldn't bring himself to feel despair. Couldn't bring himself to feel anger. Remorse. Regret.

He was so tired.

So, so tired.

Kohaku.

But he could smell. He could smell something so wonderful and delicious and—

Kohaku.

Fingers wrapped gently around his own, hot and searing, and oh how he could feel that.

They were familiar somehow.

Kohaku.

He wanted to sleep, but fingers were running comfortingly across his forehead, and he found he didn't want to. He wanted the warmth, wanted to continue feeling the heat searing across his skin, because he had never felt anything so wonderful, so—

"Kohaku."

His eyelids fluttered slightly, and he turned at the sound of shifting robes.

"Ffff," he rasped, and something cool touched his lips. He opened his mouth and drank greedily, relishing in the taste of water against his throat. It was quenching. It brought relief.

It was pulled away to soon so he leaned forward to take more, but hands, hands that were warm and wonderful and great held him in place, setting the ladle aside, running through his hair.

"Kohaku," the voice said again, and Kohaku suddenly remembered where he heard it, remembered where he knew it, and—

"Where's Sango?" he rasped, tensing as the hands stilled.

Miroku shifted slightly. "She left."

Pain like nothing Kohaku ever felt before pierced him, and he closed his eyes once more.

Oh, how he just wanted to sleep.

(But he never could, not with them around, not with him around, and somehow, he didn't want to anyways.)

"She went to slay the demon that injured you."

Kohaku pulled away from his grasp then, and Miroku's hands slid away fluidly, without a problem. It hurt to look at him, to see the one person he never wanted to caring for him, but Kohaku could remember so easily, even with his half-thoughts which were halfway there, how the demon had swooped down on him. How it had clawed its way into his skin, ripping and tearing and oh, the pain.

"I want Sango," he whispered petulantly. Childishly.

Miroku's lips curved into a smile.

"So do I," he replied, and Kohaku whipped around to glare at him.

"Why?" he asked harshly, but all it did was leave him hacking and coughing painfully. He didn't bleed words, but he was close to it, and Kohaku hated it. Hated the fact that Miroku could see his weakness without having any of his own.

"Same as you, I'd imagine," Miroku answered pleasantly.

Kohaku wasn't fooled.

"You—you're—"

"Are you hungry?" Miroku asked, and Kohaku reeled from the sudden change in subject. He nodded slightly, feeling incredibly weak, but Miroku merely gave him more water and some food—food that was wonderful, even if it wasn't nearly as good as Sango's. Food that made him devour it, even if Miroku did tell him to slow down. Food that made him sleepy and tired and oh, how nice it would have been to just close his eyes and sleep the rest of the day away.

But his skin was crusted with sweat, and he could smell himself though he tried not to.

Miroku sponged him down sometime later, but his hands were too hot, even through the coolness of the water.

He drank some more, but his throat was still sore and his body still weak.

But he didn't forget, not even when Miroku woke him so he could eat some dinner, not even as Miroku helped him dress into a clean yukata, not even as he changed Kohaku's bandages once again. The scab on his chest leaked blood almost constantly, it was so hard to move, so disgusting to see, because it stained Miroku's fingers yellow. Yellow, yellow, yellow—

"She left me," Kohaku whispered sometime later, his eyes burning. "Why did she leave?"

Miroku turned to regard him curiously. "Kohaku—"

"I called for her and called for her and she never came," he continued, his weak hands covering his face in despair. "I just wanted her there with me, but she left. Why did she leave?"

"I don't know," Miroku answered after a moment of silence, his voice unnaturally blank.

Kohaku glared at him through tear stung eyes.

"Yes," he answered raspy. "You do. You know everything about her. You know. Don't lie."

Miroku's lips quirked upwards in amusement. "I didn't think I was."

"Liar," Kohaku spat, his hands clenching and his scars bulging. "She would tell you." Kohaku paused as his throat closed up on him, but he fought through the pain, wanting to finish. "She loves you." (Always.)

Miroku's dark eyes crinkled in amusement, and he nodded slightly. "Yes. I believe she does."

"Then… then tell me." Kohaku felt so pathetic then. So desperate. So delirious—

"What would you like to know?" Miroku inquired gently, and Kohaku never hated him more than he did in that moment. Never thought he could and oh—oh—why couldn't he just leave? Why did he even have to be there? Why did Sango ever have to choose him? Why why why why why—

"Tell me why," Kohaku said slowly, his chest aching. "Tell me why you chose her, and I'll give you my blessings."

Miroku's lips curved into a charming smile, a smile that Kohaku hated because Sango loved it and—he clenched his hands into fists, even as Miroku turned around and left him there, all alone. Kohaku wanted to dig his fingers into his chest, wanted to break his skin apart and feel it bleed because Sango was his and—

(She loved Miroku, always.)

He had gotten nowhere, and Miroku had won.

Just like always.

They didn't talk the next morning, didn't even make eye contact, but as he sat there, picking at his rice, Kohaku knew he wanted to speak to him again.

He wanted to know so many things (things he could never know, could never understand) but every time he tried to ask, the bitterness lodged itself in his throat. How had he lost? How had things slipped out of his control so easily? It was Sango's job to protect them (always protecting, even if they didn't need it) to keep them fed and safe, and Miroku was just a monk, living off of the good will of others. What good was he? What good were they? Always feeding off of Sango like disgusting parasites, wondering why why why why why, and there was never any answer, not really, because Miroku never gave one.

Kohaku wanted to hate him. He did hate him, but it continually twisted and churned in his stomach until it became something unrecognizable. Something that tasted like dry blood on the blade of his kusarigama. Something he could never understand.

But he wanted to, so desperately. He wanted to forget that Miroku was just human like he was, even if Sango saw him as something more. Sango wouldn't tell him either, wouldn't tell him anything, and it wasn't fair because he had her first and Kohaku was always being left behind.

The rice tasted stale on his tongue, but he ate it anyways.

It was taunting her.

Drifting in and out of shadows, pretending to slip up, but never managing to.

Sango could feel the anger increasing. Could feel the hate bubbling. Festering.

Kohaku.

She wanted to kill.

And she would.

Kohaku.

It was her fault really, when she thought about it. Miroku had warned her, told her of his suspicions, but she thought Kohaku could handle it. Knew he could. Naraku was nothing more than a distant memory in their minds, but he haunted them frequently. Constantly.

Kohaku more so than anyone.

It was in his eyes, in his face. There was nothing there, nothing existing, and it hurt Sango to see him that way, hurt her to see him drifting further and further away from her. He had been there before, healthy and well and existing, but he didn't exist anymore. Not like he was supposed to. She didn't know why he changed, just that he had, and that hurt too, more than anything.

Kohaku.

But Miroku was there, comforting and strong and—poisondeathdelirium—steady. Warm and hot and searing and everything she had never expected, but wanted anyways. It was so easy falling into the life that he had offered, so easy confiding in him, so easy trusting him.

Kohaku.

He hated Miroku.

Kohaku.

Sango didn't know what to think. It was hard, at first, dealing with it. But when the stench of illness, death and blood had dispersed, she could see Kohaku's fever stained eyes watching Miroku blankly, his words nothing more than a quiet whisper that Sango wanted to forget.

Kohaku.

But she couldn't.

Kohaku.

He hated Miroku.

He's dying.

But he wasn't dead.

And briefly, as Sango crouched into the foliage and felt the youki pricking around her, teasing her, taunting her, blaming her, she thought that she could hate him, too.

Kohaku.

If only for her brother.

Miroku.

But her heart yearned for him, too—poisondeathdelirium—even if Kohaku's didn't. Even if he couldn't understand. Even if he wouldn't.

MirokuKohakuloverbrotherpoisondeathdeliriumhe's—

"Not dead," Sango whispered desperately, her fingers curling around the hilt of her katana as the youkai stopped moving, stopped taunting. Waited.

The muscles in her legs clenched tightly and she could feel Kirara crouching low beside her, ready to pounce.

The youkai twitched, its sickening, twisted smile splitting its face. Laughing. Waiting. Taunting.

Kohaku.

Waiting. Waiting. Wait—

"He'll die."

The dam broke. Anger erupted.

Sango struck.

Kohaku. Everything she had done was for Kohaku.

It wouldn't change.

It's like talking to a wall, but worse, Kohaku thought as he turned to stare at the older man. He asked and asked and asked, but Miroku never said anything, just smiled that annoying, enigmatic smile and acted like all was fine in the world. But it wasn't, Kohaku hated, and the older man knew. Kohaku wasn't under any illusions of grandeur, not the way that Sango was, and he could tell that Miroku was getting tired of waiting for this or that. Kohaku could almost see the itch in Miroku's fingers as he sat beside him in absolute silence, keeping him company but leaving him to feel so alone. He hated the feeling of solitude almost as much as he was beginning to hate the older man, and if Miroku would just talk to him, things would be easier and things could get better.

(But things will never be better, not when he has Sango.)

And it always came back to that. The thought was fierce and bright in his mind, drawing Kohaku so effortlessly into the self-pity and self-hate. There were things that could have been done to prevent it, Kohaku knew that. If only he had been stronger, if only he had been faster, if only he had been smarter. He knew when Sango thought the if-thoughts, not truly aware that Kohaku had noticed. She thought of them frequently when he was around, screaming for him during the night, and that was when he knew that she was his, but Miroku always managed to take that feeling of victory away with his too warm hands, and his too hot body but his too cold words. He made Sango do things that Kohaku couldn't even bear to think about, and it always left Kohaku feeling angry and hateful afterwards.

He could hear them (and he was always listening, always waiting for the day when Sango would come to him just to make sure he existed, even if he wasn't sure whether he was real or not, either) as they moved together, and whenever it happened, Kohaku always saw red, always felt things he shouldn't have been feeling, especially since Sango was so happy—

(But it was because of him and not Kohaku, and Sango was supposed to love her brother more, always had, until now.)

Kohaku didn't want to remember the pain, so instead, he turned his attention outward.

Miroku had taken him to the porch that morning, walked beside him so quietly that Kohaku had almost forgotten he was there. People were walking about and didn't hesitate to stop by and exchange a few pleasantries with the older man, even turned to him to ask about his well being, but Kohaku couldn't find it in him to say anything. His blank stare was more than a bit disturbing, but he couldn't care less about anything anymore, except that Miroku never said anything, and the sun was bright and warm, even if he couldn't really feel it. He took breakfast out on the porch, staring blankly at everyone, and wished he was with Sango. He hated hunting and killing, but at least he could be near his sister and away from the desperate anger that he couldn't help but feel whenever he was around the monk.

He ate his breakfast slowly, hoping to ease the pain, but it was still there, even as he finished it.

Miroku took his tray without another word, and Kohaku remained on the porch, his blankets draped loosely around his shoulders, even in the heat that he didn't notice.

The next day was worse by far, because even though Kohaku knew that his wounds were healing, it felt as though they remained opened and bleeding. He quite liked the feeling, no matter how sickening it really was, and for one perverse moment, he wanted to see his blood spilling down the front of his bandages soaking his clothes. It would be so pretty and red, and his fingers would come away yellow as he wiped them against the blade of his kusarigama.

Sometimes, when he felt like this, he wished he could go back to the nothingness that came with Naraku's nightmarish control. Sango would hate him if she ever found out, but he couldn't help it. It was bliss compared to the dark thoughts he was thinking now, even if it came with a pain he didn't truly understand. At least Naraku had been able to take away his pain. Sango continually added to it with her vicious little words and the way that she continually looked at the monk, when she loved him when—

He gripped his blankets tightly and stared blankly at the wall, hating the fact that he was the first to wake up.

Kohaku wanted to know what made Miroku so special. He wanted to know what made Sango so special to Miroku and Miroku so special to Sango and just where he would fit into their relationship in the long run. Would he be the annoying little brother who continually annoyed his sister? Would he always be viewed as nothing more than a little brother? Someone who was unimportant and unwanted and—

But that's not true because Sango does want me, just not in the way that I want her to.

Almost tiredly, Kohaku turned his attention away from the wall and gazed at his hands, the brown fabric of his blanket clenched tightly between his fingers. His skin was pale and thin, something he wasn't used to seeing. It was imperfect, scarred, and he could see the pink jagged lines against the roundness of his knuckles, even in the poor pre-dawn light. Sango had been the one to stitch them up, had been the one to wrap them in the cool cloth that had stained red so quickly that his wounds needed to be re-stitched.

She had been exasperated then, irritated that Kohaku had allowed himself to get injured during something so trivial, but even his father had told him that he wasn't cut out for such a job, that he was too kind hearted (not weak willed, not at all, but the past spoke for itself) and gentle, but he tried anyways, because there was no other way for them to be proud of him. For a moment, Kohaku wanted to be back then, when Sango's attention was only on him and slaying demons, back before she met Miroku, back before everything went wrong. Because back then was always before, and before held the pain of solitude, even when Sango was trapped there with him. But solitude in misery certainly had to be better than solitude in hatred, which was all he could feel these days, even if he didn't want to.

Sighing, Kohaku released the blanket and ran his fingers across his chest. The bandages were soft, but he could feel the greasy ointment through them, ointment that had been made ages ago by a girl who wasn't really supposed to be there (because she was never supposed to exist anymore, just like he wasn't, but the half-life was always better than the half-death that he always felt). It smeared against his fingers and he rubbed them together, staring intently because what made everything so much better than he was?

Kohaku hated the bitter thoughts almost as much as he hated the hate, but he felt it because there was nothing else to do. How was he supposed to remain happy, knowing what he knew?

Sighing loudly, he drew his blankets around his shoulders, knowing that Sango would be angry if he didn't keep warm. Miroku would tell her, that much was for certain (Miroku was telling her everything and him always nothing, and that hurt, too) and he wasn't much up for the stilted conversation that it would bring about.

Kohaku moved slowly, careful not to tear his wounds and stood, pale, scarred fingers gripping the blanket closed around him. The wood was rough against his bare feet, but he dealt with it anyways, not bothering with footwear as he moved the reeds out of his way with one, shaking hand. It was so cold outside, even if the sun was slowly rising, and he stepped into the dirt, shivering at the chill that assaulted him. His chest ached with pain, but he continued on anyways, away from that stupid hut with its stupid memories, and towards the fields (people didn't even notice him, the invisible, non-existent boy that he was, and maybe that was why he couldn't remember ever existing the way he was supposed to, maybe that was why Sango always preferred something that wasn't him, even when he didn't.)

His blanket was supposed to protect him from the chill, but it didn't, and Kohaku found that he liked it.

It helped to ease the emptiness, if only for a little bit.

Sango had left him.

Miroku found him, sometime later, leaning against a tree and staring out at nothing.

Kohaku had shed his bandages and running his fingers along the tender, half-healed flesh without really noticing that he was doing it. With each motion, his fingers were digging deeper and deeper, drawing blood that didn't bleed, merely existed, and Kohaku wondered why Miroku came. His blanket was filthy and soiled, pooled around his naked torso (his yukata was torn and shredded and covered in mud and blood, and somehow, he knew that Sango would be mad about that, too), but Miroku didn't so much as blink.

Kohaku wondered why his nightmares never frightened the older man, and he winced as he pulled his hands away from his chest, frowning as they came back red.

That was wrong, really.

"Kohaku," Miroku said gently, shedding his outer robe in the process. "Perhaps you would like to accompany me back to the hut?"

Kohaku shook his head and rubbed his fingers against his thigh, frowning as they remained red. (So wrong, on so many levels, but he couldn't quite figure out why.) He didn't realize he was doing it again, rubbing his fingers along his chest, dipping them in the stagnant blood, but he did it anyways, and Miroku eyes darkened into something he couldn't see, because he was too busy watching his fingers (the fingers that were red, not yellow, and he could see the scars on his hands splitting open and bleeding red, too) waiting for it to change.

"Kohaku," Miroku started again, but this time his voice was heavier and Kohaku noticed because he was rubbing his fingers back on his thigh (red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, RED—so wrong, not right, it could never be right) and turning towards the monk, the familiar mask slipping back into place.

It was his fault, naturally.

(The past always speaks for itself, after all.)

"What do you want?" Kohaku asked all petulance and immaturity.

Miroku merely watched him, the smile that Kohaku hated so much but expected refusing to surface and somehow, Kohaku felt spurned. It didn't make much sense, and neither did the darkness that was suddenly in the other man's eyes at his question. Kohaku had to fight the urge to take his teeth between his lip and chew it until it became raw and opted for clenching his fists instead. His scars pulled (pink against tan against white against red) and Kohaku turned his attention back to his hands, back to the disgusting feeling of blood and greasy ointment, and he felt wrong. Everything was so wrong, so different, so something that it was never supposed to be and it was all Miroku's fault—

The robe obscured Kohaku's vision for a moment before he was yanking it off and turning angry eyes towards the older man.

But Miroku had left him alone (angry solitude) like always, and Kohaku could feel his face burning in humiliation.

He really, really hated him.

Sango dreamt of monsters and lovers and boys who were sick and not really alive and—

Kohaku.

Screaming. Crying. Dying.

She hated it.

But the youkai was taunting her again, just like always. It fed off her anger, off her fear, and it loved it, just as much as it loved her nightmares. And even though she had fought against it with everything she had, it still wasn't enough.

Kohaku was dying.

Dying, dying, dying.

But he wasn't dead. Couldn't be.

Miroku would never allow it.

He loved him, after all.

Even though Kohaku didn't. Even though he wouldn't. Even though—

He'll die.

Kohaku bled rivulets of red.

Sango screamed.

Kohaku woke up outside, aching and hungry.

The half-thoughts were there, plaguing him as he sat completely still under the uncomfortable tree, the chill settled permanently against his bones. They twisted and molded into something he couldn't comprehend, something that was working at his brain, telling him that something was wrong, but the half-thoughts never sat still long enough for him to understand.

The air was still cold and saturated with mist, the grass wet with dew and uncomfortable against his skin. The robe he had draped around his body was warm, but not warm enough (nothing was ever warm enough, not with that disgusting aching numbness that always assailed him, leaving him weak and hollow). His knees throbbed as he shifted, trying to bend them, and the cry was on his lips before he even realized he had a voice, and suddenly, everything was there and real, and the half-thoughts that were more than half-thoughts were suddenly whole and—

Miroku left me, Kohaku thought deliriously, tears springing to his eyes as he bent his elbows and rolled his shoulders. He left me just like she left me, even though he knew it would hurt. Like he didn't care.

Because he doesn't, the half-thought turned whole answered mockingly, causing more tears to spill down his cold cheeks. They were warm against his skin, almost scalding, but Kohaku ignored it, shifting forward slightly and hating the pain. His chest tightened slightly; the skin around his unwrapped wound tore slightly (the blood was scalding too, and it was too hard holding in his scream, too hard pretending that his scream didn't exist because there was nothing but painpainpain and no one was there to take it away, not even Sango.)

Tears were streaming down his face.

His knees cracked as he stumbled to his feet, his toes frozen beyond measure. He needed something warm, something hot. Kohaku needed to feel the painful prick of heat against his cold skin, needed to feel something that told him that he was no longer half-dead, because half-dead people were never supposed to feel what he was feeling (but he couldn't exist yet, never yet) but he felt it anyways.

He wanted to laugh at the irony, and it took everything in his power to take a step.

The grass was almost hot against his cold feet, but he ignored the aching feeling, his limbs trembling as his world tilted with each step he took. The bile was already thick in his poor, dry little throat, burning, but he ignored that, too, because he needed to get back to the hut, back towards his bed roll. Back to something that would keep him safe. (Back to the before.)

It took too long, even with the increasing wrongness of everything, and by the time he managed to get somewhere between the fields and the forest, his instincts were shouting at him to run and hide and do something, and—

nothing was never there, not when he needed it most

—the pain exploded somewhere in the back of his mind, and suddenly, there was nothing.

(Kohaku could remember nothing, better than anyone.)

Her mind was numb. Her chest ached. Her fingers hurt.

But the youkai was there, hovering just beyond her senses, and if Sango reached out far enough, hard enough, she could touch him. Could feel his twisted skin against her scarred fingers, could feel the hate urging her to wrap her hands around his slender neck and just push against his windpipe, making it impossible to breathe.

She had never scented death so strong, wished for it so blindly—Naraku—but revenge was something she was used to, something she used to live for. It didn't matter that his words left her reeling, because she knew it was right. She had seen Kohaku's yellow eyes, had noticed the way his voice rasped and his fever refused to abate, and the fear was constantly tugging at her. Threatening her. Hurting her.

Kohaku's blood stained yellow.

(It was wrong.)

She loved him anyways.

He wasn't sure how or why it had happened, but he woke again, half-naked in the rice fields, the water freezing his body and his blood soaking through Miroku's clothes.

The pre-dawn hurt his eyes, but somehow, he managed to open his mouth, managed to make a helpless, pitiful sound before the pain nearly erupted behind his eyes once again. The dark, star spackled sky blurred (white becoming black and black becoming white until there was nothing but gray), and tears were already streaming down his face as the cold and agony intensified.

Pain wasn't even an issue as he turned on his side and vomited up nothing but bile. He was so hungry; his stomach was ached badly. Every limb was as heavy as ice, and he couldn't feel them anymore. Numbness wasn't supposed to burn, but it did, and even as Kohaku spat the after taste of the vomit off of his tongue, it still lingered. Breathing was the hardest part though, because no matter how much he shifted, it still felt as though something was crushing his lungs. When he finally thought too look down at his chest, he could see something disgusting and yellow oozing sluggishly, turning his blood a strange orange color that excited him and frightened him all at once.

Kohaku wasn't sure how he reached the hut before dawn. He was certain that he had passed out a couple of times along the way.

The hut was just as cold as it was outside, and the reeds seemed to stick to his frozen fingers, even when he didn't want them to. He pushed them aside quietly, stumbling almost noiselessly into the hut, his bare feet aching each time he pressed them against the hard wood. The fire pit was bare, and there was nothing remaining of whatever dinner Miroku would have thought to make, but it didn't matter. He needed warmth, yearned for it, and even though he wasn't sure where to get it, he knew that he had to do something.

The soaked, too-big robe was the first to go.

Kohaku felt vulnerable as he stood there, naked and wet and bleeding, so he moved through the rooms, to the storage, his fingers barely able to grasp the cloths that he dragged out of the dusty wooden crate. He wiped the first yukata across his chest, wincing as his skin pulled, but the pus was gone, and there was only blood, seeping sluggishly through his half-healed wound. Kohaku tore the sleeves from the second yukata and wrapped it around his torso, tying the bandage off at the front. The pressure was unpleasant but necessary—he needed to stop the bleeding, didn't want to bleed anymore, and that was the only way he knew how. Giving out a harsh, ragged breath as the pressure increased on his chest, Kohaku reached into the crate and pulled out the third yukata, pulling it over his tense, aching shoulders and tying it around his waist.

The fabric was almost as cold as his skin, but he got used to it. He had to get used to it because there was no other warmth that he could find, only his own, and even though he felt closer to the half-death and the nonexistence that he really was, he knew he could find it.

He staggered through the rooms, into his own, and lowered himself into the freezing, cold cloths, wishing that the nights were never so cold and that there would be heat once again. He didn't understand how something could be so bright and warm by day and disappear by night, but it was his fault (Miroku's, too, because he left him when he needed him the most, and even that left him cold and hollow.) Kohaku wasn't even sure how he had slept through the entire day, anyways.

Groaning, Kohaku turned on his side, trying to be comfortable, but the cold made sleep almost impossible. His limbs continued to ache no matter how hard he tried, and the heat was elusive (so cold, too cold, he needed more). He wondered how Miroku ever managed to make it through the night without a second thought, wondered why he never thought to ask, and suddenly—

heat and sweat and slick and moist and Kohaku thought he understood, but he never would, not the way she wanted him to

—his chest was aching and his eyes were watering, but he pushed himself up, fighting off the shame.

He was vomiting bile into his bed mat before he even realized he had made it to his knees, but another push and he was on his feet, his arm pressed tightly against his twisting stomach, even as he spat the disgusting after taste into the shadows.

Miroku continued to sleep in his bed roll as Kohaku fell to his knees beside him.

The monk never shifted, never gave any indication of being awake, and for one delirious moment, Kohaku thought of how wonderful it would be for the monk to be suffering the way he was, too, but Miroku's skin was warm to the touch. The humiliation and shame that came with being found curled around the older man was enough to make Kohaku want to turn around and back away, but—

hot searing sweaty wet, feels good always good and he wanted it to disappear in his anger and hate but it never did not with them never

—he was lifting the blankets carefully around Miroku, curling himself against the too hot body that seemed to exude warmth, but it wasn't enough. Slowly and quietly, Kohaku untied the binding of his yukata, pressing closer, trying to feel the warmth against his chest but it wasn't working. The heat pervaded him, and it was only then that he realized he was untying Miroku's yukata, not noticing when the older man shifted, his eyes fluttering open. He pressed his skin against Miroku's, tears leaking from his eyes as the heat pressed against his cold, freezing skin, and his limbs ached as the warmth seemed to seep away from the older man, even as Miroku's breathing halted and his body seemed to go still.

(Not enough, never enough.)

But Kohaku wrapped his legs around Miroku's and pressed his face into the man's collar bone, sobbing as his body refused to heat, ice against fire, and the tears did nothing to help, either.

He didn't sleep, not once, but oblivion was overrated anyways.

The angry solitude was more than enough.

The chill didn't disappear for three more days, and neither did the infection.

Miroku didn't say a word, even as he cleaned and bandaged his wound every morning and every night. The ointment always stung, leaving its disgusting grease trail across his inflamed skin, and it was everything Kohaku could do not to turn his head away from Miroku in shame. But even though the humiliation was bright and bitter during the day, he couldn't help but go back at night and curl around the too hot body that never shifted whenever he was there. He tried staying warm in just the yukata and his blankets, but it never worked. The ice seemed to settle deeper every time he tried. The stumble towards Sango and Miroku's room was filled with self-pity and hate, but as he curled against the older mans chest, trying to steal the warmth it always evaporated into nothingness. But each night the heat through the yukata was never enough, so he untied his, untied Miroku's, and he never really noticed that the man was awake until he felt Miroku's breath hitch at the sudden icy contact.

Kohaku cried again, but silently, and he buried his face into Miroku's collar bone.

His toes were the hardest to warm, and he always found himself pressing them back against Miroku's calves, wincing at the heat they gave off, but loving it nonetheless. His hands were just as hard, but he always folded them against Miroku's side, the monk's arms pressing down against them every time he did so. Miroku's chest and back were the warmest, even through his bandages, so he curled against that, too, and when his feet felt warm enough, he always curled his legs around the monks, finding the heavy press of Miroku's thighs against his thinner legs comforting.

He slept the second night, and the third, but somehow, he always woke up alone. He could never understand why that hurt so much.

(The non-existent half-death was never supposed to be so warm.)

The day of the fourth night, Kohaku stumbled out of Miroku's room, sloppily tying his yukata together. Miroku was sitting at the fire pit, staring into nothing, but Kohaku found he didn't care. He was mortified again, and it tasted bitter, but when Miroku motioned for him to sit closer to the fire pit, Kohaku did so without another word.

He didn't understand why Miroku was being so charitable.

"Let me see your bandages," Miroku said simply, and Kohaku was already peeling down the upper half of his flimsy sleeping robe without a second thought. Miroku cleaned his wounds with a precision that Kohaku hadn't thought possible, and when he started to apply the ointment, Kohaku fidgeted, hating the greasy feel that came with it.

"Your infection's almost gone," Miroku answered as he began to wrap clean cloth bandages around Kohaku's torso. "Sango will—"

Kohaku jerked, his hands lifting to push the older man away from him, and he couldn't understand why.

"Don't touch me," Kohaku hissed, shaking his head. The stillness was almost painful, but after a moment's hesitation, Miroku was gathering up the rest of the healing supplies and placed them in a little wooden crate, leaving Kohaku sitting there, half-bandaged and half-naked.

(because everything was always done in halves, by both of them, and he was hating it more and more)

Breakfast was strained, but Kohaku continued to eat his stale tasting rice diligently (it was never stale, not when Sango made it, and that just made everything worse all the more), never wincing as he drank the too salty miso that was placed in front of him. Afterwards, Miroku gathered up the empty tray, and Kohaku moved to the porch, staring out at the bright day. His blankets were pooled around him once again, adding to the heat that he was never supposed to feel, but as he sat there, he realized that it wasn't the same as Miroku's. (Could never be.)

It was no wonder that Sango loved it so much. Nothing could ever compare to the heat of the older man. But then, Sango had to have been warm, too, because Kohaku could remember the nights he woke up from his nightmares, nestled closely in his sister's arms as she wiped away his tears, and everything was too hot (but never not). The warmth couldn't have been her own, because whenever Kohaku was with her, all he felt was the horrible chill of not having her.

Sighing, Kohaku rolled his shoulders and continued staring out at the village, unable to smile even as some of the villagers stopped by to inquire about his well being.

"Do you know when you'll be well enough to go back out and slay demons?" one little girl asked, leaning heavily on Kohaku's knee.

"No," he murmured, shifting so she was no longer touching him. "I don't think I'll ever go back to hunting demons."

"That's horrible! Sango-san will—" But Kohaku was already jerking away from her too, and he was closing the reeds behind him, his eyes dark as he took in Miroku's reclining form. The fire pit wasn't lit, but Miroku sat there anyways, watching him carefully.

"What?" Kohaku snapped, holding his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Miroku lifted a shoulder in answer and turned away from him, opting to stare at the wall instead, but Kohaku had a feeling that there was something that the older man needed to say. He didn't particularly want to hear it, but anything had to be better than the uncomfortable silence. Kohaku leaned his weight on one foot, and he began to pick at one of the loose threads of his blanket unsure of whether or not he should talk to the older man.

Miroku made the decision for him. "I believe I underestimated what she means to me."

It was such a weird statement, and although Kohaku knew who Miroku was talking about, he didn't really know, so he turned his gaze towards the floor, hoping that the older man would elaborate.

He didn't.

But as they stood there in silence, Kohaku could see the way Miroku drummed his fingers on the ground, fidgeting uncomfortably. It was like the itch was there, but not. Subtly restrained, but begging to be released. He wished he could walk up to the older man and just snap his fingers in half, wondering why Miroku would feel the need now, of all times, to hold and touch a woman, but Kohaku didn't say a word. It was one of those things he didn't understand (like everything black and green and void in Miroku but he didn't really want to anyways), probably couldn't understand no matter how hard he tried to. It would be good, though, to see the older man's resolve breaking. To see it shatter right before his eyes. And although it would probably hurt Sango, Sango had always deserved so much better than what Miroku could give, and Kohaku couldn't wait for him to give in to that weakness.

Kohaku hoped for it.

"You're a monk," Kohaku replied quietly, shifting his blanket around his shoulders. "Celibacy and self-discipline shouldn't be a problem."

Miroku's dark eyes moved to him then, and Kohaku had never felt more uncomfortable. Miroku's unfathomable eyes seemed to peer into the very recesses of the young boys soul, seemed to find every blemish and stain that resided within him—it ached, standing there, watching the older man watch him, and already, Kohaku could feel his hackles raising. Could already feel the anger that shouldn't have been his creeping forward at a steady rate. One that threatened to consume him.

"Perhaps you are right," Miroku responded, still watching Kohaku carefully. Kohaku's lips twisted down into a frown. "One would think however, that you would be more inclined to think of Sango's happiness rather than your own."

It happened faster than he had anticipated, but Kohaku could feel his arms straining as they gripped Miroku's robes, could feel the weight dragging him down, and the dull throbbing of his chest was almost deadening. The anger faded almost as quickly as it came, but his fingers remained locked as Miroku's lips twitched.

"Kohaku—"

"Shut up," Kohaku breathed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He could feel them stinging, could feel the pain threatening to knock him back, but still, his ugly scarred hands continued to clench Miroku's robe.

It was agonizing.

"Kohaku."

"I said shut up!" The tears were already leaking out of his eyes, and gods how weak he felt, how disgusting and horrible and losing was never supposed to feel so bad. Miroku's hands were warm against his as he uncurled Kohaku's fingers, and before Miroku even had a chance to grasp them in his own, Kohaku jerked away and stumbled back. His chest throbbed once again, painful and aching, and for the life of him, he couldn't understand where this anger was coming from, because Miroku was right, Miroku was always right and he always won.

Kohaku choked back the bitterness and bent forward, trying his hardest to ignore the pain in his chest. He wanted to be numb. Wanted to forget.

Miroku had been right. Miroku had won.

But the agony of abandonment was already there, and it was so clear, so disgustingly clear that Kohaku almost vomited at the mere thought of it. It made so much sense, his half-existence, because half of what made him exist no longer belonged to him and he wanted it back. But he couldn't have it, not when it belonged to someone else, and even as Miroku shifted to walk towards him, Kohaku was already moving towards the reeds, moving to push them away, and—

"They will see you."

The certainty in the older man's voice made Kohaku want to scream, but he was just getting closer, annoyingly so. The sorrow was dueling with the anger so pleasantly, Kohaku wasn't sure what to feel.

But he didn't want Miroku to touch him. Not now. Not ever.

Miroku reached out a hand to grip his shoulder, and Kohaku lifted his eyes.

"I hate you."

Miroku paused.

Then he pulled his hand back and sent it a little glance, as though he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do with it anyways. But Kohaku couldn't care less. He didn't care about anything, not when the pain was wrenching his heart so bitterly, not when the pressure was building on his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.

Nothing was said as the tears continued to sting Kohaku's eyes, but the two continued to stare at one another. Miroku's eyes were blank, so empty, so fathomless, and it pained Kohaku to look at him. But hate was always so much stronger than nothingness, and Kohaku was used to nothingness, used to the secrets that it held. He knew it better than Miroku, had perfected it so much sooner, and yet it refused to give him solitude, refused to fall upon him and burn his blood. He wanted the cold darkness so much, wanted the aching numbness, but poison refused to spill from Miroku's lips—no, the older man just watched him, watched him with eyes that ached and hurt and damn it, Kohaku had never hated anyone as much as he Miroku. Not even when the marionette strings pulled tightly and threatened to snap, just so he could taste that agonizing reality.

"You don't…you don't deserve her," Kohaku said after a long moment.

Miroku's face remained blank, and then, almost as if he doubted the truth of the statement, his lips curved up into a curious smile.

The strings frayed. Unraveled.

Snapped.

Miroku was the first to notice it.

Kohaku's bandages were red.