Title: Pretext

Summary: Because everybody needs one.

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha.

Author's Note: So, curse those other fandoms, yeah? If not for them, this would have been done, like, eight months ago. Well… maybe not, but it feels good to think so, lolz. And I so lost count of how many times I've mutilated Kohaku. Like, seriously, the poor boy is damn near crippled with the amount of bodily damage he has sustained through the course of this story, oi.

Warnings: Warnings are the same. Plus a severe misuse and abuse of the italics and parentheses.

This is a half-update. Or what I consider to be a half-update... in other words, only half of what was supposed to be in this chapter has been posted. The story was supposed to be DONE with this chapter. But I suck. Big balls. Sorry.

He reached the top.

A strange, indescribable feeling enshrouded him—the heady, thick scent of miasma burned his throat. Timidly, he reached out—warm hands, hands too hot, gripped his fingers. Small, blistered, aching. Legs trembled fiercely at the nothing-nothing-nothing that was left (no will, no way). Tiny fragments of rock bit into flesh—like talons he could remember reaching deep inside of him, slipping across his chest, dipping into the red red red of his heart. Lungs forgot to breathe—or, rather, knew how, but stopped, because—

Blood. Death. Dying.

(but not dead)

("You hurt yourself again, didn't you?")

No, he thought, because hurt couldn't even describe it. I just—

"Can't remember. Have nothing left. I know," the man said pleasantly, turning to face him. A lump formed in Kohaku's throat, because those hated, unfathomable eyes were staring at him once again, the smile that he hatedhatedhated was curving those lips. Only, he couldn't hate it, because there was nobody but him and Kohaku couldn't understand the terror. The despair.

They stopped at a cloud of poison.

"So," the man started after a long, terrifying moment of silence. "Can you see it?"

Kohaku frowned.

"No."

What do you want me to see?

"Whatever you want to see. You do want to find it, don't you?"

Find what?

"The other half of your existence, of course."

Kohaku inched forward, shooting a strange glance at the man before him. His feet ached, trails of dirty blood following in his wake—Kohaku's head was swimming, empty, but for the tangled threads of his thoughts—thoughts half-forgotten, not remembered. Incapable of being remembered. Incapable of existing, even if it was his right. Even if he should have. Even if he didn't. Nothing existed for him. Not anymore. Nothing except—

Him.

Why are you so important?

The half-thoughts bothered him. Destroyed him. But then—remade. In ways he couldn't remember, and that was the problem, wasn't it? That was why the man was so important, because he was helping him to remember. But in remembering, there was pain. A pain Kohaku didn't want to feel anymore. A pain that Kohaku could do without because—

("You hurt yourself again, didn't you?")

—he was tired of hurting.

When is my happiness?

(dying, but not dead)

A strange surge of courage prodded Kohaku's will. The man stepped forward, the strings at the base of Kohaku's neck pulling—a swift, brutal tug sent Kohaku stumbling forward, spasms of agony shooting up his feet and spreading fire along his nerves. He knelt by the thick haze, eyes turning to Kohaku imploringly—dark eyes, hot eyes, eyes that exuded warmth in thick waves of—of—

Kohaku's chest hurt.

Following obediently (pathetic marionettedollboy), Kohaku kneeled. The stench of the miasma clotted his airways, sent burning paths of poison-death-delirium to his lungs. Kohaku coughed, rubbed at his eyes—his feet throbbed as he settled beside the man, watching as the dense miasma clouded the air, floating around them in a collection of thick half-there particles.

"It's in there, isn't it?" Kohaku asked.

The man smiled ambiguously. "Only if—"

"—I want it to be." Kohaku paused, turning an unfathomable expression upon the equally unfathomable man beside him. "I don't."

"And why is that?"

The faint trickling of the half-thoughts—half-thoughts that were only half-there, half-existing in the half-world of… nothing—lingered, trapped between the particles like a prisoner.

I'm scared.

"Of course you're scared. It's only natural. I'd be scared as well, if I had to face down the other half of my existence. Particularly if it contained a part of me I'd rather forget."

A part of me I'd rather forget?

Kohaku watched the man. Somehow, his words rang untrue.

But… all I ever wanted was to remember. To exist.

"I'm tired of not existing."

Completely.

The man nodded, stood. Grabbed Kohaku's strings and tugged. Kohaku stumbled to his feet, tears pricking at the painpainpain that blossomed at the base of his neck. Like a thick sludge, it oozed down his spine, radiated across his shoulders blades and out towards his chest. The faint memory of blood—(red blood, yellow blood, wrong blood, just blood)—soaking the front of his robes, seeping through festering pustules of infection, tickled his senses. The strange musky scent of another human being—what was his name?—floated into his nasal passages, creeping out of the dark craggy imprints of his thoughts. Dark, unfathomable eyes prodded at him, hidden behind the dusky particles of miasma—the miasma in his head, the miasma seeping down his throat and settling in his lungs like a thick layer of dust.

A reflection of what used to be was mirrored in the miasma—before the strings, before the pain, before—

("You hurt yourself again, didn't you?")

I should remember that voice.

Kohaku inched closer to the miasma, quickly snatching the man's hand in his own.

I should remember him.

"I think you should find it," the man said. Kohaku breathed, the poison particles detaching from the cloud and collecting behind his sternum.

I will.

Kohaku stepped forward, enveloped by the cloud.

The man's lips curled pleasantly, and he followed without thought.

(Irony.)

Miroku—

—was just a thought. Kohaku stared blankly at his fingers, an uncomfortable pressure curled around his lungs. It had been that way since the morning, since he had first woken up and the agonizing burst of each breathe from his lungs reminded him of nothing but the poison-death-delirium of Naraku's miasma. Scars spider-webbed across Kohaku's knuckles—knuckles he had brushed against Miroku's, time and time again, if only to feel that ever constant state of triumph, of knowing that there was something Miroku could not fight against, could not take away from him.

(he had already taken Sango, after all)

(it was only fair that he get it back)

(that absent other-half, the not-there-but-there echo of being)

The triumph was heady, like a drug. Like the sickness that slammed into his head, making his blood pump faster (yellow against his fingertips, against his clothes, reeking of wrongness, but needing it anyways) through his veins, reminding him that there was excitement and want and victory and that the victory was his, all his. There was nothing to stop it, no one to keep it from happening. Miroku couldn't fight against it. Miroku was helpless. Miroku was—marionettedollboy—weak.

Somehow, the thought churned acidic.

The webs on his hand stretched, expanded. Pinkish white skin curled horrifically, and all Kohaku saw was—

—a memory he would rather forget, kept stashed away behind the pressure in his lungs, and the triumph that pushed aside the sickness. But the sickness was still there, clinging to him like a thin sheen of sweat. Kohaku felt it; deeply rooted, spreading like a cancerous rot throughout his body. Bandages encircled his legs and torso, dotted with the wrong-red blood, ointment slicked greasy against his skin. Miroku was there-there-there all the time, and the itch was driving the monk to the brink; the tap-tap-tap of Miroku's fingers against wood in the echoing silence of the hut grated against Kohaku's nerves.

An impatience, one that Kohaku could do without (like the memories, the not-there wisps of want that needed to be placed in mosaic in his head—form the whole picture, the little fractured pieces of him) firmed Kohaku's jaw.

Miroku was grinding up herbs. Making the healing paste. Kohaku wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, watched as a hand clothed in deep purple and clinking with prayer beads that were no longer needed—(his wishes are always answered after all)—gripped the mortar and pestle. Flakes of green and brown and (redredwrong) gray splintered apart from the group and floated through the air, settling distinctly against the deep black of Miroku's robes.

Scars still webbed the back of Kohaku's hands. ("You hurt yourself again, didn't you?") Time pulled long, stretched short and contracted into something Kohaku couldn't recognize. A vague, phantom pain lingered across his chest and Kohaku wondered when Sango would be back. As usual. Because there was nothing else worth wondering about (except the hot-too-hot hands that would brush against his own, and the dark look he hated searing him with heat that wasn't meant for him but was given freely, anyways). Because Sango was his sister and his world and (lie) Kohaku wanted her back.

"It must have hurt when she left you," Kohaku said, that uncaring surge of hate-turned-apathy-turned-cruelty prickling his skin. Miroku paused, his hands tightening until his knuckles turned white, and he glanced up carelessly, an absent smile curling his lips.

"It was necessary," Miroku replied. "Not only for her well-being, but for yours as well."

Kohaku's eyes narrowed, spider-web scars elongating horrifically against his knuckles. "For my… liar."

Miroku hummed softly, his lips still curled in that absent smile. His eyes were no longer focused on Kohaku, but instead on the herbs in front of him. Dark eyes that Kohaku wanted to see pinned on him were focusing on something else, but the fine tremor of tension still lined every line of Miroku's body—stop holding back, Kohaku thought, leaning away from the wall, the pressure in his lungs tightening, if you hate me then hate me. Let me see—everything.

(It was all he wanted, because at least if he had everything, there would be more than his own pathetic little half-existence, even if it was at the expense of another.)

"You're such a liar," Kohaku said, close to snarling.

Miroku looked at him, unfathomable-hated-searing, and smiled ambiguously. "Only if you want me to be."

Fracture. Splintering apart like thin slivers of wood, or glass (in his feet) or particles of miasma because suddenly—there was more than just him. A phantom thought, locked in the craggy trenches of his mind dug deeply, only to ooze forward with a consistency of acidic sludge; it smoothed over the surface of his skin, tinged the color of wrong-red blood and pus-bright gold and 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—

(What am I looking for?

The other half of your existence, of course.)

(he shouldn't even had been able to find it)

(it was gone the second Sango had walked out the door, after all)

Miroku felt the weight of Kohaku's gaze like a thousand tons of water pressing down all around him. His too-large hands tightened around the pestle, his eyes slowly lifting—and there was nothing unfathomable about them now, just curiously guarded, because there was something wrong with Kohaku, something that only Miroku could see because Miroku always saw him best. Or most. Or completely. Even if there was only the half-existence, even if there was only blood soaked bandages or Kohaku's own fingers digging into the infection in his chest, or the blood slicking his leg and soaking his robes. Even if there was only the cold that dug down too deep and simply ached and Miroku was the only one hot enough to make it go away.

Kohaku trembled, warmth spreading like thick liquid across his chest.

(there was nothing left to give)

(Miroku had already taken everything)

(and accepted, without thought, because—)

There was nothing left for him.

Sango was gone.

Chasing—demons, maybe. Or running from fear. Or sickness and death and the dying-but-not-dead syndrome of half-existence, but half of what made him exist was already there—

("I said that I would be whatever you wanted."

"Does that mean I wanted you?")

Kohaku collapsed against Miroku, fingers tightening in the fabric of his robes. Miroku held still as stone, but Kohaku pressed his face into Miroku's shoulder desperately, because there was nothing else. There was no Sango, not in reality, not in his dreams. There was just him, just Miroku, and Kohaku knew why he was so important, wishing he could hate instead.

("I think you hate me… you should, but you don't."

"No. I don't."

Miroku was tired, too.)

Miroku's fingers tap-tapped against the floor.

Kohaku held tighter.

After a moment, Miroku shifted his weight and Kohaku was pressed more firmly into his side. Kohaku waited, wanting to see what happened, soaking up the hot-too-hot heat that Miroku gave to everyone (but him), stealing it like the little chain of memories were stolen from his half-there mind. Images flashed before his mind—black on pink on red on power and Sango's eyes, filled with tears and desperation because he was keeping her from getting her revenge—but then the images were lost because Miroku's hands were on his shoulders, so big and large and adult, and Kohaku followed the gentle push, moving back as his fingers slowly unclenched and released Miroku's robes.

The moment hung thick in the air. Then, "Kohaku."

No weight. Miroku was refusing to give it weight. The familiar hate splintered away from the apathy, lodging itself quite firmly in the cruelty, but as much as he tried, Kohaku could not give it substance. Rubbing a hand against his delicate chest, Kohaku felt the bandages pull—the delicious feel of almost-there pain made his breath hitch, and Miroku's hands were locked around Kohaku's wrists before the fingers could dip down and draw blood.

"Kohaku—"

"I think we should find her," Kohaku replied, tugging his wrists free and watching Miroku closely. "I think we should bring her back."

Miroku stilled.

"I doubt we would be able to," Miroku said at last. "Sango will go to great lengths and great distances just to ensure your safety. The demon—"

(—beneath his skin—)

(—hidden in the webs of the past—)

(—in that there-but-not half-existence that only half-existed—)

Kohaku settled in Miroku's lap. Laced their fingers together. Felt the tension exuding from every contour of Miroku's being, and with a flash of cruelty (because who was Miroku to deny him when Kohaku gave him everything?) Kohaku turned and pressed a hot, nearly-there kiss to the corner of Miroku's mouth.

Miroku snatched away as though he were on fire (heat that wasn't meant for him, but given freely anyways). Kohaku tumbled to the floor, his wounds pulling sharply, but—there. Pain meant that he was alive. Pain meant that he existed, even if it was only in halves. Miroku stood pressed against the wall, his eyes clenched tightly shut. His hands were curled into fists, white-knuckled and straining—(overstepping boundaries, but boundaries were crossed the moment Miroku took Sango)—and Kohaku could imagine there was hate churning beneath that violently tense exterior, only there was no hate in Miroku's heart. Only… something unfathomable. Something Kohaku couldn't quite access, but manipulate, because manipulation was easy. Manipulation gave way to triumph. That wonderful, heady feeling. Almost as sublime as the sickness had been, but the sickness kept him trapped in delirium whereas the triumph kept him caught in reality (the half-way point between dreams and the complete cessation of existence).

And the reality of the situation was—

(there was a demon in his skin)

"We have to find her," Kohaku said vaguely, watching blood seep across his bandages.

(but not)

Miroku jerked, tense.

Kohaku reached for Miroku's fingers. Grabbed them.

Miroku held on tightly.

(Still as stone because it was wrong, but it was all he had left to give.)

Sango sat perfectly still, eyes trained on Inuyasha from across the fire. The half-demon lounged lazily, a scowl permanently etched across his face. Long claws gripped the hilt of the Tetsusaiga, amber eyes trained moodily on the fire in front of him. Three days they had been tracking the demon—Sango could feel her desperation mounting, could feel something clawing to get out and break free. Inuyasha was a calming presence in the back of her mind, except when he wasn't—betrayal—and Sango could see the blood-stained fingertips, even in the crackling orange hue that settled through the darkness.

The youkai was still there, on the edge of her senses. Not hurting, because the injury Kirara had given it seemed to have faded into nothingness. Not like the laceration across her soul, that aching, burning agony that continued to fester like a bubbling infection. Kohaku was sick (dying but not dead) (he'll still die) and he hated Miroku with a passion that left Sango weak. Sango wanted Kohaku to live, needed it more than anything—

She remembered protecting him, when they were younger. Scars crisscrossed his flesh in a smattering of pink-red-white, new cuts bleeding because he couldn't handle the kusarigama with absolute precision. He had tried to sneak into the house, prepared to heal his own wounds (shamed), but Sango had caught sight of him and sighed lightly.

"You hurt yourself again, didn't you?"

Kohaku was always hurting himself, even now. Not being able to let go—hating Miroku, the man she loved more than anything (except Kohaku) and Sango feared for him. Feared for him in a way she never did when he was Naraku's pawnpuppetdoll because at least Sango knew Naraku would continue to use him, if only to bring more pain. More desperation. More of those gut-wrenching, wailing cries of agony because power over others was all Naraku ever wanted. The cruelty inherent in that disgusting half-demon comprised of weakness and desires and want—overpower the human, cut the flesh of its essence away until there was nothing but demon-devil-damnation and then he wouldn't have to worry about Kikyou. The evil in his heart—the taint of a blackening Shikon-no-Tama—was more than enough to keep those demons afloat. More than enough to give them power.

Inuyasha had betrayed her.

The fear wouldn't be there, wouldn't be all-encompassing, if Inuyasha had left her to kill it. That demon in acid slicked skin with its poisonous thoughts and disease-ridden words. The fear would be gone, non-existent, the moment Sango thrust her katana through the demons chest (one image super-imposed itself over another—one moment, it was the demon, dying in a pool of its red-yellow blood, and the next it was Kohaku, collapsed beneath a tree as his fingers dipped-dug-dragged through the tender, bloody wound on his chest).

But then again, Inuyasha was a demon. A traitorous voice whispered that it was only typical.

Except it couldn't be. Because Inuyasha was Inuyasha—a half demon, yes, but one in love with a girl whose name was no longer spoken (because when there was no Kagome, there was no pain—she was gone, gone, gone, and that hurt, the absence of her radiant presence). A miko. A priestess who cleansed everything she touched—

Except there was no more cleansing. Hate was still there—Kohaku hating Miroku. Sango hating Inuyasha—or, rather, not hating him, but wishing that he could understand. Kohaku was dying—

"But not dead," Sango whispered, pressing her forehead into her knees. Inuyasha shifted, his gaze flicking towards her lazily. The sullen set of his mouth pressed into a firm line, but he didn't say anything, just continued to gaze into the fire, waiting, just like Sango, for the violent pin-prick-pulse of the youkai's powers and thoughts.

It didn't come.

"Keh," Inuyasha grunted, shifting his position. "Once again, you're an idiot."

Sango's head snapped up and she glared at him.

"You interfered," she accused, hands flexing around her knees. "You kept me from—"

"Making a mistake," Inuyasha snapped. "Now shut the hell up."

But Sango couldn't.

"It's trying to kill Kohaku," Sango replied, desperate. "Kohaku almost died. Why can't you understand that?"

Inuyasha snorted. "This is exactly why I can't stand humans. They're stupid. That youkai isn't trying to kill Kohaku. It wants his attention." Inuyasha paused, his amber eyes reflecting shimmers of lights. "And yours."

Taunting.

That's all it was. A taunt—a challenge, a way to make her hurt. Inuyasha didn't know what he was talking about—that youkai had mauled Kohaku, let claws cleave cleanly through flesh, only for the wound to erupt in a spray of blood. Attention? No. Inuyasha was wrong. Blinded by the demon-comrade-kinship that connected them together with their otherworldliness. Sure, the demon that tried to kill Kohaku (it would not get away with it) was nothing like Inuyasha. There was love in the half-demon, for the miko, for the girl who seemed to make everything right. Better. Inuyasha knew friendship, knew pain. That youkai didn't. It only gave pain. Was only full of cruelty. Manipulated and taunted and showed just how much power it possessed and Sango hated.

memories of gleaming metal swinging through the air, attempting to pierce flesh as red-red-red glinted cruelly, pleased at the carnage—wind cutting passed their faces, nihility gripping at their souls and tugging—forgetting, because there was nothing left to remember in that sickly haze even as the kusarigama arced up into the air... the katana caught in the chain, because there had to be something better than this—she'd kill him a thousand times over before she'd ever let him be some demon's puppet—

"I have to save him," Sango whispered. "I won't let anything hurt him anymore, Inuyasha. I promised."

Inuyasha snorted disgustedly. "I stopped you once before from doing something stupid," he said unforgiving, "I'll damn well do it again if I have to."

Sango didn't doubt the words. Resented them, just as she resented the demon (but that was bone deep, all encompassing, unforgiving, dangerous), but she believed them, regardless.

(She didn't want to.)

There was darkness all around him.

Silky threads caught on him, around him, twining over his arms and closing tightly about his ankles. The cocoon of poison, for it could be nothing else, pressed down on him from all sides. Absently, he could feel the man pulling away—not because he wanted him to, but because the threads were trapping him as well—and Kohaku released his hand, a mild panic beginning to set in his bones.

He didn't want to be alone.

But I'm not. He's here with me.

Kohaku wished he knew his name.

"You would if you wanted to."

But that meant that some part of him didn't. Though he could clearly remembering posing the question—"does that mean I wanted you?"—Kohaku had to acknowledge that, maybe—

The acknowledgement was lost. There was far too much poison.

Yet he could not find it in himself to be frightened. Sure, there was much to be frightened for; there was obviously some truth he'd rather have forgotten. Half of his existence had been spirited away, lost, locked down into the very realm of non-existence. But the why was absent. Forgotten. So finding it—that other part of himself—was important. The questions he had asked could no longer be made because that calming, supporting presence by his side had drifted away, willingly released from its confines of friend-puppet-guide and trapped in the cocoon of his poison thoughts. Where the other half of him, the part he had forgotten, lay in wait, wanting to be discovered.

Or needing to be. The planes of mind—the glass in his feet, the exhausting climb up the mountain, the gauzy haze of poison lingering atop the mountain—had been laid out before him. He remembered his mask crumbling, like a fine layer of dust. Trapped in his skin. The girl, the woman he could remember (Sango) but not floated by his mind's eye. She'd take care of him, he knew, but she wasn't there—no one but him. Alone.

People weren't meant to be alone. Kohaku didn't want to be. And the man, his companion, with that everlasting warmth, had been the one he wanted into existing. Not hurting, because Kohaku didn't want him to hurt, just wanted him to exist and—

He needed to find her. Or himself. Or the man. Or maybe, neither of them, but something that was a part of him, something that needed to fit click-clack-perfect into the missing half of his existence. Because there was something missing. Something important.

Here. In the haze.

The cocoon tightened around him, but for some reason, Kohaku knew he couldn't let it. Yes, it would have been easy to just stand still, but… he wanted to remember. The man wanted him to remember and just maybe… maybe he could come up with a name other than his own. Maybe…

The threads loosened.

Stepping freely from the sticky web, Kohaku went slowly through the poison. His lungs ached fiercely, but it was as necessary as the glass shards that had slid into his feet. There was… not character building but… strength of character. Remembering that pain existed, and exhaustion, and a complete lack of will—I don't want to be that person anymore.

He didn't want to stop caring, but there was someone important to care about. Her. Him. Everyone—

(There faces can't fade from his heart)

An image floated by, coated in fever. Startled, Kohaku reached out, his fingers brushing the strange luminescence. The darkness dimmed—lightened?—and he could feel the warmth spreading, spreading, spreading. The tips of his fingers tingled, nerves firing rapidly as it inched forward. It felt as though he were being submerged in mud; cold, thick, consistent. The pressure grew, pressing against his hands and arms and shoulders and head and chest and everything, so completely…

(he couldn't remember completeness, not before this)

"I can make you forget."

—pleasepleaseplease—

He crept forward quietly, bleeding hand cradled to his chest. The kusarigama was strapped to his side, scarlet—little slivers, nothing too damaging, but the damage had been done. His pride smarted, the reprimand ringing clearly in his ears—there was shame, deep-rooted, because he would never be strong enough, not like his sister, not like the girl who was oh-so-important—

"You hurt yourself again, didn't you?"

The question was kind, concerned, but he couldn't stop the cringe of shame that had him tucking his bloodied hand in the fold of his clothes. The woman sighed lightly, and he glanced up, his brown eyes imploring. He couldn't take another reprimand, not from her.

The sun illuminated her, just as he remembered (though how he could remember this and not everything else was strange and odd and hurt and he was going to get it back, that other half of his existence) with a little yellow and black cat curled up in her lap. She watched him, worried and gestured him forward.

"Come here."

Her fingers were on his hand, gently probing and then, "What am I going to do with you?"

And the clarity was there, ringing in the silence. Poison particles still clung to him, and something reminded him that he should be dead, but—he knew what to do now. Clarity was always so hard won. Kohaku refused to let the awareness slip away.

"Help me find it."

"Well, come on. Let's go—"

Quite suddenly, the words caught in her throat, trapped on a stuttering breath. Her eyelashes fluttered and the blood on his hand flowed freely, dripping from the tips of his fingers. She blinked, bemused, gazing down at the appendage before dropping it, the little yellow cat curling around her ankles and giving off a soft purr of comfort.

"Find what, Kohaku?"

Kohaku watched her closely. "The other half of my existence."

(There's a demon in my skin.)

She frowned, burgundy eyes glistening in the almost-sun. Hesitantly, she stood; the kimono rustled softly around her legs, and Kohaku could feel the mask start to break. She turned, heading towards the shoji doors; sandals were left on the stairs in an effort to avoid tracking dirt. Kohaku followed her lead, but then remembered—

His feet were bare. Dirt and blood clotted the wounds on the bottom of his feet, some of the soft reconstruction tearing open every time he took a new step, only for the blood to harden into a vague sort of semi-permeable protection. The poison particles swarmed around the open wounds, prodding, and

Kohaku was in the house.

"Training didn't go too badly, did it?" the woman with the bright burgundy eyes asked. Somewhere in his mind, a voice whispered mother-sister-friend. It had to be one of those. Or maybe all. Kohaku would figure it out.

"Father's upset with me."

She gave a soft sigh, spinning on her heel and taking Kohaku's hands into her.

"It'll get better, Kohaku, I promise. Even I—"

"—was perfect," Kohaku interrupted. "Always. I—I may not remember much, because that's… somewhere else. But I do remember that. I—"

Lack the will.

(Being a puppet was so much simpler.)

"Kohaku—"

Yet there was someone who did not want him to be a puppet. Someone who wanted him to have will and—

The threads were wrapped all around his wrists. He could see his family, weapons raised, battling against the dangerous demon that had descended upon the prince's house—a sickly prince, one who was changing-changing-changing because of its presence. Kohaku stood to the side, finally there and ready and trained (but imperfect). There was room for improvement, but nothing could take away from the heady rush of triumph, of finally being good enough, of finally being able to lift the kusarigama and send it slicing through the air, sinking into the muscle and tendons of the giant demons legs. Green ooze spilled out of the body like acid, acrid and disgusting. White plumes of smoke wafted into the air as the earth beneath the demon's legs were eaten up like fresh sustenance; Kohaku shifted the grip on his kusarigama, waiting, prepared, and then—

Lack of control. Cessation of movement.

He truly was the puppet now.

His mother-sister-friend screamed. Somehow he had—

Bodies littered the ground. Painful memories, painful thoughts, and suddenly, he wished he could be back to when she was holding his hand, back to when she was wiping away blood and wrapping it in bandages.

"You'll do fine next time," she promised, cradling him close. "I'll help you to get better. But… Kohaku… do you even want to be a demon slayer?"

(What have I done?)

There was still no control. Fighting against it was difficult, but he managed because he could hear someone crying—the mother-sister-friend that he loved—loved—and he saw them. His father. His uncle. The villagers who hunted down demons, who fought and slaved and struggled just to keep humanity afloat. These people, his family—

Shame. Deep rooted, agonizing shame coursed through him. And then—horror. Horror because there was blood soaking the earth, entrails steaming in the cooling night. Kohaku removed the mask from his face, limbs trembling violently. Blood, scarlet in the silver moonlight, gleamed at him from the curved blade; a sense of wrongness, of guilt, of this-is-my-fault pervaded every sense, made his heart clench tightly and his lungs constrict; he couldn't breathe, there was no air in his lungs, his vision was starting to gray, he had killed his family—

"Kohaku!"

"I'll do whatever it takes to stay close to you, San—"

He truly was the puppet now.

(He gave her flowers, once.)

Tears streamed down his face. He wanted to run to her, to make it all go away. One moment, the sun was illuminating her dark-brown hair; one moment, there was victory. And then the next—take them out, these demon slayers. I can see what's in your heart… you aren't made for this. Imagine how it must feel, being pushed when killing, murdering, staining your hands with blood is the thing you detest the most. You will never be like her, you know. Invincible. Strong. You are weak, useless.

You will never be—

"Sango."

And then he remembered.

(Not the puppet, but the puppet master.)

(There's a demon in his skin.)

Or his heart. Or just… him. But—there wasn't. It was absent.

(Half-existing.)

(He had to find it.)

Startling awake with a vicious gasp, Kohaku gripped his chest. The wound gave slightly, but there was no blood—the semi-permeable protection that had covered the wound was scarring harder and more violently with each passing day. It was getting harder to pull the red-red-life from his body, harder to see the color distort on his fingers. Because he was distorted, changed. Something had changed him, was still changing him, and no matter how hard Kohaku fought it, the fever would continue to linger, beading his brow and soaking the collar of his yukata. The hypothermia hadn't helped matters; it only served to draw him closer—(beyond reason, beyond comprehension)—to a man he was supposed to hate. Because Miroku had taken away Sango. Miroku had stolen her and kept her for himself and only shared the heat with her.

(except)

Kohaku remained still, the chill wind of the outside cooling his sweat. Miroku was not far from him, on the other side of the dead campfire, his shakujou rested negligently against his shoulder and his arms were folded neatly in his lap in front of him. Usually, whenever Kohaku started awake, Miroku was sure to be there—aware, cognizant of the situation. Of Kohaku. But now—well, he was tired. The lines of Miroku's young adult face were slack, but the tension was still there (a half, almost there kiss), because he would never allow himself to relax around Kohaku, not even in sleep. Kohaku had stolen too much already (heat-loyalty-monogamy).

Once the harsh sound of his breathing had evened out, Kohaku stood, wobbly. Walking the entire day before had been tiresome; the very day after his proposal and horribly cruel misstep, Miroku was ushering Kohaku out of the hut, ready to find Sango, to find sanity. She would bring things back to order. Keep away the cruelty-not-cruelty, keep them separated. Stop the sharp surge of awareness that Kohaku felt whenever Miroku would walk into the room, the soft ruffling of his robes swept up and away on the wind.

Kohaku thought he understood it.

(They had a demon in their skin.)

(except)

Kohaku was quiet as death as he knelt beside Miroku, reaching out to brush the purple cloth and string of beads that surrounded the monk's hand. Kohaku watched, waiting for the monk to stir, but he didn't. There was just the faint echo of power—dark, venomous power—and it thrummed through his fingers, up his arm and lodging itself perfectly in his brain.

Kohaku's fingers fell away.

Turning, he moved towards the dead fire, wishing for warmth. It was strange to have a conscience, but it was probably stolen from him the moment the other-him—the demon, really, that hid beneath his skin—spirited it away. But he was getting it back. He was remembering.

There was always more than just the puppet.

And now that he could remember—the dreams, those horrible dreams with pain and glass sliding through flesh and dirt clogging bloody wounds and the man who was so important (friend-puppet-guide, maybe he was being strung along just as masterfully as Kohaku) and the girl who made his heart sing—they were faces that would never fade from his heart.

(except)

Lifting a hand, Kohaku brushed the back of his neck. An odd, half-there feeling spiked just as suddenly as a fever; more sweat dotted his brow, but Kohaku ignored it, the sweet promise of delirium. Leaving reality… was unacceptable. Finding Sango, well, that was priority. Making sure—Sango could not make a mistake. She was too perfect, too invincible and Kohaku knew she would win. She would take her boomerang and rend the demon limb from limb. There would be nothing left. It would fade from existence, from everything it ever knew and Kohaku could not allow it to happen.

He finally understood.

(There was a demon in his skin.)

(except)

Quite suddenly, his fingers caught on the threads. Felt them go taut. And then—

Pin-prickle-pull.

(Not the puppet, but the puppet master.)

The compulsion to leave dug deep down into Kohaku's stomach, but he held still. The kusarigama was still settled next to his bed roll; Miroku had been hesitant to let him bring it, but Kohaku had insisted. Above everything, he was still a demon-slayer regardless of whether—I'll do whatever it takes to stay close to you, Sango. And he meant it. Always. Even though Naraku had kept them apart. (He gave her flowers, once.)

Still, a fear niggled deep in chest. Following the pull would be easy; he knew where it would lead him, if he thought to follow it. Yet… leaving Miroku… he thought back to the dreams, dreams which had once been catalogued in the vague haze of delirium. Thinking on them now… remembering all that the man had done for him… strength of character. Did he even have it? That condescending, mocking voice filtered into his head once again, whispering of his imperfections, reminding him that he would never, could never be Sango.

And he would have to accept that. Sango was kindness and concern and beauty and strength. A hot, bursting need for revenge curdled the blood in her veins, but she never forgot—family first. Even when Kohaku had lifted that blade and cut through his family, Sango had been horrified but she knew… not Kohaku. Never Kohaku. It wasn't him. Had not been him. There was no way the boy who gave her flowers and loved her so unconditionally—I'll do whatever it takes to stay close to you, Sango—could just slay their family… there had been so much blood… viscera had been everywhere, gleaming, disgusting, human…

Kohaku's hands shook as he released the threads. They had felt frayed, just like before. Trying to break away had been so difficult, but he hadn't realized before. Not sanity, not strength, but will. The strings that kept his will anchored to the demon scarred upon his skin… they had snapped, only to be replaced by some mockery, some delicious piece of him that seemed to have melted into existence, or half of one, because part of his will was still trapped in the past. In the venomous, vindictive hold of that monster, that demon, that Naraku.

Naraku had made him forget.

(There was more than just the short-lived triumph of slaying the giant spider demon, after all.)

(Every puppet needs a master.)

And by doing so, by allowing that hanyou to delve into his brain and cut out the parts that mattered most—nothing. So long had Kohaku been submerged in the rich flavor of nothingness, losing more and more of himself as time went on. Yet… her face, Sango's face, remained etched within him. Her tears had caused something to break inside of him, something separating from the part of him that had simply become Naraku's because will was inherent in every bone of his body. Will saturated Kohaku's cells and made his blood flow, because if there was anything his father had taught him, it was never to submit, to give up, to die rather than be completely massacred by a demon—

Sango and he had fought so hard to be with one another. The undead miko have given up so much, yet the fragment had already been detached. Healing was near impossible because it had slipped away the moment the jewel shard in his back had been purified. Floating through the air, waiting to take form—and his thoughts had allowed it. Those poisonous, hateful thoughts guided by cruelty and jealousy and despair—

But he remembered.

And Sango… Sango was happy.

(except)

Trembling, Kohaku stumbled forward. He understood far better than he ever wanted to. Understood what it meant to Sango, the center of his world, to have him with her. His life had been forfeit; he had been a ghost of what he used to be for so long… and to have him back, as well as have Miroku, the man she loved more than anything…

(except Kohaku)

Kohaku settled beside Miroku. He reached up, framed the monk's face in his hands and waited; eyelids flickered and opened, revealing misty dark depths full of—of—

Kohaku's chest warmed.

Slowly, Kohaku leaned forward, the impulse driven by something other than cruelty. He thought he understood it now, better than he had understood anything before and—he had made a decision. Felt his conscience spring back into existence because Sango was hurting and that was simply not acceptable.

Another nearly-there kiss was pressed against Miroku's mouth; Miroku stiffened, fingers clenching tightly around his shakujou, but Kohaku pressed further, harder, and then—

Miroku gently eased him back.

"Kohaku," Miroku said, strained and bleary. Tired.

(There used to be a demon in his skin.)

"You have my blessings," Kohaku said solemnly, a strange sort of soft agony ripping through his wounds and plunging into his heart.

Miroku's gaze sharpened.

Tentatively, Kohaku fingered the pull at the base of his neck—a desperate, pulsing twang echoed down the line, and Kohaku surged to his feet, walking to his bed roll and snatching up the kusarigama. His slaying garb was kept in a cloth that he tied to his back; he felt Miroku track his movement with dark eyes, and even though the intention was there, Kohaku wished that it would remain hidden. At least until he could figure everything out.

He didn't want to abandon Miroku. Even though Kohaku had hated Miroku, spurned him, made Miroku's insides hurt with the give-give-give Miroku always passed to Kohaku, he didn't want Miroku to be alone. Miroku had not abandoned Kohaku. Doing so to the other man was just… cruel.

Kohaku turned, catching Miroku's eye. Gave him a longing glance that left surprise and suspicion flitting across the older man's face. Leaving was hard because Miroku was all he had left. Kohaku was tired of being alone.

(When is my happiness?)

Kohaku left.

(There was a demon in his skin.)

It was—

(—himself.)