A/N- Yay, my first posted fic on this account! Don't worry, it's just a oneshot/drabble type thing- please don't kick me off because it's in 2nd person! Actually, this isn't the first Kekkaishi fic I wrote, but the other one is multi-chappy and I'm not ready to post it yet... Anyway, as far as I know, this is the first fic on this site dedicated to this particular couple (correct me if I'm wrong), whom I steadfastedly adore: Yoshimori/Kagemiya!!! XD Yaoi, folks. No like, no read. But if you do like, please review! Enjoy! -OA

Pretty

By ObsessedAuthoress

Disclaimer: I do not own Kekkaishi. And yes, its owners are currently thanking their gods, because if I did, there would be a lot of -cough- interesting stuff going on...

Part One: Yoshimori

You sit there and you wonder how things ever ended up like this.

Really, it's nothing like you intended it to be. No one could say that you were thinking these thoughts when you started, that all of this was part of some higher, greater plan. Or, if it was the latter, no one told you about it.

And you wonder why that is. Shouldn't you have known, before all this happened, that it was going to happen?

Maybe it's just that you don't like surprises.

So you sit there as you've been doing for a while now, and stare at him, because there's nothing else to look at. And because you like looking at him, because he's pretty.

Yes, he is pretty.

It wouldn't be that hard to understand, if you could just make an outsider see what you see. There are so many things: the slender column of his neck, the gentle arch of his back, the way his skin is so white, so perfect, the warm pink of his cupid-bow lips. Those lips are especially distracting, especially when they slant down dramatically because he's realized that you're watching him, and he hates it.

You've never bothered to find out why he hates you watching him, but he always has. It's just part of who he is, and you're not going to stand in the way of that.

…That won't keep you from watching him, though.

You release a heavy breath, because you're actually tired, and slide out of your sitting position into a sprawl across the bed, your dark hair tousled against the pale pillows. And still you watch him as he sits next to you, that smooth back presented for your viewing pleasure, stretching down to curves modestly hidden in pools of sheets.

You grin, because he's ignoring you now, pouting in a way that only he could ever pull off. It's a little routine he's developed, and you love it almost as much as you love-

He tilts his head up slightly, arms crossed over his bare chest as if you're not good enough for him, and shakes that head of corn-golden curls, adorably tangled because not too long ago you were running your fingers through them. And even though you can't see, 'cause he's got his back to you, you know that those pink lips you were thinking of are pursed in just the right way to complete the act.

Oh, you love it. It's just so pretty. Just like him.

And you laugh, shifting forward onto your stomach so your arms can reach far enough to twine around his small waist. You laugh, and he knows that you're laughing at him, and that you can feel that small shudder of reluctant pleasure as it works its way down his spine. And he knows that no matter how hard he tries, you're not going to let him go, and you're not going to be dissuaded by his playacting, and neither of you are going to get much done for the rest of the day.

And you know that he knows.

And then you wonder why you were so concerned with not knowing about all of this before it happened. Because maybe, deep down inside, you knew all along, but didn't want to admit it. Isn't it possible that the first time you saw him, took in his confident pose, stared into his large dark eyes with those cat's eye pupils, felt his claws against the skin of your neck...

...You were thinking that you loved him?

Because you do, you know. There's no point in trying to deny it.

You love him.

Not just because you think he's pretty, or because he pouts better than any girl you've ever met, or because he's strong and intelligent and thinks much quicker of his feet than you do. All those things are part of it, but they aren't the real reason.

…Maybe there isn't a real reason. All those things put together make him who he is. The person you love.

So it's because he is who he is that you love him, then.

Your arms tighten around his waist, and you tug him backwards, ignoring his protests as you break his balance and he falls back against you. You shift once more so his head is resting on your stomach, so you can crane your neck and look down into his face, memorize its planes the same way you have so many times before.

And even though you don't really think that anything in the world is perfect, you're inclined to believe that what you have resting in your arms at this moment is as close to perfection as you're going to get.

So you're going to be careful. You're not going to let go.

His name rolls off your tongue, almost in a purr. "…Sen…" And he twists his head back to look up at you, and smirks, because he can see what you're thinking in your eyes, and he likes it.

Even if he doesn't give a verbal response, it doesn't really matter. You weren't asking a question, after all. He doesn't have to reply.

And yet, the reply he does give is more than you could ever ask for.

A/N- Ah well, it's not perfect, but... -shrug- Hope you liked it anyway! -OA