InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Fragments ❯ Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown ( Chapter 14 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: LuxKen27 
Summary: “When making your choice in life, do not neglect to live.” – Samuel Johnson
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.31.2010 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.7K | Visits: 815 | Status: Work In Progress
Summary: “When making your choice in life, do not neglect to live.” – Samuel Johnson
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.31.2010 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.7K | Visits: 815 | Status: Work In Progress
Title: Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Alternate
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Warning: Language, innuendo
Word Length: 2449
Summary: “When making your choice in life, do not neglect to live.” – Samuel Johnson
Disclaimer: The Inuyasha concept, story, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media.
“What?” he grunted, annoyed, narrowing his eyes as he wiped down the space in front of him.
The house DJ, Hiroshi, leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “You’re killing me, man,” he drawled. “I’ve been sitting here for the last ten minutes, and I don’t think you’ve looked up once.” He clucked his tongue despairingly as he sent a covert glance down the length of the bar. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Miroku followed his line of vision, quirking a brow when he eyes landed on a gorgeous woman. She was sitting tall in her seat, leaning forward with her elbows on the bar as she toyed with her gin and tonic. Her eyes were dark, half-hidden behind waves of brown hair, her ruby-red lips a perfect match to her low-cut dress. She caught the guys’ lingering stares, curving her mouth in a coy, come-hither smile before taking a long sip of her drink.
She was the sort of woman that, once upon a time, he wouldn’t have hesitated to flirt with – and probably would’ve taken home at the end of the night.
Hiroshi gave a low whistle. “Damn,” he commented, “she’s one foxy chick.” He looked back at his friend. “And she’s been eyeing you like a prize stallion all night.”
Miroku shrugged, turning his attention back to the counter space in front of him. When he found no fresh orders, he turned to his wall of liquor, picking up the recently used bottles and settling them back in their places. Thursday nights were steady, but slow, even this late into the evening. Even so, he wasn’t really in the mood to chat, with Hiroshi or with some random girl who had stationed herself at the end of his bar.
His pointed withdrawal from the conversation didn’t deter the DJ, however. “Oh, come on, man,” he said as Miroku wandered his way once more, “you can’t tell me you aren’t at least a little curious.”
Miroku rolled his eyes, not even bothering to turn around. He fidgeted with the rows of bottles, running his hands along the cool glass, turning each to face label-out.
Fresh understanding dawned across Hiroshi’s features. “Oh, I get it,” he announced. “You’re still hung up on that Sango broad. Dude, it’s been months – time to cut the cord already!”
Miroku turned slightly, sending a fierce glare in his so-called friend’s direction. “Don’t I pay you do to something other than hang around at the bar and make ill-advised observations about my life?” he asked coolly.
Hiroshi grinned, apparently pleased that his comment had struck a nerve. “Haven’t you ever heard that the best way to get over one chick is to get under another one?”
“Oh, please,” Miroku retorted. It’s not like that… Even if it had been awhile since he’d gotten laid, it wasn’t necessarily due to lack of desire or opportunity. He’d led that life once, after all, and it wouldn’t have been hard to slip back into that mindset. But no matter how pretty the girl or welcome the distraction, no one ever measured up to Sango’s standard. She had been more than just a pretty face – much more.
Hiroshi’s eyes slid back to the girl in the ruby-red dress. “Listen,” he began, glancing back at Miroku before digging into one of his pockets, “I understand. Maybe you feel guilty about just helping yourself – relationships have that tendency to fuck with your head.”
Or maybe I’m just not interested, Miroku mused silently, eyeing his friend with no small amount of suspicion.
“But I know someone,” Hiroshi continued, “who makes it her business to help heartbroken men move on with their lives.” He produced a white business card with a flourish, holding it out for Miroku to take. “Maybe you should give her a call.”
Miroku took a step forward, running his eyes over the embossed print but declining to take the card. After a moment, he looked up. “Is this a joke?” he muttered, his tone implying he didn’t find it amusing in the least.
Hiroshi shrugged. “Hey, man, I don’t know your tastes,” he replied, tucking the card back in his pocket. “I just thought I’d offer – maybe you’re the type who likes to pay.”
Not even in the most desperate moments of his frustrated teenage years at the monastery had he ever considered soliciting a prostitute – what made anyone think he’d consider such a thing now? Hiroshi had been in his employ for less than a year, but if he was half as observant as he thought he was, he should’ve picked up on that little tidbit by now.
Mercifully, Miroku was saved from responding by one of the waitresses, who placed a new stack of drink orders on the bar in front of him. “Hey, DJ, can we make with the music?” she teased, elbowing Hiroshi as she slid into the free seat beside him while she waited. “Folks are falling asleep with that shit you left on the system.”
Hiroshi opened his mouth to reply, but Miroku shut it with a warning look. “Please,” he intoned sharply, making it clear the word was not a request, but a command, turning his attention to the orders. He set aside his irritation as he made the drinks, concentrating the entirety of his focus on to the ingredients and measurements before him.
“Hiroshi’s an ass,” the waitress spoke up as he placed the last of the drinks on her tray. Miroku glanced up and realized it was one of the girls who’d been around since Mushin had run the place. “Not all of us think you need to hit the first thing that shows interest.” She gave him a patient smile and patted his hand. “Take your time. Love isn’t something you just get over.”
“Thanks,” he murmured, squeezing her hand before she launched back into the crowd. He checked on his regulars nearby, refilling their glasses of beer and whiskey, before settling back in front of the taps with a rack of still-drying glasses. The girl in the red dress had given up, leaving a few bills on the bar and huffily marching past him, and Miroku felt himself finally relax a bit.
It was wearing to maintain the façade day after day, night after night. It was bad enough that his employees knew how badly the breakup with Sango was affecting him, even nearly three months on, but now he realized he was slipping even more, letting total strangers like the girl in the red dress spy his vulnerability.
Not for the first time did he wonder if he’d done the right thing, made the right decision, said the right words. It was so fucking hard to be apart from her, to face the possibility that it was probably forever, to live with the knowledge that his last words to her had been bitter and angry, that he couldn’t help but second guess himself. How often had he replayed his encounter with Akiko over and over again in his mind, examining each word, each reaction, each twist of emotion, each turn of logic? And yet, no matter how much he wished differently, he always came to the same conclusion – because deep in the core of his being, he knew he’d been right the first time.
He loved her. He missed her.
Be he couldn’t force her – to be happy, to bend to his will, to accept what he felt for her unconditionally.
The hardest part of love is letting go.
It was one of the hardest principles for his father to come to grips with; indeed, it is what ultimately drove him down the extreme path he took, moving himself and his small son into an isolated monastery following his wife’s death. It seemed what had once haunted his father was now haunting him – perhaps it would always be their curse.
He wanted nothing more than to be able to move on, in one direction or another, but he couldn’t – for better or for worse, he’d left that decision in someone else’s hands.
Someone he wished to see one last time, if only to accept the finality of his fate.
Someone who would apparently deny him that chance, wanting nothing more than to leave this nightmare chapter of her life behind…not that he could blame her.
He wasn’t sure what compelled him to look up at that moment, but he did, his eyes wandering over the crowd that had gathered in the middle of the room, moving to the live, pulsating rhythm that thrummed through the place. The din of conversation lifted alongside the beat, filling his ears and blocking out his melancholy thoughts. From the corner of his eye he saw the door of the establishment open and close and, idly, he swiveled his head.
Only to nearly drop the glass he was drying.
“Hey, man,” one of his regulars called from somewhere in the vicinity of his left, “you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Miroku ignored the teasing remark, focusing instead of pushing air out of his lungs, past the lump in his throat he could only assume was his heart. Blindly, he put down the glass and the towel, moving out from behind the bar even as he eyes were still trained on a point in the crowd. He felt like he was moving through mud, towards an unreachable destination, only realizing after the fact that he was pushing people out of his way as he pressed forward into the sea of swaying bodies.
Finally, he stopped, reaching out to make sure it wasn’t a dream – but no, the arm he’d captured was very real, very warm…and very much attached to Sango.
She whirled around, her eyes growing wide and her lips parting as they came face to face for the first time since parting all those months ago. She spoke, but the words didn’t make it from her mouth to his ears. It didn’t matter, because he was unable to tear his eyes away from her, roving down the length of her frame and back. She looked different – dressed casually in jeans, a crimson-colored shirt, and black hoodie, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail – but his heart would’ve recognized her anywhere.
For a moment, they could do nothing more than simply stare at each other; the next thing he knew, her lips were pressed to his, her arms wrapped around his neck, her body achingly, desperately, searingly close. And he felt…he felt, for the first time in months, like his senses had awakened after a long slumber, like each sensation was new and different, fresh and exciting, one piling atop the next in a neverending cascade. He became aware of the way her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, the soft crush of her breasts against his chest, the way her hips cradled perfectly into his. For a moment, he lost himself to his memories, wrapping his arms around her and returning the unexpected greeting with equal fervor, nearly overwhelmed with the desire to press her against the nearest available flat surface and pick up where they left off.
But he couldn’t quite let himself go completely; questions lingered in the back of his brain – why was she here? what did she want? was this hello or goodbye? – mixing and meshing with the memories that raced across his mind’s eye:
– kissing her –
– lying naked beneath her –
– the look in her eyes when she felt it, just like him, that connection of fear and desire and fate –
“Sango,” he whispered against her mouth, pulling her even closer as the crowd danced around them. He could feel her breath on his lips, hot and hard, and the race of her heartbeat against his chest, galloping in time with his own. “Sango, I – ”
“I’m leaving,” she broke in, the words slicing through his haze of surprise and need and lust.
He opened his eyes, his gaze finding hers. She stared at him plaintively, her big brown eyes filled with confusion and pain.
He realized in an instant that she hadn’t meant to do this – she hadn’t meant to kiss him, or find herself wrapped up in him like this.
Nevertheless, she didn’t let him go, her body still pressed to his in an intimate embrace.
“I’m leaving,” she repeated, her voice stronger, more resonant.
His eyes slipped shut as he rested his forehead against hers, tightening his hold around her waist. I know, he wanted to say, I understand, but the words were lodged in his throat. Waves of sorrow and raw agony washed through him – even if he wasn’t surprised by this twist of cruel fate, even if he had perhaps resigned himself to it long ago, it still hurt.
Now that he had her in his arms again, he wasn’t sure if he could ever let her go.
“There’s just one problem,” she said, breaking into his thoughts once more.
He hugged her closer. “And what’s that?” he mused, not completely sure he wanted to know.
She took a deep breath, her nails digging into the soft skin at the juncture of his neck and his shoulders. “I want to be with you,” she exhaled in a rush.
He pulled away slightly, opening his eyes and staring at her once again. Their gazes locked; silently, he assessed her, turning her words over and over again in his mind as he thought about what he knew of her – her passion, her stubbornness, her willfullness. If anything, her expression had only grown more troubled with each passing moment, the internal war she waged surfacing at the last. He could see it now, writ large across her face, the lines of her body – how she battled between need and uncertainty, between honor and desire, between duty and love.
Here it is, then, he thought, his heart pumping wildly. Seven little words that could make him or break him, that could – that would – alter the course of his life forever, if only he could muster the courage to utter them –
“So what are you going to do?”
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Alternate
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Warning: Language, innuendo
Word Length: 2449
Summary: “When making your choice in life, do not neglect to live.” – Samuel Johnson
Disclaimer: The Inuyasha concept, story, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media.
~*~
Slowly, dimly, Miroku became aware that someone was watching him. He furrowed his brow, concentrating on the order he was currently working on, adding rum to one glass and vodka to the other with twin, expert flicks of his wrists. He rocked back on his heels, replacing the liquor bottles on the shelf at his back before finishing off the cocktails with a quick stir. He lifted the glasses, placing them on the waiting tray with a curt nod of his head, and swung his gaze to his left.“What?” he grunted, annoyed, narrowing his eyes as he wiped down the space in front of him.
The house DJ, Hiroshi, leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “You’re killing me, man,” he drawled. “I’ve been sitting here for the last ten minutes, and I don’t think you’ve looked up once.” He clucked his tongue despairingly as he sent a covert glance down the length of the bar. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Miroku followed his line of vision, quirking a brow when he eyes landed on a gorgeous woman. She was sitting tall in her seat, leaning forward with her elbows on the bar as she toyed with her gin and tonic. Her eyes were dark, half-hidden behind waves of brown hair, her ruby-red lips a perfect match to her low-cut dress. She caught the guys’ lingering stares, curving her mouth in a coy, come-hither smile before taking a long sip of her drink.
She was the sort of woman that, once upon a time, he wouldn’t have hesitated to flirt with – and probably would’ve taken home at the end of the night.
Hiroshi gave a low whistle. “Damn,” he commented, “she’s one foxy chick.” He looked back at his friend. “And she’s been eyeing you like a prize stallion all night.”
Miroku shrugged, turning his attention back to the counter space in front of him. When he found no fresh orders, he turned to his wall of liquor, picking up the recently used bottles and settling them back in their places. Thursday nights were steady, but slow, even this late into the evening. Even so, he wasn’t really in the mood to chat, with Hiroshi or with some random girl who had stationed herself at the end of his bar.
His pointed withdrawal from the conversation didn’t deter the DJ, however. “Oh, come on, man,” he said as Miroku wandered his way once more, “you can’t tell me you aren’t at least a little curious.”
Miroku rolled his eyes, not even bothering to turn around. He fidgeted with the rows of bottles, running his hands along the cool glass, turning each to face label-out.
Fresh understanding dawned across Hiroshi’s features. “Oh, I get it,” he announced. “You’re still hung up on that Sango broad. Dude, it’s been months – time to cut the cord already!”
Miroku turned slightly, sending a fierce glare in his so-called friend’s direction. “Don’t I pay you do to something other than hang around at the bar and make ill-advised observations about my life?” he asked coolly.
Hiroshi grinned, apparently pleased that his comment had struck a nerve. “Haven’t you ever heard that the best way to get over one chick is to get under another one?”
“Oh, please,” Miroku retorted. It’s not like that… Even if it had been awhile since he’d gotten laid, it wasn’t necessarily due to lack of desire or opportunity. He’d led that life once, after all, and it wouldn’t have been hard to slip back into that mindset. But no matter how pretty the girl or welcome the distraction, no one ever measured up to Sango’s standard. She had been more than just a pretty face – much more.
Hiroshi’s eyes slid back to the girl in the ruby-red dress. “Listen,” he began, glancing back at Miroku before digging into one of his pockets, “I understand. Maybe you feel guilty about just helping yourself – relationships have that tendency to fuck with your head.”
Or maybe I’m just not interested, Miroku mused silently, eyeing his friend with no small amount of suspicion.
“But I know someone,” Hiroshi continued, “who makes it her business to help heartbroken men move on with their lives.” He produced a white business card with a flourish, holding it out for Miroku to take. “Maybe you should give her a call.”
Miroku took a step forward, running his eyes over the embossed print but declining to take the card. After a moment, he looked up. “Is this a joke?” he muttered, his tone implying he didn’t find it amusing in the least.
Hiroshi shrugged. “Hey, man, I don’t know your tastes,” he replied, tucking the card back in his pocket. “I just thought I’d offer – maybe you’re the type who likes to pay.”
Not even in the most desperate moments of his frustrated teenage years at the monastery had he ever considered soliciting a prostitute – what made anyone think he’d consider such a thing now? Hiroshi had been in his employ for less than a year, but if he was half as observant as he thought he was, he should’ve picked up on that little tidbit by now.
Mercifully, Miroku was saved from responding by one of the waitresses, who placed a new stack of drink orders on the bar in front of him. “Hey, DJ, can we make with the music?” she teased, elbowing Hiroshi as she slid into the free seat beside him while she waited. “Folks are falling asleep with that shit you left on the system.”
Hiroshi opened his mouth to reply, but Miroku shut it with a warning look. “Please,” he intoned sharply, making it clear the word was not a request, but a command, turning his attention to the orders. He set aside his irritation as he made the drinks, concentrating the entirety of his focus on to the ingredients and measurements before him.
“Hiroshi’s an ass,” the waitress spoke up as he placed the last of the drinks on her tray. Miroku glanced up and realized it was one of the girls who’d been around since Mushin had run the place. “Not all of us think you need to hit the first thing that shows interest.” She gave him a patient smile and patted his hand. “Take your time. Love isn’t something you just get over.”
“Thanks,” he murmured, squeezing her hand before she launched back into the crowd. He checked on his regulars nearby, refilling their glasses of beer and whiskey, before settling back in front of the taps with a rack of still-drying glasses. The girl in the red dress had given up, leaving a few bills on the bar and huffily marching past him, and Miroku felt himself finally relax a bit.
It was wearing to maintain the façade day after day, night after night. It was bad enough that his employees knew how badly the breakup with Sango was affecting him, even nearly three months on, but now he realized he was slipping even more, letting total strangers like the girl in the red dress spy his vulnerability.
Not for the first time did he wonder if he’d done the right thing, made the right decision, said the right words. It was so fucking hard to be apart from her, to face the possibility that it was probably forever, to live with the knowledge that his last words to her had been bitter and angry, that he couldn’t help but second guess himself. How often had he replayed his encounter with Akiko over and over again in his mind, examining each word, each reaction, each twist of emotion, each turn of logic? And yet, no matter how much he wished differently, he always came to the same conclusion – because deep in the core of his being, he knew he’d been right the first time.
He loved her. He missed her.
Be he couldn’t force her – to be happy, to bend to his will, to accept what he felt for her unconditionally.
The hardest part of love is letting go.
It was one of the hardest principles for his father to come to grips with; indeed, it is what ultimately drove him down the extreme path he took, moving himself and his small son into an isolated monastery following his wife’s death. It seemed what had once haunted his father was now haunting him – perhaps it would always be their curse.
He wanted nothing more than to be able to move on, in one direction or another, but he couldn’t – for better or for worse, he’d left that decision in someone else’s hands.
Someone he wished to see one last time, if only to accept the finality of his fate.
Someone who would apparently deny him that chance, wanting nothing more than to leave this nightmare chapter of her life behind…not that he could blame her.
He wasn’t sure what compelled him to look up at that moment, but he did, his eyes wandering over the crowd that had gathered in the middle of the room, moving to the live, pulsating rhythm that thrummed through the place. The din of conversation lifted alongside the beat, filling his ears and blocking out his melancholy thoughts. From the corner of his eye he saw the door of the establishment open and close and, idly, he swiveled his head.
Only to nearly drop the glass he was drying.
“Hey, man,” one of his regulars called from somewhere in the vicinity of his left, “you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Miroku ignored the teasing remark, focusing instead of pushing air out of his lungs, past the lump in his throat he could only assume was his heart. Blindly, he put down the glass and the towel, moving out from behind the bar even as he eyes were still trained on a point in the crowd. He felt like he was moving through mud, towards an unreachable destination, only realizing after the fact that he was pushing people out of his way as he pressed forward into the sea of swaying bodies.
Finally, he stopped, reaching out to make sure it wasn’t a dream – but no, the arm he’d captured was very real, very warm…and very much attached to Sango.
She whirled around, her eyes growing wide and her lips parting as they came face to face for the first time since parting all those months ago. She spoke, but the words didn’t make it from her mouth to his ears. It didn’t matter, because he was unable to tear his eyes away from her, roving down the length of her frame and back. She looked different – dressed casually in jeans, a crimson-colored shirt, and black hoodie, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail – but his heart would’ve recognized her anywhere.
For a moment, they could do nothing more than simply stare at each other; the next thing he knew, her lips were pressed to his, her arms wrapped around his neck, her body achingly, desperately, searingly close. And he felt…he felt, for the first time in months, like his senses had awakened after a long slumber, like each sensation was new and different, fresh and exciting, one piling atop the next in a neverending cascade. He became aware of the way her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, the soft crush of her breasts against his chest, the way her hips cradled perfectly into his. For a moment, he lost himself to his memories, wrapping his arms around her and returning the unexpected greeting with equal fervor, nearly overwhelmed with the desire to press her against the nearest available flat surface and pick up where they left off.
But he couldn’t quite let himself go completely; questions lingered in the back of his brain – why was she here? what did she want? was this hello or goodbye? – mixing and meshing with the memories that raced across his mind’s eye:
– kissing her –
– lying naked beneath her –
– the look in her eyes when she felt it, just like him, that connection of fear and desire and fate –
“Sango,” he whispered against her mouth, pulling her even closer as the crowd danced around them. He could feel her breath on his lips, hot and hard, and the race of her heartbeat against his chest, galloping in time with his own. “Sango, I – ”
“I’m leaving,” she broke in, the words slicing through his haze of surprise and need and lust.
He opened his eyes, his gaze finding hers. She stared at him plaintively, her big brown eyes filled with confusion and pain.
He realized in an instant that she hadn’t meant to do this – she hadn’t meant to kiss him, or find herself wrapped up in him like this.
Nevertheless, she didn’t let him go, her body still pressed to his in an intimate embrace.
“I’m leaving,” she repeated, her voice stronger, more resonant.
His eyes slipped shut as he rested his forehead against hers, tightening his hold around her waist. I know, he wanted to say, I understand, but the words were lodged in his throat. Waves of sorrow and raw agony washed through him – even if he wasn’t surprised by this twist of cruel fate, even if he had perhaps resigned himself to it long ago, it still hurt.
Now that he had her in his arms again, he wasn’t sure if he could ever let her go.
“There’s just one problem,” she said, breaking into his thoughts once more.
He hugged her closer. “And what’s that?” he mused, not completely sure he wanted to know.
She took a deep breath, her nails digging into the soft skin at the juncture of his neck and his shoulders. “I want to be with you,” she exhaled in a rush.
He pulled away slightly, opening his eyes and staring at her once again. Their gazes locked; silently, he assessed her, turning her words over and over again in his mind as he thought about what he knew of her – her passion, her stubbornness, her willfullness. If anything, her expression had only grown more troubled with each passing moment, the internal war she waged surfacing at the last. He could see it now, writ large across her face, the lines of her body – how she battled between need and uncertainty, between honor and desire, between duty and love.
Here it is, then, he thought, his heart pumping wildly. Seven little words that could make him or break him, that could – that would – alter the course of his life forever, if only he could muster the courage to utter them –
“So what are you going to do?”