InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Fragments ❯ Fortune Favors the Bold ( Chapter 10 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Title: Fortune Favors the Bold
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Alternate
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Warning: Language, innuendo
Word Length: 2407
Summary: “There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” – Washington Irving

Entry for: mirsan_fics Prompt #24, “Tear” (2nd Place)

Disclaimer: The Inuyasha concept, story, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media.

Miroku glanced up as a knock sounded at the door. He was sitting in his office, counting up the night’s receipts, and was almost desperate for a distraction from the most mind-numbingly boring aspect of his job.

Mei, one of his closing waitresses, stuck her head in. “How’s it coming in here?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He shrugged, lifting the small pile of papers. “It’s coming,” he replied ruefully, “just not very quickly. What’s up?”

She slipped in, closing the door behind her. “Nothing much. We’re all finished up front, and the other girls went home. I thought I’d wait on you, though, see if you needed anything.”

He granted her a small smile. “That’s okay – you go ahead. I’ll probably be awhile with all this.” He gestured to the large, ancient ledger in front of him, along with the piles of receipts that represented his business for the week. It was an archaic bookkeeping system, to be sure, but it was the one he’d inherited with the place – and he had neither the time nor the inclination to upgrade it. He liked to keep things simple: good food, good drinks, good company.

“Oh.” Mei stood awkwardly for a moment, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She was one of the new hires, a petite girl with bottle-blonde hair and pixie features. She’d been there for a few weeks, but was still trying to find her place in their little world. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Not unless you’re good with math,” Miroku sighed, turning back to his columns of numbers.

She perked up. “Believe it or not, I am,” she replied, moving quickly to his side and leaning over the desk. “You want me to double-check these?”

“Uh, sure,” he choked out, blinking rapidly as he found himself with a bird’s eye view of her chest. A ripple of wary surprise travelled down his spine; quickly, he cut his eyes back to his own work.

After a moment, she spoke again. “These look okay to me,” she announced, casually slinging her arm across the back of his chair. “How about you?”

When he dared glance up again, he found her face inches from his. “Mei, this isn’t a good idea,” he said, pulling back slightly.

She furrowed her brow. “What’s not a good idea?” she asked, dropping her arm from the chair to his shoulders. “I like you, you like me – what’s the problem here?”

Heaviness settled in his abdomen. She was cute, and her offer was tempting – but his heart wasn’t in it. “You work for me,” he countered weakly.

She smiled softly. “That hasn’t stopped you before,” she reminded him, pressing a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The other girls told me what a great lay you were.”

Guilt flooded through him as he stood up, crossing the room with a hand over his eyes. “I’m flattered, but that was before – ”

“Before what?” she interrupted, trailing after him, crossing her arms over her chest.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t matter.” He took hold of her shoulders. “Look, I appreciate the offer – the very tempting offer – but not tonight, okay? Maybe some other time?” By which I mean never, he added silently.

She pouted, obviously put out by his rejection, but shrugged in assent. He gave her a reassuring squeeze before letting her go, moving back to his desk to resume the last of his work. It certainly has been a night for midnight confessions, he mused, trying to find his place in the figures once more. He didn’t realize she hadn’t left until she spoke again, her words slicing through the silent air.

“You want my advice?” Mei mused aloud, one hand on the doorknob. “Go talk to her.”

Miroku glanced up sharply, his heart in his throat. How did she – ?

Mei shook her head. “Men really are oblivious, aren’t they? It’s obvious something went down a couple weeks ago with you, and judging by your reaction, I’d say it was with a woman. You haven’t been the same since, you know? We’re all concerned about you.” She shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d like a distraction.”

He could only stare at her, stunned. Was his pain that obvious? Did he miss her that much?

“Take care of your unfinished business, Miroku,” Mei advised. “And take care of yourself.” The door softly clicked into the frame as she left.

Miroku sat back in his seat, figures forgotten. He glanced up at the ceiling before closing his eyes, falling prey to a rush of assailing memories – visions, scents, tastes – bare skin against bare skin – the way he felt inside her – lying naked in her arms – her cries of pleasure – her sweet kisses before, during, after –

– her tears – her rejection – her agony as he left – the final, biting, parting words –

“One day, you’re going to realize you deserve to be happy, Sango.”

Sorrow sank over him like a leaden weight. He thought he’d been handling it okay; it wasn’t the first time he’d lost someone so near and dear to him. But if others were beginning to notice – if it was affecting his work – maybe it was time to reassess the situation.

Leaving her had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. He knew what it felt like to deal with insurmountable tragedy alone, and it was a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy…much less someone he could very much see himself growing to love. Being separated from her was painful, physically painful – he barely slept anymore, his mind totally captivated in the small hours of the night, alternately entertaining elaborate fantasies of holding her, loving her, protecting her, and cycling through every possible outcome of that visit to the morgue with her asshole fiancé. That was the worst part of all – not knowing. Had she buried her brother? Had she gone home to her family? Had she married that jerk in the vain hope that he could heal her wounds?

More than once, he’d almost called her. He’d gotten the number to her room at the hotel, and found himself two digits away from completed dialing before pulling back and hanging up. What could he possibly say? Did she even want to see him again? She had kicked him out, after all, her rejection cold and cruel under the strain of her grief. He remembered the first time he’d met her, how resolute in her anger she’d been that night…and how much of a kinship he felt with her, in spite of barely knowing her.

He smiled wryly. Yes, in spite of it all, he clung to that little glimmer of hope. That kinship had only strengthened over time, forming an impenetrable bond, culminating in a night of passion that still rocked his world, even as a memory. It was how and why he still felt close to her, even from halfway across the sprawling expanse of the city. It was why he still suffered, why he couldn’t sleep, why he wanted to see her again, even knowing that it could be enough to irrevocably break him.

He stood up once more, giving up on work for the night. He closed and locked his office and, with one final sweep of the bar to make sure no one else was hanging around, closed and locked the front doors as well. The night was cool, the air heavy with the threat of rain, but he opted to walk anyway.

The wind stung his face as he walked, paying little attention to his surroundings along the way. For some reason, he was put in mind of his father, and the long walks they used to take along the grounds of the monastery where he grew up. It was an old, spacious place, way up in the rural north, as far from a city as he could possibly imagine. The two of them used to walk for hours, trudging through the mountainous terrain in total silence. At the time, Miroku found the ritual annoying and unnecessary, but now, he understood his father’s cravings for it – and the quiet contemplation that accompanied it.

His heart skipped a painful beat. For as long as he could remember, he’d longed for the exciting life of the city, to be surrounded by people and things and events. He hated the isolation of the temple where they lived, and he resented the strict path of righteousness his father had tried to set him on from the start. In retrospect, Miroku realized his father’s decisions had been in response to his mother’s unexpected death, and his own inability to deal with raising a child alone, but when he was five, he didn’t see that – all he saw was a stodgy old man who denied his son the worldly pleasures of life. Though he eventually came to accept and even enjoy some aspects of his traditional Buddhist education, he nonetheless counted the days until he could leave, strike out on his own, forge his path in life.

And, at eighteen, his father let him go, sending him to the capital to live with an old friend who could give him a job and a place to stay. Miroku didn’t look back – Mushin was best uncle a horny young boy could ask for, giving him a job at his bar and turning a blind eye when he brought home a new girl each night. Just as he always knew he would, he blossomed under the social spotlight, finding his niche as a chatty, smooth bartender, always willing to lend an ear or a shoulder to cry on. He didn’t want to leave, not even when Mushin informed him of his father’s illness; stubbornly, he stayed put, still desperate to make up for two decades of solitude and seclusion.

He’d made the selfish decision, and he had never forgiven himself for it.

By the time he finally returned for a visit, his father was dead.

It had shocked him to the core – he’d left, scarcely the year before, and now he would never have the chance to say goodbye, or thank you, or even “I love you” to the only parent he’d ever known. He understood true regret and remorse then, when he found himself falling apart at the loss of his last living relative – finally, he saw the fleeting value of human life, the true teachings of his now-lapsed faith.

With a lot of work, and the support of uncle Mushin, he’d managed to recover and resume his life in the city, albeit at a more subdued pace. Two years later, his friend and mentor finally succumbed to his alcoholism, devastating him once again, and this time – leaving him to deal with the crisis quite alone. He inherited the bar and the staff and a whole heap of responsibility, which was very nearly the only thing that kept him functioning at the time.

For all that he projected an easygoing, fun-loving, flirty, life-of-the-party façade, he’d locked himself away behind invisible, personal barriers. At twenty-one, he was very much a loner at heart – everyone he’d ever known and truly loved was gone. It took all of his strength and energy just to make it through each day, to reconcile himself with the man he had to become in order to keep going, to live up to the responsibilities piled on his shoulders. He could no longer afford to walk around with his head in the clouds, but he was wary of putting too much of himself out there again.

Even now, five years beyond Mushin’s passing, he still felt raw and vulnerable in personal relationships; that’s why he didn’t have very many, beyond a few trusted friends. Meeting Sango had changed all that – for the first time since his father, he sensed in her someone worthy of his time, his effort, his love and passion and protection – the whole of his being, the entirety of his soul. Perhaps most surprising of all, to him, was that none of this was tinged with worry or fear. When he was with her, it just felt right. He wasn’t afraid to share his past, the soaring highs and deep hurts, the promises and regrets, the thick and thin of it all. The more he knew of her, the more he sensed she could be the one…another time, another place, maybe it could’ve all fallen into place perfectly.

Instead…

He looked up, finding himself across the street from her hotel, as if drawn there by some force beyond his own will. He glanced up into the window he knew was hers, relief flooding through him when he realized the light was on. So she’s still here, he thought to himself. Against all odds, his tumultuous memories calmed, fresh resolve forming in his heart.

The obstacles were obvious. They lived in two different worlds as of yet; she, in her glamorous whirlwind of society parties and fancy hotels, of beautiful gowns and pantries filled with gourmet food, of never having to worry about paying bills or covering payroll, stood in stark contrast to his more modest lifestyle. He lived in a crummy little apartment, the greatest attribute of which was being close to the bar; he didn’t always eat right or well, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out shopping for pleasure instead of necessity.

Even if she could accept a serious downgrade in lifestyle, would she be comfortable in his world of sin and temptation? Could she live with the idea of being two steps away from a willing lay, or a bottle, or a pill? Would she stand for long working hours or the unsteady, seasonal ebb and flow of his business?

Could she accept that this was his life, or would she invite him into another one, away from all of this as well as his own sorrow-filled past?

The ball was in her court – the balance of his life was in her hands, and she didn’t even know it.

All the same, he felt no fear, no regret, no shame.

He was surprised to feel the sting of tears coursing down his cheeks as the wind howled past him, his eyes still steady on that brightly lit window. I’m still here, Sango, he vowed silently. If you still feel it, if you still want me…I’m here.