InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Fragments ❯ Love's Labour's Lost ( Chapter 12 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: LuxKen27 
Summary: “What would you wish for if you had one chance?” – B.o.B, “Airplanes”
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 07.18.2010 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.6K | Visits: 751 | Status: Work In Progress
Summary: “What would you wish for if you had one chance?” – B.o.B, “Airplanes”
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 07.18.2010 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.6K | Visits: 751 | Status: Work In Progress
Title: Love’s Labour’s Lost
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Alternate
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Warning: Language
Word Length: 2305
Summary: “What would you wish for if you had one chance?” – B.o.B, “Airplanes”
Disclaimer: The Inuyasha concept, story, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media.
Or, more precisely, it had been eight weeks, three days, four hours, and eighteen minutes…
…not that he was keeping track.
It had been two months since he’d seen her. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t thought about her, or was unaware of what was going on with her – it was merely a measurement, the length of time that had passed since he’d seen her, in stark living color, and spoken to her.
It was the length of time his life had been held in suspension, hope and optimism warring with desolation and defeat. Time, it seemed, wasn’t the cure-all everyone made out to be. The blow of her rejection had softened in the interim, but it had never gone away completely…and that worried him.
It had never taken this long – to make up, or to break up.
Miroku sighed, setting aside the schedule he’d been wrangling for the last hour. The busy summer season was winding down, which meant the annual tussle over who and how and when he’d have to start cutting staff hours was only beginning. He didn’t like having to let people go, especially not people as loyal and dedicated as his team. They had his back, and he’d needed it, these last few months.
One by one, they all began to notice the changes in him – his withdrawal from the social aspect of bartending; his sudden, intense interest in the news; his struggle to concentrate on anything that required his attention for more than five minutes at a time. They noticed the ever present grey circles under his eyes, the way his clothes were hanging a bit looser on his frame.
They noticed. They understood, once someone put two and two together and word got around. Some of them (mostly the waitresses) even sympathized with his plight.
But one thing they were all united in was anger.
Nobody fucked him over and got away with it, so far as they were concerned.
They rallied around him, fiercely protective. Some of the old-timers had been there since the days of uncle Mushin, and had seen him through the crisis of his death in much the same way. Then, as now, they shielded him as best they could, keeping bad news as far away from him as was possible, no matter what form it took – shakedown rackets, small time dealers, or pretty escorts looking for a place to set up shop.
They were his staff, but they were not his friends. Their unwavering support was silent, mostly conveyed via looks, nods, and the occasional punch in the arm or squeeze of the shoulder. Not even Mei, the forward newbie waitress who’d propositioned him in the aftermath, had tried to talk to him again. He carried the weight of this internal war as an everlasting knot in his stomach. He’d tried everything to let go of it – meditation, therapeutic journaling, even the pure escapism of sleep – but it persisted, lodging deep in his core.
He loved her. He mourned for her.
It was impossible not to know the status of her brother’s case. Her jackass fiancé – son of the police commissioner, VIP of the corporate business world – had launched an all-out media blitz, vowing to leave no stone unturned – nor criminal unquestioned – in the matter of the missing boy’s death. The coverage was intense, especially in the print media, with daily stories exploring one theory or another. The boy’s arms had been covered in sleeves of tattoos, including the thick black bands of unmistakable yakuza origin. He’d been a blood slave of one gang or another; to read Takeda’s confident words, it was merely “a matter of time” before the murderers were tracked down and brought to justice.
As ruthless and sensationalistic as the media coverage had been, she had been spared, for the most part – another of prince Takeda’s edicts, no doubt. Miroku’s heart always pumped a little faster when he came across her name, or saw a picture of her in the paper. A photograph from the memorial service had run weeks before, showcasing the family gathered at the burial site. Sango had been kneeling beside the grave, one hand outstretched over the freshly turned dirt, determination glittering in the depths of her eyes. He’d clipped that one, keeping it hidden under the piles of papers on his desk at the bar, pulling it out whenever he needed to see her. It was a striking composition, capturing the expression that had graced her lovely visage the first time they’d ever met. It was the way he preferred to think of her, and remember her – so strong, so resolute, so indomitable – instead of the way she’d looked the last time he’d seen her – so hurt, so vulnerable…so alone.
He uncovered that picture now, spreading it out on top of his papers along with the accompanying article. There was an almost desperate tinge to the coverage, as if Takeda was doing this as much to impress her – or maybe make it up to her? – as he was any lofty goal of truth or justice. Miroku held no deep regard for the man, but at the same time, he couldn’t quite bring himself to hate him. He remembered the absolute comfort of her rooms: the exquisitely appointed furniture, the neverending wardrobe, the refrigerator and cabinets, chock full of gourmet and fresh foods. He could offer her every creature comfort known to man, as well as some level of security – and the peace of mind that came with that.
All in all, perhaps putting up with a dickweed was a tiny price to pay for all of that.
A sharp knock sounded on Miroku’s door, quickly bringing him out of his thoughts. He shoved the article back under the stacks of work before bidding entrance to his visitor.
“Sorry, Miroku,” Mei apologized, sticking her head in the room. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but she just won’t go away.”
Miroku’s brows shot up. “She?” he repeated, already halfway out of his seat.
Mei rolled her eyes. “Miss Sex on the Beach,” she replied warily. “She kept banging on the door for a solid five minutes. I don’t know what she wants, but she couldn’t be dissuaded.” She shrugged sheepishly. “She says she won’t leave without speaking to you.”
“Oh,” he replied, pushing past the lump in his throat, willing his pulse to slow down. “All right. I’ll be right out.”
Mei nodded, closing the door as she left. Miroku clenched his hands into fists at his sides, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before leaving the room.
He emerged from the hallway at the back of the front room, advancing on steady feet towards his finely polished bar. It was early afternoon; his first shift crew was milling about, pulling down chairs and wiping off tables. None of them so much as glanced at him as he passed, but from the looks of his visitor, they had thoroughly raked her over the coals before granting access to their boss.
Akiko stood beside the bar, her arms folded nervously across her chest, her jaw set in annoyance. Her eyes blazed pure fire as they landed on him, and she tightened the brace of her body, as if preparing for another hostile confrontation. “We have to talk,” she announced without preamble as he moved within earshot.
Miroku shrugged. “I don’t know any other men to introduce to you, Akiko,” he replied, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ve already made your way through the entirety of my staff.”
“Very funny,” she bit off, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not here about that. I’m here about Sango.”
Miroku leveled a thoughtful stare on her. “Maybe we should take this outside,” he suggested.
“With pleasure,” Akiko responded, her tone still clipped. She glanced over her shoulder as they headed for the front door. “I don’t remember your staff being such assholes.”
Miroku ignored the pointed remark, crossing his arms loosely over his chest as he stood a few paces away from her on the sidewalk, the sun beating down relentlessly. “So what’s going on?” he asked after a moment.
Akiko’s stance mirrored his. “She’s leaving,” she said simply.
Miroku nearly choked. “What do you mean, she’s leaving?” he sputtered.
Akiko stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I mean, she’s leaving. She’s going home, to Osaka.”
Miroku’s mind was reeling. Of all the things he anticipating hearing, this was not exactly at the top of the list. “What about her fiancé?”
“Ex-fiancé,” Akiko corrected him. “He’s doing everything he can to get her to stay, obviously. Don’t you follow the news?”
Miroku dismissed the derisive comment. “So what about her brother’s case?”
Akiko shrugged. “She can follow it just as easily from Osaka as she can from Tokyo,” she replied. “It’s not like they’re telling her anything they aren’t also telling her parents.” She gave him a pointed look. “And besides, what other reason would she have to stay in the city?”
Miroku rocked back on his heels. “That’s a good question.”
“Dude, what’s your damage?” Akiko burst out, throwing her arms in the air. “Come on. Did you, or did you not, sleep with her?”
As she seemed to be waiting for an answer, Miroku nodded in response.
“Do you, or do you not, have feelings for her?”
He nodded again, more cautiously this time.
“Then why haven’t you contacted her?” Akiko wailed, exasperation in full bloom. “Why haven’t you seen her, why haven’t you talked to her?”
Miroku frowned. “I didn’t think either would exactly be welcome at this point,” he replied.
“She’s miserable!” Akiko fairly screamed, as if being louder would somehow help her cause. “She’s been miserable for months! She broke it off with her ex-fiancé! What more do you need?”
Miroku shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said, his tone just as even as Akiko’s was hysterical. “I’ve already offered what I can to her, and she rejected it. How would I know her mind has changed, if she’s given me no indication otherwise?”
Akiko heaved a deep breath, closing her eyes to refocus herself. It was obvious the wheels in her head were turning, trying to figure out another way to state her argument. Miroku was impressed with her evident, if bordering on strident, compassion and empathy for her best friend. He had to give her credit for trying.
Finally, Akiko’s gaze lifted to meet his. “Do you love her?” she asked softly.
The question caught him off guard. Miroku swallowed hard. He’d never admitted his feelings to anyone else; hell, he’d only just started admitting them to himself. “Yes,” he replied, his tone stronger than he expected. “Yes, I love her.”
The knot in his stomach eased a fraction.
Akiko, on the other hand, appeared anything but shocked by his answer. “And do you want what’s best for her?”
“Of course,” he said, exhaling sharply.
“Then why won’t you fight for her?” she pressed, fisting her hands in front of her.
He shrugged. “Because I can’t make her happy.”
That brought Akiko up short. “What do you mean?” she asked, as if it was patently obvious the opposite was true.
It was Miroku’s turn to take a deep, thoughtful breath. This was something he’d turned over in his mind during many restless nights of sleep. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, from everything I’ve been through, it’s this: the only person who can make you happy? Is yourself.”
Akiko looked as if the wind had been knocked out of her sails completely. “I don’t understand,” she finally admitted. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with fighting for what you want.”
“I want her to be happy,” Miroku assured her. “I want that more than anything in this world. I can love her, and I can support her, but I can’t change her. Only she can do that.”
He took another deep breath, preparing to say the words he’d hoped he’d never have to vocalize, the words he feared so much he literally choked even to think of them.
“If she has to go to Osaka to do that, so be it.”
Akiko could only shake her head in vehement disagreement, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.
Miroku stared at her, feeling her frustration with the situation in kind, but at the same time, powerless to stop it. Sango was stubborn – beautifully, willfully stubborn – and she wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. He couldn’t bear the idea of being with her for his own sake, for his own love, if he knew she would be miserable all the while. She was strong – if her decisions since were any indication, her brother’s death hadn’t broken her. She was halfway healed, and far be it from him to be the one who was going to stand in her way.
Still, he hated to see a woman cry. Perhaps he could offer Akiko a bit of commiseration. “Do you know why my staff was so nasty to you in there?” he queried.
Akiko shook her head, digging through her purse for a tissue.
“It’s because I’ve walked around this place for the last two months, absolutely miserable because I can’t be with her,” he replied. “But I can’t be with her until she’s ready to be with me.”
Akiko sniffled, wiping her nose. “I think you’re making a mistake, Miroku,” she choked out. “I’m afraid – I’m afraid if she leaves, she’s never going to come back.”
Miroku shrugged helplessly. The knot in his stomach had gotten progressively tighter as the conversation wore on, forcing him to contemplate scenarios he never wanted to contemplate. “Then I guess it was never meant to be.”
And if it was never meant to be…maybe one day, I’ll figure out a way to get over it.
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Alternate
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Warning: Language
Word Length: 2305
Summary: “What would you wish for if you had one chance?” – B.o.B, “Airplanes”
Disclaimer: The Inuyasha concept, story, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media.
~*~
It had been two months.Or, more precisely, it had been eight weeks, three days, four hours, and eighteen minutes…
…not that he was keeping track.
It had been two months since he’d seen her. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t thought about her, or was unaware of what was going on with her – it was merely a measurement, the length of time that had passed since he’d seen her, in stark living color, and spoken to her.
It was the length of time his life had been held in suspension, hope and optimism warring with desolation and defeat. Time, it seemed, wasn’t the cure-all everyone made out to be. The blow of her rejection had softened in the interim, but it had never gone away completely…and that worried him.
It had never taken this long – to make up, or to break up.
Miroku sighed, setting aside the schedule he’d been wrangling for the last hour. The busy summer season was winding down, which meant the annual tussle over who and how and when he’d have to start cutting staff hours was only beginning. He didn’t like having to let people go, especially not people as loyal and dedicated as his team. They had his back, and he’d needed it, these last few months.
One by one, they all began to notice the changes in him – his withdrawal from the social aspect of bartending; his sudden, intense interest in the news; his struggle to concentrate on anything that required his attention for more than five minutes at a time. They noticed the ever present grey circles under his eyes, the way his clothes were hanging a bit looser on his frame.
They noticed. They understood, once someone put two and two together and word got around. Some of them (mostly the waitresses) even sympathized with his plight.
But one thing they were all united in was anger.
Nobody fucked him over and got away with it, so far as they were concerned.
They rallied around him, fiercely protective. Some of the old-timers had been there since the days of uncle Mushin, and had seen him through the crisis of his death in much the same way. Then, as now, they shielded him as best they could, keeping bad news as far away from him as was possible, no matter what form it took – shakedown rackets, small time dealers, or pretty escorts looking for a place to set up shop.
They were his staff, but they were not his friends. Their unwavering support was silent, mostly conveyed via looks, nods, and the occasional punch in the arm or squeeze of the shoulder. Not even Mei, the forward newbie waitress who’d propositioned him in the aftermath, had tried to talk to him again. He carried the weight of this internal war as an everlasting knot in his stomach. He’d tried everything to let go of it – meditation, therapeutic journaling, even the pure escapism of sleep – but it persisted, lodging deep in his core.
He loved her. He mourned for her.
It was impossible not to know the status of her brother’s case. Her jackass fiancé – son of the police commissioner, VIP of the corporate business world – had launched an all-out media blitz, vowing to leave no stone unturned – nor criminal unquestioned – in the matter of the missing boy’s death. The coverage was intense, especially in the print media, with daily stories exploring one theory or another. The boy’s arms had been covered in sleeves of tattoos, including the thick black bands of unmistakable yakuza origin. He’d been a blood slave of one gang or another; to read Takeda’s confident words, it was merely “a matter of time” before the murderers were tracked down and brought to justice.
As ruthless and sensationalistic as the media coverage had been, she had been spared, for the most part – another of prince Takeda’s edicts, no doubt. Miroku’s heart always pumped a little faster when he came across her name, or saw a picture of her in the paper. A photograph from the memorial service had run weeks before, showcasing the family gathered at the burial site. Sango had been kneeling beside the grave, one hand outstretched over the freshly turned dirt, determination glittering in the depths of her eyes. He’d clipped that one, keeping it hidden under the piles of papers on his desk at the bar, pulling it out whenever he needed to see her. It was a striking composition, capturing the expression that had graced her lovely visage the first time they’d ever met. It was the way he preferred to think of her, and remember her – so strong, so resolute, so indomitable – instead of the way she’d looked the last time he’d seen her – so hurt, so vulnerable…so alone.
He uncovered that picture now, spreading it out on top of his papers along with the accompanying article. There was an almost desperate tinge to the coverage, as if Takeda was doing this as much to impress her – or maybe make it up to her? – as he was any lofty goal of truth or justice. Miroku held no deep regard for the man, but at the same time, he couldn’t quite bring himself to hate him. He remembered the absolute comfort of her rooms: the exquisitely appointed furniture, the neverending wardrobe, the refrigerator and cabinets, chock full of gourmet and fresh foods. He could offer her every creature comfort known to man, as well as some level of security – and the peace of mind that came with that.
All in all, perhaps putting up with a dickweed was a tiny price to pay for all of that.
A sharp knock sounded on Miroku’s door, quickly bringing him out of his thoughts. He shoved the article back under the stacks of work before bidding entrance to his visitor.
“Sorry, Miroku,” Mei apologized, sticking her head in the room. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but she just won’t go away.”
Miroku’s brows shot up. “She?” he repeated, already halfway out of his seat.
Mei rolled her eyes. “Miss Sex on the Beach,” she replied warily. “She kept banging on the door for a solid five minutes. I don’t know what she wants, but she couldn’t be dissuaded.” She shrugged sheepishly. “She says she won’t leave without speaking to you.”
“Oh,” he replied, pushing past the lump in his throat, willing his pulse to slow down. “All right. I’ll be right out.”
Mei nodded, closing the door as she left. Miroku clenched his hands into fists at his sides, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before leaving the room.
He emerged from the hallway at the back of the front room, advancing on steady feet towards his finely polished bar. It was early afternoon; his first shift crew was milling about, pulling down chairs and wiping off tables. None of them so much as glanced at him as he passed, but from the looks of his visitor, they had thoroughly raked her over the coals before granting access to their boss.
Akiko stood beside the bar, her arms folded nervously across her chest, her jaw set in annoyance. Her eyes blazed pure fire as they landed on him, and she tightened the brace of her body, as if preparing for another hostile confrontation. “We have to talk,” she announced without preamble as he moved within earshot.
Miroku shrugged. “I don’t know any other men to introduce to you, Akiko,” he replied, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ve already made your way through the entirety of my staff.”
“Very funny,” she bit off, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not here about that. I’m here about Sango.”
Miroku leveled a thoughtful stare on her. “Maybe we should take this outside,” he suggested.
“With pleasure,” Akiko responded, her tone still clipped. She glanced over her shoulder as they headed for the front door. “I don’t remember your staff being such assholes.”
Miroku ignored the pointed remark, crossing his arms loosely over his chest as he stood a few paces away from her on the sidewalk, the sun beating down relentlessly. “So what’s going on?” he asked after a moment.
Akiko’s stance mirrored his. “She’s leaving,” she said simply.
Miroku nearly choked. “What do you mean, she’s leaving?” he sputtered.
Akiko stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I mean, she’s leaving. She’s going home, to Osaka.”
Miroku’s mind was reeling. Of all the things he anticipating hearing, this was not exactly at the top of the list. “What about her fiancé?”
“Ex-fiancé,” Akiko corrected him. “He’s doing everything he can to get her to stay, obviously. Don’t you follow the news?”
Miroku dismissed the derisive comment. “So what about her brother’s case?”
Akiko shrugged. “She can follow it just as easily from Osaka as she can from Tokyo,” she replied. “It’s not like they’re telling her anything they aren’t also telling her parents.” She gave him a pointed look. “And besides, what other reason would she have to stay in the city?”
Miroku rocked back on his heels. “That’s a good question.”
“Dude, what’s your damage?” Akiko burst out, throwing her arms in the air. “Come on. Did you, or did you not, sleep with her?”
As she seemed to be waiting for an answer, Miroku nodded in response.
“Do you, or do you not, have feelings for her?”
He nodded again, more cautiously this time.
“Then why haven’t you contacted her?” Akiko wailed, exasperation in full bloom. “Why haven’t you seen her, why haven’t you talked to her?”
Miroku frowned. “I didn’t think either would exactly be welcome at this point,” he replied.
“She’s miserable!” Akiko fairly screamed, as if being louder would somehow help her cause. “She’s been miserable for months! She broke it off with her ex-fiancé! What more do you need?”
Miroku shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said, his tone just as even as Akiko’s was hysterical. “I’ve already offered what I can to her, and she rejected it. How would I know her mind has changed, if she’s given me no indication otherwise?”
Akiko heaved a deep breath, closing her eyes to refocus herself. It was obvious the wheels in her head were turning, trying to figure out another way to state her argument. Miroku was impressed with her evident, if bordering on strident, compassion and empathy for her best friend. He had to give her credit for trying.
Finally, Akiko’s gaze lifted to meet his. “Do you love her?” she asked softly.
The question caught him off guard. Miroku swallowed hard. He’d never admitted his feelings to anyone else; hell, he’d only just started admitting them to himself. “Yes,” he replied, his tone stronger than he expected. “Yes, I love her.”
The knot in his stomach eased a fraction.
Akiko, on the other hand, appeared anything but shocked by his answer. “And do you want what’s best for her?”
“Of course,” he said, exhaling sharply.
“Then why won’t you fight for her?” she pressed, fisting her hands in front of her.
He shrugged. “Because I can’t make her happy.”
That brought Akiko up short. “What do you mean?” she asked, as if it was patently obvious the opposite was true.
It was Miroku’s turn to take a deep, thoughtful breath. This was something he’d turned over in his mind during many restless nights of sleep. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, from everything I’ve been through, it’s this: the only person who can make you happy? Is yourself.”
Akiko looked as if the wind had been knocked out of her sails completely. “I don’t understand,” she finally admitted. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with fighting for what you want.”
“I want her to be happy,” Miroku assured her. “I want that more than anything in this world. I can love her, and I can support her, but I can’t change her. Only she can do that.”
He took another deep breath, preparing to say the words he’d hoped he’d never have to vocalize, the words he feared so much he literally choked even to think of them.
“If she has to go to Osaka to do that, so be it.”
Akiko could only shake her head in vehement disagreement, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.
Miroku stared at her, feeling her frustration with the situation in kind, but at the same time, powerless to stop it. Sango was stubborn – beautifully, willfully stubborn – and she wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. He couldn’t bear the idea of being with her for his own sake, for his own love, if he knew she would be miserable all the while. She was strong – if her decisions since were any indication, her brother’s death hadn’t broken her. She was halfway healed, and far be it from him to be the one who was going to stand in her way.
Still, he hated to see a woman cry. Perhaps he could offer Akiko a bit of commiseration. “Do you know why my staff was so nasty to you in there?” he queried.
Akiko shook her head, digging through her purse for a tissue.
“It’s because I’ve walked around this place for the last two months, absolutely miserable because I can’t be with her,” he replied. “But I can’t be with her until she’s ready to be with me.”
Akiko sniffled, wiping her nose. “I think you’re making a mistake, Miroku,” she choked out. “I’m afraid – I’m afraid if she leaves, she’s never going to come back.”
Miroku shrugged helplessly. The knot in his stomach had gotten progressively tighter as the conversation wore on, forcing him to contemplate scenarios he never wanted to contemplate. “Then I guess it was never meant to be.”
And if it was never meant to be…maybe one day, I’ll figure out a way to get over it.