All that I have

BY : Artemick
Category: Yuyu Hakusho > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 1343
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu Yu Hakusho or its characters and make nothing off this story.


             Kurama stretched his toes, smiling. He hadn't heard from Kaito in two weeks, except for two choice texts and one mailed paperback that he'd found on the street with some crazy person's ranted notes written inside, spilling over the margins and across the texts.

                "I know you won't give a shit about this, but I think it's madness. Neuroscience. A look into someone's brain! Maybe not an important person's brain. To me, because I write, but not to you. Anyway, it's no good for your taste so I'm going to pick up a copy of some Aldo Leopold and then you can trade me."

                Kurama folded the note and flipped through the nasty book. He smiled. The pages were wavy and crunched together, covered with a fine dust. He smelled the edge. Oil, birdshit, grease, wheat. Washington, D.C. Its gutters at least. He checked a page, but it was all looped together English.

                "The…the…who…question mark." Kurama read what he knew, flipping. Grunting, he tossed it under the lamp table. Then he got up and put it in a Tupperware.

                "What's that?" His mom asked.

                "Stinky book."

                She frowned slightly. "If you're – "

                "I'm not dyslexic. My friend sent – please just let me put it in the fridge. No questions? Please?"

                "Alright." She lifted her eyebrows.

                "Thank you." He shoved the Tupperware in the freezer and slammed it. "Can I get you a tea?"

                "Yes, please. You make it so fresh." She rubbed her temple, looking down at her notes, her finger curled around a pen.

                "You'll get ink on your face."


                Kurama set the tea things in the living room. He took down a box of tea leaves he'd made Hiei pick for him when he lost a bet. He ground them and boiled water before calling her in.

                He was always a gentleman to his mother, but in this one thing he found it easy to be a son, serving. He held her arm as she sat, knelt, and began to pour. She was silent and let her mind rest, only muttering once: "You do that so beautifully."

                When he finished and they both had a bowl in their hands, both had enjoyed a few sips, she looked at him. Then she leaned over and touched his cheek. "My son."

                Kurama smiled. This was a tradition of her people, not his, and it was one he would bow to. "How was your day?"

                "Oh. Work. You know," she flicked her hand, pained slightly in the memory. She tried not to talk about it, then worked at finding the words. "It just…goes on. Life goes on, you know. And there's no purpose, no…it's hard to care. To go in everyday and to meaningless…and I'm so tired. I'm tired."

                A deep fear moved in his heart.

                "Don't worry about me. I'm sorry. I know it isn't easy to see your parent as a person, but aren't you old enough for us to be friends?" She laughed, and her voice cracked. She had shared something she couldn't handle, and felt ashamed for it. "Am I not supposed to say that?"

                "We are friends; I'm worried as a friend. Not worried, concerned."

                "Don't be. I'm older than you and I can handle myself."

                He said nothing. He picked at his cup. Finally, he said, "Would you ever consider going back to school?"

                She laughed, completely tickled. "Shuichi. Shu. Not everyone loves school as much as you."

                "No! No, ha. I mean…after Dad died, you had to go back to work so fast. Maybe you weren't meant to be a secretary."

                "Legal assistant. Shuichi, it pays – "

                "That's not – legal assistant, I got it. But…as good as that was, and I mean, it fed me. I'm grateful. But – maybe – isn't there something you like more, that you've wanted to do?"

                "You're always analyzing. People simply are."

                Kurama shook his head and held out his hand, counting off, "Purpose. Friends. There's only so many things that can give a life meaning."

                She put down her cup.

                "No wait – " Kurama sat up on his knee a moment. "I'm not saying – "

                "I have friends! I have – I have a life. I have you. I'm fine."

                Kurama's mouth worked for a moment but he remembered enough of their years together to shut up and sit back. He put his hands on the cup.

                "I know you're trying to help. You're – " she shook her head. "You're always on my mind."

                "Because you're a good mother. But now that I'm older, this is no life – to live trying to support a family. Do something for yourself. Let me help, let Takanaka-san help. Financially, this family is thriving. We can take some adventure. Please. Just think about it."

                "What, like being an artist?"

                "I was thinking management classes. Or teaching. You've been really good at…" Kurama searched the ceiling for an answer and squinted. "Corralling wild energy."


                Kurama got an email before bed. It linked to a social networking page where Kaito had posted two dozen photos of himself in movie-familiar cityscapes. Specifically, he'd taken pictures of plants. His ungloved hand picking up a shiny brown leaf of a pin oak. Himself holding his arms up to gesture at the cherry trees from Japan that had been sent to beautify American capital. A thistle wedging a home between a sidewalk and a brick building.

                The last made Kurama want to cry.

                He pulled himself under the covers, long shins and flared back covered in cotton. He sat, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for sleep. Then it hit hard, water welling up through sand. He put his hands over his face, pushing his fingers into his hair. His face grimaced. He sobbed once, eyes welling over. Then he folded his hands over his nose and mouth. His sadness surprised him. Death would one day surprise him.

                He lay floored by it, like a suicide jumper, smashed to the bed. Like perhaps if he held still, death would come and they could talk, until things were understood.

                He rolled flat onto his stomach, cotton scraping his body. He tried to put the thought away away.

                The paint on the wall seemed to crawl.

                He moved his hand from his chest to his stomach and stroked lower.

                He'd long since realized that the words people use to make sex seem pleasant, romantic, and altruistic were complete euphemisms. Arousal and orgasm weren't happiness. They were pleasure, curdled want. They were distractions. But he needed to be distracted now. So he touched himself, thinking about Kaito's curls in the wind. He imagined blond politicians grabbing him, bending him over, making him pant and curl his toes, sweat breaking out thin over his skin. He imagined Kaito begging, still loyal, but too owned by sensation to protest or fight.

                Orgasm came and went. The sadness was still there, dissolving painfully, like an ice chip lodged in Kurama's throat.

                He went to sleep, miserable, despite the comfort of family, love, wealth, dedication, and friends. He went to sleep in the blackness of space, the precious blue marble behind his shoulder blades, hidden, easily easily destroyed.


                Kaito held his breath. There was an emergency session in the American Congress. Fighting over funding for disaster relief from a hurricane that had caused flooding in an unfortunate failure of a nuclear storage facility, and should that funding come from war efforts to support a revolution in West Asia, or from the aid to a famine and war ravaged wasteland in Africa, or from efforts to educate America's children?

                Everyone else had gone back to the hotel, but he stayed. History could be made anywhere. He wasn't a nationalist, but an artist, a writer, and this was human drama. Hard decisions interested him anywhere.

                He made notes, sat outside, watched the security, watched them file in and out. He ducked into bars, paying uniformly green bills for cab rides, to hear the news.

                At the end of the night, he was exhausted and happy.

                He called Kurama.

                The phone clicked on. Silence.

                "It's me."

                "I'm awake."

                "I'm in D.C. now. It's incredible."

                "I saw the pictures. They're nice."

                Kaito laughed. Everything Kurama said was…so flat. Kurama would have described the red faced women and men jabbing fingers at each other on the television as a budget discussion. Understated. He left so much space for the listener to make their own connection. Minimalist. "Glad you did. Listen. I'm thinking about you."

                A pause. Then, pleased, "That's nice."

                "Ha. I'm just…happy." He sighed, kicking back.

                "And you called me?"

                "I called you."


                "Did I wake you?"

                "No. I'm just…sad."

                Kaito sat up. "Why? What happened?"

                "Everyone's going to die…."

                Kaito rubbed his eyes. Everything he had seen was like sheets of paper, with one bloody side and one gold side. He, on this continent, was looking at the gold. Kurama, on the other, was faced with the blood. "Yes. And life will go on without us. There will be more of you, more gorgeous brilliant young people with wonderful parents, who will go out and change the world. Honestly, look at your desk."


                "Ha ha, look at it! See those awards? I know you're looking. You look at those. You're doing good work. You're a good person. You'll live. And then you'll die. And that won't take anything away from you because you did it. It's done. We all die."

                A pause. "I love you."

                "I l – what?"

                Silence. "I'm grateful you called. It's been helpful."

                "You love me. I love you too. I'm more in a talkative mood than contemplative, but yeah, I think I – "

                "You don't have to say it back. That's not how it works."

                "It's not, hm?"

                "No. You say it when you feel it." Kurama sounded better. But also, he was letting himself fall asleep. Happy, comfortable, his words were trailing off.

                "Be good, sleepyhead."

                "I want your hands on me so bad."

                Kaito's eyebrows rose. He turned off the television he'd had muted. Politics were nothing to masturbate to. "How do you – "

                "I want your cock. I want to feel your hips slapping up against me. I want to be trapped on you, pressed deep, you inside me. The vibration of your heart, the pant of your breath. I want you to pull me onto you and bend me over. Roll me up, hold me down. Pull my hair."

                "The works."


                Kaito didn't answer, pulling on himself. He gasped, phone sliding away, and he finished before chasing it.

                Kurama chuckled on the other end of the line.

                "You're proud of yourself."

                "Are you dirty, Kaito?"

                "Yoko, shh."

"Do you like being all dirty? Did I make your cheeks pink?"

"All dirty. Blushing like a cheating president. I'll shower."

                "Think of me." He hung up.

                Kaito called back. "I love you."

                "No. Not now. Be realistic."


                A pause. "When you get home and I'm there waiting. Rush up and hug me with both arms, and then say it in my ear."

                "We're alive, all's well, and I love you."

                "Yeah. Promise me. And I promise to be here." The line clicked.

                Kaito stared through his reflection in the room window out into the night, where the street lamps burnt away the stars.



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