Adult-FanFiction.org : YuYu Hakusho

Into the Gray	By : Dementian Category: Yuyu Hakusho > Yaoi - Male/Male > Kurama/Kuwabara Views: 2206 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu Yu Hakusho and make zero money off of it.

Chapter List
- 2
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- 4
Kazuma had no idea why, but it seemed to him that every time the holidays rolled around crime went up. Maybe people were just getting desperate, wanting to provide for their families on a low income, but he swore it was like clockwork. The stress from finals would build, and a bad article would appear in the paper, making Kazuma nervous about Shizuru working late into the night. This year, the motions were particularly sadistic with three young women being abducted from the bus stop. All of them were college students, each lovely and young with promising careers, and Kazuma had a nasty feeling in his stomach every time he thought about it.
   Then again, that nasty feeling could have something to do with the fact that he was having yet another study session with Kurama and his theoretical physics final was right around the corner. That was enough to give him gas any day.
   “Man,“ Kuwabara huffed, looking up from his half drawn physics model to stare wistfully out the high window where snow was falling at a hazardous rate, “how the hell am I supposed to study when this sicko is out there hurting women?” The evidence of his distress lay upon the table; the tabloids were full of rumors and fearful projections. “I mean, heck, what if he gets Shizuru next?”
   Yet Kurama just smiled that gentle smile, quelling Kazuma’s fears as he laced his fingers upon the table.
   “Shizuru is vigilant; she can handle herself,” Kurama assured him, “Though it does sound like the police are having trouble.”
   Trouble was one thing, being unable to stop a rapist from harming civilians was damn inefficient. Maybe it was the fact that Kazuma had been a detective, and had learned to solve cases on a tight deadline, but frankly the Sariashiki Police Department was doing a shoddy job at protecting its citizens and Kazuma couldn’t say he wasn’t pissed.
   “Stuff like this makes me furious,” Kazuma grumbled, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I wish I could do something. I feel so damn... helpless.”
   Certainly, it might also have had a lot to do with the fact that he felt like his college career was going nowhere (finals always made these feelings more strong), but lately Kazuma had been slightly depressed because he wanted to suck Kurama’s face off-
What?
   “Is it just this criminal?” Kurama asked, perhaps noticing how Kazuma flushed without warning. “You have been visibly tense as of late.”
Kazuma wondered what he must look like to Kurama, blushing at everything and stuttering like a child. Kurama must think him an idiot.
“Is something else bothering you?”
   Without warning, Kazuma’s heart began to pound wildly in his chest, his face burning at the idea of admitting everything to Kurama now, of getting this terrible weight off his chest and proclaiming his love.

   A wave of nausea suddenly hit him and he needed to take deep calming breaths. Kurama did not know. There was no way Kurama could know. No one but Kazuma was aware of Kazuma’s feelings- save for the fact that Kazuma kept broadcasting them on his face. God, how he wished he could stop blushing.
   “... Maybe it’s something more,” Kazuma admitted, simply because it would be a flat out lie to say otherwise and Kazuma did not like lying to Kurama.
   Kazuma was afraid for the moment Kurama would say something about that bizarre admission, but it seemed Kurama was now occupied with his smartphone. For a moment, Kazuma felt slightly insulted until, peering at the screen, he realized Kurama was on his map application.
   “Kurama, what are you doing?”
   “Hmm.” Kurama was not listening, and Kazuma could not help the grin that began to form as he noticed Kurama ever-so-slyly looking at the paper on their packed study table.
   He was plotting points.
   “Kurama.”
   “Mm?”
   “Kurama, are you looking up... locations of abductions?”
   Though Kurama did not answer, he smiled, and Kazuma was once again reminded why it was so wonderful to have Kurama on his team. Even when Kazuma was overwhelmed by despair, utterly flooded by emotion, Kurama was planning out the next steps. They’d have this perp nailed by lunchtime, and afterward?
   Who was he kidding. Afterward he’d go right on not telling Kurama his feelings. As always.

   ~*~
   Kazuma Kuwabara had done many strange things in his life, but this was perhaps at the top of the list. There upon Keiko’s bedroom floor sat a man he’d known for years, a man whom he’d grown to secretly adore. Yet, surrounded by makeup brands and wearing a school girl uniform, Kurama hardly looked like Kurama. Keiko was dedicated to her craft, poised in front of Kurama with a brush in hand as she gently laced his cheeks with rouge.
   “This is the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
   Yusuke had been determined to watch the whole process, screaming with laughter when Kurama and Kazuma had first come over and explained their plan to Keiko for help. Yet now Yusuke was far from laughing. Indeed, he was filming with his phone, perhaps wanting to document this for future evidence. Kazuma himself could not bear to look, but when he did oh god it killed him.
   Mascara. The mascara was what did it. Kurama’s long sweeping lashes were coated black, his lids ever so gently creased in slight gold that made his green eyes spark. Keiko dabbled lip gloss on Kurama’s lips with care, scooting back every so often to get a better look. Kurama’s lips for perfection. It was a delicate task, and one that Kazuma could appreciate since he desperately wanted to run his tongue over Kurama’s lips just like Keiko’s lip gloss brush—
   Fuck.
   Kazuma looked away, unable to bear it a second longer. It didn’t help that Kurama’s legs were showing for the first time, long, lean, and alabaster. God help him, he wanted them wrapped about his waist.
   Kazuma took a deep breath, groaning as he closed his eyes and instead stared up at the ceiling.
   It didn’t help. He was in hell. Kurama was wearing mascara, his legs were showing, and Kazuma was in hell.

   “Yusuke, quit distracting me,” Keiko warned, gesturing for Kurama to turn around. Kurama did so, and now with his back to Keiko she was able to begin brushing his long hair. Kazuma was amazed seeds didn’t spill out. “I have to get Kurama’s bun right. I’m going to use a ribbon, but your hair is so thick-" Keiko sighed, tying up Kurama’s hair and gently running her fingers through side trills.
   Kazuma was going to lose his mind. To be fair, he wasn’t sure if he hadn’t already.
   “This is the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen!” Yusuke roared, jerking away from the door of Keiko’s bedroom to storm off down the hall towards the kitchen where a bowl of half eaten ramen still awaited him.
   Kurama was patient as Keiko put more foundation on his chin and forehead, darkening the side of his face until the image of womanly perfection shown through over his soft yet masculine features.
   “Studying the pictures of his latest victims, our criminal seems to enjoy women who wear heavy eye shadow. Do you think you could do that Keiko?” Kurama asked. Keiko situated a barrette in Kurama’s hair, primping it carefully to make sure his high bun stayed in place. Kurama looked like a ballerina, lovely and graceful with those long, long legs.
   “Oh, yeah.” Keiko nodded, chewing thoughtfully on the wad of gum in her mouth as she picked up a brush, “I could totally do that.”
   “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Kazuma moaned aloud, leaving the room before his erection could show through his jeans.
   Yet as he went into the kitchen, Yusuke seemed to catch on quickly and gave him a disgusted look through a mouthful of ramen.
   “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yusuke muttered, taking his meal out onto the balcony to light up a cigarette.
   It didn’t get better as the night rolled on.
   On sixteenth street, just behind a local burger bar, there was a bus stop that came every four or so hours to pick up commuters. It was near this site that three different girls had been abducted, including a classmate of Keiko’s, a personal blow that had made Keiko even more determined to help Kurama and Kazuma end this kidnapper’s reign of terror. Now, Kazuma was crouched behind a dumpster, waiting in a nervous sweat while he watched Kurama poise elegantly at the bus stop. As he pretended to be listening to his iPod, Kurama tucked a stray piece of dark hair behind his ears, clip-on earrings completing the effect as he waited patiently for their perp.
   Kazuma couldn’t stand it. It had all seemed like good fun in Keiko’s apartment, but now in the dark of the alleyway Kazuma was realizing the huge flaw in this plan: Kurama would have to get hurt.
   Kurama would have to get hurt.
   The plan itself was straightforward: Kurama would play victim and allow himself to be kidnapped, after which Kazuma would follow and route out the location of the killer’s hostages. Kurama would free the girls, Kazuma would call the police, and the pair of them would make off like vigilantes while the police screamed towards the perp’s house to apprehend him. Anonymous hotlines were a godsend as far as Kazuma was concerned, but suddenly he couldn’t bear the image of Kurama being abducted; what if things got out of control? What if Kurama was overwhelmed and ended up being harmed? Kazuma knew this guy had to be a pervert, there was no way he was abducting women for benign reasons. It made Kazuma’s blood boil- and yet run cold as the image turned to Kurama, bleeding on the floor of a dirty basement.
   “Keep focused, keep focused, keep focused...” Kazuma whispered to himself, bowing his head low to hide from the image of Kurama’s beautiful pale legs captured in the neon light.
   “God, his legs,” Kazuma whimpered.
   Kurama looked over his shoulder, curious to see if Kazuma was there while everything was still quiet and calm.
   “Are you there, Kuwabara?” Kurama asked.
   “I’m here,” Kazuma called out from behind the dumpster, cursing himself and every god in existence as his hard on raged against his jeans, “I’m right here with you, baby,” he muttered softly.
   “What was that?” Kurama asked, looking around with serious intention as he removed an earbud from his ear. Panic flooded Kazuma’s body and he quickly covered the slip up before Kurama could ask any more questions.
   “Nothing!” Kazuma cried out, quickly muffling his voice lest someone come from the street to see what was the matter. “Nothing.”
   Yet instead of looking annoyed, Kurama smiled and put his iPod back in his ears. He must have not heard Kazuma, otherwise Kazuma was certain he would not have been smiling.
   “Kuwabara...” Kurama murmured, “Everything will be fine.”

   There it was again, his voice so smooth and gentle; Kazuma cursed himself as those dulcet tones washed over his frayed nerves.
   “I don’t know how I’m going to handle you getting hurt,” Kazuma admitted, glancing up at Kurama apologetically. His hair, so tight up in a bun, was like a halo about his lovely face. Kurama was smiling at him, tender and mild in that unnerving moment. How was it that he could remain so calm, keep everything so well contained, when Kazuma was crouching behind a wet and dirty dumpster with a raging hard on and a pounding pulse?
   “You’ve seen me fight opponents many times. Why is this any different?” Kurama asked, chuckling as he waved a dismissive hand. It didn’t make matters better that Kurama was wearing bracelets which clinked upon his wrist.
   Like the chime of angels, dammit.
   “... You’re wearing heels?”
Kurama smiled.
   “Admittedly that is a first.” Kurama looked down at his feet, laced up in white pumps courtesy of Shizuru (his feet could not fit into Keiko’s shoes and his toes still hung off the ends of Shizuru’s).
   “You’re supposed to... get taken. Get hurt.” Kazuma could not keep the hoarse concern out of his voice. He felt like he might be sick. “I don’t like that. At all.” He swallowed, but his mouth was dry and he’d run out energy to adequately hide his fear for Kurama’s predicament.
   As usual, Kurama was there to catch him. Abandoning his position at the bus stop for one second, he poked his head around the dumpster to smile down at Kazuma.
   “Follow behind, give me... half an hour at most. I’ll have enough time to free the hostages in half that, but... I like to do a thorough job.” Kurama winked at the joke, and Kazuma suddenly felt a rush of heat flood his face. Yet without warning, Kurama’s posture changed, and he looked over his shoulder as if sensing something ominous.

   “He’s coming,” Kurama said. Kazuma’s heart suddenly leapt. “Get ready.”
   Kazuma crouched down low, praying that he would be able to bear it.
   For a moment, in the darkness, the illusion was complete: Kurama was gentle and unassuming, a sweet college girl with a future ahead of her and some nice guy waiting for her at home. She had done what was expected of her all her life, been kind to the needy and helped her friends when she could. She did not deserve what was about to happen to her. None of them did.
   And then, it happened none the less.
   A car pulled up into the ally, lights low and the passenger window rolled down. Kazuma’s heart pounding in his throat as he saw a glimpse of a thin and balding man sitting in the driver’s seat.
   “Hey there, waiting for your bus?” the man greeted Kurama.
   “Yeah,” Kurama said, putting on the air of a disturbed teenage girl as he leaned back a little, “It should be here in a bit.”
   “It's cold out tonight; are you sure you don't want a ride?”
   “I mean... I really shouldn’t...” Kurama was playing this part really fucking well and it was starting to disturb Kazuma. How was he making his voice so high?
   “What school do you go to?”
   “Sariashiki High,” Kurama lied.
   “Oh really? My daughter goes there!” the man said, a calm and graceful air about his pleasant words. Despite the niceties, hair was starting to stick up on his arms. He could tell this guy was a sleezeball, and he knew Kurama knew it too but... damn. “Maybe you know her, her name’s Hotsura Kimei?”
   “Oh wow, I do know her!” Kurama lied again, “She’s really nice-“
   “Yeah she's a sweetheart. Look, tell you what, where are you headed to?”
   “Home,” Kurama said, “On thirty second street.”
   “Well, that’s on the way to where I’m headed!” the man offered, “C’mon, I’ll take you there. You can thank Kimei at school tomorrow.”
   “Well... I mean...” Kurama looked over his shoulder and caught Kazuma’s eye.
   He winked.
   “Alright." Kurama said, getting into the car as the man unlocked the door. Kurama slid into the seat, and as he closed the door behind him he gave Kazuma a knowing look.
   Kazuma ground his teeth together.
   Without warning (or perhaps with all the warnings one could get), the man suddenly reared back and slammed a white rag over Kurama’s mouth and nose. Kurama struggled, but even as his hands moved to grab at the man’s, they became slack and fell back along his sides.
   Hostages... hostages... hostages... think of the hostages!
   But Kurama was now a hostage himself.
   The chase had already begun. Kurama was being drove away down the alleyway, Kazuma waited two seconds and followed swiftly behind the car, following along at a jog and keeping out of sight of the rear view mirror.
   They had work to do.

~*~
   The smell of earth was deep in his nose, comforting and calming save for the fact that it was laced with oil. His wrists were bound behind his back, his face was pressed into the ground, and the sound of someone crying filled his ears.
   It seemed he had made it to his final destination.
   Kurama looked up from the ground, barely able to see with his view half hidden by the black earth pressed into his face. His hands, bound behind his back, were easily unlaced by the tempting of a seedling vine that lay dormant in his hair. A small spurt of spirit energy and his wrists were free, allowing him to sit up and wipe his face free of dirt.
   It was dark and clammy with smells assaulting his sensitive nose. His head spun momentarily, vision warped by lack of adequate oxygen traveling to his brain. He felt as if he’d been drugged, with his throat dry and his eyes stinging, but if he had been drugged, then how long had he been out? Kurama looked down at his wrist, and groaned to find that twenty minutes had already slipped past. He had little more than ten to get the hostages out. Surveying his surroundings, Kurama took note of everything.
   A basement pit, about twelve feet deep and six feet wide. Kurama spotted the inline of a door on the far wall. They were no doubt underneath the basement proper. Carved by hand... someone is attentive to detail. Yet as Kurama touched the walls, he noted they were unusually slick. Pulling his hand back, his fingertips were black and shiny.

   Oill... he sniffed and gasoline. A lit match would be the death of us all.
   Twenty minutes have passed. I only have ten to get the job done.
   Yet as Kurama spread his energy, eager to begin, he noticed a wild spurt above his head: angry, hot energy of someone infused with deep seeded regret. He knew it well.
   His energy is not too far off. I should remain impassive lest he catch wind of my stunt. I’ll give myself three minutes.
   And so Kurama slipped back into his cuffs with ease, laying himself back down on the floor in a similar position to the one he’d woken in, waiting. It did not take long, merely a minute for the door to the outside to swing open. The man was in the shadows there, casting a long gaping maw upon the floor surrounded by golden fluorescent light. For a minute, he simply surveyed the scene. Then, he closed the door again. Kurama heard it lock, and sat back up to slip off his cuffs once more.
   Now was the time for action.
   Kurama’s eyes roved about the black pit, momentarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, but he found a huddled lump in the far corner and moved to it with ease, concerned for what he might find.
   It turned out to be a teenage girl, her school uniform in rags and her hair a mess about her dirty face. Tears had created tracks in the mud, giving her the odd impression of a warrior with tribal makeup as she hiccuped and whimpered her distress. She was handcuffed, just like Kurama, but something was wrong with her hands.
   Kurama took them in his own, and felt a sense of dread begin to lick at his stomach. Her fingernails had been ripped off.
   This man was psychotic.
   “Please, I just want to go home,” the girl moaned, her breath coming out in tiny pants as she trembled in his clutches.
   “Tonight you will be,” Kurama assured her, wanting to bring her a sense of peace no matter how small as he took her injured hands between his own and poured his energy into them. Her fingernails might never grow back, but he could at least numb the wounds. She looked down at his hands, then at him, surprise spreading across her once petrified features as she realized Kurama was doing something impossible.
   She probably thought she was dead and Kurama was an angel. The truth couldn’t be farther off on both accounts.
   A small seed became a helpful vine in Kurama’s clutches, and the girl’s cuffs were easily picked to fall onto the earth. He rubbed her raw wrists, hoping it brought her comfort.
   “Stay still,” Kurama urged, for the girl was suddenly growing distressed. He couldn’t blame her, it wasn’t every day that you saw a plant sprout from nothing and then pick your handcuffs. Thoughts of angels and heaven were now far gone, to be replaced with thoughts of madness. Once again, Kurama knew the feeling.
   “I’m going to wipe your memory of this later, but things will be confusing for a while.” Kurama grew an aloe leaf, breaking it between two firm fingers as he coated her blistered skin with its soothing spread, “What’s your name?”
   “... Aiko,” the girl finally answered. Kurama remembered that one of the girls who had been taken (there were seven in all now, eight if he counted himself) was named Aiko. It seemed she was the only one left alive. Keiko would be devastated to learn of her classmates death, but if any life could be salvaged from this, Kurama was determined to do so.
   “Aiko, my name is...”
   Did it really matter what name he gave her? She would not remember this night.
   “My name is Kurama.” Kurama spoke the truth, if only because she’d never know the difference anyway, “My partner is just outside this building, calling the police. You’ll be home before the sun returns.”
   But suddenly, Aiko’s face that had once begun to beam with hope turned to one of sheer terror and Kurama had a feeling he knew why.
   “Your time here is over,” Kurama murmured, looking behind him with mutinous rage to find that, sure enough, the man had returned and was unfortunately too close to hide from.

   “How the fuck did you get out of your cuffs?” he barked, no doubt shocked that Kurama was on the opposite side of the pit from two minutes ago, with a plant leaf in his hands despite their being no plants in the room.
   In hindsight, Kurama should have kept his cuffs nearby for the quick escape back to playing the role of an unassuming teenage girl, but the cuffs were against the opposite wall where he had once been bound and Kurama now walked the razor thin blade of pretending to be a terrified teenage girl and admitting that he was in fact a man in drag. The decision, however, was wrenched from his hands before he could make his move when Aiko let out a strangled cry and scrambled away, inciting their captor’s wrath.
   “S-stay away from me!” she wailed, pathetic sobs huffing past her swollen and bruised lips as she hid her injured hands behind her back. It did her no good, their captor simply smacked her hard over the head with the tire iron in his hands. She collapsed, knocked unconscious by the blow.

   Kurama grimaced, knowing full well how much a blow like that could hurt when unprepared for. She did not deserve that pain.
   Kurama glared up at their captor, imagining all the pleasant ways in which he could torture such a man. They were endless, really, given Kurama’s over active-imagination and his newly replenished supply stock of seeds from Spirit World. He’d have to thank Hiei later.
   Kurama saw the tire iron coming and dodged it easily, but he could not so well prepare for the boot that lodged itself right into his face. Kicked all the way over onto his stomach, Kurama floundered from the exploding pain in his cheek and eye, almost landing on top of Aiko who was cold and quiet beneath him. For a moment their faces were almost pressed together; Kurama could almost smell the faint remnants of her perfume upon her neck, but then he was being grabbed by the hair and drug backwards.
   Slammed into the wall, Kurama grimaced from sheer irritation of it all as he was re-cuffed, his wrists painfully clamped together in cold metal as he was drug against the earthy confines of his tiny prison towards the only door out.
   “You’re not scratchin’ me,” the man growled, to which Kurama made no comment.
   ‘Disturbing, but perhaps useful,’ he noted.
Outside their earthy prison the man slammed the door and locked it, Aiko now alone again in the room. Kurama was drug up the stairs in a ridiculous position, almost bent over double as his captor kept a firm hand upon his arms behind his back. Kurama shook his wild red main loose from its bun, Keiko’s burette dropping upon the ground along with the seeds of a helpful vine that would pick the lock of the door and a creeping flower that would erase Aiko’s memory with the smell of its pollen. Now all Kurama had to do was buy time for Kuwabara, an easy feat given that his captor was unlikely to inflict fatal injury without torturing his victims first (judging by Aiko’s hands). Kurama had dealt with worse. The image of Karasu flickered through his mind.

   At the top of the stairs lay the basement, confirming Kurama’s earlier suspicions. There were red sheets in the corner, draping about a chair and Persian pillows where a camera on a tripod lay waiting to take pictures. Despite the deep crimson color of the duvet and wraps, Kurama could smell blood and was certain horrific acts had passed here. He was flung unceremoniously into the chair, offering no resistance as he was duck taped about the waist to the firm wooden back.
   Kurama could break this chair with ease. He was not worried.
   His legs were taped next, bound impossibly tight by expert hands as Kurama’s cuffs dug into the small of his back. His captor pulled out a set of keys and unlocked Kurama’s cuffs, slamming Kurama’s wrist down with unnecessary force upon the arm of the chair as he taped Kurama’s hand down. He mashed his elbow into the top of the Kurama’s hand, forcing his fingers to spread wide, which Kurama found to be both incredibly annoying and painful. By the time both Kurama's hands were bound to the arms of the chair, he was fed up with his captor and glad only five minutes remained till Kuwabara burst through the door.
   But plenty could happen in five minutes. Lives had been decided in less.
   The man just stared at him, hands clamping down upon Kurama’s arms as he leaned into him to smell his neck. Kurama, of course, had worn Keiko’s perfume to keep up the facade.
   “They usually scream.” The man seemed pleasantly surprised that Kurama was cooperating, but slightly suspicious – and rightly so. Amid his stream of internal dialogue, Kurama had forgotten to retain his schoolgirl façade, and now found little motivation to pick it up again.
“Help me, help me!” he tried.
   The immediate flood of derisive anger on the man’s face told Kurama that he had failed to put on a convincing act. In a brief moment, he mused on the irony of this, as he considered how good he could be at pretending to be something more innocent than he actually was.

   “What’s the point in screaming? No one can hear me,” Kurama offered, eyes trained upon his captor’s face. An expression could break a man, and before the night was over Kurama was determined for his captor to be afraid to look him in the eye.
   At first he seemed to resist the idea, appearing even more suspicious. “That’s logical,” he mused, scratching an unshaven chin with slight worry. “You’re smarter than the other ones.”
   Kurama glared at him, and the man quickly turned away. He'd unnerved his torturer, that much was obvious, but so long as four minutes remained (judging from his watch) he still had the upper hand.

   “I can make you scream,” the man said, his back to Kurama.
   When he turned around again, his hands were upon a black box.

   Kurama had seen many kinds of torture instruments in his time, and knew automatically that anything which lay in the box would be meant to draw out screams. Unfortunately for his captor, Kurama was not a willing victim, and he doubted that anything concocted by this man could be enough to break him.

   Still, Kurama was curious.
   The man gave him a leering grin, removing the lid of the box to reveal a row of fine needles, each capped by red wax and thread. Judging from the way the man had so forcibly tied down his hands, practically taping them to the chair so that he could even move a knuckle of a finger, Kurama had a feeling he knew what those needles were for.

   Kurama gritted his teeth and willed himself to think about nothing.
   And yet, how could he when so much was on his mind?
   The pain that filled his thumb was like something out a nightmare, hot and unending as the needle pressed deeper and deeper into his tender yet rigid flesh. He could see the soft grey blur of the metal inching its way further beneath his fingernail, pressing right into the bed where his nerves sang in agony.
   Shiori, sitting upon their outer deck, working on a difficult Sudoku puzzle and relaxing at complete ease in her sun chair. Her wide brimmed straw hat smelt of sweet wheat grass, her white skirt gently buffeted by the summer wind.
   The next nail was easier and yet more difficult to prepare for, Kurama gritted his teeth tight, refusing to scream, and yet another image was flooding his mind, making him want to shriek his rage to the world-
   Shiori with her head in her hands, a migraine breaking her to the core, groaning into the kitchen table. Whimpering, a cold cloth in her hands. She pressed it into her temples but the pain would not subside. She was close to weeping.
   Kurama focused on the pain driving into his middle finger, allowing it to purge his mind momentarily of the agony that was his private hell, the absolute terror of the woman he loved dying. Dying alone, dying with no memory of who she was, of what she had become to him. His savior in the darkness, his saving grace in the fire-
   His right hand was on fire, each of his fingernails now pegged with a needle shoved deep into his flesh. But his captor was practically giddy now, pulling out a small hand mallet with obvious intention to pop the fingernails off of Kurama’s hand.
   He’d had enough. Shiori was at home, no doubt suffering. This plan had gone on far enough, and if his watch was accurate (which it was) he had less than a minute left before Kuwabara burst through the door and started screaming his head off.
   “Right,” Kurama decided aloud, his voice heavy with intent. “I’ve had enough.”
   A fierce yank later, Kurama had ripped his arms right out of the chair’s holds, kicking out hard to slam the heel of his shoe into his captor’s testicles. The man fell backward and onto the ground, howling in pain, but his outstretched hand landed close enough to his abandoned steel pipe to be a threat. He clutched at his testicles, a dry sob bursting from his mouth, but in his rage he swung the pipe at Kurama’s calves and completely knocked him to the ground. Coming in for a second swing, his captor brought the pipe down over his head, screaming in a rage as he made to break Kurama’s face in half. Kurama threw an arm in front of his face, and it blocked the blow in an instant. Yet his captor was stronger than he realized, and with a sickening crunch Kurama’s right ulna broke in two. Blood flew into the air as Kurama’s broken bone struck out of the skin, and Kurama barely withheld the seething gasp that inched past his teeth as his captor’s other hand came up to beat him relentlessly. Kurama could usually block such blows, and frankly he still could, but the image of Shiori crying in pain at the kitchen table was still deep in his mind. It robbed him of his ability to think.
   Kurama collapsed farther to the ground, angry and disorientated as he was suddenly straddled at the waist. His captor grabbed him painfully by the hair, a knife in his other hand, and for one moment Kurama thought he might get his throat slit, but then without warning red strands went flying, drifting down to the floor where Kurama stared at them in a horrific trance.
   He’d cut his hair.

   Kurama regarded with mild irritation the lock of hair in his captor’s hand. “That does not belong to you.”
   Perhaps it was the fact that Kurama had not screamed at the man’s torture, but his captor had now become fully enraged. He snarled, cracking Kurama over the head with his pipe for what surely felt like the tenth time, and stars exploded in front of his eyes as he collapsed onto the floor.
   He felt the fabric of Keiko’s uniform being ripped apart, his shirt and vest suddenly torn in two; it seemed his captor had decided to sexually assault his breasts.

Fortunately, Kurama had no breasts.
   “Fuck!” The man cried out, horror in his voice as his rough and calloused hands ghosted over Kurama’s chest. “You’re not a girl!”
   “A man, in all technicality,” Kurama managed to sluggishly reply.
   At once, his captor frisked him for a weapon, no doubt thinking him a cop in disguise. His captor’s hand suddenly came in contact with the soft flesh of his penis, and Kurama’s eyes snapped open as his captor glanced up at him with a sudden bout of nervousness.
   Kurama head butted his captor, and the man fell off of him with a shout of pain as his nose broke. Kurama quickly pocketed his fallen hair with his uninjured arm. Yanking Keiko’s ruined shirt closed about his chest, Kurama barely had a second to recover his dignity before a door behind him was broken open in a wild flurry of strength.
   Kuwabara had arrived.
   “Holy shit!” he cried out, his rough voice loud and assaulting to Kurama’s ears as he ran over to where Kurama lay dazed upon the floor. It did not help that Kurama’s injured hand was on display- “Oh my god! What did he do to your fingernails?!” Kuwabara’s voice was filled with terror as he suddenly began to attempt to cradle Kurama to his chest. Had Kurama been more aware of himself, he might have found this the slightest bit annoying, yet for the moment he was too dazed to care.
   Perhaps that was because he’d been smacked several times in the head with a tire iron.
   Kuwabara was hysterical, first grabbing Kurama’s uninjured arm to help pull him from the floor, them cupping his injured arm to his chest in an attempt to keep it steady. Kurama felt like a chick being squashed by its mother, and suddenly his face was pressed into the soft cloth of Kuwabara’s sweat jacket.
   “I got blood on the uniform,” Kurama murmured, looking down at the ripped and bloodied garment that barely clung together at his chest where he held it defensively, “I doubt Keiko will be thrilled.”
   “I called the police,” Kuwabara rushed, tugging Kurama towards the open door. It led into a hallway which made his head hurt for its garish yellow wall paper and bright yellow light, “They’re on their way. We gotta scram, man.” But this plan was stopped short momentarily as Kuwabara’s attention was once again captivated by-
“What did he do to your fingernails?!”
   Kurama tried to hide his hand but it was no use, Kuwabara had it pressed between his own as if praying it would somehow heal his throbbing pain, “And he cut your hair!?”
   It was odd, how the two statements could hold the same gravity to Kuwabara. Kurama could not help but feel slightly humored.
   “It’ll grow,” Kurama assured him, stumbling along the house’s cramped walls in Shizuru’s high heels. He could not take out the needles in the man’s house, lest blood fall and link back to Shuichi Minamino, “We have to leave now, I can’t take these out here.”
   “Come on, let’s move,” Kuwabara agreed, taking him out the way he had no doubt come. They exited the hallway into a truly disgusting kitchen full of flies and garbage where a back door had been broken in (by Kuwabara probably). As they exited down the steps, Kurama heard the sound of wood being smashed.
   “Police!" roared an authoritative voice. “Freeze!”
   Kurama looked over his shoulder, afraid that they had been spotted, but the command had come from deeper within the house – they had not been seen. However, they would not be so fortunate for long. This area was no doubt surrounded by law enforcement.
   Kuwabara was quick, helping them out of a back garden gate and into a dark alleyway where blue and red lights bounced off rain washed wood and old garbage cans. It took them several minutes of traveling before they could get to an area away from the police, in an alleyway between two office buildings were only a fire escape, a broken rain gutter, and a large commercial dumpster stood.
   “We have to get you help.” Kuwabara was trying to hold Kurama’s arm, where the bone of his ulna stuck out at a nasty angle. The skin was bone white, blood long gone as it poured down Kurama’s arm and onto Keiko’s skirt.
   “I can handle this by myself.” Kurama tried to pull away, but Kuwabara would not let him, cradling Kurama’s injured arm to his chest so that if Kurama moved he would put himself in horrific pain.
   “No, you need help!” Kuwabara was getting defensive, angry even, “These needles are in really deep.”
   “I have endured worse with ease. This merely requires a good night’s sleep, I will be well in the morning-“
   “The fuck you will!” Kuwabara was aghast, and it was starting to get on Kurama’s nerves. In his opinion, this level of concern was wasted on him, and it was only serving to panic Kuwabara more. “We’re going to the hospital!”
   But the hospital was full of nurses who knew Shuichi Minamino, who cared for Shiori and would at once relay to her that her son had a broken arm and a tortured hand and was wearing a girls uniform. Kurama would not have it!
   “No!” Kurama snapped, and with a burst of pain he jerked his arm to his chest. “I can fix my own arm.”
   “No, you can’t!”
   Oh ye of little faith.
   Kurama looked around, and spotted the broken rain gutter. He needed something round, a deep compression he could sit his injured arm in. It would do. Kurama went over to it and placed his broken arm inside, using his free hand to call upon vines both firm and strong that wrapped around Kurama’s broken bone to create a binding as strong as any hospital machine. With the tail end in Kurama’s free hand, Kurama took a deep steadying breath.
   This was going to hurt like hell, but it was either this or Shiori getting the shock of her life. Kurama needed no time to consider which option he would take.
   “Wh-what are you doing?!” Kuwabara cried out, fear leaking into his voice. His eyes were wide, his voice shaking, “What are you about to do, man?!”

   Kurama looked at him, smiling slightly, and yanked the tail end of the vines.
   With a sickening crunch, his bone went down back into his skin. Kurama could not contain the scream that burst forth from his lips, the pain dazzling him so that he fell to his knees for a moment as blood rushed through his ears and a wave of nausea crashed over him. Karasu’s bombs had been utter agony, but this bone setting came in a sure second, with Kurama feeling like he might vomit at any minute.
   Kuwabara had fallen against the wall, his hand over his mouth, white as a sheet as Kurama righted himself and undid the vines. His arm was a deep purple and green, the bone underneath the skin but the damage obvious. He would repair it when he got home.
   “There,” Kurama panted, sweat trickling down his neck, “Good as new.”
   “Man...” Kuwabara’s voice was weak, “What the fuck?”
   Kurama smiled at Kuwabara, charmed by his ability to stand there and watch Kurama do such a thing without comment; he then yanked the needles out of his fingernails one by one. The pain compared to his arm setting was nothing, a mere blip in the radar.
   “Goodnight, Kuwabara.” He tossed the needles into the commercial dumpster and held his slightly repaired arm against his chest, “Good work tonight.”
   And with that he left the alleyway, eager to get home if only to sit in the solitude of his apartment and fix his arm properly.
   In the alleyway, Kuwabara had sagged down to the ground, still weak and horrified.
   “Good... good work,” Kuwabara mumbled back, though Kurama was long gone by this point. “... Go team.”
~*~
For the next week and a half, Kurama did not hear from Kuwabara. The minute he’d gotten home that fateful night, he had repaired his arm with extensive energy and had fallen asleep exhausted. The next morning he’d woken up late for work, and had had to call in feigning illness. His step-father’s company gladly gave it to him, knowing his worth ethic to be impeccable and not desiring to trouble him when he no doubt sounded like death over the phone.
It turned out that Aiko was Keiko’s classmate (Kurama had been mistaken, thinking it another girl) and the news was filled with images of Aiko’s tearful relief after she had been returned home to her terrified parents. Her fingernails reportedly would grow back with time, and she had mercifully no memory or Kurama or his aid to her in the cellar. Instead she had claimed that an angel had come before her and promised her that she would return home.
   She was far from accurate, but Kurama wouldn’t hold it against her. He was just happy she was out of that cellar. The man, of course, was imprisoned and awaiting extensive trial.

   With Christmas fast-approaching, Kurama was preparing both for his annual christmas party with friends and Shiori’s birthday requests. Kurama had been born December 27th, a fact that very few people knew, and every year Shiori took Kurama out for dinner with their family. It was the only thing he’d let her do, simply because he anniversary of coming into this world was not exactly a day he was proud of. Shiori, however, delighted in it and her smile made the festivities worthwhile.
   The Christmas party was one initiated by Keiko after Yusuke had been unceremoniously kicked out of the role of Spirit Detective. In order to keep those in her life together that she loved, Keiko hosted a small get together on December 27th, and so they all came together for one night to enjoy each other’s company once again and remember what once was. Hiei was never there because Hiei never responded to the invitation (something with Kurama assured Keiko was normal and not to take to heart), but everyone else came save for Koenma who at times was far too busy. This year was the same, with Keiko, Yusuke, Shizuru, Botan, Yukina, Kuwabara and Kurama himself making up the lot. The affair was held at Yusuke’s noodle shop which was closed for the evening, and instead Yusuke cooked for them. Nothing was off the menu, and though they all tried to pay Yusuke would not let them. When they'd finished eating, Keiko brought out deserts, which no one could resist despite being stuffed with food courtesy of Yusuke. They toasted one another (“To Kurama, who makes a fine-ass broad!”) , they toasted those not present (“Here’s to Hiei, mean and surly!”) and they toasted their enemies (“To Toguro, the shit cake!”) simply because they could. Gifts were last, usually homemade and small but none the less wonderful.
   Keiko had made everyone a scarf, suddenly taking up a knitting craze much to Kurama’s delight as he wrapped the dark green scarf about his neck. Yusuke was not quite so creative a gift giver, so his gift had been traded off for the meal they ate (which was a massive spread and frankly more than they deserved). Shizuru’s gifts were vouchers to stores throughout the area that she thought they might like to shop in, and Yukina had made everyone candles which smelled different for what she felt was their ‘scent’. She’d also pressed flowers into the wax, making for quite a nice display that Kurama was grateful for as he smelt his jasmine candle. Botan had brought everyone foreign candy from souls that she’d picked up in other countries, and it was fun for a moment to try them out with expressions of disgust and pleasure. She’d also brought a clipping from a demon world newspaper showing an image of Hiei atop a huge swell of bandit corpses. The article proclaimed “Uprising overthrown by the Black Dragon”, a nickname Hiei had picked up in the press for all the blood he shed and the venomous weapon encased in his soul.
   They all were captivated as Kurama read, enlightening them on how Hiei had singlehandedly busted through six thousand bandits who had tried to rise against Mukuro’s crew in an attempt to garner a name for themselves. The only thing they’d garnered was a grave, shallow and poorly filled as Hiei slaughtered their ranks. (“Sounds like shorty’s protecting his girlfriend!” Kuwabara joked.)
   Kuwabara had brought special gifts, each unique for their person: a makeup gift card for Keiko, a can of high end hair gel for Yusuke (who looked utterly delighted as if he’d been given keys to a new car), a packet of medicine for Shizuru to help her stop smoking, a book for Yukina on how to make your own soaps, and nothing for Botan who he didn’t realize was coming. He apologized profusely to her, saying that he was resolved to make it up for her later, but Botan didn’t care. She was just happy to spend time with them. Kurama was likewise jilted when Kuwabara admittedly sheepishly that he had forgotten his gift at home and was going to give it to him later. Kurama didn't care, simply because Kuwabara's company was far more enjoyable than any gift he could receive, though he did wonder what Kuwabara had decided to give him.
Kurama gave Keiko a new school uniform (much to the group’s amusement), an herb for Shizuru to chew that would help with her nicotine addiction, a plant from the Hyouga for Yukina (he usually wouldn’t be able to find it but it had been in the bag Hiei had given him), and a book for Botan on the history and lore of grim reapers. To Kuwabara and Yusuke Kurama gave a fighting game they’d been squealing about for the past six months, and suddenly the air was full of cackling as the pair shouted about how they would be the one to beat the other, suddenly eager to get home and start it up on the console.
   And yet the night was not over, as Yusuke thumped his fist upon the table and made the room grow quiet.
   “Okay, so I know that we’re having a good time and everything!” Yusuke flushed, his grin too large to hide as Keiko happily wrapped her dark blue scarf about his neck, “But I have to come clean about two things."
   Kurama was curious. What could these things be? God forbid it was more food, or they were going to have to be rolled out of the door.
   "First of all, I’m an asshole,” Yusuke proudly declared, thumbing his chest.
   “Tell us something we don’t know!" Kuwabara jeered, and Yusuke flicked him off with good humor. The pair of them snickered like children.
   “Shuttup man, I’m serious.” Yusuke paused, his grin faltering a little as he continued on, “I should have mentioned this before now but I didn’t because I figured no one needed to know. But...” Yusuke shot a glance at Keiko who smiled sheepishly and shrugged as if to say ‘go on ahead, why not’. “Keiko and I talked it over and we figured why not tell you guys tonight since we’d all be here. Well, save for Hiei, but we’ll fill him in later. And Koenma but I have a feeling you’re gonna be telling him tonight." Yusuke said, looking pointedly at Botan who waved him off with a coyish grin.
   “We got married.” Yusuke shrugged. Keiko beamed.
   It took a second for that to sink in.
   “URAMESHI, WHAT THE FUCK!?” Kuwabara screamed in delight, grabbing Yusuke by the shirt and yanking him into the tightest hold Kurama had ever seen as he shook Yusuke back and forth like a rag doll, “You asshole! You absolute asshole! You didn’t tell me nothin’! What the hell?!”
   They tossed each other about, cackling like ghouls as Keiko allowed Yukina and Shizuru to express their equal delight.
   "This is so wonderful, I’m so happy for you!"

   “When the heck did this happen? I work near the court house, I never saw you!”
   “Well, this is certainly a surprise!” Kurama beamed at them. He'd known for quite a while that Yusuke and Keiko were going to get married, but Yusuke was a drifter and difficult to pin down to a firm plan. He preferred to think on his feet, and he knew how tough that must have been for Keiko. It seemed that Yusuke had gotten over his fears of commitment, however, for he was now in a joyous tug of war with Kuwabara on the floor, kicking him off as he laughed and laughed.
   Yusuke couldn’t have looked happier.
   “When did you get married?!” Yukina asked excitedly, her eyes twinkling with mirth.
   “Last Friday, we went to the court house,” Keiko explained in a rush, laughing as she allowed Botan to sweep her up into a hug, “You should have seen the judge’s face, he knew Yusuke from when he was younger!”
   “The dude was a judgmental asshole; it felt so good rubbing it in!" Yusuke crowed from the floor where he had now pinned Kuwabara in a turn of events. “Man, he couldn’t stand it! Me, a punk, marrying such a beautiful woman! HA!” Yusuke bellowed, his voice bouncing about the shop.
   “He called my father and told him, but my father already knew!” Keiko giggled, “It was great.”
   “Oh, I could cry! I’m so delighted! I can’t wait to tell everyone the news!” Botan was close to tears, rocking Keiko in her arms. It was an odd image when compared to Yusuke and Kuwabara hitting each other on the floor.
   “Yeah, well, long time coming,” Yusuke said, sitting up from the floor as Kuwabara helped him back with a great tug of the hand. The pair of them still snickered at each other, forever children at heart.
   “But-!" came Yukina’s voice, and everyone turned to look at her save for Yusuke and Keiko who seemed to be aware of what she was referring to.
   “But!" Yusuke agreed, raising a finger to make his second point. “There’s one more thing to be said!"
   Keiko got up from the floor, scooting back behind the counter to duck out of sight. Kurama wondered what they would learn next. Christ, were they pregnant? That was a terrifying thought. A small Yusuke with Keiko’s temper? The world would break in two.
   “Someone,” Yusuke crowed, slight anger in his voice as he pointed at Kurama, "was an even bigger asshole, and did not tell anyone that it was his birthday!"
   Kurama flushed.
   How had they found out?
   He looked about then down, a heat creeping into his cheeks as Kuwabara made a deep gasp of betrayal. Kurama rubbed his brow, irritated.
   "There is really no need to-“ Kurama began with a soft mumble, but Yusuke cut him off.
   “Well, fuck you!” Yusuke said loudly, overriding Kurama, "And the horse you rode in on, cause my wife made you a cake."
   Kurama was going to die, he was certain of it, as a heat suddenly rolled from his body. Keiko stood back up to reveal a cheesecake in hand with strawberry drizzle, cradling a candle in the middle of white fox.
   It did not matter how many times he said no. It did not matter how much he pressed his hands over his face to hide from his sight such a display of love and camaraderie. The tune of happy birthday was being chorused through the air, and Kurama could not block it out as Keiko came back into the fold with the cake and set it before him so that he could blow out the candle.
   Kurama groaned, peeking through his fingers to do so quickly so that they might stop and leave him alone. Everyone cheered, unwilling to let him be despite his embarrassment.
   Keiko was happy to dish out cheesecake, answering question after question of how did Yusuke propose and did they have rings (they were around their necks on silver chains, respectively), and would they be taking a honeymoon. Kurama just sat quietly, praying he might sink into the background and be unnoticed for a while.
   “What did you wish for?” Keiko asked, and Kurama could not hide the slightest flash of pain as he thought of Shiori and her suffering.
   “I didn’t wish for anything,” Kurama lied. “I have everything I could want.”
   And so they were all happy, eating his cake (which Kurama had to admit was delicious despite the embarrassment it had caused him).
   "So how old are you?” Yusuke asked around a mouth full of cheesecake.
   “I’m twenty four." Kurama smiled. A year older than Yusuke.
   “... thousand...?” Yusuke added, rolling his hands as if urging Kurama to tell him more.
   “Urameshi!" Kuwabara cried out, smacking him in the arm to make him stop. Kurama stared shrewdly, bitter to be reminded of his past on such a night.
   “Really, how old are you?” Yusuke asked, unaware of the pain he was stirring up in Kurama’s heart.
   "I've forgotten," Kurama responded in a clipped tone, and Keiko shot Yusuke a look that pointedly declared the conversation was over.
~*~

   The crunching of snow underfoot filled the air as Kurama and Kazuma walked out together. The party had dwindled after cheesecake, with conversation taking up another three hours before it rang midnight and people realized they needed to go home. When Kazuma had risen up and made to leave, he’d looked at Kurama in such a way that Kurama knew to follow him outside. So Kurama had, waving goodbye to everyone and allowing Botan to kiss him once on the cheek in fond farewell as he slipped out into the cold. They’d walked down the street, empty with snow caking the ground; every step they took, Kazuma knew that time was wasting. That he ought to give Kurama the present that lay in his pocket. The present that he’d worked so hard to prepare.
   “I have something for you,” Kazuma grumbled, looking over at Kurama for a minute before staring back at the snow again.
   He fished in his coat pocket and pulled out a smooth wooden box. Kurama looked down at it quizzically before taking it and holding it close. He smiled at Kazuma, and suddenly a wave of fear rose up inside of him as the pearly whites of Kurama’s teeth flashed behind his sweet lips. If he didn’t explain, Kurama might not get it-!
   “It’s a box for storin’ seeds n’ stuff,” Kazuma mumbled, looking down at the snow as he spoke. “I think gardeners use ‘em.”
   God only knows he’d worked his ass off making it in his dad’s shop.
   It was a birthday present, or perhaps a Christmas present. Either way, Kurama was clearly surprised to find that Kazuma had not wanted to give him this gift around the others... but how could he understand when Kazuma had been so afraid of Kurama laughing at his gift or simply not understanding how much it was supposed to mean. He was a nurturer and loved to make people happy, but this was not the gift given in an act of friendship. This was an initiation... a prayer for Kurama to receive.
   “Sorry it sucks.” Kazuma’s voice was so low it might have almost been a whisper.
   “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Kurama replied in kind. “It’s lovely.”
   Kazuma looked up, excitement flickering in his heart. “Yeah? So... you like it?” Kazuma was chuffed, grinning abashedly as he kicked at the snow, “I made it myself-“
   Kurama looked down, and started to open the box.
“Wait!” said Kazuma hurriedly, for he did not wish to witness Kurama’s reaction when he saw what lay inside. “Wait till you get home.”
   Kurama blinked owlishly up at him.
   “As you wish,” he said, smiling as he tucked the box under his arm instead. Kazuma took a deep sagging breath, relieved.
   “Hey, Kurama-“
   Kurama turned.
   “Yes, Kuwabara?”
   He could not stand it anymore, could not bear be apart from Kurama. Could not bear to hold him close when he was so near. He wanted to touch him, to love him, to ensure that nothing harmed ever again... to kiss his injured fingertips and make him smile once more.
   But he’d made a mistake by initiating something, for his fears were massive and his self-confidence too small to follow through. Kurama was watching him, waiting for him to explain, and Kuwabara couldn’t. Kuwabara had made a mistake, now he would have to live with it.
   And yet.
   “... Would you be weirded out if I uh...”
   Kissed you?
   “Gave you a hug?”
   At first, Kurama did nothing, and for one second Kuwabara was filled with such terror that he could not speak. Then, Kurama smiled, and it was so genuine, so warm, that Kuwabara thought the earth had stopped spinning. That they were suddenly alone in the universe.
   “No, I wouldn't.” Kurama smiled.
   Kazuma reached out, his fingers trembling despite how he willed them to be still, and suddenly Kurama had stepped into his hold, had hugged him, and now he was complete.
   Kurama’s body was so slim and strong, and it fit just right in his arms. His warmth soaked through Kazuma’s clothes, his head upon Kazuma’s shoulder... his hair in Kazuma’s nose.

   His lovely, dark hair. It smelled herbal tinctures, and Kazuma inhaled the sweetness, allowing it to fill him up and make him heavy. Like cream dolloped atop coffee, melting into the brew, making it smooth on the tongue.
   Oh, how he needed this... how he wanted this.
   “Happy birthday, man,” he mumbled into the soft strands.
   “Thank you.” Kurama’s voice was muffled from Kazuma’s shirt collar, his warm breath tickling his skin.
   He wanted to stay this way forever, to hold Kurama through the night till the snow stopped and the flowers came out, but he knew that Kurama would probably be suspicious if he kept holding on, and so he reluctantly let go.
   It was an awkward moment, Kurama smiling up at Kuwabara and Kuwabara avoiding his gaze with greatest care as an unbidden blush came creeping over his high cheeks.
   “Well-“ Kuwabara coughed.
   “Yeah,” Kurama nodded, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip.
   “I guess I’d better-“
   “Yeah,” Kurama repeated.
   “So, uh… yeah.” Kazuma stared at Kurama, his heart starting to pound in his throat. He would have given anything in the world in that moment to reach out and kiss Kurama, to take every wonderful thing Kurama made him feel and breathe it back into lips, to fill him with calm and peace, to make him melt the way Kazuma melted, the cream of his coffee… the light of his life.
   He wished that he could create beauty like Kurama could, so that he could surround him with color and light. He wished that he could fill Kurama’s heart with love, make his eyes shine with happiness, make flowers bloom beneath his feet.
   Kurama was staring at him with an unreadable expression, and it terrified him. He’d made a mistake, and suddenly he wanted to run away.

   So he did.
   “See you later!" Kuwabara managed to choke out, turning and walking away as fast as he could without causing suspicion or concern. Kurama watched him run, unmoving from the snowy sidewalk as Kazuma turned a quick right between two buildings and pressed himself flat against a concrete wall.
   Kurama was going to open up the box and see the note.
   Kazuma had made a horrible mistake.
   “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, what did I just do-“ Kazuma thought he might cry, fear welling up inside him. “I can’t believe I’ve done this. Oh, god-“

His emotions overcame him and he crumpled, sliding down the brick till he sat in the snow, his arms folded about his knees and face as he willed himself to be calm, to imagine that Kurama would take it as a birthday card if nothing else, and not think too much into it. But Kurama had always been able to read between the lines. He was smart, and an intellectual above all else. He would know. He would look at the note, and he would know. Kuwabara was doomed.
   The muffled sounds of his distress crept out from the alleyway, but no one passed by to hear them.
   ~*~
   In the dark of his bedroom, exhausted and ready for sleep, Kurama set Kuwabara’s box aside and pulled off his clothes to prepare for bed. Brushing his teeth and pulling his hair out of his face, Kurama tied the drawstring of his sweat pants as he stepped back over to his desk and picked up the box which Kuwabara had begged him not to open. He wondered what was inside to inspire such fear in Kuwabara’s voice.
   Kurama carefully opened the box, and found a piece of paper inside. Curious, he took it up to read it in the dim glow of a streetlight shining through his window.
   “Dear Kurama, there is no one more kind, smart... or beautiful than you…” Kurama’s voice trailed away as he read the rest silently.
   “Glad that you were born (or reborn or whatever, you know what I mean). Sincerely Kazuma.”
   Kurama was shocked, genuinely touched at such kind words on what was for him a very difficult day.
   “... no one more kind, smart, or beautiful.” Kurama repeated.
   The slightest heat crept into his cheeks.
   The only person who had ever said such things to him before was Shiori, and while she never lacked in sincerity, she had no knowledge of his true nature. Somehow this sentiment took on deeper meaning coming from Kazuma. Certainly he could not fathom everything Kurama had been as a yoko, but at least he knew something of his former existence.
And no one who knew him like that had ever said such a thing to him.
Kurama found his chest filling with a strange sense of hope. Kazuma had always been such a compassionate and caring friend. Kurama had tried to live up to his example, to be as good a friend as he, but he was not like Kazuma. He was the after image of a disgusting creature, a yoko that had stolen life and love... that had ruined and reaped and pillaged till nothing was left but scorched earth. Kurama could not forget the screams of the vanquished, the fear in the eyes of the anonymous men who beheld him and pleaded for their families’ lives.
Kazuma... was kind, and genuine, and loving. Kazuma did not harm. Kazuma healed.

Kurama needed to be healed.
So it was that as he crawled into bed, Kurama held onto to that note, onto that one tiny fraction of healing which he could claim as his own, and stared at it in the dark as he grew deeper into sleep, nestled under his covers.
   “No one more kind, smart, or beautiful,” echoed in his brain, “Glad that you were reborn.”
   Glad indeed, if only Kurama could say the same.

   Thank goodness for Kazuma Kuwabara.
   He made life bearable to the damned.
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Into the Gray