![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
random YYH fic scene
Nov. 1st, 2006 10:53 pmFour hundred years later, Kuwabara showed up in Kurama's living room, uninvited, unannounced and unexpected. He threw himself down onto Kurama's most comfortable chair, thunked his feet up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles, and held his hand out for the mug of coffee Kurama had just poured for himself.
Kurama handed it over. Some things you didn't fight.
Kuwabara looked well, and if he was a bit pale, and his eyes a bit bright, well, time could change a person. He was dressed exactly as Kurama had last seen him; motorcycle boots and worn blue jeans, a long-sleeved Boston Red Sox jersey that managed to be too big even for him and a black leather jacket. His hair was too long and his bangs hung in his eyes and Kurama vaguely remembered Kuwabara bitching about having no time to get it cut.
His friend drained the coffee in several loud gulps and grinned as he wiped his mouth before leaning forward to set the mug on the table. He placed it on the edge of a newspaper in a gesture of responsibility that Kurama had spent several years failing to teach Yuusuke.
Kurama took a seat for himself on the couch. There was more coffee in the kitchen, but he knew, in the gut-deep instinctive way that one knows things in nightmares, that if he turned away, Kuwabara would be gone.
"Wards fail, you know," Kuwabara said. "Especially old ones." His skin crackled and split like old paper, lines crisscrossing over his body and clothes until he collapsed into himself, nothing more than a pile of dust on Kurama's favorite chair.
****
It was July, in a time when the Earth barely knew what winter was anymore, and the sheets were still frigidly cold against Kurama's skin. He shivered, his breath leaving a puff of white in the air that remained behind him as he slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the living room.
The room was dark and only dimly illuminated by moonlight. Kurama did not bother with the lights.
There was no coffee mug on the table, no lingering scent of human male.
He paused by the recliner and brushed his palm across the top, scattering dust and ash, and several bright red hairs.
tbc
Kurama handed it over. Some things you didn't fight.
Kuwabara looked well, and if he was a bit pale, and his eyes a bit bright, well, time could change a person. He was dressed exactly as Kurama had last seen him; motorcycle boots and worn blue jeans, a long-sleeved Boston Red Sox jersey that managed to be too big even for him and a black leather jacket. His hair was too long and his bangs hung in his eyes and Kurama vaguely remembered Kuwabara bitching about having no time to get it cut.
His friend drained the coffee in several loud gulps and grinned as he wiped his mouth before leaning forward to set the mug on the table. He placed it on the edge of a newspaper in a gesture of responsibility that Kurama had spent several years failing to teach Yuusuke.
Kurama took a seat for himself on the couch. There was more coffee in the kitchen, but he knew, in the gut-deep instinctive way that one knows things in nightmares, that if he turned away, Kuwabara would be gone.
"Wards fail, you know," Kuwabara said. "Especially old ones." His skin crackled and split like old paper, lines crisscrossing over his body and clothes until he collapsed into himself, nothing more than a pile of dust on Kurama's favorite chair.
****
It was July, in a time when the Earth barely knew what winter was anymore, and the sheets were still frigidly cold against Kurama's skin. He shivered, his breath leaving a puff of white in the air that remained behind him as he slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the living room.
The room was dark and only dimly illuminated by moonlight. Kurama did not bother with the lights.
There was no coffee mug on the table, no lingering scent of human male.
He paused by the recliner and brushed his palm across the top, scattering dust and ash, and several bright red hairs.
tbc
