@slayerled; //Pst hey Kay. Tell me about MirSans first kiss where Miroku was actually conscious for.
There were storms that could quickly change the skyline, leave patches of blue where branches had once spread their brittle limbs. And in the aftermath, an eerie calm would settle over the forest, as shell-shocked birds sang warily into the sunlight, barely audible above the hammering of a heartbeat.
He was ready to give it all up—everything. He was half out of his mind in love. He didn’t think twice about what he was throwing into the fire, as long as he could keep it burning for just another minute—if only he was allowed to sit awhile longer beside its pale glow.
That was how he would love Sango in the end—with his body cold and shuddering-- with his hands void of any substance, save for the smoldering ash of what his existence would become.
He had lied to the Taijiya, before. He had once told her that the wind was silent, how its sound could only be heard through collisions. But that fateful day, he could feel that wind gripping onto his hand, crying with a violent yearning while it would eventually tear through trees and bring down their twisted branches. In that moment, he would remember the first time that she had said his name.
She was the storm that had changed his dismal skyline. After the damage and the deluge, he could see things so much clearer. There had never been another one like that ever before.
He had lost his resolve, his walls had been torn down. Bruised and broken, his hands tangled into russet tresses, his forehead pressed against hers. He could hear Sango’s breath quicken, and his body tensed at the realization that this could be the last time that they saw each other. This would be the last time he would be able to see the love of his life, the woman that he was destined to be with.
He wished this would have happened sooner—he wished that he wasn’t such a fool; hesitant to make any form of intimate contact in fear of what would happen after. He wished that he didn’t waste his time chasing after other women in a futile attempt to sabotage the one thing in his life that truly meant something to him.
But he could pretend, at least. He could pretend that they weren’t in the middle of this hell, right at death’s door. Instead, he could pretend that they were at the same place where he proposed to her: only perhaps this time it would be under a half-moon, two halves making a whole. It seem fitting, anyways.
Yes, he could imagine that, as he pulled Sango in closer, one hand pressing against the small of her back. His lips met with rouge vermillion, and he wished that could have been enough to bring them back to safety. If he could, he would have kissed her a thousand more times before then. If he could, he would have held her underneath that waning moonlight.
There were storms that could change the skyline, just before the rain could burst like a thousand aquatic stars. But there were no storms that could ever be as powerful as his love for her.
