Chapter Text
“I caught the biggest.” Inuyasha had been saying that since they’d taken the canoes out. Even though he had scared all the other damn fish away, he was correct. He had caught the biggest. With his bare hands. By diving into the water after it. Spooking every fish within a mile radius. It was a pike, which, while impressive, was so bony that there was absolutely no way to prepare it effectively over a campfire, so all agreed that Inuyasha got to eat his own big fish by himself.
It drove Sango and Miroku away from the frolicking lovebirds, to try to catch a few more fish. All told, they’d ended up with over a dozen yellow perch to eat. Fishing meant a lot of sitting quietly, and even some talking quietly.
Sango had not known that Miroku came to college on full scholarship, and had managed to make the Dean’s List every semester. She had not known that Miroku had a stepsister named Rin, whom he loved the dickens out of. Sango didn’t know that Miroku and Inuyasha became fast friends their freshman year when Miroku told some fraternity members to fuck off for making fun of Inuyasha’s ears.
She did know that Miroku was funny, and playful, and smart. She already knew that he was interesting. But… he used his intelligence so often to try to make a play for her that she never noticed (nor cared) about the other things. Now here, in the nascent firelight, he seemed new: Miroku the sleazeball no more.
He was Miroku the wonk, and Miroku the protective older brother, and Miroku the true friend. He was still a bit Miroku the womanizer, because the man was not able to keep his eyes from drifting onto Sango’s bikini, especially when she and Kagome joined Inuyasha in the water for a swim, after he’d scared away all the fish on his quest to wrestle the damn pike with his bare hands.
“You can eat your biggest,” Miroku scoffed, poking at the foil on the campfire that was painting their faces and the trees on their special island the same color as the sky. A color, Sango noticed, that seemed to dance in Miroku’s indigo jeweled eyes. “We are going to eat the lemon pepper perch.”
“Thanks for cleaning them, honeyyyyy.” Kagome pressed a kiss to Inuyasha’s nose as she said it, eliciting that simpering smile Inuyasha always wore when his girlfriend touched him.
Without meaning to, Sango glanced at Miroku. He was looking back at her, and for a flash of a moment, she could swear that she saw the same soppy longing in his eyes that so often overcame Inuyasha when he talked about Kagome. But in that flash of a moment, it was gone, swallowed down in a pink blush well disguised by the sunset.
That there was a matching blush on her face?
She couldn’t think too deeply about it. Because if she thought about it, she’d think about guitars and canoeing and March 14 and…
…that Miroku was not predominantly the womanizing skeeze that she always believed him to be.
That would change everything.
And Sango was not sure that she was ready for everything to change.
But was that what it was? Change?
“Fish is ready.” Miroku had managed not only to grab the foil with their lemon pepper perch, but also sit down next to Sango without her noticing above the fog of her thoughts; Sango jumped at his closeness “You should probably eat this before Inuyasha does.”
“That was what the pepper was for,” Sango quipped, trying to collect herself from the sudden closeness of the subject of her current existential crisis. Who was touching her hand as he handed her the foil. Who was smiling at her with eyes so soft and reverential that Sango wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. And neither could Miroku.
Because watching the way that Sango’s tongue peeked out from between her lips while she reeled in a fighting fish had burned into Miroku’s memory. And because the way she breathed in the air when they were tickled by a breeze, as if she was reminding herself that she was alive, stopped Miroku’s heart. And because, when she threw off that white shirt and revealed the sinful bikini underneath, Miroku would be lost to other women forever.
He knew, but he didn’t know, and now he did. No wonder his lines never worked. They weren’t genuine; they weren’t vulnerable. They were a facade to mask his heart and let him keep his pride if she said no.
Even as he was terrified that Sango would say no, he would not resist her pull any longer. Because she asked him to play the guitar for him. Because she asked him the date of his dad’s death. Because she could take the piss out of Inuyasha and Kagome just as well as he could.
And she saw right through him.
“You brought lemon pepper with this in mind?” Miroku asked, his finger still testing the soft skin of Sango’s hand, his eyes still captured in hers, his voice (relievedly) working once again.
“No that was all me,” Kagome broke their moment (dammit), “because I like lemon pepper…”
“O—oh.” Sango tugged the fish out of Miroku’s hand, her eyes as wide as a doe in headlights, but focused solely on the foil, and her face glowed pink against the firelight and sunset.
“But fish isn’t the only thing on the menu,” Kagome giggled, nudging Inuyasha, who had pulled the entire damn pike off of the fire and was beginning to dig his claws into its flesh and eat it. “We brought something else, too…”
Kagome then got up and trudged over to where they’d set up their tents (one for Sango and Kagome, and one for Inuyasha and Miroku, at Sango’s insistence), opening the dark blue cooler there. There was a pleasant clink of ice as Kagome rustled around, freeing four bright colored cans.
“Did you buy… craft tallboys?” Miroku called with a chuckle, looking at both the brightly colored cans with words IPA and very niche brewery names. “That’s bougier than usual, Kagome…”
“Remember when we said that since this was the first time we got to do a group getaway we would treat ourselves?” Kagome countered, handing the ice cold beer one-by-one to each of them. “This is just… part of the treat.”
“Keep ‘em coming, Kagome.” Miroku beckoned Kagome over; he needed the beer. A lot. After the revelations of the day.
To get up the nerve to… well, to say the right things to Sango.
Although when Miroku thought about it, the right things all just seemed to be the honest things.
Problem was, if Miroku was totally honest, he would confess too much. Dangerously too much. Hand his bare heart to Sango to crush it too much.
“Here ya go!” Kagome grinned widely as she handed Miroku the IPA, though Kagome definitely failed to mention the alcohol content.
She and Inuyasha had come prepared. Beer first, then suggest that they open a bottle of whiskey. Never enough to get everyone sauced, but definitely enough to get Miroku and Sango to actually talk to each other. The signs were promising. After some initial bickering in the canoe, Inuyasha had informed her that they were actually talking talking, about the important things. And when Inuyasha spooked all the fish, they’d taken off to a different fishing ground together.
Everything was going as planned. No, scratch that: everything was going better than Kagome could have ever imagined! She hadn’t known that Sango’s last canoe trip was when her dad was still alive, and she hadn’t thought Miroku would be so open to learning (and not try all the pickup lines he had until he ran out), or that they would share those special memories (she promised Inuyasha a lot of special favors to keep eavesdropping on them… half-demon ears came in handy…)
Now though, it was just the last little piece that needed to come together. Firelight and alcohol.
“Hefeweizen for you, Sango.” Kagome handed Sango the beer with a wink, then casually strolled back over to Inuyasha.
“How’s it going?” Inuyasha whispered, taking the lager that Kagome had gotten for him.
“You know the answer to that,” Kagome giggled as Inuyasha’s arms came around her torso. “Now, let’s make sure that whiskey is easy to find and move on to the last phase.”
“Do I get those special treats that you promised once the last phase starts?” Inuyasha rasped, and Kagome didn’t need to look to know that his ears were wiggling.
“Yes.” Kagome kissed Inuyasha’s forehead “Now, let’s get to work.”
Miroku and Sango probably should have noticed the scurrying of their friends, or the fact that magically a bottle of bourbon appeared between them, but given what they were paying attention to, the actions of Inuyasha and Kagome were entirely missed.
Artwork commission by noether3
“Oh come on! You can’t end the story there Sango, I need to know the rest!” Miroku was gesticulating enough that beer splattered from the tall boy in his hand. But the smile on his face was wider than Sango had ever seen it.
“Well… I picked the boomerang. Against a giant spider.” Sango’s brain was beginning to float on the happy cloud of alcohol and firelight and Miroku’s hearty laughter; it egged her on. “Well… boomerangs make absolutely terrible weapons against spiders, turns out. And… the thing smacked poor Kohaku in the face and gave him that scar…”
“You broke your brother’s nose with a boomerang going after a spider?” Miroku was having trouble forming sentences, or even balancing on the log they’d moved to after all the dinner fish had been eaten, or s’mores roasted, or… whiskey consumed.
“It was huge, okay?” Sango breathed, steadying herself as she threatened to break into fits of giggles too.
“Next time a giant spider comes anywhere near you, call me to protect you,” Miroku declared, “I’ll bring a vacuum and hoover that motherfucker right up.”
“You’d vacuum clean a spider for me?” Sango asked, bringing her hand theatrically to Miroku’s.
“I’d do anything for you.” Miroku’s voice had lost the playfulness. “Anything.”
Two and a half years. That was when Sango first met Miroku. She’d finally accepted Kagome’s invitation to go to a house party at her boyfriend Inuyasha’s apartment. Sango remembered seeing Miroku across the room, his hair tied back in a half-ponytail and a rogue smile on his face. And the rest of the party melted away as Miroku crossed the room to her. She remembered the way he smelled, sweet and woody, as if he’d been drinking whiskey. Sango even remembered the way her spine tingled when he leaned down to say something to her.
“Sorry, but you mind?” Miroku had then put his hands on Sango’s shoulders; his hands were rough, but they’d felt electric against her skin. Then he had waggled his eyebrows and said, “I was checking for wings, because you definitely fell from heaven.”
“No.” Sango’s declaration was the end of that meeting.
In two and a half years, that was the only Miroku that Sango ever let herself see: the debonair overly-smooth womanizer who looked at women as a game to be won. Who looked at Sango as a game to be won. And she refused to let herself see anything else.
Miroku’s hands were still rough and his eyes still held her hostage. But the cracks in the character she’d created to explain Miroku away were obvious now, and the light inside of Miroku was shining out of each and every one of them. He was smooth, yes, but he cared about his friends. And he liked women, true, but he always treated Kagome as an equal. And on that trip, in that canoe, Miroku started to show the hurt.
“I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth.” Sango’s words had a mind of their own, spurred on by the alcohol and the firelight. “Was I—am I—just another girl?”
Miroku felt as if he’d just been slapped; Sango’s words hanging heavily in the air between them. Words that would never have been uttered without the aid of alcohol and privacy.
Because if he answered honestly, that Sango was all he thought about, that when she was with that shithead boyfriend Kura he’d taken to sparring with Inuyasha because he could take out his rage without holding back. That… he was terrified of answering her truthfully, because to tell her what was real, instead of just in jest, then listening to her say no, would kill him.
But Miroku couldn’t lie, not to Sango. Not when her eyes sparkled in the firelight and her cheeks had turned pink from the question and her voice wavered from the alcohol.
“No.” Miroku finished the rest of his beer the second the word was out of his mouth.
He remembered the day he saw Sango at a house party. He remembered his knees nearly buckling as he took her in. She was wearing a truly sinful black dress with red trim, the high collar unable to disguise her truly glorious breasts. He remembered the way that his heart beat out of his chest as he approached, and the truly awful pickup line he had tried.
And he remembered how his stomach dropped through the floor when Sango had said “no.”
It set them on their path of destruction. On his insatiable need to try to pick her up instead of admitting to his genuine feelings, and (maybe even, just a little bit) his drive to go after woman after woman, to show that he was desirable.
“I could never think of you as just another girl.” Shit. Miroku hadn’t drunk that much, had he? It was coming out before he could stop it. The words. The truth. And worse? More was coming. “You’re someone… to me.” Shit shit shit. “Special.”
There were very few things in the world that would have stopped the freight train of Miroku’s confession. He would have told her that he was in love with her, and that when he closed his eyes and touched himself, he only thought of her. He would have said that he still thought about their first meeting, and still felt the sting of the scars of every fight they’d ever had.
But Miroku didn’t have to, because the moment the word special flowed from his lips, he couldn’t say any more words. Sango’s body was pressed against his and her arms were flung around him, and her lips, the soft and supple lips he dreamed about, were currently crashed against his; the first kiss he never dreamed would come. A kiss from truth and firelight.
“Sango…” Miroku said it desperately, only relinquishing Sango’s mouth long enough for the words to rush out.
Artwork commission by noether3
This was a bad idea. Sango knew this was a bad idea. But she couldn’t stop herself, not when Miroku’s lips were soft and his voice was earnest. Not when his rough hands were caressing the skin of her back. Not when he said Sango with so much love and longing that it was clear that it came directly from his unshielded heart. Not when his mouth had a spicy bite of whiskey or when his tongue curled so naturally around hers that it felt built to kiss her.
She’d resisted him for so long. Resisted every cheesy pickup line. Resisted every wayward touch, every longing look, everything. But here she was, full of whiskey and all Miroku had to tell her was that she was special… and she gave in.
But it was not Miroku that Sango gave in to.
Sango gave in to her own heart.
“Miroku…” Sango could only utter his name, because the effort of breaking away from his lips and losing the oaken taste of his tongue was too much.
All those fights, all those girls, all those misunderstandings and miscommunications and pickup lines, all this time, and… Miroku only had eyes for her?
“S-stop…” Sango pushed away; she needed more from Miroku. “I—I don’t want to…” At the shock that came into Miroku’s eyes, Sango pressed on. “I… I don’t want to be just another girl, Miroku.”
“Fuck.” Miroku dropped his head, though not from frustration; when he lifted it again, his eyes were wide and pleading, “Sango… I—I am such a fool. You’re the…” Miroku breathed deeply, as if psyching himself up, “only girl.” Miroku took Sango’s hand and pressed it against his chest. “Since that first party.”
Sango could feel the angry beat under Miroku’s skin, as if his heart was attempting to transmit its staccato secrets directly. Sango was about to reply, but something in Miroku’s eyes stayed her words.
“Every girl I compared to you, every fight we had I grieved, every failure to tell you how I really felt…” Miroku’s second hand joined his first, pressing Sango’s palm even more firmly against his chest. “You’re… the only girl Sango. And have been the only girl since I met you.”
The declaration was enough. Maybe not forever, but to assuage Sango’s doubt, letting her give in to her heart, and a bit, to her lust.
Because Sango dreamed about this. About Miroku’s hands on her body, about Miroku’s tongue probing her mouth (among other things), about the warmth of Miroku’s body pressing against her body (among other things). She wanted to cry his name into the night, she wanted to wake up to him, but she also wanted to matter to him.
March 14th.
Playing the guitar.
Perhaps, all this time, Sango did matter to Miroku. Because, all this time, he mattered to her too.
November 30th.
Canoeing.
Sango’s lips were everything Miroku had dreamed of. Her hair was as soft and silky as her skin was, and the tiny whimpers she was unaware that she was making were sending Miroku’s heart into the stratosphere (among other things…). Love was a word he did not say, ever. It was a word he refused to even consider. But…
One thing he did know was that he was not going to fuck it up. Sango’s questions proved to him that his other activities had pierced her more deeply than he had thought possible. And now that she was giving him the chance, letting him in, he sure as hell was not going to ruin it. So he kissed her back when she kissed him, and his tongue responded to hers without ever imposing, and his hands grazed her skin and massaged her back without ever squeezing or molesting.
As the fire waned and the twilight became stars, finally they broke apart.
“Wow…” Sango sighed, her hands still roving Miroku’s back. But soon she came back to herself, her eyes finding clarity amongst the clouds of lust that Miroku would burn into his memory. “Uh… it’s late, huh?”
Gods, did Miroku want to invite Sango to share his tent with him, rummage around in his wallet and find the condom that always made its home there. His dick certainly agreed with his impulses, but he could wait. Would wait. Indeed, for Sango, Miroku could wait forever.
“Need help getting to your tent?” Miroku asked, finding that even he was having issues standing up; he could only imagine how wobbly Sango was. He extended his hand and hoped that she would take it.
“Y—yeah,” Sango said, grabbing Miroku’s hand and letting him pull her up.
The woods around her were spinning, but that wasn’t just from the alcohol. Had she really just spent the last hour kissing Miroku? Letting him touch her? Letting him know how much she wanted to be with him?
“I gotcha.” Miroku steadied her on her feet, gently, and the two of them wobbled over toward the tents together. “Do you need to pee?”
Oh. Shit. Yes, Sango did need to pee.
Miroku chuckled and redirected them both to the outhouse. “I’ll be outside in case you fall in.”
God, why was he even cute when he was making terrible jokes?
Because he was always cute.
Even when she hated him.
Although she finally could admit to herself the truth: Sango never hated him.
When their business was done, they held hands back to the tents. She and Kagome had put up their 2-person tent, and… Kagome must’ve gone to sleep early?
No.
Oh no.
No no no.
The moment Sango got too close to the black tent with red trim that she and Kagome were sharing, there were… sounds.
Sounds Sango knew very well.
Sounds of a very very happy couple celebrating a drunken night.
Sounds not currently insulated by drywall and not currently muffled by headphones.
The other sound, the Miroku giggling sound, was almost worse.
Her fucking friends were having sex in what was supposed to be her tent with Kagome and Miroku was giggling.
“I… am going to kill them.” Sango balled her hands into fists and tried to suppress the red that was coming to her face.
“Sango uh… you may want to come over here…” Miroku had not stopped giggling, but he was now at the mouth of his and Inuyasha’s tent. “I think… I think our sleeping arrangements have been changed.”
Sango stormed over, still wobbling as she walked, but the adrenaline associated with rage had kicked in, so at least it felt like her coordination was now better.
When she looked in the tent—Miroku and Inuyasha’s tent—she saw the green and purple sleeping bag that she had packed for herself, and she saw the white camping duffel bag with the name Sango embroidered upon it, all sitting next to a deep purple sleeping bag, and another duffel bag: Miroku’s.
“They…” Sango wanted to go into the tent and find her minty toothpaste and spray it all over Inuyasha.
“Switched.” Miroku finished her sentence; Miroku also wanted to go to the lake, fill up one of the mugs they brought, and throw it all over their amorous friends. Because this fucking move had the potential to destroy the seedling that had started to grow between them. He was not about to let that fucking happen.
There was one more thing in the tent, sitting neatly on Miroku’s camping pillow. A box of condoms. Right there, waiting for them, telling them exactly what her friends had thought she and Miroku were going to do.
The tears that were threatening to escape her eyes were already pooling around their edges. They’d set Sango up to be Miroku’s conquest. Inuyasha and Kagome had pimped her out to Miroku. And now she would be forced to grab her sleeping bag and drag it…
“I can sleep outside,” Miroku interrupted Sango’s humiliation, “you didn’t ask for this, Sango. And I will not mess up what I hope is the start of something wonderful because our friends are jackasses.”
“What?” Sango turned to see Miroku crawling into the tent to grab his sleeping bag. “They—you—this wasn’t… planned?”
“Are you crazy?” Miroku tugged the sleeping bag, which was now in his arms. He let out a labored sigh and dropped his head, his eyes firmly on the ground. “The last thing I want is for you to think that I am doing… to you… what… what maybe… I’ve been interpreted as doing to… others.” He then brought his eyes back to hers, as if Miroku knew that the next words he said were some of the most important words he had ever said to Sango. “You—you’re special to me, Sango. And kissing you. Tonight. Under firelight and stars probably makes it into the top five moments of my life. So, no. I’m not gonna rush. Not with you.” Miroku then took one step closer to Sango, and leaned in to her ear, a whisper only meant for her to hear. “I’m not going to fuck up my one chance to be with… the only girl I’ve truly wanted to be with… over pitching a tent.”
The cackle that erupted from Sango at Miroku’s tent pitching halted all sounds on Hosenki’s Island. Because of March 14th, and because of a guitar. Because Miroku had made the world’s worst pun in the most earnest way possible. But also because she believed him. She believed his words and his gestures and his kisses. So Sango tugged Miroku’s sleeping bag out of his hand and threw it back in their tent.
“It might rain tonight,” she said (knowing full well the unlikelihood of that), then caressed Miroku’s cheek, her finger tracing the dimple that only revealed itself when he smiled. “And if you’re too far away tonight, how are we going to figure out how to get back at those two?”
It was Miroku’s turn to cackle, and as he dipped Sango down to steal one more kiss, they both giggled. Tomorrow was going to be a great day. And it was probably going to start with a peppermint shower for their two amorous and meddling friends.