Chapter Text
Hiei’s head hurts. He feels wearied and ill at ease, despite his containment to the sidelines during the round. Some of that feeling can be attributed to Yukina’s unexpected reappearance in Ningenkai (and here, of all places), but not all. Some of it can even be attributed to the stress of watching his teammates’ brutal fights, without the strength to intervene. But not all of it.
He’s sick of this whole fucking tournament. It drags at him, weighs him down in new and unexpected ways, worse than even his parole in Ningenkai. It’s a monster trying to drag all of them down a well, forcing him to claw and snarl and fight his way back toward where he glimpses the sky, except the sides of the well keep growing, no matter how much high he climbs.
At least in this moment, he has something of a reprieve. The throbbing in his head persists through the long walk back to the hotel. Ahead of him, Kuwabara walks unaided, despite the beatings he took across two rounds; Hiei refuses to think about the reason why. Yusuke is still supporting Kurama’s weight, one arm around his shoulders, though even the latter is looking better now than he did just a few hours earlier.
Not, Hiei thinks sourly to himself, that it’s that much of an improvement. Hard to look worse after being tossed around like a doll, with a deadly, bloodthirsty plant draining him from the inside.
(He appreciates Yusuke’s efficient dispatch of Bakken, but he wouldn’t have minded a clear shot.)
His hands flex, digging his claws into his palms, creating sensation without pain. Hiei glances down at his right arm, and the corner of his mouth tugs up.
At least in one way he came out better than he went in…
By the time they reach the hotel, Kurama insists he can stand on his own. Yusuke frowns, looking like he wants to protest, and glances over at Hiei. Hiei gives Yusuke a tiny nod of acknowledgement, and falls into step with Kurama. He’s not about to let the fox shrug off anything that needs attention.
Yusuke relaxes minutely, and then turns and heads into the forest, toward Keiko, who watches him approach with an intent, stern look on her face. Kuwabara is already gone, and so, alarmingly, is Yukina, but Hiei won’t concern himself with that now; the worst that Kuwabara would possibly do is make a fool of himself, and Hiei is fine with missing that particular demonstration.
In their room, Hiei sits on his bed, legs drawn up, examining the restored mobility of his right hand with pleasure. He has no doubt that he could’ve gotten it to work on his own, but it was only fitting that the committee’s interference sped up the process for him. It buys him extra time to truly master the dragon, and the pleasure of spiting those corrupt humans can only sweeten the lure he uses to draw the dragon out.
“It looks much better,” says Kurama, drawing Hiei’s focus. He looks up to see Kurama observing him mildly from his own bed, even as he goes through the motions of subduing and coaxing the deadly vetch from his wounds. “I wonder if the committee had any idea that their trick would actually restore your health so efficiently.”
“I doubt it.”
Kurama hums his agreement. “Or perhaps they knew, but deemed it an acceptable risk.”
“Either way, I’ll skip the thank you cards.”
“Of course,” says Kurama, in a musing sort of way that indicates that, no, he hadn’t thought that Hiei would write thank you cards and, in fact, had no idea that Hiei even knew what a thank you card was, but he had that image in his head now and he wasn’t going to forget it anytime soon. Hiei tends to do that--putting images into people’s heads, even when he isn’t using the Jagan. It amuses Kurama, which Hiei sometimes mind and sometimes doesn’t.
Hiei doesn’t mind today; he has more pressing reasons to be annoyed with his partner.
“It’s only an arm,” says Hiei, lowering his hand to rest in his lap. “It wouldn’t have been worth very much if you had really been eaten from the inside out by your own plants.”
“True,” agrees Kurama, not even having the decency to look guilty. He pinches at his seeded arm, wincing as he digs his fingers in, but when he draws his hand away, there’s a small, bloodied seed in his arm. He tucks it back into his hair, and resumes drawing out the rest of the bloody strings of vegetation. Difficult to watch, but Hiei’s seen (and caused) far gorier scenes.
“Or if Bakken succeeded in beating you to death,” presses Hiei, because the number of ways Kurama could have died today is truly alarming. “You scared the detective.”
Kurama doesn’t immediately respond, still working through his arm and chest. It’s good that Kurama won’t meet his stare; annoying if anyone else tried to avoid it, but it means that Kurama might have actually learned a lesson about how his needlessly thorough strategizing leaves him vulnerable to weaker opponents.
“I know,” he says at last. “I miscalculated.”
Hiei knows that’s a big admission for Kurama. He still scoffs. Loudly.
“You don’t. He would have torn the whole stadium apart for you,” snaps Hiei, not thinking about his own reaction, how he thought nothing of destroying his still-healing arm a second time, and possibly even for good, if it meant he could prevent Kurama’s death.
Kurama only offers a faint smile, shadowed by the dark afternoon light. Hiei has noticed that he does that a lot, shifting to stay in shadows and poorly lit spaces, despite his striking looks. He’s never asked about this particular habit of Kurama’s, whether it is left over from his youko form’s sense of theatrics, or a new one formed to remain unobtrusive in a world where he stands out, so he can continue his observations relatively undisturbed.
“I don’t blame either of you for being frustrated by the committee's machinations today,” Kurama is saying, forcing Hiei to focus back on his words. “Nor would I bet against you, even if you fought against the entire stadium. Under better circumstances, I would’ve happily joined you.”
He speaks like he has a head cold, not like he had been bleeding out. How can the fox still be so calm? It’s a thought that Hiei has held frequently in the time they’ve known each other. No matter how well he understands Kurama’s strategies, Kurama’s choices are often beyond him--especially for sacrifices like these. Despite his intellect and his weapons, Kurama treats his own body as fodder for distraction.
(Albeit, usually not so literally.)
“You couldn’t. Fox, you have no idea how close you were to getting killed.”
“I’ve been healing the damage for the last three hours,” says Kurama, a new edge in his voice. “I think I have a better idea than you do. I’m not playing games, Hiei.”
Hiei recognizes that accusation--it’s one he has regularly thrown at the fox over the years. But it only annoys him further.
“And yet you still won’t fix your bad habits,” says Hiei, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed so that he faces Kurama fully. He probably shouldn't be taking advantage of Kurama’s weakened state to harangue him, but the opportunity for him to speak with impunity on these points have been few and far between. How this quiet, careful creature cannot see his own arrogance is alarming and infuriating--especially when he so regularly pokes at Hiei’s perceived shortcomings.
Kurama’s eyes glitter with frustration, but when he speaks, his tone is still level. “I use what I have at hand. I’ve only recently started testing the limits of this body; I need to be deliberate.”
Hiei snorts; he can’t help it. “If you didn’t just put that body at completely unnecessary risk, I might believe you. It’s not my responsibility if you’re too foolish to avoid getting yourself killed, but I would expect you to appreciate that someone else wants you to fix the holes in your guard. Opponents like Gama and Bakken should have been nothing to you--what?”
Kurama is giving him a very strange look, his youki shifting from defensive to questioning.
“You’re taking this rather personally, Hiei.”
“It’s not fun to watch you lose,” says Hiei shortly. It’s an obvious statement, but Kurama is still looking at him with slightly widened eyes, he wonders uneasily if he might have unintentionally implied something more. Hastily, before Kurama can accuse him of sentiment, he adds, “What happens if you have another opponent like Touya? Or an opponent like me, who knows your tactics?”
Kurama opens his mouth as if to speak, only to turn pale and gasp--a short, pained sound--and doubles over on himself. Hiei is off the bed and in two steps is in front of Kurama, hands outstretched and hovering, uncertain where to put them, but determined to offer aid if needed.
But then Kurama uncurls, still breathing deeply, and with a small smile, holds out the bloodied roots of the vetch, now limp in his hand.
“That’s the last of it,” he says, a note of undisguised relief seeping through. He wraps his fingers around the roots, and when they open again, the plant is only a seed again.
“Good.” Hiei steps away, folding his arms close against his chest. “Now you can actually heal yourself?”
Kurama nods. He already looks a little better, now that he’s excised the plant from his system, the edges of pain no longer sharpening the angles of his face.
“Yes. Not to mention, I can actually clean up properly--I still reek of the arena.” Kurama stands carefully, still wincing. Hiei starts to move back toward his own bed, except then Kurama steps right into Hiei’s space, looking down at him. Hiei doesn’t look away.
“I’m sorry I worried you,” says Kurama gently.
Hiei flushes and glares at the corner of the room, looking away from Kurama, who is looking at him like--like he’s a child in need of reassurance. How arrogant.
“You owe Yusuke far more than you owe me,” he reminds Kurama.
“We’ve established that,” agrees Kurama, and when Hiei can force himself to look back, he catches the thoughtful glint in Kurama’s eyes that almost make him wish that he didn’t. “But I still mean it.”
Hiei huffs and closes his eyes, flopping backwards on the bed as if he is about to go to sleep. Kurama is wasting his apologies on Hiei, and knows it.
Still.
“Accepted,” Hiei replies, knowing that he doesn’t need to say it, but that Kurama likes to hear it all the same. He hears Kurama move around the room, gathering his things for the shower, and sleep does seem more tempting, now that they have the promise of a few days’ rest ahead of the semifinals.
“Hiei?”
Ignoring Kurama now wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for him. Hiei opens his eyes to meet Kurama’s: permission to continue.
“If you and I ever truly fight,” says Kurama, mischievously, with that slight, amused smile of his, “I promise that you won’t have to watch me lose.”
He turns and heads into the shower without waiting for Hiei’s response, closing the door soundlessly behind him, and that’s good, because there’s the answer Kurama expects and the answer Hiei can give, and they are no longer one and the same.
~