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"Fuck off."
…the only thing Miroku had been doing was following the claw marks. He certainly hadn't been looking to start trouble, only seeking out a warm place to sleep, and while the engine already being occupied was not unexpected, the hostility of the current occupant was a bit jarring.
"Come on, don't be like that." Miroku made sure to use his best 'cajoling voice', even though he was internally squirming: the temperature was already well below freezing, and it would be a full thirty-six hours before the next train rolled in. He wasn't going to survive that long outside in the snow. "Surely there's enough room in there for both of us?"
The only answer he got was an incoherent jumble of sounds that was somewhere between a string of curse words and a full-on growl.
Taking a step back, Miroku considered his options.
First order of business: how dangerous was this guy?
Though his physique was mostly concealed under an oversize red hoodie, the other man did not appear to be large: as a matter of fact, he looked to be about the same size as Miroku. At a glance, he didn't think the guy would be able to overpower him through sheer brute force, though Miroku also wasn't going to write off the possibility of him being armed or combat trained or simply a lot stronger than he looked. As for mental stability…
While he was certainly standoffish, there wasn't anything about him that screamed "serial killer". Still, there was no way of knowing what he might do in the event that he felt cornered… and right now, Miroku might have no choice but to make him feel cornered. Was he really so protective of his space that he'd be willing to resort to violence against anyone who invaded it?
The sound of the brakes hissing told him he wasn't going to get any more time to ponder it over: the train was about to move. Making a snap decision, Miroku decided that he'd rather take his chances with one stranger maybe being violent than stay out in the yard and definitely freeze to death, and hopped into the engine just as the train began to move.
Once in the warmth of the engine room, Miroku braced himself. While he'd never been a fan of physical violence, Mushin had taught him the importance of being prepared for anything.
…in the end, Mushin himself had not been prepared for anything. A bottle of alcohol, a fast-moving train, an altercation with a stranger shouting anti-Asian slurs… well. Best not to dwell on it. Genetics might be against him, but that didn't mean Miroku was of a mind to hurry things along or to follow in his mentor's footsteps. If the price of his continued existence was that he would occasionally have to swing a fist, then so be it.
A tense few minutes passed with the other guy glaring daggers at him, tension in every line of his body, while Miroku did his best to maintain assertive eye contact but also to keep his body language neutral and nonthreatening, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. After an indeterminate stalemate during which no words were exchanged (even if he did think he was going to have to take a look in the mirror the first chance he got to check whether it was actually possible for a glare to burn a hole in one's forehead), the other man turned away with a scowl, yanking his hood down over his face.
Well, that could have gone better—but it also could have gone much, much worse. While Miroku wouldn't have minded having someone to talk to to while away the hours (maybe even a pretty girl who was just as lonely as he was—hey, a guy could dream), he probably wasn't going to die tonight and he'd count that as a victory.
Granted, he still wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to sleep. Not after he'd trapped himself in a small space with a hostile unknown.
Surreptitiously, he studied the stranger. Though the man's eyes had appeared to gleam almost gold in the light of the setting sun, they were now an ordinary dark brown, and while it was difficult to make out any distinctive facial features beneath the shadow of his hood, what little he could see revealed that they might have more in common than he'd initially thought.
Miroku decided to take a chance.
"Hey," he tried again, this time in Japanese. "Do you mind if I ask—"
"Are you fuckin' deaf?" Well, that at least answered one question: his unwilling companion could in fact speak Japanese. "Fuck off."
Well, it was a shame… but Miroku decided not to push his luck. While it was true he still had a lot of items on his bucket list, "getting thrown out of a moving train by an irate stranger" was not one of them.
When his father had died, Miroku had been only sixteen.
He hadn't left much by way of an inheritance—hard to accrue any savings when you'd gotten in less than ten years of working, and no point in saving up anyway if you weren't going to live long enough to retire. For as long as Miroku had been able to talk, he'd had this understanding: he would be left nothing, and leave nothing behind himself.
That wasn't cruelty, and it wasn't spite. It was simply the way the world worked for them, and always had.
Another truth: it was important to get in as much living as possible while you still had the chance.
Mushin, he knew, had been a friend of his father's, even if he hadn't seen much of the man during the early years of his life. During the funeral, though, he'd made a point of reconnecting, and seen what an old drunkard might teach him about grasping the only freedom that was now open to him.
His father had died in a hospital bed, in constant pain and hooked up to countless machines as the cancer ate away at his body. Miroku was determined not to go in the same way.
There were many who hopped with a destination in mind. Miroku was one of those who was in it for the journey.
He figured that following the claw marks was as good a path as any.
…at least, they looked an awful lot like claw marks. He had no idea what sort of tool had actually been used to make them. Whoever was responsible and however they'd done it, they'd intrigued him from the first time he'd laid eyes on them.
Yes, there were lots of tags out there, and most of them were far more artistic than this one. Miroku's own, for one, and he could not deny he took great pride in how creative he'd managed to get with it. Still… those simple parallel gouges were unique in their own way. The person who'd made them had chosen to leave their mark in a way that couldn't be painted over or washed off, that was impossible to remove without replacing the surface altogether, and that alone was worthy of respect in his eyes.
So, wherever the claw marks appeared, Miroku followed. Whenever he saw them on a sign or landmark, he went in that direction. When he saw them on a train car, he hopped it. He might not know where they were leading him, but anything was better than going nowhere.
He had no idea what he'd been expecting to find, but in the end, he was never disappointed.
Whoever this person was, they really got around. No matter where he went, he always seemed to find them: from New York to California, in crowded city hubs and the backend of nowhere. There was always something interesting waiting for him, or at the very least something useful.
A simple enough tag: four parallel lines, tapering off at the ends, mostly straight but sometimes with a slight curvature. Carved, not drawn.
Only once did Miroku try to examine them more closely. An inexplicable shiver went through him when he lay his hand atop the marks and saw that the spacing between them was nearly an exact match for the spacing between his own fingers.
"Oh, you've gotta be fuckin' kidding me."
Miroku was the first to admit he didn't remember everyone he encountered while on the move… but that bad attitude and the familiar voice speaking Japanese were hard to forget.
In his defense, he hadn't realized the car was occupied until the train was already moving, and what had initially appeared to be a shapeless pile of rags half-hidden behind a stack of crates began shifting about and looked up at him with a scowl.
"Ah, so we meet again." True, they still didn't exactly know each other, but Miroku had previously spent a full night all alone with the guy and now felt a little more confident that he wasn't about to get murdered. "What brings you here on this fine day?"
"You couldn't've picked another car? Any other car?"
"My friend, it would seem we both picked this car because we both share the same good taste." The fact that he'd picked this specific car because he'd spotted the claw tag wasn't something that needed to be mentioned. That was his private journey. Miroku was easygoing and friendly by nature, but that didn't mean he was one to bare his soul to a near-stranger.
"Keh."
"I see you haven't changed." Miroku plopped himself down within conversational distance (though he did make sure to keep out of arm's reach, just in case). "So are you this rude to everyone, or is it just me?"
"Most people ain't as annoying as you."
"Well. Good to know there's something I'm good at."
With a scowl, the other man aggressively yanked his hood up over his head, to the point where it seemed like he was trying to hide his face altogether. It was a clear signal that he wanted to be left alone.
Well, Miroku could take a hint. He fell silent, and resigned himself to watching the scenery go by.
…still, it was awfully boring just looking at cornfield after cornfield after cornfield.
"So, what's your name?"
"Fuck off."
"Nice to meet you, Fuck Off. I'm Miroku."
The groan he gave was immensely satisfying. "Would you give it a fuckin' rest already?"
"I don't know." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "It's just so awfully hard to entertain myself without anyone to talk to…"
"Inuyasha."
"Hm?" Miroku turned to raise an eyebrow at his companion.
"I said I'm Inuyasha! Now will you shut the fuck up!?"
That must have been his street name. No self-respecting parents would actually name their kid "Inuyasha".
…then again, it wasn't like most English speakers would know the difference anyway.
"Well, it was nice talking to you, Inuyasha." A guttural warning growl cut him off, and Miroku decided it would probably be best not to push his luck any further.
Get in as much living as he could, while he still could. It wasn't as if he had long anyway; might as well enjoy life to the fullest during the time he did have. That was Miroku's life philosophy, and so far, it had served him well.
Now, though? Now, Miroku was starting to seriously regret some of his life choices.
He regretted the drinking he'd done, which was seriously impeding both his judgment and his ability to talk his way out of whatever it was he'd gotten himself into.
He regretted blindly following the claw tag without being attentive to the rest of his surroundings.
He regretted not reading the room, something he normally prided himself on being very good at, before jumping into an occupied car and then trapping himself there as the train started moving, and while the glares he was receiving from the three grizzled white men he now shared the car with might have been mere annoyance over a stranger impeding on their space, there was something deeper and more charged in their expressions that did not bode well for him.
…Miroku was absolutely fucked.
"Now, gentlemen." He held up both hands in a placating gesture. "I assure you I didn't mean to intrude, I'm sure we can settle this rationally if we all just—"
That was as far as he got before the first fist pummeled into his stomach.
Though he couldn't make out any specific insults, their fists spoke clearly enough. Before he could brace himself or speak further in his defense, a fist was flying in toward his face, and then he was on the floor and being kicked from all sides.
He had been hoping they'd throw a few punches, get it out of their systems, and then let him drag himself into a corner to lick his wounds in peace. As the blows continued to rain down on him and showed no sign of stopping, though, Miroku realized that wasn't going to happen.
This was going to be how he died.
Not in a hospital bed like his father, not blown to bits by shrapnel like his grandfather, who'd decided that if he was doomed to die early, then he was going to do so on his terms. No, Miroku wasn't getting the dignity of dying for his country, or the care of a hospital. No, his death was going to be far closer to that of the mentor who'd taught him how to live this life... and who'd apparently taught him how to leave it, too.
Drunk and thrown out of a moving train drunk and thrown out of a moving train drunk and thrown out of a moving train
…except then, they suddenly stopped.
It took him a couple of seconds to realize it. By that point, he was barely teetering on the edge of consciousness, and had lost the thread of cause and effect between the sound of a blow and a burst of pain in his own body. The fact that the former was no longer producing the latter didn't fully register until he heard another sound, one that wasn't supposed to be there… but which was nevertheless uncannily familiar.
"Fuck off! All of you!"
Slowly, he blinked open his eyes. The world around him was rapidly blurring, but he could make out a red blur that was much more distinct than all of the other blurs.
Then, there was another face right up in front of his, and Miroku definitely recognized that scowl.
"Huh. Did you know you have gold eyes?"
That was the last thing he remembered saying before he blacked out entirely.
The next thing he knew, he was somewhere warm, whose floor vibrated beneath him with a gentle swaying motion.
Engine. He must have somehow made it to the engine. By this point, Miroku didn't even need to open his eyes to recognize the motion of a train, and it was far too warm for him to be anywhere else.
While the where was obvious enough, that still left the question of how. Last time he'd checked, he wasn't up for hopping cars on a moving train even on a good day, much less right after a severe beating. So either he'd been unconscious a lot longer than he thought… or there was something else going on that he still didn't fully understand.
Though the light made his head pound, he nevertheless forced his eyes open. There on the other side of the car was a very familiar figure in a red hoodie, a scowl on his face and an arm resting atop his updrawn knee.
"Ah. We really do need to stop meeting like this."
"Would you shut the fuck up?" Scowl still firmly in place, he pushed himself over to kneel next to Miroku's head. "I hope you realize that you woulda died if I hadn't bailed you out."
"I am grateful, of course." He let his eyes slip closed, raising a hand to press against his pounding head.
"Keh." Then, without warning, he grabbed the hem of Miroku's shirt and yanked it up to bunch around his chest.
"Why, Inuyasha." He batted his eyes. "I had no idea you felt that way."
Oh, he must really be out of it. While Miroku wasn't one to deny himself pleasure from any source and didn't typically say no to men who propositioned him, he also knew better than to flirt with anyone other than women. Too dangerous, if one outed oneself to the wrong group of people.
Inuyasha's scowl only deepened. "Are you fuckin' trying to get yourself killed?"
Still, he didn't recoil in disgust, or throw Miroku off the train, and his touch as he prodded the multitude of cuts and bruises was gentle.
Miroku also couldn't help but notice something about him, now that they were this close.
Before Inuyasha had time to react, Miroku reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand right up next to his face.
With a curse, Inuyasha yanked his wrist out of Miroku's grasp and flung himself back against the opposite wall, but that particular cat was already out of the bag: Miroku had gotten a good look at his hand, and no one had nails that sharp… or at least, no one human.
The apparent ability of someone so outwardly skinny and unimposing to move the unconscious body of a full-grown man between cars on a moving train suddenly made a lot more sense.
"I didn't know demons made a habit of riding the rails."
"It ain't a habit, dumbass. I had nowhere else to go."
"I see." Though Miroku had a feeling there was a lot to unpack behind that statement, he decided not to pry anymore for the time being. He wasn't exactly in a position to alienate his only ally.
"I guess this makes us even," was what he said instead.
There: they'd each seen one of the other's vulnerabilities. Hopefully that would be enough.
A long moment passed before he heard a soft "Keh". Then, Inuyasha was over by him again, resuming his examination of Miroku's injuries.
"I hope you realize the only reason I'm helping you is 'cause you're such an idiot you're a fuckin' danger to yourself."
"Of course, of course."
"An' next time pay better attention to what you're walking into!"
"Oi. Idiot."
Miroku groaned.
Right now, being disturbed was the absolute last thing he wanted. The past twenty-four hours had been spent in a haze while Inuyasha fed him sips of water, helped him to and from the bathroom, and occasionally shoved an awful-tasting dried leaf into his mouth, claiming it would help with the pain—which, to be fair, it did.
It also left him fuzzy-headed and sleepy, and he was pretty sure the last dose hadn't worn off quite yet.
"Five more minutes." Miroku threw an arm over his eyes.
"That's the point, stupid. We ain't got five minutes."
That was enough to make him pay attention. Forcing his eyes open, he could see that the train was, indeed, slowing down.
"Right. Let's get—"
His attempt to stand was abruptly cut short when the world tilted around him, and he found himself losing the fight against gravity as he was pulled right back towards the floor… but someone else caught him before he could make it all the way there.
"Keh. Do I hafta do everything for you?"
Before Miroku could even so much as open his mouth to make a clever quip, they were outside and moving.
If Miroku had had any doubts before as to Inuyasha's demon heritage, they were gone now: within seconds they were out of sight of the train, and then of the yard, and then past the populated areas and out into the trees.
"Where are we going?" he shouted over the rush of wind. 'I didn't sign on for this!' was just on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back down.
"See a friend," Inuyasha grunted as a powerful leap propelled them both up into a tree. "I usually visit him when I come this way."
So this is someone he crashes with, Miroku interpreted in his head. "You have friends?" was what he said out loud.
"I will drop you." Something that sounded suspiciously like an annoyed growl bubbled up in Inuyasha's throat.
Tempting as it was to continue his teasing, Miroku wisely decided to shut his mouth and stop agitating the person who was carrying him before he decided to follow through on his threat… even if he was beginning to strongly suspect that Inuyasha was all bark and no bite.
Besides, with the state he was in, adrenaline could only do so much, and Miroku was already starting to feel woozy again. He got only the briefest glimpse of a little cottage hidden among the trees before passing right back out.
When he came to, he was lying down.
He was warm.
…and, there was a very large pair of luminous blue eyes staring back into his.
"Aah!"
"Aah!"
Miroku jolted upright… and promptly bonked heads with the person leaning over him.
The door slammed open while Miroku was still rubbing the sore spot on his head. "The fuck is all that noise!?"
"I'm sorry Inuyasha, I think I scared him…"
"Keh, that idiot? He's a grown-ass man, he knows better than to be scared of any big, bad hanyou."
Miroku blinked. He blinked again. He'd just been hit with several different revelations and was struggling to process them all at once.
One, he'd already figured out for himself that Inuyasha wasn't human, and the person he'd just bonked heads with definitely wasn't—that elongated face and those bulbous blue eyes didn't exactly leave him much doubt. But also…
…but also, this was the first time he could ever recall seeing Inuyasha without any sort of hat or hood, and if he'd thought the claws were a dead giveaway, they didn't hold a candle to the pair of fuzzy white dog ears that sat atop his head.
Ears that were currently pulled back in a clear expression of guarded uncertainty.
And he'd made mention of hanyou.
"You know what?" Miroku slumped back down onto the sofa he only just now realized he'd woken up on, throwing an arm over his eyes. "It's too damn early, and my head already hurts."
"It's mid-afternoon, dumbass." Still, the disdainful huff he heard in Inuyasha's voice was indicative of an overall ease in the tension.
"Give me a break, I'm injured." Miroku made no move to resist or to remove his arm from his face as a pair of large hands hesitantly pushed aside his clothes to began gently tending his injuries.
Their host, as it turned out, was named Jinenji.
Over the next several days, Miroku learned quite a bit about Jinenji. His mother had been a human, his father a horse demon. Both his parents were dead. For all his large size and frightful appearance, he was incredibly gentle and shy and didn't have a mean bone in his body. Inuyasha sometimes crashed on his couch when he was in the neighborhood and had nowhere else to go. He'd wanted to go to nursing school, but had no means of paying for it.
Jinenji was also able to tell him a little bit more about Inuyasha.
"We met in foster care. He eventually ran away. I… couldn't." Jinenji's normally luminous eyes had now grown flat and dull. "It… wasn't a good time."
Miroku didn't ask anything more.
"So," he ventured one day while Jinenji re-wrapped his wrist (which Miroku could only hope had only been sprained, not broken—if there was one thing he wouldn't ever be able to afford, it was medical bills). "I was beginning to think Inuyasha wasn't capable of making friends."
Jinenji hesitated a bit before answering. "He's always had… difficulty, with trust. You're the first person he's ever brought here."
That gave him pause.
Several long moments of silence passed before Miroku finally pulled himself back to the present. It seemed as if, for a brief point in time, the world had stopped turning and held itself in a precious moment of stillness.
"Thank you for telling me," he responded at last.
Jinenji only nodded before moving on to the next injury.
He found Inuyasha outside, perched atop a high tree branch and staring up at the sky.
No, Miroku would never pass up a chance at pleasure. Yes, he'd always been one to look, to admire, to drink in beauty when he saw it. But this was the first chance he'd had to truly appreciate how absolutely stunning Inuyasha was: moonlight in his hair, for once not concealed under a hat or a hood, the flash of his golden eyes, the deadly grace with which he moved.
…with which he leaped down in a single fluid motion to land right in front of Miroku, so the two of them were nearly nose to nose.
"The fuck are you staring at?"
"Oh, nothing." No longer fazed in the slightest by all of the bluster, Miroku folded his arms behind his head as he let his gaze rove slowly up and down the body of the man before him. "Just admiring the view."
The look Inuyasha gave him wasn't one he thought he'd ever received before. Some people were receptive and flirted back. The shy ones tended to stammer or blush. As for the ones who weren't receptive… well, men had been known to look at him with a sneer of disgust (if he was lucky, that was all they did), and he'd caught the sting of a woman's hand across his face on more than one occasion.
While this wasn't exactly a welcoming expression (though Miroku was quite gratified to see a dusting of pink across his cheeks), he wouldn't necessarily classify it as outright rejection, either. Instead, Inuyasha looked almost… wary.
It took him a moment to register that Inuyasha was trying to figure out whether Miroku was serious, or just making fun of him.
"Keh," he said at last. Then, without another word, he had leaped back up to his tree branch and resumed his contemplation of the sky.
"I can't stay here forever, you know."
Though Inuyasha didn't say it out loud, Miroku heard the other part of that statement loud and clear: and neither can you.
"Yes," he agreed, plopping himself down on the ground beside Inuyasha. "It would be unspeakably rude of me to impose on Jinenji's hospitality for longer than necessary."
He was almost fully healed, the bruises fading and the prior aches reduced to little more than a lingering soreness. If he hadn't keeled over from hidden injuries or unseen complications yet, he probably wasn't going to. In theory, there wasn't a single thing stopping him from going back out to the yard right this second.
…in theory.
"So?" Inuyasha was giving him a probing look. "You goin' back out?"
"I have nowhere else to go." The confession fell from his lips with the ease of practiced nonchalance. The next part, though? That was harder. "I must admit, though… I'd rather not go alone."
Inuyasha could be dense sometimes, but he wasn't that dense: he immediately knew what Miroku was asking. His eyes narrowed. "You sure you wanna be spending your time hopping the rails with a half-breed?"
"I don't see why not." Miroku shot him a rakish grin. "After all, I'll try anything once."
Then, because there was no reason not to, he leaned forward until their lips brushed together.
"Keh. Idiot," Inuyasha muttered after they pulled apart.
That didn't stop him from closing the distance and kissing Miroku back.
"So? Where to next?"
"Keh. Why the fuck are you in such a good mood?"
Inuyasha's hood was back over his head, a hat under that just for good measure. Miroku could not help but answer his scowl with a grin.
"Why, it's a beautiful day, I'm back on the move, and I'm in the company of a gorgeous companion. What's not to be chipper about?"
"I will leave you behind."
No trying for the engine this time: it was warm enough to hop in one of the ordinary cars, and they wanted to be alone besides. They chose the first train they could find that was heading west.
As the train began moving, Inuyasha drew back his hand and made a slashing motion, leaving behind four parallel claw marks: a tag with which Miroku had become increasingly familiar since he'd first started hopping.
Miroku smiled. "I should have known." Then, pulling out his Markal, tongue sticking out from in between his teeth, he began to draw his own tag on the opposite side of the door.
"Fucking hell." Inuyasha let out a theatrical groan as he leaned over and saw what Miroku was drawing. "You're dick guy?"
"The name is Dickhead, thank you very much." Miroku grinned as he put the final touch on the cluster of suspiciously phallic mushrooms.
"Yeah, well I ain't here to look at any pictures of dicks." The implications were clear, though Miroku was very amused to see that Inuyasha couldn't quite get it out without an incredibly adorable blush creeping onto his cheeks.
With an easy chuckle, Miroku decided to take pity and scooted over to sit next to him. The train had just rounded a bend in the tracks, giving them a clear view of the string of cars behind them and of the landscape they were leaving behind.
Miroku only had so much time. That had been an ever-present fact of life ever since he'd been old enough to understand the concept of death. For now, though, he thought as he leaned in and kissed Inuyasha again, he was going to make the most of every second he did have.
