Pretending

A/N: Written on a cold, bitter night, when left alone to dwell on my thoughts. Credit to Mary of Ashwinder's Before Dawn, which inspired much of this and parts are taken from. Rated for allusion to explicit acts.

This is not a pleasant story, I warn you. It is a tale of heartbreak, emotion, and betrayal. Expect no happy endings here.

Disclaimer: I do not claim Inuyasha. Hence, I disclaim it. See how it works?

Pretending

She pretends not to care that he's using her.

Oh, she knows that he's using her; she's not a blind as others may think. She can see his eyes soften at her memory, she can sense his happiness when he immerses himself in a memory of stolen moments and time alone spent with her, and she can feel his desolation when he realizes, once again, that she is gone, leaving only herself in her place. She knows she is not the one who has captivated his heart.

But she pretends not to know. The ignorance is more preferable than the reality.

She knows he will come to her tonight. She waits by her window, hugging her lavish robe to her body, looking out at the stars, shining with vacant, bleak light. She needs no warning of his approaching presence. She can almost feel him coming, long before he knocks at her door, breaking the harsh silence of the night.

She goes to the door silently, opening it without so much as a glance. She knows who it will be.

He makes his way into the room, tugging off his haori as she silently shuts the door. He drapes the garment over a nearby chair and moves across the room to kiss her without preamble. No words are spoken as they kiss.

It's been nearly a week since he last came to her. She knew he wouldn't stay long; he never does. Oh, she knows he'll try, of course. He'll immerse himself in battle, go on a quest, or do some other menial thing to try to keep his need out of his mind. She knows he'll lock himself in his room, clawing at his hair and pretending he doesn't need it, but in the end, he'll give in. He always gives in.

Their meetings follow a set pattern, left unaltered from the first time. There is no change, no variation, nothing to make either of them expect anything more that what exists. He comes to her, and what follows is a single kiss, a moan, and frantic, fumbling hands over clothes and skin, the air between them vibrant and intoxicating in its intensity.

He always leaves afterwards, before dawn. It ends with a sigh, a gentle rustle of fabric, and the sound of the door closing as she keeps her eyes closed. She never actually sees him leave. Somehow, she can't bear to watch it.

It was first born of simple need. With the stress and grief from their finally battle with Naraku fresh in their minds, the loss of their friends had weighed heavily on both of them as they sat alone that night. He started it, she remembers, with all action and no words. She did nothing to stop his silent pleas to make him forget, to make him feel something other than pain for one all too brief moment. She did nothing to stop him because she had needed it as well.

She knows why it started. And though she likes to pretend she doesn't, she knows why it continued.

Though the battle is over, the scars of it are long and deep, lasting on the souls of those present. He comes to her because she is one of the broken, one of the few who can make him feel whole again, like nothing had ever changed. She can remind him of a past where he once lived and loved in happiness, before this time of darkness.

He doesn't say much, but she knows it to be true. That he hasn't said it doesn't surprise her. It's not as if this is a planned arrangement, after all. They haven't spoken to each other in months, preferring to let their bodies handle the communication in place of words. They're not friends anymore, not lovers, not anything, and she supposes it leaves them in a place where polite exchanges, explanations, and declarations simply aren't wanted or needed. So she pretends not to notice the silence between them, as awkward as it may be.

She pretends more often than not in his presence. She pretends not to see it when the name of the woman he once loved before silently forms on his lips. She pretends not to feel the tear streaking down his cheek as she licks a path next to it. She pretends to be ignorant of the disgust he feels with himself for doing this.

She pretends not to care that he's using her.

She's tried more than once to end all of this, to break the destructive pattern they've set for themselves. She has moved on, after all. She has new friends, a new husband, and a new life to lead. She knows that while her husband is understanding of her encounters with his brother, he is not pleased with them. He loves her, and she him, even though she lies with another regularly. She would end this tumultuous cycle, as she knows it would be best, but she can never seem to stop his assault on her long enough to tell him what she thinks of their arrangement.

She's not entirely sure she wants to stop.

He slips on his clothes while she lies on the bed, her eyes closed. She hears the floor creak as he pads across it softly, the sound of the door shutting the only evidence that he was ever there at all.

She gets up, moving to the window, and watches as he bounds off into the forest, back to his own home in the East. Her eyes follow the shadow of his figure as he blends in with the darkness of the trees, and she remains at the window for long after he is gone.

A strong arm slips around her, holding her tightly to a firm chest. A pair of lips presses a soft kiss to her head, and she realizes a tear has slipped down her face.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” he whispers, looking down at his wife. “Why do you do this if it hurts you so much?”

She turns to face him, the dim moonlight illuminating the crescent moon and markings on his face, his amber eyes solemn, reminiscent of an ethereal being. Her own eyes are sad, but her face remains blank.

“I love him,” she responds quietly.

“Even though you know he does not loves you?” he asks, brushing a lock of her raven hair behind her ear, the gesture speaking volumes of his own love for her. She nods silently

“You know he cares not for you, but for the miko you remind him of?” he says softly, gently wiping a tear from her cheek. She turns back to the window, still wrapped in his comforting embrace. She looks into the night, ever dark, where the the stars once shone with hope instead of bleak light.

“I know,” she whispers into the night air, pretending not to feel her heart break. “I know.”

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While no characters are specifically named, I trust all are able to divine who is who in this tale.

If you have read this, please review. Let me know what you think.