A LITTLE DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters appearing in this fic are the property of Yoshihiro 
                     Togashi, Studio Pierrot, Fuji TV, and Shonen Jump Weekly. 

	I lean back on my haunches, wiping sweat and damp hair from my brow as I review my work
with a deep satisfaction. The new rose bush I had purchased the day before was now deeply 
seated into the ground, the roots already burrowing deeper into the soil, the tight green buds 
ready to unfurl at any day now, and fill the backyard with their bright colors. My garden has
always been the envy of the neighbors; many have asked how I could produce such beautiful 
flowers. Their questions always make me smile; they could never hope to copy me, not unless 
they have a youko’s power to control plants and somehow escaped my notice.

	I lightly touch one half-opened flower with the tip of my index finger, use a little of 
my power to speed its growth until my fingers caress a large, healthy red rose in full bloom. 
Carefully breaking it off its stem, I rise to my feet and pad silently into the house, sliding 
the door shut behind me. Because of the early time - the sun has just barely started to rise
over the eternally-distant horizon line - I am the only one awake in this large house; my 
parents and brother are still asleep, and I have no wish to wake them - humans need sleep more 
than youkai do, and anyway - early morning and late night are my hours, the times when I can 
think about anything I please without worrying about being interrupted.

	I set the rose down at ’Kaasan’s place at the table, where I know she will find it, 
knowing it will please her when she sees it there. Despite the entrance of ’Tousan and 
Shuuichi-kun into our lives, my mother and I still hold a special bond of our own, untouched by 
the new ones we have formed with our new family. She once told me that, when my real human 
father, long since passed away, was courting her, he would bring her huge, stunning bouquets of 
multicolored roses; I, in laughing reply, told her I would do the same, one day. I have yet to 
do that, but she is content with what I do give her - a single rose, here and there, in places 
where she cannot miss them. Every time she sees one of my gifts, she smiles, one that lights up
her face like the so-called Fountain of Youth; it makes me happy, to see her so content.

	I sit in my own place at the table, positioning my chair so that it faces the window, 
and I can watch the encroaching sunrise. It spills, like blood, across the pale expanse of the 
sky, the sun slicing easily through like a swordblade sliding into vunerable human flesh. I 
make a cup of my hands, cradle my chin in them, pensive as I watch the sun rise. In my mind, I 
hear the music that Megumi-okaasan played for me in my true youth, on her pipes, the same ones 
she later bequeathed to me, at her death. I could remember sitting at her feet, wide-eyed and 
childish, watching with adoration and fascination as her fingers danced over the numerous small 
holes, creating a haunting piece that I have often tried to emulate, but there is a part of it 
still missing, one key phrase I haven’t quite figured out yet.

	There were words to it as well; even though centuries have passed since I last sat 
under the spreading branches of that tree and let Megumi-okaasan’s music work its magic, I 
still remember every last word, clear and ringing like a bell. It was a love song; told from 
the viewpoint of a lonely soul whose loved someone, someone who could not love in return. I 
never understood why I remembered those, out of everything that had come out of my childhood, 
until about ten years ago. To be specific, the day a certain dark Koorime appeared into my 
life, snarling threats and rejecting any overtures of friendship I made.

	I smile a little, and the twist to my lips is bitter; I am more like the singer than I 
had ever believed possible. As much as I long for him, he keeps himself distant, separating 
himself from all those who could come to mean more to him than a mere fellow in life. Yukina, 
the other boys, myself... he is an enigma to everyone, including myself; and though I have 
known him the longest, there are times when I feel as if I know him the least. He creates an 
air of indifference about himself, using harsh words and actions to discourage anyone from 
getting to close - whether to his person, or to his heart.

	I sigh heavily, then gulp, swallowing past the lump in my throat. I have never 
understood the power he holds over me; he can hurt me worse than any blade with a single 
scornful look; he wields his disinterest like a knife, using it to cut my heart, to hurt me, to 
drive me away from him. Yet, I have recieved so much worse from others; been called much worse 
than a "stupid kitsune," but none of the others ever hurt so much; none of the ones before him 
had ever found the secret place of my heart and made it bleed.

	I take the rose and twirl it between my fingers, avoiding the sharp little thorns, and 
study it closely. So many others have compared me to a rose - my hair, my eyes, my preference 
for that plant above all others - but they fail to notice how much he is like one as well. He 
has his own strength and delicate beauty that could be compared to the fragileness of the rose; 
but also, he has strength - the thorns which protect the flower are like his words, protecting 
his heart. He is a black rose; a rarity; someone who is both kind and cruel; someone who 
attracts and repels at once. 

	I rise to my feet, resettling the rose in its former position, and turn, ready to head 
up the stairs, to my room, where I can think in more comfortable surroundings, when I feel it -
a brief sense of someone’s you-ki, sharp and familiar, bright and dark mixed. As quickly as it 
enters my senses, it is gone - I shake my head, certain that the feeling was only wishful 
thinking on my part - why should he come to visit me, now of all times? - but my heart, the 
hopeless dreamer that it is, forces me to turn, to see if he had really been there; if he had 
left any trace of his presence.

	And he has.

	Lying on the table, crisscrossing the stem of the red rose, is a black one.

	I smile again, and this one has no bitterness it it; is more like my true smile than 
the one before. Carefully, I lift the rose, and inhale its fragrance; light and sweet, but 
strong at the same time. The petals are soft and full; they tickle my nose in a soft, teasing 
caress, fill my senses with that same scent. I wonder where he has found this; it is almost a 
week too early for roses to be growing on its own ... the Makai? I wonder, leaning closer, 
studying it; there are none of the blemishes most Ningenkai roses have, but I have never heard 
of a rose plant thriving in the world that is my native place.

	Then, I consider another question. Does it really matter, where he got this?

	No, it doesn’t.

	I walk back to the window, stare into the blinding sun, shielding my eyes with my hand. 
I wonder where he is, out there, and if he is lurking, just beyond my range to feel him, 
watching me as I have often watched him. The thought makes me smile ... it is good to know that 
he cares, if only a little. I whisper a small thanks to the silence of the room, and then turn,
and go into my room.

	Maybe I’m not as badly off as the singer of Megumi-okaasan’s song, after all.

=================================================================================================

* Next: Hiei's Snapshot: Valentine's Day