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. 


	Today is Valentine’s Day.

	I sit, perched in my branch above the everyday crowds of humans, watching them with a 
disdainful eye. I have never understood them, though I have observed them for nearly ten years; 
I cannot comprehend why they must conform themselves to one lover; why they must use such 
extravagant displays to show their devotion and affection. To me, it seems like a waste of 
time, energy, and resources - no wonder humans are so easy to kill or capture. They spend too 
much time on matters of the heart, things that weaken them - rather than on training, or things 
that would strengthen them; things that could perhaps make them a worthy opponent in battle.

	The first time I had ever seen the phenomenon known as "Valentine’s Day," I had been 
positive the world had gone mad. Everyone was rushing to stores, entering and exiting in a 
frenzy, busy buying candy, or flowers, or other extremely expensive things for the person 
sharing their life; and until Kurama explained the whole thing to me, I was convinced this was 
some scheme of my enemies, something to drive me insane, to hinder me in my search for my 
sister.

	But Kurama, the puzzle that not even my Jagan’s Sight can unwind, had noticed my 
confusion, and had taken me to the side, explaining everything - from the gifts that signified 
a vow of devotion between lovers, to the presents that young hopefuls gave to those they wished 
for their own, to the story that lay behind this day’s history. Then, he had forced my hand 
open and closed my fingers over something before bolting; when he was gone and I opened my fist 
again, there was a small silver charm, shaped like a sitting fox, lying against my flesh, 
glittering in the sunlight.

	I still have it, and I still wear it, secretly, under my clothing, where Kurama cannot 
see. It wouldn’t do, if he knew I had accepted his gift; that I had conceded this little 
weakness to him.

	I heave a sigh, one whose tone hovers somewhere between disgust and exasperation. The 
ways of humans are too strange for me to fully grasp; too twisted for any sane-minded youkai to 
know, or want to know. And yet Kurama, that idiotic fox, refuses to leave, professing a strange
fascination for their ways, their customs and words and rules. Every day he spends in the 
Ningenkai binds his soul more tightly to this place, but he somehow does not seem to mind - yet 
another thing about him I can’t understand. What is so great and wonderful about the Ningenkai? 
The people are stupid, short-lived, and clumsy; most have no power or fighting ability to speak 
of; and many panic over the smallest of occurances. A single stray youkai in the streets can 
cause a sensation that will linger for months - maybe even years.

	I raise my eyes to stare through the windows of the building I sit next to; the tall, 
somber stone building that composes Meiou High. I have no idea why I sit so close to this 
place; why a small voice in my mind urges me to stay close today; all that voice will tell me 
is that this has something to do with Kurama; that it would be better to stay near, where he is 
within my sight and range, instead of patrolling the Ningenkai, like I do so often, these days.

	I shift slightly in my place on the tree, and the small box I have in my pocket jabs 
into my flesh, digging a corner into my ribcage. I move one hand, adjust it slightly, then 
resettle myself; I do not wish the carefully wrapped thing I have tucked into my clothing to be 
damaged; not before I give it to him, anyway. I felt like a total fool when I decided to give
this to him; my mind doubts the wisdom of my actions, even now. For a moment, I almost feel 
sympathetic with that moron Kuwabara - then shake my head sourly. What he thinks he feels for 
my sister is nothing to what I have for Kurama.

	The bell rings, signalling the end of the school day; I pay no heed to it - there is no 
way a human could see me up here, in the shadows, my dark attire blending in perfectly with the 
shade of the leaves that surround me.  I watch, with narrowed eyes, as the doors swing open, 
allowing the students to exit, probing the crowds for a familiar, tall, redheaded figure to
appear. And, it seems, I am not the only one looking for him - a crowd of girls has gathered at 
the bottom of the stairs, each clutching some crude package, watching the door with hungry 
eyes. They seem to hold a collective breath, waiting, waiting ...

	I am the first to feel him coming - the unique signature of his you-ki is coming 
steadily nearer, but I do not move from my spot; I do not want him to know that I have been 
waiting for him. His ego is too large, as it is; he would tease me unmercifully, if he ever 
found out.  His appearence at the doorway is met with cheers and screams and squeals, so loud 
and annoying in pitch that I am forced to cover my ears in pain.  They sigh his name, his human 
name, and swarm forward, thrusting packages out for him to take. He accepts them graciously, 
flashing his beautifully tailored smile, the one that is so bright that it seems genuine - 
unless one has a trained eye, like my own. There is an air of falseness at the corners of the 
smile; his eyes are too bright, the corners of his lips turned a little too high up, to be 
real. But the girls fall for it, swooning as he brushes past them, his bags now bulging with 
various packages and presents. Many follow him, only to be discouraged by his soft voice, as he 
requests to walk by himself.  They can’t resist him; they cannot deny him anything. Neither can 
I, but I would never admit it out loud; would kill anyone who even so much as hinted so.

	He walks away from his adoring crowd, moving in that same graceful, unhurried way of 
his; I watch him go silently, watch as the wind strikes up, catching his long red hair and 
twirling it around invisible fingers, flaring it around his head like a bloody halo. The girls 
sigh and squeal amongst themselves; their voices are still too high, too annoying, for me to 
tolerate for more than a few seconds. I stand, balancing easily on the thin branch, and leap, 
my movements unhindered by the clinging of leaves or the small branches. I clear them easily, 
moving quickly, following Kurama’s trail.

	I find him crouched on the walk near his home, his books in a neat pile beside him, one 
slim hand outstretched to caress the leaves of a plant, silver-tinged green in color. The false 
amusement of earlier is gone, replaced by something more real as he gently lifts the drooping 
leaves; he spares me a quick flash of his veiled green eyes as I approach, then looks back to 
his new toy, and his brow furrows briefly, as if in concentration.  The whole plant shivers, 
and from the apex of two large leaves, a tiny, tight bud appears, worming its way to warmth and 
light, before unfurling in a sudden, startling burst of bright red; the color stands out, 
vibrant, almost alive, against the pale coloring of the rest of the plant. His smile widens, 
warm and satisfied, as he straightens, stepping back to study his handiwork.
	
	He bends to pick up his books, then turns to look at me, pinning me in place with his 
jeweled, mysterious gaze; he nods briefly at me, a gesture that says, without words, that he 
wishes me to walk with him. I comply, though I do not understand my motives, falling into step 
beside him. It is easy to adapt to his rhythm, easy to walk next to him and not think of 
anything in particular; just a pleasant haze of contemplation. It feels right, at his side; as 
if I have done this before, in another life.

	The bag he carries, slung over his chest like a healer’s pouch, rustles as he moves; 
the sound of papers and plastics draw my attention. I can see the sharp corners and bulges of 
several boxes; a few wilting flowers poke their way up, their heads free of the suffocating 
darkness of his pack.

	"What’s in there?" I ask, feigning ignorance, though I know he felt my ki earlier, as I 
watched over him during his school day. He pauses, then glances downward, at the half-open 
sack, then sighs, playing along with my bluff.

	"Presents. I told you what Valentine’s Day is like. You might find it stupid, but 
humans - especially young girls - adore it. They spend so much money, buying these sort of 
things; it’s a way of telling someone how you feel about them, instead of walking up to them 
and saying the words." He shrugs, then flips the sack open, pulling a battered, red, heart-
shaped box out, one that rattles when he shakes it. "Want it?" he asks me, only half-jolking. 
His green eyes smirk at me as I stare back, unresponsive. "Didn’t think so." He returns it to 
its former place, hidden from sight, and continues walking for a few minutes before realizing I 
have not moved.  He pauses, looks over his shoulder at me, confused.  "Hiei ... ?"

	I take a deep breath; palm the box I have been hiding from him thus far, and curse 
myself for being so stupid - but there is no backing out in what I have done now. I clear my 
throat, and he comes closer, one fine red eyebrow raised in confusion. He repeats my name a 
second time, one hand reaching out, as if to touch my shoulder. I flinch away and he drops his
hand, looking somewhat hurt as I inhale deeply, slowly, then face him. I can feel my resolve to 
carry this out weakening; my desire to hide my feelings from him growing stronger with every 
second I hesitate. It is with a pure act of will I thrust the box at him, force him to take it, 
like he had once forced me to take his gift, and move to leave.

	Behind me, I hear his soft exclamation of surprise - it might be my own wishful 
thinking, but I imagine I hear happiness in his voice, as well. I flicker from his sight, hiding
myself and my ki from his presence, watching him with narrowed eyes as he looks around, 
bewildered. He calls my name a few times and I twitch, wanting to go to him; but I stop myself, 
telling my heart sternly that I cannot afford his loss; let him interpret this gift as he will.

	He finally gives up in trying to find me and sighs heavily, his shoulders drooping 
slightly; his entire bearing is that of someone sorely disappointed, but still I say nothing, 
do nothing, to reveal that I am closer than he thinks. His hands seem to shake slightly as he 
fiddles with the box cover, carefully lifting the crude thing away and lifting my present to 
him carefully, as if it were more valuable to him than the flowers and plants he prizes so 
much.

	A dragon-shaped silver charm, like the fox one he gave me so long ago, dangles from a 
fine chain, twisting in the faintest of breezes, its bright color winking in the sunlight. He 
stares at it for the longest time, eyes wide and dark with shock; I lean closer, unwilling to 
admit my desire to see his reaction, to see how he feels about the gift. I am surprised to see 
the sudden sparkle of tears in the emerald depths, and they make me feel guilty. I never wanted 
to make him cry ... !

	Then, suddenly, through his tears, he smiles, even as a single tear slides down the 
smooth rise of his cheek; he carefully lays the chain into the box, rubbing the little dragon 
between his fingers before dropping it back into the box’s depths. He closes the little 
container, and holds it close to his heart for a few moments, eyes closed; his lips move 
silently, and though I am too far away to see clearly what he says, I know the words well 
enough. I have said them to him in my dreams often enough to have them memorized by heart.

	Ai shiteru.

	I love you.

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