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I don't feel well X/ Disclaimer: I don't own Noir.
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Two weeks had gone by since Kirika was gone.
Mireille sat at the small round table, idly swirling a cup of orange juice, staring distractedly at the mauve dusk sky.
It was quiet in the apartment, and cold. Wintertime, no snowfall yet, but the evenings got cold quickly. Mireille, clad in her ever constant killer's attire of red blouse and black skirt, all inappropriate for the season, showed no sign of feeling it.
She was cold inside though, where her heart had turned to ice, and she was thinking again.
The magazines under the pool table were cold. Her Walther was cold to the touch, its tip had not sighed smoke for a long time.
Two weeks.
She remembered saying goodbye – the first time she had ever lost and had time to say her farewells. Kirika's eyes gazed back at her, dark ruby eyes full of regret and sorrow. Kirika had been Mireille's weakness, the only thing that ever managed to make her cry; and she was crying then as they were saying goodbye, wanting to hold little Kirika so tight she might just understand her feeling – trying to, but not really knowing how.
Kirika whispered against her ear. I'll always cherish you, Mireille.
But … you always worked alone …
Hadn't anything changed since that time?
Losing Kirika was like losing her family all over again, and just as she had done that time before, her gun answered for the multitude of feelings welling up in her breast.
Afterwards, she aimed her fury at the sewer wall and bored bullet holes into the chalk circle until she couldn't see anymore.
She hadn't heard for a while after that either. Gunshots in that enclosed space were loud, and the apartment was silent. Kirika was never one to ramble, but her absence was louder than her slender form asleep on the bed.
Mireille's heart had turned to ice, and she didn't want to think.
I think I loved you, Kirika. That's why I don't drink tea anymore. She laughed out loud, and it sounded wrong.
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Mireille didn't want to think, but she was dreaming.
Kirika's dark eyes appeared before her again, regret mixing with a touch of heaven. Her skin looked soft in the scarce rays of light. She was glowing.
Where was she now? Was she happy?
Mireille squinted, and a second figure was distinguishable in the darkness. That unknown, faceless, repugnant someone. Her heart clenched instinctively out of bitterness.
She knew only one face for another someone in Kirika's life, her mind recalled the image, and this faceless someone found a name.
Chloe?
Kirika, don't go!
Chloe's face always triggered the same sensation, of a gnawing fire in the chest.
Chloe was laughing now, no longer fettered by the promises of Fate and sins. Kirika stood a little way off, and laughed too, light and freely as she should have done for thirteen stolen years.
Kirika, did you leave me for her?
Kirika turned to her, the laughter fading artlessly away. She threw her head back.
Mireille … Mireille!
Mireille woke abruptly, in the small silence of midnight.
Kirika's voice followed her out of the dream … The lips of death's angel, calling her name.
'Kirika …' She pressed her face into her hands. Kirika should have been here, warming the bed, rumpling the sheets, sighing, smiling in her sleep as her fingers sneaked unconsciously through blonde tresses or as Mireille herself stole touches of the girl's moonlit skin.
But she was not. Mireille slept alone, and did not know where Kirika lay.
Snow was coming. Inside her heart, warm blood shattered ice, spilling from a voice that left echoes only of longing.
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