It's late at night when she returns. The light in her apartment is blue from the moonlight spilling through the curtains inside. She's nervous, she comes in quite like she'll wake him, but she well knows he's probably already gone. But she softly clicks her door shut, pushes the door against the jam so the squeaking brass of her deadbolt is as silent as possible. The air is suffocating and stagnant inside, it smells like white smoke and incense. She slips off her shoes and walks over to the closed window to open it.
Her bedroom door is to the left of her. She goes straight in, repressing her fear of not finding him there, to know that he actually left her. In the haze blue, she sees him lying there. He's asleep on his back, his knees bent up slightly, one arm across his forehead. There's a warm sense of relief that spreads through her as well as the confusion still ringing in the back of her mind. She wonders why he's still there really, he already told her he was leaving, this would be twice now. But still, he stays. The last time it was because he didn't want to leave while it was raining, he told her. This time she doesn't know. She's not even sure he likes her, that he wants anything to do with her other than a place to stay and a warm bed and body to use.
It's the way he looks at her now. It's uncomfortable, maddening; it's a look of frustration, lust and perhaps resentment. There is a cold indifference interchanged frequently with a warm obsession when she is with him, he other doesn't care for her what so ever or is so totally engrossed in her she feels like he sees her as the most desirable woman on earth. His eyes are always a smoky lidded haze, they are heavy and infuriating, never revealing any more than his amusement or detached desire.
He shields everything from her, deflects; she knows practically nothing about this man sharing her home, sharing her bed. But there is some kind of connection, she already knows him, it is just not possible to know how or why. It makes her feel uneasy how quickly things have changed, how comfortable they are, he never shows any restraint or reserve, as if they had known each other their whole lives and had not only been in each other's sight for a few weeks now.
He intimidates her more than she would ever admit, her resolve and will melt away in his presence, there is nothing left but an insecurity she can't explain and tries to hide from him. His mysterious affinities with forces beyond this life were an undoubtedly a reason, but there is something else. Something she cannot pin down. A part of her wishes that he would leave, that her life could go back to normal after the terror on the train, but she knows this is not possible. Normal life after something like that is a bleak dream, a fond memory, something no longer accessible. The nightmares are still relentless, and it is when she is in these grasps of panic and fear, the overwhelming horror that overtakes her mind, she is never more glad for him to be there besides her, for his calming rich voice, for the way he holds her when he tells her it will be alright, the way he kisses her, soothes her. Because he understands. And no one else ever can.
She has a new job now, the one before was intolerable to return to. She is a waitress still at a new café, it's just as dull and redundant as the last, but she knows no one there. It is on the other side of town, away from any hint of recognition. She hasn't tried to audition, the very thought of trying makes her feel ill. She tells him of this when he asks her why she went back to waitressing if it was such a dreaded profession to her, but she doesn't answer. He doesn't push her.
It seems too good to be true in many ways, this bizarre coupling formed from a chance encounter of insanity. She's not sure if this intensity, this awkward situation in which no roles are defined, no path is laid out, was born from the train. Maybe he is no more than an emotional crutch of sorts, something fantastic and protective to feel safe with. Whatever it is, she can't quite seem to care that much for the why. It just is.
She is sure he isn't human. Not completely.
And perhaps the presence of such beings should not be questioned. Only accepted.
Closing the bedroom door behind her, she softly steps to her dresser. She slips off her stockings, her uniform dress, her vice like bra and garters to trade them for a silky cool white camisole. She brushes her hair, letting it fall free around her shoulders; the wonderful pain of her scalp being released from the pull of her hair ties.
She crawls up the mattress alongside him, his arm reaches around her pulling her closer against him as if it is reflex when he feels the weight of her close to him. She tucks her head against the smooth silk covering his shoulder, drapes her leg across his. She breathes him in. A familiar feeling of comfort and need washes over her. He smells of French tobacco and opium.
Good evening, he says to her. His voice is rasped and cracked from sleeping what was probably several hours by now. His other arm is still draped across his face, shielding his eyes from the penetrating streetlight outside.
She apologizes for waking him. There's nothing to apologize for, he tells her. He asks her how her night was, and she tells him it was exactly the same as the last time he asked. A long silence passes, and she thinks on whether to ask him why he has not left, why he is still there. She fiddles with the hem of his robe, wrapping a loose string around her finger before slipping her hand underneath the silk against warm skin. He begins to lightly run his fingers along her upper arm. Her eyes flutter shut at the intense pleasure his simple touches gives her.
But she can't ask. If she does, then maybe, this really will end and he will leave, as if bringing it up will shatter everything. She knows he won't stay forever, she knows, she's not even sure she would want him to. But right now, her skin burning from his fingertips, if he leaves, she feels she will die.
It's slow and deliberate, her hand is, on him as she traces the contours of his stomach. She can hear his breath begin to quicken as she continues, lazy unhurried sweeps of her fingers, trailing just short of his obvious reaction to her touch. She slowly slides herself down against him, sitting up and bringing herself to a kneeling position along side his hips; he arches himself against her hand around him. He is now looking up at her, the same look, detached and lustful at once. She can't help but give him a devious smile as she leans forward and lightly teases him with her soft lips. She has never done this to him before, and his anticipation soon overwhelms his indifference. There's an unconscious connection between the two, a sync, an infallible knowledge of each other. She knows what he wants, and she wants to do it to him. She wants him to watch her do it. And she wants him to do it in turn to her, over and over, a pleasure unto death.
She explores his desire with astute attention to every hitch in breath, every raise of his hips, every tight grasp of her hair. He urges her through a strained voice, quicker, not to stop. Not concentrating on her own pleasure allows her to observe him this way, the way his eyes cinch tightly shut, they way he sounds, the way his muscles tighten and slack with every roll of her tongue he and becomes almost brutal when he thrusts up against her, his body going still with a wonderful whimper that escapes his throat.
He pulls her back to him, kissing her as she settles against him once more.
"Kusuriuri-san," she says after a long silence.
"Hm?"
"I thought you were going to leave today."
He pauses for a moment. "Ah, forgive me. I wanted to enjoy your company a little longer, that's all."
OOO
He looks down at the sleeping figure lying beside him and strokes her hair, her soft warm face. In her sleep, she mumbles something softly, just upon her lips, as she had on the ship that night she stayed with him, as she also had in a million other life times, as she did the last time he saw her, slipping away from him yet again. She is a little thinner, her face painted in rose and black lines, wearing much too bawdy a perfume for a girl of class, but as she mumbles again with a wisp of her black silks slipping down her sweet face, she is still the same simple girl he has always known.
And perhaps he will stay a little longer.
As he always does. As he always will.