The Million Little Things of Friendship
Konoka hated to use the term "best friend".
Saying "best" was so…singular and general, while being devastatingly exclusive. Best meant one, only one. The one above all others.
But Konoka could never make that kind of solid, firm statement, and point to one person and say, that is the one friend I love above all others.
Asuna understood. Setsuna didn't.
But that's okay.
Setsuna was her good friend.
Konoka loved Setsuna like nothing else. Even as a bubbly, chubby child of five Konoka had adored her earnest guardian and earliest friend. That adoration simply deepened to warm affection and desire when they grew older. The moment Konoka slipped her hand into Setsuna's, she knew from the blushing smile and shiveringly fierce flare in the half-demon's eyes that she was in the safest place on Earth. Konoka knew that when she spoke, Setsuna's attentive gaze would focus on her and only her, and her dear friend would listen gravely and always with a fervent concern that touched Konoka's heart.
Konoka had no friend who could ever replace Setsuna.
Without Setsuna, a bloody scream would echo inside her until Konoka became consumed with the empty pain.
Setsuna was a dangerous whirlwind that stirred wild passion and quiet contentment in Konoka. It was the kind of warm happiness that a person could use to power a smile even in the darkest downpour.
But sometimes that wasn't enough.
Asuna was her good friend.
Asuna didn't stir the same kind of crazy craving in Konoka that Setsuna did. However, Asuna was always there—in the mornings, when Konoka opened her eyes with the sunrise; in the afternoons when Konoka delightfully spilled the minute details of her day, and in the evenings when Konoka tearfully ranted about something clueless that Setsuna had said again. Like no other friend Konoka had, Asuna was always there for Konoka in the little moments that passed so quickly but meant the most in the world. They'd shop for clothes together and tease each other about their significant others, and offer each other advice on the daily hassles that drove either of them up the wall.
If Konoka called her at three AM to rant about something, she knew that Asuna would grouse but listen patiently, and respond appropriately with hearty agreement or logical lectures, depending on the occasion and mood.
Konoka had no friend who could ever replace Asuna.
Never jealous, Setsuna accepted that truth, even if the depth of Konoka's dependence on Asuna puzzled her. The swordswoman had "Konoka", "friends" and "acquaintances". Setsuna was simple in how she split her love—unlike Konoka.
Without Asuna, a piece of Konoka would crack and die and never be fixed again.
Asuna understood.
Her red-headed roommate had a coveted friendship full of that same maelstrom of burning desire and aggravated love in one Ayaka Yukihiro, class rep. On one agonized night in Ostia, Asuna had answered Konoka's silent, questioning touch on her tear-stained cheek with a one sentence answer, whispered into the midnight silence.
"I miss Ayaka."
Even surrounded by close friends, there was a gaping hole inside Asuna's soul that could never be filled by anyone else.
Konoka knew that to Asuna, she was also a special kind of friend.
So Asuna understood.
"Best" was not a label to be used lightly.
Not to be used at all.
Because for both of them, the earnest phrase "You're my best friend" would be a lie.