Imagine
The tea is warm and the curtains are drawn. On the low table before him, a wax candle flickers. The room smells of honey and jasmine, and Tomoe's breath, hot on his neck, stings like a katana through his stomach.
Her arms are draped around his shoulders, and she's on her knees behind him. His chest is bare, and the silky sleeves of her kimono glitter like some sort of war prize. There are scars, raised and faded, rippling across his skin.
Outside, permanent strokes of lightning mar the peaceful sky. Inside, Tomoe is whispering in a language he's forgotten how to speak.
He doesn't hear what she's saying, not really, and somehow it's better this way.
He downs his tea and leans toward the table to pour himself more. Her body is still pressed close to his, and he thinks of her like a marionette doll, beautiful but lifeless.
She smiles against him and the kettle is empty.
Fin.