Part 3 – Cold Night

I walk upstairs from the Koneko, where the woman who was with Farfarello has just shown up, looking for Eden.  Her team member I suppose, although at the moment all I can think of is that I have to lie down.

I mumble some sort of tired excuse and turn away from Ken and Aya and the woman, waving my hand.

I remember Aya and Ken finding me, and I remember walking home, and bits and pieces of conversations.  Then I remember I waking up with Aya sitting across from me.  Watching me.  There's an echo in my mind, "suki da yo."

I had a dream, that he kissed me goodnight, on my forehead.  Usually my dreams of kissing him don't really have much to do with foreheads. 

I dreamed that I told him it was too late.  And that he told me he was sorry, for being so cruel.  That's a little melodramatic for Aya…my brain must be failing me in my old age.

Now I walk upstairs, knowing I need more rest before I can keep this up.  All we can do now is wait on Aya's orders, whatever they may be.  All I can do is keep trying to forget about him.  I laugh a little to myself bitterly, sure that the moment I truly give Aya up will be the moment my heart stops.  

I peel my clothes off, groaning a little at the stiffness and pain in my ribs.  It takes me forever.  

By the time I fall into bed, I can't keep my eyes open.  But I can't keep my mind quiet either.

"He doesn't love you.  He doesn't love you." 

This is the glorious refrain in my head.  Slightly less comforting than little white sheep.

I wonder what would happen if I approached him like one of my women.

I picture cupping my hands around his chin, staring into his eyes and telling him he's beautiful, that I want him.  But that's only easy when it's not true.  And besides, its not like Aya is beautiful the way a woman is.  Or even soft the way a woman is.  I wonder what he feels like.

For a moment I'm in the shop with him, and no one else is there.  I walk up behind him silently, letting my body press him against the counter.  I feel him struggle.  A hand rubs up his back and finds it way into his hair, grasping roughly and pulling back, until his pale neck is exposed.  He growls at me as I—

Jesus Kudou….

I sigh and toss onto my side, too tired to do anything about my arousal.  I do laugh a little, certain I've sunk to the lowest of lows. 

I wonder if he even realizes what I would give for him.  I think about the time I first saw him, watching him struggle against my wires, eyes wild like a feral cat.  I remember him waking later, in my bed—this prompts a smile—his eyes watched me then, still wild.  But for a moment I saw them shimmer with something like relief.  And then the warmth he left in my bed, reminding me that life was harder, but so much sweeter, with something to live for.

I'm not the kind of person who gets tongue-tied.  Who gets flushed. 

Maybe the worst part is that most of the time its not even sexual attraction.  God knows that would be easier to brush off.

Why did it have to be him? 

It's not like I don't know better.

Somewhere amidst these thoughts, I drift into an uneasy sleep.