She wakes up pressed against a boy, sleep blurring her vision and at first clouding the shape of the person she has slept but, but gradually peeling away, leaving her alert enough to see that it is him. Twelve. And it occurs to her, suddenly, that his name is completely wrong; or perhaps it is his lack of a proper name, with only an arbitrary number to call him by. A boy as beautiful, as perfect as he is should have a whole name, the kind of name she would whisper reverently during his absences and hold close like a treasure, even though it would not be hers to own.
Last night's remains are strewn on the floor, their clothes mixing into indistinct blotches of colors. Her bookbag is in one corner of the room, spilling textbooks and notebook paper. Twelve shifts, ever so slightly, his arm reaching out and falling lazily over her shoulder. His head is framed by brown bed-rumpled hair, long-lashed eyes fluttering. The arc of a smile - a smile like the sun - describes itself over his lips as she beams at him from her side of the bed.
"Had a good sleep?" he asks. She nods, not quite trusting herself to speak clearly, a happy little bubble lodged in her throat. "That's good." Affectionately, he toys with the strap of her bra, fingers gliding effortlessly down her chest, over her breasts; she does not breath, limbs locked with those of Twelve. She is content to stay here, under the sheets with him, not talking but touching, each taking what they need from the contact, ignoring everything that doesn't pertain to now.
And so when the door opens and Nine walks in, voice faltering and dying like a motor as he looks at them lying together, she doesn't flinch, doesn't stammer all mouse-like and meek. Twelve laughs, Nine growls that that they have a job and there can be no room for distractions, Twelve shooting back that how could anyone not be distracted by her. She almost feels pretty, Twelve by her side, head curled against the hollow of his neck.
After the other boy has gone, he kisses her on the lips, murmurs "Lisa" with urgency, hips grinding against hers. It is early morning now, the horizon touched by an absent fleck of orange, but she looks at him, looks past him, can almost taste the Tokyo air and feel the rush of wind from the motorcycle ride.
Lisa sees the sky.