2014

Is it possible to simultaneously long for a sound in the deepest part of your soul, while still being so incensed that you never want to hear it again? The alkaline taste of bile creeps up the back of your throat just seconds after your stomach flips; blood pressure dropping so fast in a body still so fragile in recovery, the sides of your vision go dark and starry for a moment. Your hands seek stability at the edge of your desk, knuckles pushing white through your skin in contrast with the cherrywood, but you don't dare let any other weakness show. You've become an expert at hiding from her, evading her, or so you've wanted to think.

"Sachi."

Her voice is flat. The saccharine, dripping tone that took it over... as they changed her, it's gone. It's only her, now. And the nickname you haven't heard since before, oh, it's like you're a skein of yarn and your center is being pulled out of you, unraveling you from the inside, slowly. You don't know when, but if just hearing your name shakes you this badly, it's guaranteed that you'll soon collapse in on yourself. You hate it. But, oh, you love it.

"It's been so—"

"Long." You mouth, finishing her sentence silently; you know (oh, you know) that her eyes are trained on the way your lips move, regardless of whether or not her hearing is still augmented from the parasites dying off within her.

1985

You tilt your head in amusement as she slides the frames up and down your nose, watching intently as your eyes grow and shrink through the lenses, letting out the tiniest little snort of laughter. Hers are so alive, icy blue, rimmed with lashes so dense and soft she doesn't need to coat them in mascara for definition. She's stunning. She knows it, and she knows you know. And you don't mind that one bit, no. Because she makes you feel every bit as stunning as she, with the way she speaks of you, the way she looks at you, eyebrows upturned in bliss as though she's never seen anything lovelier in her life.

Just how you'd gone so far though this world without so much as knowing more than her name and her status, you don't know- and to think, you'd wanted to stay home from that fateful extended-family function, and bellyache over some mediocre period cramps. Aiko was already "borrowing" the shoes you'd wanted to wear, the ones with enough lift to make you feel a little better about your inconveniently petite stature. And to top it all off, you'd trimmed your bangs that morning just a tad lopsidedly, but too short to risk an attempt at evening them out any more.

If you'd stayed in against your mother's firm insistence, you'd have never wandered out to that particular balcony to find her scowling in the moonlight, her patchy, studded leather jacket a contrast to the high-end gown beneath it; never found yourself suddenly jealous of the cigarette that she brought to her lips, carried exquisitely between slender fingers. She wasn't even trying, and you were smitten on the spot.

Of course, you'd never have expected her to take such a strong and genuine liking to you. She was equally as unhappy with being forced to make an appearance at this event, and didn't seem to have a shred of regard to who saw her blatant attitude about it. If you didn't know better now, you'd assume that Kiryuin Ragyo didn't fear a soul on this planet.

But she turned to you, and she'd known your name. For the rest of the evening, her eyes softened, and the scowl melted into something a little more tender, personal. Yours alone. The relief in the air was sudden, tangible, and mutual.

In the weeks that passed, you found you'd made a very powerful friend, but more importantly, you'd made a good friend. A best friend. Even that didn't fully encompass what you felt, but every time you try and pick the feeling apart, a horde of butterflies—no, a flock of white-winged doves takes flight in your stomach, just as bright and beautiful as she.

She plucks the frames from your face and puts them on her own, and you bite your lip without thinking, watching her eyes move from behind the lenses. Through mild blurriness now that you've been robbed of your visual assistance, the amused look on her face suddenly transitions into something more intent.

"You'll give yourself a headache, Ragyo. I'm telling you, those are crazy strong."

It takes you a moment to realize what she's focusing on, and a moment more to let yourself believe it.

"Oh, Sach. Let me live and learn, why don't you. Let me make my own mistakes."

Her hand is on your cheek, and you feel the urge to reach out and caress hers in kind, the angle of her jaw fitting perfectly in your palm, a dangly earring tapping against the backs of your fingertips. Her skin here is so soft, feverish… your tongue darts out to wet your lower lip and the air that comes out of your lungs feels so thick.

"Would you… call this a mistake yet to be made?" you breathe, stilling as her pulse beats against your fingertips, quick and steady. You gently, so gently, to clarify how terribly you don't want this to be a mistake for her.

"Oh, no. Of this here…" she whispers as her thumb brushes over your bottom lip and you feel your whole body flush hot. She lingers, as though mulling over her word choice, eyes flicking back between your lips and your eyes. Finally, she speaks, leaning in further so you feel her breath right against your lips; so close and quiet that her answer would be inaudible to anyone but you.

"Of you, Mikisugi Sachiko, I'm beyond certain."

You press your lips to hers, and feel the world dim to a comfortable static around you. All is Ragyo. All is right.

2014

"Ragyo."

With a deceptively steady finger (still cold with poor circulation) you push the silver frames back up the bridge of your nose, turning your head and letting her come into focus. Your intestines still feel as though they're being knitted together, but you aren't afraid. She's still captivating as ever, in a way that even rematerializing from wisps and falling from space couldn't compromise—but with her bruised body and wind-singed hair, simply put: she's a mess. And with the look on her face, she's... broken.

Her eyes are wet, bloodshot, ringed with shadows of fatigue; and you can relate: cheating death is an exhausting process. Though you didn't really have the help of alien parasites the way she did; just your hyper-vigilant sister who kept you hidden away for months in a medically-induced coma while your body repaired itself, and maintained your carefully-engineered system of lies to keep your daughters protected from the truth.

You really don't know what you were thinking—you'd thought you were making sacrifices in the name of justice. In hindsight you realize you didn't have a clue, and "justice" was the furthest thing from what your efforts achieved, at least for the ones whom you should have protected over anything else. Of all things making your heart ache, your burden of guilt to Satsuki and Ryuko is by far the heaviest, most painful to bear.

She is the second, though. All the hatred you couldn't fully commit to because you wanted to believe, somewhere within her, your wife still remained. Your partner, the best friend you'd ever had, the woman you'd yearned for in memory, silently for so long, never really ready to let go. You know as you turn to look her in the eyes, you weren't holding out for nothing. Her words echo between your ears, preserved in your memory for nearly a quarter of a century.

"Don't let me succumb to this. Please, Sachi… I can't become another link in the chain."

You failed her.

For the first time in 20 years, blue meets blue again.

New Year's Day, 1988

Congealed, once-crimson puddles crusted over the leather of her backseat from where you'd lain the night before, holding on as each beat of your heart drove searing pain through everything your veins could split out and reach. She'd driven through the pouring rain with such skill, but maybe you didn't notice the sharp turns that made the whole car lurch side to side and hydroplane because you could only concentrate on the one thing she was begging you to do in that choked voice: stay with her.

Even among the institutions that weren't already nestled within your family's deep, deep pockets, you couldn't seek medical attention. To do so would've exposed this horrid secret, exposed you for what you prayed you weren't becoming after having this crime be committed against your body by your own flesh and blood. Parasitic. Unnatural. One pair of cold hands taking away your agency and dignity was more than enough for a lifetime; to be at the mercy of dozens more and analyzed like some specimen? You would rather end yourself once and for all, in a way that made sure you couldn't be salvaged for autopsy. After patiently fighting for nearly 2 decades at the chance to not live and die at the mercy of another, just to have it all laid to ruin… and you can't, you can't be taken away from your Sachi. They can't keep you away from your one light at the end of the tunnel.

Dark circles sit beneath her eyes, lids heavy and half-down as she lets the car stall outside the manor, holding a deceptively tight grip on your hand in both of hers. An angel on the brink of exhaustion, but no less beautiful for it. Her breath shakes as she exhales and keeps her gaze fixed on you.

"Sachiko, I…" you pause, voice more difficult to conjure than you'd expected. At a moment's notice, she'd known what to do to save your life. You didn't have to explain when she came over and packed you into her car, taken you home and put you back together. Your throat is tight with anxiety that you can't express to anyone but her, and you know you don't have to. You know what she knows.

She doesn't want you to go back. You have to go back. Just to quell suspicions for a bit, you'd told her weakly. Mother had already commented more than enough on how much time you spent with your dearest cousin through the years, and your most terrible fear by far was that she'd turn her wrath towards her as a result. Blood meant little to her, as she'd proven time and time again; even moreso on branches of the family tree that she'd often expressed desire to prune. But if she so much as touches Sachiko, your plans to destroy her will become much, much less merciful. Mother can hurt you all she wants and it will be swift and just, but if she hurts yours… even now you feel a monstrous desire foaming up within you, the need; the mental picture of her oozing blood, muscle and sinew sliced, twitching, spilling upon the bright white marble floor of your home– you've always been vicious, but your mind's never concocted such specific imagery at such short notice… almost as if the thought isn't entirely your own. Are you already becoming the monster she tried to make of you last night?

"I was so scared, Ragyo... I was going to lose you, I thought…" Sachiko cracks at the last syllable of your name and goes silent, cheeks tensing as she swallows. You're so ashamed, holding her gaze feels about as painful as staring directly into a floodlamp. Your voice is grave, its usual cheeky lilt totally absent.

"Sachi." you swallow, a dry click emanating from the back of your throat. Her name comes easy, perhaps it's the easiest sound you could make in any situation (your tongue was made for her, you know this). However, you can't work any words out for her to truly explain, even just putting them together in your mind incites a stirring of deep dread in your belly.

Oh, dearest mine. Physical trauma and mutilation couldn't even hope to pry me apart from you so easily.

The only way she'll lose you is if you lose yourself too. And if... if, not when that happens, you know beyond doubt that she'll want to be rid of you.