Afraid of Sunrise

by M. Kye

The long road trip back to Paris comes to a close... but are M&K ready for life after The Showdown when some feelings are still left unspoken? Post-series (about a day later, in fact), stand-alone.

Disclaimer: I don't own Noir, I just hijack the characters :-). Title from Marillion.

Note: I like praise as much as anyone else. I like constructive comments/criticism even more. It's in your interest, really: help me improve, I'll write better, you'll enjoy more!

Warning: I am still so-so about this story, but anytime I try to change it, I end up liking the mods even less. So here it is. Tell me what you think.

---------------------------------- Afraid of Sunrise ---------------------------------

Home again... or close to, at any rate. Driving through downtown Paris, through the narrow, uneven streets overshadowed by the tall Haussmann-style buildings is like treading old ground. I know those streets, with their little quirks that make each one different from the other. They are like long-time acquaintances: they do not share their little secrets with me, but I could walk them blindfolded. They are familiar in that nonthreatening, everyday way that seems bland and nondescript but is instantly recognizable and so intangibly peculiar. I like them and their impersonal, faceless oddity. They have snuck into the background of my mind and settled, bringing no baggage of memories along.

Which is just fine. Memories... I can do without. Especially the more recent ones.

As I wait for the traffic light to switch to green, I glance sideways to check on Kirika, who is lying on the front passenger seat and breathing slowly. Her closed eyes are rimmed with dark circles of exhaustion and pain. She's wrapped in a blanket I found in the trunk of the car, and yet, she sometimes shivers in her uneasy rest. Cold, or nightmares? I'll probably never know.

A few sharp turns that I take as slowly and smoothly as possible - a task made easier by the lack of traffic at that late night hour, of which I'm deeply grateful - and I stop the car in front of the century-old building. As I raise my gaze to check on the last floor, I don't see anything unusual - the tenants are all in Morphe's loving arms. Which suits me just fine.

The windows up there are still open, the panels shattered. I didn't have the will or heart to clean up the place before driving south into the opens jaws of Hell, but now I wish I had. Instead of the cozy and reassuring homecoming I am longing for, the gaping openings tell of past hours of fire and blood.

"Have we arrived?"

The soft, tired voice shakes me out of my morbid reverie. Kirika is awake, probably drawn out of a tortured sleep by the sudden silence that contrasts sharply with the low, regular rumble of the car engine which has cradled her rest while I was driving the long way back to Paris, mulling over what we had been through and how to salvage anything positive out of the remains. I was worried about her all the way back, and still am, and it must show somehow: her features soften as she attempts to smile weakly. The smile freezes on her lips in a repressed fit of pain, but she endures without twitching a muscle. I know she's tough, but she's trying to deny and hide, and I fear for her even as I help her out of the car.

Agonizingly slowly, we walk up the creaking staircase.

Why have we come back?

I had hoped so much... that we would come home. I had wished so dearly that the world outside was waiting for us, unchanged, unfazed, ordered as always. I had longed for the peace of mind that would surely come with being reunited with the indifferent scene of Parisian life, with its unending necklace of flighty, mundane, inconsequential plays unfolding in the background flow of time, the unobtrusive, unjudging witness of our life. I had held my breath in anticipation of our coming back to where our days had flowered in the quietness of the small, remote part of the human world Mireille called home and I had come to love.

I had hoped... that memories could lie.

That this dawn could be different.

Why does the truth hurt so much?

I hardly notice Mireille closing the door behind me. I know I am walking into the devastated flat, eyeing the savagely ravaged remains of our past together. I know, but I am beyond caring, beyond feeling. Each tear, each slash, each single mark of aggression pierces my heart with a cold needle, but the pain is more subdued each time, as in a dream, lasting but waning...

I am dimly aware of Mireille going by some clean-up routine. Does it matter? Every memento of out time together, every fleeting smell that was tugging at the back of our consciousness, every veil and every dancing glow and every pinprick of bright light that had shaded our days have been systematically and utterly mangled and violated in a dark, sadistic attempt to obliterate what we shared. I am a lonely stranger lost in a whirlwind of malice as each detail adds to the ruin I feel inside.

Moonlight still flows in through the window, but the jagged shards of shattered glass glint in its pale radiance, mocking me cruelly.

Where is our life?

I feel smothered, choked by a slowly strangling blanket of opaque silence. I know droning about pretending to clean up the place makes for poor companionship, but words fail me each time I try to speak.

Just this once, I would like Kirika to open up first.

Wait, that is not fair. And I don't even think about her still being weak from the wound she received in my stead, the blood she spilled for my sake. But I remember the last time I was standing here - I was alone, it was nighttime, and I was reading her words.

I cried, then. Don't try to deny it, Mireille.

I owe her that. I owe her so much - my life, for a start, and more than once. So many times, in fact, that I've lost count, trusting her implicitly to watch my back and keep me safe. And never thanking her once in the process. A real friend, indeed.

Then, there are the small things, the tiny droplets of life that flow by unnoticed until, suddenly, they are gone and you miss them so much. The late evening tea, with its fresh and soothing aroma and the aftertaste of jasmine I always wondered about and never was able to duplicate adequately. The large brown eyes I always expected to meet whenever I looked for them, unconsciously searching for trusting approval or mild disagreement, which was always a telltale warning of impending trouble. The silent, comfortable companionship as I went on with the daily routine of checking mail and news, shopping for the next few days, and planning the next hit. The silence then was full of presence and meaning. Now, it is full of hurt.

And finally, there was her letter. I always was the one with experience in social life, the one who knew how people worked inside. I prided myself to know the hearts of men, a useful skill in our line of work. That I didn't know my own would have been ironic if it had not been so tragically drown in suffering. I couldn't face my own feelings, and she could, dispelling the lies I was telling myself and pushing me forward to face our common truth. She had cried her heart out because of my weakness, because of my denial, and yet she had chosen to have faith in me again, in that fateful moment when just letting go would have been so much easier.

We have come full circle. We've cut the threads of Fate.

So what am I waiting for?

Please, let it end...

Even breathing feels like intruding now. I am cold, colder than I ever was... even colder than when she left me in tears in the rain, alone among those I had slain, alone with my guilt and my grief, alone with the ghosts of our past. I did not die then... even though I so dearly wished so. I did not die later either, on the edge of the fiery abyss, even though I had cherished the thought of oblivion as an end to my plight and a way to atone for all my sins. She did not let me die. She begged me to live.

Why?

Even as I try to meet her stare, to find answers in her azure eyes that can, at a whim, make me feel warm and secure or dead frozen inside... I can't find them. I chase her face as I've seen children begging approval from their parents or young lovers trying to catch a token of faith from their sweetheart... but her gaze wanders everywhere but on me. She avoids me. Even now, she still... hates me. I so dearly wish she did not, but I cannot deny my shame: for what I've done, there is no forgiveness.

The transient shine of her golden hair is all the light I can ever get from her, all the warmth she will ever give me.

And here I am, still unable to utter a word, still the ice queen strutting around in casual disregard of the pain and heartache of the one significant other Fate had been kind enough to give me. I feel her gaze burning in my back, pleading, begging. And I, like some kind of uncaring monster, give her the cold shoulder.

The lump in my throat threatens to choke me.

I beg you, Kirika, say something, anything...

Somehow I've made my way to my usual resting place by the window, walking blindly there without a sound. I wish I had made some, anything, even breaking something, to dispel the overwhelming grasp of loneliness that grips my heart. But I cannot. Try as I may, I'm ever the black assassin, stealth and death incarnate, hovering soundlessly in a world I am and forever will be estranged from... Moonlight drenches my face, reminding me of other nights when I stood there, gripped by doubt and weariness. I can hear its mute seductive lullaby, the soft attraction of its cold embrace, the longing for emptiness.

The orchid is gone. Shattered, like everything else.

The... letter...

... is gone.

I don't feel her gaze upon me anymore... I don't hear her breathing... I hope she didn't... leave... again...

I whirl around, dread gripping my heart.

She's there. But my dread only heightens.

As I drink into the sight of her, standing by the window, bathed in the pale glow of the late moon, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. She literally radiates sadness and quiet despair. Melancholy I am somewhat used to, but I feel my anguish shattering into a thousand tiny shards at the mere sight of her standing alone in her desperate last hour. I sense her strength and life falter, and it shreds my own doubts into tatters.

Deep inside me, something snaps.

Words fail me, but maybe I don't need them.

I walk up to her, more shyly than I can remember. Every step I make is harder, as I fear she will turn around and destroy my resolve with a single stare. After all, I have no right to do this. I have abandoned her twice already. There is nothing I can do that will mend that.

But I want her to live, even if she breaks my heart, even if I must die in her stead. Even by her own hands, if it comes to that.

My hand hovers near her shoulder. I wish it would stop shaking.

I feel... warmth. A touch of fingers, light, shy, on my shoulder. They falter for an agonizingly long instant, then embolden and slowly slide their way on my skin.

I close my eyes. The world has disintegrated in a blinding flash. Time has stopped. My heart has stopped, and I hear nothing. My mouth suddenly dries, the lingering wet smell of after-rain night having been swept away. I don't feel pain anymore, I don't feel cold anymore. I don't feel anything, except that gentle, silky pressure of long fingers as they begin a wandering I would never have dared hope and I wish never ends.

Let me die here... now, in that moment of bliss.

I didn't dare touch her... and now, now that it is done, I cannot stop. Even if I wanted to, I could not. My hand, my soul, my whole body ache for it... ache for more of that intoxicating feeling of sensitive skin against skin, attuned to its tiniest reactions. I let my hand brush her shoulder, lingering at the edge of her collarbone, fluttering at the rim of the antique-looking tunic she still wears, as I am torn between the last bindings of shyness and an increasingly inebriating vertigo I still dare not name.

She lets a single breath come out, a long, whispered sigh, and closes her eyes.

As my self-consciousness crumbles to nothingness, my other arm sneaks around her waist, encircling her, and gently pulls her back against me. I miss a beat when we make contact, and several more as she eases herself into my embrace, nesting her head against my own, her jet hair tangling with my golden locks.

I feel something wet and salty on my cheek. Tears. I hardly notice. I don't care about it, not when I feel myself bathed in a warm, sunny light that comes from inside.

I have been so... stupid.

Let me atone for that, at least, even if I am beyond salvation.

I feel her. Only her. Her arms and hands and fingers as they roam lazily against my skin, her nails as they leave their intangible mark. The warmth of her belly against my waist, the pounding in her breasts pressed into my back, the soft, deliriously addictive tickling of her hair on my neck, her lips brushing against my ear, their moist contact sending tendrils of shrill ecstasy down my whole body. I dimly notice that I am not dead, that I am still breathing. I hardly care.

Then a low, throaty whisper opens me again to the world of sounds.

"Daisuki... no... Kirika..."

I am left lightning-struck, holding my breath again as I wonder for an instant if a cruel whim of Fate has made me hear words that were never spoken. But no. I know in my deepest heart, I can tell from the tears that tingle as they flow down my neck, that this is no illusion. My hands glide upwards in their own volition until they find hers, then entwine themselves in the trembling web of her fingers, desperate for grasp and touch, until they are locked together, until I can be sure that they won't ever let go.

Then I feel my own eyes misting over, as light returns to my universe at last.

I know her eyes - her gentle, soulful brown eyes - just fluttered open. They are still hidden under her uncombed mane, but I somehow sense that her heart is open to the world's light again. I feel her radiant joy, still treasured but already bright enough to dispel the darkness within and shine out - to me.

If I wasn't so happy, I would probably be stunned in amazement.

After all this, after all I have done to her, she still reaches out to me. I am still in her heart. This wonderful girl... loves me.

I feel so... good in her embrace, so at peace, so warm inside. I want to stay cuddled in those arms forever. Her left hand slides down in a slow and entrancing stroke, finally resting on my right hip, pulling me even closer. Without thinking, I raise my hand to her face in a shy caress, until I can tangle my fingers in her hair. She smells so good, like a flower garden in the early hours of a sunny morning.

I want to see her eyes, the azure windows of her soul.

Slowly, I turn my head to face her.

I yield to the gentle pressure of her hand even as it makes me shiver and hold my breath in delight. I can see her face now - still bathed in moon glow, but not cold anymore. The caring and love shining in her eyes ensnares me in their soul-sharing spell, drawing me closer, gently shutting the mundane world out.

I don't need the world outside. I don't need a past or memories. I need only the warmth and fire pooling in the sparkling sapphire orbs of your eyes. I need only a life, and it is yours.

The taste of your lips is sweet, warm and fresh, maddeningly tempting. I melt under their caring yet demanding contact, snuggling closer against you in unabashed thirst for more.

I love you, Mireille.

I don't know what love is, but I love you.

Your words echo in me, weaving their threads of blissful pleasure as I lose myself in the burning imprint of your lips on mine and the silky caress of your hand in my hair. You did not spoke them, but I heard them as if they had been etched into my heart.

I knew nothing and I was blind. I still don't know much. But you won't be denied - we won't be denied. With you, I'll learn.

I love you.

Whatever comes next, whatever the future holds for us...

... we are truly one, the black bonds of Fate untied...

... and the bonds of love embraced with joy, together.

I'd like it to go on forever, but even we have to breathe, and we suddenly face each other again, panting slightly, separated by the thinnest of veils. The aftertaste of your lips still lingers on, a bittersweet mix I cannot fathom but unconsciously yearn for.

As I drink in the sight of you, I am reminded of happy days I never lived, of cloudless skies and warm sun on patches of wild flowers. Perhaps your native island has given you a small part of its fragrance. I remember you telling me that French people call Corsica "the Isle of Beauty". I'll never understand why better than now.

The feeling of you cuddled in my arms is comforting enough for me to risk a glance sideways, taking in the outside world again. In the dark sky, stars still twinkle coldly, but the roofs are rimmed with a paler hue, the first hint of dawn coming. I admit that, given our current shape, we should have been in bed and dead to the world for several hours now, but, for some unnamed reason, I don't want to move. Perhaps I don't want to release my embrace; perhaps I am still afraid to let you go, afraid that you would fade into nothingness.

The glide of your hand through my hair is not demanding in its pull anymore, but its deliberately slow wandering hints of sensual contentment and unspoken promises. I see your lovely face, your delicate features, now at peace, and I wonder again what kind of outrageously benevolent act I did rack up in a past life of mine to be granted such a karmic boon. I don't question the odd twists of cosmic justice, though - I'm far too busy being consistently awed by the sensation of... completeness I'm cradled in since we... bonded, for lack of a better word.

I see the glint of a question rising to the fore of your irises. I am not surprised that I can read your gaze like that, I just wonder how I ever could live without it.

"What are we going to do now, Mireille?"

I ponder for a moment. I want to give you the best answer I can, and there is a full galaxy of ideas that suddenly sparkle in my mind, some too grimly serious that I immediately smother, some a bit too daring for me to voice even in my elated state, and many just plain silly that I can attribute to joyful giddiness. It must show somehow, because you slowly break into a tender smile and the autumn brown of your eyes suddenly shines.

Slowly, time reinstates its dominion over our world, and the dark blue velvet of the sky gradually turns to a pale mauve. The soothing symphony of hues tugs at my train of thoughts, as if there was something up there in store for both of us.

"Do you like watching the sun rise?"

You take me by surprise, both because you changed the subject, but also because you answered a question with another, which is not your usual style. Your lovely voice is uncharacteristically pensive as well, as if you were deep in thought. For a brief instant, I whimsically wonder if we've bonded so deeply that we've started to get each other's patterns... and the thought, incongruous as it is, makes me smile. Because it is you, and because it is about you and me.

The sky before our eyes is shedding its starry dark cloak, revealing the rose, orange and pale yellow trims of a golden new day. Sunrise? I have never thought much about it. But as far as I can remember - which is admittedly not that much - I've always spent my long hours alone watching the sky and its moods. I've never tried to explain it, however.

Perhaps now I can try.

"I... I don't know..."

I'm not trying to escape your question, not anymore. I'm just trying to find the right words and the right thoughts. And I bite my lip in joy when I read in your eyes that you have understood my fumbling for what it is. My world blurs again, but these are tears of happiness, and I welcome them.

I also welcome you gentle stroke to comfort me, of course.

"I suppose I like it... because this is the time when the sun dispels the darkness of the night..."

... and the night always filled me with that feeling of devouring emptiness I was both so afraid of and so attracted to. I don't say it, but I know I don't need to. You read it in my heart clearly enough. Fear of emptiness is something we both can understand.

"But, at the same time, I never welcomed it because I always knew I would have to go out and walk among people I never knew. I would have to face the world, and the fact that I was a stranger wherever I went, and it was so painful..."

A gentle squeeze is all the comfort I need. Safe in your embrace, I can watch the world now, and find my place in it beside you.

"Why do you ask, Mireille?"

I never tire of saying your name, just to feel the delicious sound rolling around my tongue, lingering on my lips before floating lazily into the ether.

You are almost serious now. I can see the hint of an inner turmoil, memories of the past. I nudge closer to you, in the hope that it will give you the strength you need to banish your demons.

It feels good when you speak.

"I've seldom watched it, you know. I always was a late sleeper - as you can probably tell from our time together."

I hear the strengthening resolve, but also the humor in your voice. If a smile can break through the darkness, if you can laugh at it carefree and happy, then you have won - we have won.

"I always woke late because I didn't want to face the morning sun. I was far more comfortable diving full speed in a new day already begun, than I was facing the uncertainties a new dawn could bring. After all, I was alone, and thinking about the future was not something I looked forward to."

You take my hand, bring it to your heart. I wait, sure that you'll come full circle on this, sure that you'll somehow put your fear to rest.

Odd that I can explain it so clearly now, while I never could all those years and always refused to dwell on it. But now, I can sense the morning winds of change blowing the doubts away - and besides, I can hear the question pending in your patient silence.

And now?

"Now I can face it."

I take your delicately chiselled face in my hands, with all the gentleness I can find in me, so close to mine I could kiss you.

"Now, we have each other."

And I do.

----------------------------------------- End ----------------------------------------

I like those moments. Reading them, writing them... Maybe that's why I'm hooked on Noir: plot and action are just a backdrop for character reconstruction.

Inspiration: ticklish song title mixed with a bit of "the day after"-like hook. M&K have never been the ones to voice their feelings easily. And how do you handle the Big Howdyado after the final showdown, anyway?