"kuriyama-san, do you—"
"mirai."
ever since her revival, she's been quick to correct him like that. she says it sternly but kindly, reminding him that no, he's supposed to call her mirai, forget the formalities and long-ago habits. still, he smiles sheepishly and gives her a long, endearing glance, then shakes his head and tells his love before him that the day she finally calls him akihito, he'll use her first name as well.
she purses her lips and lazily turns the page of her gardening book.
"senpai, how can you expect me to use your given name when you refuse to use mine?" the girl in glasses asks, smiling as she pushes up the rim of her frames. he knows it's all a tease, a game designed to pull him closer; she's gotten good at that since her revival, as well. he knows how coy she can be sometimes, and yet, he goes along with her ploy. or, maybe that's the plan. he could care less, honestly, so long as he gets to kiss her goodbye come the end of the day.
he never wants to say goodbye, actually, but if he has to, he'll seal it with a kiss. he may part her lips for entrance and feel his lungs scream, feel his heart flutter, feel his stomach twist with heat when her tongue is just as eager as his. his hands may get tangled in her hair and her eyes may bore into him like hot, hot coals, burning deep into his soul, deeper than he had ever, ever planned to let anyone see. that's the thing about kuriyama mirai. all of this— this love, should he dare call it? it started horribly, and nearly ended as such.
sometimes akihito runs his fingertips over her legs to make sure that they aren't cracking. he traces his lips across her hands to ensure that they aren't dust. she breathes under his touch and he revels in the beautiful sounds she makes, wondering how much of this is actually a dream. it has to be. such perfection doesn't occur in this world of ours— such stories don't exist.
but that's the thing about kuriyama mirai. she exists where she shouldn't, where she plausibly couldn't. he isn't sure what the loves the most about her, but he's certain that this is somewhere on the list because unbelievably, she's here.
so when she reminds him that she is not kuriyama-san, not anymore, she is mirai and she loves him so, he wonders why he doesn't call her by her given name. and he's not sure, honestly. maybe he's fearful that they're rushing into things. maybe he's nervous or anxious or just plain stupid—
"kuriyama mirai," he starts, pulling the gardening book out of her reach—
or maybe he's yet to realize that stories like theirs can exist, and they do. there's only one story that's been written this way, and it's theirs, and it's a story that is never to be finished. as he kisses her lovingly, murmuring her name, her given name, the mirai he realizes sounds so much more beautiful than her family name, he decides that this is okay. goodbyes don't have to happen.
if love is neverending, then so is their story. and, as the sun sets behind the literary club's resident couple, kissing deeply against the red, red glare of this red, red world, kuriyama mirai reminds akihito that there's another youmu hiding in her apartment, and, well, her anemia might not permit her to challenge it at the moment, would he be okay with her company for tonight?
(the answer is yes, yes, of course. whenever would it be otherwise?)
(and the answer to that? is never.)
