A Matter of Perspective
sinful serenity
Kouya Yamato thought, had brilliant eyes.
Brilliant, not beautiful, and Yamato would not delude herself into believing that Kouya's eyes had been beautiful at that time—or ever. Where Yamato's were a deep aquamarine, Kouya's were colored a pale yellow-green: a fitting combination with her dark hair and impossibly pale skin, and it gave her just the look of a recovering-but-not-quite-there-yet young girl. Teenage, frail, weak and easy to pick on. Which was exactly everything Kouya was not, Yamato reflected. Maybe Nagisa had that in mind.
Anyway.
Despite the layers of paranoia and mistrust, Yamato had liked Kouya's eyes very much. It wasn't as if her soul partner was a positive person, and Kouya made a point to deliver her opinions with honest brutality, gaze sharp and deadly accurate. Kouya was, metaphorically, a fragment of elegant truth in Yamato's home-spun lie. They were not high school girls and their relationship would not be a perfect high school romance, and any dreams of white-picket houses with tulip-lined walks from her childhood were distant memories. Not that Kouya or Nagisa would tolerate that lunacy, anyway.
Kouya shifted besides her, tossing a vaguely questioning glance at Yamato, who had been absently stroking her hair (and thank god she managed to persuade her to drop the stupid fake ears). "Yamato?"
"Ehh?"
"You've been spacing out," the shorter girl said, flatly, glancing at her sacrifice.
"Oh. It's nothin'." She ran her fingers through long raven locks and made it rather clear in Yamatospeak that she intended to divulge nothing else on the unapparent matter. Unsatisfied, Kouya's gaze dropped back to her book, leaning into Yamato's touch—a subtle side of, nevertheless, reluctant acceptance.
This is our world, Yamato thought, a place where they could operate on hardly any words and nothing but simple touch. This—Kouya looked up again when her hand trailed idle paths down her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw—is only ours.
Kouya was too insecure and too concerned with study and perfection and order, fragile, tempered; paranoid of being discovered and led out from the safe darkness of the proverbial closet, but when Yamato's lips left hers in a breathless sigh, Sakagami Kouya's eyes shone—piercing through the layers of sharp instability and melting into an emotion without words, and Yamato knew she was perfect in every way.
