Hey, guess what? It's questionable decision time with Rinko! :D
(If you've read my other SAO fics, you'll know that I let these characters make very questionable decisions many times :P)
Winter break is drawing to a close, and Rinko realizes that without obligation to go anywhere, she hasn't gone outside in days. Good grief, she's starting to turn into him.
Her face scrunches instinctively as she steps outside into the sun, shivering slightly. It hasn't snowed recently, but white still dusts every visible surface, and her breath steams in the air in front of her.
Her first thought is driving into town, but it snowed last night and she doesn't feel like clearing it just to drive into town with nothing to do. And it's the last day of the year, she realizes belatedly. People must be gearing up for New Year's celebrations in town. Traffic will be terrible, with everyone shopping and visiting family.
She huddles further into her coat, for a different reason than the cold now. New Year's has always been a celebratory occasion for her and her family, like most of Japan. It looks like she'll be spending it like she did this Christmas—alone.
Rinko debates getting her laptop and sitting on the porch to work, but work is all she's been doing recently, and she's already taken care of any pressing matters. Frankly, she's tired of using work as a way to try and stave off the loneliness and guilt, and it's losing its effectiveness anyways after so long.
So, what to do…? She doesn't want to go down the mountain, or back inside.
Well, she thinks to herself dryly, that just leaves up, then.
After grabbing a backpack with food and water and an emergency first aid kit (and checking that it's not going to snow), she circles around to the back of the cottage, glancing briefly at the curtains covering the window of Akihiko's room. From staring out of her own window for countless hours, she'd noticed a trail leading up into the mountains, and it winds into the snow-encrusted forest before her now with open arms.
It reminds her of her childhood, growing up in the forested countryside. The last time she did any regular physical activity of any sort was being on the swim team in high school, which she quit after her second year, but she's suddenly taken by the impulse to just go.
With each step, she climbs higher and higher, leaving it all further and further behind. Him, her loneliness, his hollow companionship, the knife collecting dust on her nightstand, everything.
Even as the trail gets more unsteady and treacherous, she can't stop, fuelled by the illusionary feeling of freedom. Up here, there's no cell signal; she's cut off completely from the world, with no emails or texts to think about—and no way to call for help if something goes wrong—but it was entirely her choice, and it feels better, somehow. The watery winter sun pierces weakly through the lush pines, guiding her on and on like a promise just out of reach.
Get away from the town, from the people coming to visit family, from the people who are going to go to the shrines on New Year's to pay respects to the deceased. There'll be a lot more this year, more than there should be (it hasn't been only those trapped within the game who lost themselves to despair).
Get away from her friendless, lifeless existence at the lab, working day after day with a terrible secret, and the knowledge that she can only blame herself for the way her life is.
Get away from him, and the way he pulls at her heart without even caring enough to try.
Maybe if she climbs high enough, she'll find that floating castle herself.
Hours that feel like minutes later, she finds herself out of breath and surrounded by more space than vegetation; the trees have thinned out as the mountain grows steeper and rockier. Shocked, she takes a few steps back the way she came, retracing her footsteps, breathless.
The forests stretch out for kilometers before her feet, a dizzying dichotomy of dark pines and bright snow. Far, far past that, civilization is but a vague concept on the horizon. She has no idea where the cottage is, and doesn't care either.
Up here, there would be no one to hear her scream. A confession that would go unheard is on the tip of her tongue-
She bites it back hard enough to taste blood. It feels too much like complaining, and there's nothing she deserves to complain about. This is her life and she's the one who made the choice, and there's no taking it back.
Would she even want to take it back?
The treacherous thought creeps in unnoticed, but she doesn't think she could bear the alternatives to this either. Cooperation, silence, or confession—three choices she could've made, none with any possible escape from some sort of guilt.
Clear trails burn down her cheeks, cherry red in the freezing cold, fists clenched in her pockets, something snowballing in her throat; maybe she's guilty, but she can't stop the grief-stricken tears regardless.
She wants to scream; how is this fair-
The sun is setting, she notices suddenly. She would've taken a moment to admire the last sunset of the year if she hadn't subsequently realized that she left the cottage hours ago.
o0o0o
It turns out that descending, while faster by necessity, is not much easier than ascending, especially when the main source of light is slipping away like sand through her fingers. And Rinko didn't think she would ever be happy to see that little cottage that is her home and prison, but after spending who knows how long fumbling in the dark, keeping her eyes glued to her footprints from earlier with the battery of her phone, which was acting as her flashlight, draining fast, she is too tired and relieved to think about it.
Her legs give out as soon as she closes the door, and she grunts quietly as she sits down involuntarily on the doormat. Her face, toes, and fingers have been numb for hours, and she rubs her hands together shakily. She's not sure how long she sits there, shivering even in the warmth of the house.
It's not like her to lose track of time like that, or be so reckless in the first place, taking off into mountains she doesn't know in the middle of winter without telling a single person. What if she had gotten stranded there, in the dark all alone with no way to call for help? He really would be all alone then-
As if summoned by a thought, his voice, with its newly developing scratchy quality, sounds quietly from across the kitchen.
"What am I going to do with you…?"
Blinking owlishly at him—the bright snow did a number on her eyes, she realizes belatedly—she doesn't quite have the strength to get up. He seems to come to the same conclusion and sighs before stepping into the room and turning on the lights.
She flinches and lifts a hand to rub her still sensitive eyes, only for him to block out the light a few seconds later. With slightly awkward and unsteady motions, he kneels down on the floor and drapes a thick fleece blanket across her front, tucking the sides behind her with thin, skeletal fingers. Too surprised and still cold, she stays silent and unmoving as he works, staring at him as he sits back on his heels, finished.
"That was a little silly, don't you think?" he murmurs, looking at her with a bemused expression, as if she was simply a rather interesting outlier in a data set.
Her hands aren't trembling as much anymore as she reaches out, running her hand along his jaw.
"You need to shave," she mumbles in tired admonishment, tapping a finger against his chin, where stubble is growing.
His hand follows the path of hers, absently dragging his nails (which also need to be cut) along his jaw, but his only response is an uncaring shrug. It's not like he has much use for his real body anymore, except for moments like these.
In the back of her mind, she wonders why he keeps coming back every now and then. To torment her? But he was never the type to cause pain for the sake of it; there has to be some ulterior motive, something to gain.
Distant fireworks start to go off, and she asks, her voice cracking softly like thin ice, "Why?"
Akihiko smiles at her, and she realizes that all along, what she took for his version of warmth was just a hollow facsimile of the real thing.
"You looked cold," he answers simply, fingers trailing along the blanket he brought.
She lets her questions go; she wasn't really expecting an answer when she asked.
Instead, she grasps his hand and stands, pulling him to his feet. It takes more effort than she expected; she must be more tired than she thought, because he's still little more than skin and bones. He watches in detached curiosity as she wraps one side of the blanket around him, propping her shoulder up against his chest, and pushes her slippers towards him with one foot. At her expectant look, he shuffles into them, and she pulls the front door open.
At his instinctive flinch, she tightens her arm around his waist and pulls him outside anyways. His chin tips up to follow as she points, just in time for colors to explode over the horizon in the distance. From so far away, they sound like little party poppers, showering glowing confetti on a dark canvas. Their light is a little blurry to Rinko, perhaps because of the lingering snow blindness, or because of the droplets sliding down her cheeks.
She still doesn't know why he's here with her; perhaps time will tell.
They don't deserve to be here. There are thousands of other people who should be able to be here in the real world tonight, watching fireworks with friends and family, visiting shrines, celebrating together. The two of them are the last people who deserve to be here.
But while they're here, can't she try still?
"There's beauty in the real world too," she whispers; if only she could convince him to stay-
But she can feel him slipping away already. And when she wakes up, curled up in her own bed, wrapped up tight in the blanket, she's
still
alone.
My poor baby girl T.T