Rosebuds, Chapter 14
Author's Note: Sorry about the lack of updates! I'm intending to end this story in approximately 3-5 more chapters, but to tell the truth I've honestly run out of ideas. If anyone wants to send me some ideas, that would be very appreciated : ) Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers that have been constantly keeping up with both this story and Mireille in Japan!
They would never take another contract again. If Mireille hadn't made sure of that, their last client certainly had. The Corsican blonde had just opened up her computer for the first time in weeks-and her inbox was overflowing. She resisted the urge to throw the useless piece of machinery out the window.
Kirika had spoken little in the last two weeks. Her ankle was healing nicely and she could definitely walk with a nearly undetectable limp now, but she preferred to stay in bed, reading long Japanese novels that Mireille had checked out for her from her workplace. In the five years working there she had never ventured to the foreign language section and was startled by Kirika's request for something to read. Still not being able to read enough of the language, Mireille pulled random books that appeared to be novels off the shelf and checked out several at a time.
It bothered her at times, seeing Kirika curled up cozily with a book that she could not understand. At these times the Japanese girl appeared to be lost in a world of her own. Mireille wondered at times what was so interesting in those books, surprised that Kirika didn't find her random choice of books disturbing. She simply devoured them, reading late into the night until the blonde was begging her to turn the light off so she could sleep.
Mireille had left Kirika inside the room, intending to get some grocery shopping done, but didn't make it farther than the first staircase. Sitting down on the first stair, she balanced her elbows on her knees and put her head in her hands.
She felt as if she and Kirika had gone back into the past and switched places. It had always been Mireille who made every decision and Kirika who followed her. It had been Mireille who had felt so happy and content in her new life and Kirika who had wanted more attention from her. Now it seemed as if Kirika was the happy and content one, shut off from the world of worry and remorse that Mireille was wallowed in.
The Corsican blonde sat there in this hunched over position for several more minutes before one of her neighbors happened to come by and asked if she was all right.
"Yes," said Mireille, a bit vaguely. "Just fine."
= = = = = = =
Kirika was hiding.
The windows of the Parisian apartment were wide open and the curtains drawn back. She wasn't hidden under a table or behind a dresser; the Japanese girl simply lay on her bed, a blanket draped over her legs, and casually flipped another page. In this world she was hidden.
She didn't know how Mireille could face it, but Mireille hadn't hurt the way she had-had never hurt the way Kirika was hurting. Yet Mireille was distraught; that was evident. At times Kirika considered reaching out to her, but Mireille always seemed busy doing something-and she didn't know what she would possibly say to her. And so she remained hidden in her world of storybook characters.
Kirika turned another page.
= = = = = = =
Mireille was wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles, absentmindedly studying the packages of bread, none of the words and labels working their way into her mind. She had never been very choosy before-after all, what big difference was there between this brand of wheat bread and that brand of wheat bread?
Wheat bread wasn't even on her shopping list.
I need to stop avoiding Kirika, thought Mireille. She threw the loaf of bread back at the shelf and walked out of the store empty-handed. She had taken her moped, a nice alternative to walking. Besides, with both hands empty, she could maneuver better and felt the wind blowing in her hair.
She felt alive. A clearly American couple jumped out of her way, their gift shop bags with the word "Louvre" slapping against their legs. They muttered something and Mireille was tempted to laugh. She increased her speed.
In some other time she had promised Kirika she would take her sightseeing in Paris. Then the contract had come up and they had been overwhelmed with plans for a case that couldn't have gone worse.
It's time we got to know each other again, thought Mireille, and cursed the contract. But for now she smiled happily, sailing down the street on her bright yellow moped.
= = = = = = =
The Corsican blonde was amazed at how long Kirika could stare at a picture without getting bored. She had a painting or two in her apartment, but she had hardly glanced at it in the years since she'd bought it. After nearly an hour she had browsed through most of the Louvre, yet Kirika was still mesmerized with the very first painting she had encountered.
"Still here?" she asked playfully.
Kirika turned, her face alight with awe. "It's so beautiful. Look at the glow of the sunlight on the fabric of the umbrella-I wish I could paint like that."
Mireille didn't see anything out of the ordinary about the picture, but she wasn't about to admit that to Kirika.
"I like the painting you gave me better," she said stoutly, triggering a scowl from the nearest security guard. Kirika laughed-a wonderful sound.
"I'm done with this painting," she said. "Let's move on to the next one."
Mireille followed her docilely to the next painting, then wandered off on her own again. There was only one part of the museum that she hadn't visited yet: the sculptures.
She slowly climbed up the stairs, feeling happier than she had in weeks. Kirika had seemed rather reluctant about the idea of going sightseeing at first and had posed several excuses, but by the morning of the planned trip she was almost bouncing with excitement. Mireille suspected she was just as happy to take her mind off the past as she was herself.
Many of the sculptures were expressionless, their features consisting of smoothly chiseled grooves and pools in the stone or wood. Some stood and some sat, and one appeared to be of a mother bending over to her child. There was one sculpture clearly intended to be a young woman, but her face was blank. There was not even the arch of the nose or the depressions of the eyes. The artist had left the emotions completely up to the viewer's imagination. Yet the sculpture's feminine body was put in a pose that suggested she was upset or depressed, yet clearly trying to hide it. Mireille was reminded of Kirika's obsession of reading books to hide from the memories of their trip to Japan.
Maybe Kirika will start painting again, thought Mireille. Now that she had brought Kirika out from between the pages of the novel, the possibilities were endless. They had talked all the way here, with only scanty pauses here and there. Kirika had smiled and laughed and Mireille had found herself laughing with her.
They were on their way to getting back to their normal lives.
= = = = = = =
The girls stood in the crowd that night, watching the fireworks explode above the famous Eiffel tower. The occasion was unknown to them, but it didn't matter. Kirika hadn't ever seen fireworks, at least not that she could remember-she had never even gone to see them on any of the five 4th of July's that she had spent in America.
Earlier that afternoon, Mireille had finally managed to drag Kirika out of the Louvre around four and they had begun the drive to the Eiffel Tower. Kirika had wanted to take the stairs, but Mireille, having gone through that traumatic experience once already, insisted on the elevator. Kirika kept pausing to inspect every aspect of the tower and Mireille had a strong suspicion that she intended to paint it someday.
"I'm really glad we came," she heard Kirika say. A shower of gold and purple exploded overhead, followed by oohs and ahhs. A child in the distance screamed, clearly afraid of the loud noise.
"Me too." She smiled at her old partner. "Next time I'll take the stairs with you. Maybe."
The sky lit up in a sea of pink and blue sparks. Surrounded by people yet secluded from all of them, the two girls who had once shared the title of Noir watched in silence. Mireille was reminded of the time Kirika had been shot and she had fired a flare into the sky, which was the last time she had seen so powerful a glow. She shook her head. Those days were over.
And she was glad they were.
Author's Note: Sorry about the lack of updates! I'm intending to end this story in approximately 3-5 more chapters, but to tell the truth I've honestly run out of ideas. If anyone wants to send me some ideas, that would be very appreciated : ) Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers that have been constantly keeping up with both this story and Mireille in Japan!
They would never take another contract again. If Mireille hadn't made sure of that, their last client certainly had. The Corsican blonde had just opened up her computer for the first time in weeks-and her inbox was overflowing. She resisted the urge to throw the useless piece of machinery out the window.
Kirika had spoken little in the last two weeks. Her ankle was healing nicely and she could definitely walk with a nearly undetectable limp now, but she preferred to stay in bed, reading long Japanese novels that Mireille had checked out for her from her workplace. In the five years working there she had never ventured to the foreign language section and was startled by Kirika's request for something to read. Still not being able to read enough of the language, Mireille pulled random books that appeared to be novels off the shelf and checked out several at a time.
It bothered her at times, seeing Kirika curled up cozily with a book that she could not understand. At these times the Japanese girl appeared to be lost in a world of her own. Mireille wondered at times what was so interesting in those books, surprised that Kirika didn't find her random choice of books disturbing. She simply devoured them, reading late into the night until the blonde was begging her to turn the light off so she could sleep.
Mireille had left Kirika inside the room, intending to get some grocery shopping done, but didn't make it farther than the first staircase. Sitting down on the first stair, she balanced her elbows on her knees and put her head in her hands.
She felt as if she and Kirika had gone back into the past and switched places. It had always been Mireille who made every decision and Kirika who followed her. It had been Mireille who had felt so happy and content in her new life and Kirika who had wanted more attention from her. Now it seemed as if Kirika was the happy and content one, shut off from the world of worry and remorse that Mireille was wallowed in.
The Corsican blonde sat there in this hunched over position for several more minutes before one of her neighbors happened to come by and asked if she was all right.
"Yes," said Mireille, a bit vaguely. "Just fine."
= = = = = = =
Kirika was hiding.
The windows of the Parisian apartment were wide open and the curtains drawn back. She wasn't hidden under a table or behind a dresser; the Japanese girl simply lay on her bed, a blanket draped over her legs, and casually flipped another page. In this world she was hidden.
She didn't know how Mireille could face it, but Mireille hadn't hurt the way she had-had never hurt the way Kirika was hurting. Yet Mireille was distraught; that was evident. At times Kirika considered reaching out to her, but Mireille always seemed busy doing something-and she didn't know what she would possibly say to her. And so she remained hidden in her world of storybook characters.
Kirika turned another page.
= = = = = = =
Mireille was wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles, absentmindedly studying the packages of bread, none of the words and labels working their way into her mind. She had never been very choosy before-after all, what big difference was there between this brand of wheat bread and that brand of wheat bread?
Wheat bread wasn't even on her shopping list.
I need to stop avoiding Kirika, thought Mireille. She threw the loaf of bread back at the shelf and walked out of the store empty-handed. She had taken her moped, a nice alternative to walking. Besides, with both hands empty, she could maneuver better and felt the wind blowing in her hair.
She felt alive. A clearly American couple jumped out of her way, their gift shop bags with the word "Louvre" slapping against their legs. They muttered something and Mireille was tempted to laugh. She increased her speed.
In some other time she had promised Kirika she would take her sightseeing in Paris. Then the contract had come up and they had been overwhelmed with plans for a case that couldn't have gone worse.
It's time we got to know each other again, thought Mireille, and cursed the contract. But for now she smiled happily, sailing down the street on her bright yellow moped.
= = = = = = =
The Corsican blonde was amazed at how long Kirika could stare at a picture without getting bored. She had a painting or two in her apartment, but she had hardly glanced at it in the years since she'd bought it. After nearly an hour she had browsed through most of the Louvre, yet Kirika was still mesmerized with the very first painting she had encountered.
"Still here?" she asked playfully.
Kirika turned, her face alight with awe. "It's so beautiful. Look at the glow of the sunlight on the fabric of the umbrella-I wish I could paint like that."
Mireille didn't see anything out of the ordinary about the picture, but she wasn't about to admit that to Kirika.
"I like the painting you gave me better," she said stoutly, triggering a scowl from the nearest security guard. Kirika laughed-a wonderful sound.
"I'm done with this painting," she said. "Let's move on to the next one."
Mireille followed her docilely to the next painting, then wandered off on her own again. There was only one part of the museum that she hadn't visited yet: the sculptures.
She slowly climbed up the stairs, feeling happier than she had in weeks. Kirika had seemed rather reluctant about the idea of going sightseeing at first and had posed several excuses, but by the morning of the planned trip she was almost bouncing with excitement. Mireille suspected she was just as happy to take her mind off the past as she was herself.
Many of the sculptures were expressionless, their features consisting of smoothly chiseled grooves and pools in the stone or wood. Some stood and some sat, and one appeared to be of a mother bending over to her child. There was one sculpture clearly intended to be a young woman, but her face was blank. There was not even the arch of the nose or the depressions of the eyes. The artist had left the emotions completely up to the viewer's imagination. Yet the sculpture's feminine body was put in a pose that suggested she was upset or depressed, yet clearly trying to hide it. Mireille was reminded of Kirika's obsession of reading books to hide from the memories of their trip to Japan.
Maybe Kirika will start painting again, thought Mireille. Now that she had brought Kirika out from between the pages of the novel, the possibilities were endless. They had talked all the way here, with only scanty pauses here and there. Kirika had smiled and laughed and Mireille had found herself laughing with her.
They were on their way to getting back to their normal lives.
= = = = = = =
The girls stood in the crowd that night, watching the fireworks explode above the famous Eiffel tower. The occasion was unknown to them, but it didn't matter. Kirika hadn't ever seen fireworks, at least not that she could remember-she had never even gone to see them on any of the five 4th of July's that she had spent in America.
Earlier that afternoon, Mireille had finally managed to drag Kirika out of the Louvre around four and they had begun the drive to the Eiffel Tower. Kirika had wanted to take the stairs, but Mireille, having gone through that traumatic experience once already, insisted on the elevator. Kirika kept pausing to inspect every aspect of the tower and Mireille had a strong suspicion that she intended to paint it someday.
"I'm really glad we came," she heard Kirika say. A shower of gold and purple exploded overhead, followed by oohs and ahhs. A child in the distance screamed, clearly afraid of the loud noise.
"Me too." She smiled at her old partner. "Next time I'll take the stairs with you. Maybe."
The sky lit up in a sea of pink and blue sparks. Surrounded by people yet secluded from all of them, the two girls who had once shared the title of Noir watched in silence. Mireille was reminded of the time Kirika had been shot and she had fired a flare into the sky, which was the last time she had seen so powerful a glow. She shook her head. Those days were over.
And she was glad they were.
