Two Steps Behind

by M. Kye

Kirika's musings on her purpose in life and relationship with Mireille as both girls have a casual walk through downtown Paris in the spring. Post-series, stand-alone snapshot. More descriptive than introspective. No angst this time (really).

Disclaimer: I don't own Noir, so keep the lawyers leashed, ok? Title from Def Leppard.

A/N:
- Comments/criticisms on style as well as substance are welcome. Don't be shy.
- Shigan: I'm still experimenting, which makes your conreview effort all the more useful.
- Liquid Sky feedback: see at the end of this story.

----------------------------------- Two Steps Behind ----------------------------------

We must have walked by that small antique shop at least a hundred times since I came back from Japan to Paris with you a year ago. Probably more, since it is pretty close to your flat and on the straightest way to the south bank of the Seine. You never cast more than a cursory glance at the contents displayed behind the glass, and the old wooden facade, with the light brown paint chipped off at the edges and the pitted bronze-plated door knob, does not stand out among the line of shop windows and is not meant to attract attention.

As a matter of fact, we are not out on a shopping spree, as we can be sometimes - usually when you are upset about something, I have noticed. I do not know why you do that, or how it can help you relax, but it works and I will not argue with what does, especially since you always invite me to tag along during your occasional buying frenzies. I suspect you expect me to catch up with that habit sooner or later. I cannot really understand how you find it enjoyable, but I do not know myself well enough to be sure I will never like it, and trying cannot hurt. In any case, I am with you, and that alone is enough for me.

But today, you and I were merely walking and enjoying the uncharacteristically nice weather of that early spring morning.

And you still have managed to find something to your liking.

You turn around and wave me forward and closer, a little smile playing on your lips and the azure of your eyes shining and sparkling as it reflects sunlight. I pick up my pace to meet you as your attention is caught again by a gilded piece of jewellery displayed behind the slightly stained glass.

Around us, life goes on as usual in the already crowded street. People walk by, single or in pairs, with a child in tow sometimes. One, a tiny dark-haired girl barely old enough to walk on her own, wails as her exasperated mother drags her along. Some people glance at them, and I usually can catch a mix of sympathy and annoyance in their gaze, but the fleeting speck of awareness dissolves before I can guess which is for whom. Others pass by, ramrod-straight, as if nothing was happening - or more likely as if they would rather not be there at all, as if this display of unrefined, primal humanity was somehow offensive to them.

I wonder why is it so easy for people to look down on what they should cherish.

One of those, a middle-aged man with a business-like grey suit and a long raincoat folded and tucked in the crook of his left arm, busies himself in a hurried conversation on his cell phone, and his concentration and stress are apparently genuine. How he can hear anything amidst the child's screaming, though, is beyond me. The coat hides his lower arm and hand from view, but there is no movement that I can notice under the dark grey folds of the thick, plush fabric.

Your hand tugs at the fabric of my jacket sleeve. I focus back on you, only to be greeted by the tinge of deeper blue in your gaze slightly widened in fake enquiry. There is no hint of irritation or impatience that I can read in you, nothing but light mirth born of a reason I cannot name. I smile in apology nonetheless, and lower my eyes slightly, letting my hair veil them. I know I will get myself teased for it, and I am not disappointed as the mocking sigh you breathe and the laughing gleam dancing in your irises draw a warm tingle to my cheeks, a blush I fight as best as I can. With little apparent success, if the slight dimple on your cheeks and the curve of your lips is any indication.

You finger-point the latest target of your fancy, and I speak my part in the scripted play we both know by heart because it is part of our diurnal guise, shyly uttering the question you must have expected all along, wondering about the actual usefulness of that trinket. You casually disregard my half-hearted objection with a dismissive wave of your hand and immerse again in a critical examination of the item. Never mind the fact that I really think you would be better off without it.

Never mind that I think your beauty shines brighter unadorned.

I resume my circular glance and find that the businessman is gone. The sun brightens and warms the mid-morning hours, and most windows have their shutters folded open and the curtains tucked back, giving a clear view of slightly discolored flowered wallpapers and the occasional lacquered piece of furniture. They are like snapshots of everyday life, with all the boredom and discarded hopes painted in fading hues on the walls of rooms that are usually hidden from view. Today, most people are either out or still asleep, and those rooms are empty. I can see no one up there peeking, no bored tenant, no nasty old landlady trying to nail you with a withering glare. I notice a reflection of sunlight on metal, on the second floor of the tenement standing at the next crossing.

It is merely a bathroom mirror. I look down.

A few steps down the street, a crooked old man is sat on a worn iron chair at a café, reading a popular newspaper, a nearly emptied glass of dark red wine set on the table in front of him, like the upper half of an hourglass measuring his life in blood. He frowns and grumbles, and the wrinkles on his face crease even further - he is obviously displeased. I must have stared too intently and his pale gaze rises to meet mine. Something in me - my outfit, perhaps - is probably offensive to him because he swallows a curse and dejectedly immerses himself in his reading again. I cannot quite make out the words in his mutterings, but there is something about 'indecent youth' and 'scantily clad' that make me rethink my choice of daily attire, despite your earlier comments about me being hopelessly prude and out of fashion.

And then, I realise that he was not staring at me, but at you. And, all of a sudden, I am glad to have settled for nondescript clothing.

Fortunately for him, you straighten back up, having apparently decided against buying the trinket - a move that incidentally lets your black skirt slide down to a length probably more in line with elder people's sense of modesty. I cast one last, sideway glance back above my shoulder, to check on the old man who ostensibly looks the other way - and I notice two boys leaning against the wall on the far side of the street and ogling at you, lit cigarette in hand, wide and silly grins plastered on their faces. One of them is perched on a mountain bike, the other carries roller blades over his shoulder. Both are clad in typical teenager street wear - huge black and white sneakers that are bound to get in the way as soon as they start running, loose, oversized pants ready to trip them at a moment's notice, long baggy overshirt with large pockets and the hood thrown back.

They could hide anything in those pockets. Their insistent stare is mixed with what I can only guess is barely veiled adolescent lechery, but I can sense no threat in their attitude - it is only a game of pretending, strutting and fantasizing to them, and they do not have the brains or heart to act on their impulses, which is just as well for them. I hurry again after you, catching up before you notice anything amiss in my behaviour.

As we stroll leisurely along the streets of downtown Paris towards the river banks, you indulge in a few more visual treats, glance at some outrageously expensive and oddly-cut clothing no one can possibly put on without assistance, abruptly stop by a newsstand to peruse the main titles in the papers, enfold a group of giggling and chattering schoolgirls in a single half-condescending, half-amused stare. Most of them are busy fawning over a portrait of the latest heartthrob in a magazine, but a couple of them eye you back with an odd expression where envy and disdain struggle for dominance.

Fleetingly, I wonder what that expression would become if we were holding hands.

But we are not. I let you lead the way, as usual, taking in the various passers-by as they cross our path and fade in the background: a couple of young female joggers, clad in shorts and sweaters and their faces glistening with perspiration, narrowly avoiding a rather large dog as they pass by, triggering a cacophony of barks and high-pitched protests; a large, burly man in stained blue coveralls carrying crates from a truck into the neighbouring bar, swearing loudly as the joggers rush past him without even a word of apology; the hissing and splashing noise of the road-cleaning car as its rotating sweepers make short work of the grime and muck accumulated against the sidewalk and startle the dog into a frenzy, leaving a pungent smell in their wake. Spring is still young, but most people have indulged in light clothing only, and I notice nothing out of the ordinary.

My eyes focus on your back again, and I cannot help but notice, for the briefest of moments, the way you walk, the gentle, unobtrusive sway of your black-clad hips, the way the muscles in your back play under the tight-fitting red shirt, veiled by the shifting, rippling golden flow of your hair.

Of course, this is when you turn around and catch me staring.

Your eyebrows rise slightly in a mock questioning mimic, but I see no hint of puzzlement or surprise in the sparkling pools of your eyes. I can easily imagine the loving smile you hide behind a mask of noncommittal interest and the silent, joyful laughter bubbling in your heart. I can feel my cheeks burning again, but I meet your gaze anyway, acknowledging my moment of rapture. You winning this little game makes us both happier, I guess. Maybe that is why you keep walking before me even now.

You wave me forward and resume your stroll towards the Seine, confident that I'll follow - and you are right, of course. I like those casual walks through the city at least as much as you do, when clouds are but small, white puffs of leftover dreams drifting in the bright blue sky and the wind has bartered away its winter teeth for warm tickling strokes that flutter on bare skin. Even the usual flurry of pigeons flocking over every statue, fountain and monument we pass by fit in better with the fresh, pervasive feeling of renewal.

Of course, some people never seem to get in tune with that. They always look the same, drab and gloomy, with dark grey suits, drawn features and tired blank stares behind small glasses. They remind me of the mundane grey haze that lingers in most people's heart, the loss of hope and love. One walks by hurriedly, a mix of displeasure and stress painted on his face, and I notice his fidgeting hand tucked in his coat pocket, fumbling with something - which eventually proves to be a cell phone. Another, a man in his forties with close-cropped hair and hard-edged features, is putting his wallet back into the inside pocket of his vest, and his gaze wanders up and down the street as he does, until it locks on you and stops.

There is a shard of broken glass just beside my left foot.

I only relax when I notice that his eyes have lost their focus and mechanically start to drift along as you walk, veiled in a dreamy glaze. Still, I always feel slightly uneasy - and oddly angry - when men look at you that way. Most of them would cast a more respectful glance at their next meal.

I always wonder how you can stand it.

Fortunately, it is only a short way to the riverbanks, and the crowd unpacks as we leave the narrow streets of downtown Paris to reach the embankment boulevard. You look up at the traffic lights, then look back at me while you resume your walking.

The light switches to green.

The world freezes in a blur of motion.

I am dimly aware of me dashing, grabbing your arm and pulling you back. It stops you dead in your tracks, and your eyes, still focussed on me, widen in puzzlement.

The deafening roar of an engine and the screeching shriek of tires startle you - and probably scare most people around off their skin. You whirl around just in time to see the anger-red face of the driver and his wild and explicitly vulgar gesticulations as the sleek sports car swerves and speeds away.

My heart suddenly decides to start beating again. Very fast.

An instant later, the fading rumble is covered by the hail of outraged comments of several bystanders. A distinguished man waves his umbrella menacingly at the fast disappearing vehicle. A couple of old ladies mumble about the 'nerve of youth nowadays'. Their miniature pet dogs are busy exasperating everyone around with their high-pitched, frantic yapping. A tall, dark-skinned boy, thick braided hair half-covering his unkempt features, inquires in a halting French if you are well and unharmed.

He is very close. I tense, and tighten my grip on your wrist slightly.

A dozen ways to disable him flash through my mind, most of them aimed at his eyes or windpipe.

Apparently unfazed, you thank the helpful young man with a bright smile that will probably be branded in his memory for the next month, wave away his and everyone else's concern with a steady, dismissive hand gesture. But your eyes, your shining, sparkling eyes, never leave me. They have the deep, soothing hue of the southern seas on a hot summer day. I feel my pulse slowing down.

Even as we cross the street and reach the large, old stone bridge, I feel your attentive focus, the gentle, caring side of you that never surfaces outside of the secure confines of our home. Your pace is brisker now, as if you were in a hurry to get to that bridge and away from the suddenly inquisitive crowd. I match your stride wordlessly.

You reach the first alcove in the sidewalk, where pedestrians usually stop to admire the slow ballet of the white-and-blue riverboats on the dark, glistening waters of the Seine flowing by the Ile de la Cité. You stop there, and bend slightly over the ledge, looking up and away into the sun. I walk up and quietly stand next to you, almost shoulder to shoulder. Here, over the river, the wind picks up slightly, and I feel slight goose bumps crawling up my neck - partly because of the cooler and stronger draft rushing down the river bed, and partly because of the gentle tickling of your golden locks as your hair tangles with mine. I close my eyes, savouring the feeling of your fluttering presence on my skin.

And then, I feel warmth on my fingers, as your hand covers mine almost shyly and enfolds it in its gentle pressure.

I open my eyes again, suddenly eager to dive into the depths of your gaze.

They embrace and welcome me, as they always do. Tiny pearls of laughter and relief twirl in their shifting hue, underlined with something I can only describe as gratitude. I feel something warm and bright enfold my heart, making it thump louder. I could choke from sheer joyful giddiness. I don't know what you can read in my eyes, but I don't mind you seeing the tears welling up in them.

"I cannot make a stray step without you watching over me, can I?"

You are trying to tease me again, of course. Your little act is dispelled instantly by all the voiceless words and feelings shining in your eyes, by the loving touch of your palm. You know it as well as I do.

I let you win this one as well. Feeling your fingers entwined with mine is enough of a reward for me.

"Poor guy. I guess he really wanted to be helpful."

I neither move nor reply. You still have something you want to say, something that dances in your eyes, a tinge of royal blue in the azure, that hints of seriousness. The stroking pressure of your hand becomes a light squeeze.

"I love it when you are possessive like that, you know."

I would have started in surprise, if not for the gentleness of your touch and the whispered feelings in your voice. But now I know why your eyes always laugh, why your heart always shines so.

You had noticed from the start.

As we both gaze straight away at the towering spires of Notre-Dame, I realise all that has changed between us.

Long ago, before our rebirth, I was walking in your shadow, matching your pace from behind, and my only purpose, I guess, was to avoid being lonely again. My steps were but ghosts of yours, like the echo of a solo song in the silence, faithful but with no life of its own.

But no more.

I know now that I would not trade my place at your side for a place in heaven. I have realised how much I love - how much I need - to be with you, to watch you as you walk through life, to see the world through your wandering eyes. I need to see the guise you put on when we leave home, and to see you shed it when the door closes and we are alone again. I need to know and feel that what you really is is for me, and only me.

I could spend unending hours simply lost in the smooth, secretly seductive dance of your stride, in the gentle fluttering stroke of your hair on my skin, in the sparkling azure of your eyes when you turn around... and probing the world around, looking for the tiniest sign of trouble, trying to feel the glancing, icy draft that tells of impending danger, searching for the out-of-place reflection of sunlight on steel or the revealing bulge of a hidden gun. Cradled in the warmth of your light and facing the darkness, my purpose in life settled, I know in my heart that I am where I was meant to be.

Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be there - two steps behind you.

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

Inspiration: Title associated with the revelation of Ep. 25/26 about Kirika's "duty" and my take on how the relation between Kirika and Mireille evolves after 'Birth'. Relations, of course, are always works in progress, which makes this (and most of my other works) nothing but a snapshot.

Intent: I'm trying to find a balance between minute, mostly static descriptions (Liquid Sky), metaphor-based introspective flow (most of my earlier works), and story dynamics. I'm not trying my hands at action yet...

Liquid Sky feedback:
Shigan, special thanks for putting things back into perspective for me - I guess what Liquid Sky is lacking is dynamics and purpose (I guess the 'oil painting' bit is exactly what I was drawn into, which is not necessarily good for a story).
Fan-rei, I am sorry you don't like it - could you detail what made you cringe? I'll try to make it up, I promise. This one should be lighter reading, at least :-D
Cherry-ripe, I remember Ep3 as well, but I'm pretty much convinced that some people Mireille knows would take care to give her a proper burial - the lady-spy in Ep3 was probably jealous :-P.
Teav, Teris24, I replied to you in private but got no feedback, did you receive the mail?
UpirNoir: thanks for the kind words. As for comm/lang gap, mixing poetry (something I'm a novice at) and prose in English (not my native language) is bound to make me nervous :-P
Hanyou: I hope I will be able to read the full review soon :-)
Everyone who noticed the date mistake: I humbly apologise for sloppy research. Yet I think Noir is better off as a contemporary setting than a near-future one - if anything, the anime looks very slightly retro to me.