X Lies With Y
by mewling
X is here in Y's bed,
Here X lies, exhausted.
When X awakes, X will lie,
In every way, X lies with Y.
I. Kyou
She slapped him hard across the face, her expression cold, and for a moment, she reminded him of his mother (1)
It is such that in Kyou's mind, during the most intense of moments he can rapidly change from hot to cold. His mind can never really be kept in the same place, and he is easily bored.
As he stares over Machi's shoulder as they make love, he is watching the letterbox out the window and wondering if he has any bills. He thinks he's a strange, funny creature that way.
She comes to his apartment, usually once a day, sometimes more, sometimes less. Kyou thinks she might come when he's not there sometimes, but in the end, it really doesn't matter.
He remembers the first time. She had been nervous, awkward. The stupid, transparent excuse she made at the door left no doubt to her intensions. As he had unbuttoned her blouse, she had said, "It's because I'm his, isn't it."
He had smiled, as if in agreement, but really, it was probably because her hair was long and brown. (2)
Kyou can't really feel guilty for what he is doing. He never bothered to lie to Machi about how long he'd do this, of how he felt. If he becomes too bored, he looks at the ring on her finger to remind himself why he is doing this. Old rivalries can't ever really be forgotten, and he wants to have even just this little victory.
As Machi redresses, he wanders off to have a smoke on the balcony. Kyou doesn't hear her leave, but he can she her walking toward her car, shoulders tense and her high hells hitting the pavement noisily. She doesn't look up and he gets bored, stubs out his cigarette and drifts back inside to get a beer.
The fridge breathes cold air on Kyou's face. He hears, distantly, the sound of tires fading away. He wonders if this is what people mean when they say 'a hollow victory'.
If Kagura comes over later that day, she'll ask him what he's being doing. He'll say nothing, and invite her in. Kagura would smile, carefully not mention Tohru, and swallow every lie.
II. Machi
Machi wants to be noticed, very badly. She can't bear the distant stare of her husband. She wishes he'd tell her where he goes, and what he's done. She wants him to talk with her and spend more time with her.
But the closer she tries to bring him, the more he slips a way. She thinks of Yuki as a bar of soap. And he gets in her eyes, and she cries so much.
When she had asked him to marry her, she was surprised when he said consented. Well, what he had said was, "It's okay, I guess."
Although she does this so often, Machi doesn't understand why Kyou won't tell Yuki. Isn't that what he wants? To prove he's better than Yuki? Doesn't Kyou want to show Yuki his own wife prefers him?
She grips the steering wheel tightly. She tells herself Kyou is not just humouring her.
Machi is not the kind of person who can commit to a purely sexual relationship. She likes to imagine there is some reciprocated emotion between them, and then pretend she doesn't care. She hates being caught in someone else's love triangle, and wants to feel and act like she's in control, even if she isn't.
Yuki lives in a beautiful, mansion like house near the edges of town. The gardens are wonderful and the rooms huge and spacious. Machi likes to pretend it's hers as well. She wants Yuki to look at her and see Machi, not long brown hair (2). When she says 'love' she wants him to say 'love' too.
Her car, another legacy of Sohma wealth, is expensive and stylish- a present. She begged and pleaded for it. But whenever she passes a relative or friend they'll stop, admire it, and chat. Machi will smile like she thinks rich men's wives should, and call her husband 'darling' and drop the name 'Sohma' casually. She'll make up stories of romantic and possessive things Yuki has done for her. Because she wants to hear the envy in their voices- even if it is all lies.
Machi feels angry. She pushes all her anger up, and takes it out on Kyou. She'll hit him, guilt and excitement running through her at the same time. She'd fierce and aggressive as she makes love to him. She doesn't know quite what she's trying to prove.
But when she's home, she'll say hello to Yuki in a faint, feminine voice. She smile and walk gently, and fuss over him.
Because being truthful would hurt too much.
III. Yuki
He hates the submissive, simpering way she'll do almost anything he says just as much as he hates the possessive, controlling way his wife loves him.
Tohru's there every day, cleaning, cooking. He watches her everyday, even when she doesn't notice, from his huge library window. His house is big, impressive. It needs to be kept clean. It's only sensible he would hire someone who knows his secret for his housekeeper. This is what he tells himself, his wife Machi, and anyone else who asks.
And it is true.
Even if, as his wife frequently says, it's not the only reason.
He knows she doesn't like it. He knows she only does it because she pities him, and feels she owes him this. She'll put up with all the perverse, weird and painful things he does without speaking a word. In the end, she gets paid for the work she does, and she'll put up with this like a dog with its master.
Yuki turns as he hears the door open, and she comes in. He watches as she stands, in front of the chair in which he is seated. The almost meek look on her face reminds him of a Tohru and Yuki who are strangers to him now. He understands they are no longer innocent, and reaches for Tohru's blindfold.
Yuki ties the black band around her eyes. If he is must now a tainted being, then he will taint her. There is nothing he hates more than purity. (3)
Her body is pliant, smooth and pale like always. Yuki tells himself that if she resisted, he'd stop. That he's only doing this because she never fights back. If she did, he'd have a little more respect for her. It frustrates him, and every time Yuki pushes her a little bit harder.
He can push the guilt to the back of his mind if he tells himself it's her fault.
At the end, he removes her blindfold. He stares at her, her small brown head, but she doesn't do any thing. Sitting back in his chair, he watches her redress.
He watches her leave the room.
Outside, through the library window, the sky is very blue. He carefully groomed gardens a full of fresh spring growth, the azaleas a pretty pink.
He hears Tohru in the kitchen, preparing dinner. He pours himself a glass of sherry.
He should probably do something, or say something. But he just stares out at his azaleas and the sky, and drinks his sherry.
Because real men don't cry.
IV. Tohru
Preparing dinner is a mindless chore. She doesn't know when it became like this, but she really doesn't care for this much anymore.
She hates it, she really does. Even when she prepares his food, cleans his house, does his laundry, agrees with his wife and receives her pay check, she thinks this.
There is no love in their sex. She is glad for her blindfold. She doesn't care about the way he treats her, but she hates the look in his eyes.
Disdain. Desperation.
Tohru sees that the relationship that once existed so strongly between the two has long since died, and that all that connects them is the feeble bond of fading memories. To him, she represents a past he both desperately wants to go back to, and one he desperately wants to bury. Distantly, she wonders when things became like this. In her youth, when she was held so close, she had never thought of loneliness.
The kitchen was big, expensive, stylish. It's cold and impersonal, where she makes cold and impersonal meals. The house is big, and empty. Everyday, she cleans the same things, in endless, mindless routine. The things that stand out in her day a small gossips at the market and any little drama in the house.
There is no one Tohru can talk to. She and he are no longer friends, and isolation had snapped whatever other bonds there were with her childhood friends. She wants to tell him how much she hates him and how much she hates her.
But Tohru is just a doll. She isn't made to say or do anything she isn't programmed to.
She wants to trample his pretty little garden. She wants to knock a few pictures out of perfect alignment and spill a few drinks on his floorboards. She wants to leave his car unwashed for a weak or two, forget to iron his shirts and get drunk. Shivers run down her body. Her little fantasies, her little secrets. Tohru knows she'll never do these things. But she's never been afraid of denial.
When he unties her blindfold, it's always the same look. Expectance. Apprehension.
She never meets his eyes. All those bundled up words swirl around in her chest and stomach, and bubble up in her throat. She knows what he wants.
But she doesn't say anything.
Because she'd probably end up lying, anyway.
(1) I know Kyou's mother wasn't abusive. But it's a cool line.
(2) As in like Tohru's hair. At the risk of spelling this out to you.
(3) Ooh, how 1984. I don't actually agree with this weird idea of being pure, or tainted.
There are themes I stole from Paradise Kiss. Sorry Yazawa Ai! X lies with Y is a very crappy poem.
It's disturbingly similar to my When We Were Older and someone else's Four Corners.
It's so disjointed. Last time, with my story When We Were Older, some people were confused as to what was happening, so I was really direct. They all hate each other. That wasn't even intentional.
Some one also complained about the use of 'he' and 'she' and suggested I use the names more. But this is a literary technique, dammit! It's meant to suggest that the people only think of their respective lovers as 'he's and 'she's.
If you review, I promise to write something in third person for a change later on… heh.