x.

It was only once. Mirio shouldn't have panicked as he had.

But not getting her call had left him gasping, grasping at possibilities – and in the evening's dreadful silence, he'd picked apart every word Eri had spoken over the past weeks. Measuring. Overthinking. Typing out messages to Sir with all sorts of desperate jargon and receiving the same reply. Stay calm. Don't act rashly. Don't panic just yet. But how could Mirio not tumble out of his mind when Eri's voice hadn't met him on the other end of the phone line?

He was supposed to see her that night. Though the clock only showed seven thirty, Mirio glanced continually to the door. Eager, petrified, and trying hard to be patient. He refreshed his emails, as he would do on any normal evening. The kettle had just boiled and so waited to be poured into tea leaves (although, Mirio could easily have stomached shochu instead).

Out the window, he stared into the night in wait, imagining visions of white dancing through the darkness towards him. She'd promised. Flowers in impatient reds stood upon the table, ready for her arrival. Last time, she'd mentioned wanting to try plum wine – and for the evening to come, Mirio had ordered one of the hotel's most expensive bottles. He still had so much to tell her. So, so much to ask her.

Alas, there was no Eri-fairy to be seen, not yet, and Mirio sighed. What if she didn't come just as she hadn't called?

No. No – she'd come.

She'd promised.

Taking his leave from the windowsill, Mirio seated himself at the table by the TV. Commercials for fast food played themselves in the background, bright faces speaking fast and enthusiastic. On his laptop screen, a real estate page was open with houses for sale and for rent in Kagoshima. Mirio scrolled, eying out two bedroom cottages. Near the bay. Near the market. Big windows overlooking little gardens with vegetables and flower beds. Would he be able to grow lilies? Would Eri come visit him there, amongst flowers he knew nothing about and a home which would be completely, wholeheartedly for her?

God. This wasn't who Mirio was – a man who went about buying an entire house to be nearer to a girl. A married girl. Woman. He pressed his fingers to his eyes until he saw dots, as though blinding himself would make the whole thing any less preposterous.

It was all perfectly innocent though. It was only to be close to Eri and nothing more. In case she needed him, since Mirio couldn't shake an inkling apprehension about nothing in particular, the fear that something was desperately wrong without being able to put his finger on what.

Or in case she wanted him, his company. In case she wanted their weekly visits to turn to nightly stays. Domestic little secrets. A cozy couch rather than sitting cushions; glasses of wine on the table and music rather than TV ads in the background; her shoes and scarfs and sweaters on a coat-hanger or over chairs or on Mirio's floor–

Ping!

A new notification made his breath jump out from his lungs. The swelling buzz inside of his stomach dissipated into the fluttering static of butterflies through oblivion. He hesitated, eyes on the screen. He blinked tensely at the email from Nighteye's official address, knowing full-well what it was without having to open it.

And indeed, it was a long while – agonizing, unapologetic tickticktick – before he opened it.

Diminutive handfuls of people began to file into the theater, not once glancing up to the box in which Eri sat between Kai and Chrono. The three of them had been inside for ages already despite the fact that it was still long before the performance was due to start. Maybe about twenty minutes still to go. Though it was just as well, because Eri was having a notoriously difficult time settling into her seat.

She'd gotten away with so much this evening. So much more than she would have ever gotten away with before, even when Kai was in the best of moods.

Deliberately doing what Chrono had told her not to, she'd worn a scarf with the dress – one of Mirio's favourites, the chiffon one with bursting, pastel waves of pink and blue. Kai had raised an eyebrow at it, had even looked disappointed and made Eri flinch ever so slightly. But he hadn't told her to take it off.

And knowing perfectly well that Kai would have wanted her to wear the perfume that smelled like lotus flowers, she'd instead opted for something different – the one like citrus blossoms which, she'd noticed, had made Mirio lean in close to her a few times before.

Small victories like these. Little things she knew – oh, she knew – Kai would notice and possibly question but wouldn't do anything about. Where the bravery had come from for her to try out such stunts, Eri couldn't decide. But it had certainly left her giddy. Excited and slightly uncomfortable. Not in a bad way. She wasn't entirely sure it was in a good way either. But, of course these were all just little things. Small victories that didn't mean much.

What had really left her heart floundering like a bee under glass was something much bigger. Something thrillingly extravagant and frightening and very, very, terribly grown up.

Kai had let her drink wine.

They'd gone out for dinner (an unnecessarily early dinner) at an expensive restaurant almost entirely deserted. Eri had been unable to abandon the thought of her foiled evening with Mirio, and how he had promised her a taste of plum wine. Forbidden fruit, the flavour of which Eri had spent many sleepless hours imagining onto her tongue. And while Chrono and Kai had gone on talking about something Eri didn't care about, she'd stewed. She'd brooded. She'd driven herself close to madness with thoughts of Mirio and thoughts of wine until she'd hardly been able to bear the temptation of it any longer.

She'd touched Kai's hand all soft and well-behaved, waiting for permission to speak; when she had such permission, she'd asked in the nicest voice she could possibly muster if she could please – please, please, oh pretty please, darling husband – have a glass of wine. Just one. Just this once. Even if it was just a quarter of a glass

And though it was not without a moment's hesitation, Kai had said yes.

And Eri had drunk a full glass of wine and had thought of Mirio the whole time.

Now her head spun and the floor seemed about ready to drop out from beneath her. She tried to watch the faces of people as they took their seats. They were blurred and their movements made her dizzy. She looked over to Kai any number of times, his hand scratching discreetly at the bumps which had reared themselves in his neck. The more people came into the theater, the more he scratched – because such a flimsy face mask wasn't nearly the same sort of protection against disease as that stupid, horrible bird-beak had been.

Eri shuddered. She'd hated that thing.

Time went by quickly. Possibly because her sense of time had gone out the window, dazed and fascinated by the wobbly look of everything; possibly because she'd lost herself in imagining that Mirio was holding her hand, stroking her knuckles, glancing at her with an expression she didn't understand – even though it was Kai doing all those things. It didn't feel nearly so bad if Eri pretended it wasn't him.

At last, the lights dimmed into blackness. The orchestra Eri hadn't noticed sprung into life with Swan Lake's overture (damn the slicing pain which stabbed itself through her gut with white-hot venom), and she held her breath. Tried to steady her swimming vision and flustered heart before Anya-chan appeared on stage.

The name had been so unsuspecting before now. So tinted with the love-coloured adoration of Eri's voice and smile, Mirio had quietly refused to consider the insinuations which lay just beneath.

But Sir's email was a cruel stroke of reality. 'Re: Anya, Bolshoi' glaring in the subject line, photographs of eleven different women staring out at Mirio in mocking accusation – blacks and whites of portfolio portraits, all their faces sharp and high-boned and dripping with the possibilities of beauty and evil. One in particular was pointed out with an asterisk, her accompanying biography poisonously highlighted by Sir himself. 'I believe this is the woman we ought to be looking for,' he had written. And indeed, for his laxness, Mirio hated himself.

He hadn't thought to mention this Anya woman to Nighteye until a few days ago. How could he, Mirio, have been so caught up? So careless? How could he have let something so vital have gone ignored until now?

Really. Some hero he would have been.

Ivanovska Anya was the Bolshoi's prima ballerina, thin-lipped and with collar bones like balconies, all the threat of a hyena in her eye. There was something beautiful about her, something tragic and corrupt. But that wasn't important – what mattered, what made Mirio cuss and hang his head into his hands, was that she was the Mafia boss's daughter-in-law.

Eri cried. With relief when Kai left halfway through the performance and didn't come back, the scraping, angry rash in his neck clearly too much for him. With agony when Anya-chan – tall, watery Anya-chan in pure white – danced the part of the dying Swan Princess. And with surprise when she looked over to Chrono to find him crying too.

She didn't ask. She didn't bring it up when they left their seats to meet Kai in the foyer. If anything, she pretended she hadn't noticed and Chrono didn't seem to realise what she'd seen. But Eri replayed it several times over in her mind how a tear had glistened silvery down his cheek. One, single tear, the rest dammed up against his lashes and in his eyes' corners. Incandescent along his pale skin, glinting before the white of the stage lights.

Had something happened?

Was he crying because of something Eri had done? Was she in trouble?

Still unsteady but more sober than she'd been two hours ago, Eri stared ahead wide-eyed and hearing nothing. Kai touched his hand to the small of her back and led her out from the theater. Chrono had gone to the bathroom. He'd meet up with them later, he'd said. And without him there, just her and Kai alone for the first time that evening, Eri's stomach went weak. She staggered through the thoughts of everything she'd done to defy Chrono and Kai that evening and that week and her entire life, her previous daring dissipating like the tear had disappeared down Chrono's jaw.

Chrono never cried. Kai never cried. Mirio had, that first night. But Chrono never cried, and suddenly nothing made sense. Eri's innards plunged, and she considered that maybe he hadn't liked Sawn Lake. Had he literally been bored to tears? Or instead, had he been moved by how beautifully Anya-chan danced?

Or maybe… Maybe he was disappointed, because he knew exactly what Eri was up to with all the little rebellions in her heart. Maybe he'd already told Kai.

Instead of leading her back towards the restaurants and shops, Kai directed Eri in the opposite direction. Away. Away from the golden glow of lights and the smells of food and the romance of couples on dates. He took her into the darkness, around the side and back of the theater's grand building where there was nobody. Eri could still hear echoes of people behind them. He'd chase her if she fled. Knowing she was helpless. She was wearing high heels – clack, clack, clack on the paving – and had no hope of outrunning him.

Eri counted the ways she could apologise for everything and nothing. She braced herself for broken bones, thought about Mirio's voice rather her blood dripping onto the black, dirty floor.

"I don't want to be here long," Kai said without looking at Eri, and she was more horrified by the softness in his voice than she would ever have been by any pain through her body. "Be a good girl and be quick about it."

They only walked a few more steps before they reached a door in the wall, its outline leaking with warm light.

Kai opened it and gestured for Eri to go in.

Powdery smells of perfume and make-up and deodorant met them. In a room like a small reception area, hung wall-to-wall with posters of dramas and ballets, operas and symphonies, there were several people Eri recognised from the programme booklet – though now they weren't in tutus, but in sweatpants and boots. Bags were slung over their shoulders. Sweat gelled their hair back in slick buns and comb overs.

At the closeness of it all, the warmth and the brightness, Eri could feel Kai gag.

Then came a voice. That scratchy, gorgeous voice like smoked honey, calling out in Russian – "Eri! My sweetness!"

Eri almost cried once more. She threw herself away from Kai and through the unnamed ballerinas, tumbling forward in a clumsy mess of teal material and delight until she felt herself fall into those graceful, swan-lithe arms. An embrace. Several kisses on her forehead bound to leave lipstick stains – the sort Chrono had wiped off of Eri's face many times before. "Anya!" She smelled the same. Of smoke and purple perfume and all the mysteries of womanhood. "You didn't tell me you'd be here. You were so beautiful!"

The other ballerinas stared oddly, perhaps surprised by the Japanese girl who could speak Russian. Perhaps contriving amongst themselves and in their minds how Eri could possibly have been related to someone like Anya-chan.

Hands slightly calloused and slightly shaky, Anya-chan took hold of Eri's cheeks. "Oh my, my," she cooed. "You are even more exquisite than I remember. Just look at you! This gorgeous dress and those pointy shoes of yours. What a lady you are, my little apple! Did you enjoy the show?"

"Every minute!"

"Why are you blushing so?" Her eyes, perfectly round as dark plums, flickered away. "Were you doing something exciting out there in the darkness while you were waiting?"

Eri, not realising she'd been blushing before, certainly blushed now. And not pleasurably. "I–"

Kai cleared his throat. Anya pulled her mouth like a cat considering a sour rat. "And you?" she questioned Kai, the sugar-coated point of her voice making Eri recoil as though she'd been slapped. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Quite."

For as long as Eri could remember, they'd never liked each other. Kai thought Anya-chan was trash because she was quirkless – this he'd told Eri multiple times before, his voice searing like a blade and wounding just as deeply. Once, he'd also called Anya-chan a whore. Only once though, and Eri had only overheard it through closed doors. She'd been twelve. And she'd thought that if Anya-chan was a whore, she wanted to be one too.

Because whores drank wine and snuck out at night to see men they shouldn't have been seeing.

Raven eyes still locked onto Kai, Anya stroked Eri's cheeks with her thumbs. She had a marvelous talent for multitasking. "And Hari?" No one ever called Chrono Hari besides her. It was the weirdest thing. "Where is he now?"

Kai came closer, so that the heat of him seemed to smolder in Eri's back.

"Ask him yourself," he said with all the dead politeness in the world. "He'll buy you a drink at the theater bar."

"I better dress up nice then."

A quiet hum like a stalking, black animal in Kai's throat.

Already, Eri had gotten away with so much, and now her feelings swirled with gathering confusion inside of her. The ecstasy of having gotten away with tasting the once-unattainable acidity of alcohol. Mirio like a secret in her heart. Insolence and excitement and audacity flooded Eri from Anya's touch. It drained out of her with the weight of Kai's closeness. And for some moments, a barrier or a prize between two warring gazes, Eri considered the possibility of asking – please, please, pretty please, darling husband – if she too could have another drink at the theater bar.

But she could smell Kai's bad mood like a miasma. She imagined the red bumps spreading themselves down his stomach and legs like the disease he so desperately despised. Scratching. Scratching. Scratching. His skin. Her skin.

She grasped Anya's hands and grinned, hoping the distraction would prove fruitful. "Can I see your tutus before you leave? And the stage. Would they let you take me to look at the stage?"

"My apple!" Anya gasped, and seemed to forget that Kai existed. "Anything for you!"