Moonlight Whispers
She did not like her name being used. Hearing her name spoken that way made it seem more real than it was, closer to the way she had hoped things might be, and not the way they were. Besides, she didn't like the lazy, dangerous way the other girl spoke, she didn't like how unwelcomely forward she was, how aggressively possessive, a threat made manifest in the rising of her voice, the symptom of her excitement. She did not like the way 'friend' was appended to her name, did not like the clash between overfamiliarity and the way she was being held at a distance; she did not like how it made her feel that she was only good for certain things, but not others. Most of all, though, she did not like how the other girl made her feel, the uncertainty she brought to every other aspect of her life.
Before that night in the woods, before the girl with the wide eyes and the knife to her throat, she had always thought that things would go differently, that she would meet someone, and the moments that followed would be full of flowers and comfort, a hand reaching out for hers, the kind of gentleness you saw in the movies. Instead—
She sighed, blinking once, twice, three times, a nervous habit, a reaction to unpleasant thoughts. That was how you get wrinkles, her mother had told her more times than she could count, yet still she made the gesture whenever an unpleasant thought wandered to the forefront of her mind.
Asui Tsuyu was 16-years-old, and she had been naïve, had not previously thought that there were such people as Toga Himiko, or that such people might act from a different understanding of what togetherness might mean. Maybe there were different movies for different people, she reflected sadly; maybe she had just seen the wrong kind of movies, movies for stupid people who didn't know how things really worked between people.
Toga had been a year older than her when the first met, when she held that knife close to her throat, when she had unwelcomely used her first name. In that moment, pinned against the tree, she had felt a rush of adrenaline, her heart pounding in her chest, her teeth rattling in her jaws, and she had known at last what it was to be close to danger, what it had meant to be helpless.
She had been captivated by her feelings of self-disgust, by the frustration she felt at not being able to do anything, the taste of blood in her mouth, her failed attempt at saving Ochaco-chan, and the need for Ochaco-chan to come back to save her.
She shook her head, an involuntary movement. It had been pitiful, saddening, a reminder of how helpless she was, and there, throughout it all, had been Toga, crowing with delight, muttering her first name, her voice crude and suggestive.
Since then, how many times had they met in secret, how many times had she heard the other girl's whispered words, how many times had she once more felt the closeness of her, the warmth of her breath, the sharpness of her teeth as they drew blood.
She pulled in her shoulders, making herself small as she sat at the centre of the bed, her bedroom lit by the warmth of a lamp unnecessary with the moon full in the sky, the bevy of stars that surrounded it.
It wasn't normal, she knew that. She wanted to love normally, she wanted flowers and comfort, a hand reaching out for her—she wanted not to be someone who wanted to feel what she had felt that night in the forest.
She sniffed, lifting her head, blinking three times, caught in-between a feeling of desire and a feeling of disgust, too young to know the difference.
When she turned 17, when she was a year older, as old as Toga, it would all make sense, she told herself. Another a year and her feelings would even out, and she could forget that this happened, that she had asked for this to happen, and she would meet someone, a nice boy, and her feelings would be the same as Ochaco-chan's for Deku-kun, and everything would make sense.
She nodded, as if by telling herself this, she had made it real, and everything else was just momentary madness, a part of growing up, and it didn't say anything of her character.
Unfolding crossed her legs, and with a new sense of confidence, an understanding that she wouldn't want these things forever, that she was only broken in the moment, she crossed the space of her room and reached for the phone laying upon the desk, one finger again running across the length of her lips.
Beneath the sweatshirt she wore, the tiny, unhealed cuts stung as they brushed up against the cotton.