There are times when his demons catch up with him. When his trauma bears down on him, heavy and drenched in blood. It smothers him. The weight of it is so great that he folds with little resistance and all he knows is loathing.
Kyoko has seen it enough, dealt with it enough. She knows how the strain of maintaining so many masks can break even the strongest man. And the masks he chooses to wear often take their toll on him, particularly when some of them brush too closely to the hurt he's concealed within his heart. Their tendrils reach beyond the careful compartment he creates for each of his roles, searching for a darkness to latch onto and stubbornly refusing to let go once they find purchase.
Setsu was also once well-versed in this, but Setsu was only a name and a face. One he couldn't bring himself to submit fully to, even when she offered her body like a holy sacrifice to be slaughtered on the altar of his despair. Setsu was a mask like all the others. Beautiful, terrifying, and commanding but a mask all the same.
She does this without a mask because he needs to know that this comes from her and only her. One of them has to stay grounded while the other flies off into the melancholic unknown, after all. Goodness knows he's had to navigate her own episodes as well when she falls victim to her own rages of self doubt. To love someone to the point of having a lifeline ready to anchor them when they're awash in their own despondence is as much of a joy as it is a hardship.
Standing before where he's curled into a chair, she ever-so-gently pulls his hands away from his head, pushing warmth from her own into the bitter cold she finds there. They're always so cold when he gets like this. He wants to pull them away, she knows, but she holds firm and fast. She's not letting him go. Not now, not ever.
"Death has stained and ruined me. It follows wherever I go," he laments to his lap and she holds her tongue despite knowing the catastrophizing for what it is and hearing that he's not alone in there. Someone, something else has intruded. "Even when I'm with you. Why do you stay?"
"Because your burdens are mine, as I promised you long ago," she says the words with equal measures of softness and solemnity. "And if there's to be any death, I'll take a little one. On our bed as your name tears from my throat in ecstasy."
Kyoko straddles him then and crushes his lips to hers, matching every bit of his self hatred with her own love. She's offering herself to him, again, in whatever capacity he needs. Whether it's no more than holding him tight enough to squeeze out the ghosts that haunt him or letting him relentlessly rut into her until they combust. And combustion is the order of the day as she feels him rise to the occasion.
It's a flurry of fumbling fingers and carelessly tossed clothes that takes them to their bedroom. She assumes the lead and handles him with reverential care, knowing the touch he needs as sure as she knows him underneath any disguise. She tries not to think of the years he denied himself this as her tongue traces the long, hard lines of his body, tries not to think of the cavernous, ravenous debt incurred by denying it. He did what he had to in the name of achieving his goal. She only wished she allowed herself to be his far earlier, though they both knew that the time had only worked in their favour.
When he takes over, the transition is seamless as she lets go at the same moment that he catches hold of her. The next eternity is spent with him drawing sighs and moans from her in the patient manner of a blacksmith tempering steel. Repeatedly, he stokes a heat within her only to let it cool before reaching maximum intensity. It is only once her entire body weeps for him that he slides into her, long and hard and searing.
Kyoko feels each thrust from the tips of her hair to the soles of her feet. She clasps around him with her arms and legs, pressing as much of herself against him as possible. The drag and stretch of skin against skin is deliriously delicious and her head tilts back. He's attentive in hitting the spot that's guaranteed to send her over as he crashes into her so she meets him with her hips. Because she knows he won't be far behind and they are, as always, in this together.
The name "Kuon" breaks from her lips in more syllables than it was ever assigned at the peak of their pleasure. Over and over again, she babbles it like a mantra to remind him. To bring him back. And as their bodies cool, she waits in the silent shadows of their unlit room, counting their hot, panting breaths until he chooses to speak.
This method doesn't always work but, when it does, it's potent. The torrid turmoil of curling toes, arching backs, and questing hands is often enough to crowd out the terrible thoughts that have assumed residence in his mind. Sometimes he has to forget everything to remember who he is. Why he is. And that she's there for him every step of the way.
"I'm sorry," he eventually releases the words into the dark.
Her smile is sad but she remains patient. "If we always apologised for hurting our own feelings, it would only compel us to do it more often."
A sigh. "You're right."
"Today I am," she qualifies while her fingers carve furrows through his hair. "Tomorrow could be your turn."
And, when a deep laugh rumbles beside her, she glows in triumph. It's a small victory but she knows its importance. The demons have been routed. For now.
fin.