DISCLAIMER: SKIP BEAT! and its associated characters are the creations of Yoshiki Nakamura. This author claims no ownership of Skip Beat or any of its characters. All other rights reserved.
Warning: NSFW
Chapter XXX: Next to Never
…all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya…
The morning after Yayoi moved Kyoko's room, he'd woken up in her bed alone. He was in a room that didn't quite feel like hers yet. He remembered cuddling into her at some point that night. He hadn't been entirely awake but he remembered the scent of her hair and the feel of her in his arms, grounding him. He'd felt the love and trust in her form. She'd taken his hand in hers—by instinct—and their legs had intertwined. And now…everything felt wrong. The sun was up and in its wan light things felt too sharp, too real. How she'd managed to leave without waking him was a mystery—he usually woke when she did.
There was a darkness in the heart of his world, and he felt things warp under the surface.
She'd left him behind without so much as a note. He looked for her in the kitchen, in the office, all her normal haunts. But she wasn't there—Fujiwara-san told him, somewhat sheepishly, that she'd left half an hour earlier for school. He'd hoped she packed him a bento, but she hadn't. He'd told himself it was fine that she was a busy student and an actress and an okami-san in training and he was a grown man. Kyoko was not and would never be obligated to make him a bento. And yet he was terribly disappointed. Perhaps Kyoko was used to thinking of bentos as a mere afterthought, an interchangeable necessity much like a pencil, or a notebook. Perhaps it didn't matter very much to her whether or not what she ate was hand-made. But it mattered to him. He ate the bentos she made him with joy—not because they were delicious, but because she'd made them. His appetite was as small as ever, and yet he always had room when he ate her food. To him, the food she made him was an expression of her love. He'd tried to express the same yesterday, when he'd made her breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
He would have been happy to keep making her meals. He knew he had a long way to go. He knew he'd never put out restaurant-quality dishes the way Kyoko did. But the thought of Kyoko sitting down at school with a lunch he'd made her gave him such a cozy feeling that he wanted to do it again and again. She hadn't told him how that bento was—he wondered if she liked it. He wondered if she'd found the note he'd hidden with it, whether or not it had made her feel special the way all her bentos had done for him.
All of it—her distance, waking up alone—all of it filled him with dread. Part of him was bewildered—what had he done to deserve this? Part of him was angry—wasn't he innocent? What had he done that she would reject him so thoroughly? And still part of him wanted to just curl around her and hold her close. For all of her posturing, he had the feeling that she was pushing him away out of fear. A knee-jerk reaction on her part, a refusal to rely on others after having spent her entire life being betrayed. Hadn't he known things would change when the summer was over? The fact that things had changed around them didn't mean that his feelings had—and he was willing to bet hers wouldn't, either. He told himself he'd need to be strong. He refused to believe something so insignificant as scheduling could end what they had.
But the next few weeks hadn't improved their situation. She'd come home after being on-set with him, and on those days, he'd bring her a tray from the kitchen and wait quietly for her to finish homework and then fall into bed. The time never seemed right to ask her about the bento he'd made, and every day he felt the wall between them get higher and higher. He would pretend to be asleep because her refusal to engage him in conversation was too painful for him—and because he didn't want to lose the precious hours he had left with her. He would stay awake once she'd settled in next to him, just holding her. He would listen to her breathing in and out. If his hand wasn't entwined in hers, he would touch the contours of her body softly, engraving her curves into his memory. He stayed awake until he simply couldn't anymore, and when he did fall asleep, he would invariably curl around her, as if to keep her safe. She never said anything, never acknowledged the fact that their bodies still sought each other; that neither of them could really sleep well without the other nearby.
Things changed when she stopped coming onto the set. With her scenes finished, she had no need to be there, and as Shingai had promised, he released her from having to appear. That was when she'd stopped allowing him into her room altogether. The first night she'd done it, he'd waited outside her door the way he had after she'd run from him. He'd looked forward to seeing her all day—she'd disappeared to go to school again, and he'd come home quite late. But she didn't open her door, ignoring his attempts at conversation through the wood. He'd done it a second night, too, and then a third, fourth, fifth night. Shingai's makeup artists began commenting on the dark circles under his eyes. He didn't care. They could fix that with their makeup. But he didn't know how to fix this. If only she'd talk to him, maybe she'd understand how much he cared. How he understood. How he knew she was scared—he was, too.
On the sixth night he made a point of waiting up for her so that she wouldn't have a choice but to see him the next morning. "I don't understand," he said. "I don't understand why you're doing this."
Kyoko was pale, but dressed in her uniform and clearly trying to evade him. "Doing what?" Kyoko said. She wouldn't meet his eyes.
"Cutting off your nose to spite your face," he said in English. That made her look up at him. He gave her a small smile in response, hoping for a glimpse of warmth in her. She refused to reciprocate and broke their gaze, choosing that moment to brush past him. He looked after her retreating back, wanting to follow. But he didn't. That night he decided not to knock on her door. He didn't think he could take another night waiting outside her room like a dog in disgrace.
His last week in Kyoto dawned and he was a mess. She avoided him with ease, and that ease stunned him. She woke up earlier and earlier to go to school. He'd get back to the ryokan too late to have dinner, and the door would be shut against him no matter what he did. There had been entire days where he wouldn't even catch so much as a glimpse of her, and sometimes he asked himself if she was merely a figment of his imagination. On set, Shingai was finishing his scenes and then the shoot would wrap. He would no longer have a reason to be in Kyoto—and worse, he had obligations that would require him to leave. He considered canceling his participation in Tragic Marker, but Yashiro had nearly suffered an apoplexy when he'd brought it up. He knew his departure from the film would delay the entire production and cost LME the contractual termination fees written into his deal.
If it had simply been his career, he would've walked away. But he knew his actions would affect the rest of the cast, and he didn't have the heart to do it.
Tragic Marker would spend so long at the overseas shooting location he doubted he'd be able to simply take time off to try and see her. If he'd had a modicum of hope, he would've flown back to see her every spare day he had. But Kyoko had shut him out so completely his hopes had begun to flag. Was he giving up? Should he give up? If he gave up, what would the rest of his life be like? And yet he couldn't make her spend time with him. He couldn't make her accept his love. She was her own person, and though every atom in his body refused to believe it, his mind had to accept the possibility that this wasn't going to work out.
He felt cold. He felt…abandoned. Rejected. He'd been rejected for what felt like a hundred times before—forever being dumped by the girl he'd been dating. On many of those occasions, he could see why he was being dumped. He was always busy, or aloof, or something. But he knew he hadn't been any of those things with Kyoko. For the first time, he cared. He cared too much. If he had done something wrong, why wouldn't she tell him? And he was afraid. Even when she'd refused to talk to him before, she'd always been present. He could see her, feel her presence next to him. There hadn't been a moment where he hadn't known where she was in relation to his body. He supposed he should've counted himself lucky back then—Kyoko hadn't had anywhere else to go and a laundry list of chores that he was uniquely suited to do. And now…now she could run to school, where he couldn't follow. It was as if a certain surety had gone out of the world, leaving him adrift without even knowing it.
Kuon felt her slipping through his hands like water—the harder he tried to hold her, the less of her he had. He wanted to confront her—shake her, make her talk to him. Something more than the non-conversation they'd had when she'd seen him that one morning. She was like a ghost. He could feel her presence in every corner of the ryokan. Sometimes he'd hear her voice in conversation with someone—Yayoi, maybe, or Fujiwara-san. And yet he never saw her. It was as if she knew exactly where he was at all times—and took steps to avoid him.
By this time, she'd rebuffed him more times than he cared to recount. But he'd been devoted. He'd been persistent. And yet she seemed impervious to the quiet dependability that had brought her to him in the summer.
It was as if she'd made up her mind on something and hadn't told him—and her predetermined actions grieved him and infuriated him in turn. He knew she didn't owe him her love, he knew she didn't owe him any explanations. But it hurt. It hurt every day, not having her hand in his, or having a secret kiss on-set. It hurt not seeing her smile. It hurt that she didn't seem to need to talk to him, or that she never sought him out.
The one thing he told himself was that she hadn't ended this, not officially, at least. She was refusing to talk to him, but she hadn't broken up with him, not exactly. He wasn't quite sure how he'd survive hearing those words from her—he refused to believe she was capable of it. He was willing to take all the pain of this alienation if it meant that she was working through her own fears in her own way. Did he understand why she was pushing his love away?
=.=.=
The night before his departure, he sat in his room with a tumbler full of whisky. He was a mass of pain—inside as well as out. He could feel the loss of her company physically—his entire body was tense, and the feeling of having been sucker-punched in the stomach simply wouldn't go away. He hadn't eaten dinner. He hadn't eaten lunch. She didn't care, and she was the only reason he made an effort to eat at all. He'd spent the wrap-up party avoiding questions about the two of them, and why she wasn't there despite being the film's female lead. People smiled and raised their eyebrows suggestively when they asked him where she was—him, and not Shingai, as if they'd known he was—or should have been—the person who'd know best. He'd powered his way through the cast and the crew's questions with the most radiant of fake smiles and then left as soon as he could.
Yashiro had looked at him with sympathy but reminded him that he had to pack, and so he packed.
Packing his things here felt like packing an entire life away. He'd come with a single suitcase of clothes and some scripts, but had accumulated more when Ten had arrived with Ren's stuff. He'd inhabited this place as if it were a home, and now he felt all the pain of leaving one. Every square inch of the room was permeated with memories. It was as if he'd lived an entire lifetime in it, and it was more real to him than the penthouse condo he occupied in Tokyo. He'd been ignoring the view outside the balcony for weeks now—the memory of their first kiss was all he could think of when he saw it. He couldn't look at the table where they'd had countless dinners, or the wall she'd stuck her knife into when they'd 'played' at Dark Moon. But it was the bed that caused him the most pain.
He poured himself another two fingers of whiskey but set down the glass when he heard a knock at his door. His heart skipped a beat as he went to answer it—waves of anticipation, fear, joy all overcame him in quick succession. But the door did not open to the face he wanted to see.
"Yayoi-san," he said when he saw her. He gave her a polite bow and then motioned her into the room.
"I see you're packed," she said. The room was as neat as a pin, every surface cleaned. The only things remaining unpacked were his clothes for the next morning and some toiletries—a toothbrush sitting in a glass, visible on the bathroom vanity. "You could have packed tomorrow, you know," she told him. "I know you had a late night on-set, and it's not as if we would ever throw you out." He looked up at her with green eyes under his brown fringe, an entity who was not-quite-Ren-Tsuruga but not quite the fairy prince that had sorted trash with Kyoko. She felt a wave of sympathy for the boy—because he was a boy, despite how adult his acting persona seemed. And if his feelings were very, very grown-up indeed, then perhaps he needed a bit of grown-up advice.
"Yes," he replied. "Thank you. But I thought it would be for the best. Yashiro wants an early start tomorrow morning."
"Of course, of course," Yayoi said. "You must miss Tokyo." She paused and raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to respond.
"No." He slumped down on one of the armchairs, picked up his glass; she sat across from him. "I don't. At all."
She nodded, looking at him with a piercing glance. The smile he gave her was twisted, rueful, sad. He took another sip of whiskey, met her glance and then looked at the floor. "She loves you, you know," she said.
He looked up at her, a sardonic laugh on his lips. "She hasn't spoken to me in weeks," he told her. "I haven't seen her in days—and even when I do, it's never for more than a few seconds."
"You don't go to her anymore."
"She doesn't want me," he said. "She's made it perfectly clear. If there's anything Kuon Hizuri is good at, it's making girls not want him."
"You know that's not true, Kuon," Yayoi said. She'd been watching Kuon and Kyoko over the past few weeks with growing consternation. What had caused this rift between them? Kyoko was as cold as she'd ever been—Yayoi could swear she hadn't seen the girl smile in weeks. But Kuon's confused distress told her that it hadn't been him. The boy looked utterly heartbroken, and Yayoi couldn't blame him. She'd taken it upon herself to play a last-minute cupid, if she could. She couldn't know what Kyoko's motivations were for sure—the girl didn't confide in her—but she knew self-destruction when she saw it. She was willing to bet that Kyoko was playing defensively—and she was doing it at the expense of someone who loved her very much indeed.
"If it isn't true, then why?" he asked her. "I've tried and tried, but if she won't let me in, how can we even talk?"
"She's had an awful lot of people abandon her, Kuon," she said.
"I never would."
"She doesn't know that."
"How can she not?" He slammed down the glass hard enough to slosh the whiskey in it onto the table.
Yayoi jumped a little and then looked at him disapprovingly; he took a handkerchief out and began sopping up the spilled drink apologetically.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm so sorry—"
Yayoi shook her head and handed him a more substantial fukusa from her kimono sleeve. He looked at her, surprised. "It's fine," she said. "It's a practice cloth, not actually silk."
He took it with a nod of gratefulness, pressing the elegantly printed fabric onto the table until the spill had been cleaned. How appropriate, he thought. How very Ren—to clean up Kuon's fit of passion by quietly mopping up the mess as if nothing had ever happened.
"I don't want to force myself on her," he said. "And if she doesn't want me, then I should just go, right?"
He flung the words out of his mouth, wanting her to tell him no. All he wanted was some word of encouragement, a small sliver of hope.
But Yayoi just gave him a quiet look. "So you've given up?" she asked.
Kuon hung his head. He'd asked himself that question nightly since she'd locked him out. Yayoi looked at him expectantly as he opened his mouth to answer.
=.=.=.=
When Kyoko finished shooting her scenes, she resolved to stop spending time with Kuon at night. She wouldn't have an excuse anymore—she was no longer part of his project, and they would no longer have to see each other. They'd be coming home at different times. She had been too weak to throw him out of her room when they came home together, but now she had no such excuse. She was home much earlier, so she could pretend to be asleep when he arrived. Or at least busy. All she had to do was survive the next few weeks and then he'd be gone and she would be back to reality.
She'd spent too long in fairyland.
She'd convinced herself that this was the path she wanted to take—she just hadn't realized how painful it would be. Wasn't it better to be the abandoner for once? She'd failed to stop everything that had happened over the summer. Instead of nipping things in the bud, she'd indulged herself, and now she was in a worse position than if she'd just…never started on this journey. All things being equal—if he was going to leave her eventually, wasn't it better to just…end it now? Wasn't it better to do things on her own terms and under her own power?
The first night she'd refused to see him had been harrowing—she heard him outside her door and craved him like a part of her she'd cut off. She knew she was hurting him—but he'd thank her, eventually. He'd thank her when they were both past this terrible stage. When he found himself back in Tokyo and away from whatever magic the ryokan had sprinkled over everything, he'd realize just how wrong this entire affair had been. She'd turned away from the voice at her door, willing herself to be strong, knowing that he was just outside. He was a drug, and she was an addict, that's simply what it was. He would forget her. Soon, even. She needed to be the adult in the situation and do this for both of their sakes. All she had to do was wait and time would prove the truth of the matter—she was a pastime, a distraction, a momentary madness for him.
The second night, she'd curled in on herself in a fetal position, feeling the ache for him in her soul. He'd come back to her room again, and she wanted to bury herself in his arms and tell him she was sorry. It would've been so easy to do that—she could almost feel his warmth enfolding her before she shook herself out of it. She'd made herself recite the atomic weights on the periodic table of elements until she fell asleep. She managed to resist on the third night, the fourth night—and the fifth—and when she'd seen him on the sixth she ran away as soon as she could. She couldn't allow herself to talk to him—he'd seduce her again so quickly she'd be a mess again at school. Any longer and she would have thrown her arms around him and beg him to never leave—could she be responsible for that look in his eyes?
When he didn't come that night, she told herself that she ought to be relieved. And yet…she wasn't. Not at all. She refused to acknowledge the fact that she'd been testing him again, the way she'd tested him over the summer. She didn't want to admit that she had hurt him. And she didn't want to admit to herself that she wanted to see him there, waiting for her. But now that he wasn't here, she tasted the bitterness of her own prophecy. She told herself that his absence proved that she'd been right all along—separate herself from him long enough and he would stop wanting her. And if he stopped looking for her a week into this separation, how would it be when he was in Tokyo? She could see it now: falling asleep at 2 in the morning, waiting for a call that would never come. Slow dissolution, hearing more about him from magazines than from actual conversations. She ignored the little voice in her head that told her he hadn't come because she'd shut him out. Instead, she congratulated herself. Good job, Kyoko thought to herself. Now you know it takes less than a week for him to forget you.
Avoiding him was easy—too easy. School kept her busy and she threw herself into it. Her teachers no longer asked her why she was distracted—she was as sharp as ever, and as prepared. She made sure she was gone early in the mornings, and once he'd stopped coming to her room, it was as if he wasn't even there. The pain that had felt like a jagged thing tearing her on the inside morphed into a constant and dull ache. She thought about him constantly, but his absence made it easier to make-believe the summer had never happened.
She existed at the periphery of her class, but she was as much an outsider as she'd always been. After the first day, people left her more or less alone. She ate lunch alone, walked home alone, studied alone. Her classmates seemed like children to her. Many of them went to cram school to prepare for their university entrance exams, but Kyoko undertook those studies alone, too. To a girl who'd supported not just herself but also a deadbeat roommate, who'd been raised to run a business, who'd had a fairytale romance, their lives seemed so small. Their concerns were so petty—was that truly her classmate complaining about the bento his mother had made for him? Were those girls really arguing over who got to ask that same boy out? No, she much preferred keeping to herself. Even if she had no one to talk to, at least no one would be in a position to betray her. She'd never noticed how alone she'd been before, but with Kuon out of her life, she was keenly aware of it.
She willed herself into repetitious drudgery. She redoubled her efforts in the kitchen and in the office, more than making up for the weeks she'd spent gallivanting in fantasyland with Kuon. The files in Yayoi's office were pristine again, indexed in neatly labeled folders. The kitchen inventory was up-to-date, the walk-in cleaned and then re-packed with supplies. She hadn't needed to scrub the pots again, but the counters shone. Fujiwara and the rest of the staff watched her go about her work, keeping out of her way. They'd seen Kuon's dejection and were worried—was their princess going to lose her prince after all? Anyone watching Kyoko would have said 'yes.'
She made every effort to quell every emotion.
She was counting the days to his departure, half hoping he'd come back to see her before he left, and half hoping to never see him again. The night before his last day, Shingai had called her and asked her to attend the cast party.
"No, Shingai-san," she'd said.
"But…why? Kyoko, you're the star," he said. "Everyone will wonder why you're not here." Shingai was confused. Kyoko clearly enjoyed acting—and she was preternaturally gifted at it. He knew how improbable her casting was to begin with—wasn't that in itself a reason to celebrate the successful end of a movie?. She'd given him a tour-de-force performance, and if anyone deserved a party, it was her. Most young actresses would've enjoyed their first cast party, particularly their first cast party as a principal. But then, Kyoko wasn't exactly like any other actress he'd cast before.
"I'm sorry, Shingai-san," she said. "It's just that I have to go to class early in the morning, and I have many tasks here at the ryokan that I must complete." It was a poor excuse, and she knew it. If she could shoot scenes on school nights, she could certainly go to a party, as well. But the reason—perhaps the only reason—why she wouldn't go to the cast party was Kuon. He'd be there, without a doubt. Ren Tsuruga always did the proper thing, and he'd never disappoint his fellow cast members by callously ignoring the cast party. She couldn't think of anything more painful than spending an evening smiling and pretending nothing was wrong—especially after she'd seen that hurt, haunted look on Kuon's face the last time they'd spoken.
"Perhaps a message for the rest of the cast, then?" She acquiesced quickly, recording a video conveying her thanks and then sending it onwards to Shingai's email address. And she was happy she'd taken on the role, wasn't she? She told an invisible audience that Ring Doh was an experience she wouldn't forget. An experience she would be eternally grateful for, having worked for such a wonderful cast of consummate professionals. What an unusual experience for a plain high school girl like her! She was ever so grateful to have had the opportunity to dress in such a lovely array of Taisho-era kimono! Grateful for having had access to such a wonderful example of Japanese architecture! She blathered about everything and nothing. She couldn't think of any other way not to be rude.
Shingai received it and played it, not knowing that this artlessly effusive thank you to the cast would throw daggers into her co-star's heart. Kuon had watched the video with the rest of the cast and crew, keeping a smile carefully plastered onto his face. He noticed the pallor of her face, too, how her smile never reached her eyes. But he also felt hurt.
She hadn't even mentioned him in her acknowledgments.
Evening came by earlier and earlier now, and the chill in the air was a constant companion. Now that Kuon's departure was imminent, Kyoko simply couldn't sit still. She was pacing back and forth in her room, trying to forget the fact that Kuon's room was to be cleaned and made ready for new guests the next evening. She knew he wasn't in the building—even if the cast party hadn't been ongoing, she always seemed to know when he was there. She didn't know how or why she knew, she simply did. One more night, she told herself. One more night, and then it won't be so hard. She wasn't going to think of him after that. She wouldn't think of his smell, or his smile, or the way the sun glinted on his hair. There would be no false sense of safety when he curled himself around her. There would be no more danger, no more delusions.
No more love.
She shoved the thought away, thinking of old song lyric: falling in love with love was falling for make-believe.
Still, she doubted she'd get any sleep that night. What would it be then? She was ahead on her classwork; perhaps she could do more problems for the Kyoto University exam? Perhaps the kitchen's corners could use another cleaning? Perhaps she'd check to see if Chef had finished the proposed winter menu for the restaurant. What she didn't want to think about was the empty abyss threatening to eat her alive, growing bigger and bigger no matter what random problems she solved to make it disappear.
She sat for a few minutes at her desk, completing some problems. She did some reading, she sharpened her pencils. She refused to acknowledge that she was thinking about him again. When she found her attention wandering back to him, she put her books away, got up, and decided to go to the kitchen. Sometimes, nothing would do besides some hard manual labor—exhausted as she was emotionally, her body simply wouldn't go to sleep.
=.=.=
"No." He paused, put down the whiskey, stood. "I haven't given up."
"I didn't think you had," Yayoi said.
"Maybe I should."
"Do you really think that?"
He thought of the feel of her hands entwining with his, the sound of her peaceful breathing as she slept. "No," he said.
"Then perhaps you'd better do something about it," she added with a small smile.
"And if she shuts me out again?"
"Then knock again." Yayoi hadn't wanted to tell him that Kyoko had been cleaning the kitchen like a madwoman, but the girl's actions were telling her that she was in as much turmoil as Kuon was.
"But what if—"
"But what if?" Yayoi echoed. "So what if? What's the worst that could happen?"
"I'd lose her."
"And if you do nothing, what then?"
She didn't have to say it. She looked over at him, standing with the uncertainty plain on his face in the middle of his room. If you do nothing, young man, she seemed to be saying, then you will most certainly lose her. If she'd been a different sort of woman, she probably would've hugged him, offered him more comfort. But she was Yayoi Fuwa, a woman whose life until now had been more prose than poetry—and practical advice was what she knew how to do.
"I'll go," he said.
She nodded at him, feeling sympathy. He walked to his door, hesitated, and then flung it open, walking out into the hallway with some purpose before quickening his steps into a jog, and then a run—and finally, having traversed the length of the ryokan, he was rounding the corner to where he knew she must be—
Only to find himself colliding with her as she, too, was exiting her room.
A sharp intake of breath, on both their parts.
Both of them looked at each other, surprised.
Her eyes were wide. She looked at him as if she'd forgotten what he looked like. In a way, she had. She'd forgotten the intensity of his eyes, the way they looked too deep inside her—the way they promised her things she had no business wanting. She'd forgotten the sharp angle of his jaw and the way she fit between its curve and his shoulder.
He looked at her greedily, taking all of her in, feeling the absence of her touch like the absence of oxygen—and then he had her against the wall in a kabedon, desperate and needful. He felt a little like a hunter who had cornered prey, and the thought made him feel a little guilty. Kyoko was not prey to be captured, and yet here she was, finally, within sight and within reach. Some uncouth part of him roared in triumph at the sight of her. Had she always been so small? So fragile? Harshly and without preamble his lips found hers and they fused as if they'd never been apart. Lightning from the sky always sought the ground; Kuon and Kyoko were no different. She gave a small, surprised moan as he pinned her body against the wall, but she didn't resist, not exactly—she didn't resist when his hands pinned hers above her head, and she didn't resist when their tongues melded into the kiss she'd pined for all these weeks alone. She'd tried to minimize him inside herself, fade him out the way the sun faded colors. But in this hallway she had no choice but to confront the very realness of him. And with the feeling of a rope giving way, she had to admit: there could be no forgetting him.
He let her hands go but he didn't break their kiss. He was afraid she'd run if he stopped, but more than that—he simply didn't want to. For weeks this summer they hadn't spent a night apart—to him, she was as necessary to life as the air he breathed. Their nights apart had felt like a horrible, ongoing nightmare. And now that she was here, he felt as if he could breathe again—that feeling of being stretched on a rack faded and was replaced with an almost giddy joy at her presence. He felt her put her arms on his shoulders and felt himself soar—she wasn't pushing him away!—and he used the momentum of the kiss to propel himself forward. His arms snaked around her slim waist and brought her flush against him. He wanted to crow, wanted to scream, wanted to sing—Kyoko was in his arms and he was never letting go, never, ever again.
Kyoko was in no presence of mind to stop him—he'd come over her like a force of nature. Her body reacted faster than her mind to his kiss—some part of her, she knew, was telling her to push him away. But by far the greater part of her wanted him. It was this part that drew him closer, that reveled in the electricity generated where their bodies met—up and down, from her breasts to her center, a burning strand of brilliant light everywhere he touched her. He had her trapped against him and she knew better than to try escaping. When he broke their kiss and looked down at her, her breath caught at the look in his eyes.
Worship, adoration, wonder, joy, and love, love, love—she closed her eyes, unable to look at him anymore. It was too much like staring into the sun. But he took it in stride, choosing that moment to kiss her gently on her closed lids. The tenderness of the act undid what little was left of her resistance, and when he moved to run his fingers through her hair, she gave in to the impulse to pull him closer against her. The hands that had been on his shoulders descended lower, embracing him around his waist. Against the wall of the hallway he held her and kissed from her eyes to her forehead, playfully kissing the tip of her nose before pressing chaste kisses along her jaw and then less chaste kisses along her neck—gaining in intensity until he was sucking in and nipping at her tender flesh.
He stopped and breathed her in when he heard her gasp softly. "Kyoko," he whispered.
"Don't," she said. She was trembling. "Don't say anything." If he kept talking, she'd have to argue with him, and she didn't want to do that.
He shook his head. "I love you," he said. She looked as if she were about to deny it, so he kept going. "I love you—I love you—" He punctuated each word with a caress on her skin, holding her elfin face in his hands. He ran his thumb across her lips as he whispered the words into her hair, kissing down her face again until she could feel the whispered words on her lips. He paused, his forehead against hers. She understood that he was giving her a choice—stay or go, yes or no. A few seconds passed as she looked into eyes that pleaded with her to stay. Her mind was blaring a red alert, but she couldn't find it in herself to leave. She would have the rest of forever to regret this, she thought. What was one more night of giving in? She was already committed to walking the road to hell; he was already leaving. If she lost herself in him this one last time, who would judge her except herself?
There was nothing left to do, then, but kiss him back.
He let her lead, this time, waiting as her tentative mouth sought his own, waiting as she deepened their kiss and pulled him closer and closer. Hands crept underneath his shirt and over the hard planes of his body; he let her touch him as his own hands sought her flesh. As their tongues melted together so did her hesitation; she mewled softly into his mouth as his deft fingers pushed up her shirt and then her bra, and then he was cupping her breast in his hand as she clung to him. Fever—this was fever, a delirious heat that overrode reason.
He broke their kiss, panting, looking into eyes glazed with love and lust. She was already undone—her hair mussed, her clothing wrinkled. He could see how swollen her lips were from his kisses. The Ren Tsuruga in him was begging him for restraint, asking him to think about things, to talk things through with her before they went any further that night. He might have stopped, but for the small whimper he heard from Kyoko as their bodies parted.
"Kuon," she whispered. A small hand placed itself into his and he was suffused with the urge to run away with her, to lift her off her feet and find some place far away from the passage of time and from the interference of other people. Earthbound as he was, the little hand was kissed and then brought around to his neck, where it strengthened its hold and found purchase. Her body lifted easily into his arms as he carried her like a bride into her room.
However it happened, they found themselves on her bed, a breadcrumb pathway of discarded clothing along the way. All of the longing pent up from weeks of her resistance broke over them like water from a failing dam. Kuon was only conscious of having regained the part of him that mattered most; she was only conscious of a clock ticking down to midnight for them both, running down the time until all of this ended. The fact that being with him felt so right made her grief more acute. He ran his hands all over her skin as if to engrave her contours into his mind's eye; she arched up into his touch and then embraced him so that his naked body covered her own. Again they kissed, tangled in each other; again she moaned as his fingers found the seat of her pleasure and pushed inside. How often had he dreamed of her, all alone in his room? Every night, every morning, knowing she was on the other side of the building—so close and yet with so many closed doors between them. She moaned as his fingers plunged into her depths, moaned into the open air as his mouth sucked her upturned nipples. Her legs were wedged open and his body was between them, and then she was under him again, wet and ready. She was whimpering his name as his fingers left her, only to be replaced by his cock. He drove into her, groaning, feeling as if they were two halves finally making a whole. Velvet heat engulfed him, short-circuiting all thought as he began to move.
There was little coherent thought in Kyoko's mind as his cock thrust into her. Relief, perhaps, the feeling of freedom after a long period of confinement. Completeness, perhaps, as he filled more than her body. His girth stretched her wide open, his length pushed her into the mattress—he was moving just as she needed, because he always, always knew just what she needed. Kuon held himself off of her with his forearms, looking into her eyes as she chased ecstasy. He wanted to assure her of his love. He wanted her to understand that this was no mere act of lust for him—this was nothing less than gluing himself back together with her at the center of his life. "I need you," he whispered. She writhed underneath him, her voice raising in tandem with his thrusts. "Don't you understand?" he asked. He drove into her, over and over, whispering in her ear, "I love you." He wished for a moment that he were as glib as Romeo, prattling on about torches burning bright. All he had was his body and this moment, and even if his words failed him, he swore that she would know how much she meant to him nonetheless.
She was helpless under him, unable to resist. She heard his voice and she thrilled to it, felt his hands and his cock and she wanted more. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, reminding her how this couldn't possibly last—that this would be her last night with him, forever. She reminded herself that once he left her, she should know better than to expect him back. She tortured herself with that knowledge, holding onto it even as she was drowning in the undertow. The pain heightened the pleasure and amplified it, and then the first wave came and she cried out from underneath him as she cried out.
He gritted his teeth as she came, holding on, telling himself no. He kept thrusting even as her pussy tightened and spasmed around him—she was crying out, but he kept going, kissing her as she came down from her orgasm, building her back up as she whimpered. He could feel her legs tremble around him and redoubled his efforts. His finger found her clit and circled it as he continued. She could feel how hard he was inside her—she couldn't have stopped him if she tried. She concentrated on the feel of him inside her, the delicious friction against her clit and on that bundle of nerves within. She trusted him, fell into rhythm with him, found herself craving the feel of his cock pulsing inside her and filling her with his seed. The thought of it brought her agonizingly close to cumming again—he could tell. This time, when she came, he came with her, spilling inside of her in one great spasm as they both saw stars. He slumped over her as they finished, careful not to smother her but unwilling to let go just yet. He stayed still, hunched over her smaller form, holding her, breathing her in.
She knew she was drifting off to sleep. She knew that she had a choice—she could have made him leave, told him goodbye right then and there instead of waiting until that terrible moment when his departure was imminent. He got up to grab a wet towel for them both, coming back to clean her gently. He kissed her gently on the inside of her upper thighs before pausing.
"Do you want me to go?" he asked. He didn't want to ask. He was afraid to—he could feel a nervous tension creeping in between them where perfect unity had been just seconds earlier. He had no illusions that this encounter had only been possible because neither of them had been prepared to encounter the other so quickly. She could take flight at any time and if she did, he worried that the door between them would never open again.
She let him stay.
"No," she told him. Her hair was loose on her pillow, a halo of black framing her face. He crawled up beside her, laying on his side as he placed an arm over her body. He did it uncertainly, afraid that she would reject him. She snuggled into him instead, unwilling to end whatever it was that had just happened. Kuon felt the tension leave her body and felt a spark of joy light up inside him—here was his girl again, dozing by his side. He refused to think about tomorrow, choosing instead to tuck himself beside her and hold her as she slept.
=.=.=
Morning chilled her. There was a sudden drop in temperature and a frost as only fall could bring, reminding her that summer was long past. Outside she was sure there would be a fog, lying low over the river and in the valleys between Arashimaya's hills. The momiji weren't quite at their peak yet, but the city's hotels were already full of tourists holding selfie-sticks. The ryokan was no different. Soon, they would be at their busiest season—busier, even, than in spring.
Underneath her blanket, Kyoko shivered and cuddled closer to his sleeping form. She kept vigil before dawn like a prisoner before the gallows, savoring and dreading each passing minute ticking by on the digital clock. She was glad it was Saturday—on a normal day, she would be getting up to go to school by now. Instead, the day gave her the luxury of wallowing in her bad decisions. At least she'd have some time before putting on her okami-san face today—enough time, she was sure, to settle her ungovernable heart.
Since Ren Tsuruga returned, she'd known that his days here in Kyoto were numbered. And yet how could she complain? She'd been granted reprieve after reprieve. He was to leave when Ring Doh's sequel started shooting, and yet his stay had been extended. He was to spend days separated from her during work, too, and yet by some miraculous means, she'd been cast opposite him.
She shook her head. No—that wasn't how to think of it. These reprieves had only delayed their inevitable parting. She should never have interfered with the Ring Doh auditions. Perhaps Kimiko Morizumi would have gotten the part, but what did that have to do with her? Her life was within the ryokan, not in the movies. If Ren Tsuruga played opposite this girl, why should she care? She would have spared herself some heartache, gotten more sleep, and been better prepared for her university exams that winter.
It was finally time. Everything would end today, she would make sure of it. Things would end cleanly and decisively; she'd be spared the months of watching him slowly lose interest as he reintegrated back to life in Tokyo. She'd hoped she'd be able to pass out of his life quietly, but last night's encounter had ended that hope. Any illusion she had of her indifference lay in tiny shards at her feet, and all he'd had to do was touch her. She truly was a fool for love. Only a fool—or a slut—would have done what she did, making love to a man who was about to leave her.
She felt him nuzzle into her back, moving even closer to her. She felt his arm tighten its hold around her. He let out an adorable little groan and then settled. If things had been different, she would have turned around to face him instead of laying passively beside him as the little spoon. She would have worked her way upwards until she could kiss his mouth, and he would wake up with a smile and kiss her back and then his hands—
No. Never again.
She didn't want to wake him. She knew that waking him would hasten the final step, the final decision she'd committed herself to. But she also couldn't help easing back into him and taking comfort in his warmth. Every minute that went by made her more anxious, but every minute also felt like an eternity.
She could tell the moment he woke. The peaceful breathing stopped—he was holding his breath. She felt tension in the arm that had been laying on her languorously before, felt a tension in the legs that were entwined with hers. She was silent. Would he also know she was awake? Would he speak first? She took a deep breath, breathing in his scent. Maybe after he left, her sheets would still smell like him.
She was still wondering whether to speak when he made the decision for her. "Morning," he said. He didn't move his arms, choosing, instead, to hold her tighter. His voice was still hoarse from sleep. "Mmm, Kyoko," he said, but even to himself the happiness in his voice sounded fake.
"Good morning," she said, and then moved away. She twisted away from him and got off the bed, suddenly ashamed of her nakedness. That made him sit bolt upright, suddenly awake.
"Where are you going?" he asked. There was a slight tinge of panic to his question. He had hoped that their night together would heal the rift between them. He'd hoped that his actions would reassure her of his love, convince her of his devotion. But he saw how she closed herself against him and his heart sank.
"Nowhere," she said. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home." What she was really saying was that she would never leave the ryokan to act, but he couldn't have known that. She headed quickly to the closet, finding an old, worn-out bathrobe and putting it on.
He heard the tension in her voice. The way she was moving—putting distance between them, closing herself off—all of it filled him with dread. This was what he'd been afraid of all along. This very moment—the two of them, alone, and a look on her face that spoke of a finality he refused to acknowledge.
"Kyoko—" He shivered in the chill air; she offered him his sweater. He put it on and then sat back on her bed, cross-legged and watching her patiently.
"Don't," she said. She went into the bathroom and he heard the sink as she began to brush her teeth. He followed her anyway, hovering like a ghost at the bathroom's doorway. He watched her hungrily as her agitation rose. She finished and then whirled to face him.
She must have seen something in his face to soften her, because her shoulders slumped. "You—ugh.." she said, attempting to push past him and back into the bedroom. She had the frenetic energy of a ping-pong ball at play. He knew it was a defense mechanism—she couldn't run off until she'd done what he was afraid she'd do, so she moved around, displacing her energy. He grabbed at her hands with his before she could go too much further—a capture in mid-air before she could even think to move away. He raised them to his lips, looked into her eyes, and then pressed a kiss on both her palms before taking her hands in his and then leading her back to the room.
She thought she'd had no illusions on how hardened her heart was towards him, but the gesture still cut her to the core. His eyes had been sad—terribly sad—staring up at her as if to ask why she had a dagger to his heart but then sitting still to let her do it. He sat cross-legged on the center of her bed, waiting for her to take a seat across from him.
She sat.
The numbers ticked upwards on the alarm clock. Soon it would be a proper morning and the ryokan would come alive. Guests would want their breakfasts, the sun would dissipate the fog on the river.
"You leave today," she said.
"Yes," he responded. He said it simply, directly. There was no prevarication of any kind.
"I've thought a long time about us," she said, and then paused.
He looked at her, a smile twisting on his face. "Say what you need to say," he told her. Here it was, finally, the moment he'd been waiting for. How often had he lived through this conversation? It had never been so bitter for him. So many girls, all of their faces interchangeable, blurring into the mire of his past. And yet he knew he'd never forget the one that was in front of him now.
The words fell flat from her tongue. "It's time for us to go our separate ways," she said. "For good."
"No."
"No?"
"Why, Kyoko?" he asked. "For fuck's sake—I know you love me—"
"I'm infatuated with you," she replied. "And you're infatuated with me."
"Trust that I know the difference between infatuation and love."
"Do you?"
"Don't you?" He stared at her, a flush on his cheeks.
She looked away.
"Tell me what we had last night wasn't real." His voice softened. He reached out a hand for hers.
She ignored it. "We fucked, Kuon. You taught me that word. That's what that was."
The words stung. She might as well have slapped him. "Maybe it was for you, but it sure as fuck wasn't for me, Kyoko."
She got up off the bed. "I don't understand why you want to prolong this," she said. "It's not as if you don't have a whole other life waiting for you."
"It wasn't a life, Kyoko! It was a part. Some bit part I was playing—"
"It is your life, whether or not you want to admit it. I've been an idiot, but I'm not that stupid."
"It isn't a life unless you're in it."
"Why?" she asked. Her voice rose. "Why me? You have a million women who'd throw themselves all over you—but you want me? I know how the story ends, Kuon. And if you've got any kindness in you, you'll spare me that misery and end this now."
He went to her, wanting to hold her, touch her, kiss her—he wanted her to accept his reassurance, but his hands were slapped away as if they were hot pokers. He sprang back when she did it, surprised. But he wasn't going to stop. He spoke softly, hoping to calm her. "Tell me, then. Tell me how the story ends."
"It ends," she said. "It ends when you inevitably realize that we don't belong together." Her eyes were glassy, but she blinked the tears away. "When you realize you want to be with someone else," she said. "When you fall in love with someone beautiful on some movie set, and I'm here ordering bags of rice for the dinner service."
He didn't interrupt her, not even when the tears she'd blinked back fell on her cheek. "It ends because everything ends, Kuon. Even this. Especially this."
He reached for her, wanting to kiss her tears away. But she moved back and away from him, as if he were cursed. "You've condemned me," he said bitterly. "All this time and I was hoping I'd be able to show you—I thought maybe after that night—after we talked—"
"I haven't. I've just been realistic."
"Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?"
She thought back to the articles, the pictures, the rumors. An endless reel of kisses. "Not you, no," she said. "Not Kuon. And if you and I could pause time and live here, then maybe we'd have a chance. But we don't—"
"You're afraid to be happy."
"No. I am happy here," she said. "I was happy before you came, and I'll be happy after you go. You'll be happier too."
"Don't make assumptions on my behalf—"
"I'm not," she said. "But how could you be happy here? How could I be happy there?"
He laughed bitterly. "Happy there? You mean in Tokyo? You're a born actress," he scoffed. "It's not so much that you'd be happy in Tokyo—you're happy on a stage. I've seen it. Someday you'll be more famous than I am."
"That's absurd."
"How many newbie actresses have ever gotten the kind of contract Lory gave you?" he asked.
"It was an insulting offer—"
"Not the first, the second," he interrupted. "Or did you not even read it?"
It was true, she hadn't. "What difference would it have made?" she asked. "I did well in Ring Doh because I knew how to be Choko. Doesn't mean I'd be any good anywhere else."
"Why do you keep hiding?" he asked. "Why do you have such a hard time believing that someone would love you for you? That someone would see how talented you are? How wonderful you are?"
He grabbed her hand, and this time he wouldn't let her pull it away. "I'll spend my life showing you," he said. "I promise—everything I have, everything I'll ever be—all of it's yours. It's always been yours, even before we met. Please, Kyoko."
She was crying in earnest now, but she pulled her hand away from him. "I'm not the one making assumptions about you," she said. "You're making assumptions about me. You could never make me happy."
She got off the bed, finally, threw on a dress, and was at her door before he could stop her.
"I can't do this, Kuon," she said. She walked away from him, wanting to get as far away from those wounded green eyes as she possibly could.
He ran after her. "I don't believe you," he said. "I'm not giving up. Even if I have to fly back here from the surface of Mars. If you don't believe me, test me. I don't care how many rocks you make me carry or how many nights I sleep alone. I will always love you. I will never leave you."
"And yet you're leaving me today," she said. She put a hand on his chest and pushed him away, gently but firmly. "It's over, Kuon. It should be over. This is where I want the story to end."
She left him in stunned silence, looking after her retreating back.
=.=.=.=
Author's Note: Okay….soooo…yeah. This chapter is dedicated to Parkerbear's ex, c. 2007 or so, because teary breakup smutting can and does happen to people. [Pours out a shot of vodka onto the frozen ground]. Thank you all so much for your reviews and your words of support. Things have calmed considerably since the last chapter. I've started settling into the new job. These long nights have been difficult, nonetheless.
This chapter wasn't exactly proofread, and it was a difficult lift, which is partially why it's taken me so long to get to it. I'm publishing it literally in the same quarter-hour that I've finished it, because I'm afraid I'd tear it into little pieces otherwise. Usually I wait a day or so to publish a new chapter. I try to sleep on it and read it with fresh eyes in the morning. I'm not doing that with this one. Anyway, please let me know what you think. I have a feeling some of you will hate me for it.
Epigraph comes from the live version of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah.' Or Jeff Buckley's version, whichever floats your boat.