"Kouya," Yamato whispers. She pushes her fingers through the darkness of Kouya's hair, and presses her palms against Kouya's scalp.
Kouya's mouth, open and despairing, surrenders under Yamato's own. Her lips are wet, from saliva and blood and sweat. Kouya's eyes burst into flame, black and dying, and Yamato loves her so much in that moment that she could kill, that she could die, just to shutter that beauty away.
"Yamato," Kouya says in reply. Her voice is harsh and uncertain, and her hands are trembling. "You won't leave me, Yamato," she repeats, and Yamato's heard the words so many times that she barely catches it, this time.
Yamato tugs at Kouya's unbuttoned school blazer, kissing the dark line of bruises that she had made the night before. "If I do, what will you do, Kouya?" she asks, and even though she knows that she wouldn't, she couldn't leave, there's a certain kind of power in knowing that Kouya would crumble without her. Like bricks without the steadying force of mortar, once gentle push and Kouya would disappear.
Kouya's hands twist together, in a grotesque show of fear. The love rises to a familiar zenith inside of Yamato. "You won't leave me," is all Kouya can repeat, helplessly, her chest heaving.
Yamato smiles, coyly. "Won't I?" she asks, teasing, and Kouya throws her arms around Yamato's neck, tight and tighter. There is desperation in this pain, in the loneliness of not being together, of being one. Nagisa-sensei had wanted to separate them, Yamato thinks, as she presses her lips to the skinny underside of Kouya's wrists. Kouya had been the first to raise the blade.
"I love you," rasps Kouya, her voice as husky as a boy's. Yamato's smile widens until it has taken over her features, joy like a fine mesh cage, closing in around them.
"Zero," muses Yamato, as Kouya grows still in slumber, hands folded over her small breasts. But she laughs and pulls Kouya's arms away, entangles their limbs until they are knotted together.
"We will," Yamato promises, to the quietness of twilight. The warmth of Kouya's cheek against her chest only drives the last nail in.
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asunder) wrote,
pensive
