[12.22.19]

There is a bruise on the inside of his left forearm — a small present from this week's football match with Takeru and Daisuke. Ken watches it bloom against the stark pallor of his skin and is reminded, inevitably, of her skin, soft and sweet and bruising as easily as a peach. He can remember without trying too hard, how it felt to sink his teeth into it, to suck the honey of her and be sated.

Inside the drawer on the left side of his desk, there is a journal where he once wrote down his dreams.

In his dreams, there are dark secrets whispered in the dead of night and there are violet women — violent women and they swallow Ken whole. He touches the pages with a level of reverence they do not deserve. They house poisonous things, the nightmares that haunt his sleepless nights from before they were ever together. He decides to burn the damn thing; it's not like anyone has a right to read it anyway.

The truth is that she is a forest fire, a tragedy and not the sort of thing that one invites into his home, his bed, his heart.

The truth is he always knew it would end like this.

Ken looks at the clock and decides to get up. Miyako will be waiting.

.

.

He comes back late at night and the city vibrates around him. It occurs to him that nothing has changed in his absence and despite how lonely he feels, this thought is surprisingly comforting. He waves half-heartedly at the rest of the band once they have put away all the instruments and he picks up his bag and luggage, calling for a cab, giving out the precise address after a split-second hesitation.

He's just finishing a cigarette when the driver pulls in and helps Yamato load his luggage into the trunk of the car. They drive past the busy commercial streets and continue onwards towards the more residential areas, past twenty-four-hour convenience stores and karaoke bars and makes a sign for the driver to slow down.

"It'll just be a quick stop," he mentions, almost as an afterthought, just before being swallowed by the bright neon lights.

There is one missed call on his phone. It's from a couple nights back and he stares at the name in bold red letters for a long time, just like he did the first time and cannot fathom what she wanted to say. He didn't call her back that night and he won't call her now, despite the fact that he stands right in front of her door. His phone sits now forgotten in the pocket of his coat and he thinks he didn't call ahead because if he heard her — if he heard her, it might have been too much and then he wouldn't be here.

He shows up on her doorstep past midnight, one hand holding a clear umbrella, the other clutching a spray of fresh hellebores.

"You're back," she lingers on the doorstep and her mouth forms a little 'o' and he desperately wants to kiss her.

"I came in a while ago," he tells her, instead. "Thought I'd surprise you."

"You brought flowers."

Yamato's eyes never leave her face and he shrugs, as though he doesn't even realise he's holding them despite the fact that their scent has permeated every inch of his nose. "You like flowers."

"I do," she says and steps aside to grant him access to her home. Her apartment is warm and smells like sunshine and honeysuckle and the light pours softly into the living room from her open kitchen. She takes the flowers from his hands, hides her face behind them while he hangs his jacket and removes his shoes. There is a mute thud on the floor as he sets his bags down and she places the flowers on the low coffee table. When she turns around, he is still looking at her. She's dressed in her sleeping clothes, shapely and soft and inviting and suddenly he feels as though he walked inside a dragon's lair. Somewhere in the underside of her belly or perhaps behind her ear, there is a soft spot that has not been covered by jewels and diamonds and Yamato swallows thickly.

"The last time we spoke... I thought you'd never want to see me again."

"Did you really think that?" he asks, amused. In this half-light, she is a vision in gold and pink and when she lets one shoulder rise and fall carelessly, Yamato thinks he can almost laugh because this is the most honest they've been and what does this say about them, then?

"I don't know," she says, taking one tentative step in his direction. It's all he needs. "You were very angry with me."

"I still came, though."

"Are you sure about this?" Mimi's smile is slow but there is nothing she can do to stop it when his hands frame her heart-shaped face. Her eyes grow round, her surprise so genuine he really does laugh before closing the distance between them until he's looking down on her, so close he can count her freckles. Sometimes he forgets how small she is, how he could fit her on the palm of his hand, how he could swallow her if he tried.

"No," he says, honest. "But we're not going to run anymore."

There's nothing coincidental about the way they seek each other, how his hand touches the outline of her face, so softly, or how she places a hand, fingers wide apart, above his chest. They move closer this time and his hand (or maybe it's hers) smoothes over the lights and in a moment they are swallowed by the darkness of her apartment and his breath is loud in his ears.

Yamato holds her closely and kisses the line of her jaw and the corner of her mouth and she shivers against him, like a moon on water.

.

.

Some days she looks so lovely, mouth parted slightly and skin covered in a fine sheet of sweat. Ken kisses her lashes, her nose, the pulse point on her neck and a soft spot under her breast. Some days he looks at her and he feels so lonely, so wretched and miserable and so afraid that she will wake up and know, and she will know him to be a liar and a coward and a fool.

He bites down on her lip, fingers digging violently into her narrow hips and the pain is so sweet.

She's in love with him. And sometimes, he swears he's in love with her, too.