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Fire.
Blazing heat rains down from above.
She’s surrounded by flames.
Explosions fill the air, fragmenting her vision, fragmenting her memories until there’s nothing but gaps and cracks and broken remains of something, someone — her.
The fire doesn’t burn her, no. She’s burning, burning up from the inside out. The flames which she so desperately wants to cling to are blowing away from her, into the brightness of a pale sky. She is no more than a candle snuffed out by the breath of the universe.
She falls.
A star streaking down from the heavens.
Burned up by the atmosphere, nothing but a certain and inevitable end. Like a shooting star, there is a wish hung on her demise.
Live.
A wish for life.
One that begins with death.
She gasps her last breath; her spirit leaves with the air in her lungs. The impact slams her into consciousness.
Darling.
Sleep doesn’t come easy for Himeko.
It never has.
It never will.
The same dream haunts her in the dark. Visions of her descent, her final moments, of another life perhaps. Her own death. She remembers all the bits and pieces of it all too clearly like she’s living those moments over again and again every night. Sometimes she curses her meticulous and exhaustive memory. Even when she wants to forget, she can’t. All she can do is try to push the thoughts out of her mind, closing the door to them, never quite able to throw away the key.
Most nights she doesn’t remember it, waking up with heat under her skin but darkness where fire had once been.
Shakily, she sits up in her bed. Sweat plasters strands of hair to her brow.
“Nightmare?” The sultry murmur of another voice in Himeko’s room, her sanctuary, her safety, has her swinging out with a fist.
A leather-gloved hand catches her fist with a gentle yet firm grip.
Kafka.
Himeko glares.
How the Stellaron Hunter keeps showing up in her room is beyond Himeko. The Astral Express is secure and Himeko’s room even more so. Nevertheless, Kafka somehow ends up in her room. This isn’t the first time that this has happened, and Himeko is certain that it wouldn’t be the last. No matter where the Astral Express is, Kafka somehow finds her way in. It’s like a game to the other woman.
Much like the spiders that Himeko used to find skittering along the floorboards of the apartment that housed her younger years, every time that she scoops up the spider and takes it outside, another inevitably appears.
Just like Kafka.
Strange for her to appear in Himeko’s space so late at night though.
“Kafka,” Himeko says icily. She pulls her fist out of Kafka’s hand — she knows that she’s let Kafka hold on to her for a moment too long already. Kafka knows it too. The warmth of her hand lingers against Himeko’s skin.
“Darling,” Kafka practically purrs. She’s sitting on the bed, right on the corner of the blanket, keeping Himeko trapped beneath the sheets.
“What are you doing here?” Himeko grouses and slips out from the right side of the bed. It’s not her usual side, but she refuses to let Kafka get the satisfaction of watching her struggle to free herself from the sheets.
“I can’t come and visit my favourite little Trailblazer?” Kafka’s tone is light, bordering on teasing.
The last time Kafka was here, there was far less talking.
Far less clothes too.
Himeko doesn’t quite remember how their little arrangement first started.
(They were younger and far more drunk at a bar on a distant planet. Two strangers, drawn to the mystery in the other’s eyes and the heat of the other’s body. Discovery of who they were and what they did further down the line only seemed to encourage their continued tryst rather than stop it. Even as the years trail on and drunken hazes turn to sober choices, Himeko tells herself that this is entirely Kafka’s fault.)
The weight of Kafka’s gaze on her settles heavily on her shoulders as she pads to where she keeps her jacket on the hook over the door. The carefully regulated environment of the Astral Express feels cold against her clammy skin. Suppressing a shiver as best she can, Himeko pulls her jacket on. The familiar weight of the outerwear is reassuring, a presence that grounds her in reality.
This reality.
Kafka remains unmoving from her perch on Himeko’s bed. Himeko resolves to wash the covers after, to rid the fact that Kafka has sat on her bed with her outside clothes.
Horrendous.
Himeko would never contaminate her bed like that.
“Stelle is in March 7th’s room if that’s who you’re looking for.” Himeko busies herself at the counter on the far side of her room. All of her coffee beans and other implements lay there in their proper places, patiently waiting for her.
They never intrude on her space or her thoughts, always waiting for her. With a practiced hand, Himeko adds a measured scoop of coffee beans to her bean grinder. The simple and repetitive action of turning the crank of the grinder is therapeutic. The rasp of the grinder at every pass is therapeutic, as is feeling the resistance of whole beans disappears as its ground into a powder. Not to mention the scent of freshly ground coffee growing stronger with every revolution.
A perfect combination.
“Coffee?” Kafka doesn’t rise to Himeko’s offhand comment, and the sound of her heeled boots on the wooden floor tells Himeko that she’s approaching. “At this hour of night?”
Himeko can feel her hovering at her elbow, peering over her shoulder. Her grip tightens on the handle of the grinder.
“Technically morning,” Himeko says.
“Have you considered that the amount of dirt that you call coffee that you consume isn’t good for you?” Kafka drawls, and something cold presses against the back of Himeko’s wrist, cold enough that even against Himeko’s air-chilled skin that it makes her jump.
Kafka blinks at her, innocent. Deceptively so.
The carton nudges her wrist again, condensation beading on the outside of the white and blue packaging. Milk, the carton reads in large bubble letters. A too-happy cow smiles brightly at her.
Himeko considers having steak for dinner.
“My coffee is delicious and perfectly healthy,” Himeko retorts. She hates that Kafka can get under her skin so easily. Kafka shoots her a disbelieving look.
Perhaps one of the reasons that she loves her coffee so much, besides the fact that it's coffee, is that it keeps her awake. Visions of fire and flames couldn’t plague her if she didn’t close her eyes.
“I think you’d sleep better if you had some hot milk instead,” Kafka nudges her again with the cold carton of milk. Himeko has some questions as to where Kafka has been keeping the carton of milk so that it's still cold.
“I drink my coffee black.”
“I didn’t say you should drink it with your coffee.”
Himeko raises her eyebrow at the Stellaron Hunter who looks nonplussed.
“Hot milk can help you sleep better,” Kafka says with a shrug.
“Who says I’m going back to bed?”
“But your bed is soooooo comfortable.”
Himeko turns, finding that Kafka has left the carton of milk on the table next to Himeko’s other coffee implements and has gracefully let herself fall backwards onto the bed, further spreading her germs from Aeon-knows-what planet she’s been on onto the bed.
Himeko’s bed.
“And I would know.” Kafka winks at her.
“Hey! You should know by now; no outside clothes on my bed.”
“You’d rather me naked on your bed then?” Kafka purrs as she props herself up on her elbows, a positively devious smile on her face. “Why, Himeko. How forward of you. What a change.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Himeko grumbles, her cheeks tinged pink, she knows it. Her grip on the coffee grinder tightens, the crank making a horrible grating noise when she puts too much force on the tip of the handle, nearly bending the handle out of shape.
“Oh, darling. You’re shaking.” Kafka is at her side almost immediately. Himeko reels at how quickly Kafka flips from teasing to concerned. She hadn’t even seen Kafka get up from the bed. Slender fingers gently pry the grinder out of her grip. Warm hands guide her to sit in her armchair by the window.
A touch lighter than a butterfly’s trace down her chin; the careful steps of a spider on her web.
Himeko blinks.
Dazed, she looks up at Kafka. There’s an expression on Kafka’s face that Himeko can’t quite understand. Her expression is soft, open, and searching.
It almost seemed like Kafka cared.
That wasn’t right. Why would Kafka care? They were nothing more than acquaintances with benefits.
Yes,
Not even friends.
The lack of sleep must be getting to Himeko.
Right?
How could someone like Kafka — smirking and dangerous and webbed in darkness and shadows, care about her? Care about someone who saw nothing but death in the dark and flames in the future?
It's not possible. Not here, not now, not in this reality.
“Is this fine enough, darling?”
The smell of freshly ground coffee beans pulls Himeko from her thoughts like smelling salts to the inert. A loose pile of powdered coffee sits at the bottom of the grinder. It’s infuriating how seemingly perfect Kafka is, even getting Himeko’s preferred coffee fineness exactly right.
How many times has Himeko made coffee in front of Kafka? A half dozen times? Maybe more? Actually, if Kafka didn’t know how to make coffee exactly as Himeko does then perhaps Kafka isn’t as brilliant as Himeko gives her credit for.
“Yes,” Himeko says.
A frown flits across Kafka’s face. A marring mark on the planes of a perfectly chiseled sculpture. It’s strange to see the statuesque mask slip, even for a brief moment. Himeko wonders what she’s thinking about. What could possibly give this fleet footed and uncontainable soul such pause?
Before Kafka can touch any of Himeko’s other coffee implements, Himeko rises from her seat. Her first step is unsteady at the rise, a fledgling taking off. Kafka can sense it too, Himeko knows. The way that her hand shoots out tells Himeko everything that she needs to know — not touching Himeko to steady her, but ever present, ever ready; the spider in the web, poised to catch her prey.
Too bad Himeko is as stubborn as she is proud.
By the time her foot hits the ground, she is sure; planted and certain. Two feet on the Astral Express, hands eager to grasp the next destination that her journey to the beginning would present her with.
That’s how she has always been, that’s how she has always moved forward.
Her and the Astral Express.
There is no need for a spider to take up residence around her existence. There is no need for a spider to concern herself with her matters. She’d sweep the cobwebs out along with all the stardust, out into the swirling galaxies. Confidently, she plucked the coffee grinder from Kafka’s hands, striding over to the long table off to the side.
Filter.
Hot water.
Freshly ground coffee beans.
More hot water.
Coffee.
With a practiced hand, Himeko goes through ever perfectly measured step. If Kafka notices Himeko’s hands shaking any further, she fortunately doesn’t say anything. Himeko pours out two cups of coffee.
There’s a frown on Kafka’s face, as Himeko sets the two cups aside on saucers. The carton of milk opens easily with a soft tearing sound. She pours some into a spare cup on the table. With a little wave of her finger, and a small flare of her power, the milk steams and swirls.
Fire.
She watches as the steam rises, caressing her still pointed finger with a heat that’s almost unpleasant.
Fire.
It’s interesting that the very thing that plagues her in her sleep gives her strength in consciousness.
If she was any more cruel to herself, she would tell herself that her waking moments should desensitize her to her sleeping ones. Or perhaps her sleeping ones are a warning to her wake. Fire burns after all.
A firm grip on her outstretched hand pulls her from her thoughts.
“You’re going to burn the milk,” Kafka says gently. She rescues the cup of steaming milk from Himeko’s grasp.
Burn.
She can almost feel the flames lick at her skin. The waves of fire which would reduce her to nothing more than cinders floating on the breeze — a part of her would rise even as she falls.
“You okay?”
Kafka’s question is hardly louder than a murmur; concern colouring her tone. It’s not a shade that Himeko would associate with her and she can’t tell if she likes the look of it on her or not.
“Do you ever think about dying?”
The question falls from her lips, unbidden, like her own fall from grace.
Kafka pauses mid-pour. Some of the milk spills over the edge of the cup. Himeko runs a finger along the lip of the cup, catching the few droplets before they hit the floor. She would hate to have to clean the floor and the sheets that Kafka has dirtied with her outside clothes.
“Is this a threat?”
That makes Himeko crack a smile. She hates it. How Kafka can pull a smile from her lips like a spinner draws a thread from seemingly nothing is infuriating. Quickly, she recomposes her face into an expression of disinterest. She knows that she's not quite as good as Kafka at controlling her expressions but hopefully it would be enough.
“No, not a threat. Not yet, anyway.”
Kafka’s disbelieving smirk tells Himeko all that she needs to know.
“It’s just an idle musing. You can forget I said anything,” Himeko scoffs.
“No, no. You never say anything that’s just idle,” Kafka murmurs slowly. “You’re thoughtful, deliberate.”
Himeko feels her breath catch in her throat. Kafka is close, so close that Himeko can smell the faint scent of her floral perfume on her skin, so close that Himeko questions the little song and dance that they do every time that Kafka shows up in her room unannounced.
This game that they play.
“Compliments are unbecoming of you,” Himeko tells her pointedly.
“I speak only the truth.”
Lies.
Himeko knows it. And she knows that Kafka knows it too.
“But yes,” Kafka looks at her, unflinching. “I do think about death.”
About death, Himeko repeats to herself silently, immediately latching on to the choice of words that Kafka uses — the difference in the meaning behind them.
Death, but not dying.
Of course, she doesn’t think about something like dying. For all the little similarities that Himeko thought that she had seen between her and Kafka, there are some pressingly stark differences as well.
“It’s hard not to, given the line of work I am in.”
“You don’t have to-”
Kafka laughs mirthlessly. “I don’t have to be a Stellaron Hunter? Is that what you were going to say?”
Himeko swallows, stiff. Yes, that’s exactly what her foolish self was going to say.
“Darling,” Kafka draws near, setting the cup of coffee and cup of nearly burnt milk aside. “That’s sweet of you to worry about my wellbeing.”
That sets Himeko to bristling. “Who said that I was worried about your wellbeing?”
“Nobody, of course.” Kafka is smooth in her recovery. Unfazed, she presses closer until there are no thoughts of fire or flame, heat or burns, just the cool and collected presence of Kafka. Touching but not touching, an atmosphere between them. To touch would be to reach out and to reach out would be to burn up in the space in between.
Infuriating.
Himeko hates it.
“I think about death everyday. I tread the fine line of danger between life and death with every step that I take. It’s the thrill that drives me to continue my work, to keep searching for what I’m searching for.” Her warm breath brushes over the outer shell of Himeko’s ear.
It sends a shiver down Himeko’s spine.
She’s close enough that even the faintest twitch would mean touching her.
“That doesn’t scare you?”
Kafka smirks. Sharp, beautiful, like a fine blade forged by a master craftsman. “I don’t know what fear is.”
Of course.
Of course. Of course. Of course.
A chasm opens up between them that has Himeko stumbling back like Kafka has just burned her, branded her with those words into the bleeding walls of Himeko’s heart.
Something in Kafka’s eyes softens, and she too takes a step back. “Come sit. Let me tell you about the time that Silver Wolf almost got me killed.”
“I thought you didn’t know what fear is,” Himeko bites out. That comes out far harsher than she intends.
“Just because I don’t feel fear about these things doesn’t mean that I want to cut my fun short,” Kafka says breezily, ignoring Himeko’s tone.
She’s thankful for that, she doesn’t really feel Like getting into a full-blown argument with Kafka right now (even though she was the one who would’ve technically started it).
“Hard to have more fun if you’re dead.” Kafka sits on the edge of the small table in front of the lone armchair that Himeko had occupied moments before.
Her cup of coffee is in one hand — she had taken it without ask nor offer, though Himeko supposed there was nothing that she would do with a second cup of coffee. There also isn’t a second chair in the room, Himeko had never intended on receiving any guests in her private chambers, so there was never any need to.
But if Kafka kept treating her table like a chair, she could look into- no, what is she thinking? There is no way that she should be making plans around Kafka.
“Don’t sit on my table.”
To her credit, Kafka does rise from her seat, languid and slow. The full weight of her gaze falls on Himeko’s shoulders.
“You sure do like telling me what to do.”
“I am particular about my things.”
“Well, where would you like me to sit?” Kafka wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, a motion that was met with a sharp frown.
“On the chair.”
“And where will you sit?”
Kafka doesn’t mention how Himeko is letting her sit and stay, not just handing her a to-go cup and sending her on her way. She’s pleasant like that, knowing exactly what to say and not to say to not set Himeko off — a spider picking her way carefully over the strands of her web to the captive prey in the center.
The prey which didn’t even realize she was captive.
“On my bed.” Himeko takes a few steps towards the bed, her own cup of coffee in her hands.
“Won’t you share this seat with me?”
“No,” Himeko sighs. She pauses, and turns back around, unable to face Kafka head-on like this when the Stellaron Hunter was looking at her like that .
She considers kicking Kafka out.
She doesn’t of course, because it’s Kafka, and what is better at stopping her from thinking too hard about the fire that burns her into nothing, than Kafka?
Himeko adds a splash of cold milk straight from the carton to her coffee.
Defiant to the end.
Café noisette.
When Himeko wakes up, tucked carefully under the sheets of her bed, jacket draped over the back of her armchair, Kafka is nowhere to be seen, as usual. She came and went as she pleased.
She never stays.
And Himeko didn’t blame her. Who would stay when fire licked at the walls of her heart, eager to consume any who might enter?
The only sign that she was ever there is the hot cup of coffee that’s waiting for Himeko on the nightstand — made exactly how Himeko prefers it, sans milk.
Once Himeko has begrudgingly finished the coffee, perfect like she wants, she rinses out the milk carton and places it in her suitcase.
Black coffee.
Heat.
A fever that spreads through her, like flames devouring a dry forest.
Unstoppable.
Untamed.
There’s nothing that she can do as the fire ravages what remains of her. Pain lances through every facet of her, until she knows nothing else but every nerve ending screaming in her inevitable end.
Is this what it would feel like to be the molten ingot in a forge?
Live.
Blasted from all sides with intolerable heat until there is nothing left, only finally to be forged anew?
There’s a resigned kind of peace that floats over her. A sort of joy that she does not understand. A thin emergency blanket that does nothing but trap the heat under her skin; a fire that feeds on her life and soul alone, without need for oxygen or laws of nature. Some part of her wants to scream. To fight against the calm, to release the mounting pressure in her veins.
What part of her is that?
It’s her.
Live.
But not her.
But her.
Whoever she is, she realizes that she resigns herself to this fate too.
Live.
“Darling.”
She wishes she could simply sleep.
“Darling, what you call sleep is not rest.”
Warm hands run over her skin, cooler than the fire in her veins. They pull at the flames that suffuse her body, scattering embers into the air. They pull at her, lifting her from the clutches of sleep.
Himeko blinks, vision swimming.
Kafka materializes before her, one hazy stroke of a master painter on the canvas of reality at a time. The lights are on in the room, bathing her in a warm and ethereal glow.
The other woman smiles; the curve of a heavy crescent moon settling on the horizon of her face. “There you are, darling.”
“Kafka?”
“Another nightmare, hmm?” Kafka says in lieu of a response.
She brushes a few strands of hair from Himeko’s face tenderly. So tenderly that it makes Himeko’s breath catch in her throat. It’s been a while since she’s seen Kafka in her room, even longer since Kafka woke her from her last nightmare.
“Just sleeping poorly,” Himeko lies.
Not technically a lie.
“Do you want to try to get more sleep?” Kafka makes a noncommittal noise, almost like pity.
Himeko hates it.
She shakes her head, “I don’t think I can sleep.”
The sense of peace from her nightmare unsettles her. How can she sleep peacefully when peace itself gives her so much pause?
"Coffee then," Kafka sighs.
"Coffee," Himeko affirms.
She pauses, a thought occurring to her. "Why are you here?"
Kafka grins as if delighted that it has taken Himeko so long to ask this question. "I couldn't sleep either. So naturally, birds of a feather flock together."
Himeko narrows her eyes at Kafka. Does Kafka even sleep? She always seems like she’s on the move, up to something .
Something nefarious, Himeko is sure. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not here for that,” Kafka retorts, affronted. “You know as well as I do, it's more fun when both parties are into it. Your company is more than enough. And I’ve brought you something.” She holds out a brightly coloured bottle to Himeko.
The cartoon creature on the front, despite being bright purple, is definitely a cow. The bold lettering along the top is not in a language that Himeko is fluent in. But for all intents and purposes, this was probably milk.
“I told you, I prefer my coffee black.”
“And I told you that milk is better for helping you sleep,” Kafka replies evenly.
“Where is this even from?”
There’s a glint in Kafka’s eyes as she replies with a smirk. “That’s classified. You’ll have to try harder than that to get information like that out of me.”
Infuriating.
There are small comforts in the familiarity of this banter though. Himeko doesn’t know when or why this has become familiar and comforting and she isn’t sure she wants to pick that thought apart.
Silence drapes over them like the discarded blanket that Himeko has cast aside. It’s not oppressive or overly warm, just the comfort of having a layer on like it might protect her from something irrational and childish.
Himeko makes her coffee.
Well, she tries to.
The tremble of an unsteady hand sends coffee beans scattering across the table, hardly any make it into the grinder.
Calm and cool hands usher her gently to the side, take the grinder and sweep the beans into the mouth of said implement. Himeko can’t even bring herself to protest, exhausted by the heat that spreads thickly over her making her feel like she’s moving through molasses.
When the gentle grinding sound of the grinder starts up, frayed nerves smooth over with every pass, accompanied by a quiet melody.
A familiar one.
One so soft that Himeko thought that she was surely imagining things. But when she turns to look at Kafka, who has taken residence upon the lone armchair with the grinder, the melody stops, a questioning smile on Kafka’s lips where melody once lived.
“I think I know that song.”
“Do you?”
The way that Kafka says those words implies that she very well knows that Himeko knows that song. But where from, Himeko isn’t quite sure.
“I do,” Himeko affirms strongly. She isn’t about to let Kafka have the satisfaction of seeing her uncertainty.
Kafka makes a noncommittal noise but resumes her humming, not saying anything further about the song. Why would she? If Himeko knows the song as well as the strength of her words imply, there is no further need for discussion.
Entranced by the haunting melody, Himeko cracks open the bottle of milk. She finds herself steaming the milk in a cup again — for Kafka, of course. Or so she would tell herself long after the fact. Kafka pours hot water into a fresh filter, letting the water run through once before adding the perfectly ground coffee to the filter. Himeko takes over at that point, unwilling to let Kafka brew her coffee in its entirety.
The other woman doesn’t seem to mind it at all, returning to her seat. By the time Himeko has two cups of coffee and a cup of steamed milk, Kafka has repeated the song twice more. Enough that Himeko has picked the song apart in an attempt to figure out where she knows the song from.
A futile effort though.
Himeko brings Kafka the milk and the coffee.
She cradles her own cup close to her chest, leeching warmth from the cup. In her haste to climb out of bed, feeling woefully vulnerable beneath the sheets in Kafka’s presence, she had neglected to put on her jacket.
A gloved hand takes her by the wrist and pulls her into the armchair.
No, pull isn’t quite the right word here. This isn’t forceful or sharp, but a gentle motion that gives Himeko every opportunity to pull away. No, this is Kafka’s hand on her skin and as Kafka withdraws her hand, Himeko follows the movement like a train follows rails laid out one gloved hand at a time.
This train comes to a careful stop in a station between two arms of a chair. Not a drop of coffee spills as Himeko finds herself practically in Kafka’s lap, squeezed into the space next to her, legs draped over Kafka’s own. The oversized armchair is perfect for Himeko to curl up on with her legs beneath her as she reads.
With two people though?
It’s a little more than cozy.
“If you wanted me to sit with you, you could’ve just asked,” Himeko says dryly.
Kafka lets out a laugh, mirth sparkling in her eyes. “And I did. You answered.”
Himeko huffs, putting her cup on the table so that she could get up without making a mess. She finds this to be impossible though with the presence of a strong arm secured around her waist like a seatbelt.
“Kafka,” Himeko warns lowly.
“It’s cold here,” Kafka tells her innocently.
Himeko glares. How had Kafka noticed?
A gloved hand trails teasingly up the bare skin of her right arm, tracing a path through the waves of goosebumps there. Fingers smooth carefully and deliberately over a fading bite mark on her shoulder. The matching set of teeth glint at her in an impish grin. Himeko shivers involuntarily, from the cold or from lingering sensations, she will never say.
Kafka grins at her; the words ‘I told you so’ written plainly along the curve of her smile.
The warmth of another person, of Kafka, though Himeko loathed to admit it, was nice.
“Let’s have coffee!” Kafka announces. With a single hand, she pours the delicately steamed milk into her own cup. Her other arm never leaves Himeko’s waist.
“I thought you said that you didn’t approve of me drinking coffee at this hour,” Himeko comments. Kafka makes a perfect swirling leaf pattern with the steamed milk.
“I don’t. But I know you’re going to have coffee, anyway. The least I can do is make sure you aren’t drinking alone, and maybe have a little milk in your coffee.” Kafka finishes pouring milk into her cup and stills, hand with milk hovering over Himeko’s cup.
“You make it sound like I’m drinking alcohol,” Himeko grumbles.
“Coffee might as well be for you.” One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises faintly at Himeko.
Kafka could pour the milk into Himeko’s pristine black coffee right now and there would be very little that Himeko could do about it. But she knows that she would never, not without Himeko’s explicit permission first. The Stellaron Hunter is strange like that — always breaking and entering and showing up wherever she pleases but never crossing Himeko’s boundaries.
A delicate balance.
The quiet spider who shared her space, catching all the pests who might prove bothersome but never spinning webs in places that Himeko might run face first into.
Himeko gives a slight nod, much to her own chagrin and Kafka’s ever-growing delight.
Kafka pours a smaller amount of milk into her cup, skillfully drawing another design. She hands the cup to Himeko, hand steady, coffee never moving like it’s frozen in place. Atop the steaming cup of coffee sits a milk foamed heart.
Himeko stares at the heart.
Kafka says nothing, taking a casual sip of her coffee.
So Himeko says nothing either, drinking from her own cup.
It’s different, having this much milk with coffee. Lighter but heavier at the same time. Last time, she had really hardly added anything. A spiteful amount of milk. But this time, where Himeko is used to the dark bitterness of her black coffee and espressos, this is smoother.
No more or less delicious.
Just different.
Kafka’s watching her closely, Himeko knows. She can feel the weight of Kafka’s gaze, her curiosity and expectations, just hovering over her skin. A hesitant spider waiting for Himeko to make the first move.
Himeko obliges.
Just this once.
(Countless times more stretch both directions into the untouchable depths of time.)
“Do you ever have nightmares?”
Not the first thing that Himeko had wanted to say but the first words to come out of her mouth, nonetheless. “You don’t feel fear, nevermind.”
There’s a long pause.
Kafka purses her lips.
Her gaze never leaves Himeko’s.
“I don’t sleep long enough to dream, or have nightmares,” she finally admits.
Himeko’s breath catches. She never expected Kafka to tell her something like this, something that feels so personal. It’s as if Himeko has reached up to pluck the spider web, telling the spider exactly where she stands, and the spider has simply dropped down into the palm of her open hand.
She can’t imagine what that feels like, to stare up at fingers arcing around her like giant bars of a cage. To close the cage was to be crushed to death — the slightest twitch of the fingers: disgust on the face or the flinch of the body, would mean a certain end to the delicate dance they did.
“Maybe you’re the one who needs coffee,” Himeko says instead. She doesn’t know what else to say. What can she say?
So she lets the spider go instead.
“Perhaps. In the same vein, you could drink less.”
They both take sips of their coffee. Who is to say how much and how little they could drink?
“Do you want to talk about it?” The clink of the bottom of a cup on a saucer tells Himeko that Kafka has set her cup aside to focus solely on her. She doesn’t even need to look up.
Himeko can’t bring herself to look up.
She can feel Kafka’s heated gaze upon her — warm sunlight over her skin. If she looks up, she might catch fire entirely; blinded by the intensity of everything that Kafka is. Her presence burns so brightly in Himeko’s eyes, so unabashedly her. Some part of Himeko wonders if Kafka is like this with other people.
It’s not jealousy, she tells herself firmly. Its simple curiosity.
“No,” Himeko says.
She can never escape the fire it seems, not in sleep and not in wakefulness either.
So she smothers it in silence.
Kafka makes a noncommittal noise, picks up her cup again, and they resume drinking in silence.
Himeko’s nearly done with her cup of coffee by the time her head begins to loll forwards, weighed down by the heaviness of exhaustion, pulled by the gravity of sleep. She fights it, unwilling to return to the molten epicenter of nightmares that she knows waits for her. Her place is amongst the cold expanse of space.
Fingers on the side of her face guide her to rest her head against the gentle curve of a shoulder, perfectly carved for her. The perfect height and perfect firmness. A shoulder for a pillow, an arm for a blanket.
A landing bay.
Faint humming picks up again, fingers return to their spots along her arm where they dance gently to the tune. An invisible bow plays the sounds of vocal cords. This violinist tugs effortlessly at Himeko’s heartstrings.
When Himeko finally drifts off to rest, there is no roar of the flames, only a familiar song.
Flat white.
Himeko wakes to the smell of fresh coffee.
She’s curled up in her arm chair, folded around another person who was no longer present. The lingering scent of cold steel and flowers cling to her skin.
Unsurprising.
Kafka has never stayed before.
It would be foolish for Himeko to think that she would start now. Who would stay willing in a house on fire?
Remarkably though, she feels rested.
Not enough to consider it to be ‘well rested’, but enough.
There’s a steaming hot cup of espresso on the table in front of her. A small reminder that the previous night, however strangely intimate, was nothing more than sitting and talking and drinking coffee. Now that Himeko thinks back on it, she felt more exposed sitting and talking and drinking coffee than she felt naked with Kafka between the sheets.
The purple bottle of milk sits on the table next to the espresso. She reaches for it. The plastic is mysteriously cold on her skin, condensation beading around her fingers.
She doesn’t add the milk to her espresso, just turning it over in her hand as she sips the hot drink.
Later, she’d add this bottle, rinsed out, into her suitcase next to the carton.
Espresso.
Light.
The crackling flames are blinding.
Is this what they meant when they said that there would be a bright light at the end of it all to welcome her? She’s not sure that she likes it.
The split-second moments of shadow as the flames dance across her skin are hardly any reprieve. No, they’re more like taunts, unwelcome reminders of how bright and intense the end that she’s facing is. Fire toys with her consciousness, with the very core of her being.
Live.
Through it all though, she’s far more concerned with something else though. Something more than the fire which takes her apart but doesn’t fuse her back together again.
Was it enough?
Was what enough?
Fear lances through her.
What if it wasn’t enough?
What if she’s no more than a firework lit before the set of the sun? A star falling at the height of noon?
Burned up for nothing, for nobody.
What if she wasn’t enough?
She’s blinded by the sudden flash of fear that overwhelms her, burning afterimages on her soul.
Live.
“You’re enough.”
Shadows flit over her eyes, like hands reaching for her, pulling her, covering her face in something cool, something soft.
But what if-
“Hey, that’s enough of that.” The same voice again, sharper this time.
Himeko sits up with a gasp.
Kafka pulls back in time to avoid being head butted. Ever so graceful, ever so lithe. She smiles at Himeko, kneeling over her still.
“There you are, darling,” Kafka says, unruffled. She leans back in, eyes searching.
From this close distance, Himeko can see the faint dark circles under Kafka’s eyes. She looks tired. Not that anyone might be able to tell, she’s still so put together but Himeko can tell.
Himeko knows.
“You’re cold aren’t you?” Kafka murmurs — too soft, too gentle and Himeko doesn’t know what to do with herself.
She can’t even bring herself to nod.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Kafka wraps her up in the blanket still damp with sweat, lifting her easily from the bed. Himeko lets out a surprised squeak as she’s carried from the bed to the adjoining bathroom.
They’ve been in here before together, cleaning up together after a messy night shared in bed. But this is different.
Kafka leaves her sitting on the edge of the large bathtub as she runs hot water into the tub. Scented oils, bath salts, even a splash of the liquid bubble bath that Himeko keeps hidden under the sink all go into the steaming water.
“Stay,” Kafka tells her. It’s not a command, but more of a request. She knows that Himeko would never do anything that she doesn’t want to do, nevermind something that someone else tells her to do.
Himeko huffs lightly as Kafka turns away, exiting the bathroom.
Stay.
Of all the things that Kafka could ask of her — stay. When all Kafka does is come and go.
(Literally, every night that they have spent together.)
The sound of the running bathwater drowns out all other noises. Himeko lets herself get lost in the sound, pretending it's the almighty roar of a waterfall cascading just behind her. Perhaps it was the waterfall which might drown her worries and douse the phantom flames which lick at her psyche.
Deliberate footsteps on the tiled floor makes her open her eyes again.
Kafka reappears with two cups of coffee, a third empty cup and what looks suspiciously like a clear bag full of milk.
Himeko raises her eyebrows faintly in surprise. Whatever happened to the woman who grumbled when Himeko made coffee at this hour?
“I know you,” Kafka shrugs. The cups in her hands hardly even move with the motion. Perfectly balanced. Perfectly held with strong and slender fingers. With strong hands that Himeko knew too well but felt so far away all the same. The universe is so vast, so interesting, the wonders that those hands have beheld far outstrips Himeko. “You were going to want a drink and I’m not letting you drink the bathwater. That's worse for you than having coffee.”
The bag of milk and empty cup press into Himeko's hands which barely peeked out from the edges of her blanket cocoon. Indecipherable symbols label the milk in bold blue font, she has no idea where Kafka got this.
At least the coffee smells right.
“If you could steam the milk for me while I finish preparing the bath?” If Kafka notices the tension in Himeko’s eyes, she says nothing, setting the coffee down on the edge of the bathtub, continuing to adjust the temperature of the water, and retrieving towels and fresh pajamas from the bedroom.
She moves through the space, Himeko’s space, naturally as if this was her space. In some senses, this was. Himeko has never shared her space with someone else before.
Not like this.
It has always just been her and the Astral Express.
Kafka’s consistently inconsistent visits were an anomaly.
If the anomaly happens repeatedly, is it an anomaly anymore? Is it not just part of routine?
Himeko doesn’t have an answer to that.
She busies herself with steaming the milk, biting the corner to tear the bag open with one sharp canine. A few drops run down the side of the bag but she manages to pour a cupful without any more spilling — a real challenge, since the bag opening flopped from side to side, threatening to make a mess.
Seriously, who sells bagged milk?
Despite her misgivings, she sets the milk to steaming with a twirl of her index finger.
"Water's ready. Do you need help to get in?"
Ever considerate of Himeko's pride, Kafka hovers just within arm's reach.
Himeko surprises herself by letting her head dip ever so slightly.
Kafka doesn't show any emotion on her face but takes a step closer. She takes the cup and the milk from Himeko. Calloused fingertips brush over her palms, tracing over the lines there. Without breaking her gaze, Kafka upends the bag into the bath.
The rest of the milk drains into the water, mixing together into what looks like liquid clouds. Ripples run down the length of the tub, evidence of the disruption.
"That seems like a waste," Himeko remarks.
"Why? You're not going to drink the rest of it." Kafka regards her with one raised eyebrow and a smirk. "It'll be good for your skin, keeps you soft, or so I've heard."
Himeko narrows her eyes. "That sounds like it benefits you more than me."
That gets a laugh out of Kafka. "You make it sound like I'm going to eat you."
Himeko simply shoots Kafka a pointed look.
"Mhmm," Kafka smirks, devious and sultry. "Maybe I will." Her expression sobers just as quickly. "Not tonight though."
No. Not tonight.
"Let's get you into the bath."
Himeko lets Kafka unwrap the blanket around like one might with a present. Everything about this situation feels like it should be something sexy; an amorous exchange behind closed doors.
But nothing about this moment was.
Sweaty pajamas peel away from clammy skin. Kafka’s touch is lighter than a butterfly’s, or perhaps a spider would be a more apt comparison. She is slow and methodical, easing the straps of Himeko’s tank top off her shoulders, and helping her step out of the matching sleep shorts.
Himeko soon finds herself hissing as she lowers herself into the steaming bath water. The tub is slippery under her feet and perhaps she ought to be concerned about falling in her dazed state, but Kafka’s hand is firm on her bicep, steadying her with every step.
The heat of the bath is nothing like the fire that pulls her under when her eyes close. This is comforting, this is good. The tension in her body practically melts away.
“Too hot?” Kafka’s voice murmurs next to Himeko’s ear.
She’s kneeling next to the tub, upper body draped across the edge of the tub like some masterpiece sculpture on an ancient fountain. She certainly was statuesque. Anyone would be lucky to have her, have her look at them like the way that she was looking at Himeko now-
No.
Himeko forces herself to look away.
She can’t.
She couldn’t be.
Not her.
Not someone like Himeko.
“It’s nice.”
Kafka trails a lazy finger across the surface of the water adding more ripples and cutting through the mountains of bubbles, her gloves long abandoned. Ever the restless one, unable to keep things the way things are.
“Are you going to watch me bathe all night or are you coming in too?”
Eyebrows raise faintly in response.
“We both know this tub fits two. You look like you could use a bath too.”
“Well, I didn’t want to intrude-”
“You’re already here,” Himeko cuts her off.
“I suppose it would be easier for me to wash your hair.” A pause as another thought occurs to Kafka. “Are you telling me that I smell bad?”
“I never said anything of that sort,” Himeko scoffs, haughty.
A splash of water hits her in the face, making her sputter and washing away any veneer of smugness that she had tried to coat herself with.
“Move forward then.” Without any further warning, Kafka begins unbuttoning her blouse.
“Hey!” Himeko exclaims, turning away to face the far wall. She does move as she’s told though, sliding forward until her knees meet her chest. Her kneecaps peek through the water; two islands, one slightly bruised from when Himeko clipped a corner during her last mission. She presses on the bruise as if hoping the faint throb of pain might dull the edge of her embarrassment.
It does not.
“What?” Kafka asks innocently. The sound of more clothes hitting the floor follows. “Why are you suddenly shy? It’s nothing that you haven’t seen before.”
Himeko knows her ears are red, far redder than she can play off from the heat of the bath, though she will cling to that excuse until the waves take her under. She says nothing though, because Kafka is right. This isn’t anything that she hasn’t seen before, but this is different.
How?
She doesn’t know.
It just is different.
Splashes tell her that Kafka has gotten into the tub. She doesn’t look up though until she can feel Kafka settle into the space behind her, legs and arms moving around Himeko to encircle her. They don’t quite touch, a thin veil of water separating their bodies.
Kafka won’t cross that thin boundary, Himeko knows that. She would always have to step over it first; disturb the web to bring the spider to her.
She does just that.
Leaning back, Himeko settles against Kafka, scarlet strands of hair pooling in the water like spilled blood while loose tresses of magenta drape loosely in front of her; a curtain of foliage sheltering her from prying eyes.
Ironic, given the prying eyes were behind the curtain all along.
“Comfortable?” Kafka asks wryly.
Himeko shrugs.
With her head pillowed on clouds, she could hardly complain.
“Do you want milk in your coffee?” Kafka asks. One of her arms is on the edge of the tub, fiddling with something.
The coffee, evidently.
A long sigh escapes Himeko’s lips. Kafka looks down with a raised eyebrow.
“You don’t have to have milk in your coffee if you don’t want it.”
“I’ll take some.”
“How much is some?”
“Pour, and I’ll say when.”
Never looking away, Kafka starts pouring. Kafka’s too strangely chivalrous at times like these to look elsewhere. Nothing that she hasn’t seen before, of course. But still.
Himeko can hear the faint clink of the cups against each other — a deliberate act for her own benefit. The moment stretches on, milk pouring for all of eternity. Kafka stares at her, unblinking, with condensation running down her chin and nothing but warm affection in her eyes.
No, that can’t be.
They were no more than just acquaintances with benefits, right?
Acquaintances. Not even friends.
Right?
Himeko flinches.
Kafka stops.
“Here, darling,” Kafka takes her hand, lifting it out of the water and hands her the cup of coffee. She ensures that Himeko has a good grip on the cup before letting go.
“Thanks,” Himeko murmurs.
The drink in her hand is a creamy tan colour, far lighter than Himeko would have ever considered possible for her coffee. She sips at it. The bitterness of the coffee still shines through, strong and chocolaty through the milk.
Not better, Himeko thinks, but different.
Still good.
But different.
Hesitantly, Himeko glances up at Kafka’s face again.
Warm affection.
It’s as clear as day.
How had Himeko missed this before?
Different could still be good, a small voice reminds her.
Different doesn’t mean getting more involved with someone who only saw death, her own death, every time she closed her eyes.
“-darling?”
Himeko blinks.
“There you are,” Kafka smiles warmly at her.. “Do you want to sit up so I can wash your hair?”
They fall into silence as Himeko pulls herself upright with her free hand, the other hand still clutching the cup of coffee. Delicately, Kafka sets upon the task of shampooing and conditioning Himeko’s long hair.
The motions are relaxing, fingernails scratching lightly at her scalp as warm vanilla scents mix with the relaxing floral scents of the bath.
Previous baths they shared together were not like this.
Nothing that they really did together was ever like this, save for previous coffee dates late into the night.
“Why are you here?” Himeko questions suddenly. The thought occurs to her just as abruptly as the words spill from her mouth.
Kafka bursts out laughing, a delightful sound that pushes all of Himeko’s other thoughts away.
“Darling, you ask this question when I am already naked with you in your bath?”
“Yes,” Himeko says stubbornly.
“Can’t I come spend some time with my favourite little Trailblazer?” That same answer. A non-answer. Himeko’s had enough of those.
Himeko turns in the bath so that she can look directly at Kafka. “But why?” Himeko presses. “You don’t get anything out of this exchange.”
They aren’t fucking, so what’s the point?
“Why not?” Kafka replies, puzzled and delighted all the same.
“Stop answering my questions with questions,” Himeko demands.
“Is it really so hard to believe,” Kafka says slowly, enunciating every word like it might make Himeko finally understand what she’s been trying to say. “That I simply enjoy spending time with you?”
Her head dips down lower, just a few centimeters, breath caressing over Himeko’s cheekbones. She’s so close, close enough that Himeko can see the tiny droplets of water that cling to her lashes. If Himeko just tips her head up ever so slightly, a heartbeat away, she could kiss her.
Kissing her really ought to matter very little considering the things that they’ve done — they’ve kissed before of course, but it wasn’t like this. It was never like this.
They’re drawn towards each other, two stars trapped in a deadly orbit.
Himeko stares at Kafka for another moment, trying to tease apart what Kafka was really saying beneath these words that she was saying. That can’t be it. Kafka is a known liar, sly and witty. There’s no way that was it. So they sit there: wordless, studying, locked in a one-sided battle.
What else was there?
What wasn’t Kafka saying?
A sharp pang of fear strikes Himeko, icy cold in her veins, something more than not knowing what Kafka was playing at: what if there wasn’t anything else?
What if that was it?
But what if it wasn’t?
Himeko retreats and the moment breaks. Kafka seems to sense this, expression recomposing into one of smug indifference.
Frowning deeply, Himeko turns back around, sipping at her coffee. For a second, she could’ve sworn that she saw something else flicker across Kafka’s eyes before solid walls of smugness came slamming down.
Hurt.
Kafka finishes rinsing the conditioner out of her hair.
Yes.
It was so hard to believe.
Latte.
Sunlight wakes Himeko in the morning — artificial sunlight from the lamps in her room, the Astral Express is deep in the void of space today. Heavy with sleep, Himeko rolls over in bed. A small and foolish part of her expects someone else there, pressed against her back. But her hand meets empty space.
Disappointing, but she should know better.
No, nothing is disappointing. She’s not expecting anything, not from Kafka and certainly not from herself. This is the way that things are, and this is the way that things would stay.
She’s fine with that.
It would be too much to expect someone with a single bathtub of water to stay in the midst of a raging inferno. Himeko wouldn’t, she wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all Kafka.
Kafka had helped redress her last night in fresh pajamas after the bath with infinite tenderness and then tucked her into bed with fresh sheets and blankets. They exchange no more words, and Himeko half expected Kafka to leave once she was in bed, but the other woman had lingered on the mattress. She sat there on the edge of the bed, an easy arm’s length away, one hand planted there on the sheets in between them, almost reaching out for Himeko.
Himeko had huffed, frustrated, and threw the blanket over her too, pulling her into the bed proper.
She must have fallen asleep after that. In all honesty, she doesn’t really remember all the details that well, just the unreadable look that Kafka gives her before she drifts off. She’s reluctant to say it, but it was one of the best sleeps that she’s had in a long time.
The scent of her shampoo lingers on the silk of her second pillow. Himeko can’t stop herself as she reaches across the troublingly small space to the imprint in the sheets; the only sign that there was the presence of another who shared her bed.
The sheets were still warm.
If Himeko closes her eyes, she can still feel Kafka’s form laying there.
It’s a momentary peace that she doesn’t want to think too hard about. She knows if she stays too long in this moment, the fires would consume it too.
No, she reminds herself firmly, sitting up and tossing the blankets to the floor. There is no moment. There is nothing.
When she kicks her legs out over the edge of the bed just to sit and gather herself, she finds a hot cup of coffee waiting for her on the bedside table along with a perfectly cleaned plastic bag with a torn corner and bright blue lettering.
The coffee is extra strong, she notes, smoothing out the crinkles in the bag.
Good.
She’d need it.
The bag goes into her suitcase, next to the bottle, next to the carton.
Red-eye.
Fire.
All-consuming. All-encompassing.
It would stop at nothing, leaving nothing behind.
What is she but ashes and bone? Just as fire might give her power and strength, it takes all the same.
She’s tired.
So so tired.
She’s plummeting, falling ever faster — the heat leaves her as the fires die. A mere candle in the wind. Cold threads wrap around her like hands pulling at her, ignoring her crumbling state, the burned out husk of who she was, drawing what remains of her together.
Live.
It doesn’t matter.
The threads would break, she would continue her downward journey to the end.
Their grip tightens on her.
She slows.
Caught in a web of someone else’s design.
Why couldn't she just rest?
Live.
The perfect sky above her, once crystal blue, now dotted with clouds of smoke seems so far away. She reaches up with a leaden hand, ashen and flaking away — her existence here not even substantial.
There is nothing but darkness left for her.
Live.
Stop saying that.
Who was even saying that?
Live.
Live, live, live, live.
The word repeats so many times that it's meaningless, just sounds falling upon ears which no longer hear. She wants the word to go up in flames; just ink on paper. Kindling to the ever hungry entity of time.
How can she live when death, her own death, hers but not hers, haunts her.
She falls.
Threads and webs snapping with muted cracks.
She waits for the darkness to take her.
At long last.
A sharp tug on her wrist makes her look back up at the receding sky, now just a pinprick of dim light in the distance. A single thread has wrapped around her wrist, holding firm even as it pulls taut, stretching and straining to hold itself together in holding her up.
Let go, she wants to tell it, even if words would never form.
Let go before you snap.
The thread hangs on, spinning as it begins to unravel, trying to span the distance between her and-
And who?
Who could be at the other end?
Live.
The thread snaps, the part of it that’s wrapped around her wrist still firmly there, trailing behind her like the streak of light that follows a falling star.
She slams into the darkness at the end of everything.
Love.
When Himeko comes to her senses, she’s on the floor of her room, one arm still draped over the edge of the bed, wrapped up in twisted sheets.
The room is dark, and despite scanning the room over with great scrutiny, she finds nobody there.
She’s alone.
No Kafka.
It comes as a great surprise to her, given how Kafka has somehow shown up after every nightmare that she’s had as of late.
Foolish of her to expect that Kafka would be here every time.
She hadn’t seen Kafka since that night.
Kafka hadn’t shown up, not for their occasional nighttime flings that went long into the morning hours, not for coffee at inhuman hours. It had been weeks — nearly a month now. They had never gone so long between their little meetings.
Himeko’s thoughts flick back to the look of hurt that she thought she saw in Kafka’s eyes. It doesn’t make any sense.
None of this does.
There’s a headache coming, Himeko knows it. Exhausted, she picks herself up off the floor. A slight twinge of pain along her side tells her where she landed the previous night. Maybe another bath would be in order. She takes a moment to extract her hand from the sheets. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but she takes longer than she would like, as if some invisible force was still clinging to her.
Slowly, she pads over to her lamp, bare feet cold on the wooden floors. Her heart pounds in her chest, adrenaline still pumping strongly in her veins. Even in reality, she can’t escape her nightmares.
A thought occurs to her.
Why isn’t Kafka here?
Kafka’s usually here, isn’t she?
Does she want Kafka to be here?
Questions that Himeko doesn’t have the answer to. She hates those.
Would it be out of line to reach out to Kafka?
She has never done that before. Kafka has always come to her. What if something had happened? Would one of the other Stellaron Hunters let her know?
Himeko doesn’t know.
She’s not sure that she wants to know.
Just as she’s about to flick on the light though, a loud crash from behind her makes her jump. Fire flares at her fingertips, a defensive instinct.
Ironic that the thing that has lost her so much sleep is also what she calls in the face of danger.
A bloody smile greets her in the warm glow.
“Kafka?”
Himeko rushes to the woman who’s sprawled in her armchair. Blood stains the usually pristine white shirt, tears mar her beloved black jacket. Her sunglasses are missing from their usual perch on her head, replaced by blood streaming from a gash across the left temple.
She’s injured.
Badly.
Oh, if Himeko had woken from a nightmare, surely this was hell.
Heart in her throat, Himeko frantically checks her over. There’s a lot of blood, soaking through the fabric. She can’t tell how many wounds there are and if any are life-threatening.
“Hello, darling. Sorry, I’m late.” The lazy drawl that Kafka gives her is hardly enough to hide the pained wince as she shifts in her seat.
“You’re hurt.” Given that Kafka didn’t seem to be overly concerned about her current injuries, Himeko lets herself take a breath. The Stellaron Hunters would’ve taken care of of her injuries if anything was life-threatening.
Right?
Himeko can only hope that they had contingencies for serious injuries. She knows better than to ask Kafka. Stellaron Hunter business is unpredictable and secretive. Kafka would never tell her anything about it.
“Ah.” Such an obvious statement seems to amuse Kafka. “So it seems. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine, eventually.”
“Let me get you cleaned up,” Himeko pulls out the large first aid kit that she keeps under her bed for any March related accidents that may happen on the Astral Express. It’s oversized and zealously stocked, but she’s glad to have it right now.
“That’s not necessary,” Kafka protests. It’s a pathetic attempt and they both know it.. “I just came here to drop off some milk.”
Himeko looks at the light brown can with a pop top opening and unfamiliar labelling. “You can drink it after I take care of your wounds.”
“Why darling, I thought you were becoming more fond of having milk in your coffee.” Even in her battered state, Kafka is still in the mood to tease.
Good.
Himeko takes some solace in that. Some part of her is terrified at seeing Kafka like this. She had always been so unfazed and indifferent — invincible even. It’s a stark contrast to the Kafka who’s bleeding all over Himeko’s armchair right now.
“I’m more fond of you being alive,” Himeko says without thinking, her mind is a thousand miles ahead of her words, too busy taking stock of the wounds before her and the supplies between them.
Silence reigns.
Kafka is the first to break the silence, a little smile growing on her face. “So you are fond of me?”
“Being alive,” Himeko corrects.
None-too-gently, she presses a wad of gauze against the wound on Kafka’s temple. Kafka hisses softly at the pressure. It’s cruel, but she’s secretly glad that it wipes the smirk of Kafka’s face for a split second — anything to peer under the polished veneer that Kafka presents to the world, to her.
She shouldn’t have to do that here.
Himeko has never done that with her.
More gently, she takes Kafka’s hand to hold the gauze in place while she tears open an alcohol swab with her teeth to begin cleaning up the blood. The white swab quickly stains red with Kafka’s blood, a seemingly futile attempt.
“But me,” Kafka insists, recovering quickly and still managing to look decently smug with blood trailing down her face.
It’s such a stupid Kafka answer; insistent on playing her games to the end. Himeko has heard such thousands of times before and played those very games with her countless times more. She has willingly played it before.
Not today though.
She’s tired of this song and dance.
Especially because one of them is bleeding out on Himeko’s only and favourite armchair.
She works in silence, cleaning up wounds and bandaging cuts. Removing Kafka’s shirt, Himeko gets to work on the wounds smattering across her torso. The dark bruises blossoming across her abdomen would hurt doubly in the morning, but they are non-life-threatening. Kafka would live.
All that’s left is the gash across the temple.
Himeko stares up at Kafka from where she is kneeling on the ground next to the first-aid kit. Stares up at the woman who has crept into her life and never stays.
“What are we doing, Kafka?”
Those words tumble from her mouth softly. It’s not voiced as a complaint, though looking back, Himeko could see how Kafka see it as such. Honestly, it’s more like a question prayed to a being beyond her reach.
A being so close yet exists in a different world altogether.
Something in Himeko’s tone makes Kafka sit up straight, face falling into a composed mask of indifference.
“I overstepped, I apologize.” Kafka stands up suddenly, moving stiffly on her feet. She moves to gather up her discarded and bloody clothes. “It was wrong of me to come here like this.”
That’s not the response that Himeko was expecting. She expected another joke, more teasing, more silver-tongued witticisms. If there’s anything that she should’ve expected, it should’ve been Kafka always keeping her on her toes.
The guarded expression on Kafka’s face is telling, and perhaps Himeko should dissect why she knows that, but she never will, faced with too many things that she doesn’t want to unearth. There’s something else in Kafka’s eyes; something too valuable to hide beneath flimsy layers of teasing and flirtation — something that Kafka feels the need to leave immediately with.
“That’s not what I meant,” Himeko sighs, rubbing at her temples. Even as she says this, she’s moving to block Kafka’s path, using her body to box the Stellaron Hunter into between the arms of the chair.
Anyone else would reconsider backing a Stellaron Hunter into a corner like this, but Himeko is not just anyone.
She pushes Kafka, trying to get her to sit back down.
Kafka stubbornly remains standing.
Of course, making Kafka sit back down would be a much more difficult task than she expected. Even in her sorry state, Kafka puts up a fight, entire body trembling with the effort to remain upright.
“I don’t know what you mean then,” Kafka says, eyes focused dead ahead, staring at a point beyond Himeko. One hand remains pressed against her temple with the gauze.
“Kafka.”
She keeps staring past Himeko.
It’s then that Himeko realizes how odd this is, realizes how often she has looked up to find Kafka’s eyes trained on her. Realizes that Kafka’s always watching her. She wonders if Kafka is struggling just as hard to not look at her as she is to remain standing.
“Kafka, look at me.”
Her eyes flick down to meet Himeko’s, holding it for a moment. Then as if remembering that she’s trying not to, quickly flicks back up to stare at the wall behind Himeko again.
“Kafka,” Himeko says again, voice low in warning.
Kafka looks at her. Really looks at her.
Exhaustion lines her frame, an unreadable expression fills her face.
“I’m not saying that you are not welcome here. You’ve been here enough times to know that. And I think that you know that if I didn’t want you here, you wouldn't be here.”
Kafka frowns, eyebrows furrowing. Despite the confusion on her face, her posture relaxes slightly.
“So what are we doing ?” Himeko tries again.
“You want to fuck?” Kafka asks slowly.
“No!” How did Kafka come to that conclusion?
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
Frustration boils in Himeko’s veins. For all that Kafka seemed to understand her, she certainly understands her very little. “You’ve been showing up and then staying and having coffee with me and sleeping together but not actually sleeping together!”
It comes out a lot angrier than she intended.
Kafka purses her lips, thinking.
“That’s not a question,” she says after a long moment.
“You’re an ass.”
“Still not a question.”
Himeko wants to strangle her. “Kafka.”
Kafka’s next words are quiet, whispered more to herself than a reply to Himeko. “I think you know the answer.”
She does, doesn’t she? The very thing that she’s been afraid of this whole time, the very thing that she doesn’t think is possible, shouldn’t be possible because there’s no way that it could be true.
No, it’s not true. Himeko reminds herself. Her mind is running away with itself again. She swallows, mouth dry. “I want to hear you say it.”
It’s not true until she hears it for herself.
“You’re really going to make me say it out loud, aren’t you?” Kafka replies dryly, looking more and more like the Kafka that Himeko knows. There’s still a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. Vulnerability and something else.
Almost like she was afraid.
But she doesn't feel fear.
So Himeko doesn’t know what it could be. Himeko doesn’t know anymore.
“Yes. I want to hear you say it.”
“I love you.”
Himeko didn’t think Kafka would come out and just say it like that.
“You can’t!”
She didn’t think those would be the first words out of her mouth either.
Kafka raises an eyebrow.
“I can’t?”
Himeko recomposes herself, drawing herself up to her full height. She may still be in her pajamas and sleep-deprived but she was still Himeko.
“You can’t,” she affirms. “You can’t be in love with me.”
“Let’s hear it then.”
“You’re a Stellaron Hunter.”
“Please tell me that you’re not about to have sudden qualms about our differences in occupation,” Kafka laughs.
The light and melodic sound sends a ripple of delight down Himeko’s spine. How she hadn’t heard that sound for so long.
No, focus.
She can’t let Kafka’s wiles distract her.
“I’m getting there,” Himeko huffs.
“Of course, my apologies.” She does not look all that apologetic.
“As I was saying, you’re a Stellaron Hunter. You travel all over the universe. You see so much, you meet so many people-”
“Less than you think,” Kafka cuts in.
“Will you let me finish?”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“You meet so many people. There has to be someone else out there for you that’s better than me.”
“I never took you to be someone with so little self-confidence,” Kafka remarks. She sways unsteadily on her feet.
Seizing the opportunity, Himeko pushes her back into the chair. Kafka goes without a fight this time, falling back into the armchair with a wince.
“This isn’t about my self-confidence,” Himeko grouses. She begins cleaning up all the used supplies, anything to give her something else to do, so that she doesn't have to think about the intense focus that Kafka has trained on her.
“What’s it about then?”
“You… can’t love me.”
Himeko takes a few steps back and tosses a wad of used gauze into the wastebasket next to her desk. She remains facing the other direction, unwilling to turn back around. She can’t look Kafka in the eye.
“Well, this sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than me. And in case you forgot, I like to do what I want.”
“You never stay,” Himeko turns, rounding on Kafka suddenly before she can say anything else, like this thought is some kind of argument-proving, debate-ending statement. "You never stay…”
If you loved me you’d stay.
Who would want to stay though?
“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” Kafka admits, puzzled by the sudden outburst.
Oh.
“I didn’t think that you wanted to stay.”
That thought seems to surprise Kafka, who is reconsidering the entire situation with a frown on her face.
“We are at an impasse then,” Kafka says finally.
“No we are not,” Himeko argues. “You cannot love me.”
“I still have yet to hear a plausible reason as to why I cannot.”
“I have nightmares.”
“I know,” Kafka replies matter-of-factly.
“If you knew, then you wouldn’t-”
“If I knew what?” Kafka cuts her off. She looks angry this time. Visibly angry. Mouth a tight line, eyes flashing with an unseen fire. “If I knew that you have nightmares about dying?”
She knows.
Himeko stumbles backwards into her desk. Her knees buckle, her limbs feel weak, suddenly drained of all fight.
“How-”
“I can put two and two together, Himeko.”
Himeko.
Kafka has never called her by her name before. It’s always some kind of a pet name.
Himeko.
That’s her.
It’s always been her.
Just her and the Astral Express. She’s never ever let anyone else get this close.
Nobody’s tried quite this hard.
She’s the one who repaired the Astral Express, and she’s the one who would journey with it to its beginning, to her end. She’s never considered anything else, anyone else.
And perhaps it’s the embers that burn just beneath her skin, a reminder that she was alive, and how she would go, that she holds everyone at a safe arm's length.
It’s a funeral pyre of her own making.
And she’s the one who has thrown in the first torch.
“How do you love someone who sees her own death every time she closes her eyes?” Himeko whispers, voice cracking.
It feels freeing to say those words. Her biggest secret that’s apparently not that secretive. Countless sleepless nights burn away into ashes as Kafka crosses the room in several long strides, each step surer and quicker than the last.
Kafka who seems to be running toward her rather than away. The gauze falls to the side as she puts her hands on either side of the desk behind Himeko, one arm on each side of her. She’s the one boxing Himeko in now. A grounding reminder that she’s here.
She’s not going anywhere.
There’s a fire around her, in front of her, and she doesn’t care.
“You remind her that she’s alive every time she opens her eyes,” Kafka says softly.
A mixture between a broken sob, and a laugh escapes from Himeko’s lips. Of course, Kafka has an answer.
Of course, it’s deceptively simple.
“Is that what you’ve been doing, showing up here in the middle of the night with a bottle of milk-”
“Carton. Bag. Can,” Kafka corrects.
Himeko glares, wiping away tears that she didn’t know had fallen. “Vessel of milk.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,” Kafka repeats. “I wanted you to know that you didn’t have to drink black coffee alone.”
Black coffee alone.
Himeko has always done that.
Milk has been a new but not unwelcome addition.
Kafka has been a new but not unwelcome addition.
“I think I love you too.” Himeko reaches up to tenderly brush a stray hair out of Kafka’s face. Such an admission is easier than Himeko thinks.
Perhaps everything is easier now.
“You think?” Kafka teases. “The Himeko that I know either knows or doesn’t know, and if she doesn’t know, she’ll find out.”
Himeko nods.
Right.
Of course, that’s right. It’s unnerving how well Kafka knows her.
“I love you.”
“And how do you love someone who knows no fear?” Kafka demands, eyes glinting with something dangerous.
“What?” The suddenness of the question throws Himeko off. Her voice cracks.
Embarrassing.
“How do you love someone who’s not scared of anything?” Kafka insists.
It’s only fair, Himeko supposes that Kafka gets to ask her such a question after she had sprung one on her like that.
“You know…” Himeko says slowly, studying Kafka’s face. The hint of something in her expression that Himeko has never understood. Something deeper, something vulnerable.
To be vulnerable is to fear-
“You know that she lies, and there’s something that she does fear.”
Kafka smiles thinly.
Himeko wonders how much it must hurt her to bare such truths to another.
“I am afraid,” Kafka says slowly. “I am afraid to lose you. No matter what I did, I could not stay away and I cannot imagine what it would do to me if you asked me to leave and never come back again. You seemed content to maintain our physical relationship so I let myself be content with it too. Until I wasn’t.”
“All you could do was keep coming back.”
“And leave before you grew tired of my presence.”
The wound over her temple has finally stopped bleeding but still a sharp red against pale skin. It may bleed again, torn open by clumsy hands and words that don’t mean to cut. But Himeko could patch it up again, and again, and as many times as it might take.
They are both fools.
But they are alive in this moment together.
“Can I kiss you?” Himeko breathes.
Her heart hammers in her chest, slow and steady strikes at first but rapidly picking up steam. They have kissed before. But it would not be like this. It would not be with feelings out in the open, with hearts raw and bleeding, souls bared.
Kafka smiles and leans into her, meeting her halfway with slightly parted lips.
They have kissed before, yes.
But it was not like this. This is not the open-mouthed fervor filled with a heated desperation, a demand that chased after the other. This is not the bruising and sometimes sharp hunger of needs that clashed against each other.
This is soft but no less desperate, no less hungry.
It feels like Kafka is offering up her entire being, heart and soul up to Himeko and all she wants to do is drink all of it up like the lost in a desert finally coming across an oasis.
Himeko can taste the tang of iron, the salt of sweat, the joy of tears, on Kafka’s lips.
“Are you crying, darling?” Kafka murmurs breathlessly when they finally pull apart.
“No,” Himeko grumbles, discreetly wiping away tears that have embarrassed her by rolling down her face. Despite Kafka’s state of partial undress and injuries, Himeko thinks this perfect. She couldn’t ask for more.
This was them.
“Shall we go to bed then?”
“To bed?” Himeko echoes.
“To do the sleeping together but not actually sleeping together thing you were telling me about earlier.”
Himeko pretends to consider her options.
“Or did you still want coffee?”
The can of milk that Kafka brought sits on the table, forgotten.
Himeko brushes past Kafka to reverently pick up the can. Kafka doesn’t let her go too far by herself, hand trailing down her arm and then intertwining their fingers. Easily, Himeko cracks open the can with one hand.
Much to Kafka’s amusement, Himeko takes a long pull straight from the can.
She coughs, sputtering when the sweet flavour hits her tongue.
Kafka pries the can from her hands immediately, concern written all over her face. “Darling, you don’t have to drink the milk if you don’t like milk.”
“Darling,” Himeko says dryly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s not milk.”
Eyebrows shoot so far up that they disappear into wine-coloured hair, “It’s not?”
“Try it,” Himeko prompts, nudging Kafka’s hand.
Kafka does, unquestioningly raising the can to her lips and taking a sip. For a second, Himeko is taken aback by the way that Kafka just trusts her implicitly.
“Oh,” Kafka says, looking at the can. She takes another sip. “That’s not regular milk.”
There’s a small droplet at the corner of Kafka’s lips, and impulsively, Himeko leans in, kissing away the droplet. It’s far sweeter than Himeko would usually ever like her drinks, the heady flavour of coffee on the back of her tongue. Perhaps it's even sweeter because of the person before her.
But this?
This is something that she could get used to.
“It’s perfect.”
Coffee milk.
A cocoon of warmth encapsulates Himeko.
She can’t recall the last time that she has felt so at peace, so relaxed, so well-rested.
The late morning sun is streaming in through the cracks between her curtains. She has never gotten up so late either. Usually, the moon is her sole companion when she gets out of bed to work on one project or another. During the odd time when she is able to sleep, the early morning sun is struggling to rise with her.
To have the sun already up and shining is a new experience.
Stretching, she rolls over in her very large and very comfortable bed.
To her surprise, and her delight, there is another person in bed with her.
Dozing peacefully, Kafka curls up beneath the covers. The strap of a borrowed tank top has slipped off her shoulder in her sleep, leaving behind nothing but the gentle curve of a shoulder and the creamy expanse of skin.
The realization hits Himeko like an orbital strike, like her own orbital strike.
Kafka had stayed.
Kafka stayed.
The other woman must feel the weight of Himeko’s realization, because she stirs, one magenta eye cracking open.
“Darling,” Kafka yawns, stretching. The blankets slide down slightly, revealing still healing dark bruises. “Oh, we’ve slept in awfully late, haven’t we?”
“That’s fine.” Himeko can’t help the smile that dawns on her face.
“Don’t you have do-good train things to do? Coffee to make?” Kafka teases, but she makes no complaints when Himeko curls into her chest, planting a kiss against scarlet locks.
“I can be late,” Himeko mumbles, far too comfortable and already dozing off to sleep. “Coffee later. We’re out of milk, anyway.”
That makes Kafka laugh, the perfect lullaby.
Kafka au late.