ARCHIVED.

“ aww, don’t be like that. ” his lower lip protrudes in a pout as if emphasizing an already childish countenance. think before you speak. he almost wanted to laugh. he was deliberate in everything he did, lies placed carefully like pieces on a chess board. “ either way, you should be able to figure out the truth. nishishi…you are a detective aren’t you ? ”

first five kiss asks get a kiss    /    no longer accepting !  ( 3/5 )

they sit in the helicopter,  beaten and bruised and full of their own  (  and each other’s )  trauma. the back of her head is cool against the steel wall of the helicopter, and her hands are empty. fight or flight is finally over, and she’s full of exhaustion : her small, lithe body has been filled to the brim with survival instincts. she has been combat ready since entering ; mukuro and peko have been on standby – they now sit in the front seat of the helicopter, delivering the detective and her plus - one back to where they originated.  he would join her in shibuya, if only briefly, and then return to wherever he’d like after the hospital clears them.

she turns her head to look at him, meets his eyes, and smiles softly – they made it, her expression reads, though there is a hollow void in her chest that she has not – cannot – deduce properly. their hands meet in the space between their seats, and kyouko closes her eyes again. she expects him to be gone when they open … but he’s not.

their heads are tilting, eyes are lidding, movements are slow and gentle and kind– the kiss is uncharacteristically sweet, but she knows now of the meaning behind it. she knows that they are not just young flames burning too bright for the world to see : they are survivors. truth seekers. identifiers of the shadows locked away from the public eye.

i’m only going to break your heart.   /   selectively accepting.

BURNT HANDS, BURNT HOPES – he holds her hand like she is made of glass, made of porcelain  (  because you can be, kyouko ; you can allow yourself to be fragile for just a moment.  )   her throat clears, holding back tears, holding back fears. he holds her in his arms, and she stares into nothingness. for the longest time, she has expected only sacrifice and gave only sacrifice.

her eyes close as she exposes herself to him ; though she is exposed to him physically  (  her matching black lingerie was unintentional ; he better not inflate his ego  )  , emotionally she is compromised at his simple question : why don’t you take off your gloves, babe? 

she recalls to him the story of the the burning. she reveals to him the story of her first trauma, long before the sirius observatory. she reveals to him everything, no holds unbarred, and yet– and yet, he holds her in his arms, kisses her cheeks, wipes her tears. he understands her trauma, understands that everything about her is a facade. they both devalue their own pain in favor of somebody else, except for each other : she is safe here, his hands tell her as they run up and down her body. you are valid here, his kisses on her saltwater cheeks tell her.

‘ my hands are burnt enough for us both, ’  she tells him, scarred flesh held in his hand, loosely – if he squeezes too hard, she’ll fall apart like paper mache. if he holds her too lightly, she’ll flutter like whispers in the breeze. she is soft and simple here, in the room made of their lightest sounds, and he rolls her over so that her hair splays across their pillow like violet tresses. she holds his face in her embered hands, and offers him the softest of smiles before he folds into their lovemaking again.