#ofhurricanes

wit   had   never   been   inside   his   apartment.   now,   knowing   the   reason   why,   it   seemed   so   obvious.   he   and   yamato   had   often   gone   out   for   coffee,   or   dinner.   or   yamato   would   crash   in   his   apartment,   helping   wit   nurse   a   hangover.   there   was   always   an   excuse   for   why   he   couldn't   come   in,   and   it   was   not   because   his   sister   may   or   may   not   be   behind   the   door.   

he   was   coming   close   to   forgiving   aranya.   it   annoyed   him,   but   the   joy   of   seeing   her   made   the   betrayal   not   hurt   so   much.   yamato,   unfortunately,   didn't   have   this   same   effect.   wit   cried   to   him.   he   paddled   through   a   rushing   river   of   grief   in   front   of   the   man,   as   he   lied   to   his   face.   wit   clinched   his   fist   again   in   the   darkness.

of   course,   he   knew   what   happened.   he   imagined   what   yamato   would   look   like,   weak   and   covered   in   bruises,   and   it   brought   a   sick   sort   of   comfort.   maybe   they   broke   his   nose   just   so,   so   it   would   always   look   a   little   crooked   no   matter   how   many   years   pass.   it   felt   right.   a   hammurabian   punishment.   but   he   didn't   have   to   come   all   this   way   to   punish   him.

yamato   ishino   was   his   brother,   now   more   so   than   ever,   and   no   matter   what   retribution   he   dreamed   of,   he   was worried   for   him.   he   spent   just   as   many   years   grieving   for   aranya   as   he   had   admiring   yamato.   on   dark,   dark   nights   he   was   more   grateful   for   him   than   anything   else   in   his   life.   he   was   angry,   yes.   but   was   also   loved,   and   both   of   those   feelings   mattered.

sometimes   she   almost   felt   like   the   damned   robot   she   pretended   to   be.   computing.   can't   say   this.   must   stand   this   way.   programmed   was   the   word.   when   she   saw   a   familiar   face,   she   instantly   approached.   humanishly,   she   smiled.

then   francesca   remembered   that   she   wasn't   the   same   girl   she   was   on   a   playground   in   new   york.   she   was   the   replication,   the   begrieved   twin   creation.   the   whole   world   knew   francesca   byrne   was   dead.   and   knew   the   frankenmodel   in   her   louboutin's   was   the   one   left   standing.   she   couldn't   approach   a   friendly   face   in   the   hazed   - out   crowd   of   a   party,   that   was   utterly   human.

so   she   backpedaled, ripped   her   hand   away   from   where   it   was   hovering   over   his   shoulder   and   pushed   past   him.   "   excuse   me,   sir.   "   was   all   that   left   her   mouth.   but   there   wasn't   much   room   to   go.   and   a   conga   -   line   of   partygoers   had   her   awkwardly   stuck   right   in   the   middle   of   her   mistake.