Rendezvous
Title: Rendezvous
Description: Just two people, trying to make things work this time around.
A/N: Originally written for the 2014 Ficathon (entry 1 of 2), minimally revised.
Rendezvous
He wants so badly to be the man she remembers. It is a need that wears on him constantly, but it also fills his otherwise empty days with driving purpose.
Before she arrives on his doorstep with a sage green umbrella in one hand, a foil-wrapped rectangular plate in the other, and a miniature rose as pink as her cheeks tucked behind her left ear, he spends hours replicating, down to the last detail, the exact image of a man whose time has long since passed.
His movements are slow and studied, his adjustments methodical and meticulous. After performing the demanding labor of correcting the fit of his clothes and styling his luxuriant hair, his fingers are stiff and aching. The thick condensation from his hot shower retreats to the edges of the bathroom mirror as he practices his smile - not too wide, not nearly as wide as Jadeite’s, he chides himself, but fuller-lipped and gentler than Zoisite’s perpetual half-sneer.
Part of him idolizes the ghostly memory he both competes with and strives to emulate to the point where even the wind can’t tell them apart. Another part of him detests this vanquished paragon whose shadow reaches across millennia and parsecs, and yet another part of him envies him desperately.
He wants him to love her as she once loved the other. She may have both loved and reviled her past lover, but he fears that the intensity of that broken bond is unparalleled. The dregs of those spent emotions have generated a crimson haze that seems to permeate everything with its smokiness, like a dish oversaturated with red paprika. What if he can never achieve the same rapport with her? What if he will never be equally beloved?
*****
He is out of time to indulge his relentless fears and fancies. He smiles down at her, inhaling the scent of fresh rain and crushed flowers that emanates from her loosened hair. To him, it is even more attractive than the mouth-watering aroma wafting from the covered plate.
“Kasutera?”
Her long-lashed eyes crinkle with delight as she steps over the threshold and slips off her shoes with a sigh of relief. A single wet leaf, dislodged from her right heel, settles onto the synthetic wood panels that cover his apartment floor. “You’re getting pretty good at this.”
“Well, it is my favorite,” he admits, letting his thumb linger over the delicate pulse beating against the underside of her wrist. He feels it quicken below her soft, bare skin just before he takes the plate from her.
She leans up to kiss his cheek before retrieving the round-bellied teapot from the cupboard. She brews the tea while he slices the honey cake, and it is a cozy end to a long day. They sit together at the cramped kitchen table, more relaxed than they ever were in the grand halls of palaces long crumbled to dust, and watch the light rain falling just beyond the balcony.
Eventually, she offers to cook, but they end up going to the izakaya they both like. It’s only a few blocks away, one of the more popular ones in his neighborhood, so she leaves her umbrella behind. He holds his large, ebony handled umbrella over the two of them as she huddles close to his side.
Squeezed onto two stools at the corner of the bar, they chase away the early autumn chill with the warmth of each other’s bodies and shared bites of tangy yakitori.
When they return to his apartment, he opens a bottle of champagne. She watches the pale gold bubbles rise in the slender flute and raises her eyebrows. While he’s always had a taste for luxurious things, it’s a vintage she has tasted only once before, and one that is carried by only a few select restaurants in Tokyo.
He passes her one of the glasses, then raises his own to her. “Here’s to new beginnings,” he says in answer to the question in her eyes.
“Together,” she smiles at him.
“Together,” he repeats, cupping her cheek with his hand. His eyes follow the movement of her lips as she turns her head into his caress, pleasuring his skin with their softness.
*****
In the morning, he wakes up early enough to make her breakfast before she has to leave to catch a train to work. These days, her hours are ridiculous, and he takes a great and secret pleasure in knowing that now he gets to see her nearly as often as all the other senshi combined.
She insists on squeezing some fresh grapefruit juice, but he only lets a few sips of the chilly, tart juice slide over his tongue before putting the rest of the glass into the refrigerator. As she gathers her things, worry begins to collect in the delicate furrows just above the bridge of her nose.
“Are you sure you won’t-”
He feels the tension gathering at the back of his neck and plunges clenched fists deep into the pockets of his gray wool slacks.
“No. I’m not ready, Makoto.”
She worries the left side of her bottom lip between her teeth. “I don’t like keeping things from the others. Once they know you like I do-”
He draws in a sharp breath and holds her gaze, willing her to understand. “I want to see him; I want to see them all again. But whenever I think about it, this darkness - this utter hopelessness drops over my mind.”
He looks down at the floor, swallowing with difficulty before he continues hoarsely, “I can’t bear remembering my failure, knowing that I betrayed you. I keep remembering what it was like to be trapped in that demon’s lair, forced to watch as I destroyed everything I loved.”
“It wasn’t you.” She takes his hands in hers, wrapping her fingers around his comfortingly.
“No,” he agrees, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. “It wasn’t.”
As always, she agrees to wait a little longer, feeling slightly guilty at the pleasure she feels in hugging the secret of his existence close to herself. They part reluctantly, the conflict barely past lending extra passion to their farewells.
“I’ll be ready soon. I promise,” he tells her, and the last glimpse he catches before the steel doors close is of her bright smile.
*****
The quiet tone signaling the descent of the elevator sounds. He returns to his apartment and slides both deadbolts home. Somehow, the apartment seems more cramped now that he is the only one in it. The last, lingering note of her fragrance trails through the hallways, strongest against his pillows and freshest by the kitchen counter.
He begins the arduous routine again, but now in reverse. First, he takes off the clothes he pulled on less than an hour ago to walk her out and folds them fastidiously before putting them away in a drawer. She would expect it of him, to keep the expensive sweater and tailored slacks in good condition.
Next, he uses a tissue to carefully wipe the rose-colored print of her lips from his neck. When he is satisfied that all traces of her lipstick have been removed, he pops out his contacts. They sink gradually through the liquid cleaning solution, taking with them the rich dark cobalt of his eyes.
Now colorless, the triangle-pupiled eyes narrow with concentration as he moves onto the dentures. They pop free with a loud sucking sound and are deposited in their hard plastic case. The once-shapely mouth falls in on itself, a cavernous maw set off-center in a sunken face.
Finally, it pulls the Shitennou’s skin over its head and hangs it carefully in the closet. Unlike the others, this closet is cleverly disguised and hidden behind a tall wooden storage unit. Within, the skins of three others are suspended. Their slack features are drooping and distorted, waiting for the time when it will pull them over its head to resume the form of their previous selves.
End