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“Ah! Kirigiri!”
The other’s approach had been duly noted: if the primary doorway was east, she was approaching southwest from the kitchen in a slow, measure pace that echoed across the floors. Not any sort of sneaking up: merely an unprecedented confrontation, but it had all the charm and allure of being stalked by a predator. And honestly, who would she have been fooling? With her heels clacking and clicking loudly across the linoleum, Kirigiri’s getaway was all but confirmed.
(Of course, this does not include the possibility of a thrown weapon or projectile, but based on the other’s thin stature it wouldn’t be enough to deal a killing blow—merely enough to perhaps knock her down, or out, but this is also not taking countermeasures into consideration.)
Kirigiri turns, halfway, cup of coffee raised to her lips, book forgotten on the table top, one eyebrow cocked in semblance of emotion. “Celestia.” She greets the other, firmly, voice of ice and broken nails. “I was unaware of your presence in the kitchen.”
It's an absolute lie, and an obvious one. The soft rattling and distant clomp of heels had been quite indicative in figuring out the identity of who was puttering around in there—and yet she still had hoped it was Byakuya, taking what he needed from the kitchen before his prim retreat back to the library. Or perhaps Fukawa, where the other would skitter away immediately, promising anything but confrontation, not to return until well after dinner.
Celes completes her approach, daintily taking the seat right next to Kirigiri’s, to her masked chagrin. She sighs. Long fingers begin idly playing with a strand of black hair framing her face. “Mm. Yes. I have been in there much of the day today,” she speaks, in an exaggerated accent, “since my tea was made the incorrect way. Again.” The ‘again’ is spoken with a dully concealed poison, syllables curling around her tongue like snakes ready to strike.
“It is so hard to get things right around here, apparently. You would relate, yes? After all,” and red eyes grow all big and round as if she isn’t speaking straight insults, “you aren’t much for contributing to the group, are you? So quiet all the time…I worry, sweet thing, that it is because you have very little to offer, intelligence-wise." A soft ‘hmm hmm!’ seeps from her pursed lips, and she lets her hands fly to her mouth as if the giggle was a mistake. They both are aware that it wasn’t.
The die is cast. It is an unwilling game that she had not begun and would most likely not end. A verbal war wasn’t what Kirigiri had gone looking for, but trouble has a knack for finding her. She sighs, and the sound rattles through her teeth. “Sometimes the wiser alternative is to say nothing,” she states, returning her coffee to the table and picking up the book once again, “than going around and offering unsolicited opinions, and incorrect assumptions.” The venom in her own dead reproach surprises her; then again, Celes had approached her with little to no warning. And for seemingly no reason, nonetheless. For god’s sake, she can’t even tone the other out and focus on her book—with no discernable basis or justification other than ‘a gut feeling', Celes’ presence unnerves her just enough to knock her out of her stoic demeanor and start to burrow under her skin. They are already in a killing game. Her patience is a valuable commodity, and a fast disappearing one.
The gambler in question titters again, louder. “Mmm, so it would appear to be unsolicited! Of course, that would be your first assumption, incorrect as it is. Kirigiri, I come to you out of worry!” She reaches out, gently but firmly pressing down on the book in Kirigiri’s hands, forcing her to lower it to the table beneath. Her silver gauntlet ring taps the pages several times. “I am concerned, you see, about your little involvement in the class trials.” The last two words are spoken with a gratuitous emphasis, the slow and loud way one would speak to a child. Her mouth is wide, red ‘o’ of her face, matching eyes trained carefully on Kirigiri’s face, searching carefully for any hint of a facade break.
How clever she thinks she is, Kirigiri ponders idly, finally turning all the way to face the other. This seems to please the gambler, who smiles and leans forwards just a tiny bit.
“You cannot blame my worries, can you?” She continues, and this time her tone is lowered; not her usual higher voice. It is more sensual and secretive, as if they are sharing a particularly juicy secret between one another.
Perhaps in another life.
Kirigiri finds herself leaning forwards too, just the tiniest bit. There is something charging in the air, some unseen energy that spurs her on despite logical protests and the desire to be left alone. She releases her hold on the book, allowing it to gently thud on the table under Celes’ fingers, and looks down, focusing her attention on adjusting her gloves. “Of course not. It is perfectly natural to worry about that sort of thing, given our circumstances.” “Of course,” Celes agrees, gently spurring her onwards. “And yet, some would argue that it is better than carefully listening in to each murderer’s mistake.”
Kirigiri tilts her head slightly, looking up and returning Celes’ gaze in full. “Almost as if one were, say, planning their own.”
The silence is deafening for about two seconds, but it is the longest two seconds Kirigiri has ever been privy to.
It is, by no means, a lie. Kirigiri isn’t in the business of lying--except little white ones to possibly deter unwanted classmates. She is a master of her own trade, and every movement is taken note of and stored for later detail-gleaning. She has almost been able to predict the pattern of murders, and the days of which they happen, and even who committed it just by a few glances and previous, unexplainable knowledge. Of course, this has it's drawbacks; mainly, waking up with a sick feeling in her stomach, documenting which classmate is late to breakfast, realizing which face she will never see again.
And it is entirely possible that Celes’ perfect poker face disintegrates the slightest amount when participating in class trials, especially when Makoto is pointing out their flaws—she grips her podium a little too tightly, too eager eyes locked onto him as he condemns the others, brow furrowed just the slightest amount as if in deep thought (or, more accurately, careful memorization). She knows she is unmatched in poker—she knows her classmates could never measure up to her abilities. If she did commit murder, the gambler would be entirely certain that no one would figure out it was her.
The thought of it almost brings a small smile to Kirigiri’s face. A strange pang of vindication shoots through her.
Of course the accusation takes Celes by surprise; who in their right mind would pay attention to someone who's not up for murder? But Celes’ slight movements seemed so tantalizingly obvious to the detective. Everybody has their tells. In moments like those, even the smallest of head-tilts or expressions feel like grand gestures.
Celes breaks her own silence with a full-on laugh, and the tension it creates is jarring. It’s as if Kirigiri had told a very funny joke—if it hadn’t followed the hitch in her breathing, the slight yet palpable eye-widening, the tightening of her jaw, perhaps it would have seemed more believable. Her hands curl around her chin as she gasps for air, laughter subsiding and eyes just a millimeter too wide. She has sunk back into her original form, her outburst almost fully concealed, Celes is Celes again, and nothing but.
“So you are capable of jokes! How funny!” The other smiles, laughter all but subsides, and leans forwards even more, placing her hand over Kirigiri’s gloved one, ceasing her own movements. The space between the two has diminished even more; there are now about eight inches separating their faces. “A sense of humor is always so important, especially in situations like these. I would never harm any of our precious classmates. I have no reason to get out!” Her fingers twitch slightly around Kirigiri’s hand, her gauntlet ring dragging a slow line across the surface of her glove.
Something in her changes. Her red eyes narrow, and her smile is cyanide. Things are fast approaching dangerous territory. “But please...do tell.” And her tone is sotto voce; almost a whisper but not quite. It is the way one would speak to a lover, the kind of voice that requires years of trust to justify. “How am I planning on continuing the killing? And who’s life will I end?”
As if she is to know yet. Kirigiri sighs, slightly, a quick exhale through her nose, and turns to stare full-on at the gambler. Despite the strangeness of her outer appearance (not her fashion—there is something Kirigiri cannot quite put her finger on about the other) Celes is hauntingly beautiful. Head tilted slightly, smiling ever-so-sweetly, calm in repose…the only thing betraying her is the hunger in her eyes. There is something malignant waiting back there, all gnashing teeth and grinning skulls. “I must confess, I do not know.” She matches the other’s quiet tones. “I am no fortune teller.”
“Of course not,” Celes breathes. Every movement is a live wire, a twitching trigger finger ready to fire. She watches the slight movement of Celes’ eyes, scouring every divot and facet of her own face. There is no concept of personal space for either of them, and Kirigiri can feel herself drawn, ever so slowly, closer and closer to the other.
Something fleeting and fantastical wonders if she feels the same pull.
“But every fiber of my being is telling me that you are our next murderer.”
“A gut feeling.” Celes whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly to the left, eyes glued onto Kirigiri’s mouth. “Something you know for certain, and can’t explain how.”
“Yes.” Kirigiri says. Celes’ lips look soft.
“Interesting.”
The kiss is hungry and sudden, without any warning but not entirely unwanted. In fact, it takes Kirigiri a full second to notice that she is being kissed, and she doesn’t have the faintest idea as to who closed the remaining distance between them. Regardless, she reciprocates; Celes’ lips crashing into hers in a sloppy manner that neither of them are wholly used to. In a way, it feels out of character. She doesn't know who this detective is, kissing someone with such fervent passion.
After the initial surprise, Kirigiri closes her eyes. She slowly reaches up, half-afraid to continue lest the other pulls away, and gently places a gloved hand on the other’s cheek, cupping it gently and running her thumb over her pale skin. In response, Celes leans into the kiss more, placing her hand over Kirigiri’s. Her elbow rests on the table, knocking slightly into the forgotten coffee cup, causing it to rattle around a bit. They both barely hear it.
The detective was right in another of her assumptions; Celes’ lips are soft, and after the hungry beginning have begun to kiss almost sweetly, plush and inviting. They kiss for what seems like ages, rising and falling into the shape of each other’s lips. At times, it feels like Celes might pull away, might end the contact before it’s gone, but she always twitches her fingers and grabs onto Kirigiri’s hand a little tighter, pressing herself forwards in a way that her teeth scrape Kirigiri’s tongue and pull her deeper, deeper.
They finally break away at the same time, out of breath, chests rising and falling almost in rhythm.
She can feel the other’s lipstick marking her lips, and the corner of her mouth. It's a heavy substance marking the places where the gambler marked her. Red streaks line Celes’ mouth as well, short wisps of a once-pristine and put together look. They are both wide eyed, panting slightly, staring at each other, and it is in this quiet awe that Kirigiri realizes that she is shaking.
Despite this, she gently takes Celes’ fingertips in her own and brings her hand to her mouth, pressing her messy lips to it.
There is another silence, so stagnant and icy. The electricity from before has been quelled and replaced with a certain, hanging foreboding feeling. How strange, Kirigiri thinks. I have nothing to fear, here.
Celes swallows. “Kirigiri,” she asks, finally, in a strangely quiet voice, “do you know what a 'dead man’s hand' is?”
The other pauses. She swallows too, and it feels like there’s a foreign object lodged in her throat blocking her from speaking for a moment. Releasing Celes’ hand, she lowers her own and placing it palm-down on the table. It is still shaking. She presses down hard. It takes her a moment to register Celes’ question. She swallows again, and the lump subsides slightly. “A dead man’s hand,” she says, carefully, trying to keep the tremor from her voice, “is the rumored hand held by Wild Bill Hickok when he died.”
Facts come easily, at least. What is this shaking? She lifts her other hand, wiping the back of it across her mouth and marveling at the red streaks left in it’s wake.
Celes nods. “Two aces,” she says, “two eights.” She stands, and strangely, is herself again. A white handkerchief is whipped from a previously invisible pocket, and she dabs daintily at her own lips, wiping off the remnants of blood red lipstick. “Of course,” she says, busying herself with refolding it, avoiding Kirigiri’s gaze, “you of all people will notice that that is not a full hand of poker.”
“Me of all people?” Kirigiri echoes, still treading the line of caution. “How quickly I’ve changed from inept to intelligent, in your eyes.” At least she has not lost her quips to whatever magic took hold of her.
Celes laughs, but it is not bells. It is a short, genuine snort and a pulling up of her mouth that for once does not feel fake, but also does not feel like Celes. This is the smile of a genuine person, one who has no masks to hide behind or songs to dance to. She closes her mouth quickly, hiding her teeth, and pockets the handkerchief. Who is this woman beneath 'Celes'? Why is she so desperate to cover her own tracks?
“Historians argue about it, you know.” The gambler continues, folding her hands in front of her and staring off in the distance, avoiding the other’s question. “The exact cards are still unknown to this day. In fact, many believe it’s not two aces, and two eights, but rather a combination of jacks and tens. It’s all word of mouth. But the most popular hand is believed to be the two aces, two eights…and one last card.”
She looks at Kirigiri dead on, eyes burning scarlet, and all the previous trepidations of her return to the detective’s mind. This is a girl who takes what she wants, regardless of who or what she has to step on and manipulate. And, she notes, she herself is shaken to the core over the kiss. She no longer feels slighted but rather trapped; a seemingly innocuous interaction heel-turned into the perfect storm.
This is exactly what Celes wanted, she realizes with dull certainty. The doubt and inevitable feelings to cloud her judgement, and turn her to other things while nefarious events went down. Oh, of course. Incapacitate one of the people egging Makoto on to figure out the mysteries presented to them. It's a foolproof plan. Too bad it didn't work, Kirigiri tells herself, but it feels like a lie.
Fuck.
She threads her fingers together, placing them on the table, willing the shaking to stop. “I see. And I suppose you know the last card…?” Her teeth grit together. Oh, of course this was a terrible idea. For fuck’s sake, Kirigiri, she chides herself internally, anger and analytics circling each other, whirling around in her head. Get a grip. It was a kiss. It shook you up. Snap out of it. Pay attention, here.
Celes merely smiles. This time, it is the Celes she knows—not that strange, youthful girl Kirigiri had seen for a moment. And was that even anything? Or was it another ploy by the gambler, another mask to drive her up the wall? Twirling a black lock of hair, the gambler pushes the chair she previously was sitting in back to it’s original spot. She turns and makes her loud, clomping way towards the entrance of the cafeteria, somehow still so dainty and casual, as if nothing had happened save her mid-morning tea time.
But she stops, curiously, in the doorway, one hand on the doorframe. Her gauntlet ring taps thrice. Metal upon metal is such a jarring sound, and it hits Kirigiri's ears so harshly. And she turns to face Kirigiri one last time, mirth buried in her unfathomable gaze, and grins. Not a careful upturn of lips—a full-blown grin, from ear to ear, eyes too wide for the guise of happiness.
“Yes,” she says, “it is the queen of hearts.” She departs, echoing her way down the school halls.
Kirigiri sits still, so still, staring at her now untouched cup until she hears the faint closing of a door and silence once more.