Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Midari Ikishima," Kirari announces suddenly, one warm summer evening.

She's draped herself over the edge of Ririka's bed in only her night-shirt, her face awash with a dreamy, contemplative expression. Her hair, still damp from the shower, is swept to one side.

"She gambles but derives no emotion from it," she muses out loud. "She doesn't care if she wins or loses; it means nothing to her. She's just an empty automata going through the motions." Kirari pauses. "Isn't that fascinating?"

Ririka barely glances up from her book. "Not really."

"Such a spoilsport, Ririka," Kirari admonishes with a laugh, rolling over onto her side. She props herself up on one elbow, gazing at Ririka thoughtfully. "This girl intrigues me. Perhaps I'll challenge her to a gamble."

Ririka hums a small sound of acknowledgement. Her gaze remains fixed on her book, but her mind is already elsewhere. She's thinking about this new girl — Ikishima. It's hardly a surprise that Kirari has decided that her next specimen be the very person that vexed Sachiko and Sakura alike. Kirari never misses an opportunity to impose her superiority over her former council members, even now. Her sister has a rather delightful talent of being able to make old wounds bleed again. Ririka envies and admires it in equal parts.

This Ikishima girl is nothing but a distraction. Someone for Kirari to toy with for a moment's amusement. But Ririka knows her sister too well: she's unshakable. Once an idea's taken root in her mind, there's nothing else to be done than to let it blossom.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she asks, and watches as Kirari's face lights up with delight.

;;

It's all a means to an end; the money, the circumstances, the entire gamble. An elaborate pulling of strings in order to force Midari to react. Ririka is used to this sort of thing by now; she watches with lukewarm, drowsy detachment. As expected, it proves to be no different from every other gamble Kirari has challenged someone to. Midari, full of boisterous swagger, loses — badly. Her smile never wavers. Even in defeat, she slouches back casually in her chair with a lazy smile, seemingly unfazed.

"Now," Kirari drawls in a low, seductive voice. It's a dangerous tone that Ririka knows well; Kirari is a predator, circling, sharp teeth and claws poised ready. "You owe 300 million yen. I don't suppose you have any way of repaying that?"

Of course Midari doesn't. That isn't the point.

Kirari, learning forward, fingers laced together, her eyes a cold glint of metal. She demands payment; the dark side of the moon; the back of an eye. The idea of hot, pumping blood, the dangling nerve endings, the scent of torn flesh; Kirari paints a horrific image with smooth romanticism. A terrifyingly earnest insight into the inner workings of her mind. It would give anyone else a chill. But Ririka has heard this all before, in one form or another. For all of her clever solipsism, Kirari is tiringly predictable.

What comes next, however —

The awful slushy sound of sclera giving way, sliced apart by the sharp edges of Kirari's favorite fountain pen. The spurt of blood; the awful brightness of it, the way it spills over Midari's clutching, trembling fingers in tiny rivulets.

The sight of it snaps Ririka awake. Her heart is in her throat; it hammers in her chest with sudden urgency. She stares and stares; for a small moment, even Kirari is stunned into silence, the edges of her mouth twitching in confused surprise.

Ririka's mind reels from the sight of it, then floods with questions. What kind of person gouges her own eye out? The sour taste of bile rises in Ririka's mouth, looking at Midari, hunched over in place, shuddering in pain. Blood streams through her splayed fingers, dripping onto the pristine floor. Like a warped version of hanahaki, Ririka thinks, and then recoils from the imagery. Did Midari always have this fervor? Or did Kirari awaken it? What will she —

Oh, — and instead of her own voice in her head, it's Kirari's voice she hears — isn't that interesting?

She understands now.

;;

"Is she off limits, like Sayaka?" Ririka asks the moment they arrive home.

Sayaka's been attached to Kirari's hip from nearly their first day at school. Ririka still doesn't know what Kirari sees in her. Sayaka's clever and insightful, but otherwise dull and insipid. With the way she follows Kirari around, she'd be Kirari's shadow, had Ririka not secured that spot from the moment she was born. It grates on Ririka like a dull headache. Ririka would enjoy knocking her down a few pegs, but Sayaka is Kirari's and Kirari's alone. To love or to destroy. Or both.

Surprise flutters across Kirari's face. "No." And then, as she shrugs off her coat, her surprise melts into a sharp, sly smile, her curiosity piqued. "You've never taken an interest in another Student Council member before. What's different now, I wonder?"

Ririka isn't quite sure herself.

Why?

Lying in bed at the hospital, sluggish with painkillers and blood loss, Midari turns the question over and over again in her mind. The bandages feel too thick, too tight against her skin. She touches the patch of gauze where her left eye used to be. Her hand doesn't feel like her own. Her mind drifts. The sterile whiteness of the hospital room suffocates her. She wonders where Sayaka went. If her parents were called. Already she can hear them, chilly and dismissive.

What do you expect from a place like Hyakkaou?

It's either beat or be beaten. And, oh, had Midari been beaten alright.

But —

(the eternal question)

Everyone always wants to know why they were chosen.

One day after classes, Kirari Momobami, as if from a dream, appeared in front of her and asked her to gamble. Not that Midari could have refused even if she'd wanted to. The President always got what she wanted — even back then as a "regular student", Midari had been acutely aware of that fact. Kirari had wanted the presidency and it had been practically handed to her on a silver platter. She'd wanted to rule with an iron fist, and hadn't the school just cried out for that?

"The President likes interesting people," the Vice President explains, in that clipped, mechanical voice of hers. The two of them are lounging in the Kirari's office, skipping class. Midari had been alone in the Student Council boardroom when the Vice President arrived unexpectedly. "And she has a particular taste for what's interesting."

Midari finds the Vice President largely inexplicable. But she can't resist the Vice President's invitation to spend the rest of the day in Kirari's office. Sitting in a plush, oversized armchair in the corner, Midari images the President at her desk, absorbed in her work. And Sayaka, reading, just waiting to be needed.

Midari wonders what particular brand of interesting Sayaka is to Kirari.

That day in middle school when Kirari, flush with her newly bestowed title, had leaned on Sayaka's desk and asked Sayaka to be her secretary. Their faces almost touching. Sayaka, blushing like an idiot, starry-eyed with wonder. Midari, from the back of the class, surrounded by friends, watching but not watching, the sharp knife of jealousy twisting in her gut.

Leaning forward in her chair, Midari notches the heel of her palm against the left side of her face, her empty socket. It aches dully. She can feel the throb of her own blood. Across the room, Ririka is quiet. Reading again. Or asleep, perhaps. Midari breathes in, allows the silence to settle over her. She will not think about it now, Kirari and Sayaka.

Kirari's hand on Sayaka's shoulder. Sayaka's lovestruck smile.

(well, hadn't the president found midari interesting too?)

(now they were equal, she and her)

;;

"We had an arrangement, Midari."

Kirari's fingers encircle Midari's forearm, just above Midari's wristband. Midari stills, the barrel of her revolver still pressed against her temple, her index finger resting featherlight on the trigger. One in six. A reckless, stupid impulse, borne from equal parts boredom and frustration.

Nothing to do and no one to gamble with. The shine of Midari's Student Council position wore off months ago — and now it means nothing at all. Not with the election settling over the school like a heavy fog. It embarasses her, how pathetic she's become; she's exactly like Yuriko now, desperately clawing for a sense of normalcy. She feels untethered. A ship loosed from its moorings.

Just once.

She'd done it before, that one time. After meeting Yumeko. The President hadn't been around to stop her then. She's tried to resist the urge since then, but her impatience floods her senses, overwhelming everything else. Kirari is too busy for the Student Council members anymore — too busy for Midari — all wrapped up in her stupid schemes and family squabbles. And still so patently obsessed with Sayaka and Yumeko.

(yumeko, who couldn't stand the sight of her)

(sayaka, whose life had run parallel to midari's all the way up until now and probably would forever)

There isn't room for anyone else in Kirari's world.

(if there ever really was anyway)

But Kirari is here now, real and whole, her nails digging sharply into soft skin under thin medical tape. Midari thinks of the indentations those nails will leave, the bluish color of blood and bruising.

"Would you dare deny me the right to your death?" Kirari continues, her voice a caressing velvet to contrast her iron grip.

There it is, just like the first time Kirari gripped her and pulled her in close: the quickening of Midari's pulse, the steady thump of her heart. At times she feels a palpable urge to reach into her own chest and grasp the organ in her hand, if only to feel the slippery, fleshy weight of it, hot blood spilling from her palm in thick ribbons and running down her arm.

Midari swallows roughly. Her mouth is dry. "President."

There is something in Midari that won't let her tell the truth, even though she wants to. She really fucking wants to.

Kirari is so close to her. Her vinous, floral perfume makes Midari's head spin. Midari wants to turn, and, in turning, pull Kirari into her. She imagines the look on Kirari's face, the press of her mouth, cool as ice. Kirari's tongue, brushing against hers, breath hitching, Midari's sweater bunching in her hands.

(imagines sayaka's lips against kirari's against her own)

If she pulls Kirari close, Kirari will feel the steady drumming of her heart. She will taste Midari's desperation on her tongue. And she will stare and stare, with those unfortunately brilliant blue eyes of her, until they're both dizzy.

Kirari will notice, that is the problem: Kirari always notices. She will ask and Midari will have to answer — so on and so forth until the truth comes tumbling out, and where will they end up, after that?

So instead she says, "This election sucks, President."

And delights in Kirari's high, lilting laugh.

She wonders what Midari will say — or what she will do, because it's always more interesting to see what someone does rather than what they say; their actions that never lie, even if their mouths and words do — if she were to corner Midari and kiss her.

Kirari can see right through Midari, right down past her base, clawing desires and into her raw, bloody, wretched heart. But seeing is not understanding. And in that regard, Kirari remains as empty-handed as ever.

But Kirari is patient. And endlessly curious.

One thing she's particularly curious about is Midari's fascination with Sayaka. Not that Kirari can't understand that — or, at least, the general idea of it — she herself finds Sayaka constantly wondrous. This is different. This is a kind of ache that Midari disguises with snide remarks and aloof indifference.

A middle school crush nursed for far too long. Like a favorite shirt that's been grown out of and doesn't fit right anymore. Kirari recalls the evening when Ririka decided that Midari was no longer worth her time. She isn't as interesting as you thought.

Or, perhaps, it was just that Ririka didn't know how to exploit Midari's particular kind of weakness.

Sayaka doesn't realize it at all, which makes it all the more interesting.

What Kirari herself feels for Sayaka — she will never call this pooling desire pining. Pining belies a lack of control, a sort of coveting. She can call up Sayaka right now, take her brutishly on the foyer tiles, and Sayaka will never say no. Might beg for it, even, under the right circumstances.

Kirari wants to bask in the novelty of this feeling.

And if it honed the edge of Midari's misery — a delightfully unintended side effect — then all the better.

;;

Things shift, as they always do. As they must.

The world ends at the Tower of Doors, and in ending, opens itself anew.

There is a confident ease, a fluidity to Sayaka. She has changed, but only just enough for Kirari to notice. This new Sayaka sits on Kirari's couch, thumbing through paperwork — there is seemingly endless paperwork to be done these days, now that the election is in full swing. It's boring; Kirari isn't listening. She's focused on the way Sayaka's hands move as she speaks, the little flourishes and gestures.

"Sayaka," she says, suddenly. Decisively.

Sayaka stops talking and her hands still in her lap. Blinking, she looks up to meet Kirari's gaze.

Her eyes are the color of the sky at dusk. There's a tiny dusting of a blush on her cheeks from Kirari's sudden closeness. Her lips slightly parted, caught in the midst of a word.

Kirari kisses her.

Kirari isn't romantically inclined enough to subscribe to all the cliche notions of what a first kiss should be — a kiss is always just that, a kiss, and there's only two types of kisses in the world: good and bad. But, as Sayaka shifts forward, leaning in with a soft sigh, Kirari can't help but reassess her previous mentality. Perhaps there's a little more to kisses after all, because Sayaka's kiss-that-is-just-a-kiss is actually fairly lovely.

There's a rather odd tingling sensation in Kirari's toes and along the tips of her fingers. When they part, Sayaka smiles in the small, soft way she did in the field of lilies, when Kirari invited her to be her secretary again.

And she looks at Sayaka and Sayaka looks right back with those with those deep, violet eyes, and while Kirari doesn't believe in things like love at first sight, she is shockingly certain that one could easily fall in love just being kissed like that.

The revelation washes over her like a wave. She thinks of the look on Midari's face — watching Sayaka, watching Yumeko. It is the undefinable expression on Midari's face when Kirari gripped her wrist and renewed her promise, the electric-tense moment when Kirari was certain Midari would kiss her.

(and yet, midari, always wondrously predictable in her unpredictability, had not)

She understands.

"Say something."

But Kirari, for once, is at a loss for words.

She kisses Sayaka again.

;;

"You're like lightning," Sayaka mumbles, half-delirious with sleep, curling into Kirari. Her fingers knit into the front of Kirari's nightshirt, pulling Kirari in closer.

With her face pressed against Sayaka's shoulder, Kirari can smell soap and washing powder. It's a familiar kind of scent; the brand that the Momobami's servants used to use. Kirari thinks of hazy summer afternoons, her and Ririka as children, lying in the freshly cut grass, starched white bedsheets fluttering in the wind. Laughing, squinting up at the impossibly blue sky through splayed fingers.

"Yes," Kirari indulges gently, smiling to herself. Her fingers drift along the curve of Sayaka's hip. She nuzzles against the crook of Sayaka's neck, kissing the exposed space of skin there. "Yes, I am."

Sayaka sighs softly and Kirari feels warm all over.

She is young again, and sun-kissed.