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Soft calculated movements carry Kimiko across the worn floorboards of their newest safe house, bare feet leaving small puddles of footprints following her shower. Clad in Frenchie’s familiar yellow sweatshirt, the frayed sleeves fall past the tips of Kimiko’s fingers, dangling over her freshly painted nails. The day before Frenchie had offered to slip out and find clothes that would properly fit Kimiko’s smaller frame – she had promptly refused. They were already at such high risk simply hiding away in the safe house, exposing himself for some new clothes simply wasn’t worth it in the grand scheme of things.
(Unspoken is the fact that Kimiko finds safety in the Frenchman, and that this safety extends even to his clothing).
In one hand, Kimiko’s fingers grasp tight onto a bright orange hairdryer, her own wet hair dripping down her back in cold rivulets and causing her skin to prickle into goose bumps as the wet of her skin meets the open air. She shivers as she squats down to plug the device into an aged outlet, gently jiggling the cord into the loose socket. Only once she stands does she gather her hair between her hands, ringing out a small puddle onto the floor beneath her. Again, she shivers.
A second occupant of the room, Frenchie sits on the threadbare couch in the middle of the cramped space, legs spread and posture casual as his attention flits between the female and the flickering television; presence silent yet comforting. Wordlessly Kimiko approaches, pressing the hairdryer into Frenchie’s hands. “Mon coeur,” the Frenchman starts, eyebrows ever-so-slightly furrowed as he examines her physical movements, reading them, listening to them.
(What does Kimiko want? What does Kimiko need? These were the questions he was always asking himself).
Since the beginning, Frenchie has always listened. When Kimiko’s heart was searching for an anchor, when her heart was screaming out in hopes that someone would save her from her wretched existence in that dark cellar, Frenchie was there; Frenchie had listened to her cries and had found her. Frenchie had unearthed her from the dark and brought her back under the luminescent rays of the sun. Heliotropic she has grown under his care, facing the sun and all its connotations of brightness that beckon a dumbfounded Kimiko closer; helplessly drawn to the light she had been so desperately searching for.
So in this moment, Kimiko has no need to verbalise what she wants – has never needed to verbalise her needs with Frenchie; the man who has seen through her from day one. Slow movements place herself between his legs, back pressed against the couch so she’s facing away from the man. A small turn of her head and she’s peering over her shoulder for a mere second or two before returning her gaze back to the television, hiding a shy smile that blossoms after Frenchie’s own curve of his lips and nod of his head in understanding.
Whether Kimiko knows it or not, she has had Frenchie in the palms of her hands since before she had even met him, and he does not hesitate to fulfil her request. The Frenchman’s lax position shifts and his spine curves as he half bends down to gently take one of Kimiko’s locks of hair between his fingers, tucking a few loose strands behind her ears. He handles her hair with such care one might think he was touching a priceless artefact – and perhaps in one way or another she is a priceless artefact.
Afterall, she is his heart. A piece of undeniably unadulterated brilliance that he would fight the world for.
Wordlessly, Frenchie turns the hair dryer on, drying her hair in small locks, smoothing over her scalp with calloused hands that still manage to speak of unfathomable kindness.
They’re a pair, the two of them. Forged into weapons undercut by yearning for love.
They’re a pair, the two of them. Forged into weapons with bleeding hearts stuffed full of compassion.
At some point Kimiko’s hair has dried and the hairdryer has been turned off, but Frenchie’s hands remain in the female’s hair, gentle fingers carding through soft strands before he’s leaning down to press a kiss to a lock of her hair. Another, to the top of her head. Frenchie stops there, carefully treading down the narrow boundaries they’ve given each other over these past few months; navigating the call of his own heart and the soft delicacy of her’s. Hands returning to their previous ministrations, for a moment Kimiko gets lost in the affection, finds herself greedy like a child for this tender touch she has craved all these years.
(It almost makes her want to cry).
Steadily Kimiko reaches her hand up, fingers easily moulding over Frenchie’s own and pulling his hand down to her cheek; pressing it there as she nuzzles against his palm, head turning to kiss the inside of his palm with chapped lips. “Mon coeur,” his voice echoes wonder and endearment, so taken by Kimiko and the universe that composes her.
There’s something unspoken between the two of them, the presence of a sentiment that perhaps trespasses into a category more than friendship. However, like many things between them, what this something exactly is never finds a verbal definition. Together, they simply exist. They walk down the path that they determine themselves.
The world will hear Kimiko, Frenchie will make sure of it. But the world will never hear of moments like this – moments that will forever be his and Kimiko’s alone.
His treasure.
His miracle.
His heart.
Mon coeur.
And Kimiko loves when he calls her that – loves how the phrase grounds her, roots her in the present and reminds her of the good that exists in the world.
She is Kimiko, but mon coeur is just as much a name as it is a title.
She is his heart, and she embraces the term with pride.