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I.
The air sings into the pitch black of the night, accompanied by the slow sounds of dripping water and the harmonizing rasps of birds and cicadas. Its coolness is sharp against Tsumugi’s skin, still damp from the bath, ridden with goosebumps. It reminds her of home.
“Tsumugi,” someone calls out. “I’m coming in.”
On the floor of the room are two futons and a small desk. Closer to the side there is a kotatsu, and right above it on the wall is an old, faded tapestry of a bird. A crane. Prosperity and well wishes to those who rest here. There is scarcely anything else, a lamp being the only appliance; Tsumugi hasn’t turned it on, preferring to sit in the fullness of night.
She hasn’t bothered to put on her robes right, so it is loose on her shoulders, ready to fall at any minute. It’s colder this way and she likes it. It makes her feel present; every chill is a reminder she is alive.
A person settles beside her on the small veranda. She is beautiful, a tragic beauty under silvery moonlight, someone Tsumugi knows she does not deserve. She cannot help her love, but she pretends she is capable of doing so, as she gazes at her distantly.
She does not hide her admiration. “Hey,” she says, flustered.
“Hey,” Tsumugi replies softly.
“You’re looking at me like that again.”
“Like what?”
She leans against the doorframe and wraps her arms around herself. Her eyes drift to Tsumugi slowly, incriminating. “As if you miss me. I’m right here.”
“Should I not miss you?”
“I’m insulted, I thought you would be more appreciative of my presence.”
She shakes her head, coming to enclose Tsumugi in her arms against the wooden floor. “You really shouldn’t be missing me right now. Why think about the idea when you have me beside you?”
“Because,” Tsumugi leans back on her arms as Eichi’s warmth ghosts her skin. If she comes any closer, Tsumugi thinks, she might burst into tears then and there. Her robe has come undone; shifting around has exposed one of her shoulders, and much of her chest. It does not feel cold at all.
She is met with silence. Taking the hem of Tsumugi’s fallen sleeve, she slowly raises it back up, trailing her finger on the pale skin. It leaves more gooseflesh in its wake. “Because?” she prods.
“Because.” Tsumugi answers with finality. She brings a hand to Eichi’s cheek, and she gasps at the chill, her eyes so charmingly wide with surprise. Her head jerks a little. With her, nothing seems to be by chance, not even the way hair falls to her face. Everything is deliberate. There is an inevitability to her, a power to her being. It wracks Tsumugi’s chest with an overwhelming fondness, manifested in the soft brush of her knuckles on the pale flesh.
Eichi leans into her. Toward her. Now every minute shift of her eyes and flutter of lashes is visible. And Tsumugi wants to cry.
She wants to weep, with agony, devotion, madness, a cacophony of emotions she might only describe, crudely, as love. It compels her to kneel and kiss her hands and feet, to worship her as one might a goddess, pious and all-consuming. This is foreign to her, and yet nothing has ever felt more comfortable.
Their lips meet. Tsumugi wishes it would last a little bit longer.
II.
“I wouldn’t mind dying if it was with you.”
Tsumugi hums as she leans against the frame of the cushy hotel bed. It isn’t her first time laying in one, but the sensation of silk against bare skin is new, and she savors its smooth drag as the thin blanket pools around her hips, where Eichi lays. She twists it in her grip, a contrast to Tsumugi’s featherlight fumbling with her pale hair.
Eichi does not fidget. She is a woman sure of herself in everything. For her to find this much enjoyment in wrinkling a hunk of rich cloth, her mind must be wandering an unusual amount.
Part of her allure is the air of quiet condescension. Some people think it to be off-putting; others perceive it as a challenge. Or a threat. She is poised as a princess and imposing as the craftiest businessman. The carefully configured confidence is a marker of her prestige. As much as it should alienate Tsumugi, it draws her in closer, like a moth to a flame. She doesn’t understand how people could think of her so scornfully. She thinks hers is a beauty that must be admired at all costs.
Tsumugi continues her ministrations, almost absentmindedly, if not for the soft hum she gives as encouragement.
“I don’t want to face them anymore.” Eichi’s voice is flat and free of any emotion.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m livestock to them. They don’t care about me at all.”
She hums once again, this time in sympathy. Eichi does not say anything more; she does not prod.
Lamplight washes the room in a yellowish glow. The curtains aren't drawn, making the space feel even more enclosed. Only their soft breaths, the occasional rustles of fabric, break the silence. It is reverent, how they bask in each other.
Yet the intimacy is tinged with a bitter melancholy neither of them are willing to voice. This is what makes their companionship ideal; it is, at least partly, built on a shared ignorance, for the consequences of their actions, and for the motivations behind their pursuit of such a relationship. Both of them are aware that love is not, and will never be enough. Not for people of their stature and difference. But in this hotel room, they are none the wiser.
“Tsumugi, will you come with me?”
The cracks in her porcelain countenance make themselves known sometimes, much to Eichi’s chagrin. Here it is visible in the trembling of her lip as she speaks. Tsumugi almost coos at the display; her unassuredness is endearing. It empowers Tsumugi in a selfish, twisted way. It reminds her that such a powerful woman has a place under her, beside her, wrapped around her finger.
Then again, it isn’t as though she isn’t bewitched herself. Mind, body, soul—there is nothing she would not give to her. She is sure Eichi would think the same. After all, they only have each other in this world.
Without hesitation, the answer falls from her lips, saccharine against glowing skin. Her kisses whisper—to the ends of the earth.
III.
Somehow, Tsumugi feels as if she is flying. Every thread of her clothes and pore of her body slowly fills with water, absorbing a fraction of the overwhelming force. It embraces her coolly; it is refreshing, and oppressive, as it steals her breath and pulls her farther into its depths.
It seems to stretch into infinity. Under the ocean there must be an abyss, which should be a portal to another world. If you get pulled into it, perhaps you would wake up on the opposite end of the Earth, or in some uncharted terrain, a layer of the Earth no scientist could have ever imagined to exist. Tsumugi wants to see this new world, although she no longer has the strength to open her eyes.
She doesn’t know where Eichi is, or if she’s reached that mystic land before her. Maybe she is lagging behind, being tossed to and fro by the frivolous flow, light as she is. Tsumugi worries about her weak constitution, but she has no way of knowing whether the coughing has done her in or if she is holding on, like she is.
Even now, she remains tenacious as ever.
Not for much longer, she thinks. The last of her oxygen escapes her, the bubbles dissipating as quick as they came. She cannot feel the cold anymore. In fact, she can no longer feel anything. She can only see black; she lets herself go to the abyss.
IV.
Eichi wakes up, shaking and feverish on a plot of grass. It itches against her skin, but she is more bothered by the heaviness of her head. Her clothes are soaking wet; the morning breeze ceaselessly makes her tremble where she lies.
She looks around. There are houses some distance away. There is only dirt and stone around her. There is no sign of another person.
She is alone.
She knew this from the moment she regained consciousness. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows this is the inevitable outcome of her actions. Their actions. She doesn’t know why she is so adamant about denying it. The two of them were bound to end in tragedy, whether by their own hand or by another. She knew this from the beginning.
Her heart drops all the same.
Writhing with grief and weakness in the dirt, she tastes salt on her lips.