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The days had passed slowly before he had arrived in the city. Before he had been of use to his father. The weeks and months and years had been little more than a blur of indistinct, insignificant moments. Fragments of a life, scattered in the wind. Shinji had been a stranger to the world, drifting without purpose. Unwanted. Unseen. A meager, meandering existence.
In some ways things had improved. In others…
Distractions had become a necessity in his life, and they had come and gone, varying in effectiveness and taking on numerous forms. Distractions could numb the aching restlessness in his soul. Distractions could, if only for a moment, help him escape the unbearable bleakness of reality.
At times, the cello had provided that escape. When his fingers would dance and the bow would slide so smoothly over the strings, he would lose himself in the lonesome sound, forget his fears, forget his frustrations—forget everything. But then the music would stop, and the emptiness would return. There was a feeling, persistent, gnawing, that it was yet another exercise in servility, yet another bid for the fleeting approval of an indifferent world.
Somehow, reading had felt different. While never an avid reader, he had vivid memories of lazy summer days spent curled up in bed, a book in his hands and a mind full of wonder. A good story had never felt like a distraction, nor had reading one ever felt like an attempt to appease others. Reading could make him feel like he had control in his life, like he was a part of something grand, something meaningful.
He hadn't had much time for reading recently.
Perhaps it was a desire to recapture those feelings that had led him to Kunihiko—an independent bookstore that lay on the fringe of Tokyo-3's expansive shopping district. A small and rustic building, conspicuous amid the cold, sterile architecture that encompassed it. A microcosm of a simpler world. A remnant of a fading era.
Or perhaps what had led him to Kunihiko was the desire to share those feelings with Ayanami. He had invited her to come along with him after school, and she had agreed, promptly but not without a bit of skepticism.
The place was calm, haunted by the ghost of a melody. A feather flitting faintly over ivory keys played impressions of notes—music from a half-remembered dream.
It was nice, he supposed.
A faint aroma filled the air, cinnamon mixed with cloves, soothing his senses as his eyes landed on a novel. One he had read years before. He reached out a hand… traced a finger over the kanji etched into the hardcover spine.
"Ayanami," he said, "do you read much fiction?"
"No," she said. "It is unnecessary."
He turned around. Blood red irises, deep and piercing, gazed back.
She's looking at me.
For some reason, that put his mind at ease.
Her expression betrayed little, serious and stoic, but there seemed to be a hint of something… a dull sadness, a quiet resignation.
A familiar look—too familiar.
He shook his head. Maybe he was just seeing things.
"Well, y-yes, I guess that's true…" he said, "…but life shouldn't be about doing what's necessary all the time. Sometimes doing what's unnecessary is necessary."
"That statement is contradictory."
He sighed. Ayanami's literalism could be impenetrable at times.
"Is it really?" he asked. "You read a lot of textbooks, don't you?"
She blinked. "Textbooks contain knowledge. Acquiring knowledge is necessary."
"In a general sense, yes…" there was a slight quaver in his voice, "…but I've seen some of the books you've read. Advanced physics, mechanical engineering, really complex philosophy… Those aren't assigned by our class." He scratched his cheek. "They aren't essential reading for pilots, either… I, uh, think I'd know."
A face flashed in his mind's eye. Cold. Distant. He tried to suppress a scowl.
"Does… does my father ask you to read them?"
Her eyes shifted. Pale fingers slunk to her forearm, wrapped around it, then squeezed. A nervous habit. He had seen her do it before.
A soft murmur, "…No."
"Then why…?" he asked. "Why do you read them?"
Fading music gave way to silence. Several seconds passed.
"I…" she looked away for a moment, shuffling her feet, "…am compelled." Her eyes met his again. "If it is not necessary, it at least… feels necessary."
"Exactly," he said. "I think you just… like to learn, that you're curious about the world around you." He felt a small smile tug at his lips. "I admire that."
Again, she squeezed her arm.
"But not everything can be learned from textbooks." His voice was gentle yet firm. "A lot of truth can be found in fiction."
Her eyebrows slanted ever-so-slightly downward. "I know that fables are often allegories for general truths."
"Right," he said, "but it goes way beyond that."
An uncertain amount of time passed as she seemed to contemplate his words, and from the quiet ambiance emerged new music. A soft, jazzy tune: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, vibraphone. Slow and hypnotic. She remained silent, head softly swaying to the gentle rhythm.
"Ayanami, can you do me a favor?"
She stood upright, and again her features changed in that subtle way to which he'd become so accustomed. Curiosity conveyed so clearly with the most minute movements of her eyebrows.
Cute.
"Pick a book," he said, gesturing to the assorted volumes that lined the adjacent shelf. "Any book—as long as it's fiction."
"I do not know what to pick," she said. "I have no preference."
"All the better. Just pick the first book that catches your eye, that calls to you."
She looked uncertain—confused, almost—like a lost lamb in search of a shepherd.
"This isn't a logical thing, Ayanami. Just… trust your instincts."
Her lips parted. Only silence followed.
Then there was a flicker, and fire soon burned in her eyes, fierce yet tame, consuming all traces of doubt.
With a nod, she was off. Seconds turned into minutes as she perused the shelves, picking up books, putting them back, whispering "oohs" and "ahs," sparing him furtive little glances.
And then came the moment—she finally found it, hidden away in a dusty nook.
Not a word was spoken as she approached, lips steady and eyes incandescent. She presented the book like a precious heirloom: a white, paperback novel, with the outlines of falling leaves scattered across its cover—colored blue, as befitted her. The title and author's name were written with ornate calligraphy.
As the Leaves Turned
Sachiko Ito
"Hmm… Don't think I've ever heard of that author," he said.
"Is it… acceptable, Ikari?"
He sighed. What happened to the resolve he'd seen only seconds ago? "I'm not the person you should ask. Do you think it's acceptable?"
She looked away. Seconds passed. She looked back. "…Yes."
"Then it's acceptable." He was smiling again—he just knew it. "And it's…" he reached a hand into his pocket, "…m-my treat."
"My funds are more than adequate. You do not have to pay."
"You're right," he said, warmed by the way she held her new book. "I want to."
It was about three days later when Shinji found himself in classroom 2-A, contemplating Monday and all its implications. Monday meant another week lay ahead. Another week of school, chores, sync tests. Another week in which the threat of Angels loomed—the threat of absolute extinction. It was a volatile mix: the mundane and the banal; paranoia and dread. One that led to its share of restless days and sleepless nights.
He yawned.
Lunch break had just begun: reprieve from the infinite tedium of the teacher's mind numbing lectures. Something useful must have been hidden within those ramblings, he supposed, but hours of droning on about the ecological and socioeconomic consequences of Second Impact sometimes left him yearning for a third.
Another yawn.
He rose to his feet, grabbed something from his desk, then shambled across the classroom. Small steps went unheard amid the clamor of bustling students.
A girl sat at her desk, head in hand, quietly gazing out the window.
A familiar sight.
Ayanami.
Sometimes he wondered… Wondered about all the thoughts and fantasies that danced in her mind. Wondered what ideas sprang to life as she watched the trees, watched their branches sway and their leaves rustle and fall. He sighed. Perhaps that wasn't for him to know. She was lost in a world that was hers and hers alone.
"Hey, Ayanami," he said.
She turned, and for a moment he felt guilty. Expectant eyes, calm and curious, set his mind at ease. Seeing her face somehow made all his worries seem so far away.
A slight nod. "Ikari."
He extended a hand, offering her what he had taken from his desk: a bento box, swaddled in a baby blue cloth.
"It's stir fried vegetables with steamed rice," he said. "I experimented a little with the ratios."
He placed it on her desk, inches away from a paperback book—white and adorned with the blue outlines of falling leaves.
Another familiar sight.
"Hope you like it."
A faint shade of pink colored her cheeks. "…Thank you."
Thank you. The words echoed in his mind. He was still getting used to hearing them. An expression of gratitude from Ayanami was a rarity. He felt something blossom within. Warm. Pleasant.
"Friday's meal was most agreeable," she said. "I am certain this will be equally satisfying." She clasped the bento box in both hands. "Or perhaps… even more so."
"That's…" the warmth intensified, "…that's great to hear."
She unwrapped the cloth with careful and considered fingers.
He looked to the novel, As the Leaves Turned. It still lay in its original place.
"How's the book going?" he asked. "Are you, um, enjoying it?"
A brief pause.
"I do not know," she said. "It is a pre-Impact story, set in a rural town. I find some aspects… intriguing, but others confuse me."
"Tell me a little about it." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Th-That is, if you don't mind…"
"There are two main characters," she said. "Aki and Takuya.
"Aki is seventeen years old. She is quiet, sullen, somewhat antisocial. She is also ill. It is stated that her illness… changed her.
"Takuya is the same age. He is studious, meek. Though he can be stubborn at times, even combative. He is… concerned for Aki, but there is something more… a feeling… something elusive, out of reach.
"It is strange…" Her eyes fell to the book. "The more confused I become, the more I wish to read."
I don't think that's strange at all.
"Sounds like you're enjoying it to me," he said. "Th-Thanks, Ayanami."
Quirked eyebrows. Slightly widened eyes. "…For what?"
"For giving it a chance." He smiled. "I'm… I'm really glad."
Her faint blush spread just a little further. She smiled back in that soft, subtle way of hers.
He loved her smile.
A series of retching sounds interrupted their little slice of heaven. He turned. A girl with fiery hair shrugged, looked away, then scratched her cheek with a finger.
One finger.
Subtle—by Asuka's standards.
With a sigh he turned back to Ayanami. "Just ignore her."
The corner of her lips twitched. A smirk? "I nearly always do."
Saturday came, and the world still turned.
Another afternoon claimed by the blazing sun of Japan's eternal summer. Sweat trickled down Shinji's cheeks as he occasionally fidgeted and panted. Ayanami, however, was serene and silent, her skin glistening in the sunlight. They walked down a winding, cobblestone path, sheltered by trees and dusted with stray leaves. A path that sliced through lush fields of green, blessed by the caress of summer's soft sighs. A path where strangers crossed in and out of sight, in and out of each other's lives.
An impression of something appeared in the distance—bright and colorful. A few more steps, and the image became clearer: a vending machine and a water fountain, shaded by evergreen branches.
He hurried ahead.
"I've gotta cool off," he said, raising his voice to fight the afternoon chorus of cicadas. "You want something to drink, Ayanami?"
"A drink would be acceptable."
Her voice… She was closer than he realized.
"Alright. What do you want?"
His index finger hovered over the buttons, dancing up and down and side to side, as if conducting some otherworldly orchestra.
Canned coffee. Canned coffee. Soda. Soda. Soda.
He sighed. Did Ayanami drink anything besides water or tea? She'll probably just drink from the water foun—
"Perfect Blue," she said.
"…Perfect Blue?" he echoed. "O-Okay."
Wallet out. Money out. The machine gladly accepted. With the press of a button and a thud!—it spat out a can. He knelt down, grasped it—cool—and in a flash he was up and facing her.
There was something about the way she looked outdoors, about the way she looked in nature—in the sun. As if there were a glow… an ethereal radiance. He blinked, shook his head, then offered her the drink.
She reached out a hand. Pale fingers, slender and unblemished by the summer sun, brushed against his. So soft. So smooth. They lingered… gently tightened their grip. A lifetime passed as everything slowly spun around him.
Then their eyes locked, and her gaze offered equilibrium in a world of vertigo.
"Um…" he said, "…y-you can t-take it now…"
An ephemeral blush spread across her cheeks. She quickly complied. "…Thank you."
He felt heat rise in his own cheeks, and what had once felt like a lifetime now felt painfully short.
"You're, uh… you're welcome." He turned, faster than he intended. Inhale. Exhale. He grabbed another note from his wallet. "I didn't know you liked soda, Ayanami."
"I have never drunk soda before."
"Oh…" Button pressed. Thud! Drink dispensed. He held it against his cheek then looked back to her. "What made you choose that drink?"
"It was like you said at the bookstore." A swift motion. Crack! Kssh! Her can was open. "I trusted my instincts."
She gazed at the cobalt can cradled in her hands, looking almost mesmerized.
"The color is also… nice," she said. "It reminds me of your eyes."
… Huh?
He nearly dropped his drink.
"Th-Th-That's, uh… I mean, um… that is to say…" breathe in, breathe out, "…th-thanks?"
Another crack! Another kssh! Then a miniature eruption. Caramel colored foam burst forth and ran down his knuckles.
Oh…
He really had been shaking that much.
In contrast, she stood stoic and stone-like, but there were a few minute details he noticed: her eyebrows were sloped slightly upwards; her eyes were just a bit off center; her lips were parted nearly imperceptibly; her cheeks were dusted with the lightest shade of pink. It was an odd thing—surreal, even—to be so attuned to her subtleties, to be so acquainted with her idiosyncrasies. It felt as though he'd been entrusted with something secret, something precious—but something he didn't quite deserve.
Confusing, but gratifying nevertheless.
She took a short, measured sip. "It is effervescent… tingly." Then another, longer this time. "The taste is… agreeable."
"Does that mean you like it?"
A short, contemplative silence—then a third sip. "Yes," she said with a nod, "I like it."
And he laughed. Ayanami had her ways, strange as they were, of bringing out that kind of carefree laughter… of making him smile those shy smiles of his. "That's great."
A comfortable silence fell between them. They walked on, the steady patter of their footsteps all but muted by the din of cicadas' cries. He wiped sweat from his forehead.
"So," he took a sip of his drink, "what are Aki and Takuya up to?"
Her eyes shone in the sunlight. "Aki… I believe she is growing healthier. She seems stronger, more energetic."
"Really?" he said. "That's good to hear."
"Takuya has been doing well in school. His parents take pride in his academic abilities. There is talk of him attending the University of Tokyo after he graduates, but he is… wary of leaving. Afraid, even." She sighed softly. "Afraid of expectations. Afraid of pressure. Afraid of change."
He looked down to his drink. "Maybe he's also afraid of leaving Aki…"
She paused. "…Perhaps."
He waited for her to continue.
"They often walk through town together. Sometimes they have conversations—mostly inconsequential." She took a sip of her drink. "Or perhaps… only inconsequential on the surface.
"Other times, they do not speak but immerse themselves in the silence and stillness of nature. The descriptions of autumn are quite vivid." Her voice… Her face… It was faint, but she seemed almost… wistful. "I find myself… yearning to experience that."
"Yeah," he said, "I understand. My mom used to tell me about autumn… about all the seasons Japan lost after Second Impact. It's weird… I remember the stories, if only barely… but I can't remember her face…"
He trailed off as a woman drifted by. She smiled—then she was gone.
He stopped and turned his gaze skyward, suddenly mesmerized by the blue expanse. Such a beautiful shade of blue.
Beautiful…
That wasn't a word he often used.
An airplane soared overhead, and suddenly he felt very small. He wondered where its destination lay. Somewhere in Japan? Or perhaps someplace far away—across the pacific. He thought of all the people aboard, all their conversations, all their plans. So many names. So many faces. A million dreams. A million memories. Then, for a moment, just a moment, he was floating. Everything was upside down, and he was floating—land above, sky below.
Ayanami's voice anchored him back to earth: "You cannot remember your mother's face?"
He looked back to her. Pastel blue tresses flitted gently in the warm breeze. He sighed. Ayanami's hair always reminded him of clear summer skies.
"It's been eleven years," he said. "All the pictures were destroyed."
Destroyed… That's what Father had told him.
"Anyway…" he shook his head, "…seeing those seasons in pictures or movies is one thing, but hearing about them from someone who experienced them is… different. More real, I guess."
Again he sighed. "Just not real enough…"
"That is true," she said. "Stories of autumn, winter, spring… They seem like myths, almost—fables told of a world that never was."
What a sad way of looking at things.
"It's a big world, Ayanami. There are places where the seasons still change." Her eyes shifted somewhat when he said that. "Who knows…? Maybe someday we'll get to visit those places. Maybe someday… we'll finally experience what's been stolen from us."
She opened her mouth, but if any words were spoken, they were drowned out by the singing of cicadas.
He took a sip of his drink.
And as they continued down that winding, cobblestone path, the ever-present shadow of doubt began to encroach.
Another Saturday. Another week gone by.
The heavens had not opened. No Angels had descended. And here Shinji was, in Ayanami's apartment, surprisingly calm as the cacophony of construction echoed from outside. The curtains were drawn. Light filtered through the window, suffusing the room in the fiery glow of the evening sun, but this only served to highlight the emptiness of it all. The apartment was cleaner now, marginally more livable, but still so dismal—so lonely.
But somehow, with Ayanami by his side, everything felt… right.
They sat on the bed. Hands an inch apart. Sleeves close enough to touch. Two warm bodies, side by side. This was the second time. The memory of the first still burned brightly in his mind: "Would you join me on the bed?" she'd asked, placid and doe-eyed, and he'd been all stutters and stammers and flailing limbs. Awkward, as usual. Her intentions had been innocent, completely chaste, but that had done little to curb his anxiety.
This time, however, he was just… comfortable.
He had grown accustomed to her closeness.
"As the Leaves Turned," she said, "has been coming along well."
That was the first time she had brought the book up without being asked.
"I am almost finished." Her eyes were downcast, and there was a hint of something in her voice. She sounded almost sad. "It has been an interesting read so far."
"You haven't finished it yet?" The words slipped out without a thought. He looked away. "Sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. It's just… you're a pretty fast reader."
"I have been… savoring it."
He looked back. She looked so serene in the evening light.
"Yeah?" he said. "That's great, Ayanami." Then a soft smile. "Things worth savoring don't come around too often."
He spoke from experience.
"Do you want to hear more?" she asked.
The sounds of construction came to an abrupt stop. Done for the day, hopefully.
"Of course." He nodded. "It's been a while. I've been curious."
She dusted off her skirt then placed her hands in her lap, posture immaculate, face solemn. She had the air and gravitas of a politician delivering an important speech.
"They danced," she said. "Danced with the leaves, slowly and gently." She sighed. "But it did not last long… I thought Aki was growing healthier, but she remains frail.
"There is still a distance between them. Time has passed, their bond has grown, yet that space never seems to narrow." She gripped her skirt. "There is always something left unspoken—some lingering thought.
"Their walks have become shorter, more infrequent, and sometimes… Aki says things to Takuya. Hurtful things… Words that cut deep. Words she does not mean yet speaks all the same."
She shook her head. "She is pushing him away. It is as if… she is afraid of closing that distance."
"She might be afraid of being hurt herself," he said, voice low. "Leaving yourself vulnerable can be… hard. Distance means safety. Distance means no rejection."
He sighed, gripping the sheets. Once again, words just slipped out of his mouth. Why did he say all that? What was wrong with him?
He heard Asuka's voice echo in his mind: Pathetic.
"Perhaps…" Ayanami said, "…but, Ikari… does the pain of denying yourself that closeness not outweigh the pain of rejection?"
Silence ensued. The question hung in the air.
He could feel his pulse… beating, pounding, hammering. His hand slid into his pocket—it wasn't conscious, merely instinctual—and there he found it… his little device reserved for moments like this. Moments when the noise in his head became so unbearable it had to be drowned out. Moments when he needed to shut out the world and just… disappear. His lifeline. His escape.
His SDAT.
Trembling fingers tightened their grip. He breathed deeply.
It's getting late. I should g—
"Your music player…"
He froze. "Huh?"
"What is your preferred style of music?"
The change in subject was abrupt—confusing—but a strange sense of relief washed over him. Perhaps this was her way of alleviating the tension.
"I, um… I'm not too picky." The SDAT was halfway out of his pocket. "I listen to some classical, some pop, some rock." He pulled the cassette player out, gazed at it. "Nothing special, really…"
"May I listen?"
It seemed his frantic heart would not be given rest. He looked back to her, slowly, anxiously, and saw the tenderness in her expression, the concern in her eyes. There was neither judgment nor malice. Only a look of quiet curiosity.
I trust Ayanami.
He grabbed the earbuds, unwrapped their wire, then extended his hand.
She took one, placed it in her ear, then looked him in the eyes. "I want to listen with you."
A pause. A timid nod. He placed the other in his ear. "Al-Alright."
Then he pressed play.
Music had rarely been more than a distraction. A necessary one. One he couldn't function without. It was an escape, but not something transcendent. He had few expectations as the sounds of a string quartet began. The first instrument, he noted, was the viola—then the cello. Ayanami played the viola. He played the cello.
He wondered if there was any significance to that.
Then, as the violins joined in and all four instruments harmonized, there was something else he noted: the life that seemed to breathe through the music. Such a meticulous arrangement of notes, none wasted, none without purpose, soft as angels' sighs. The essence of dreams forged in sound. So much feeling, so much passion, expressed so vividly in the universe's most perfect language.
Had this piece always sounded so… beautiful?
Ayanami closed her eyes as the faintest of smiles graced her lips. She looked comfortable, content—spirited away by the tranquil melody. Her head began to sway, a little to the left, a little to the right, before resting delicately against his shoulder. Azure locks brushed lightly against his cheek—a warm, gentle caress. Soft, impossibly so. There was a pleasant aroma, a scent so subtle, perhaps he imagined it: a hint of vanilla.
He smiled.
God was in his heaven. All was right with the world.
"What do you…" he said, "…what do you think?"
She sighed softly. "…It is pleasant."
And the music played on.
One hundred and three hours—just a little over four days—and gone so fast. Everything seemed to go by faster now. But time was lost to Shinji as he drifted through the Tokyo-3 night, hands in his pockets and mind in a whirlwind. It was warm, humid enough to sweat. A sliver of the moon peeked out through dense, obsidian clouds.
He breathed in the night air.
Just a few more blocks. Just a few more streets.
At the façade of a bar stood a man. Smoke spiraled around him, silvery in the city lights. The end of a cigarette burned red through the foggy veil. Then a flick, an unceremonious descent, and bam—stamped out.
Disposable.
Another sleepless night. Another day seized by the oppressive grip of anxiety. Better spent wandering the city than lying awake, staring at the ceiling. He had slipped out of the apartment unseen, unheard. It didn't matter. He always came back.
They made sure of that.
Vast buildings loomed as he journeyed through the sprawl. Shadowy columns, uniform, imposing, and specked with a million lights—a million leering eyes. The city never slept. The city was always watching.
A light wind swept through the streets.
His thoughts drifted to Ayanami. She had crossed his mind more than once in the last few hours. He wanted to see her, be close to her, forget everything in the comfort of her company. But those were selfish thoughts. He wouldn't disturb her. Not at this hour. He wouldn't burden her with his petty grumblings.
An empty street. A green pedestrian signal. Weary feet carried him down the crosswalk and a little further—onto a familiar cobblestone path sheltered by familiar trees.
It was quiet here, when the people went home and the cicadas slumbered. Serene. Not like the more developed parts of the city. It was nice, calming. He drifted further along the path, his footsteps tapping rhythmically.
And then he saw something.
A bench that lay under a canopy of rustling leaves.
A girl, dimly lit by a distant streetlamp.
He walked closer. "A-Ayanami…?"
She raised her head, but did not speak.
"What are you doing out so late?" he asked.
Dull eyes, weary and worn, met his. A moment passed in silence. "I could ask you the same question."
He looked down. She wasn't wrong.
"We have walked here together before," she said. "It would seem there is something about this place… that draws us."
Serenity.
"Maybe you're right," he said. "As for why I'm out…" a sigh, "…I suppose I just needed to get away for a bit. Sometimes things pile up and everything gets a little… overwhelming."
The beat of wings. The shudder of a tree branch. A bird took flight.
"I understand," she said. Then there was a flicker of something—difficult to discern in the dim light. "Ikari?"
"Yes?"
"You were right."
"I was?" he said. "About what?"
"Truth can be found in fiction." She squeezed her arm. "As the Leaves Turned… That book opened my eyes to things I had never known… things I had never considered."
The clouds shifted, and she was slowly cast in the moon's pale glow. The heavens shone a spotlight on her still form, as if this moment belonged to her and her alone.
"Aki died," she said, a quaver in her voice. "She succumbed to her illness.
"She loved Takuya. Loved him… so much." The last two words were only a whisper. "I did not understand at first, but the more I read, the clearer things became.
"I believe… that he loved her as well, but they never told each other how they truly felt."
Ayanami's face… He had never seen her so distraught before.
"She dreamed of being held in his arms," she said, "of sharing her life with him, of becoming… one with him. But that is all they were… dreams.
"Her last words to him were 'thank you.' Even though her dreams were never realized… she thanked him."
She fell silent again.
He trembled all over. He wanted to reach out, touch her cheek, wipe away any tear that might fall, but his body failed him. He wanted to speak, whisper sweet reassurances, say whatever she needed to hear, but words failed him.
He felt powerless. Completely powerless.
"What a terrible thing it is to dream…" she said, "…to be given hope for that which can never be." A deep breath. She closed her eyes. "Terrible, but also beautiful."
The thought was unfinished—he knew intuitively. He waited in silence.
"I dreamed for the first time." Her voice was strained. "I dreamed of the same things Aki did.
"I was held. I was cherished. I was… loved.
"It was…" she swallowed, "…it felt… real.
"Then… I woke up," she clutched her chest, "and felt pain greater than any I had ever experienced before." Her anguished expression was haunting in the moonlight. "That… is why I am here."
His mouth opened once, twice—nothing. Again, words failed him.
"Shinji," his given name, "may I ask you something?"
"Yeah…" just a murmur, "…sure."
"Is it better to die unloved… or is it better to die loved… but not realize until it is too late?"
Prolonged, uncomfortable silence.
How… how could he possibly answer that?
She cast her gaze to the ground. "That was an inappropriate question," she said. "I am sorry."
He inhaled, exhaled. Leaves rustled as the wind breathed with him.
"Aya… Rei… a few days ago, you asked me a question about rejection.
"I didn't answer… with words… but I guess my silence was my answer." He paused. "I'm not satisfied with that answer anymore.
"It can be tempting to keep yourself guarded from others… to even run away from others. And it's easy—in the moment.
"But it's always hard in the long run.
"Hard and painful."
She looked up. Her gaze was searching, intense.
"I don't…" he said, "…I don't want you to worry about being unloved… or not experiencing love.
"There are p-people out there… people out there who care about you." His voice cracked. "People who'd be… really sad if something bad happened to you.
"Maybe there's even a person… who's willing to tell you… h-how much you mean to him.
"Maybe… this person… really likes spending time with you. Likes how you listen to him and treat him like an equal. Likes how you're willing to talk to him about serious and meaningful things.
"Maybe he's amazed by how insightful you are, and he's grateful you're willing to share your insight with him.
"Maybe he likes the way your eyes seem to shine when you're interested in something… when you're happy. Likes the way you smile, knowing it's something rare and precious… something he's lucky to see.
"And maybe… this person is hurt… whenever you say you can be replaced," he blinked—his eyes stung, "because he knows… just how untrue that is."
He wiped away a tear. Damn it… Of course, he was the one who was crying.
An errant leaf danced in the wind, falling gently past her wide eyes, gently past her parted lips.
"This person…" she said, voice tremulous. "Is his name Shinji Ikari?"
He held her gaze. There was no turning back now. "…Yeah."
Her lips quivered. Her cheeks darkened with the ghost of a blush, violet in the moonlight. "Thank you, Shinji."
A weight had been lifted when he heard those words. He had been open. He had been honest. He hadn't run away.
And he had been rewarded.
It was all so surreal, so overwhelming.
"Shinji?" she said.
"Yeah?"
"In my dream… the one who held me, the one who loved me… was you."
He searched her eyes.
They were as honest as ever.
He played the moment again in his mind.
He could think about all the implications of what she had said, dissect it word-by-word to find every shred of nuance, every sliver of subtext. He could over-analyze, obsess, drive himself mad with unrelenting pessimism. He could lament the futility of it all, lament the futility of every stupid thing under the sun.
But he just smiled.
"Rei," calling her that felt right, "take my hand."
She clasped it. Eager and delicate hands enveloped his. He helped her to her feet.
She was beautiful in the moonlight.
She was beautiful in any light.
Her eyes… A thousand emotions seemed to dance in those kaleidoscope eyes.
And there was the way her lips moved. Inviting. Alluring. Almost pleading. He wondered how sweet they would taste, how soft they would feel against his own.
Their faces drew closer.
Her breath felt warm against his lips.
"…It's late," he murmured. "Let's get you home."
Then he kissed her.
And off they went, through grassy fields and windswept streets, fading quietly into the Tokyo-3 night.