Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Another system day comes to an end—though, does the passage of time truly matter when all that one can see outside is the endless drift of the stars? Twinkling, winking, shimmering, endlessly afloat in that infinite inky sea. Within that eternal vastness, even the loftiest of empires can seem like merely a speck, insignificant and fragile.

Kafka finds it beautiful, really. Only the ephemeral can contrive to shine; burn brighter than anything else, and go out with a lustrous flash. Isn’t that how things should be? Galaxies, planets, even people.

The woman switches off the TV with a small sigh. Horror, no matter how many movies she watches, just doesn't pluck at her soul the way it should with most other people. Then again, it’s not like this is anything new to her. Predictable jump-scares, music that reaches a sonorous arc at the precise moments, deformed creatures with distasteful swathes of blood and mucus and anything else the average person would easily find off-putting.

Anyone else would be wide awake right now, their mind reeling with all the unsettling gore and frightful attacks they’d just watched, but Kafka is sleepy. It’s been a long day.

Too sleepy, in fact, that she simply lays back down on the couch and stares, droopy-eyed, at the ceiling. Begins to let the newfound silence lull her into a sleepier state, gradually pulling her into rest. The others are probably already asleep. Tomorrow is another day.

She hears something stir before that tomorrow can come to pass. Her eyes open (when had she closed them?), and angles her head to take a proper look. Then her eyebrows rise in mild surprise. “Oh?”

Stelle’s eyes practically glimmer in the dimness of the room, and Kafka has always thought it made every single star pale in comparison. They burn with passion, with conviction, with some form of absolution. The gray-haired woman stands over her, something big and lumpy draped over her arm. “I came to get you this.” She unfurls what she’s holding—Kafka’s blanket from her room—and lets it settle over Kafka, the warmth and softness immediately clinging to her as it falls over her. “I thought you already fell asleep, actually.”

“I was just about to. I didn’t feel like getting up from here. Thank you, Stelle.” Kafka watches her curiously, clinging to the soft fabric of the blanket. “How did you know I was here?”

“Oh, I went into your room.” Stelle says it simply, little emotion lacing her words. “You weren’t there, and when I found you here I went back to fetch your blanket and let you sleep.”

“I see.” It’s nothing new for Stelle to enter her room when it’s time for everyone to go to bed—she comes, and she cuddles. Usually with little words spoken, just a need to be close to Kafka, to feel the heat radiate off her body and respond with warmth of her own. Running her hands along Kafka’s skin in a manner teetering at the border of chaste, and then falling asleep.

Stelle shuffles her feet a little awkwardly. “When I saw you laying here, I thought of carrying you back to your room at first. But then I figured that might wake you up.”

“Oh.” Kafka warms at the thought—she pictures herself being princess-carried by Stelle back into her room and then getting tucked into bed. It’s a thought both heart-warming and heart-rending. Kafka shifts and readjusts her position to better burrow into her blanket. “Would you like to cuddle with me here?”  She scoots over a bit to make room for Stelle. It’s a wide enough space; they’ll both fit snugly. “Or do you want me to come back to the bedroom?”

Her companion is never one to say no to anything Kafka offers—it’s charming, but the latter truly does wonder sometimes if she really wants these things or if Kafka just comes off as pushy (but surely that can’t be the case if Stelle is almost always the one to initiate physical touch). “Here is fine.” Stelle crawls under the blanket, wiggling a bit to adjust herself to the vacant concave of the space so her body can slot in with Kafka’s, and settles her head on the armrest once satisfied. “What movie were you watching?”

“Oh, just some run-of-the-mill scary movie. It hardly tickled my fancy despite all the raving reviews it’s gotten.” Kafka shrugs a little, gently tucking away a strand of hair from Stelle’s face. “Next time, I’ll try an action movie. Maybe go watch one in theatres, on a slow day when I know nobody else will be around.”

Stelle hums; her hand under the blanket finds the swell of Kafka’s thigh, and begins to draw idle circles. Kafka closes her eyes as the woman’s hand travels upward, along the curve of Kafka’s hip, almost a little too purposeful to be chaste. And Kafka lets it happen, lets Stelle map every contour on her body over her clothes, lets her wandering hand leave a trail of goose flesh in its wake.

Kafka’s arm encircles her waist and draws her closer, leaving not a modicum of space between them. Sans the blanket, just being like this with Stelle is more than enough to have a peaceful slumber.

“I’ll come with you,” Stelle says, her leg entangling with Kafka’s. “To the movies.” Then she pauses. “If you’d like me to.”

Kafka smiles, repositioning herself so her head rests on Stelle’s shoulder. “You’d really do that for me?” Her own hand begins to wander now, fingers dancing lightly across Stelle’s arm. She can feel the softness and the firmness of her skin, of training having proven beyond fruitful, of strength that will soon carry her across the stars. “I’d appreciate it, Stelle. Let’s make it happen, then. Soon.”

They lay quietly, their hands growing less impassioned in their movements, and Kafka thinks it may be time to let sleep run its course then. The others might find them wrapped around each other come morning, but it’ll come as no shock to them. There is seldom a Kafka without Stelle, and seldom a Stelle without Kafka.

Once more, Kafka begins to wade into the shallows of slumber, assured in her serenity. 

And then Stelle’s hand travels up to Kafka’s face, a degree too insistent to be languid. 

“Will I remember all this?” she asks suddenly, and it even catches Kafka off-guard, making her eyes snap open again. “Will I remember the feeling of being against you like this, our warmth mingling with each other, our bodies so close there’s practically nothing between us?”

The way Stelle asks it—hopeful, a touch too desperate, the subtle tremor in her voice apparent—it makes Kafka’s heart sink into the depths of her gut like a stone. This isn’t the first time Stelle’s raised a question pertaining to her script, but this is the first time she’s asked (despite knowing the answer) if she will remember. Remember Kafka, no less.

Before the silence can stretch into something too long and cloyingly uncomfortable, Kafka replies, in a voice barely above a whisper, “No. You will remember me, recollect me in faint traces that you will try and fail to grasp at, but that’s all. You will not remember anything else. Not us. Not this.”

Stelle’s hand pauses at Kafka’s cheek, the pads of her fingers a gentle presence. “I don’t like that at all.” She shifts so she can look Kafka square in the eyes, a slight frown marring her face, a curve of displeasure on her lip. “I want to keep this feeling with me forever. I want to remember.”

Stelle knows what she wants.

Kafka knows this. Kafka wants the exact same thing she does.

So with all form of apprehension cast to the air, their lips meet, a tender act that grounds them to the present, an anchor in the face of their future.

Stelle has never kissed before. Her movements are a little sloppy, a little hurried, her mouth roving over Kafka’s lips with little grace. Kafka chuckles, a breathy thing, and her hand on Stelle’s shoulder urges her a little closer.

If the stars tasted like anything, they would be what Kafka feels right now from Stelle’s desperate lips, a frenzied dance they have both chosen to partake in as a whirlwind whim. Kafka closes her eyes, kissing back with just as much fervor, just as lackadaisical as Stelle, just as wanting.

This…this is desire. This is passion. This is—this is what is waiting for her at the end of it all. It must be.

They pull away, both panting softly, a thin string of saliva connecting them for a brief moment before coming apart. Immediately, Stelle presses her forehead against Kafka’s, holding her tightly. As though she might disappear if she lets go for even a second.

And Kafka, too, holds her just as tightly, her arms now firmly wrapped around the woman’s waist. She opens her eyes and mirrors the glassy, rather dazed look on Stelle’s face. Chests pressed together, she is unsure if the heart wildly beating is hers or Stelle’s.

Stelle slowly rears back so she can see her face clearly. She squeezes Kafka’s hand. “I will remember this.” Stelle’s voice rings with confidence quite possibly misplaced, but it makes Kafka’s heart flutter nonetheless. “I will remember.”

A small, watery smile is what Kafka can muster in response. “Okay.”

Silence flutters over them like a second blanket, the need for exchanging words all gone. They keep each other in embrace, their breathing in a rhythmic tandem, a dance of their own, and the night deepens. Stelle is the first to fall asleep, her breathing evening out, her lips still a tinge shiny.

Kafka’s mind is a quiet maelstrom of thoughts. Some conflicting, they clash and skitter across her head, a dull ache in her chest beginning to bloom with each passing moment, each steady rise and fall of her companion’s chest. Stelle will not remember any of this, when that time comes. She will begin anew, a blank slate upon which to write a story entirely her own, and Kafka will merely be a specter in that tale, the one haunting Stelle’s narrative without her even knowing why.

Is there a chance she might remember this after all? Perhaps. Who knows what destiny has in store—Stelle may defy all odds and deliver an ending even Kafka might fail to expect. Yes, this is a thought that finally drapes a layer of comfort over her troubled mind, her nerves stilling and settling down. Indeed, Stelle will not let Kafka down. She will carve her own path, seemingly parallel yet so perfectly intertwined with hers, and the choices she makes—and Kafka trusts they will be choices Stelle will not come to regret—will lead her back home to Kafka somewhere at the corner of the starry pages.

Yes, Kafka thinks, as her eyes close and sleep finally overtakes her, that’s the Stelle she likes. 

Chapter Text

Kafka is a poet, and Stelle is an artist who’s a new face in her area.

Intrigue had struck Kafka like the chime of bells the moment she had laid eyes on her. Eyes holding a glimmer of something that grasps at something far beyond the mundane, hair like clouds ready to precipitate…snow or rain or something else entirely.

It’s a small planet, nothing compared to the supermassive empires and worlds out there that are more than ten times the size of this quaint little world, tucked comfortably into the folds of some innocuous galaxy that hardly calls for attention.

And within this tiny, insignificant planet, the town Kafka belongs to is even less worthy of calling attention to—but something out there must have drawn this gray-haired mystery all the way here (from wherever she may have hailed from), and something out there must be telling Kafka that she is the one, she is the muse to pluck her out of her rut, to remove the dam on her creative flow and let her poetry rush along like it used to, unfettered.

The artist had set up her easel right opposite the little street, just across the semi-outdoor cafe where Kafka sits at in order to get her creative juices flowing. 

She paints everyday, her face the very image of focus as she scrunches up. A small pout on her lips, a small furrow in her brow. Every day, for at least an hour or two, she stands there and paints.

And at the same time this is happening, Kafka writes. She writes lines and stanzas and verses and wrests them into limericks and couplets and haiku and whatnot, words whirling about every which way until the sun sets and she gathers her things and returns home—also about the same time the artist woman across the street picks her canvas up off the easel and packs up as well.

It’s a lovely place to do her work, Kafka thinks: it’s a quaint little street and the cafe is no less vibrant in its appearance, what with all the peonies, bluebells, and lilies adorning its bright awning.

And then, one evening, Kafka steals a glance at the artist woman after she senses a stir in her periphery. She seems to be scanning her painting thoroughly, head tilted, the wooden tip of her paintbrush caught between her teeth. Then, after a moment, she mumbles something to herself and hurries away, leaving her painting things there, canvas and all.

After a few beats and no sign of her returning just yet, Kafka gathers up the confidence to get up from her table and cross the narrow street. Just one peek should be enough, just to see how well her painting is coming along. She’s been at it for days; it must be nearly finished by now. She will just steal one glance and return to her table.

And when she sees the canvas, so beautifully adorned in a smattering of colors so expertly chosen and blended to create a composition unlike any other, Kafka has to suppress a gasp of surprise.

It’s a painting of the cafe, yes, but it’s not all there is. Underneath all the flowers and cared wood, stray petals aflutter in the wind and suspended in time amidst the evening sun-dappled cafe, is Kafka. She’s the only part of the composition rendered in the highest clarity, everything else falling into the background because of the way they are lent a slight blurry nature. She’s the only person in the painting, the rest of the tables empty even though they have never been so in reality. It pushes her to the forefront, makes her the subject, centers her.

In it, Kafka wears a soft smile on her face as she types away on her device, a few musical notes wafting in the air as she—presumably—hums while working. A perfect picture of tranquility and twee charm.

Kafka stares at the painting for a moment longer, unsure how to react next. Hmm. Seems she may have to show this artist the poetic verses she’s penned in her image as a return gift.

Stelle is a raccoon, and Kafka is a neighborhood cat.

It’s an unremarkable neighborhood, the usual kind seen in cartoons or graphic novels—lines of houses, some trees lining the roads here and there, a park tucked somewhere within the area that children frequent after school. Plain and unremarkable, truly, like the animals themselves.

The only thing the two have in common is that they slink around the locality shrouded by shadows, Kafka with a glossy sheen to her magenta fur and an elegant gait, and Stelle with matted gray hair, a little dirty, but a rambunctious spirit. Their paths don’t cross very often, but when they do, the interactions are unremarkable as is everything else…but things don’t stay that way forever. The gears of fate shift and whirr on silently.

Kafka sees the raccoon rummaging through trash at night, when all the people have retreated into the comfort of their homes and gone to bed. The garbage bin is full, so Stelle has firmly planted herself on the rim and digs through the top layer, moonlit paws working diligently.

Then she looks up to find the cat watching her from the corner.

Blinking, Stelle watches her carefully. Kafka does not move, does not even blink. Just returns the intense gaze, her tail curved upwards.

Then, without a sound (truly impressive how quiet this creature can be, even when rummaging through big metal cans), Stelle rolls an empty glass bottle towards her.

There’s nothing in it, but it’s shiny and green like the emeralds the rich auntie down the street in the fancy bungalow wears. So she likes it. She declares her assent with a few purrs, rolling the bottle against the ground with her paw, the low rumbling sound a pleasure to her ears. She rolls it further, letting it lead her a few paces closer to the raccoon. Then she stops it with her paw again, watching Stelle carefully. Her tail flicks side to side in anticipation.

Stelle blinks at her once. Twice. Then returns to rummaging in the bin, her own tail swishing along with barely tamped-down excitement. Then, she pulls out something that glints in the light of the full moon.

Some kind of fancy accessory in the shape of a butterfly.

Tilting her head, Kafka watches as Stelle tenderly attempts to pin it to her head, right over her eyes. It slides off her snout easily, falling back into the pile of trash with a soft plop. Stelle reaches back into the bin and fishes it out again and tries to wear it one more, only for the same results to come to pass. After the fifth time, she picks it out of the bin again, only to toss it aside with something akin to mild frustration. It skitters across the pavement and lands near Kafka’s paws.

The cat stares at it. Sniffs it tentatively. It smells of fruit almost spoiled, but still sweet enough to not have her retching all over it. The raccoon is far too occupied with going through the trash now, having slouched over to dig deeper and look for more treasure.

So Kafka watches her for some more time, and then leaves.

The next morning, she shows up to the same street and finds Stelle slumped by the trash can, droopy-eyed and evidently full from having gorged on someone’s thrown away packet of biscuits.

Proudly, Kafka shows off the glimmering butterfly accessory pinned to her front. The sparkle in Stelle’s own beady eyes suggests she likes how it looks, too.

Kafka is the demigod of Finality, and Stelle is the demigod of Trailblaze.

Though their titans have historically been at odds, their paths throwing each other into stark relief through their parallel ideologies, their demigods have always worked together in each cycle. In those thirty-three million eternal recurrences, there is not a single time where Kafka and Stelle have ever clashed swords in a way that shrieks of hostility.

No, practically every time in all those cycles where Stelle has had to kill Kafka, it had been to protect her from becoming swallowed by the Black Tide—for should it swallow her, the Coreflame of Finality in her would ensure that she would turn into a mindless monster whose only pursuit is of pleasure and ultimate destruction. So as part of a mutual agreement, Stelle kills her each time.

But the era of their joined reign leading up to the consequences is always one for the history books. Kafka, known to the masses as a tyrannical Sovereign who knows no fear, and her loyal sword, Stelle, who ensures the will of the Sovereign is always done, no matter how many lives must be crushed under their heels, no matter how much golden blood spills and makes their footprints towards the future leave painful tracks.

Even against the backdrop of bloodshed and confusion, Kafka and Stelle dance and make merry in the quietude of their shared chambers, exchanging promises of eternal companionship that shall defy all odds and forge a new path for Amphoreus at large. They drink wine from the same cup, they dip in the same bath, they whisper sweet nothings to each other in the same bed. When a conquest yields fruit, they celebrate through heated kisses and soft pleasured sighs in the same bed.

They promise, bare-bodied and wrapped firmly around each other, that the ideals of Trailblaze and Finality shall find a place to coexist when they inevitably usher in the Era Nova together.

And Kafka is happy. So, so happy. The emotion she’s been missing all this time matters little when Stelle is by her side, fighting for her, fighting with her. There is a chalice of love and ambition, and that is enough for her.

There is only one eternal recurrence where Kafka has had to watch Stelle die first. External circumstances, new interferences, a change in the code—how could they have foreseen this? An outlander with snow-white hair and sky-blue eyes had turned the entirety of Amphoreus upside-down.

So in the latest eternal recurrence, the Black Tide’s onset is much earlier than anticipated, even before they can fully realize their demigod potential. It swallows Stelle’s homeland first instead of Kafka’s, and when Stelle leads a battalion onward to attempt to stave its monsters and buy Kafka some time to complete her Coreflame trial prematurely (even despite her firm protests), things take a turn for the worst.

Stelle falls, and the Coreflame of Trailblaze is without a meister.

Kafka’s fatal flaw has always been her inability to feel fear—such is the price to pay for bearing the Coreflame of Finality. But Titans above, if the emptiness that follows her beloved partner’s death isn’t something akin to fear. The fear of feeling untethered now that the one person who had made her feel grounded within this limitless plane is no more. The fear of finding traces of her love in forgotten corners of the world and calling out to those brimming moments, but receiving no reply besides her own hollow echo. The fear of seeing everything she has dreamed of, everything she had planned to achieve with Stelle by her side, crumble to dust as though they were never meant to be.

And yet, it is still not fear that Kafka feels. It is not fear. It is something else entirely, something equally as crushing, something equally as desolating. And does it matter anymore? Her soul has been scooped out of her chest all the same.

Her destiny is dead.

Her calling is dead.

Her heart is dead.

What fills her chalice of wine next runs a bitter golden instead of a sour burgundy.

Chapter Text

Swiveling beams of light flash in a myriad of neon hues, washing over the enthralled crowd as they jump and cheer and scream until their throats go hoarse—and even then they continue to vocalize their heavily impassioned excitement in time with the bass-boosted beats and synchronized dancing. There may be no stars in the night sky tonight, but the tens of thousands of color-changing light sticks down below more than makes up for it.

And leading this sea of around fifty thousand screaming fans is the greatest stage known to the pop scene of today. The two people present up there, the spotlight shining on them so bright they may as well be novae, guide their rapt audience with each sway, each bounce, each note sung into the mic with vocals so strong they can move even the most casual of fans to tears.

They harmonize their bridge beautifully, wrapping up the song with a final powerful chorus alongside which columns of fire and glitter shoot up into the air, all hues of golds and purples that make the crowd go wilder than before. And then, with a final flourish, all movement on stage comes to a grand finish, the two performers left panting softly, hand in hand, faces slick with sweat but glowing with unfettered pride and smiles of triumph at yet another concert being a smashing success.

The applause that follows their final song of the night is deafening, a sweeping collective of whoops and dry sobs and the chant of their names repeated over and over like a mantra.

Kafka and Stelle are nothing short of the greatest idol duo in the industry, and tonight is but yet another notch in their belt as performing legends.

There’s a flash of gold that pulses from the stage, blossoming outward in wavy lines before disappearing into the night. The idols both exchange glances and grin.

“Thank you all so much for coming tonight, darlings,” Kafka calls out sweetly in that honeyed voice of hers that can make even the straightest of women go mad with want. “Let’s meet up again like this for another tour really soon. Okay? Remember, we love you!”

Stelle lifts her mic up again too. “Take care out there, alright? Get home safe, everyone! We love you!”

In her periphery she spots a faint gleam of red where the golden light had just touched. She looks over at Kafka; they both nod.

The night’s only just getting started.

“Stelle…” 

There’s a ring of exasperation in Kafka’s tone as she watches Stelle rummage through her closet, pulling out heaps of clothes met with dissatisfied grumbles.

”I told you, there’s no way I’ll let a demon fight me in my amazing concert fit,” answers Stelle over her shoulder, fingers traveling over her row of comfier shirts. “I won’t give them the satisfaction. There’s no bigger insult than dying at the hands of someone who looks homeless.”

Kafka’s gaze travels over the concert fit Stelle is wearing. Shimmering sequins in multicolor shades, giving her the appearance of a walking rainbow. Contrasts well with her deep gray hair, between the dance-worn tangles of which a brilliant yellow-purple rose pin is nestled.

They currently stand in their changing room at Stelle’s insistence to wear something more fitting to kill demons (both comfortable to move in as opposed to their tight concert fit, and visually unappealing to stick it to the demons according to her). Besides, she had said, the ripple in the Honmoon means those creatures still linger here somewhere. Likely in wait for them to show up.

Well, too bad for them. The demons will have to stand around until Stelle finds a nice enough shirt that screams homeless.

They’re so close to achieving their goal. One more song up their sleeve, after which they should be all set to clinch the Idol Awards and seal the Honmoon once and for all. And then…Kafka absently runs a hand over her other arm, the full sleeves on her velvet jacket shielding herself from more than the cold.

Stelle finally pulls out a deep blue shirt that still has a coffee stain on it that refuses to be washed away. “Perfect!” She slips out of her sequined garb and throws on the shirt and a pair of plain black yoga pants. Kafka, even though a little eager to get to the fighting already, cannot help but think about how Stelle looks equally hot in both sequins and stains. She’s already out the door, her bat in hand summoned with a flick of her wrist. “Come on, Kafka! Let’s kick some demon butt!”

Kafka smiles and heads after her, her katana manifesting in a glow of light. “I’m right behind you.”

Following the traces of the Honmoon acting up isn’t very difficult. They quietly slink through the shadows, the slight tremor in the invisible waves apparent to hunters like them. Weaving through the corridors they go, flickers of red barely there and—

“Oof.” Stelle bumps into a concert staff member who’d stayed back and quickly bows and mumbles an apology, her bat behind her back.

He laughs and waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he sings, “and good luck out there! You really need to go get ready, yeah?”

“Get ready?” repeats Stelle, blinking. “For what?”

The man stares at the two of them, equally confused. “Aren’t you guys doing the concert…thingamajig?”

Kafka squints at the staff member, suddenly aware of a flash of color lancing up his wrist before disappearing under his long sleeve.

Stelle must have noticed it too, for she huffs out a laugh. “Oh, I see how it is. Yeah. Yeah, the concert starts soon. Like right now.” Still laughing, she draws back, the man drawn into a small peal of laughter as well. Then, as the two continue to laugh together, Stelle swings her bat and gets him right in the face.

He screeches like a bat and recoils, human flesh withering away to give way to a hideous face contorted into a scornful scowl, all horns and claws.

Kafka parries his swiping lunge with a swish of her blade, the sound of ripping fabric filling the air as his cleaves come off to reveal the patterns in their full glory, glowing bright and ominous in the darkness. “You were a little too late for the concert,” she says easily, dodging his every jab with the grace of a dancer (but only narrowly missing one of his attacks—it gets her jacket). “But I guess we can count this as your backstage pass.” Katana shimmering in the darkness, she lands a clean kick against his chest, sending him flying backward.

Then she clicks her tongue in displeasure, noticing that some of the sequins on her own jacket have come undone. Oh, she rather liked this one. She could have repurposed it into a nice going-out fit, if not for the fiery claws of this damn demon having singed it beyond recovery.

“Look out!”

Kafka looks up just in time to see Stelle darting in front of her to block another attack—damn, he rebounds fast. Bat in hand, she swings at him once more, the arc trailing a flurry of golden light in its wake. “Nice save,” Kafka tells her, readying her stance once more…and then pausing when she sees the state of her own right hand clutching her katana. Oh, dear. 

Stelle must have noticed, too, for she nods at her reassuringly. “I got this!” she cries, shielding herself from a barrage of fireballs with her bat, then retaliating with another deadly swing. 

This goes on for a few moments more, Stelle rapidly gaining ground as she presses forward in the face of the flaming onslaught, while Kafka shifts her katana to her left hand, clenching and unclenching her right. Ugh, what an inconvenience. Unsightly, unwarranted, undesired.

“You look homeless!” yells the demon, finally darting forward to swipe at Stelle once more in a last-ditch close-range effort.

”That’s the point!” Stelle yells back, clubbing him firmly in the knee and knocking him down hard enough to allow Kafka to deal the finishing blow.

Without an ounce of mercy in her eyes, she brings her sword down upon him.

“I knew the homeless look would come in handy!”

Stelle pulls her hair up into a ponytail, finally feeling wiped out for the night. No matter; now that their tour is done, they’ve earned their vacation. Time for days of endless lounging about on the couch together, watching videos of raccoons, and eating junk food that will probably give them horrible gastric issues. 

Behind her, Kafka sighs softly, a muted sound escaping her lips that she evidently attempts to tamp down, but Stelle notices. She always notices these things. Kafka is turned away from her, but she’s taken her jacket off to reveal her arms.

The light blue and purple patterns on her skin seem to have spread a little bit further than they used to be, beautiful and almost holographic in their sheen, but nonetheless telling of what Kafka truly is. Of what she might transform into if they don’t succeed in their mission.

The patterns swirl and ripple slightly, and as Stelle’s gaze travels down the woman’s arm, she notices that her right hand has turned a deep purple, claws jutting out where her short and neat nails should be. 

Oh.

Kafka is doing her best not to look too bothered by it. “It should return to normal in a few hours,” she says, mostly to herself. “Like it always does. Even though it seems to come more frequently now.”

Stelle moves closer and gently traces over the patterns, her touch lighter than feathers. “Soon, Kafka,” she says softly. “I promise. Soon. We’re almost there. Just one final push when we get that song out when the time’s right, and then we’ll turn the Honmoon gold.” She lets that hang in the air, the silent promise of “and your patterns will disappear” hovering thick and apparent.

It doesn't need to be said. Even the implicit understanding makes Kafka smile, nod, and peck Stelle’s cheek. “You’re right. And I can’t wait.”

Stelle gains a sliver of cheek as she smirks, taking Kafka’s clawed hand in hers. “Though I gotta say, these nails are pretty hot. I can totally take them.”

Kafka gasps in mock horror. “Oh my. In a fight, you mean, right?”

The smirk on Stelle’s face turns into an outright grin. “Nah.”

“You tease.” Kafka nudges her playfully with her more human hand, chuckling as Stelle doesn't even budge. Taking this as an opportunity to cast the hook, Kafka wraps her arms around Stelle’s waist and pulls her closer, their noses almost touching as they gaze into each other’s eyes—dipped in exhaustion from the night’s events, but that exhilaration still has their adrenaline buzzing at the edge of their skin. “You know I’m ambidextrous, my love. I can always use my left hand on you.”

Chapter Text

Stelle has memories that seem to belong to her, but at the same time don’t. 

They’re blurry in her mind’s eye, foggy in the corners like they’re drenched in some kind of haze—but they’re there in some tucked-away fold of her mind; vague paralogues that seem so connected to everything that makes her Stelle.

There are exactly three memories that orbit around her psyche like wayward shards that ought not to be there. Wrapped in mystery, a dreamlike shroud that often has her questioning if they are just figments of her imagination when in slumber, or perhaps even part of a lifetime forgotten even before she’d been born.

In the first memory, she had moved into an old mansion, an old inheritance from some deceased family member or the other. It was completely empty, that family member having spent all their life savings to purchase the place, but consequently having nothing left to actually furnish it. As Stelle explored the impressive estate, she found a myriad of curious items and artefacts that certainly hadn’t belonged there—a silver chalice inlaid with amethysts (this would have yielded a fortune should she have chosen to seek it, but she didn’t), a statuette of an onyx cat, and the floor-to-ceiling portrait of a woman. 

Try as she might, to this day Stelle cannot recall what that woman might have looked like: not her hair color, her eye color, or the expression worn on her face. All she knows, for some reason accepting it as fact, is that there was a woman as the sole subject of that painting. And that that very same woman might somehow have actually existed and paid her a visit or ten.

In the second memory, she was a performer, dancing in bars and pubs as people watched and clapped along to the rhythm of her contemporary beats. Not every household had access to a television yet, so for visual entertainment most people would often find themselves enjoying a weekend out to see her dance.

Among the enraptured audience, there must have been someone in particular Stelle dedicated her every movement to. She can’t really remember who, but it must have been a woman. In the recesses of this memory, she can somewhat identify having lingered after her performances, waiting for everyone else to get on after their congratulations and praise, so that she could focus on that sole woman hanging back with a glass of wine so red it may as well be blood. How curious that she can remember that little detail with the wine, swirling in its crystal-clear glass, but not the appearance of the woman herself. But one thing she knows for certain is that the woman was there for more than watching Stelle dance.

In the third memory, Stelle was working a dead-end office job. At least to her it had seemed like a dead-end post, the memory swathed in feelings of hopelessness and sour emptiness. The only thing distracting her from the endless piles and piles of unnecessary paperwork was the new intern. Stelle can hardly remember what she might have looked like—but she was certainly a woman. Her tenure there must have been brief, but Stelle feels almost certain they had grown close. Closer than anything, than anyone, those evenings after work filled with a color of longing and passion unreachable to most.

In all three memories, the woman must be the exact same being. Of this, Stelle is strangely sure of.

Why else would Stelle not be alarmed by the strange presence standing in front of her, shadows clinging to her form in a manner eerier than the silence that’s engulfed them here on this lonely street?

Hair a magenta so foreign, yet so familiar. Hazy eyes that reveal little behind them, the subtle crinkle of amusement the only tell that she’s there, standing only a few paces away, and tangible. Lips so red she may have bitten into ripe cherries.

The woman stands and watches Stelle silently. They’re alone here, nobody else out and about on this chill night, where not even the wind dares to howl.

Stelle’s eyes flicker with recognition. It’s all coming back to her, in ways she fails to grasp. But it’s all coming back. It sweeps over her with more force when the woman opens her mouth, the question sweet and almost lyrical.

“Do you remember me, Stelle?”

Stelle doesn't. She doesn't really remember her, but at the same time she thinks she does. It doesn't even come as a shock to her that this beautiful enigma of a woman knows her name even though she hasn’t uttered a word till now. No, somehow, it feels right. Like the gears of time and fate whirring slowly, letting the scattered shards of her past, present and future fall into place like a jigsaw puzzle Stelle hadn’t even realised she’d been given.

The woman has asked this question every single time they’d met.

She doesn't remember. But she does remember. So in the end, Stelle offers her one single nod, firm and assured.

A smile spreads on the woman’s wine-kissed lips, radiant and soft in nature, yet carrying a touch of melancholy.

It’s when she notes this that Stelle knows what her name is—Kafka.

Kafka, the woman with a beautiful smile steeped in a sadness she cannot begin to fathom. Kafka, the vampire who has waited patiently for her from one lifetime to the next, letting her go when the cycle of her life has reached one full rotation, and then coming to catch her again when she’s entered the next cycle. Immortal, ethereal, so beautiful and somehow she knows she’s hers.

Tucked within Kafka’s smile is the glint of fangs, cold and sharper than knives.

“You and I are each other’s destiny.” Kafka takes a step closer. “No matter where you go, I will follow. In this lifetime, and the next.”

Her voice is hypnotizing. So much that it feels like it might lull Stelle into a standing slumber, the sound grazing over her heartstrings and thrumming upon her soul. She continues to speak, alluring and luminous under the light of the full moon, but the words feel like cotton in Stelle’s ears. She wants her. She wants her. She missed Kafka so much, she can’t wait to be hers again, she hopes she, too, can turn immortal so they need not dance like this anymore—

And just like that, Kafka has her in an embrace, intimate and warm, lips brushing at her neck and snapping her out of her trance. “May I?” she asks softly, planting a soft kiss upon the skin that sends a flurry of shivers down Stelle’s spine. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around Kafka as well, returning the embrace.

“Of course, Kafka.” The words come out so easily, unprompted by the gentle pricking sensation of the fangs that beg to claim her like they have an immeasurable number of times before.

Satisfied by her unhesitating consent, Kafka sinks her fangs into her neck. Drinks slowly, savours her blood. Stelle closes her eyes, pain and pleasure overtaking her veins.

She lets her drink. The vampire drinks and drinks, steady sips and heady sighs clouding the night air.

Consumption is the greatest form of love there is, the most carnal expression of desire, and Stelle is but all too happy to allow Kafka to consume her wholly. 

In this lifetime, and the next.

Chapter Text

Beyond the cloying confines of the space station, the sea of stars is limitless, stretching across the universe without a definite end in sight. It’s dizzyingly vast. In this way, the station serves as a…moor of sorts. Tethers Stelle to one place, offers her a sense of orientation. It’s easy to lose track of oneself out there in the great unknown—sure, there are innumerable worlds out there, but the expanse between one planet to the next means one could spend a lifetime rowing through the quiet cosmic maelstrom and die in that patterned nothingness.

So Stelle is safe here, in Herta Space Station. Safe and stable. There’s nothing threatening her life, nothing born of uncertainty hurtling straight at her.

Stelle sits before her own designated pile of paperwork for the day, sorting through them carefully. Once, she had been reprimanded for sifting through them at a snail’s pace—she had nearly lashed out at her manager, curses hot upon the tip of her tongue, but something had calmed her a split second before she could stir up a scene. Was it worth it? The voice seemed to be asking her. Would it make things easier?

Below her workspace, fellow researchers and workers mill about like ants upon a monochrome canvas, carrying on with whatever presses upon them for the day. It’s an endless cycle, day in and day out, papers that ceaselessly pile up and scheduled meetings with an infinite stream of visitors. 

The shuffle of papers fills the empty silence. Once she’s done with the sorting, she’ll begin working on the monthly budget report. After that, perhaps she’ll use her twenty-minute break to grab a quick bite and say hello to Peppy. Then, she’ll have to get started on visitor profiling for the rest of the day…

Can something be mind-numbing when the mind has long since been numbed? Regardless, after hours of the grind, Stelle turns in her work for the day, her impartial expression mirrored on her stoic manager’s features. He has a face that suggests he’s on the cusp of teetering from middle aged to elderly, numerous lines of stress making up the contours. Silver-gray hair, mouth permanently down-turned. (Stelle briefly wonders if her own hair will peter out into more weathered hues.)

”Good job,” he says with a nod, flat and emotionless. “You’ve been consistent lately. Keep it up for at least three years straight, and I might put in a good word for you. Get you maybe a five percent increment by then.”

An increment. An unfamiliar concept, but a rise in pay is a good thing no matter how big or small. Maybe Stelle can even shoot for ten percent if she plays all her cards right—works fast, talks mild, smiles friendly.

She’s happy here, she repeats to herself as she retreats to her quarters for the night. She’s happy here, and she doesn’t wonder what life on the Astral Express, steeped in roiling chaos and the ravenous unknown, would have been like.

Stelle is safe here. Safe and stable.

Stelle is woken up by the sound of something thumping in the overhead vent of her room. 

Her eyes snap open and she rolls out of bed, lamp on, phone at the ready. If it’s one of those Antimatter Legion monsters, she’ll have to speed-dial one of the guards, or probably Asta or Arlan.

Thump. Thump.

She stares at the vent, watching, waiting. There is no gut feeling telling her to cease stalling and call someone; no incessant hammering of her heart setting off warning alarms in her head. Somehow, whatever is approaching doesn’t sound hostile or heavy enough to be a threat. No foreboding reverberations throughout the room, no low rumbling growls. 

And that’s when the grate comes off, falling to the ground in an unceremonious clatter. Stelle’s frown deepens; her thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button. One tap and help will be on the way should she require it.

A single leg sticks out; a woman’s. Stelle recognises the black heel and magenta stocking upon that dainty figure but still gets into a fighting stance. Worst case, she can chuck her phone at her and make as quick a getaway as she can deign, even if its an endeavour in futility.

And then the woman hops down, landing gracefully and silently, quite the contrast to the grate. Stelle locks eyes with Kafka, a soft smile on the latter’s face as she dusts herself off casually. 

“I knew I had the right vent. How have you been, Stelle?”

Stelle blinks, then slowly relaxes. This woman is dangerous, but not outwardly virulent. At least, not yet. At this, Kafka tilts her head, observing her carefully. Her smile falters for a moment, but it’s back on her glossy lips before Stelle can call it to question. Somewhere in her mind, Stelle thinks she can recall having been taught this readying stance by Kafka herself. Something twinges at her heart, something incomprehensible.

“I’ve been well,” she says finally. Then, after a pause, she returns, “How have you been?”

”I’ve been well too.” Kafka’s tone is unreadable. She ambles about the room, gaze darting around, taking in the…drabness of it, perhaps. There is little adorning the walls besides a singular poster of Madam Herta—and it’s already peeling off the wall. Besides the plain single bed, table and chest of drawers, there is nothing of note in here. Nothing to just it’s a place where one lives rather than survives. It’s normal to Stelle, but she sees the way Kafka’s shoulders sag almost imperceptibly.

The way she moves, with subtle grace clinging to her every step…it puts an odd feeling of melancholy in Stelle’s gut. It settles like dirt in water; heavy and nebulous. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she thinks she can call to recognition some faraway memory of a time that truly occurred—or some impossibly lucid dream.

In that dream, her and Kafka are…close. Closer than anything. Dancing on the stage of destiny, a tango where neither can be too far from the other, two souls tethered to each other in a world where being alone means being lost in that endless nothingness.

Kafka runs a finger along the Herta poster idly, her eyes trained on it but harboring little interest. “How are you finding your work?”

”Fine,” answers Stelle, a tinge deadpan. “There’s a lot of work to be done every day. But it’s nothing too hard. The people are fine. Nice. They laugh when I crack jokes, so they’re not total rocks.” At this, Kafka’s lips quirk upward. “And the dog—Peppy—is adorable. I pet it every chance I get.”

With a hum, Kafka turns back to face her. “That sounds nice, Stelle.” Going by her tone, she might not truly mean that. “And are you happy here?”

On purpose, Stelle sidles past the question to ask one of her own. “How are the Stellaron Hunters? Have you made contact with the Express lately?”

The woman had expected some form of hesitation or resistance from Kafka, perhaps a demand to answer her question first. But no, she just smiles and says, “The Stellaron Hunters are as busy as ever. There is much to do, and much more to be done still. Although, I can’t say it’s been easy.” She sighs softly in resignation. “As for the Express…I honestly don’t know. I haven’t kept tabs on them since the day you refused their offer. I assumed there would be no point to it.”

“I see.” Stelle thinks again of that hazy dream. Of a past and future so different yet so closely twined with each other that it shakes the foundations of what it means to be alive and breathing.

Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s why, when Stelle reaches out and grasps Kafka’s hand, neither woman is surprised at the action.

Kafka looks down at their hands, fingers automatically moving to entwine with each other as though through instinct, and there’s something withering in her look. 

“Are you…” Stelle swallows, hesitation evident in every little movement. It’s a gargantuan task to simply wrangle the words out of her throat, to confront what hangs thickly in the air, a deafening silence. “Are you mad at me? For choosing to stay here instead of boarding the Express?”

There is a long lapse, almost excruciatingly painful in how it thickens further. Kafka then sighs again, softly, and squeezes her hand in what is perhaps reassurance, despite the fact that she stares down at the floor between their feet when she speaks. “No,” she says finally. “I will never fault you for the choices you make, Stelle. What you do is your choice alone. That power to carve your own path…it belongs exclusively to you. Don’t let anyone cloud that.”

Stelle lets out a shaky breath. There is nothing hostile in her tone—but there is just the faintest touch of melancholia. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“But let me ask you something.” She looks up, gazing intently into Stelle’s eyes. Those hazy pools of magenta, impenetrable as they are, still hold onto some form of melancholia, of opportunities swept away with the stars. “Do you regret the choice you made to stay here?”

Blinking, Stelle opens her mouth, then falters, finding she has no answer to give. Does she regret it? The answer isn’t as clear as a straightforward yes or no. It feels right for her to be here, for her to be safe and stable and protected instead of being out there and facing the terrifying unknown…but at the same time, it feels wrong. So wrong it makes her gut do a jolt. 

Chuckling, Kafka gazes back up at the open vent which she’d crawled in from. “Alright, you don’t have to answer that. I’ll let it stay with you.” Another gentle squeeze of the hand. There is a raw vulnerability in her eyes that pierces through the facet of her that’s unreadable. “I just have one last question.”

Stelle raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Do you…” Kafka runs her thumbs over Stelle’s hands, an absent action that just barely ghosts the surface of her skin; not quite touching, but close enough for the gray-haired woman to ask for it. “…want to see me again?”

The question has Stelle figuratively stumbling. This woman, mired in mystery and allure wrapped under layers and layers of secrecy—where Stelle both begins and ends—still holds the answers to questions Stelle cannot bring herself to ask.

So instead, Stelle chooses to debride herself from all that uncertainty and offer her one thread of certain honesty. “Yes. Yes, I want to see you again.” There’s a hint of desperation at the edges, but she hopes Kafka cannot detect it.

The Stellaron Hunter hums softly. “I see.” 

“You’ll come to see me again, right?”

Kafka laughs softly and holds both of her hands, firm and familiar. “My scripts take me on missions all across the galaxy,” she tells her softly, only barely above a whisper. “But when I have the time, I will come see you here again. I promise.” She presses her forehead to Stelle’s, closing her eyes. Her breathing is slightly jaunted, uneven. “I promise,” she repeats.

Subtly, Stelle angles her face just so, closing her eyes as well. Their breaths fan over each other’s lips, unspoken vulnerability evident in the way Stelle’s tongue swipes over her lip, in the way Kafka interlaces their fingers tightly, in the way both women quietly wish Stelle had heeded the call of that golden ticket.

What happens after that seems to be a hazy blur, like when one wakes up after a vivid dream, but as the moments slip by, the details flee as though the dream had never existed.

Perhaps Stelle asks Kafka to stay. Perhaps she breaks down and opens her heart up to her, telling her a plethora of things she had otherwise buried deep under the guise of white lies. Perhaps these what-ifs are all in her head, tightly bottled and corked, and she lets Kafka go without another word, the tension snapping like a fraying thread.

Kafka doesn’t keep her promise.

Days blot into months, which blot into years. Stelle pays attention to the news each day. Worlds rise, civilisations fall, planets which had been 

The Astral Express falls once more, this time seeming to fade away into obscurity, dragging Akivili’s forgotten legacy along with it. 

The Stellaron Hunters, too, meet their end somewhere within that infinite universe. Against the backdrop of existence as a whole, their faction now seems…minuscule. Infinitesimal against that infinity. Insignificant. Was this the Finality they had foreseen for themselves, or had this been a premature cutting of the cord ordained by destiny, bored by this apparent stagnation?

“Hey, quit slacking,” her manager chides, hot breath against the back of her neck. When did he get there? 

Stelle nods, murmurs a quick apology, and resumes typing up the quarterly report. Figures and charts blur into something nigh incomprehensible, the bright glare of the screen irritating her eyes. They burn for some reason. She feels queasy. She resumes her typing nevertheless. Tap, tap, tap.

Stelle never once believed in that call of destiny, anyway. So when she sinks into slumber every night, she will content herself with simply dreaming of those boundless silver rails, countless unfathomable worlds shrouded by shadow, and one solitary woman under an inky umbrella, glasses perched atop her magenta head, whose smile begets a myriad of untapped emotions. 

Chapter Text

Kafka and Stelle were both six years old when they met for the first time, the latter having moved into the neighborhood from a different city. It turned out that they were neighbors, their apartment doors facing each other in that great big gated community. Kafka had been watching Stelle and her family curiously, eyeing all the cardboard boxes being heaved into the place.

Since Stelle was only six, she carried nothing with her except a little backpack she wore, contributing nothing to the physical labor. She sat on the steps with her video game console, minding her own business as the adults did all the heavy lifting. Kafka spotted her and immediately came up to her and introduced herself. 

They became fast friends, the connection clicking alive faster than Stelle could boot up her game. They talked and talked and talked about everything and nothing at the same time, the kind of pointless babble the average six-year-olds might partake in, and Stelle’s parents and Kafka’s mother were both pleased to see how well they got instantly along. They played together every day after school, and every weekend morning (Stelle woke up early enough just so she could spend time with Kafka, who was a habitual early riser for some reason). They ran around chasing each other, they blew bubbles, they colored together, they watched cartoons, they played with the other kids in the complex as well—but out of all the children there, they were the closest two. 

One evening, the two girls were out admiring the freshly-blooming flowers in the apartment garden when Stelle spotted something green and wriggling out of the corner of her eye. She thought it was a stem come loose, but then she saw the beady little eyes and screamed.

But Kafka didn’t even flinch at the sight of the snake. She calmly walked up to it, grabbing it by its middle (and Stelle was still terrified as she watched from a distance, that gross and squirmy and wriggly scaley creature) and tossing it over the compound wall. Then she turned to Stelle and grinned, giving her a bright and proud thumbs-up and casually asking her if she’d like to go get strawberry shortcake.

It was then that Stelle knew that Kafka was a force to be reckoned with, a girl to keep by her side forever and ever.

Kafka and Stelle were eight years old when Kafka invited her that summer to join her at her other home in the mountains. 

Stelle had wondered why she had two homes, but Kafka explained that her mother and father lived in different places so she got to live in two houses and see them at different times—one during the school year and one during the summer. Stelle thought that sounded really fun, but Kafka wasn’t exactly jumping at the thought. Maybe because she was used to it and so the novelty wore off?

The house was massive, so massive that Stelle almost fell down trying to discern where the roof was—maybe it was touching the clouds overhead? Here in the mountains, she was closer to the sky than ever. It was amazing, but also too exhilarating to the point it was almost scary. She felt like she might roll down the grassy slopes or even be blown away by the winds and clouds if she let her guard down for even a second. (Never mind that the mansion itself was on a flat, plain-like elevation and not on a literal slope where their every movement would be diagonal to the ground.)

Whenever they left the house to take a walk or play by the nearby stream, Kafka always held her hand in reassurance. Don’t worry, she’d said, just hold my hand and you’ll be A-OK. I’ll keep you safe. You won’t tumble down the mountain, or fly up and away into the clouds like a balloon. And besides, even if you do…I can always catch you, can’t I? 

It worked like a charm and beyond. Stelle held onto her wherever they went, skipping together with Kafka hand-in-hand as they looked out over the world below, took walks along the trails, and even as they petted the local goats. Stelle adored the goats. They were so fluffy and soft, a little like Kafka’s hair if it were white instead of magenta.

Stelle found that she loved holding Kafka’s hand, whether outdoors or indoors. Yes, she still held onto her even after they would come back inside for dinner or snacks, stating that her hand was always very warm. Stelle’s hands were always a little cold despite the mittens. She also loved this month-long sleepover where she could cuddle Kafka in her big, plush bed all night, giggling and telling each other stories until they tired themselves out and drifted off in the middle of their chatter.

That was the first of several summers that had Stelle feeling like she was in heaven, there amidst the misty clouds and meandering fluffy goats and Kafka’s hands of aegis.

Kafka and Stelle were twelve years old when Stelle realized she had feelings for Kafka.

A complete, full-blown crush; not just a simple liking wrapped up in the limits of friendship. No, she was very sure what she felt for Kafka spanned beyond the platonic. After spending four summers with her, it only started to grow more and more apparent. Stelle loved Kafka’s fearlessness, her willingness to protect her, her little stories that sounded smart and cool but were actually quite silly and endearing, her beautiful smile whenever she laughed…

Boys were fine, but they were whatever. Kafka was better than any boy out there. Any girl, even.  Stelle made up her mind that if possible, she would ask Kafka to the year-end middle school dance. She was nervous to, actually; Kafka had begun to grow popular with the kids in class, no doubt due to her smarts and her pretty looks combined. The boys always stopped by her seat to make idle chatter as an excuse to talk to her—not that she showed all that much interest, even if she did confide in Stelle that some of them were kind of cute (which made Stelle feel a little jealous and possibly even annoyed?).

So naturally, Stelle thought she might have about a zero percent chance of being her partner to the dance, even if they were the best of friends and always hung out with each other—after all, weren’t most kids going together as boy-girl pairs? Still, she wasn’t one to back down just at the thought of rejection, even if it would sting like crazy. They can always still be friends, right? 

Imagine her complete shock when the time for the dance was approaching steadily, and Kafka was the one to bring up if she’d like to be her partner to the dance. Stelle, at a loss for words, couldn’t even bring it in herself to ask why Kafka wanted to pick her from the get-go instead of all those boys who seemed to want her so openly. But she knew not to pry, so she immediately nodded and expressed her enthusiastic consent with a floating soul and leaping heart. Kafka smiled in relief, a darling thing that had Stelle’s heart racing a thousand miles an hour, and immediately launched into her ideas she’d been stewing over as to what kind of matching outfits they could try on. She’d been looking forward to this for a very long time, it seemed, and it made Stelle happier than ever to listen to her every desire.

The dance turned out to be magical. Stelle wore a pretty black suit and Kafka wore a shimmering lavender dress that brought out her eyes quite well. They danced and swayed under the spotlight and then wolfed down some tater tots together, uncaring that the crumbs and sauce were getting all over their nice outfits. Their corsages were matching, too—Stelle wore a purple one and Kafka wore a yellow one in honor of each other.

They didn’t end up winning best couple or best outfits or best anything of the sort, but Stelle had really thought they were the true unsung winners that night. It was one of the very best nights of her life, after all.

Kafka and Stelle were fifteen years old when they properly confessed to each other for the first time.

After that dance a few years ago, nothing had seemed to be moving forward beyond the constraints of their deep platonic bond. At least, that’s what it had seemed like to Stelle. Sure, they began to spend nights at each other’s apartments more frequently just for the fun of it, and also went to hang out after school discovering new shopping places and eateries and arcades (Stelle excelled at games, but Kafka seemed to be having a little trouble), but beyond holding hands and chaste little pecks on each other’s cheeks, it seemed like that was all it was going to be.

And as the time passed, Stelle was surer and surer still that what she felt for Kafka was a hundred percent a crush—actually no, a crush couldn’t even begin to explain it. She liked her a lot. She loved her. And it might seem silly to use the word ‘love’ at a young age like hers, but it was still the right one. It had to be. And so after countless months of musing over the matter, she decided it was time to seize the moment and actually confess. After all, even if Kafka rejected her, they were still close enough to maintain their friendship at least. Hopefully.

It had been a lovely autumn day, cool but not cold, the kind of season where everyone started to wear thick leggings under their skirts. They had just gotten coffee from their favorite local haunt and were taking a walk under the arching canopy of the trees, admiring all the fiery shades of red and orange that rustled and whispered in the breeze. They wore matching sweaters they had made for each other once during a workshop (Stelle’s favorite sweater, and hopefully even Kafka felt the same).

As they came closer and closer to the great big wishing fountain at the end of the path, Stelle decided it was now or never. Whirling to face Kafka, the drink in her hand sloshing out of its rim just a tiny bit, she looked her in the eye and said what was on her mind. That she really, really, really likeD Kafka and her liking was more than a friend’s. Stelle loved her, and though she didn't want this to come between their deep bond, she felt like she needed to get it off her chest. And it was okay if Kafka didn't feel the same—she wouldn’t hold it against her and would respect her thoughts on the matter, regardless of what they were.

Kafka stared at her for what seemed like a degree too long and embarrassing, so much that Stelle had started to think this was her way of rejecting her. Then, without a word, Kafka gently guided her to the fountain that stood grand and tall up ahead. In the water at the base were hundreds of coins tossed in by people who loosely believed in its magic power to grant any wish.

Then, Kafka pointed to a coin pile near the center of the water, where the fountain was gushing directly into and rendering the reflection of the pile wavy and unclear. She explained to Stelle, barely containing her delight, that every coin tossed into this fountain bore her wish to see her and Stelle become more than friends. And turns out, miracles do happen.

Lips warm with the taste of hot cocoa and coffee, they kissed properly for the first time.

Kafka and Stelle were eighteen years old when they had to move away for college.

Their courses of study were vastly different—Kafka wanted to learn psychology while Stelle wanted to pursue game design—and consequently the universities offering the best respective courses for them were also vastly different. Kafka’s within the country, Stelle’s in a different continent entirely.

Stelle cried on the day she left home, waving goodbye from the back of the car until she couldn’t see Kafka anymore, curling up into a ball beside all her luggage all the way to the airport. She thought back to the last three years and how perfect they were. How happy they were. They’d gone on so many dates (their outings having been turned into official couple dates), their sleepovers turned into heated and adolescent make out sessions, and they publicly held hands. Both in school and out. Every time, Stelle was reminded of the way Kafka offered to hold her hand back during their first summer together—and now it had been a habit that came second nature to them.

The contact made Stelle feel safe, feel secure, feel grounded, feel loved. Now what was she to do, halfway across the world from her dearest Kafka? No more passing notes of love to each other, no more surprise presents, no more kisses under their shared blanket. She cried again on the flight, muffling her quiet sobs behind her sleeve so the stranger sitting beside her wouldn’t raise questions.

The first video call they had, Stelle noticed the puffiness at the corner of Kafka’s eyes. The latter didn't say anything about it, but mutually they knew. They knew it was going to be hard, but they swore silently to each other that they’d excel in their chosen fields and come back to see each other.

Stelle was somewhat popular in her year, her humor and rather rambunctious personality piquing the interest of her fellow students. Not to mention how smart she was despite her outward persona—her grades were always in top shape. So it was only natural for people to come forward and confess to her, but she would always politely reject them and show them the bracelet she wore on her wrist.

It was yellow and purple, glittering beads catching the sunlight when moved just right. The middle of the bracelet even had beads with letters on them: K-F-S-T-L. It might have seemed cheesy, but some time within their relationship Kafka and Stelle had decided on a couple’s name for themselves. Kafka had one exactly like it, and was no doubt showing it off at her uni as well whenever anyone dared approach her romantically. Kafka was Stelle’s, and Stelle was Kafka’s, no matter how many miles apart.

Kafka and Stelle were twenty-two years old when they finally got to move in together.

A pandemic had prevented Stelle from leaving the country during her time at uni, as though fate had been playing a cruel trick on her. The travel ban was only lifted after two years, and after that it had turned out that Kafka was almost never in town when Stelle had breaks.

Their courses completed and degrees earned with flying colors, destiny had finally decided to bring them together again. The ideal place for each woman to work turned out to be in the same city, so they rejected all other job offers and took the one that guaranteed they could be together again. Their meeting was thick with emotions, tears springing to their eyes as they laughed and cried and hugged and kissed each other after so, so long. 

They moved in together and shared the housework, enjoying their newfound adulting life in the company of each other. They cooked together whenever they could, went out for nice dinner dates during the weekends, and even adopted a cat. A black, fluffy cat they named Elio. He meowed a lot and pawed at them for attention, only seeming to do so when the couple was busy showering each other in love. Ah, well.

Life was good again, now that they were back in each other’s light. The time apart had made them grow closer than ever, their intimate moments tinged with flaming passions and promises of never letting go. During these moments, Stelle always held her a little tighter, her touches and kisses more desperate, more insistent. As though Kafka might disappear if she let go for even a second.

But she never did disappear. Partly thanks to how deeply in love she was with Stelle, and partly because Stelle often tossed a coin into the local fountain on her way to work to let things stay this way forever.

Kafka and Stelle were twenty-six years old when they got married.

Twenty years of having known each other, so many beautiful moments shared together, a lot of doubt on Stelle’s end (and even Kafka’s) as to whether they might even be something greater than friends, but here they stood finally, facing each other at the altar, Stelle in a suit and Kafka in a dress, just like that first dance all those years ago.

Kafka was holding a bouquet of roses, little yellow and purple lilies dotted within the mix as a symbol of their union. Both Stelle and Kafka still wore their matching bracelets, tucked neatly under their sleeves—it had become part of them at this point, just as they were now officially becoming a part of each other’s soul.

The cake was a lovely triple-decker beauty, adorned with frosting flowers and edible gold flakes. It was a lovely strawberry flavor inside, the same kind of strawberry like the shortcake they’d eaten after Kafka bravely tossed that snake aside all those years ago.

Elio was the ring-bearer, and he did a mighty fine job of prancing down the aisle to deliver it. He purred and bowed his head eagerly for head-pats after it, earning hearty laughter from everyone present.

The couple exchanged their vows, completed all other formalities, and kissed in the presence of all their supportive friends and family. Kafka and Stelle smiled at each other, tears brimming at the corners of their eyes. Could things get any more magical?

They were twenty-six when they sealed their eternity with each other to the sound of applause and wedding bells, a bright red string that would follow them through the decades, and even into the afterlife and beyond.

Chapter Text

“How about we play a little game, Stelle? Whoever gets the most kills today…gets to ask the other for anything they like.”

Those were the words Kafka had told Stelle this morning during their training, eyeing the vast open plains upon which a host of creatures prowled about looking for their next kill.

It’s nothing new to Stelle. Kafka has always incentivized honing her fighting technique through little challenges like these, enjoying the blazing spark of passion that would flicker to life at the thought of a little competition. Though…

Now that the contest has ended, the final feral wildebeest toppled by Stelle’s hand, the woman can’t help but frown.

“Well, Stelle, it looks like you won our little competition.” Kafka seems as cheery as ever, her hands clasped behind her back casually as she regards Stelle with that look of tempered mirth in her eyes.

That much is true. Stelle did win. But only because they had been tied until now, with the last monster hot on Kafka’s trail, only for her to not lift a single finger against it and let her companion take the win instead. She just…stood and watched. Waited. Like it was never even a contest at all.

She’s always like this, isn’t she? Kafka has never won a single competition between them yet.

Stelle has never been one to ask for much. It’s a miracle to get her to be any modicum of chatty in the first place, but when she does speak, she’s about as direct as they come. Which is why she now rests her head on Kafka’s lap, a long-awaited moment of respite after a particularly exhausting day. This is her reward for winning. Just being here like this. Head on her lap, Kafka’s fingers trailing a path in her hair.

“Does this make you happy, Stelle?” asks Kafka, her gentle voice always a panacea to soothe the roiling chaos that flows in Stelle’s veins (it’s not chaos, Kafka would insist, but Stelle cannot think of any other word to describe the confusion that comes with her own soul; her past, present and future).

Stelle turns her head so her cheek is against the soft flesh of her companion’s thigh (she has the urge to bite her here). “Yeah. It does. This is comfortable.” It had been a little unexpected of her to request this of the wine-haired woman, but Kafka had given in to her without a single question or look of perplexion. “What about you?” she asks suddenly. “Does this make you happy?”

The soft smile that finds its way to Kafka’s lips makes Stelle’s heart do an irrational leap or three. “Anything that makes you happy, makes me happy as well.”

Stelle looks up at her, a small frown marring her forehead. Kafka always finds a way to deflect from how she feels and what she wants. It’s…rather unnerving, actually. How can Stelle be so indubitably attached to a woman who keeps most of her emotions under wraps? What Stelle knows of her only scratches the surface—no, perhaps a little deeper. At the very least, deeper than the others can claim to know. This is what Kafka had told her, so it must likely be true.

“Have I said something wrong?” Kafka tilts her head as she studies Stelle’s quizzical gaze. 

Stelle rolls away (and instantly misses the warm, familiar contact) and props herself up on one elbow. “You lost on purpose. You always do. Why is that?”

Kafka remains silent, her hand stilling and settling on her lap. She never tells her anything, really. Beyond the bare minimum, that is—so it’s no wonder Stelle feels like she knows her well but doesn't know her at all. No matter how many times they may have shared moments of passion and intimacy together.

“It’s always about what I want. Tell me what you want, Kafka.”

Kafka beams. A radiant smile that itself is enough to send Stelle’s mind teetering on the edge of sanity, toeing the line of what she should be doing and what she actually wants. Stelle wets her lips absently.

“What do I want?” She taps her chin in thought, but the look in her eyes tells Stelle she’s only pretending. “I want to know if there’s something you would like to do right now.”

“There is.” It comes without hesitation.

“Go on, then,” prompts Kafka, already aware of the tangled mess of thoughts inside her companion’s head. “It’s what I want, too.” It should be jarring, just how attuned Kafka is to her, but to Stelle…it’s just how she is, something she has accepted as a world constant, just like the oxygen in her lungs, just like how water flows and the sun ascends and descends.

So Stelle arises and kisses her because she wants to, because she needs to, and the taste of cherries and wine caresses her senses as she takes and takes.

But Kafka is no less enthusiastic as she kisses back, her fingers threading through Stelle’s hair as she pulls her closer. The stars the make up the universe could all simultaneously combust right this moment, and still Stelle would never pull away.

There is hunger in her actions, in the way her teeth gently catch Kafka’s lower lip, and that hunger is matched in the way Kafka nudges a finger against Stelle’s chin to angle her just right for the perfect angle she, too, can devour her…what does Stelle taste like, incidentally?

It doesn't matter right now. 

They both pull away at the same time for air, but even Stelle’s lungs can’t tell her what to do. She goes in for another, mouth insatiable, but Kafka places a finger against her lips. “Not yet.”

Deterred, Stelle rears back, her mouth curving into the subtlest pout. “Why not?”

She must have been frowning, because Kafka thumbs her temples, rubbing gently. “I just want to know one thing.” The smile on her face is unwavering, even slightly glossy from their kiss. “Will you remember this moment for me?”

Stelle’s answer comes without hesitation, like the word had always been dormant on the tip of her tongue. “Always.” She leans in to lay her claim once more. 

But her lips make no contact with anything.

As though having uttered something baleful, the room turns dimmer, colours fading into a whirl of sepia, and suddenly it feels like Stelle’s senses are choked with cotton. Heavy, light, impeding all at once. Where is her agency?

It takes all the effort of wading through an ocean of ink to lace her fingers with Kafka’s, but Stelle cannot feel the warmth that comes with the strained contact.

One moment, she is rooted firmly to home, and the next, she is hurtling through the cosmos. It comes hard and fast before her mind can comprehend it: a jolt that thrusts her across a sea of countless stars whirling endlessly around her, and she falls, farther and farther and farther still, the searing-hot novae only just skirting by her skin. Chaos wails in her mind, the cry of an Aeon dying and coming back, dying and coming back…

The worlds and stars dissipate like smoke, and there is a chest-tightening nothingness.

And she collapses onto a soft bed, but there is no bounce, no stuttering lungs fiending for air, having never fallen at all. 

She bolts upright, her heart beating overtime. Stelle looks around at her surroundings, the once-familiar image of the ship bleeding out and giving way to…a train.

She’s in her room on the Astral Express. A room she had painstakingly crafted herself, each knickknack a piece of her born-again memories. To craft a new life of her own.

But the lingering recesses of the dream—if it really was a dream—are those her locked-away memories? She can almost swear the taste of cherries and wine has settled itself firmly on her own tongue.

Stelle gazes at the wanted poster of Kafka she had hung up on the wall. It had been met with disdain by March, but since the room belonged to Stelle, she had had full authority as to what stays. The poster stares back at her, that beautifully smug expression and that unreadable smile. Maybe if she stares at it long enough, Kafka will blink, let out an airy laugh, and tell her what she’d just experienced was much more than some dream.

But nothing happens, as Stelle had known. And already, the dream has begun to slip from her memory, and she tries desperately to grasp onto it with everything she has. But the images blur into each other, the dialogue grows muffled, and the taste of cherries and wine drifts away like it had never existed. There is next to nothing left.

Just one question settles like silt somewhere in her head: what, truly, does Kafka want?

The woman’s face remains planted firmly in her mind, as radiant as always, an ever-present reminder that their paths will eventually converge again—somewhere down the line, when Finality’s maw opens up for a yawn, tired of the universe being so utterly full.

The listless woman falls back into bed with a long sigh. There is little to do today…and her body is still heavy with fatigue. It would not do to dwell on dreams when the world of the waking calls for her…but when the waking world denies her even a glimpse of Kafka, much less a taste, where is the harm in closing her eyes just one more time?