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The café is alive with the sounds and smells of patronage.
The firm timbre of Mika’s voice rumbles against the walls, chatting with a customer about anything and everything, large hands busy with the minutiae of making a rich blend or those sweets that, more often than not, serve as bribes for Chisato. The tang of coffee is like a wall of smell every time Takina picks up a plate from a table, flashing the patrons a small smile as she takes the dishes to clean in the back.
The water running in the sink forms a white noise that leaves Takina in a haze. Her hands, used to the work after weeks now, mechanically go through the motions of dripping soap on a sponge, lathering a plate, rinsing it, setting it on the drying rack. She must look nigh robotic.
Robotic...
The missing instrument in the usual symphony crashes into the room with all the subtlety of a cymbal crash. Chisato is flowing reds and platinum blonde, uniform fluttering as she goes from customer to customer, warmth and energy rivaling the coffee drying in empty cups and brewing anew under Mika’s watchful gaze.
‘There really is no heartbeat.’
Takina snaps out of the fog enveloping her thoughts as a pair of arms wrap themselves around her neck, accompanied by a loud ‘Takina!’ sounding in her ears.
Chisato is, as always, unconcerned with the scene she is making, water splashing as it overflows from a too-full bowl still in the sink, Takina’s hands held awkwardly in front of her so as to not drip water all over the LycoReco uniforms.
“Good morning, Chisato,” Takina mutters, mostly nonplussed by the overt display of affection in the face of the customers' gentle laughs and crescent-moon eyes, corners crinkling under their smiles. “Would you mind letting go of me so I can actually wash these plates?”
Chisato’s smirk is fiendish, roguish, and totally unfair. Slender arms encircle Takina tightly, near-possessive. Hair tickles at Takina’s nape as Chisato rests her head against her neck, lips brushing against heated skin. “I don’t think I will,” she says, devil that she is. “I like it here. You’re nice and warm.”
The sun peeks out from behind a sordid gray cloud, light reflecting off the just-cleaned windows, drowning the older girl in gold. The sight is enough to force a wedge in Takina’s throat as sunset-red eyes seem to pierce right through her. Takina’s heartbeat feels unfairly agitated against the stillness of Chisato’s chest. Her only consolation is the pulse that races through the arms around her, resting comfortably upon Chisato’s wrists, pumping blood through hands that play absentmindedly at the folds of Takina’s navy-blue uniform.
‘Yeah. Cool, right?’
Takina curses at the mirage of a past Chisato. There is no way this could be “cool”. Not when she is so obviously being toyed with, not when she cannot count on the thump of a heart against her back to sneak a peek into the emotions of this mysterious ball of sunshine and secrets at her side, enveloping all around her.
“Hey, Chisato! Stop flirting with your girlfriend and get back to helping man the front end!” Mizuki yells, words just the slightest bit slurred, gaze just the slightest bit heavy with envy. Chisato laughs, a full rumble against Takina’s shoulders, another breath mingling with her own.
“Yes’m!” Chisato chirps, slipping into a smart salute, arms retracting from around Takina. She feels almost dejected at how stark that absence seems, now that she had been afforded the benefit of it for all of 10 seconds. Chisato’s eyes flit to Takina’s, a bonfire flickering in smoky night, smirk a searing line of coal. “Keep up the good work, my young apprentice.”
Takina’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, into a fond smile. She lifts a now-dry hand to her temple, imitating Chisato’s salute, and then the room is filled once again with a blur of flowing red and platinum blonde.
Takina’s heart slows its irregular drumroll as she dries herself off with a nearby towel. Repetitive motions, rub and dry. Soft fabric gliding across her hands.
The rustle of Chisato’s Lycoris uniform against her cheek, an eerie silence lurking under the cheerful girl’s skin. There is a paradox brewing in Takina’s mind—the thought that despite hearing nothing, here lies that which she longs to protect the most. A heart of steel and wire that still finds in itself the capacity to love—to love so freely that it cannot be anything but human. Takina wishes to return the favor.
Takina’s hands pause their movements. A frown crosses her features as her heart picks back up into double time.
“Mizuki!” Takina yells, voice an impossible mix of impassive and indignant as she peeks through the entryway of the kitchen. “Chisato isn’t my-!”
Gunfire strikes at the concrete pillar, forcing Takina to duck her head behind cover once again. A groan echoes across the small corner she and Chisato have managed to sequester themselves in, and Takina’s fragile heart is primed to burst at the sound.
Chisato is a genius at analyzing trajectories from bullets in the middle of a fight. This is not magic, Takina has learned, but more a common-sense process of elimination. Hawkeyes find themselves unable to land a single shot on the slippery Lycoris because the usual places—head, chest, legs—are naturally high-priority targets, and thus easy to plan around when it comes to dodging.
Of course, since the universe is a cruel and unusual place, they happen to be assigned a job to someone who does not shoot at the two of them, but instead has a penchant for ricocheting bullets from pre-planted steel plates.
Chisato is a genius, but she is not invincible.
Blood oozes freely from a gunshot wound on Chisato’s stomach. She’s kept a hand firmly clasped over the wound, but the discomfort across the set of her brow and the twist of her lips is beginning to show. Takina wracks her brain for ideas, each pump of blood through clenched fingers a second ticking by on an invisible clock.
“Chisato,” Takina mutters quietly, voice strained, eyes darting back and forth. “Have you been keeping tracks of the plates he’s shooting?”
“Yeah,” Chisato croaks, lifting herself into a more upright sitting position with a grimace. “I already know we’re in the only real blind spot right now-”
“Where do I have to shoot to hit him with a ricocheted bullet?” Takina interrupts, quickly unloading an empty magazine from her handgun and slotting in a new one with a satisfying click that echoes across the dilapidated parking lot.
Chisato’s eyes widen a fraction, surprise fading to a sort of resigned fondness that Takina chooses to believe is not the real reason for the irregular skip of her heartbeat. She’s in a life-or-death situation after all.
“Right under that car over there,” Chisato says, pointing at a beat-up truck to their side. “By the front wheel on the right. Make sure you hit the very center, though I guess I don’t even need to tell you that, my talented little marksman.”
Takina rolls her eyes, adjusting her aim. She is careful to keep her arms and gun behind the safety of cover. The steel plate glints under a glare of sunlight. Takina takes a deep breath.
Holds it.
A loud bang echoes throughout the room. The shrill sound of metal against metal reverberates across the parking lot, followed by a wet ‘splat’ and a grunt from the enemy gunman.
Takina breaks off in a sprint in the direction of the noise, finding their assailant sprawled on the ground with a wound on his leg. Takina can almost feel Chisato’s eyes boring into the back of her head.
Takina takes a deep breath. This man is her mission, yes, but more importantly, this man is the reason Chisato is currently having to apply pressure to a goddamn bullet wound in her abdomen.
But Chisato told her what shot to take, and knowing her—knowing both her terrifying efficiency and seemingly unending mercy—she knew exactly what she told Takina to do. Takina’s breath rushes out with a sigh as she picks the assailant’s gun up, removing the magazine and sticking it in her bag before looping the strap of the weapon around her neck.
The man is fitted with restraints, and Takina rushes back to Chisato’s side, a frown furrowing her brow at the almost encouraging smile adorning Chisato’s lips.
“Here, let me put pressure on that,” Takina mumbles, wrapping her hand in some old sports towel stuffed haphazardly into her bag and attempting to pry Chisato’s bloodied hand from her abdomen. “You just rest up until Mizuki gets us. She’ll probably bring an ambulance in tow anyway; you know how she is.”
Chisato lets out a sigh and a nod. Takina’s hands press against the wound, a constant, steady pressure. She tries not to think about Chisato’s blood soaking into her towel, about the life slipping out of her partner, albeit slowly. Another stutter in her chest—those seem to be growing more common as time goes by—sends a shock of fear running through her. Takina’s panic nearly boils over when she sees Chisato, quieter than she’s ever been in Takina’s presence, slowly bring her non-bloodied arm to rest over her eyes. A heavy breath rushes from her lungs.
“Hey now,” Takina mutters, an undercurrent of urgency running through her voice. “Don’t fall asleep on me right now. You know that’s dangerous.”
Chisato’s chest shudders under a chuckle, shoulders flinching about her ears as the laughter sends an uncomfortable pang through her wound. Takina stares, unimpressed, as Chisato slowly settles back into a comfortable position, this time properly wary of the wound.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Promise.” Chisato breathes, arm back at her side, eyes gentle on Takina’s own. “I was just... embarrassed.”
It takes a concerted effort for Takina to keep a steady amount of pressure on the wound. Chisato turns her head to the side, cheeks ablaze.
“I’m supposed to be the reliable senior. Untouchable, always fishing you out of a bind, all that stuff, y’know?” Chisato argues weakly, waving an arm around in Takina’s direction. “But I got shot, and you had to clean up after me, and just-ugh! It’s frustrating! Embarrassing! Humiliating! Never look at me again!”
Takina giggles at Chisato’s antics as the sound of an ambulance echoes through the stale air of the parking lot, presumably one hailed by Mizuki and Mika. A thought suddenly strikes at Takina, and in a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, she seizes Chisato’s flailing arm in her grasp, fingers ghosting gently across heated skin as she presses a thumb against the slender wrist, lifting Chisato’s hand to her ear.
Chisato, flabbergasted, can do naught but stare, mouth agape. Her fingers twitch, fingernails grazing against the soft skin of Takina’s cheek. After a few seconds, Takina presses the palm of Chisato’s hand against her cheek with a sly smile.
“Your pulse is racing,” Takina croons, inflection subtle but most definitely noticeable, relishing the way Chisato’s blush turns from pink to scarlet, ears a burning crimson under the veil of silver blonde. “It’s good to know even the great ace has her moments of weakness.”
‘It’s good to know you’re okay,’ a voice not unlike Takina’s own whispers in the back of her head. ‘It’s good to know that just because your heart is silent doesn’t mean it isn’t there.’
“Alright, lovebirds, help is here!” Mizuki’s sounds in their ears, jarring them out of their moment. Chisato’s hand flashes from Takina’s cheek to a neutral, awkward spot by her side. “Takina, please move out of the way so I can load your girlfriend into the ambulance while the paramedics get some gauze on that bullet wound!”
Takina, a slave to procedure through and through, moves out of the way on instinct as Chisato is loaded onto a gurney. She gives Takina a weak wave, and Takina returns it with a small smile, realizing just a little too late that her towel still lay in a bloody mess at Chisato’s side. Oh well, she can just ask for it back later. Maybe. If the blood can even be washed off at that point.
Takina accompanies Mizuki back to her car in companionable silence, the only sounds the subtle tap of Takina’s shoes and the sharp clack of Mizuki’s sleek heels. The locks and car alarm are disarmed with a shrill beep and a thick, plastic ‘ thunk ’.
Mizuki gets in the car, but Takina pauses at the passenger door, a frown marring her features.
“Mizuki,” Takina calls, irritated, a heat tickling at the back of her neck as she ducks under the frame of the door. “I’ve already told you—Chisato is not my-”
Takina lifts her head, rubbing a gaudy towel with a design from a TV show she has never heard of in her life across her hair. The smell of floral shampoos, the feel of steam wafting in the air, the sound of a movie droning on and on in the living room.
Chisato’s apartment is both exactly like you would expect of her, and nothing like it at all. The walls are sparsely decorated, there are no pictures, no over-the-top decorations. But there are plenty of little knickknacks strewn about the place. Gifts, offerings from the people she has helped. Tupperware where food from kind old ladies and thankful patrons was eaten out of, an entertainment system loaded with every B-list action movie under the sun.
Chisato is lying on the couch, comfortable in a pair of soft pajama pants and an oversized shirt— ‘ Yes, I purposefully bought it oversized! It’s comfier!’ —eyes affixed to the TV screen. Takina plops down onto the seat next to her, eyes shifting between the overdramatic, over-edited movie, and Chisato’s entranced look. The sight brings a smile to her face—an increasingly common occurrence that Takina has decided to stop being so wary of. It feels nice, after so many years at the DA, to feel free in some way. Free to smile.
Free to love, she thinks, looking as Chisato throws her arms up in celebration as an explosion in the movie threatens to blow out the speakers on the TV.
“Okay so I know you missed most of it, but that one was at least a six out of ten!” Chisato says excitedly as she goes over to the TV, fitting a new disc into the DVD player as she puts the just-finished paragon of mediocrity into its original box. “You’ll have to watch it again some time.”
“Is this how you find so much enjoyment in life?” Takina muses as she finishes drying her hair, handing the towel to Chisato, who then throws it who-knows-where under Takina’s disapproving gaze. “You just drown yourself in three-to-six-out-of-ten content so that average feels like a masterpiece?”
“You’re not supposed to say it out loud—but yes.” Chisato says with a pout, hitting play with the remote control before dumping herself onto the sofa right next to Takina as the sounds of another movie pick back up again.
The sleepover was, unsurprisingly, Chisato’s suggestion. A distraction from their work as Lycoris, a chance for just the two of them to do something together, for Chisato to introduce Takina to the wonderful world of overwhelmingly average action movies.
Takina, of course, agreed. When has she ever been able to tell Chisato no?
Takina is hoisted from her thoughts by the feeling of Chisato’s head landing on her shoulder. Her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes fixed on the TV, but Takina can spot the hint of red across her cheeks, can see the way her eyes fight against the need to look at Takina herself. It’s endearing, really.
Takina leans her head on top of Chisato’s. The point of contact feels like a brand, the crown of Chisato’s head burning against Takina’s cheek. The two of them linger in this pleasant haze, movie thoroughly forgotten, for some indeterminate amount of time.
The back of Chisato’s hand brushes against Takina’s, a question, permission being asked for. Takina’s chest seizes with emotion, heart a lump in her throat. Brave, beautiful, chivalrous Chisato. Whether it is life or love, never taking and always giving. Takina turns her palm upwards, an invitation.
Chisato accepts with enthusiasm to spare. The first thing Takina noticed is that her fingers are… surprisingly soft. The telltale callouses from their line of work still make themselves known wherever they rub against Takina’s own, but her hand still feels cool and smooth as she intertwines their fingers with a giggle. Chisato’s head moves from Takina’s shoulder to her chest, ear pressed against the rapid beat of her heart.
“Your heart’s racing,” Chisato croons, and Takina chooses to ignore how obvious the revenge here is. Instead, she loops an arm around Chisato’s shoulders, laying a still-damp fingertip at the hollow of her neck, the cold touch eliciting a muffled squeak.
“Yours is too,” Takina responds, a smug half-grin finding its way across her lips. Chisato pouts.
“I thought not having a heart was supposed to save me from this kind of thing,” Chisato complains against Takina, face buried in her chest. Takina drags her fingertips through platinum blonde strands, drawing a satisfied hum from the her.
“You do have a heart, though,” Takina whispers. “It just takes a little extra work to hear what it has to say.” Takina hears the way Chisato’s breath hitches in her throat, feels the grip on their entwined fingers tighten.
Chisato lifts herself from the couch, head rising from Takina’s chest. For a moment, Takina is afraid that she has erred somehow, but her doubts are shot through when Chisato’s weight suddenly lands squarely on her lap, her hips straddling Takina’s, arms perched on either side of her head. A curtain of white falls over them as Chisato leans her head down to rest her forehead against Takina’s.
“So, are you saying you’re fluent in my-heart-speak now, Takina?” Chisato whispers against her, breaths mingling together, sharp with the smell of the same minty toothpaste. Takina rests one hand at the dip of Chisato’s waist, another nestled against her cheek, where Chisato leans into the touch.
“I’d like to think so,” Takina responds, an electric undercurrent settling beneath her skin, tingling at her fingertips. Chisato hums. “Want me to prove it?”
Chisato smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, unbearably fond in that way that Takina has grown to love so dearly, and nods. The hand on Chisato’s hip moves to her neck, cupping her face gently, dragging it closer to Takina’s. Blood rushes through Chisato’s veins, pulsing and roiling in anticipation, a song under Takina’s palm.
The press of their lips is not an explosion, nor is it fireworks or the citrus taste of lemon. It is the slide of something slipping into place. A wave rolling up the shore, a whisper of water brushing at their feet, sun setting the reflection of the calm waves ablaze. The wave recedes, the sun sets, and Takina pulls back from Chisato, two half-lidded pairs of eyes meeting under the light of a droning TV and the moon shining through the window.
“Full marks,” Chisato whispers with a smile, and Takina responds with one of her own, leaning forward to rest her head on Chisato’s chest, ear pressed against the empty hollow of her heartbeat. Chisato giggles, wrapping her arms around Takina.
“There really is no heartbeat.” Takina murmurs.
“Yeah. Cool, right?”
“Mm,” Takina hums against Chisato, turning her head up, eyes locking once more. “It’s yours after all—how could I not love it?”
The café is alive with the sounds and smells of patronage.
The firm timbre of Mika’s voice rumbles against the walls, chatting with a customer about anything and everything, large hands busy with the minutiae of making a rich blend or those sweets that, more often than not, serve as bribes for Chisato. The tang of coffee is like a wall of smell every time Takina picks up a plate from a table, flashing the patrons a small smile as she takes the dishes to clean in the back.
The water running in the sink forms a white noise that leaves Takina in a haze. Her hands, used to the work after months now, mechanically go through the motions of dripping soap on a sponge, lathering a plate, rinsing it, setting it on the drying rack. She must look nigh robotic.
The missing instrument in the usual symphony crashes into the room with all the subtlety of a cymbal crash. Chisato is, as always, flowing reds and platinum blonde, uniform fluttering as she goes from customer to customer, warmth and energy rivaling the coffee drying in empty cups and brewing anew under Mika’s watchful gaze.
Takina turns the faucet on the sink closed, then dries her hands with the recently restored sports towel hanging from a cupboard at her waist. The steps rushing at her from behind are no longer a surprise, but a well-tempered expectation.
“Takina!” Chisato yells, throwing her arms around Takina in a bone-crushing hug, lifting her in the air for a moment. Takina giggles, kicking her legs in the air a little before she is put down, arms still wrapped around her.
“Good morning, Chisato,” Takina responds, mirth coloring her voice, reaching a hand back to cup her assailant’s cheek, uncaring of the customers' gentle laughs and crescent-moon eyes, corners crinkling under their smiles at the sight. “You’re lucky I was already done with the plates this time, but you still need to let me go if you want me to do my job.”
Chisato’s smirk is fiendish, roguish, and totally unfair. Slender arms encircle Takina tightly, possessive. Hair tickles at Takina’s nape as Chisato rests her head against her neck, lips brushing against heated skin. “I don’t think I will,” she says, devil that she is. “I like it here. You’re nice and warm.”
Takina can do nothing but sigh as Mika’s laugh rumbles from the front end. Mizuki groans from her stool, pointing a manicured finger at the pair.
“You know, I always call you two lovebirds, but don’t you think you’ve been overdoing it a little recently? Think of all the poor adults in this store who you’re having to inconvenience with your overt displays of friendly teenage affection.”
Kurumi, lounging with her head on the countertop, sneaks a glance at the other patrons, seeing mostly elderly couples engrossed in quiet conversation or holding back smiles.
“I think you’re literally the only person here bothered by it,” Kurumi says, unapologetically deadpan. One of the couples breaks out in gentle laughter.
“Thank you for the brilliant deduction, Holmes.” Mizuki says, clipped, a glare pointed at the small girl.
“Wait,” Takina calls from her spot in Chisato’s arms. “Isn’t this kind of thing pretty normal though?”
Mizuki presses a finger to her temple, massaging it. “I think you really are spending a little too much time with Chisato if this is what you consider normal for friends to be doing.”
“Well, we aren’t friends, though. Chisato is my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, yeah she isn’t your—wait, come again?”
“Chisato is my girlfriend.” “Takina is my girlfriend!”
Chisato and Takina’s voices seem to echo in the now-dead-quiet room. Mika’s hand hovers over a bag of coffee beans, unmoving. Kurumi’s gaze, usually enraptured by her laptop, is locked onto Chisato and Takina like an eagle. Mizuki is stock-still in her seat, eyes the size of dinner plates. The patrons all seem to pause eating, pancake-laden forks halfway to their mouths, coffee cups nearly tipping over in limp grips.
Mizuki, silent, stands up from her stool, walks into the changing room, and gently closes the door behind her. They all pretend not to hear her when she starts screaming about ‘life being unfair for older women.’ as the café erupts into a cacophony of congratulations. Chisato is like a granddaughter to the elderly couples, a close friend to their regulars, and their happiness is infectious. Mika flashes the couple a gentle grin, and Kurumi simply nods, sending a thumbs up their way before returning her attention to the laptop in front of her.
Surrounded by the warmth of a family she never imagined she could have, Takina feels her heart skip a beat, a welcome arrhythmia that thumps against the arms wrapping her in a loving embrace.
“I love you,” Chisato whispers in her ear, a secret in name only as adoration flows so freely from her eyes that it makes Takina nearly hurt from the breadth of it.
Takina’s head falls against Chisato—heartless, ruthless, efficient, silly, merciful, loving, human Chisato.
“I love you too,” Takina mutters against her shoulder, a smile so wide tugging at her lips it feels like her cheeks will burst.
The couple walks together into the warmth of the café under a mid-morning sun, arms pressed together, fingers entwined, wrists ghosting against each other, racing heartbeats a song all on their own.