Fifty short stories about Mireille and Kirika, written for the 1sentence livejournal community.
Mireille does not know how to offer comfort; Kirika finds Mireille's promise and steady hand the only comfort she's ever known.
Mireille might have brushed a kiss against Kirika's cheek (against the corner of her lips)--if only they were not already far too much to each other.
Kirika should not feel soft; but does, curled quietly at Mireille's side.
Pain makes Kirika feel real--reminds her that she is more than a tool of tempered steel; Kirika gasps and curls around her wound, and does not see Mireille's mouth thin with fear.
Mireille does not like mashed potatoes: they are filling, but terribly boring; across the table, Kirika scrapes her plate clean.
They have no umbrella; it is unfortunate, then, that their sins are too great to be washed away by the day's long rainfall.
Mireille brings home chocolate--a causal, and easily denied gift; Kirika licks her fingers clean, the box empty at her elbow.
Mireille does not believe in happy endings, and Kirika doesn't even imagine that they might exist (they're happy together, and hardly even notice).
Like that old childhood game, the meaning behind Noir distorts with each passing generation--together, they find a new meaning, and make Noir their own.
Kirika turns away from the window; Mireille is tucking a strand of hair behind her ear--too deep in thought to notice how Kirika stares.
Kirika likes the sound of Mireille's name; she likes, too, that Mireille is always there to hear when Kirika speaks it.
A realization, while watching Mireille run her hands across the fine fabric of her dress, her eyes slitted in pleasure: Mireille is dangerous in a way Kirika will never be.
Death isn't the stuff of friendship--but then, they aren't friends.
Kirika turns under the covers, her arm brushing against Mireille's; tense all over again, Mireille thinks that it's been too long since she's taken a lover.
Everything Kirika touches is a weapon; Mireille is unsure whether she ought to feel pity or envy (but knows this, with certainty: there is wisdom in the cold thread of fear running down her spine).
Perhaps she is weak to let Kirika live, but strength is too much to ask when her every thought is of Kirika, and her every moment anguished.
Kirika knows her tears to be useless, but can't stop; there is no one left to care what she does.
Mireille's heart is speeding--with fear, adrenaline, anticipation, (hope)--as she meets Kirika's eyes over the barrel of her gun.
Mireille's hair is wind-tossed, her cheeks flushed; she fusses at her reflection in the mirror, and it is not Kirika's place to tell Mireille that she is beautiful.
She is free of mystery, and Noir, and Kirika; Mireille should be happier than she is.
For a single moment, there is nothing more between them than this: they have won, and they are alive.
Leave Noir to the mystics and zealots and storymakers; Mireille follows Kirika because she will not leave her partner to (obsessive) (adoring) Chloe's care.
They are nothing alike, but for their hands: strong, and calloused, and washed in blood.
Mireille's lipstick tastes waxy on Kirika's tongue; don't chew it off, Mireille chides.
Mireille reminds herself that Kirika follows her out of necessity, and not devotion--and that she should not care, in either case.
Mireille does not believe in forever--and free of Noir, and her promise, she waits for Kirika to leave (her).
Blood is drying on Mireille's cheek; Kirika can remember aiming between her eyes, and pulling the trigger.
Chloe decides that Mireille is a sickness, infecting Kirika with weakness and confusion.
Kirika hates the pocket watch, and it's haunting melody--but she deserves no less than to listen to it's song as it sits in the curve of Mireille's palm.
Kirika does not wish upon falling stars, but wonders: is Mireille making a wish, staring at the night sky?
Much later, she is surprised to realize that home has become wherever they are, together.
Pain clouds her thoughts, leaves her reeling and confused--but Mireille's arms wind about her, and Kirika knows herself to be safe.
Asleep, Kirika's face twists with fear; Mireille watches her from the foot of the bed, hands clasped, and does not try to wake her.
Kirika is surprised the first time Mireille stays at her side all night, waiting out the storm.
History, and death, and Noir: Mireille chafes at the bonds between them.
Mireille can spends hours shopping, but buys little--when she runs, she can bring nothing with her but her gun, and Kirika.
Her gun is modern, efficient, and comfortable in Mireille's hand; Kirika is a primitive, able to kill with nothing but her bare hands--Mireille shudders delicately and steps around the body on the ground.
Kirika can remember every gift Mireille has given her: they are few, but precious.
Mireille can smile at a man moments before she kills him; Kirika wonders if Mireille will do the same to her (she wouldn't mind).
They are alike in their sins, but sometimes, Mireille is surprised at how innocent Kirika is--a child, still.
She has her answers now, but Kirika doesn't feel complete; she thinks of all that she's done (Mireille) and feels as thought she might shatter all over again.
Though clouds pass in front of the sun, and turn the day dull and grey, Kirika can't bear the thought of staying inside--and while she sighs and frowns, neither can Mireille.
It feels unnatural that the sky should be clear and bright--vast and untouchable, still--when they turn their guns upon each other in truth.
Heaven could offer no greater bliss than the warm sun overhead, and the soothing ocean breeze on her skin; Mireille peers at Kirika over her sunglasses, and sighs: relax.
She had stormed the gates of hell for this girl, but Mireille finds herself at a loss at the thought of what to do with her now.
Kirika is heavy and limp in Mireille's arms; the sun in blinding overhead, and burns in the endless sand--it would be easy to loosen her aching arms and leave Kirika to the sun's mercy.
Young lovers stroll beneath the full moon; they pay no notice to Kirika and Mireille as they pass (there is blood smudged on the toe of Kirika's shoe, still wet).
The waves lap at Kirika's toes; she can't laugh (not yet), but shyly smiles at Mireille--who smiles back, as bright and warm as the sun.
Mireille's hair is spread out across the pillow; blonde strands catch at the corner of Kirika's curling lips.
Like a supernova behind her eyelids: all light and pain, and Kirika remembers--(and loses everything).