"Is something wrong, Mireyu?"
Mireille twisted around in the armchair she had pushed next to the window. It was unlikely that Kirika would be able to see her face in the darkness, but she smiled at the younger woman anyway. Kirika would sense it, the way she sensed everything else that had to do with Mireille.
"I couldn't sleep." The blonde gave a little laugh. "I would have thought I'd be used to jet lag by now, but the body has its whims."
She certainly knew hers did, and jet lag was the least among them. She had lain next to Kirika for hours - the first time they had shared a bed again in over a year - in a tumult of mind and body. She had been glad then for Kirika's exhaustion, for it gave her a small measure of privacy in her torment. At length, she had gotten up from the bed and stationed herself by the window, understanding for the first time why Kirika had seemed to derive so much comfort from doing the same.
Her mind had gone over the day that had passed, and winced in its recollection of Kirika's dangerously attractive professor. The moment Mireille had opened the door, the woman's intentions had been blatantly obvious. And when she had asked who Mireille was, Mireille had been sorely tempted to say "Kirika's bedmate", rather than the less accurate though more platonic "flatmate".
But there, precisely, lay the problem. She knew that she had no right to scare off Kirika's suitors given her determination to re-establish their relationship along purely platonic terms. She had a right to object on professional grounds, but only once she and Kirika resumed their activities as assassins. To protest now would only reveal the possessiveness she felt towards the younger woman, which would mean, in turn, that they would be back to exactly where they were more than a year ago. It was only her grim determination to salvage a year's worth of effort that had allowed Mireille to endure the raging jealousy in her chest while the Frenchwoman had flirted shamelessly with Kirika.
But it wasn't just the flirting that upset Mireille so much. She hadn't failed to notice Kirika's genuine pleasure upon seeing Renée, the easy intimacy and warm familiarity between the two women hitting Mireille like a physical blow. She hadn't realized until then how much she had valued being Kirika's sole link to humanity and felt doubly shamed by her pettiness.
So to punish herself, she had merely stood there and endured the Frenchwoman's silent barbs. And when Renée had gone, she had even managed to tease Kirika about the older woman, though inwardly she cursed herself for the practiced ease with which she trampled on her own heart.
Kirika had sensed her dismay, of course, though Mireille knew that the younger woman wouldn't be able to fathom the reason behind it. And so to distract Kirika, and perhaps even herself, she had turned the subject to the Japanese woman's paintings.
She had not been able to go through much of Kirika's artwork, but had quickly found one that became an instant favorite. It was a painting of a crowded Parisian sidewalk, and somewhere not quite in the middle of the crowd was a young woman with her head craned back, looking directly out of the painting. It was Kirika herself, and it was a stunning resemblance - the solemn gaze and waifish air perfectly captured on canvass. But what intrigued Mireille most of all was how the picture was composed. A careless viewer would have missed Kirika's figure in the picture entirely - and would still have found the work arresting and whole. But once the figure was spotted, it was clear that it was intended to be the focal point of the picture, all the other elements converging on it subtly. In that one work, Kirika had managed to capture the simultaneous dispensability and centrality of a single individual. Mireille had found it utterly fascinating.
"I'm surprised though that you chose to paint yourself," Mireille had teased the younger woman.
Kirika had blushed, "We were given an assignment on self-portraits. But I couldn't imagine just painting myself in an entire canvass..."
Mireille had laughed. It was a self-portrait - only done in a way that further revealed and reinforced the painter's character. "You have genuine promise, Kirika. It's a very mature work."
From there, they had gone on to talk about other things, before eventually lapsing back into their old, companionable silence. Kirika had begun mixing paints for a new work, while Mireille had stretched out on the floor underneath the window to better feel the sun on her face. She didn't know when she had dozed off or for how long, only that the sun had begun to set when she had woken up. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so relaxed.
"Did you get much work done?" she yawned and stretched.
"No," Kirika had admitted. "I couldn't decide whether to paint you or join you."
Mireille had laughed and eventually so did Kirika. In that moment, Mireille allowed herself to hope that perhaps things could always be that way between them - warm and intimate without the burning confusions of desire.
Only later on that evening when they had gone to bed, Mireille had discovered how easy it was to underestimate desire - how quickly one could mistake its temporary lapse as a permanent absence. So that finally, to soothe the heat in her body and soul she had repaired to the coolness of the Parisian night by her window. Which was where Kirika had found her hours later.
"You should go back to bed." Mireille told the younger woman softly before turning her gaze back to the view.
There was silence for a few moments, and then Mireille felt gentle hands caress the sides of her face.
"This might help you sleep."
Mireille was about to protest, but the soothing effects of the massage hit her almost immediately. Warm fingers stroked her jaw and her cheekbones before sliding up to her forehead. She closed her eyes, and in the dream-like state of semi-consciousness, wondered vaguely how Kirika's hands would feel on the rest of her body. The thought made her sigh and smile at the same time, until finally it stopped bothering her altogether for she had fallen asleep.