The Quiet Lives Of Baron Saturday

[Grim Wolf]

Neither of them said anything for a long time. Raidon could not bring himself to look at her; to look at the girl he'd just threatened so casually to kill, all curled up beneath the covers.

Never been with a girl at night, he reflected, smiling. At least, not alone. A few girls, here and there in his years at debate, had attracted his attention, but he had never found it in him to make a move. He was well aware of the foible that accounted for this--that years of loss had bred in him an aversion to closeness and affection--but he had been content to let it rest. There were some things a person could not change about themselves, things they had only to accept.

Perhaps that would make all this easier. Perhaps it would only make it harder.

She shifted, placed her hand on his. He stiffened and started to draw it away but then stopped himself. Why pull away? Hadn't he come in here? Hadn't he been the one to apologize.

She sang a soft, sweet tune, two lines, then asked him he knew the rest. He smiled weakly. "Sorry," he said. "My mother...my mother wasn't much of a one for lullabies." A sharp pang, sharper than he'd felt for years; how long had it been, since he'd had anyone but himself?

Years of loss.

He tightened his grip upon Mizore's hand. "You don't belong here, Mizore Soryu," he said softly.

[storyspoiler†]

Raidon smiled weakly. "Sorry," he said. "My mother...my mother wasn't much of a one for lullabies."

He looked...regretful? There was a wound in him.

He tightened his grip upon Mizore's hand. "You don't belong here, Mizore Soryu," he said softly.

"I don't?"

Her voice came out higher, more tentative than she wanted it. Doesn't nobody belong here?

She liked him holding her hand.

She wanted him to talk. To tell her why she shouldn't be here. To tell her why this was unfair, arbitrary, or any other kind of nonsense.

Mizore Soryu had never kissed anyone in her life. It was easy (very easy) in Life On Enceladus to get kissed. But it was something she'd never bothered to get around to. There were other things, she said, that mattered. Kissing was an experiment that could wait until college.

It couldn't wait until college.

And she liked Naoko Raidon now. It was likely Stockholm Syndrome, or Shaking Bridge Syndrome, or something else that made you like people who pointed guns at you and then stopped. Something about power relations.

Or maybe the fact that he engaged her alien theories of selfhood with a kind of desperation. Or the fact that he wanted to live.

She felt like a kid again. Thrilling and experimental.

So she kissed him on the forehead.

It was an experiment.

[Grim Wolf]

"I don't?" she asked him hesitantly

"No," he answered, unaware of her own train of thought. "Maybe...maybe no one does." His eyes flickered away--back to the gun on the endtable, as he considered what he was still planning. "But you...you especially."

He was going to leave here, soon. He was going to leave here with his hands still clean, but he was going to leave and she would die--she wouldn't fight back, so there was little chance of her surviving. Worse, even knowing all this--even knowing his fellow human beings could be so confident in their beliefs that they would swear never to fight back on certain pain of their own deaths--he still had his gun.

He could still kill.

Would he still kill?

Yes.

No.

I can't. They're people, too. Like me.

You knew that already. It's why you spared Simon. It's why you spared her. But once you've started...

I won't start.

You will. You will because it is always better to be alive.

A kiss.

He stiffened, almost jerking backwards as he felt the soft caress of lips on his forehead. It was surprise, not revulsion; it had been...God, it had been years, hadn't it? Years since his father wasn't in the house and his mother had found it in herself to rock them gently to sleep, telling them stories Raidon had never found anywhere since?

Years since she'd kissed both he and Ichiro good night.

He still had his hand around hers. And as she broke off from kissing his forehead, she didn't pull away; her face stayed close to his, eyes no longer bright in color but still quite bright with...what?

Feeling.

No more thinking.

He leaned forwards and kissed her.

[storyspoiler†]

Eyes bright with feeling.

He kissed her.

Nights of icy police chases, protests, the first time she dyed her hair--none of it compared.

His kiss was soft, inexperienced. Her reply was fumbling. They reeked of experimentation, desperation. Last days. Revelation. Judgement.

She pulled away. She had kept her mouth closed. It was hard to breath. She wanted to kiss him again.

The world was small now, shimmering. His pulse echoed through her skin.

"If you wanted power over me." She whispered, unsteadily. "You should take it."

Afterwards, she never questioned the logic of that statement. The gun was as far away from him as it had ever been, but it was the first time she felt like he could annihilate her. Blow on her, and she'd vanish, like dust.

But she was warm now. Safe.

He was looking at her, and she smiled a slight sweet, dry smile. Her mind was returning. Cool-headed. Philosophical. Still in quotes.

As much as she knew the meaning of the word, she liked him a lot. Loved him.

"What power would hell have if those imprisoned here would not be able to dream of heaven?"

[Grim Wolf]

It was awkward. Extremely awkward. He didn't really know what to do with his hands or his lips for that matter; what little he knew didn't seem to apply, and some dim remnant of self-consciousness insisted he not act like a total fool (not that it mattered, he supposed; he was planning on killing the only people whose opinions might remotely have mattered).

It was also mind-blowing.

Her lips were soft, and the slow, tightening curl of her fingers beneath his felt like jabs from something sharp and electric, sending echoes all up his arm and stirring at his heart. He was very aware of the harsh pounding of his pulse, staccato beats as erratic as the sharp diggings of fear. An emotion every bit as profound as...as...

What?

She pulled away, but not far; she was close, so close, and he immediately wanted to pull her closer, to have his lips against hers. Was it lust? He had known it, a little--what man could claim otherwise--but he felt immediately this was different. He wanted the warmth of her, not her body; the feeling of another human being, secure and alive.

Was it just that he felt so close to death?

"If you wanted power over me," she whispered, unsteadily. "You should take it."

Oh.

He froze, just on the edge of action. She was smiling, softly, strangely; she looked adult then, mysterious, suddenly very different then the Mizore Soryu who he'd threated to kill. But he only vaguely saw her, watching him through strange eyes; his mind was more occupied with what she'd just said.

Power. Did he want power over her? Hadn't it always been about power with his father? And it had been...

Oh, God, if it had been...

"What power would hell have if those imprisoned here would not be able to dream of heaven?" Mizore asked.

"Only the power of pain," Raidon answered mechanically. "And despair is the more potent torment."

He had cooled almost as soon as she'd spoken the first time; the speed of his answer surprised even him. He didn't know what to do, now that she'd spoken; all he could think was of Hayashida and of power, of taking it, of using it. Was it the power to kill? Or was it something else?

Why did she want him to have power...?

And all at once he was looking into her eyes again and all his thoughts seemed moot, all this talk. It seemed he'd been thinking all his life and now he just wanted to rest, however he could.

Without further ado he kissed her again, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him, so that he could capture more fully the warmth of her body, drown his thoughts in the sensation of alien softness pressed against the corpse-like weight of his own body.

[storyspoiler†]

"Only the power of pain," Raidon answered mechanically. "And despair is the more potent torment."

She would think about that later. For now, he was pressed against her. And he was warm.

Mizore's head was filled with thoughts that weren't very intelligent.

Warm boy. Warm boy. Warm.

She was grinning widely, full of electricity. She was happy. Her face could burst. Electricity. She could put her fingers under his shirt, touch his chest. He was beautiful. Naoko Raidon. He was beautiful.

Some part of her brain told her how odd it was to be falling in--love? She was afraid to use that word. It wouldn't do to use that word. It probably wasn't serious enough anyway. Lust for a guy who had just pulled a gun on her.

Well. She was drawing pictures in front of cameras, waiting for the right psycho to kill her while thousands of rapt citizens watched. There were weirder things.

And she was happy. She was in a comfortable bed, in a house with running water, with this new boy, Naoko Raidon. She wanted to take him apart, like a piece of clockwork, learn every piece of him, and understand something dark and strange. She wanted to paint him, slowly, naked, learn every part of him, light and shadow. There was a word for that. Chiaroscuro. Angels in angles. So many angles. He threw shadows all across the room.

She wanted to stay like this, forever, savoring what she'd never felt before. She tasted sweetness on her tongue.

Her fingers felt scars. Long stripes on his back, soft and old. Healed now. She shifted from the tips of her fingers to the more sensitive pads, making sure of what she felt. Scars. Yes.

And something else. She had touched tattoos enough to know the consistency of inked skin.

"You have scars." She said. "And a tattoo."

Might as well state the obvious. But it was a question.

And the tattoo--what was it?

[Grim Wolf]

It worked, far better than even he'd expected. He acted without thinking, sliding hands along the soft contours of her body, slipping them beneath the upper part of her pajamas had touching the smooth skin of her narrow waist.

Warm. Warm, and soft, and strange, and mind-numbing.

Her hands did not suffer from cowardice; they traced their way up under his own button-down shirt (she appeared to have undone some of his buttons while he wasn't paying attention, but he found it impossible to complain). The touch of her hands on his skin was peculiar; an electric touch, fingers that had never touched his skin, and never in that way.

Fingers grazed his scars.

Harder, harder, harder, each blow fell harder and he was sobbing and screaming and Ichiro was huddled in the corner moaning-

She asked him, of course. Asked him about the scars, and the tattoo.

"Echoes, remember?" he whispered, pulling away a little. "My mold had its permutations." He paused, then reached back for them. "He got a little carried away. Didn't touch us for months after that." He hesitated, then unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way. His abs (or the scrawny outline of his stomach) and his lower back was covered in an intricate tattoo, half of multifaceted scales and half of different-colored blossoms, each sharply defined but blending into each other in such a way that it was not always possible to tell what you were looking at.

He felt a little embarrassed, as he always did, about his total lack of musculature, but tried not to worry about it. "Another permutation," he said quietly. "A little embellishment he added." He shrugged.

He was also shirtless in a room with a girl. Alone. On an Island where he...

Could be killed at any time.

The brief flare of mingled romance and lust died a little.

[storyspoiler†]

"Echoes, remember?" he whispered, pulling away a little. "My mold had its permutations." He paused, then reached back for them. "He got a little carried away. Didn't touch us for months after that."

Mizore's eyes narrowed.

When people say houses or graveyards are haunted, they mean that they're full of ghosts. Sometimes people say eyes are haunted too. It means the same thing.

Raidon's eyes were full of ghosts.

He peeled off his shirt. His abs and lower back were covered in an intricate tattoo.

"Another permutation," he said quietly. "A little embellishment he added."

Mizore let herself run her eyes over his skin. Multicolored blossoms and multifaceted scales, defined, but blending into each other. Her stiff fingers traced the optical illusion.

He looked pained. She found herself white-knuckled. It's beautiful she wanted to say. You're beautiful.

But he was falling away now, and she didn't want him to fall away.

Instead, she peeled off her own shirt. The room was warm. She was ungainly, fascinated, thunderstruck. She winced slightly when she remembered how she looked without a shirt. Nearly flat-chested, with a ragged blue bra. She looked primitive, and young.

His hands were long-fingered, restless.

She took his hand softly, bowed her head, and kissed his fingers. Slowly. One by one. Please, she found herself begging, please let me have this. Please, for one night. I know we have so little time. Please.

If she thought it would do any good, she would have gotten down on the nubbly carpet and pleaded.

Instead she kissed his thin wrists, and pulled him toward her. She could still be graceful, and he came easily. She kissed his mouth, his chest, both his nipples, the edge of the tattoo. She traced her fingers over his back, the scars, lightly, tender, pleasurable (she knew how to give back scratches and back rubs--it was a useful skill). He shuddered slightly, and breathed. Her fingers left his back, ran through his hair; the other hand danced over his stomach.

No more sorrow...

He had his eyes closed when she kissed the bridge of his nose, and his eyelids, one by one.

[Grim Wolf]

She said nothing. Not a word. He expected her to argue with him--he had been fishing for the argument, truth be told, for something to give him reason to leave.

Instead, without a word, she removed her shirt.

Oh.

He'd seen this before, hadn't he? He'd seen it, as he'd watched SotF. The girl lured the guy in, sweet and seductive, and then...and then...

And then, to his own great astonishment, he smiled. Because he absolutely could not believe that Mizore Soryu would ever do that.

He did not notice her discomfort, because the moment she'd lost her shirt all the thoughts, troubles, philosophies and sophistications to which Raidon lay claim had fled his weak, stupid skull. It didn't matter that she wasn't all that well-developed, that she was skinny rather than curvy; she was absolutely and unequivocally beautiful, and every hormone in Raidon's body began to work overtime at the very sight of her; foolish lust and romantic affection mingled into a misshapen pile that pushed painfully against his chest.

She pulled his hands to her mouth and kissed his thin wrists, and then began to pull him closer. He had already been moving as she started to pull, that moment of awestruck disbelief fading as his instincts took over. She was the one working on him--a long, soulful kiss on his lips (hers were sweet, just the faintest hint of salt) and the lips went down, kissed his chest, both nipples (tingles of electricity that only wired him more, arcing out through his chest). Fingers dug into his back, and an involuntary shudder went through him. In return, he wrapped one weak arm around her body, traced his fingers up the side of her body (grazed the fabric of the bra--alien to his touch, wonderful, elastic to the touch.

His hand cupped around her neck and pulled her up to his level. She kissed the bridge of his nose, his eyelids (one by one, gentle as could be). In return he kissed the edge of her chin, the side of her neck; his mind was dwindling again, as his hands curled around the soft of her lower back and up, up, up...

The clasp of the bra...

And then he stopped.

He loved the feel of her, the touch of her all-too-soft skin under his hands and upon his own flesh. But as his fingers fingered the clasp of the bra, he remembered what he was here to do. He was here to stay alive.

He was here to kill.

He had decided against killing Mizore Soryu. He had a peculiar faith in her pacifism, in her will. But he would try to kill, nevertheless, and if Mizore died? If Mizore died and she...

She was already his first kiss.

He drew away. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I shouldn't have..." his head was still whirling, his crotch ached. He wanted to remove that last troublesome barrier, touch bare skin to bare skin, and who knew what would...

Closeness. Attachment. He could stand himself for letting her live; could he stand hearing of her death, even now? And would he be able to stand it if he...

If he...

He reached for his shirt and slipped it back over his shoulders, buttoning it up as quickly as he could.

"I shouldn't stay here," he said, rising to his feet. "Hell, I...I shouldn't even be here." He finished buttoning his shirt, took the gun into his hand, and slipped it into his pocket. His bag was where he'd left it--rested against the same endtable his gun had been on. He lifted it and threw it over one shoulder.

Then paused.

What was he doing?

"I can't," he said softly, looking over one shoulder towards her. She was sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped, eyes wide. Not sad, exactly, nor accusing; just confused, with a trace of pain. "I can't..." Can't what? Can't lust after her? Love her? Can't bear a touch so strange yet familiar, so perfectly, heavenly, so...

"Can't have power," he said softly. "Over you. Or...or let you..."

Let you have power over me.

But he couldn't stop looking at her. Couldn't stop looking at the beautiful, strange girl.

He reached into his bag, pulled out a blue jacket. He hadn't been wearing it--hadn't had time to put it on, and it had been so hot earlier...

"I'm sorry," he repeated, stepping forwards and resting the jacket on her lap. "And...and thank you, Mizore." A light kiss on her lips (couldn't help himself) and then off, down the stairs, down the paintings of death and free of the memory of affection.

"Oh, Raidon," Ichiro whispered, kissing him on the forehead and trailing bloodstained fingers down the side of his face. "Don't you see? He's proud of you."

Affection.

(Naoko Raidon continued in No Turning Back).

[storyspoiler†]

When he left, it was like a dream-state. Mizore, who was never lost for words, couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

"Can't have power," he said softly. "Over you. Or...or let you..."

No, please. No. I would never--

He reached into his bag, pulled out a blue jacket.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, stepping forwards and resting the jacket on her lap. "And...and thank you, Mizore."

She shivered as he kissed her. And then he was light on his feet, down the stairs. Past the death-painting and free of her.

No.

"Raidon!" Her voice broke. She forced the words, but the dream-state she was in was broken. She could speak now. She could move.

She got out of bed, following him down. What was she looking for? A glass slipper? He was gone. Gone like he had never been. Like a dream.

She clutched the banister. It was cold. She still had his jacket in her off-hand. She put it on, mechanically. It was warmer than her patchwork coat. If only artists could wear practical clothes.

She clutched the banister. Her knuckles were white. It's cold.

She was shaking. The heat from the jacket hadn't gotten to her yet. Skinny girl, wearing a tatty blue bra and an absurd set of pajamas.

Come back.

But he wouldn't. And she was shivering.

She walked numbly back up to her room. Sat by the wall a little. Blank canvas. She reconstituted a wax pencil.

I don't know what to draw.

She gritted her teeth. The warmth of the jacket had started to work.

Wax pencil digging into her hand. Draw. Just draw something. Draw.

She drew a boy, finally. Maybe it was Raidon. But smaller. Skinny. It wasn't Raidon. It was a boy. His back was to the viewer, lit up by some harsh, imaginary light. His knees were drawn to his chest. He was tattooed in words, back and legs, tattooed with the nervous quotes that came to Mizore like a near-dead radio transmission, grey and incomplete in her adrenalined exhaustion. She could think in other people's fragments now, other people's words and feelings because hers weren't worthy, she didn't want them rushing out crying won't do any good so she tuned herself like a TV set to some things some other people had said and wrote them on this boy's back because her feelings weren't there anymore. Rough handwriting on the walls.

All gods are carnivorous. You walk sightless in a world of miracles. I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Better to reign in hell then serve in heaven. For twenty years we caught your tears in a cup. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper. No more sorrow. I've paid for your mistake. The flower who married your father the traitor. ‪When you go back to the stars and tell others of this planet, when you tell them of its riches, its people, its potential, when you talk of the Earth, then make sure that you tell them this - it is defended!‬ Eye of newt and serpent's tongue. Loyalty only to me. Gathered on this beach of the tumid river. In death's other kingdom. The darkness will rise from the deep. I stand with those who favor fire. When you are deluded and full of doubt, even a thousand books of scripture are not enough. When you have realized understanding, even one word is too much. You have set us both free. Alone, no one wins freedom. Hush child, I'll shape your belief. Affection, loyalty only to me. Alone. Oh brave new world, that has such people in it! But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction, ice is also great, and would suffice.

She slept, after that, fell asleep the floor, ragged and wax-stained. The announcements woke her for a while. Then she slept some more.

She got up, finally.

I love you her mind said to no one.

No. That was an impractical thought. He had nearly killed her. She probably didn't know what the balls romantic love was anyway, and now never will.

She thought about paint, instead. She needed paint.

It was cold when she left the house. She wrapped the blue jacket around her.

(Mizore Soryu continued in The Darkness Within)