sexuallyconfuses | (no subject)

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Everything's kind of a blur: the battle, the pain ripping through flesh, the grail's blinding glow, and the way back home, after. It all happened at such a dizzying whirlwind-speed, and the two of them could do nothing but be swept along, images and sensations and sounds smeared together to near-incomprehension.

It's only when Haruka steps into their apartment at last, and finds it just the way they'd left it, that her mind can begin to process.

It's only been a day, hasn't it? And it's as though nothing had happened at all. The light of the waxing moon filters in through the window, coating the room in gentle, peaceful silver, with not a single thing out of place. When she looks over to Michiru beside her, her skin is whole and unmarred save, at worst, for a few scraps and light bruises.

It's quiet. A single car sweeps by in the empty street below.

Haruka isn't hurting, either -- the steady pump of adrenaline has kept a solid barrier between her mind and body, but even now, as it begins to wear, the only sensation to seep in is a soreness in her muscles. Her hands ball into fists, as if to reaffirm the realness of it: fingers squeezing against palm, then loosening. Squeezing, and loosening.

Her eyes have yet to leave Michiru's face.

They're both alive. Michiru is alive. Michiru is right here by her side, not pinned to the wall by limp arms and legs, not ambling towards her in a cloud of smoke pouring from dozens and dozens of bullet holes, not crumpled into a broken bloodied heap on the floor, not--

Haruka's chest seizes up, a surge of panic uncoiling where before there was nothing but warm, airy relief. Suddenly she can't remember how to breathe at all -- her head flashes hot, her legs are nailed through to the floor -- and it's a stumbling struggle of half a step forward until her fingers can hook into Michiru's shoulder, pulling her hard against her chest.

Haruka's arms are as rigid as iron poles, and they are trembling.

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Michiru's fingers curl around Haruka's tightly, and she sighs. Her features smooth out, then, slowly but surely, and she lifts her head to look at Haruka.

"If we hadn't made that promise, would you have been able to turn a blind eye if I were hurt?"

Would you have tried to protect me, is what she wants to ask— and her tone, serious as it is, might say as much— but she's making an effort not to twist that particular knife. She's well aware of how hypocritical this is of her, anyway: making Haruka promise to leave her behind, but being so unwilling to do the same.

Haruka cringes, then yanks her hands away. That's not fair. Then all of this was because of her weakness? All of this was to protect her?

"Then what about you?"

Something like hurt flashes briefly across Michiru's face, but she lets her hand drop to her side.

When was the last time Haruka pulled away from her like that?

"I was fine with it."

There are plenty of things she isn't fine with— hurting innocent people for the sake of their mission, having to keep Usagi and her friends at an arm's length, allowing Haruka to get tangled up in this mess in the first place. Keeping Haruka safe doesn't fall under that umbrella, though, and it never has.

"Does it bother you that much?"

Haruka's frustration only builds higher in the face of Michiru's unaffectedness, clenched fists quaking at her sides. Michiru always shows so little on the surface, she knows this, but this is different -- no matter how deeply she searches for it, there's not a single sign of fear, of wavering, in Michiru's face.

"Of course it does!" Wasn't she scared? Isn't she scared now, to think of how it could have turned out? "How could you not--"

It dies halfway through her throat, as the realization finally settles-- the color drains from Haruka's face, and she takes another, stumbling step back.

She wasn't scared. She was never...

"You were never going to keep it, were you."

There's no fear in Michiru's expression, even now— even as Haruka is stepping away from her. She does have to tear her eyes away, though; the look on her face stings more than she could've imagined, and it's hard to stay impassive when she's looking at something like that.

"It isn't that simple."

Her hands fold together, and she squeezes. This is a conversation she hoped they'd never need to have. But then, she hadn't anticipated that they'd be the ones to hold the talismans, either.

"I intended to uphold my end of it for as long as I could."

"How long is that?" Haruka's voice creaks as it rises, as if her throat has rusted over. It isn't that simple means there's more to it than that. It isn't rebuking it. It doesn't mean it's wrong, it doesn't mean it's wrong. Haruka's temples throb with the thundering of her heartbeat, filling her skull with a sick, dizzy heat.

"What meaning is there, if the moment it comes to that you ignore it altogether?" A maelstrom of anger and nausea spirals up from her stomach, flooding her veins until they threaten to burst. Desperate to contain it, Haruka whirls, throws out her arm-- "It's worthless!"

--and her fist slams hard into the smooth plaster wall.

Michiru's lips purse and her eyebrows draw together. She wants to reach out, to steady Haruka's hand— but how well will that work, when she's as angry as she is?

She takes a tentative step toward her, regardless.

"I suppose it was."

Haruka had still ended up hurt, hadn't she? She had still died, and everything Michiru had put her through was— not for nothing, necessarily, but it hadn't done much good. The stab of guilt she feels is, for once, written across her face, even if it's only for a brief moment.

"If I say I won't do it again, will you be satisfied?"

Even she isn't sure if she'll be able to make good on something like that— and she won't take back what she's done so far— but if the offer will make Haruka feel better, then...

Haruka's fist doesn't retract; she remains leant against the wall, back hunched, hair veiling her eyes.

With that burst of tension released, she suddenly feels very, very tired. She's breathing through her teeth. Her shoulders heave with every exhale.

And she hasn't gotten through to Michiru at all. She's only making the same promise all over again, only thinking about how to placate her. Why? Why is Haruka the only one who's like this? Why hasn't Michiru's voice wavered once?

"Stop it," she says, shaky and strained thin. "Just stop it already."

When it's clear Haruka isn't moving, at least for the moment, Michiru steps closer still.

"I was only ever trying to do the right thing."

Her hand moves to cover Haruka's, and she makes an attempt at pulling it away from the wall. This isn't a touch that's meant to soothe either of them, even if she selfishly wishes that it could; right now, she's curling her fingers around Haruka's with a more practical purpose in mind.

Her eyes are focused elsewhere as she continues:

"I wonder... Do you hate me for it?"

The word feels uncomfortable on her tongue, and she hesitates, just barely, as it leaves her mouth.

The breath she takes to steady herself is shaky.

Michiru's fingers wrap around her own, and Haruka offers no protest. Her hand is limp with exhaustion -- there's no point in resisting, anyway.

The question is as foreign as an alien language, and yet it sends a ice-cold pang down to the base of her abdomen just the same. Haruka's fingers twitch, then tighten. She sets her jaw.

"You're too selfish," she says, her eyes never leaving the wall ahead. Her blow has chipped the paint. "We had our own idea of what's right. We agreed on it together."

Haruka's voice is scratchy and low, dragged through broken glass, yet unyielding. "Don't decide those things on your own. It's cruel."

Michiru's fingers slide between Haruka's slowly, like it's a test. Is she allowed to do something like that, even as Haruka is calling her selfish, calling her actions cruel?

"I won't." She sounds more resolute, now. "And you won't be reckless, either."

It's a fair compromise, isn't it? She won't make decisions like that on her own, and Haruka won't give her a reason to.

Haruka allows this, too, though she makes no movement towards reciprocating. It's not until Michiru's fingers touch to it that she notices the clamminess of her own palm.

She wants to trust in those words. She wants to believe nothing like today will ever, ever happen again.

She just can't bring herself to, right now.

"Can you promise me that?" Chin angled up, her stare rises to meet Michiru's at last, swirling dark with intensity. "And mean it?"

Edited 2016-06-07 00:51 (UTC)

Even if Haruka isn't reciprocating, Michiru keeps her hand where it is. The clamminess of her palm doesn't bother her, so long as she's allowed to hold on like this.

"I can, if you'll do the same." Her response comes easily enough, even if the look on Haruka's face makes her stomach churn. An expression like that doesn't suit her, and Michiru's free hand curls in on itself.

She wants to brush her fingers against the curve of Haruka's cheek, as if that'd be enough to wipe it away. She settles for holding onto her hand a little tighter.

Haruka opens her mouth to promise. With this, it should be enough, right? If she only agrees to watch out for herself, then Michiru won't have to--

--have to?

Realization flashes across Haruka's face, and her jaw clicks shut. "No."

Her features sharpen, harsh lines marring her brow, the corners of her eyes. Her words, too, have a jagged edge to them. "Those things aren't dependent on each other. Even if I misstep in battle, that's my own responsibility, and my own consequences to bear. Don't make it sound like it's your duty to protect me, and like I can only keep you from sacrificing yourself for my sake by being a good enough soldier."

She pulls her hand away again, straightens and turns, now standing before Michiru in full. Her eyes lock onto hers, inescapable. "If I'm so weak that I would die for it, then I deserve to die."

Michiru's hand curls tighter as Haruka pulls away from her, and her nails bite into her palm. It's what she's saying that makes ice begin to take root in the pit of her stomach, though.

"That's ridiculous!" She's raising her voice, now, and the realization makes her purse her lips. She doesn't want to yell, doesn't like how petulant it makes her sound.

So, she swallows around the lump in her throat and tries again.

"You can't ask me to promise that I won't make decisions on my own, and then say something like that."

That she deserves to die, if she makes a mistake. The thought makes Michiru's mouth twist into a frown.

The piercing crescendo of Michiru's voice makes Haruka's face pinch, before her expression falls slack with surprise. Though the lack of reaction -- any reaction at all -- had been threatening to drive her mad, she's unprepared for when she actually gets it. Even the twisting dark mass of emotion in her stomach is knocked off its hinges, for a moment.

But frustration quickly finds its footing again-- "How is it ridiculous?! It's what we've been doing up until now!"

Then followed, quiet and bitter, by betrayal:

"It's what you had me believe we've been doing up until now."

"I know that!" With her prior outburst out of the way, it's easier for Michiru to keep her voice down. There's an obvious, raw edge to it that she can't quite stamp out, but that will come eventually.

She draws in another shaky breath, and then continues:

"But I would appreciate it, still, if you wouldn't say things like that."

She looks away, toward the now-chipped paint on the wall. She might not have any right to ask for something like that, but— she doesn't want to hear Haruka talk about dying, or think about her being hurt. She had said it so easily that it almost sounded inevitable, and the thought alone is enough to make Michiru feel like someone has a vice grip on her heart.

Out of everything that's happened today, out of everything that's been said between the two of them -- that's the one thing to crack Michiru's armor?

Haruka would laugh, were she in any state to.

"Does the thought of me dying upset you that much?"

"I suppose it does."

It takes her a moment to school her expression back into something neutral, but then she's turning to look at Haruka again; the uncomfortable feeling in her gut still hasn't settled.

Is that even a question worth asking, is what Michiru wants to say, but what comes out instead is:

"Were you under the impression that I wouldn't care if you got yourself killed?"

Surely Haruka, of all people, should know better than that.

Haruka's mouth twists into some odd shadow of a grin, and she shakes her head, taking a single step forward.

"Were you under the impression I won't care if you do?"

Michiru stays put, keeps her eyes trained on Haruka's face. It might be easy to reach out to her now, to take her hand again, but she won't. How many times has Haruka pulled away from her, today?

"I only thought you'd be able to bear it."

Not that she wouldn't care— but that Haruka, who has taken to their mission so well, would be able to handle it if she were given enough time.

"Do you intend to tell me that I was wrong?"

The question has a tangible weight to it, bearing down on Haruka -- a challenge to admit her own weakness. Her shoulders tighten underneath it, as though her very muscles are struggling to resist.

She stands there stiff and still as she wracks her mind for the right answer: one that will neither undermine their duty as soldiers, nor Michiru's worth. (As a soldier, as her partner, as Michiru.)

Haruka's teeth dig into her lower lip, a moment, before she catches herself and lets go.

"The two of us could die any day," she begins, coming out easy through repetition. "I know that. If you were to meet your end in battle, I would carry our mission to term, just as you'd do in my place -- that's the destiny I accepted when I picked up the wand. And I would bear it, because there is no other choice."

"But--" Her hands reach to find hold against Michiru's shoulders again, a steady, calm pressure-- "if you died for my sake, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I couldn't possibly accept a life I've been given in exchange for your own."

Another step closer; her eyes never leave Michiru's. "Can you understand that?"

What Haruka's saying feels significant, even if it's— at first— an idea that she's incredibly familiar with. And then, the feeling of her hands curling over her shoulders makes the tension begin to leave Michiru's body, bit by bit. Her hands feel warm, and her touch feels gentle; it's not like before, when she was harsh and trembling.

She couldn't look away from her if she wanted to, now.

"I do." She lifts both hands, covers Haruka's carefully. The words come out easier than she anticipated, and they ring true, too. "It's the same for me."

If Haruka were killed trying to protect her— she's not sure what she'd do, but the thought makes her throat feel tight. After a moment of hesitation, she takes a small step of her own. If Haruka moves first, that means it's fine, doesn't it? That she can get closer, and that she won't pull away from her like she did earlier.

"Will you accept this, at least?" The second chance they've been given.

Haruka nods her head. It feels, for the first time, like she may have just gotten through to her, and a hint of relief dares to creep into her features.

But it's not enough yet.

"I want you to promise me. No conditions. And keep it, this time."

One thumb brushes the side of Michiru's neck, softly. "We're partners, aren't we?"

It's not the kind of promise Michiru is eager to make, necessarily, but seeing the relief on Haruka's face— slight as it might be— works as an incentive.

Promising that she won't trade her life for Haruka's doesn't mean she has to let her die, anyway, does it? It just means that she'll have to take a different approach, should the situation ever arise.

She takes a breath, and then:

"I'll give you my word." Her head tips toward Haruka's hand, where her thumb had brushed her neck. "And I'll keep it."

She wants to add in a condition, to make Haruka promise her, too, but she won't. Not when trying to compromise had done more harm than good, earlier.

"We're partners, after all," she adds, softer than before. It feels like they're on thin ice, but saying that out loud helps.