[DDD | 064 | Action] Be My Valentine (Post-dated to the 14th)

[redheadcarrier]

Valentine's Day. Asuka had never paid it that much attention growing up. It'd been another stupid holiday the grown-ups used as an excuse to get away from the misery of a world wrecked by Second Impact. And she'd never been interested in boys - well, not the boys she usually hung around with, anyway. They were too old or too much like kids or creeps or boring or something that kept her from giving a damn about them.

Asuka had tried giving Kaji a Valentine. Once. He'd laughed, accepted it with that good-natured, patronizing smile. And probably tossed it as soon as she was out of the room. He'd never really understood and he'd always treated her like a kid who didn't understand what love was about. Now that she thought about it these days, maybe he had been right. Looking back, she hated herself. A brat, yelling for attention, screaming that she was a grown-up when she was really just a scared teenager, not even into adulthood.

Of course, she wasn't much more than that now - just with the benefit of trauma, hindsight and more experience. She was different. She was the same. It all tended to blend together and the memories were fuzzy, except for a few sharp, stark moments that stood out from her time in Tokyo-3 and in the German testing facilities before that.

Like a dream.

Now, she had someone she cared about. Someone that she loved (or thought she loved). Someone she thought could give her a purpose in a world where she was just another teenager trying to survive. Nobody special. Not a pilot, not a the last hope of humanity. Just another young adult trying to fit in and find a niche (although she still got stares every so often; her flaming red hair marked her as a foreigner, or at least part foreign).

Today was different. She'd given Kaworu chocolates (as per tradition). Hopefully, they wouldn't be a complete disaster, but she was fairly sure they'd turned out alright. And then she'd dragged him out into the city, to see it, to find something to do, to explore. To get out of the apartment and the stifling atmosphere that tended to crop up everytime the three of them ended up in the same room at the same time. The unspoken, unexpressed awkwardness. The walking on eggshells, the little glares, the cringes.

She wasn't going to spend Valentine's Day like that.

So Asuka leaned back into her seat and leaned against Kaworu's bony shoulder, watching the cityscape roll by as she listened to the rhythmic click-clack of the train as it rolled over the tracks. They were going somewhere. She just hadn't figure out where yet.

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[ex_apocryphas39]

He had never thought he would come to experience this.

Had never thought he would come to be here. Had never thought he would come to move here. To see the passing of seasons. The bustle of life. The cities, no longer sleeping. (Awake, at all hours. Alive, at all hours. The scent of smoke and the brush of cold. The warmth of summer evenings. The cooler signs of spring.)

And he had never thought he would be permitted it. Permitted this feeling of closeness. Permitted this sensation of closeness. (The depth of this feeling. Contained in the weight of her warm and warmer body against his own. In the softest movements he cannot see, but feel. In the slow way she draws breath. Relaxed. The rise and fall of breath. Something now so different from the way she had appeared to him. Something now so different from the way she had looked to him – beneath the dim lights of the kitchen. Early this morning. The fainter tension palpable, though Shinji lay asleep. The stronger tension palpable, as she spoke above the inevitable fall of feet. And it had been some relief, when it flooded over borders. Flooded past their borders. Draining, as if on effort. With the tug of her hands and the angling of their bodies. The suggestion to go. To escape for a while. To pull upon hats and coats. To face the cold, somehow refreshing, as they came into the outdoors. And he had breathed in slowly, then. Savored the fainter pain that awoke in his lungs.)

But, he had never thought he would be granted this. The opportunity to become like this. To form something like this. (To, and he knew, love and be loved. Within the space of words. Within formal and informal holds. Over time. Over distance. Over tragedy or tremors – the rolling ups, then downs. And though he had felt it, before. And though he had known it before, he had not been allowed to keep it. Not for long. Had not been allowed to be with him. Not for long. Fate a web that pulled. Had never let them go. And even so – )

The shape of it is different. (The shape of it, something he cannot behold. Cannot hold. But he feels it. And it morphs and moves. Shifts and slides. A different face, a different name. Another facet of something he cannot place. And it is not heavy and heavy. It is not light and light. And he cradles it without cradling it. Knows it, without knowing it. And feels it now, as she breathes in. As she breathes out. Human emotion, born within him, endlessly complicated. And simple. And -- )

He had never thought he would be given this. (To be woken up when another did. The sweeter smell of chocolates. A gesture, unexpected. And, even so --) It is the lumbering jolt of the train that pulls him back to her. It is the humming of the wheels on tracks, that reminds him again what day it is. (Destination unknown, for the moment, but glad to wait for it. Contented to wait for it. Amid the stir of voices. Amid the tinny spill of music from ancient headphones. Near to her, as quiet as she is now. As lulled as she is now. Lost within her own thoughts. Expression unworried. Eased. And he breathes. Gently. Times it without timing it, to match her own.)

[redheadcarrier]

Asuka stares out the window and watches the city roll by. There's a flicker, a change in the light, and the darkening sky vanishes, replaced with darkness and streaks of light as it rolls into a tunnel. They've been riding for the last ten or fifteen minutes and she has no idea where they're going. She turns away from the window glances up at Kaworu (he was still taller than her) with one of her sly grins, "We're getting off at the next station!"

She doesn't know what the next station is, to be honest. She knows that they're on the transit system that connects the city, but she didn't bother to look at a map. Where's the fun in that? Besides, they can find their way back easily enough. It can't be that heard. Can it?

[ex_apocryphas39]

Where there was once forest, now lies plains of concrete. The endless roll of humanity. The farmlands turned cityscape and the rivers turned bridges. And he listens to the continuous hum of the life around him. Within him. The slow and steady beat of a human heart. Not human. And he sees the flicker of lights. Takes in the darkening interior of this remaining relic of a train. And hears the scuff of feet. Excited. Or slow. (The announcer droning. `Now approaching...` and Kaworu listens and does not listen. As he feels the shift. Before he ever sees it. The minute tensing and loosening of muscle or bone. The progression of warmth. The loss.)

"Oh?" And he knows this smile. Knows this grin. The sly curve of lips as he moves, just slightly, to meet her eyes. Moves, just slightly, too see the whole of her expression. Voice humored, kindly, and warm. (And he knows her adventurousness. Knows her willingness to move or to travel within bounds she does not know. Remembering, long ago -- )

He will be contented to follow.

[redheadcarrier]

"Yeah! Let's see where we end up!" And then Asuka is on her feet, grasping the overhead bar with one hand as she tries to tug Kaworu after her. Ignores the occasional glances from the people around them (they're an unusual looking pair, at least here). As the train slides to a stop, she's out the door and onto the platform, breathing in the smell of the station. The platform itself is relatively empty - only a few people waiting for trains or sitting on benches. The stairs up to the street are only a few steps away.

[ex_apocryphas39]

There is no time to respond, not really.

No time to vocalize what agreement rests upon his tongue, before he is pulled up to his feet. Before he is following, as gracefully as he might. Abrupt as she is. (A moment of wobbling, to acclimate to the shifting train. The slower slide. The eventual stop. A moment of unsteadiness, though he finds his ground. Finds his stability. His hand within hers. The way she'd stationed herself. Hand up, stares ignored. More-or-less. More-or--)

But, he can hear the beginning tread of feet. The slower shift of bodies. The way what few people still upon this late night run begin to wander. Up and out. (A destination unknown. And he follows, without question. Follows without difficulty. Matching stride as best he can. Brushing elbows with fellow passengers. And there's a marked silence. A marked avoidance of eyes, in expression - at such peculiarity. Though, it does not register in him. Does not even seem to catch in him. So accustomed to it. So used to it. Unremarkable.)

But, the musty scent of station air is what hits him first. Is what comes upon him first. As they step onto the platform. Before he might register it. Before he might note the shift. (The swirl of abandoned papers. The music that echoed, even down here. Late night musicians. Making what money they could before the evening ended. Making what cash they could before the stations closed. And he listens to them, absently. Listens to the sharper notes. The cold afflicting instruments. And he thinks and does not about how damaging that must be. How injuring that must be. To such delicate structures. To such tempered wood.)

But, it is the sudden brush of cold that wakes him up. The sudden brush of cold that shivers up, though he does not shiver. As he pulls in a slow breath. Savors what slow burn wells up inside his lungs. (And after a moment, breathes out. Words. Exchanged inside a warmer glance. The fainter curve of lips: `Where do you happen to wish to go?`)

[redheadcarrier]

"How should I know?" Asuka replies with a careless shrug. She doesn't know and she doesn't care; instead, she pulls her jacket a bit tighter around her as they emerge onto the street and into the cool evening air. Twilight has faded and by now all is illuminated by city lights and the flickering headlights of passing cars. The shapes of buildigs are cloaked by shadows and darkness, outlined by the lights in their windows and the pools cast by streetlamps. There are still people out, but it all seems private. As if they're the only two, with the dim figures out other pedestrians being only shadows.

Asuka stretches with a stifled yawn and then latches onto Kaworu's arm, both hands clasping at him as she starts to walk, not really knowing where she's going to go. She ducks down a side street, past little shops dark and closed and late-night cafes and convenience stores, neon signs still glowing and casting a harsh, hard light onto the street.

"I don't think I've ever been out here before."

It's all new and she's probably going to get lost. But she doesn't particularly seem to care.

[ex_apocryphas39]

It's true enough.

There's an undeniable foreignness, here. An undeniable flicker and flutter of voices, unknown to him. A sea of headlights and the dimness of stars. Even here, there is too much light for it to be bright. Even here, beyond roll of oceans and the emptiness of yawning cities, there is too much life for there to be such silence. For there to be such muteness. (And he feels the movements, each footfall (heartbeat), as they walk. As they move without truly moving. Purposeless and effortless. Cold abated by the sudden shift of posture. The sudden closeness of bodies. The clasp of hands (Asuka's). Known.)

And his posture loosens, a little. Relaxes, a little. Shoulder brushing shoulder. (And, if he looks, he can catch the way her gaze moves. Can catch the red of hair - shadowed - in peripheral. The way she guides him on whim and on impulse. The way a thought crosses. A thought moves. And he's silent, contented to keep this pace. Here. Contented to catch sights. Smaller movements. The rise of steam from manholes. The clatter of wheels. Distant. The ringing of phones, muffled. No one there or no one home. Always connected, though. Always reaching, though. And he remembers -)

It is her voice that calls him back. Reels him back. It is her voice that lures him back. Slowly. Easily. (Enough.)

"Mm," and it is a hum. A soft note of thought. As they pass by old town bars. By family restaurants. A deeper echo of abandoned country, and he listens to it. Hears it. Speaking, and softly: "I cannot say it happens to look particularly familiar, as well."

It's true. But, there's no indication that it comes to bother. No indication that it bothers, at all.

[redheadcarrier]

Everything in this little section of town is closed this late at night (past midnight; they started wandering ages ago). But here and there there are the little islands of light, open store-fronts, with bright neon piercing the gloom. The hum of cars, the clatter of footsteps, muted conversations and snatches of voices in passing. This is the city, the constant pulse and hum of life, of an urban metropolis that seems to stretch on forever. Tall, distant buildings, bright lights - and above only a deep blackness. No stars, no hint of light. Just darkness, the tiny light of distant suns drowned out by the harsh, artificial, electric light that keeps the city moving at all hours. As if humanity were trying to assert its own importance in a vast, uncaring cosmos.

"We'll find something," she says quietly as she carefully steps over a crack in the sidewalk (an old child's game springs to mind and is forgotten in an instant). "Or maybe not."

Another stifled yawn.

"But maybe we should find a vending machine. I could use some coffee...."

For once, she's quiet and content. There's no Shinji here to bring the bitterness to the surface, to remind her of her failure and of the pain. It's just her and Kaworu in this darkness.

[ex_apocryphas39]

Humans had always feared the darkness.

The sound and shape of unknowns. The mouth and maws of silence, stretching over and under. (He has known it. For longer than he has lived, he remembers the permafrost. The isolation of thought. The muteness of anonymity. The extension of fingers across some unfathomable distance of hearts or of mind. Never quite reaching, but close enough. Close enough, that he might have imagined the brush of them. Despite how clinical they had always been. Despite how cold they had always been. Despite the language spoken that he did not understand, at first. Absorbed, so slowly. Over time and over miles. Over rivers of understanding, waded through. And on many occasions. On many occasions - he had almost -- )

But, her footsteps speak without speaking. Her voice lights small passageways. Like a candle, flickering. (And he holds to it, knowing he’ll drift again. Knowing he’ll turn his sights outward and in. Knowing – and he speaks, softly. Clearing nothing. Allowing its words to become stolen. Swallowed up. To the cycles, coming and going. Of darkness shrinking and receding: )

“I cannot say I hold any particular protests,” an agreement. A muffled sound of sleepiness. Echoed. Perhaps to both. Cold coffee and cold nights. Cold bodies and endless street-ways. Something accustomed to, slowly. Something held to, slowly. (Once so warm, he thought he would never feel the change of winds or the pressure of air. The sharp bite of ice. Or snow.)

And he turns his eyes up. Tilts his head, up. And discerns few and scattered stars, beyond the flood of light. Beyond the insistent chase of darkness. The tail of a beast, pulled. Cleared from view. (Be safe. Stay safe. Shift from us monsters who prowl and sway. The emptiness behind eyelids. The roar of tides and the creatures that lurk, underneath. Underneath. Within.)

And here, even here, the heartbeats of many make a tide. Make the slow roll of waves upon ocean. (And he holds it, within him. Like the deeper swell of strings. Like the heaviness of air, that burns but does not brighten. Within his lungs. And he holds it, within him. Holds it, like water in palms. And knows it slips and slithers away. Like words or like signs. Like the way hands reach and pull apart. In darkness. Two separate beings, without thought. Without more than instinct – and he hears the raucous rumble of laughter. The gaudy glow of neon lights. Pulling, pulling – a welcome, flashing in and out. Like encompassing arms. Like the human voice. Of wanting.)