Their eyes, violet, like a storm, equally sharp though in many different ways—that hold so much emotion. That drink in each other, taking their time, lingering like an eternity could pass between them and this would not change. That share one single and very important bond, the only feeling that is mirrored mutually and inextricably between them—affection, love, a deep and mutual understanding that stood the test of time.
It is Ei that moves first, leans in, forgoes herself from breathing—like that would make this, all of this, cordial instead of feverly intimate. Yae sucks in a breath, inaudible, imperceptible to anyone but a goddesses' keen eye—but allows it.
A few beats pass, in sacred silence. She leans into Ei, their foreheads touch. It happens very fast, the first feel, like static rushing between them, a tiny explosion.
Yae Miko breaks the silence, of course she does.
"Ah," she blinks. "Do my eyes deceive me? Or has the Almighty Shogun gotten bolder after the last century of meditation?"
Ei doesn't bother answering; were she to indulge in Yae Miko's taunt anecdotes they'd be stuck on conversational exchanges all night long. For a god to whom time runs static, so differently than it does for mortals, this is a surprise—that Ei finds herself to be so uncharacteristically impatient.
Ei, instead, kisses her—chastely, at first, then presses further and Yae mimics her just as intently.
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