sunisamaiâ:
She canât tear her eyes away from the ceiling. Canât meet Zoyaâs eyes, even if she knows every inch of her skin. Perhaps this is the problem - she can imagine the look in her eyes, can imagine what sheâll see in the parting of lips she kissed, can imagine the tighteness of a body in not-pleasure. Sunisa wants it to stay imagination, and so cannot tear her eyes away from tracing lines and threads, cannot bear to see imagination become reality.Â
(Doesnât know what to do if it might be worse than imagined)
Zoyaâs gaze feels like burning on her skin, and she can feel it cross the length of her as Zoya speaks. Must be nice, she says, and Sunisaâs heart accepts rejects it. Belief, a thing that she had long since lost. Why did you serve, and words jam up in her throat, a pressure to reveal why she serves now, a pressure she canât let because she doesnât know the answer.
âMust be nice -â She repeats, muttered, the desperate need to say something causes the words to escape her. She only hopes that Zoya canât hear the longing in it, canât hear a reflection of the way that she said it - heartsick and dreaming.
The gaze cools, shifts focus, and her muscles slowly release as Zoya answers her question. Answers unsatisfactorily, but everything in this is hidden and shuttered, the beginning steps of a dance that neither are sure they want to join. Someone would have to bow first, would have to answer with more than trailing sentences and hidden words. But for all the time they had seen each other, it was merely glimpses in a passing world, and neither wanted to be pinned down.
But there, a tear in the steel wall built between them, a slowing down to meet, a bow and a step to unheard music. Zoya replies, in more detail, and Sunisa is left even more uncertain of what her own actions should be.
Probably killed by military forces - and a sucker punch hits her gut, her muscles lock and she refuses to move, refuses to say anything as Zoya trails off. Thoughts race and her hand clenches, digging crescent moons into her palms, the world dancing with white spots as she refuses to breathe.
Killed - military - parents - never knew - killed - killed - killed
It feels like her ribs crack and she canât breathe, so she swings her legs over the side of the bed and sits up, stands up, freezes, steps forwards, turns toward Zoya, freezes.
âIâm sorry for your loss,â slips out from her mouth, as she looks over Zoya, as she remembers the scars that cross her back, as she remembers the blood that has washed her hands.
She can barely hear the question as itâs asked, but she tries for a reassuring smile. Feels it twist and drop with the pounding in her head. She finds herself stepping forwards instead, a hand outstretched, then hesitating. (These hands have taken so many lives, have taken so many parents, so many children. She canât touch what sheâs sacrificed.)
Her hand drops to her side and she averts her gaze. âIâm sorry,â she whispers again.
Crescents bloom on Sunisaâs palms, and for a second, Zoya finds herself curled on the floor of her first apartment, scabs piled thick under her nails and three years younger. Here and in a bedroom choked by the reek of mildewed rice, wounds reopened at her back, surrounded by sake bottles. Here and back in the apartment and slashed by jeers at a whipping post. Buried by ash in her village, scorned in fire. Here, and pressed to walls so thin an urchinâs breath could dissolve them, mouth fixated on âsorry, Iâm sorry, Iâm so so sorry, Iâm so sorry,â until the phrase sheds all meaning, molts into a blackbird in her mouth. She wrenches her hand from the flames and brushes Sunisaâs. The world unforms, undoes, refocuses. The Sapphire. Away from danger. Here she is. Here they are.
âSunisaââ Zoya mutters, but the other has already stood. Always a breath past connection, a footstep out of reach. To want. To fight. Such fruitless and tiresome endeavors on the body, with no hard gains and causes too slim to pursue. Why get up if the soldier leaves? What reason is there to chase after her? Better for Sunisa to pull out now than let shadows mar their tomfoolery, than risk a stint without armor, than admit mortality.Â
âRight, fuck off, then,â Zoya says, just as Sunisa says âIâm sorry for your loss.â The phrase is customary. Disciplined and polite. Perhaps this is what soldiers are required to say, or maybe Sunisa just pities her. Still, thereâs a tightness in the otherâs jaw that seems almost real, a tremor to her breath that wounds her. All this show for a pair of potential insurgents â scum under the toe of the Courtâs boot. All this pain for a criminal she barely knows. Zoya shifts her gaze to the otherâs hands and re-contextualizes the half-moons embedded in them â guilt, not anger. A stupid, too-soft creature after all.
An odd sensation unfurls through the smuggerâs chest. Beetroot soup in the dead of winter, warm, spreading through the ice of her veins and reddening her cheeks. âSo godsdamned noble,â she murmurs, sliding herself off the bed, sheets crinkling as she meets the floor, her hand raised to tuck Sunisaâs hair behind her ear. A drop of blood falls from the otherâs palm, and Zoya looks down towards it. Hesitates. She takes the hand gently, turns it over, not quite sure what to do with it. But she holds it delicately as a baby bird in hers, because sheâs been here too.Â
âI used to think it would help, you know,â Zoya says. âHating myself for what I was forced to do. Replaying every terrible thing I had to do to survive so I could define myself by it.â She searches for Sunisaâs gaze but itâs fixed elsewhere, unable to rise. Saturn and her village. The tens of girls whoâd died to her cowardice in his fire. âI think itâs right to mourn every person youâve kiâ hurt. Necessary, even, to reflect. But the logic of inflicting pain on yourself because youâve caused pain is a flawed one. It's not an atonement or repentance, it doesnât help anyone. Besides, if everything else is out to hurt you, why add one more?â She smiles, a crooked thing, before settling into impassivity again. âFor what itâs worth, what might have happened to my parents isnât your fault. None of this is. You canât blame a game piece for the hand that plays it, yeah? And thatâs all we are. Pieces. Little things to be toyed with by fates and gods. Bodies. Gentle casualties of war.â












