[Yes, it has always been easy for Akira to come to love things. According to some, it would sound like a total joke, but love has never forced its way inside her. She loves her mother in a quiet way and has never associated her with anything other than the most steadfast lamplight warmth; she loves and has always loved her father in purest, proudest adoration. She's loved his Go since its earliest presence in her early mornings, mesmerized by his grace in the grey of dawn. She has loved Go itself since her father steadied her back with his broad hand and showed her how to hold stones between her baby-fat fingers. "Why did you choose to place it here, Akira?" "It felt good. It was the most beautiful place to put it." All these loves came easy to her, as natural as the moth's wing quality of her eyelashes. She looks past their dusting into the color of Hikaru's eyes, and the way they always keep her guessing.
Likewise, Hikaru is easy to love. Akira may not say that loving her is easy: it's sometimes frightful for the need it creates, and it sometimes flings her into fury. But it is so easy to love Hikaru, nearly unthinkable not to. Akira inhales while Hikaru squirms, ever seeking one more gulp of this colorful person, this masterwork, landmine of a person--unthinkable not to love her, the restless squirm of her, the slope of her shoulder and the confounding delight of a bra strap against it.
Akira was proud of herself, in China, even as she felt that she was suffering. China was another love that came to her with ease. Everyone was fearsome, and she felt vindicated in baring her own fangs to them. In the same tormented breaths she spent missing Hikaru, she felt noble. As if she had gone off to a great war. For both of us, she thought. She would show China so much, for herself and for Hikaru, who was waiting for her to return in triumph.
Oh, and: the homecoming blue pairs nicely with Hikaru's chest. Akira settles onto her back with a smooth little sigh, with her face turned, pressed into the spread of her own hair. Her eyes are closed while she relishes nothing more than Hikaru's weight above her. Then she opens her eyes and reaches up. Without preamble, she draws open the front of Hikaru's blouse, and pulls it down and away from both shoulders.] So how do I look to you? [she asks, which is not a request for praise, but a demand for attention in general. She looks... like herself. Oh--like an exaggerated version of herself. Like she's been living off green tea and high standards. Her hair is a little bit longer, yes, and her determined legs shift beneath Hikaru at a different length. But this is the same boring white bra she stubbornly picked out with Hikaru early this year. Akira's homecoming lies in her familiarity, in how her hands still remember how and where to hold Hikaru. First she cups her palms against the blue and white fit of Hikaru's bra.] How pretty, [she says. She lets the appreciation strain brightly through her voice. Her praise is deliberate and strident, almost stern for its insistence. She slips her hands away from Hikaru's breasts, down along her sides.] How pretty. Pictures of you aren't fair at all. I felt pleased to have them while you were so far away, but now I'm mad at them.
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Likewise, Hikaru is easy to love. Akira may not say that loving her is easy: it's sometimes frightful for the need it creates, and it sometimes flings her into fury. But it is so easy to love Hikaru, nearly unthinkable not to. Akira inhales while Hikaru squirms, ever seeking one more gulp of this colorful person, this masterwork, landmine of a person--unthinkable not to love her, the restless squirm of her, the slope of her shoulder and the confounding delight of a bra strap against it.
Akira was proud of herself, in China, even as she felt that she was suffering. China was another love that came to her with ease. Everyone was fearsome, and she felt vindicated in baring her own fangs to them. In the same tormented breaths she spent missing Hikaru, she felt noble. As if she had gone off to a great war. For both of us, she thought. She would show China so much, for herself and for Hikaru, who was waiting for her to return in triumph.
Oh, and: the homecoming blue pairs nicely with Hikaru's chest. Akira settles onto her back with a smooth little sigh, with her face turned, pressed into the spread of her own hair. Her eyes are closed while she relishes nothing more than Hikaru's weight above her. Then she opens her eyes and reaches up. Without preamble, she draws open the front of Hikaru's blouse, and pulls it down and away from both shoulders.] So how do I look to you? [she asks, which is not a request for praise, but a demand for attention in general. She looks... like herself. Oh--like an exaggerated version of herself. Like she's been living off green tea and high standards. Her hair is a little bit longer, yes, and her determined legs shift beneath Hikaru at a different length. But this is the same boring white bra she stubbornly picked out with Hikaru early this year. Akira's homecoming lies in her familiarity, in how her hands still remember how and where to hold Hikaru. First she cups her palms against the blue and white fit of Hikaru's bra.] How pretty, [she says. She lets the appreciation strain brightly through her voice. Her praise is deliberate and strident, almost stern for its insistence. She slips her hands away from Hikaru's breasts, down along her sides.] How pretty. Pictures of you aren't fair at all. I felt pleased to have them while you were so far away, but now I'm mad at them.