She said nothing. Not a word. He expected her to argue with him--he had been fishing for the argument, truth be told, for something to give him reason to leave.
Instead, without a word, she removed her shirt.
He'd seen this before, hadn't he? He'd seen it, as he'd watched SotF. The girl lured the guy in, sweet and seductive, and then...and then...
And then, to his own great astonishment, he smiled. Because he absolutely could not believe that Mizore Soryu would ever do that.
He did not notice her discomfort, because the moment she'd lost her shirt all the thoughts, troubles, philosophies and sophistications to which Raidon lay claim had fled his weak, stupid skull. It didn't matter that she wasn't all that well-developed, that she was skinny rather than curvy; she was absolutely and unequivocally beautiful, and every hormone in Raidon's body began to work overtime at the very sight of her; foolish lust and romantic affection mingled into a misshapen pile that pushed painfully against his chest.
She pulled his hands to her mouth and kissed his thin wrists, and then began to pull him closer. He had already been moving as she started to pull, that moment of awestruck disbelief fading as his instincts took over. She was the one working on him--a long, soulful kiss on his lips (hers were sweet, just the faintest hint of salt) and the lips went down, kissed his chest, both nipples (tingles of electricity that only wired him more, arcing out through his chest). Fingers dug into his back, and an involuntary shudder went through him. In return, he wrapped one weak arm around her body, traced his fingers up the side of her body (grazed the fabric of the bra--alien to his touch, wonderful, elastic to the touch.
His hand cupped around her neck and pulled her up to his level. She kissed the bridge of his nose, his eyelids (one by one, gentle as could be). In return he kissed the edge of her chin, the side of her neck; his mind was dwindling again, as his hands curled around the soft of her lower back and up, up, up...
The clasp of the bra...
And then he stopped.
He loved the feel of her, the touch of her all-too-soft skin under his hands and upon his own flesh. But as his fingers fingered the clasp of the bra, he remembered what he was here to do. He was here to stay alive.
He was here to kill.
He had decided against killing Mizore Soryu. He had a peculiar faith in her pacifism, in her will. But he would try to kill, nevertheless, and if Mizore died? If Mizore died and she...
She was already his first kiss.
He drew away. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I shouldn't have..." his head was still whirling, his crotch ached. He wanted to remove that last troublesome barrier, touch bare skin to bare skin, and who knew what would...
Closeness. Attachment. He could stand himself for letting her live; could he stand hearing of her death, even now? And would he be able to stand it if he...
He reached for his shirt and slipped it back over his shoulders, buttoning it up as quickly as he could.
"I shouldn't stay here," he said, rising to his feet. "Hell, I...I shouldn't even be here." He finished buttoning his shirt, took the gun into his hand, and slipped it into his pocket. His bag was where he'd left it--rested against the same endtable his gun had been on. He lifted it and threw it over one shoulder.
What was he doing?
"I can't," he said softly, looking over one shoulder towards her. She was sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped, eyes wide. Not sad, exactly, nor accusing; just confused, with a trace of pain. "I can't..." Can't what? Can't lust after her? Love her? Can't bear a touch so strange yet familiar, so perfectly, heavenly, so...
"Can't have power," he said softly. "Over you. Or...or let you..."
Let you have power over me.
But he couldn't stop looking at her. Couldn't stop looking at the beautiful, strange girl.
He reached into his bag, pulled out a blue jacket. He hadn't been wearing it--hadn't had time to put it on, and it had been so hot earlier...
"I'm sorry," he repeated, stepping forwards and resting the jacket on her lap. "And...and thank you, Mizore." A light kiss on her lips (couldn't help himself) and then off, down the stairs, down the paintings of death and free of the memory of affection.
"Oh, Raidon," Ichiro whispered, kissing him on the forehead and trailing bloodstained fingers down the side of his face. "Don't you see? He's proud of you."
(Naoko Raidon continued in No Turning Back