Eden

The fit is awkward at first -- the two, together. Mitsuru is taller, a strange mix of inexperienced and sure, like nothing she does could ever come out wrong. Yukari doesn't think she means to come out that way, at least not all the time, but she does, anyway. Her kiss is dry, academic, her lips smooth and cool; Yukari tips her head up and deepens it and thinks of fairytale romance and soap operas, and wonders where they fit. Maybe they don't fit, shouldn't, but -- Mitsuru is beautiful, Mitsuru's easy confidence has its own allure, and Yukari has seen her tested, thrown into the deep end, and she knows that right now there's almost nowhere she'd rather be.

Mitsuru's hair curls around her fingers easily, sleek and soft. "Was that alright?" Yukari asks, a flutter in her stomach. Mitsuru tilts her head, considers the question.

"Yes," she says, and then, more uncertainly, "I think so?"

Yukari has to smile. "We should practice," she suggests. "Practice makes perfect."

"I believe that's a cliché, Takeba," Mitsuru says, still oddly cool and aloof even though Yukari can feel her, feel the warmth of her, the softness of her breasts, a strange vulnerability. She's never thought of Mitsuru as soft, before.

"Yukari," she says, "Yukari, if we're going to keep kissing."

"Yukari," Mitsuru says, tasting it. "I think I'd like that."