The pallid lines of moonlight slunk off into the darkness of night, spilling forth intermittently from the panes of a broken window. Taking in the scent of must and decay, the soldier whispered, "I'm home."
Emerging from the shadows was a solitary figure, miming wisps of the word, "good," into the depths of mottled clarity between them. Deathly silence loomed afterward, hovering as a sick, twisted thunder cloud, waiting for the moment to sprout forth a destructive streak of white light – to ignite electricity between them. "It's been too long," the strange form went on, her features a stone-faced perversion of the innocence it concealed in mocking.
Lightning nodded affirmatively, eyes still searching this foreign edifice for remnants of the woman she had once known to be chipper, child-like in her effervescent glow. End over end, she scrutinized in vain, squinting in hopes of scouring holes through the menacing canvas of night.
The emerald orbs she had gazed into time after time had grown dim as the blanket of black that shrouded them both, dark, as a forest marred by dying flames; charcoal. The other smiled emotionlessly, teeth clenched behind rigid lips and cheeks robbed of color by years of this treatment, the arrays of monochrome showing across her features in lines of white, each doing little to light the other. Her voice was cold and flat. They each knew what the other was about. "It's good to have you back."
Another nod, and shutting the door, the woman came but two steps closer, beckoning for the other form to come out into the sparse light. So she obeyed, and the two stared each other down, neither faltering. Lightning's lips lay as a thin line under her cheeks, and she watched the other woman's twist up in a smirk. They embraced this way, the soldier an unmoving pillar of infallibility, and the fruit smelling of earth, crumbling, vile. "Vanille," the taller woman's hum rolled, demanding respect, "I shouldn't be here."
War and peace, together, they mingled in the lightless mist. The night was lifeless, and there was naught that either wished to do about such. "I know," the girl replied, and the once bright inflection that should have been there lay as a sickening lilt, colorless, bleak. "But Serah won't be too awful angry, will she?"
Lightning brushed a hand away from her cheek, still. She answered definitively, "No."
"Excellent." A wave, and Vanille was stepping back into the silence, the rustic, pasty scent of dried blood following after her. Lightning nodded accordingly and inhaled heavily the inner folds of her collar, trailing the woman into the depths of the creaking home to a bed and shedding the cloth that protested thickly for her to leave. Heat met the deathly chill of hot air, and the contradictory senses settled in between as the girl sank into the sheets on top of her; then there was emptiness. Writhing time after time, the two met again and again, sweat, sex, and the smell of smirnoff saturating the space. Teeth scathed flesh, and thus sank abundantly.
Fingers smattered glossy spindles along taut, striped skin, musk and spit streaking in stringed segments among the irritated red and blush of light bruises. Dancing irreverently, they splintered off, sticking to heats and hollows they knew well. Biting, scratching, clawing, tugging, growling, groaning, scathing, screaming, they spidered spasms of empty ecstasy through the night, and tongue to cheek, collapsed together for a while in the resounding curses. Scowling, the soldier frowned under the final kiss that clung to her, and at last, could not bring herself to leave.
It did not matter, the lack of feeling between the two, stoic soldier and rotten anathema. Caring not between caresses had become a way of life, and such went as it had for the previous hundred nights of crass refinery and rolling rambunctury. The hate came like whispers of insanity, and among the voices was reason, and then, it began anew.