What Rules Cannot Hold (A Naekusaba story)

Summer Camp VII

A narrow, tiled, stark corridor extended before him; regular, bolted recesses that had housed windows were letting through minimal streaks of sunlight, and a quiet jingle of the whispering wind. This corridor was previously used for transit, but subsequent, and, in all respects, meagre, reedification of the airport made it redundant; however, it was blocked off instead of being destroyed. Since Makoto had keys for locking up the various rooms, he permitted himself to explore the place a bit more before he'd end his final shift. 

After their return to the resort, they went under care which, in his case, had to be prolonged because of his ankle that prohibited all activities except the essential ones – so he remained bedridden. He wasn't expelled or suspended, but disapproval mixed with disappointment certainly stained all colloquies he held with his teachers; Kazuichi, Yasuhiro, and the others were more sympathetic, surprised by the teachers' disposition, exculpating Makoto, which he didn't wholly agree with: everything was a consequence of his curiosity. 

Mukuro's reconvalescence passed effortlessly; staying at his side, she'd devote whole evenings, and sometimes mornings, to him: assisting the nurse, talking, or, in propitious instances, lying in bed with him. Over that time, she became noticeably reserved and thoughtful; often passing time with him without uttering a word. Makoto found that, following Junko's recovery, she and Mukuro stopped interacting or talking with each other, so he deemed her growing thoughtfulness necessary and wouldn't broach the topic. 

Leaving the stuffy corridor, he locked the door and entered the enormous lobby that they spent some time loitering in before being taken to the resort; the large, rectangular windows rowed together provided a wonderful panorama of the airport and the somewhat hilly forest lurking right behind; light flickered, gyrated, and blinked on the roof's metal supports, and a glazed impression of the clear sky lingered o the immaculate flooring. 

Makoto took a seat before the view, recalling everything that Haiji had told him to finish; he felt obligated to work some more after what had happened and because, he overheard, that Haiji was responsible for appeasing the teachers and blaming the incident on the unexpected speed with which the storm had arrived. Indebted to that act of uncalled diplomacy, Makoto promised himself to fulfil what he had left unfinished on that day: Haiji initially reluctant; acquiescent after checking the weather broadcast. 

''Makoto!"

He turned his head: it was Mukuro. 

''Hey, what are you doing here?'' 

They got together near the glossy, circular reception counter situated in the middle of the lobby. 

''I thought I could help you,'' she smiled, looking around. 

''Well, there isn't anything left to do,'' he ruminated. ''I think I did everything. . . But we could check if that's really the case.'' 

''Are we going to walk the entire airport?'' 

''I'm afraid that would take too much time. . . We'll just walk down the hall here and come back,'' he explained, offering his hand, which she promptly took. 

''Don't you have to train?'' He asked, on the way. 

''No, I had to stop for some time now.'' 

''Why?'' 

''I'm conducting interviews with our classmates right now, asking them about the camp, the projects, or training they've been doing, and how they think it'll prepare them for the future.''

''That must be hard,'' Makoto observed. ''Both for you and whoever you interview. . . Especially the part about the future.'' 

''I don't think that they're always telling the truth,'' Mukuro said with a small smile. ''It's not that hard.''

''I, for one, would struggle a lot,'' he chuckled, betraying a note of shame. ''It's hard to tell what exactly I've been doing all this time, so far. . .''

''Do you think so?'' Mukuro stopped him. 

''Well, yeah. . .'' He faced her. 

''Are you not happy with being here?'' 

''I'm happy. . . very, in fact,'' they resumed walking. ''But I'm not sure if I did anything that was useful for developing my talent.''

''So everything you did was pointless?'' 

''I wouldn't say that,'' he shook his head, pausing briefly. ''It did teach me that I was capable of doing quite a lot and that I could change things in my life regardless of my luck, which. . . I can't tell if that's really my talent. But, even if it's something else, I can't tell what is it.'' 

''Do you think that what you did here is meaningless for your future?'' 

''No,'' they started walking back to the lobby. ''It changed the way I look at myself. . . and probably made me more confident – maybe someone else would be a better judge of that. Anyway, it also made it clear that I'd prefer not to go through this alone.'' 

They sat where Makoto was sitting before; Mukuro watching him intensely. 

''What do you mean?'' 

''My life, I guess. . . I think I understood the value of having friends by your side a-and someone a lot closer,'' he flustered, falling silent. ''I-I think that's all.'' 

''I love you''

She trembled; heart emptying her chest of breath: ears muffled by its resounding knocking; eyes seeing, but not discerning; limbs transfixed by inward and outward tensions. Hands wedded together without delay: heartbeats shared thereat and made into one; bodies inching towards the inevitable, yet still holding back – wondering at the words understood, in disbelief of their understanding. 

''I do. . . too,'' Makoto confessed. ''I love you, Mukuro.'' 

Consummation of will and not compulsion: they continued in their embrace; eyes mutually watchfully of the other's fidelity; lips at pains to sanctify their union. Then tears lapsed down the soldier's face, and the blush drew shame to love. 

''M-Mukuro,'' Makoto wiped them off; drawing worry to affection. 

''I'm sorry-''

Her apology lost its voice. He kissed her. 

From outside to the hall, the sun took its course; distant waves and wind hummed together, and the turquoise sky watched, as it always did – forever. Summer was ending.