Record of Lorelei: Chapter 14

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"Rui… not here," Mikami murmured, his tone laced with guilt, yet the hardness pressing inside Rui's body betrayed his words.

Rui had dragged him to a secluded coconut grove hidden in the shadow of a cliff. The fragile soil and dead-end terrain made it unsuitable for any kind of setup. It was practically a dumping ground, with vines coiling around discarded beams and rusting metal scraps piled haphazardly.

Sometimes, the impulse came from nowhere—less lust, more of a raw, primal urge. When Rui thought of the ever-lengthening hours being hunted by the enemy, when he saw Mikami's oil-stained fingers, the pocket watch cradled like a hatchling in Mikami's chest, or even the way Mikami bit into a dragon fruit, fingers and all—those moments made Rui long to freeze time. To hold it still. To anchor Mikami inside himself, even just for a fleeting moment.

Mikami had tried to reason with him, urging him to wait until nightfall when they could return to the tent, but Rui had refused. When Mikami attempted to gently rebuke him, Rui demanded to know what could possibly stand in the way of the vows they had exchanged.

The dam had broken, Rui realized, on that day—however many days ago it had been—when the enemy planes in the sky seemed like an impenetrable wall.

“Hah… ah… ngh…”

With his back pressed to the trunk of a coconut tree, Rui greedily took Mikami in, his body trembling as they moved together. His disheveled clothes clung to his damp skin, and the sticky sounds of their joining echoed softly. Rui clung to Mikami’s neck, letting himself be rocked and carried, his only focus on their bodies pressing and sliding together.

His desperation heightened every sensation. When Mikami nipped at his shoulder, Rui’s hoarse throat let out an involuntary cry. The chaotic, overwhelming feelings—they were something Rui wished he could store away forever, somewhere deep inside himself. Perhaps in his chest, his skull, behind his eyelids, or somewhere even deeper—within the core of his soul. Even if the intensity shredded his voice into threads of blood and silence, it would be worth it.

“Rui…”

Mikami touched him with the same deliberate care he used when inspecting an aircraft. Even when his movements were rough, Mikami's hands always measured Rui’s body attentively, understanding its limits better than Rui himself did. On days when Rui insisted something was too much, Mikami would quietly assert that it wasn’t—and he was usually right.

Rui took one of Mikami’s fingers into his mouth, tasting the metallic tang of oxidized iron on his skin.

“...Ngh, ahh…!”

Mikami filled him, his every thrust a profound weight that Rui could only absorb and endure. The scraping of his inner walls, the deep, rhythmic impacts, Mikami’s warm, breathy gasps, and the relentless heat of his arousal all overwhelmed Rui.

Beneath his feet, Rui could feel the ground shift, like a board tilting under the weight of destiny. He had seen it clearly with his own eyes: the changing balance of power between the Zero and enemy planes, the undeniable disparity in resources between Japan and the Allied forces. What had once been a fragile equilibrium, sustained by sheer will, was now tipping irrevocably.

“Hah… ngh…”

Thoughts of his parents, of the future, of resentment and hope, all teetered on the edge of that day. Everything was tipping toward Mikami. The precarious balance gave way, and from beneath the board, everything spilled into the abyss. Beneath his feet lay a pitch-black swamp. Rui knew despair awaited, but he couldn’t tell how its sadness, pain, death, and disappointment had blended together into its dark depths.

“Rui…”

Mikami called his name with a voice heavy with reverence, almost dazed. Before Rui could respond, Mikami captured his lips, the taste of oil and metal mingling faintly with the sweetness of his sweat. There was something delicate and hay-like in that scent. Rui wanted to hold onto it, to let it settle deep in his sinuses as if it could linger there forever.

Rui had learned what it meant to intertwine with another person. The dense, overwhelming heat of Mikami filled his fragile, emaciated body completely, leaving no room for anything else. If I had died without knowing this… how unbearably lonely that would have been. The act of connecting with Mikami felt sacred, a revelation Rui hadn’t expected.

And yet, it was such a vulnerable thing. They were exposed, tangled together with bare skin glistening. If someone attacked them now, there would be no defense. Mikami’s fingers and lips mapped Rui’s body, exploring its sensitivity. His mouth brushed over lips, eyelids, the edges of Rui’s ears, and his neck. Mikami’s hands stroked the rigid core of Rui’s desire, his movements deliberate and slow, before sliding into the folded warmth of his slick inner membranes.

This… this is life, Rui thought. It was raw, fragile, and powerful all at once, and he held onto the moment like it was all he had.

“Mikami… ngh… why… why there?”

Rui trembled violently as Mikami’s rough fingers pinched his nipple.

“Because… it’s red, Rui,” Mikami murmured, his movements inside Rui growing more intense as he pressed and rolled the sensitive peak with his fingertip.

“Everything about you is red,” Mikami whispered while licking Rui’s neck, his voice innocent and almost playful. The pressure in Rui’s lower abdomen surged unbearably. Mikami’s innocence, untouched by despair, was almost cruel in its purity. Rui swallowed down the words that nearly escaped his lips.

“Ah… ah… ngh…!”

Mikami. Mikami, the Japanese military is on the brink of collapse.

It was a secret Rui couldn’t share with anyone. If he couldn’t speak it aloud, then he could only protect them—protect Mikami. But even that resolve was reaching its limit.

He wanted to save the non-combatants, the mechanics and ground crew who had no part in the fighting, but escape was already impossible. Retreat routes were cut off. Japan’s mainland and Rabaul had been severed by the encroaching Allied forces. While they had desperately fought in the south, the north side of the island had become overrun without them realizing. The critical base at Truk Islands was gone, and no more supplies would come. Back in Japan, preparations for a homeland defense were reportedly underway. Would it even be right to send Mikami back to a place that might become a battlefield?

How much did Mikami and the other mechanics truly know? If withdrawal wasn’t an option, telling them the truth might only sow needless fear and despair.

If nothing could be done—if escape was impossible, if words would change nothing—then Rui would give his life to protect Mikami. This life was already forfeit, wasn’t it? He had planned to take down as many enemy planes as he could, fully expecting to die in the process. His resolve didn’t waver now. It only grew firmer.

For Mikami, I will fight to the end.

"Mikami..."

"Yes."

No matter how strained Rui’s voice sounded, Mikami always responded, as if it were the most natural thing. And each time he did, an ache bloomed in Rui's chest, so sharp and bittersweet it was almost unbearable. I can't lose him.

Rui pressed his cheek against Mikami’s and their lips met again, tangled as if by instinct, though no one had taught them how. By now, Rui knew the rhythm of it, the way pleasure surged and rippled through his body. As Mikami moved inside him, Rui felt a deep wave lift him, carrying him toward some white, distant edge that threatened to sweep his consciousness away.

"Are you all right? Does it hurt?"

Mikami’s question came gently, even as the slick, rhythmic sound of their bodies moving together filled the space. The pleasure had built so much inside Rui that it was unbearable now, a dam ready to burst.

"...Shut up," Rui panted, glaring at Mikami through half-lidded eyes. Mikami, always careful, always focused on the surface—was it painful, uncomfortable, too much? But he ignored the deeper hunger raging within Rui, the consuming ache that made his body clench and writhe, desperate for Mikami to fill every inch of him.

I need him. Rui thought. I need every part of him—his teeth, the rough edges of his fingers, the way his breathing grows heavy with desire. Everything.

"Quiet, Mikami," Rui demanded, voice breaking. "Forget all that. Just—"

Wrapping his arms around Mikami’s damp neck, Rui clung to him, pulling him close, his sweat-soaked body trembling.

There's no time. How many more times will we have like this?

"—More. Give me more."

Happiness, Rui knew, was something fleeting, something you devoured while you could. He had learned that lesson long ago, seared into him through pain and loss. If I don't take it now, I'll only regret it.

＊ ＊ ＊

The white villa-like barracks for the aircrew. The hedges overflowing with crimson hibiscus. The asphalt runway stretching beautifully, reflecting the wavering heat. From the watchtower, the rising sun flag and rainbow-colored streamers fluttered in the wind, overlooking the airfield where rows of gleaming fighter planes once lined up in perfect formation. The scent of oleander and plumeria filled the air, the grass neatly trimmed short.

That glorious landscape was now unrecognizable.

From the palm groves, columns of smoke perpetually rose. The air was thick with the acrid smell of heavy oil. Corpses, sealed in ammunition crates, were being loaded onto trucks and carried away.

The air raids had become so severe that life outdoors was no longer possible. Both the command center and living quarters had been moved into underground bunkers, forcing everyone into a grim and oppressive existence.

Inside the dimly lit, claustrophobic bunkers dug into the walls, countless soldiers were crammed together. Lanterns cast flickering lights as they sat silently, enduring the stifling air that was even hotter and more suffocating than outside.

Rui and Mikami had claimed a small corner of the bunker, laying out a coarse cloth as their makeshift space. It was a restless spot with people constantly coming and going, but Mikami could always pick up Rui's voice, no matter the surrounding noise.

Lately, a little ritual had developed between them.

They would thin down a sweet potato syrup into a drink to share in the evenings. It seemed to restore their energy better than sugar and didn’t irritate Rui’s throat. Mikami had grown quite fond of it and eagerly looked forward to sharing it with Rui every night.

Though Rui couldn’t taste, his sense of smell was intact, and the faint aroma of sweet potato in the syrupy water was comforting. I can’t taste it, but it feels delicious, Rui thought.

"Cheers."

Mikami, holding up his makeshift cup of sugar water, always seemed so happy when he proposed the toast. Reluctantly, Rui would raise his own cup, and by the time he took a sip, he felt like it truly tasted wonderful—a mystery in itself.

The faint, unsteady light from the lantern danced across Mikami’s profile.

When Mikami was with Rui, he tended to talk more than usual. Mikami was generally sociable and had many friends, but he was a quiet man by nature. Even when surrounded by a crowd, he often listened more than spoke, giving measured nods and the occasional word in response.

"Come live with me," Mikami said gently as he sipped the sweet syrup water. "When everything settles down, let’s get a cat."

"Have you ever been on a hike? There’s a little hill near my home—small enough for my younger sister to climb."

Rui often found himself talking too much when with Mikami. It’s easy to talk when someone actually listens. His throat, raw and strained, would eventually remind him of his limits, and Mikami, always concerned, would steer the conversation to keep Rui entertained without pushing him too hard.

Mikami’s stories were simple, not uproariously funny or dramatic, but they had a warmth to them. They were the sort of memories that might resurface in the quiet of the night, unrestrained yet comforting.

"Iris flowers bloom there, and azaleas too," Mikami continued. "In elementary school, my class would bring lunches and go to see them."

"I’ve never been on a hike. Is it fun?"

Whenever Rui responded, Mikami would lean in slightly, listening intently and nodding with a smile.

"Well," Mikami said, "walking there might not be exciting, but once you arrive and realize it’s a lovely spot, it feels worth it. Peaceful places like that—I love them. Soft grass underfoot, looking for moles, finding wild mushrooms in the woods…"

"You eat them? Things growing in the ground like that?"

"Of course! They’re delicious in a hotpot. Add some scallions or cabbage, season it with miso—it’s perfect."

The stories Mikami shared about life back in Japan were filled with wonder, full of things Rui wanted to experience. Digging for bamboo shoots, pulling lottery tickets at a candy shop, climbing river rocks to fish with a feathered hook, or buying roasted sweet potatoes at a greengrocer, wrapped in newspaper, and running home with them.

If the war ends and such a world truly returns, how incredible it would be.

"Nice...," Rui murmured, letting his thoughts drift.

A small house, a developed medicine that could turn his eyes black, living with Mikami and a cat. If he were to quit being a pilot, what kind of work would he do? Most reserve officers returning to the mainland became instructors, but with his voice as it was, that wasn’t an option.

Mikami, cradling Rui's cheek gently, whispered with a gravity that struck deep.

"…So please, stop attaching that U-shaped part to the plane."

His sorrowful expression paired with the way his hand tenderly cupped Rui’s cheek made the words weigh even more heavily. Mikami gazed directly at Rui, eyes filled with sincerity.

"If you’ll let me, I’d like to become your new family."

Mikami’s kind words struck Rui’s chest like a burst of machine-gun fire. He had to struggle to keep breathing. Family, with Mikami. A chance to have a home again—or, more accurately, for the first time. A home where he could live with Mikami and a cat, where they’d share mornings and evenings. Where they’d visit bathhouses and admire paintings of Mount Fuji. Where they’d buy syrup candies from street vendors and listen to the tofu seller’s trumpet.

It sounded like such a happy life. Lately, imagining such invitations from Mikami had become one of Rui’s few joys. Yet, intertwined with that happiness was a tenacious root of sorrow, one he would painstakingly tear out and push aside. But it always came with a pain that outweighed the joy.

Forgetting my father and abandoning my family's responsibilities, finding happiness alone—it’s immoral. Even if Rui could forgive the disgrace he endured and his damaged throat, he couldn’t forget his parents’ deaths. They must have died in agony, consumed by regret. How much pain, humiliation, and despair had they suffered?

When Rui fell silent, Mikami didn’t press him. He simply waited. And when it became clear Rui wouldn’t respond, Mikami would gently steer the conversation to another topic, as if chasing a different breeze.

Rui wished for Mikami to eventually give up. As he averted his gaze, he suddenly noticed the hem of Mikami’s trousers was stained red and black. Beneath the edge, darkened skin and a small red wound peeked out.

"Wasn’t there a wound there before, too?"

Mikami easily rolled up his trousers. Around his ankle, the skin was discolored and there was a small, shallow wound, no bigger than a fingernail, where the skin had been eaten away.

"Oh, this is from the other day," Mikami said, propping up one knee and blowing gently on his ankle. "The medic said it’s an early-stage ulcer. If the wound dries, it’ll heal. But it’s right where my boots and trousers rub, so the scab keeps peeling off. It’s nothing serious—it started as a mosquito bite. Thankfully, it wasn’t malaria."

That was a relief, but Rui couldn’t help but question how a mosquito bite could lead to such a wound. The entire area around Mikami’s ankle was darkened.

Mikami rubbed his swollen ankle, its shape obscured by the swelling.

"It started swelling, so I had it checked out. I thought it might be malaria poison pooling there, but the medic laughed and said it’s just a regular wound. I know ulcers can become serious, but the original wound was tiny, and there’s not much flesh around the ankle. Once it dries, it’ll be fine."

Mikami spoke with such casual cheer that Rui felt a little reassured. Tropical ulcers, he reminded himself, occur when wounds become infected with bacteria and won’t heal. They were a common tropical affliction among Japanese troops, alongside malaria, dengue fever, and dysentery.

The wound itself didn’t seem severe, though its discoloration and erosion bothered him. Still, it wasn’t serious enough to call it an injury.

"…All right, I’ll bandage it later."

"Bandaging a mosquito bite? That’s embarrassing," Mikami laughed, brushing off the concern.

But Rui had seen how bad tropical ulcers could become. Once, when he visited the hospital for throat disinfectant, he saw a man whose gunshot wound had festered into an ulcer. His leg was rotting, discolored, and split apart with red and black lesions. It looked as though the decaying flesh might fall off the bone at any moment.

Mikami’s wound was small and unlikely to reach that state, but flies could spread bacteria. Later, Rui resolved, I’ll make sure to bandage it properly.

＊ ＊ ＊

The next morning, Mikami was walking strangely. He was limping, favoring one leg. Rui thought he might have twisted his ankle, but the day after that, Mikami was dragging his foot, and the day after that, he was walking with a cane. Rui regretted his foolishness in not noticing sooner, though Mikami’s efforts to hide it had been deliberate. Still, he hadn’t expected Mikami’s condition to deteriorate so rapidly in just a few days.

“Show me the wound,” Rui demanded.

“It’s fine,” Mikami replied casually.

“If it’s fine, show me.”

With a troubled expression, Mikami hesitated. “It’s not a pretty sight,” he admitted, rolling up the dirtied hem of his trousers. What was revealed made Rui catch his breath—it was far worse than he had imagined.

“I’m receiving treatment from the medic,” Mikami explained.

He must have been sneaking off for treatment while Rui was on missions. Why hadn’t he said anything about it?

The wound on Mikami’s ankle had deteriorated shockingly. His entire ankle was swollen, resembling an overripe gourd, and the skin had turned a dark, almost black hue. What had been a minor scratch days earlier was now a gaping hole, roughly the size of a ten-sen coin. The wound was so deep it seemed like it could expose the bone, and it spread inward like something had hollowed it out with a spoon.

“They’ve told me to check into the hospital, but we’re short on mechanics right now, and I...” Mikami trailed off, taking a strained breath before managing a weak smile. “I don’t want anyone else touching Rui’s Zero.”

When he took Rui’s hand, his skin was alarmingly hot—he had a fever.

“I’ll manage,” Mikami said.

“Go to the hospital. Check in,” Rui ordered firmly.

“Soon,” Mikami deflected.

“Mikami.”

Rui could tell that Mikami already knew his wound wouldn’t heal on its own. He was enduring the pain and the fear of worsening infection just to keep working on Rui’s Zero, ensuring Rui wasn’t inconvenienced.

“Go to the hospital tomorrow. I’ll ask Kido to arrange it.”

Even if there weren’t any available beds, Kido would find a way. He’d make sure Mikami received priority for the best medicines, scarce as they were. Rui wished he could send Mikami to a mainland hospital, but given how difficult it was to transport even supplies, putting Mikami on a ship would only make him a target for torpedoes.

Mikami, oblivious to Rui’s desperate calculations, laughed carelessly. Rui suppressed his frustration, pulling his gear bag toward him. Inside, there was a small vial of mercurochrome, a tourniquet, and some bandages for first aid. He also rummaged for leftover rations—candies, salami, and nutrient-packed snacks he carried during flights—thinking Mikami needed more nutrition.

From behind him, Mikami suddenly spoke.

“Apparently, people are saying I’m both your lover and Kido’s.”

“Stick to just me,” Rui snapped without thinking, irritation flaring.

He knew Kido cared about Mikami, but that was as a mentor or a source of amusement. Kido’s attention wasn’t the same—it couldn’t compare to Rui’s feelings. Kido might value Mikami as a Go partner, nothing more.

When Rui turned back with the bandages in hand, Mikami’s face was flushed, and he was covering his mouth with one hand.

“What?” Rui asked suspiciously.

“No, I just... I feel kind of happy,” Mikami admitted, sheepish.

“If you have that much energy, you don’t need the bandages,” Rui muttered, scowling as he tossed the roll of bandages at Mikami.

＊ ＊ ＊

The air inside the shelter at night was thick and stifling, a suffocating mix of heat and darkness. Occasionally, muffled sounds echoed through the space, and dim lantern lights flickered here and there.

From the jungle, the persistent chorus of insects intruded, and beneath the moonlight, the mournful cries of some animal reverberated.

Late into the night, Mikami called out to Rui. Despite facing away, Mikami had been working under the lantern's glow while Rui rested with his eyes closed. Had he been at it all this time?

"Rui, do you have a moment?"

Startled, Rui looked up at Mikami, who carefully unfolded a white cloth in his hands. Inside was the pocket watch.

As Rui sat up, Mikami moved the lantern closer and lowered his voice.

"I'm still missing parts. I tried making some myself, but the substitute iron we have is too soft—the gears just won’t work properly," Mikami explained.

Rui already knew the watch required durable, precise components. Steel had long been in short supply; even aircraft parts were now made from silicon-manganese-chrome steel, a substitute material. It wasn’t surprising that they couldn’t find the exact metal needed.

“I see.”

“Shall I return it for now?”

Though it was phrased as a question, Mikami seemed intent on returning the watch. He no longer had the tools to work with precise parts, nor could he procure the components. And more than anything, Mikami’s condition was deteriorating. If he didn’t receive proper treatment at the hospital within the next few days, it was likely he’d face the loss of his leg. His fever had not subsided, and he often pressed his fingers to his temple, indicating persistent headaches since that evening.

“It doesn’t work yet, but I’ve cleaned it up and made sure it’s preserved. I’ve removed the rust, patched the hole in the case,” Mikami said, flipping the watch over on the cloth to show Rui.

The back plate, where the hole had been filled, now gleamed smooth and polished, its surface nearly as pristine as new. The spots that hydrochloric acid had once burned and mottled were so meticulously polished they were unrecognizable. The engraving that read Asamura remained untouched, a hallmark of Mikami’s attention to detail.

“It’s not perfect, but it’s stable for now. Once we’re back home, I’ll fix it properly. Until then, it’s safe to carry around.”

The corrosion had been stopped; the watch, though incomplete, was sound. It reminded Rui of himself—damaged but still holding together, with a faint glimmer of hope that tomorrow might exist.

Rui gently pushed the watch, still in Mikami’s hands, back toward him.

“Keep it with you, Mikami.”

If it returned to Rui’s hands now, it felt as though it might begin to decay again, as if the restored parts would ache and bleed rust once more.

When the watch was near him, it dredged up the memory of his father’s vengeance, his duty to carry out retribution, and the oppressive grief that always followed. But knowing it rested in Mikami’s hands instead brought a strange sense of peace.

“But—”

“You don’t want to?” Rui asked sharply.

Mikami looked contemplative for a moment before answering. “No, I’ll hold onto it. But on one condition.”

He took Rui’s hand and placed it over the watch.

“When it’s fixed, I want you to take it back properly,” Mikami said.

Once they returned to the mainland, and once he had all the parts, Mikami promised to restore the watch completely and return it to Rui.

Rui couldn’t bring himself to nod, but he also couldn’t refuse as he had before.

If the day came when the watch ticked once more… Mikami’s confidence made it seem possible. Maybe Mikami truly had a plan. Back on the mainland, parts would be available. With parts, the watch could be repaired. Could that day really come? Rui allowed himself the fleeting thought. He even dared to pray.

And if the war ended, Rui imagined he might simply let himself be swept along and board a ship with Mikami back to the mainland. It wasn’t a hope he could voice, but the thought flickered, fragile yet persistent, in the corners of his mind.

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