One: The Second Girl

Here am I
yet another goodbye!
He says Adios, says Adios,
and do you know why
she won't break down and cry?
—she says Adios, says Adios, Goodbye.

Well, damnit Ken-kun, I've got a crush on you.

Miyako spoke those words in a low earnest tone that somehow seemed louder than it actually was. Ken moved slightly backward unconsciously, shocked by her vehemence.

I'd thought so, he replied, with a measured deadpan calm. It concealed an inner swirl of shock and pity admirably.

Then why'd you even ask? Why'd you ask what these were for, if you knew full well? She gestured to an unopened box of Valentine's Day chocolate.

I wanted to make sure. Again, the careful calm.

A pause. Well, you're sure now, came Miyako's reply, her voice shot through with sarcasm and pain. She knew, now, what he'd say.

Then came a dead silence. After what seemed eternity, Ken broke it.

We've certainly gotten ourselves into a mess.

Miyako drew back, stifling a blink. She'd expected a different reply. One that told her something, even if the news was bad.

How so?

You like me. I like someone else. And that someone else likes you. The words came with a strange not-quite-flatness. Ken's whirlpooling emotions nearly broke surface.

Miyako frowned, then quickly covered with a smile. She'd expected this—the first two parts, at least. No point in getting upset. No point in getting upset.

Her voice, unlike Ken's trained deadpan, broke, and showed the tears not yet brimming behind her eyes. Mustn't cry. Mustn't cry.

Mustn't cry.

You don't know? His flat tone now held a quizzical hint.

Apparently not. Sarcasm inadequately covered her teary voice.

Figure it out, he replied, voice more effectively concealing inner pain.

Miyako nearly spat in frustration. Her subconscious substituted anger for sadness, and she vehemently said:

Damn you, Ichijouji.

Then she regretted it. He was really no different from her.

I'm probably due for hell already, came his reply, tone streaked with dryness. For a moment they were but two friends joking.

The moment passed, and Ken continued. I do pity him, though. You're the second girl he's crushed on... the second girl who's crushed on someone else.

At least you're not the second girl to have her crush reciprocated.

Miyako damned him again, and did not regret it this time. That was low of him.

Then she left. She left with pain still inside her, a bubbling mirror to Ken's still silent torment.

She ran to keep the tears back, somehow believing that the physical activity would preclude crying. She darted blindly through the halls—though tears did not yet blur her eyes, they blurred her mind to the same effect. She ran, and ran, from Ken, from herself. She ran from the past and its tears towards the future—a future she hoped would be happy.

She didn't know if it would be. Maybe someday she'd know.

In her headlong rush, she ran into someone. Someone unidentified to her—she didn't care enough to invest effort towards recognition. Though she stumbled, she never slacked pace. She regained her balance while running, and ran if possible faster now. Now she was unencumbered by her backpack. It had fallen off in her stumble, but she'd been too blind to notice.

She took a winding detouring path, switching directions to throw off the pursuit of sadness and memory and thought. And in this path, she returned to a hall just off where'd she'd stumbled through a person. There she stopped, though not in full choice.

she said, in surprised recognition of the boy who blocked her way.

he said, in a similar acknowledgement. You dropped these. He held up her backpack, and the box of chocolate she'd intended for Ken. Daisuke handed them back to her, a strange pained happiness crossing his face.

Miyako answered, and walked off.

Figure it out.

She then speedwalked, gradually accelerating to a near-running pace.

I do pity him, though.

And then she broke into a run for a few brief seconds.

You're the second girl he's crushed on... the second girl to crush on someone else.

And then she reversed her run's direction. She ran back to Daisuke, now not blind but comprehending.

he acknowledged, with imperfect flatness.

she replied. Then she held out the box. Want a chocolate?

But at least you're not the second girl to have her crush reciprocated.

At least you're the second girl to reciprocate.

Interlude: And All

One by one my leaves fall.
One by one my tales are told.

A girl sat by a computer typing. And in millions of houses across the globe, others—girl and boy, old and young—followed her example. And the words flowed out of their supple fingers to the screens. From there they became data, zeroes and ones stored on millions of hard drives.

And others scribbled on paper, some on fine white college ruled and others on newspaper scraps. And they wrote in disparate languages and with disparate alphabets, but they all had one thing in common. And that was the thrill of writing.

And yet others had no paper to write on and no writing to cover it with. And so they told stories, fantastic stories to those who would listen.

And all were kin, in blood and spirit.

Two: To Pack a Memory

It's no lie
she is yearning to fly.
She says Adios, says Adios,
and now you know why
he's a reason to sigh
—she says Adios, says Adios, Goodbye.

A girl sat on a pink bed in a pink bedroom, pink cell phone seemingly glued to her ear. She chatted animatedly of class gossip, of did you hear that Kentaro asked Hanako out and oh, what did she tell him?

Then she dropped her gaze slightly to the empty trunk on her desk. Her expression turned from happy to wistful. She apologized to her friend, and broke off the conversation. She really did need to pack.

The girl went first to her night table, and picked up her jewelry case. it said, her name's kanji painted in delicate caligraphy. It was a gift from her parents, and the first thing she'd pack. So it went in the empty trunk.

Then to her closet, to empty it of clothes. In went years of skirts and shirts, dresses and leggings. These she'd bought for herself. She set her green school uniforms aside, to sell used. Others to follow her at Odaiba Middle would surely need them.

But by now she'd nearly filled the trunks she'd been allotted. There was just one trunk left. Into it she placed trinkets, the accumlated junk of her twelve-year life.

In went her manga, years and years of Nayakoshi mahou shoujo. In went her Digivice, token of her time of magic.

But one cannot pack friendship. One cannot pack love. One can only pack a trinket, to help one remember. One can only try to pack a memory.

And for one thing there was no trinket to pack.

And although one may say you cannot forget first love, Mimi would still feel more secure with a memory packed.

But what? But what?

One cannot pack walks in the park. One cannot pack hours of talking. One cannot pack the feel of holding hands.

Her cell phone buzzed in her hand, its vibration jolting her out of wistful reverie.



came Koushirou's answer. No matter anything, she was still –san. But so was everyone, to Koushirou. And she'd come to take it as a sign of courtesy, not one of distance.

Mimi replied happily.

How far done are you with packing?

Nearly. Why do you ask? The happy sound of her voice cut through her wistfullness. She'd have to leave soon, but that was little reason to not enjoy life now.

Want to take a walk with me? One final one... and his voice trailed off, reluctant to say its words.

Mimi's voice had a underlay of happy giggles.

And she left her family's appartment, breezing past her parents with a cheerful I'll be back soon!

Koushirou was waiting when she got to the park. That was him, always punctual and polite. Besides, he lived closer to the park than she did. She looped her arm through his familiarly, a joyful contrast to his reserve.

So they walked, and they talked of many things. Always hanging between them was Mimi's imminent departure, but they refrained from speaking of it. Until a little while before the end.

If you had a choice, would you go? Koushirou asked, gently.

I'm not really sure. Mimi paused. I'd always thought of New York and America as wonderful places—places where music and fashion and everything blended together in constant excitement. But now...

The choice would be so easy... if I didn't have friends this close. Leaving everyone behind... I suppose, though I hate to say it, that I'll get over this eventually. I got over leaving Palmon, right? But it was so hard...

And it's harder now. I have to leave everyone... Sora-chan and Yamato-san and Taichi-san... Takeru-kun and Jyou-kun and Hikari-chan... and you. Her happiness gave way for the briefest of seconds.

Saved the best for last? Koushiro joked, in an attempt to cheer her up.

She gave the laugh he'd sought, and without the bitterness he'd feared. Then she hugged him—quickly, lightly.

They continued walking, through manicured paths amidst manicured lawns and manicured flowerbeds. Everything about the park was neat and clean.

But for one spot, where the wildflowers grew in a tangle of pink and red and white. Planted in their middle was a cherry tree, lone specimen of the rest of the park's trimmed neatness.

They walked toward it hesitantly, noticing its fresh differences from the rest of the trim park. Mimi bent down to carefully pluck the flowers—while DO NOT PICK FLOWERS signs stated their blunt message elsewhere in the park, here there was no artificial neatness to spoil in a bout of flowerpicking.

Koushirou watched her indulgently—she seemed so much younger now. Then he strode through the wildflowers to the one prim cherry tree. He reached up—difficult, as he was still a bit short—and plucked one delicate pink-white blossom.

He stretched his hand out to Mimi. Here. Take this.

It's like you—perfect and tall, rising above everyone else.

Mimi smiled, and took the flower from him. She stuck it in her chestnut hair, careful not to muss the petals. She had her memory to pack now.

Interlude: Stream's End

One by one my leaves fall.
One by one my tales are told.

The girl still sat in front of her computer, words frantically flowing from her typing fingers. Her muses had full hold on her now, and she cursed her lack of typing ability. The story could flow out so much faster if she could type. But for now her clumsy touch-typing dammed the stream of words coming from her flying fingers.

At least this was better than writing things out. Her writing was even slower than this, and if she tried for any speed her handwriting would disintegrate to illegibility.

She'd been pouring forth this latest story for hours, and it was nearly finished. The words came and came, forming sentences and paragraphs and sections and finally a finished story.
The girl sat back and breathed a sigh of relief and relaxation. Then she turned back to the computer and scrolled up. She proofread the story, making little changes here and there. Then she logged online and posted it. She pored over the posted version, carefully checking for error. There was none, other than any flaws in her own writing. Those she hoped to correct someday. But for now, here was another tale told.

Three: Waiting List

My, oh my!
She was aiming too high.
He says Adios, says Adios,
and now you know why
there's no moon in her sky
—he says Adios, says Adios, Goodbye.

The news spread throughout the school quickly. Some found it interesting, one found it heartbreaking. And when some heard it, they became absolutely incensed.

They spoke in alcoves off the hall, or blatantly in front of lockers. But no matter the place, the popular crowd spoke the same words with the same voice. Takenouchi Sora is going down, they muttered in anger.

No matter anyone's feelings on the matter Ishida Yamato was going out with Motomiya Jun, and that was the way things were. No one could disturb that status quo until they broke up of themselves, and then the right to date Ishida-sama would go to the next girl on the waiting list. A waiting list that Takenouchi had not asked to be put on before trying to flirt with Ishida-sama.

So they wove a complex web to prevent Takenouchi from going anywhere near their beloved Ishida-sama. No one in the popular crowd particularly cared how Ishida felt about this—if he liked Takenouchi back, good for him, but he could ask her out after the twenty-girl backlog on the waiting list was cleared.

And whenever Takenouchi spoke to Ishida-sama, something rather like this happened:

Sora called, beckoning from her lunch table. Taichi sat near her, as did several other members of varied sports teams.

Hoshiko, a friend of Jun's, moved in on an intercept course towards Yamato. She was number three on the waiting list, and was therefore bound to be annoyed if anyone butted in line.

she spoke in greeting, standing deftly in his path to divert him from the jock table. Jun-chan'd like to talk to you. Something about dinner with her family. She led Yamato away to the other side of the cafeteria.

Sora frowned quizzically, and turned to Taichi. That always happens. Always, when I say anything to him, one of them,—she pointed in the popular crowd's general direction—leads him away. Why?

Aiko, a fellow tennis player, interjected, It's obvious. Ever since that stunt with the cookies, they've veiwed you as Threat Class A.

Sora blushed. Well, it's obvious he dislikes Jun. I'm an old friend, one who likes him for himself instead of his guitar. What's so wrong with me going after him?

Simple—they want to snap him up as soon as he dumps Motomiya-san. It's also a case of turf violation, since you're a jock and Ishida-san's part of them. Aiko frowned, annoyed that her cynicism was so accurate in this case. Sora really didn't deserve this.

Sora then noticed Taichi's blush. What, you don't like this gossip?

Taichi nodded.

Pick another topic, then, came Sora's reply.

How do you think the swim team'll do this Saturday? Taichi asked, after a few second's thought.

said Sora. Who're they against?

Mugen Gakuen, I think, said Aiko. Taichi nodded confirmation.

We'll win, Sora answered. Jyou-san goes to Mugen Gakuen... proof enough it's a nerd school.

I'm not so sure, Tai replied. Nerds tend to swim well.

The three continued their argument until lunch ended, then split up to their separate classes. And the day continued, and then came another day. The week passed with no real change in the Yamato situation. Then came Saturday, and the swim meet. Of course Taichi and Sora attended; it was only natural, as they were part of the jocks. Knowing this, the popular crowd made sure that Yamato was safely shopping with Jun that day.

At the meet, Sora sat with Taichi and Aiko again. Talk was muted, though—Sora was thinking about Yamato, Taichi thinking about her (He thought he was thinking about her Yamato problem, but this was delusion.) and Aiko was peering over the bleachers at the Mugen Gakuen boys' team.

Then Taichi decided he was hungry. Again. He got up to head to the concessions stand, and asked the two girls if they wanted anything.

Aiko shook her head, but Sora replied, A soda. Don't care what kind.

When Taichi returned with Sora's soda and his own trayful of edibles, Sora withdrew her wallet in an offer to pay.

Tai blushed. You don't really need to. We're friends, right?

Sora shrugged, but accepted the drink without repaying Taichi. Then she sipped her soda and thought.

He'd been blushing more around her lately. Could it be... no, of course not. Though he had paid for her drink...

She'd had a crush on him, once. He hadn't gotten it, and she'd eventually given up. But maybe...

Oh, it wasn't worth thinking about. But then she glanced over at Taichi-kun, and it was again.

Now this was ridiculous. She had a crush on Yamato, right? But she couldn't talk to him... and she could talk to Taichi. Maybe...

Sora inched closer to Taichi on the bleacher bench. A few rows away, Hoshiko saw that and grinned in satisfaction. She was sure Sora wouldn't bother the waiting list anymore.

Four: Moonchild

No Goodbyes
for love brightens their eyes.
Don't say Adios, say Adios,
and do you know why
there's a love that won't die?
—don't say Adios, say Adios, Goodbye.

The hospital room was an aniseptic white throughout, with so little color that one could barely distinguish floor from wall from bed. Thus the girl in the bed seemed to float on unsubstantial air rather than rest firmly on a mattress.

She herself was pale, an off-white color that wasn't far from the room's shade. The only real division between her and the faded world was her short hair, still a medium chestnut.

She was sleeping at this moment, a lock of dark hair making a diagonal across her face. When they sleep, most people look different somehow—more innocent, less wearied. But her face was innocent enough awake, and she only allowed her deep tiredness to show in sleep.

A boy opened the door—softly, gently. To wake Hikari now, that would be terrible. Her waking hours held enough pain. She should be spared that, he thought.

He sat on the bed beside her, careful not to disrupt the line of her body under its blankets. She looked so insubstantial under them—sad that that was an accurate analogy to how she really was.

No one really knew the source of this disease, only that it slowly drained Hikari. Taichi'd called her Tsukiko, moonchild, when she was young—for her mystic streak. Now that old nickname was all too appropriate. She seemed to glow with a faint pale light, though whether from without or within no one knew. And this moonchild was waning now.

The boy gently brushed the hair from her face, trying to see past its masking to the girl beneath. But her usually open face was inscrutable in the harsh aniseptic light.

Hikari woke with an inaudible gasp. The boy drew back, and stammered apology.

I'm sorry I woke you.

Don't be, Hikari breathed, and smiled softly. Takeru, I don't mind being awake.

Takeru wasn't sure what to make of this, whether she was lying to preserve his feelings and her mask or whether her true thoughts shone through here. He prepared to get up, saying,

If you want to be alone, Hikari—

she ordered softly, and stretched out a wan bony hand. Like the rest of her, it had an odd light-filled translucence, almost as if her skin had thinned to let the light inside out.

Takeru sat back down, with the same care as before.

Hikari said, weariness touching her voice but slightly. You're the only person who's not scared of me, like this.



Hikari confirmed. Some openly, some under a mask of being scared for me. But I can see through masks, like this. Perhaps that's why they're afraid.

Then what do you see through my mask? came Takeru's query, half from indulgence and half from real desire to know.

Again came an unreadable smile. Hikari thought a moment, and said, A boy of hope. Raising her translucent shining hand, she traced two shapes in the air—a tall thin trapezoid and a circle above it. Her hand seemed to leave its glow behind, and for a moment it was as if Takeru's crest shimmered between them. An eternally rising sun, giving birth to a new day in which good things may happen. She smiled again, and this time it approached a grin. You're almost the right color for it, even. Just redden your hair a bit.

I'll make sure to pick up some dye on my way home, Takeru replied, seemingly serious, but with the sparkle in his eyes spilling through to his voice.

Hikari laughed, a silvery sound tempered to softness by her sickness. Then she coughed, with a harsh hacking sound like a gunshot. And like gunshots, these coughs hurt deep in her chest. She laid back flat, breathing heavily.

Hikari? Do you want me to get anything? Takeru asked, mostly concerned but a little alarmed.

she said, and she had a point—she was recovering from her bout of coughing. It's always like this; you don't need to worry.

Never this bad, he accused with concern.

No, never this bad, she concurred. But it was close sometimes. Back in Devidramon's city...

Takeru seemed to withdraw slightly, as if shocked. So this is the same thing?

Hikari nodded. I've always had this... disease, if you want to call it that. It just only shows sometimes. I think it's part of being a moonchild... waxing and waning in a cycle unique to myself...

I'm not worried when I get these bouts, nor sad. Others only see the pain, maybe they see what really happens but then only unconsciously. But I see things... well, clearer, in times like these. Like they're outlined in the light everyone says I glow with...

Maybe I'll die of it someday. But it'll be worthwhile... If I ever get that far, I'll see everything in perfect clarity. Maybe for but a moment... but that one moment will be all I'll ever need. It's more than most people get.

So stay with me, Takeru. You're not afraid... and that's my only tie to the world, in times like this. Someone who can see behind my mask, as I can see past everyone's.

And on Takeru's face dawned a look of imperfect comprehension—but as Hikari had said, few people ever comprehended anything perfectly. He stretched his hand to hers, and traced the light-outlined bones there.

And so they stayed, one hand on the other. Moonchild and sunchild, outlined in a light of their own.

Epilogue: Step Away a Moment

—don't say Adios, say Adios, Goodbye.
—don't say Adios, say Adios, Goodbye.
—don't say Adios, say Adios, Goodbye.

The girl pushed back from her chair. Her story'd been posted a few hours ago, and she was impatient to see what others thought. True, she was writing for herself—for fun, and to still the insistent call of her muses. But in another sense—no larger, no smaller—she was writing for others, to bring them into her world and to let them see it, if for but a moment.

And in another sense this reflected back to herself, for in wanting reveiws she wanted to know how she'd done in the latter goal. So she wrote for others—but mostly for herself, to feel that she'd made someone feel something, if for but a moment. To her, that was accomplishment.

One person had reveiwed, and it was favorable. The girl felt a moment's euphoria, for she had accomplished something. She was worthwhile. Then she pushed her chair back, and stood away from her computer.

Her writing was done, for now. But soon, she'd come back, spurred by the relentless call of her muse. Writing is the most potent disease of all, for once it is caught one does not want to cure it. And so it is incurable in every sense.

~owari~

Dedicated to kale, once a fanfic author, now going pro. Thank you for your wonderful writing, which has inspired many. And good luck in your professional career.

ANs:

The Second Girl: This one came as it was written—I knew how I wanted to start, and I knew I'd have it Daiyako by the end, but the rest was thought up perhaps two sentences before it appeared. Or less. I was an interesting departure from how I usually write, which is pretty hyper-planned. I think it's a fairly good piece, I think I captured the rawness of everyone's emotions—Miyako's especially—pretty well. Of course, that could just be conceit... I never think anything I write is that good. Ever. Well, sometimes I do. But then I read something by a favorite author, either amateur or pro. And I am quite deservedly reduced to worthlessness once again. Just as when I think my art's getting good I look at Ayashi no Ceres pics to calm me back down.

To Pack a Memory: I had several interesting moments of panic during this one—I'd intended for each vingette to be about two and a half pages long, and at various points it looked as if To Pack A Memory would either be much longer or much shorter. But it wound up the right length without any compress or expand jobs. In retrospect, I notice how much I seem to associate Mimi with flowers... the roses Koushiro gives Mimi are half the point of Roses Have Thorns, Jyou gives her a bracelet that imitates a flower in See Amidst the Winter's Snow, and she lands in a florist's paradise during Stone Circle... I guess it's because I see her as pretty traditionally and the traditional type is so obsessed with pretty things in nature...

Waiting List: I'm not really satisfied with this one—I tend to be a Yamara author, and this reeked a bit of Taira fixfic, a syndrome I hate utterly. (How many Sora-gets-dumped-by-abusive-and/or-gay-Yamato-and-turns-weeping-to-Taichi-for-comfort fics does FF.N need, anyway?) So I was a little uncomfortable writing it, and I think that shows. It also probably suffered a bit from plot-compression syndrome—ideally, Sora's should have been slower—and the format of the vingettes. I think the transitions from narration to scene were a bit awkward. And for the record, Aiko is not self-insert. She is a character I made up because I needed another person at the jock table. Just to reassure you people (you know who you are) who scream Mary Sue! at the first sign of a non-canon character (and somehow refuse to notice when someone bends a canon character totally OOC in an effort to project themselves onto a character). And Hoshiko... eh, I borrowed her from "Okashina Okashi," this warped-but hilarious webcomic. (strangecandy.keenspace.com)

: Ah, one I actually like! ^-^ was actually the only one of these four vingettes I was blocked on... strange, that the Takari one would be the hardest for me, a mainly-Takari author, to write. Possibly because I've already used so many ideas for short Takari. The blocking only took place during the phase, though. At first the Takari section was to be a rewrite of the infamous Piedmon rope scene, but I couldn't think up a new enough slant on it to my satisfaction, and furthermore I didn't think I could expand it to be long enough. Then I thought of some variants on the tired old leaving for college idea, but those were discarded as too trite. Then I started to write out a hospital scene, sorta randomly, to see what would turn up... and I typed a sentence that referred to Hikari waning from the inside out. I looked at the word waning, and the story was born. I particularly like because I think it shows my personal take on Takari pretty well—that they don't need melodramatic declarations of love, because they already know and understand each other so well.

Interludes/Epilogue: Once again, Aiko's no self-insert. I worked out my self-insert tendency (which I'm sure everyone has to some degree) with the interludes—no bones about it, that girl's me, and when I was writing her I was trying to show what I feel about writing in general.

Whew, that was a long AN. ^-^ Well, I like reading other's thoughts on their work... hopefully mine are worth reading as well.