A Card Captor Sakura Fanfiction
Part One
All characters portrayed here are the property of CLAMP, Kodansha, a bunch of other Japanese
media companies, and a certain Canadian dubbing company that will heretofore go unnamed. I
don't claim to own these characters, but the situations I put them in belong to me. I would rather
this wasn't posted anywhere without my permission, so email me with questions. Don't steal. I
bite.
Lyrics are from Ani DiFranco's "Little Plastic Castle."
In a coffee shop in a city
Which is every coffee shop
In every city
On a day which is every day
I picked up a magazine
Which is every magazine
And read a story then I forgot it right away
And they say goldfish have no memory
I guess their lives are much like mine
The little plastic castle
Is a surprise every time
It's hard to say if they are happy
But they don't seem much to mind
[Mid-Afternoon; the Present]
I live in the now.
With nothing but the present, there's little to regret.
My tea is cooling as I wait. I wasn't terribly thirsty to begin with, so I'm not all that unhappy about the inevitable chill. For the moment, I'm content to simply wait in the tea shop.
An old man at the table next to mine is watching me out of the corner of his eye. I think he believes he's being subtle. Maybe he is. I've always had a knack of seeing through subtleties. In any event, he's eying me speculatively. Of course, I know what he's thinking.
The man sees a young lady with the face of an imported china doll, with eyes that are far older than they should be. Perhaps he sees a girl waiting for her friends to join her for tea. Maybe the girl is waiting for her lover. He's half-right on both counts. Friends, lovers, the lines blur for me as I wait.
So I sip my cold tea and stare out the window.
A flash of auburn catches my eye and I nearly drop my cup. I don't allow myself to hope that it's her I glimpse through the crowd on the sidewalk. Then again, auburn could just as easily mean he's out there too, or his ghost, at least.
Ghosts are a comfortable, familiar part of my life now. I live with a host of ghosts. Unlike most people's ghosts, mine touch me every day.
I manage to save the cheap teacup from smashing against the floor and replace it on its saucer. The old man at the next table continues to watch me. In a fit of whimsy, I decide to oblige his curiosity. I turn my gaze to his time-worn face and smile, lips curving into the coy, half-smile that so maddens all the schoolboys. My legs stretch out beneath the table, sleek in their pantyhose sheath, tipped with Italian leather sandals. The sun catches in my hair, a living, swirling bank of curling smoke. I've always understood beauty and how it affects others.
Then I continue to ignore the old man. I go back to waiting and trying to forget.
Forgetting is a much more complicated process than one might imagine. It's particularly difficult when my very existence is a sort of cosmic riddle: How can the daughter avoid becoming her mother? I'm still not sure I know the answer, but I'm at least headed in the right direction.
Still, there's no sign of my lover. Or my friend.
Even the old man is gone now.
"Are you waiting for someone?"
I look up into the eager face of a thin, spike-haired boy. He looks to be about my age; he's ridiculously young.
"Yes," I tell him as I watch him through my eyelashes. Mother always loved my eyelashes. Almost as much as she loved my hair.
The boy's expression is tragicomic. "Oh, sorry to disturb you."
"It's alright," I say with a smile. It's not the same smile I gave the old man; this one touches my eyes. It almost floors the poor kid. "You can join me for a little while, if you like."
Since that's what the boy was originally aiming for, he sags with relief into the chair opposite me. "Thank you."
I allow my eyes to linger on the smooth planes and angles of his face. He'll be handsome in a few years, with soulful brown eyes and a smattering of freckles. He'll probably break a few hearts before he settles down with a girl completely and utterly unlike myself. At least, I hope she's not like me. Poor kid.
"So what's your name?" I ask, polite to the last.
"Akito," he says with a hesitant smile. "Yours?"
"Tomoyo," I murmur, watching his eyes track my glossy lips.
"Who are you waiting for?" he asks curiously, encouraged by the exchange of pleasantries.
"No one," I reply.
He blinks at me, eyes like melting chocolate. "But you said you were . . ."
"Aren't we all?" I ask blandly. "Waiting for someone, that is?"
Akito relaxes a little and gives a little chuckle. He thinks I'm making a clever remark. "Oh, I see," he says while it's perfectly clear that he doesn't.
"I'm also waiting for my lover," I add with another smile, this one almost sultry. I'm remembering the feel of skin on skin, of hair drifting between my fingers. I'm remembering tastes and scents and the way someone's mouth can be so exquisitely expressive against my breasts. "My lover and my friend," I elaborate.
To my amusement, the boy's face flushes and he begins to stammer. It's as though he can tell, just by the sensual curve of my lips, that I'm imagining something sexual.
"Never mind," I tell him.
The waitress saunters over and takes his order, allowing him some recovery time.
"Did you want another tea?" Akito asks me politely. He doesn't quite meet my gaze.
"No, thank you," I reply.
"A parfait?" He looks hopeful, like a puppy.
"No, I'm meeting someone for dinner later," I tell him gently.
My lover. My friend.
The flash of auburn outside the shop turned out to be nothing and now I'm on the lookout again. Akito's eyes are deep and rich but not quite what I had in mind. There are other eyes I'm waiting to drown in.
Then the door to the shop opens, the bell tinkles, and my head tilts back as my attention is captured. My eyes widen in spite of myself and blood rushes to my cheeks and I want to hide behind the veil of my hair.
Akito twists in his chair and eyes the source of my blush. "Your friend and lover?" he asks, voice cracking somewhat. He looks ready to bolt and I don't blame him.
"Yes," I say, that single word almost a song. Eyes meet, glances are exchanged, and I'm able for a brief instant to forget, not regret. That thick fringe of eyelashes are no longer needed to hide my soul.
I don't notice when Akito leaves.
"Yes," I whisper again.
Lover. Friend.
