Disclaimer:
Mai HiME, all characters and related indica are © to Sunrise. No profit made, no infringement intended.
Author's notes:
Finally! I've had the idea for this thing buried in the dank, dusty recesses of my harddrive long enough that I'm surprised it survived until Google Drive became a thing. You lose all your stuff once, you learn.
I listened to rainbowpig2's piano/violin cover of I Knew You Were Trouble so many times while writing this, so do give it a listen on YT if you get the chance.
Yes, another new fic; I know. ._. But it's the only one I'm getting stuff for, and it's becoming bad enough that it's actually keeping me awake. Must. Write.
Enjoy.
Transit
Breaking Silence
It's an odd time of night. There's still a crowd around you, of course, because it's Tokyo and there are always crowds here, but the crowd is smaller. Small enough for there to be plenty of seats available here in the backmost car, and also quiet enough because most of the other passengers are either dozing or fiddling with various electronics. It's between the additional swells of couples going out to dinner and groups heading out to party or to late shifts, and you had to take the trip a few times before you figured this out, but now it fits almost like a comfortable, old shoe.
Walk to Kita-Urawa, wait for the next Keihin-Tohoku to arrive, enter the last car, sit down, pull out laptop and work. Wait for the overhead to mention Yurakucho, put away laptop, leave train at Shimbashi. Go to the office, spend the necessary time up- and downloading everything to the systems you can't access from outside the physical building, and then go home and start the process over again once you've spent another week with your time fairly evenly divided between school, work and sleep.
Tonight, you're doing school-work while the train rambles along, because the work-work you have left isn't really something you should be doing in an area where anyone could be looking over your shoulder; sensitive information and all that. So you tab back and forth between scanned pages and websites and your text editor; fingers flying over the keys with a low clatter as you steadily add to the assignment you have due for next week.
"Akabane," the voice on the speakers chimes in, and you glance up to see the familiar shuffle of people preparing to disembark. "Akabane."
You've learned through trial and error that trying to work through passengers leaving and entering is a sketchy idea, at best. Even the slowest nights can have a sudden influx of people, and every time you've decided that you won't have to move or lift anything out of anyone's way, you end up being wrong. Now, you've grown used to just straightening in your seat and resting your folded hands on your laptop from the moment the train stops until it starts to move again, and while it's a bit of an annoyance to be interrupted so frequently, you've also learned to deal with it and appreciate the tiny breaks.
There's quite a number of people boarding here, and you bump your computer bag further under your seat with one, heeled foot with the ease of long practice, and tilt your head back to study the overview of the line that's been stuck to the opposite wall just under the ceiling. The seat next to you – because you're sitting in one of the furthest ones from the doors – is one of the last to be claimed, but when someone does sit there, they do it with such a thud that you actually bounce a little, and you can't help but give the newcomer a glance from the corner of your eye while the remaining passengers file in.
Your new neighbor is a girl - or rather a young woman – carrying absolutely nothing but the clothes on her body and the sleek, silvery headphones that cover her ears and settles like a headband over her scalp. She is also, you note with some amusement, pretty much your opposite in everything from her clothes to her posture. Skinny, tight-fitting black jeans above equally black sneakers and a short-sleeved, unbuttoned and untucked, navy blue shirt over a white top makes a marked contrast to your burgundy skirt suit, matching heels and cream-colored silk blouse, and where she's slumped back in her seat with her legs extended and her arms crossed over her chest, you're sitting perfectly erect with your ankles folded just below your seat. Her hair, too, is dark where yours is fair; black as night and currently resting over one shoulder in a thick braid that extends down to her stomach, and you turn your head a little further because hers is tilted back and her eyes closed, and you can hear the pounding of music from her headphones. Perfect, porcelain skin over a face that doesn't carry the faintest trace of makeup, but with a natural touch of red in her cheeks and a lean, subtly curved body that many women would probably kill for.
She also has what's quite possibly the greenest eyes you've ever seen, you decide when your gaze flits back to her face and you realize that she's caught you staring. Neat, black eyebrows are scrunching together in an annoyed scowl, and long, equally black lashes are coming closer together when she narrows her eyes at you; mouth pressing into a thin line of discontent.
You let one of your own eyebrows rise just a fraction, and feel an amused tug at the corner of your mouth that you give in to. It becomes a smile when she sharpens the look into a glare, and then turns her head away with an irritated huff of air while the faint beats from her music grow louder and the train starts moving.
Cute.
xXxXx
You only go to the office once a week unless something pressing comes up that you can't handle from home. It's always on Fridays; mainly because that's when both you and the company have the best idea of what the following week will bring, but also because Saturday is only a half-day of classes and you can thus allow yourself to sleep a little less the night before. Most of your work-work, you handle from the privacy of your top-floor, Saitama apartment since this is Tokyo rather than Kyoto, and the people here aren't quite as used to you as the ones at the main office. The few times you did go in physically, people were falling all over themselves to win your favor, and you got so little actual work done that you convinced your father that you'd be far more efficient by working from home; merely going in when you need to add or pull information from the systems that are so locked down that no external access is allowed.
So every Friday, you catch a train to the Shimbashi offices and make sure to arrive a little after ten in the evening since experience has taught you that the only other people there at that time are the security guards. Their only concern is your safety, and they're usually relaxed family men who are far more likely to offer you tea or coffee from their thermoses than they are to unsubtly try to convince you to recommend them to your father. You stay for usually an hour but sometimes more, and tend to make it back home before midnight unless things get away from you. That's been the case since you transferred to Todai two years ago.
You are, however, quite sure that you've never before seen the girl who is now on the same train as you every week. There's always the possibility that she's traveled later or earlier or simply sat in a different car, but you've noticed her five Fridays in a row now, and you've actually started looking for her when the train pulls into Akabane station. She's usually alone and seems quite content to lean back, obstruct whatever space there is in front of her by extending her long legs and ignoring the world while she listens to her music, but there was that evening two weeks ago when she had her headphones around her neck instead of over her ears, and was in the company of a laughing, redheaded woman who actually seemed to know her well enough to draw a smile from her more often than not.
Not that you were watching them. Or that you could hear what they were saying, even if you were.
"Akabane," the overhead system reminds everyone, and you lift your head. "Akabane."
Tonight, she's alone again, and you spend a few moments wondering if she's heading out or going home, or maybe traveling to work while you watch her seat herself halfway across the length of the car from you. She's always dressed nicely – if hardly formally – but never carries any type of bag that might hold work clothes or school books or anything of the kind. Always in sneakers, and jeans, and some kind of top under an unbuttoned shirt, though the sleeves of the latter have gotten longer as the warm nights of summer start to cool. Her hair is either braided or loose around her shoulders, and tonight it's a free curtain of straight, obsidian silk; only held back by her headphones.
As usual, she seems to feel your gaze within a matter of seconds, but by now you've grown tired of the scowls – cute though they may be – and so this time, you stick out your tongue the instant you see the expression start to form. She startles bodily at that; a fine ripple of shock traveling from her head down her shoulders and into her arms, and you have to hide a smile behind one hand and force down a soft laugh when you see the heels of her feet actually jerk up from the floor.
Now her expression is a mix between confusion and consternation; a faint frown that's just that instead of a scowl or a glower, and a tiny hint of tension in her cheeks that makes her mouth purse just a fraction.
You wink at her, and bend your face back towards your laptop to hide your grin when you see that she's blushing.
xXxXx
The next weeks proceed in the same manner much to your enjoyment, though after three more Fridays she seems to tire of your surprising her, and only lets her face shape the barest hints of her scowl before crossing her eyes and twisting her mouth and nose into the most absurd grimace you've ever seen. It's your turn to start this time, and then to frown when she sends you a satisfied look and settles back into her seat with a smirk.
The gauntlet, you decide as you watch her close her eyes and squint your own, has been thrown.
On the following Friday, you break your usual habit of sitting as far from the doors as possible, and instead claim an available seat that not only faces them, but is directly in front of them. Once the train starts pulling out of Kita-Urawa station and your fellow passengers are immersed in either sleep, phones, tablets or laptops, you start pulling out your own computer and use the motion to disguise your opening several of the top buttons of your shirt. Thanks to your suit jacket, it's virtually unnoticeable to anyone not standing directly above you, and you don't get a single, odd look from anyone until Akabane.
Again, the crowd entering the train here is surprisingly sizable, and you take care to extend your legs just a little bit to keep the floor directly in front of you clear, and your eyes trained on your laptop's monitor. Only, however, until you see sneakers and skinny jeans in your peripheral vision; then you tuck your ankles under your seat as always, and mentally cross your fingers. All the seats, you confirm with a subtle glance, are taken, and even standing room is becoming sparse.
It's a gamble, but it pays off. There's denim-clad knees in front of your own within seconds, and you presume that her willingness to stand there is due to the fact that you seem fully immersed in your work to any casual observer. You spend a few more moments typing and clicking – you do have other things to do – but when you feel the faint jerk of the train starting to move and hear the engines churn, you roll your shoulders. The motion – as was intended – makes your shirt open a fraction more, and in order to make absolutely certain that your preparation isn't for naught, you adjust your legs just enough that your knees brush hers.
There's an abrupt, hastily muffled choking sound from above your head, and you will yourself not to grin. Instead, you pause in your typing and tilt your head back with a puzzled, little frown, and find that it's a definite struggle to keep your face schooled in that manner when you not only see her wide-eyed, full-face blush, but also catch that brilliantly green gaze rapidly flitting up to meet your eyes. You manage, however, and give your own head a slight, sideways cant while raising your own eyebrows in innocent inquiry.
She, much to your amusement, sputters once, and then rapidly elbows her way to the end of the car while you discreetly bring the edges of your shirt back together and try not to laugh.
xXxXx
Two Fridays after, you're so exhausted that you can barely see straight, because the end of term is approaching and your exam preparation is whittling entirely too much time away from your sleep schedule. Still, there's work to be done, and while you're spending a disturbing amount of time either rubbing a hand over your face or running your fingers through your bangs, you're heading to Shimbashi because you have to.
You're not even hearing the station announcements this time because you're too busy simply trying to keep your eyes open, and so when something drops into your lap, it startles you enough that you almost jump out of your seat. You send the object a wide-eyed stare and then feel your brow furrow when you realize that it's something as innocuous as a simple bottle; brown glass and a silver screw-lid with a colorful, red, white and yellow label.
Dekavita C, you read when you scoop the bottle into your hand, and then frown a little deeper. An energy drink?
Curious, you crane your neck and survey the half-empty car, but recognize no one until you see her sitting in the seat directly behind you; as always slouched back with her headphones on, her arms crossed – though over a well-worn backpack this time - and her eyes closed. With a half-smile, you keep your eyes on her and count to five in your own head, and at four, one green eye opens to regard you. You let your smile become a full one at that and give her a thankful look, and though her face folds into a one of confusion when her other eye opens, there's a faint tug at the corner of her mouth that she can't quite hold back.
With one hand, you lift the bottle into view and incline your head, and then you almost forget to breathe because her lips shape a full grin that lets perfect, white teeth glitter in the yellowish light, and My Gods the way it makes her eyes sparkle is enough to make your heart skip four beats in a row in pure shock.
When her eyes close again, you turn back around and try to gather your thoughts enough to focus on your work. You open the bottle with a soft click of the lid releasing, and smile when you hear a low chuckle behind you. Then the mouth of the bottle meets your own, and you let the liquid within wash over your taste buds. It's sweet – almost like honey – and you mentally file away the name when you bring the bottle back down and study the label.
Cute, you remember thinking when you first saw her, and realize that you have to amend that.
Considerate.
A glance over your shoulder at the dark window behind you, and you can make out her peaceful reflection easily.
Beautiful.
xXxXx
Exam preparation follows you into the next week as well, but it's more doable now since the amount of office work you're assigned has dwindled noticeably. You guess that your father is exerting his authority and temporarily channeling tasks away from you; presumably because of that one phone call where you were so out of it that you gave him the ingredients of Yodofu when he was most certainly asking for something else. You still head in, though, and leave a little earlier than normal to give yourself the time to stop by one of the small stores near the station.
Surprisingly, you see her already occupying a seat near the back when you enter the train; her shirt is a deep, burnt red today with the sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms, and she's braided her hair again. Tonight, the car is practically empty, and while that removes the excuse of a crowd, you find yourself stepping closer with the low click-clack of your heels on the glimmering floor. She still has her eyes closed and her headphones on, of course, though only the cups themselves are silver now; both the headband and the wires are a similar red to that of her shirt, and when you reach the seat next to her, you can hear the dull thumping of her music.
The train has yet to move, and you take the chance to lean over the nearest seat to touch her shoulder. Yes, you could have waited – she tends to feel your gaze in as little as three seconds – but if you can start breaking a barrier once a week instead of once a month, then that's infinitely preferable to your mind. One very green eye pops open instantly and rolls towards you, then the other opens as well, and she sits up a little; her hands coming up to shift her headphones back while she cants her head in question.
"May I?" you inquire, and let your hand gesture to the seat beside her.
Briefly, she surveys the car itself with short, flitting motions of her eyes; clearly making note of the fact that there are plenty of seats available. For moment, you consider retracting your question and maybe claiming the available space behind her instead, but then those eyes are back on you, and you see that same, small tug at the corner of her lips as she hefts the backpack that was resting next to her, and shoves it under her own knees instead.
"Sure." Her voice is lower than average for a woman; amused, and even a little raspy as she nods to the now empty seat. "Siddown."
"Thank you." You lower yourself into place next to her with the vague sensation that while she's turned her head away, she's still watching you via the reflection in the window as the train starts to move. That works, though, because you can catch her eyes in the same way when you've settled your bag in your own lap and removed something from it, which you then hold out to her with a faint, wry smile.
She clearly recognizes the item, and though the window offers a faintly blurry reflection at best, the half-grin that's her reaction is easy enough to make out. It becomes clearer when her head turns back towards you, and the amused glint in her eyes makes your own smile widen as she takes the bottle from you with a faint brush of her fingers against yours.
"Thanks." She works her backpack up between her own knees and settles the bottle into a side pocket before letting the bag drop back to the floor with a low thud. Then her hands are shifting the headphones back and down until they rest around her neck, and she spends a few, silent seconds tugging her braid free of them before turning slightly onto one hip to better face you; arms once again folding loosely across her front. "Hope you have your own," she tells you, and there's that little pull at the edge of her lips again. "Exams suck."
You sniff softly and snap the leather of your computer bag open again, then open a zipper and pull enough at the side that she can see the two other bottles settled into the netting next to your computer. Deadpan is probably the best term to describe your own expression, though it quickly changes into an irrepressible grin when you see and hear her chuckle. It's a nice sound, you decide; low in her chest before creeping up her throat and making both her abdomen tense and her nostrils flare just the tiniest bit. It also lends the faintest sparkle to those very green eyes and tugs her lips into a smile that shows her teeth, and you definitely want to see more of it sometime.
"Kuga Natsuki," she tells you, and there's the soft sound of her hair dragging against the seat's headrest as she bends her neck in lieu of an actual bow, and then raises her eyebrows in question.
You incline your own head, and fold your hands across your bag. "Fujino Shizuru."