The moonlight streamed into his makeshift office, spilling into the private room through the open balcony windows. A desk light was lit, providing little accompaniment to the natural glow from the moon.
Shirt unbuttoned, and still in silk boxers, he sat at his desk, feeding the soft fabric into the machine. The needle drove forward into the silky material, the white thread nearly invisible against the virgin coloured cloth. His fingers gently tugged, pulling a knob at the back of the machine to lift the needle. He snipped, adjusted, and started a new seam.
His hands trembled.
This was his gift.
It was made from satin cloth. The glossy surface gleamed in the dim lighting. She was quite like satin herself. She was the luster atop his world that was dull and bleak. Like satin, the more she interwove herself within himself, the more lustrous his world seemed. Yet satin is always glossier on the surface, and duller on the back...
This... was his gift.
It was strapless. The neckline was popular for his clients seeking a more stylish and versatile look. She always held that quality naturally. She would frame a sensuous piece of her soul right above her heart, blunt and open for the world to see.
This was his... gift.
It featured an A-line cut. It would flatter her well, fitted at the bodice and flaring from the waist. Once he past the hidden and secure caverns she had tried to lock away, her personality flared with a vengeance – growing and expanding until it reached its end.
Was it a gift?
It was draped in organza. She had a talent for being predictably transparent. Despite her poor attempts to veil true feelings and emotions, one could undoubtedly see past the clear shield she tried to drape herself in.
It was a wedding dress.
Hikaru Hitachiin was the king of fashion. He understood the difference between Alencon, Battenberg, schiffli, and venise lace. From taffeta to tulle, and ball gown to bustle, he could talk people into the ground about his area of expertise. He understood clothing. He understood fabric. However, what he was a master in had nothing to do with the problem he longed to solve.
He yearned to comprehend Haruhi. He yearned to know the woman behind the luster and dullness. He yearned to know why her soul was blank to him. He yearned to discover when her secrets would end. He yearned to know why she tried to hide, when her true honesty was the release he wanted. She was the white in his world of pure black.
He lifted the scissors. Snip.
The sewing machine slowly hummed into silence.
Hikaru lifted his creation up before him. It was possibly the most inspirational piece he had made yet.
He hated it.
Hikaru crushed the soft cloth in his hand abusively.
Eyes shining, his gaze wandered over to the embossed paper pinned to the back of his door.
In soft, cursive print, it said:
On Friday November 17, 2006
you are cordially invited to join
Haruhi and Kyoya
in their exchanging of vows.
------------------------------------
End.