Disclaimer: Miyuki, Yaya and all references to the Strawberry Panic universe belong to Bandai. I'm just using the goods.
Prologue: Eight
Everyday, Rokujou Miyuki stepped through the doorway of Wisteria half an hour before noon.
Everyday, she stood in front of the counter without a single glance at the specials on the blackboard easel, or the pastries on display.
Everyday, she ordered the same thing.
One of the owners, a brunette whose face was now familiar to her, prepared her drink in fluid, practiced motions that belied her languid demeanor.
A quick glance at her wristwatch revealed that it was 11:34. Six minutes before lunch break.
Miyuki envisioned the sixth years at St. Miator's Girls' Academy sitting with perfect posture through their last few minutes of French class. Though they knew better than to let their excitable anticipation show, many were daydreaming of the friends they would meet up with, already thinking of the gossip they would share.
Soon, Sister Matsuoka would gently close the textbook, and the class would stand in a muted rustle of fabric. From her corner seat in the second to last row, Miyuki could see the roomful of neatly combed heads rising and bowing uniformly in movements born of discipline.
Only after the Sister closed the door behind her would the respectful silence crumble into movement and chatter.
Sometimes, Shizuma would ask to have lunch with her. More often than not, her old roommate was gone by the time she finished putting away her books.
Student council presidents didn't have time to dwell on such inanities, of course, and for the most part, she didn't. But lifetimes ago, during those last five minutes of class, she sometimes found herself wondering. What will catch your fancy today, Shizuma?
Miyuki herself couldn't imagine ever having inspired that question in anyone. Between running the student council, studying for classes and taking care of her friend, there had been very little room in her life for spontaneity. But that was perfectly fine. Miyuki had always taken comfort in familiarity, and nothing was more familiar to her than expectations and deadlines.
The first few weeks at home had been a vastly disconcerting experience. No paperwork to fill out. No formal visitors from other schools to entertain. No wayward Etoile to babysit. Against her protests, her mother had insisted on handling the wedding preparations herself. All she had to do was look pretty and walk down the aisle.
Miyuki came to the jarring realization that in the long stretch of time between her graduation and her wedding, there was nothing she was expected to do. It had been such an alien concept to her that she felt a compulsion to set her own rigid schedule.
After finishing her tea, she would walk down the street to the library and read for two hours. At two-thirty, she would take a cab home, play the piano, and change into evening clothes, something long and modest. At five forty-five, she would pray, and be ready for dinner by six. Her father would be back from work, and Kenta would be there. At seven, she would accompany her soon-to-be husband to the study, and engage him in conversation should he desire to talk. Desperately phobic of stagnant silences, he would start a bit of small talk, and she would keep him company until her father comes, briefcase in hand, and she would excuse herself and let businessmen discuss business. That, sadly enough, was the highlight of her day.
The bell on the door chimed, signaling a newly arrived customer.
"Your order, Rokujou-san." The tea and cake were accompanied by a soft smile.
"Thank you, Kiyone-san." She handed over the cash from the outer pocket of her wallet, a total of exactly 1250 yen, without looking at it since she had already counted it out in the cab.
Order in hand, she headed to her usual seat.
From her vantage point near the corner, Miyuki had a good view of the small café. Its brightly colored leather furniture and the eclectic assortment of postmodern paintings adorning its darkly painted walls gave it a distinctly artsy atmosphere. The room itself seemed only slightly bigger than one of the larger classrooms in Miator. An abstract metal sculpture stood against the wall where the Sister would be. From this angle, it looked vaguely humanoid.
A murmur of musical laughter rang out in the cozy space, almost blending in with the foreign song crooning over the sound system. Unsettling familiarity prickled at the edge of her consciousness. Involuntarily, her eyes sought out its origin.
A few meters away stood two women in conversation. Miyuki instantly recognized one of them as the co-owner of Wisteria. The other one, whose back was facing her, wore the form-fitting black jacket and short gray pleated skirt of a uniform from a nearby private high school. She'd seen flocks of similarly dressed girls through the backseat window of her family car, walking together and talking quietly among themselves, the reasons behind their joyful or startled expressions nearly always a subject of mystery. With every step they took, the sunlight would play against their identical leather satchels. A young Miyuki sometimes marveled at how neat and pretty they looked, and daydreamed about growing up and sharing the same clandestine camaraderie.
Having just experienced high school herself, Miyuki no longer found the sleek countours of adolescent bodies mysterious, nor did she wonder at their worries and woes. This particular adolescent just so happened to be skipping class. The former Miator president frowned, a reaction she blamed on having filled a disciplinarian role in her final years at Miator. It certainly did take some audacity to visit a tea shop in the middle of the day on a school day, brazenly wearing the uniform of a prestigious local school. Audacity, and a lot of nerve.
All Miyuki could see right now was a three-quarters view of the back of her head, but her body language spoke volumes. Long back stockings crossed at the ankles, with a thin shoulder leaned against an adjacent wall, her torso lightly bent at the waist in a casual half-drape. The fingers of one hand gripped the wrist of the other, which occasionally rapped against her thigh to the beat of the music. It was a posture that appeared more relaxed than it truly was.
Two years of navigating the political undercurrents of Astraea Hill had taught her how to read other people's bodies. This was why she rarely lost against Tomouri Shion. Like so many of her fellow Spicans, the younger blonde loved political intrigues. But she was not as subtle as she sometimes liked to think, and whenever her lips said one thing and her body said another, Miyuki knew that something was up.
If she had to be entirely honest with herself, Shizuma was similar in a lot of ways. Except instead of merely fancying herself a master manipulator, her friend always did get what she wanted. Once, the Etoile had cornered a younger student against one of the lesser frequented bookshelves of the library. She was a wide-eyed, skittish little thing, not unlike Aoi Nagisa, and within five minutes, had been reduced her into a swooning, whimpering mess. Miyuki had stumbled across them by chance, and seen the entire scenario play out from the next shelf over. It was like that old cliché - watching a train wreck in slow motion and being unable to look away. She'd known, of course, about Shizuma's playgirl habits. Her friend had made a name for herself as something of a womanizer, and you didn't get far in Astraea Hill politics without being connected to the grapevine. To see it happen with her own eyes, though, had been... unsettling. Grotesque, even, when she recognized her posture and tone of voice, and realized that Shizuma played up the same charm whenever she needed a favor from anyone. Miyuki herself had fallen for it more times than she cared to count. And yet, her stomach had twisted unpleasantly with a feeling that wasn't quite anger or indignation.
After that, Miyuki always watched for the sidelong glances and calculated half-smiles. She could tell exactly when she was being manipulated. Even so, there wasn't a thing she could do about it, and in the end, she wondered if ignorance was bliss after all.
11:55. She needed to finish quickly if she wanted to be at the library at 12:30. Willing her mind away from the past, she took a long sip of her now lukewarm tea. If she finished by 12:05, she could expect to get there with a few minutes to spare.
What she didn't expect was for her eyes to steal one last glance at the strange student, and for their gazes to lock.
Dark, fringed hair framed a face that was familiar... too familiar. Across the room, smirking brown eyes widened in surprise, and, after a few seconds, recognition.
For a moment, the girl seemed unsettled and indecisive. But then, she turned to her companion with an apologetic expression. With a few quick words and a touch on the shoulder, she excused herself and began to make her way over to where Miyuki sat. The older girl felt a small rush of panic as she approached, resisting the nervous urge to straighten her blouse and wracking her memory as to who this person was.
Before Miyuki could come up with an answer, a pair of long, black stockings stopped three feet in front of her. Setting her box of pastries on the adjacent table, the student smiled, all traces of her earlier hesitation gone. "Rokujou-sama." Miyuki knew that voice. "It's good to see a familiar face. I hope the past few months have treated you well?"
The way she addressed her narrowed her down to someone from Astraea Hill. Miyuki didn't particularly want another reminder of the place she would soon have to forget, and yet for all her efforts, she could not entirely quell the part of her that missed it, missed Shizuma, and dreaded her life to come. The older girl hid her thoughts behind a diplomatic nod. "It certainly is the first time in many months anyone has called me that."
"And the first time I've called you anything in person." Was that a sliver of suggestiveness she detected behind her smile? Miyuki kept her eyes focused on the other girls' and shook off the thought. "I am Nanto Yaya. The last time we saw each other, I wore a choir hat that made me look about ten and you were holding your diploma."
Ah, the Saintly Choir. One of her few fond memories of Spica. Rows of serene faces ethereal under the light of the stained glass windows, their harmonized voices as pure as their uniforms of pristine white, one winding melody soaring above the rest – and there, Miyuki found her answer. "I remember now. You were captain of the choir, weren't you?"
Yaya smiled like a cat. "Bingo."
Miyuki tilted her head in respectful acknowledgment, feeling every bit like a student council president. "It is to my understanding that the Saintly Choir boasted more recruits last year than ever in a thirty-year history. Having listened to you, I understand why. Your solos were beautiful."
Something sad – longing? Regret? - flitted across Yaya's face, but vanished just as quickly. Unpleasant memories, Miyuki gathered. Nonetheless, the younger girl's expression was appreciative. "You're very kind to say so." A pause, as she leaned lightly against the table behind her. "You made quite an impression yourself, you know. I remember you, even from my first year. The cool and collected Secretary of the Miator student council. You had to be fifteen or so, but you made some of the sisters seem downright unprofessional."
Well, that was a first. Miyuki had the distinct impression that many students during her term found her overly stern. Still, she could not repress a somewhat self-deprecating smile. "Clearly you've never seen me at student council meetings."
"I've never had to deal with Tomouri Shion either," Yaya countered, and despite her many years of political training, Miyuki let out a guilty chuckle at her old rival's expense.
"Tomouri-sama was very serious about her work," She finally defended - to which Yaya skeptically raised an eyebrow - and cleared her voice pointedly when laughter threatened to bubble up again. "Though," She held up a placating hand. "I will admit we've sometimes had our differences. There were moments both of us could have behaved more graciously."
The younger girl snickered and gave her a knowing look, and she sipped her tea to hide her amusement.
"Still." Yaya tilted her head in a casual motion. "Miator was lucky to have you."
"And Spica you."
It was polite small talk. Nothing more than what she would share with someone who was visiting Miator on business. But Miyuki was surprised to find herself enjoying the other girl's company. Oh, Yaya had facades, there was no doubt about that, especially for someone younger than Aoi Nagisa. Despite her flirtatious nature, her body language could only be described as 'guardedly casual'. Yet there was also a genuineness about her Miyuki found refreshing. She opened her mouth to ask something else. One of those generic keep-the-conversation-alive questions. How have you been? Do you still sing? Is your family in this area?
What came out was, "Do you have a habit of buying pastries at this time of the day in your school uniform?"
The next tenth of a second seemed to crawl by as the blue-haired woman mentally kicked herself. She was no longer student council president. What right did she have to pry into other students' affairs?
If Yaya was taken aback by the question, however, she didn't show it.
"Heh. I'm not that adventurous."
"Then – "
"One of my friends has a birthday today," she explained. "And I'm planning on surprising her toward the end of lunch break."
She inhaled sharply, as if just remembering her reason for being here, and hurriedly glanced at her watch. "Speaking of which, I should really get going soon."
"I see." Miyuki acknowledged, berating herself for having jumped to conclusions, and somewhat regretful to see her new acquaintance leave. "I'm sure she'll be pleased with such a lovely gift."
Yaya sighed, and for the first time in their encounter, looked exactly her age. "I certainly hope so. It's been difficult, making friends at a new school."
Sensing a candid moment, Miyuki leaned forward in her chair. "Why did you leave?"
And just like that, the walls were back up again. "That's a bit personal, Rokujou-sama." The younger girl smirked softly, warm brown eyes dancing with promises of delight, and mirrored Miyuki by leaning a little closer. "But... a group of us will be having a celebration at my apartment tonight, and I might be willing to tell you then."
It was a little odd, Miyuki thought, that someone else would hold a birthday party at Yaya's apartment, and odder still that Yaya was inviting practical strangers to another person's birthday... and yet odder still that she had her own apartment. In all likelihood, the invitation had been extended out of politeness.
Inexplicably, she wanted to see her again.
In the end, all she could think of were her parents and Kenta, waiting expectantly at the dinner table, her father at the head and Kenta to his right, waiting for her to pour their tea, and tell them about her day, and play a song on the piano should either of them wish to hear it. Questions would arise if she wasn't there.
It was her duty to be there.
"It – it would be best if I didn't," Miyuki finally said, apologetically, looking away as she picked at her raspberry shortcake, a prickle of warmth against her cheeks which she attributed to embarrassment at having stammered. "I have other arrangements."
Yaya gave her a regretful smile as she laid her leather satchel flat on the table. She was about to stack the box of pastries on top of it, but then set it back down, and instead unzipped her book-bag. Miyuki watched as she fished out a piece of notebook paper and scribbled on it briefly before handing it to her.
It was an address, she realized with a muted twinge of excitement, and a telephone number.
"Should you change your mind," the younger girl murmured, lightly brushing her thumb against the back of Miyuki's index finger, and, after picking up her things and calling out a goodbye to the shop owners, was out the door.
That faint touch lingered on Miyuki's skin for the rest of the evening.
A/N: I consider this my first multichaptered undertaking. So, wish me luck.