Warning: This story includes yuri; that is to say, a pairing between two women. You don't like it? You don't read it. The door (aka the back button) is right at the top left hand corner of your screen; please don't read this just to be a close-minded bigot and flame the lesbian nature of the characters.
Also, this work of fiction uses the American names for Haruka and Michiru. Their personalities remain the same – and I hope I've captured the Neptunian Senshi's correctly – as does their relationship; their American names simply fit better than their Japanese in this continuity.
Oh, and yes, I do reference the movie "Angels & Demons" – as to why I do this, you'll find out in Part Two. (Yes, I'm calling them "parts" as opposed to "chapters." That's because I originally began this as just a three-part trilogy, and then Eva pried the idea from me, and we got to brain storming. Things got out of hand quickly.)
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon; the goddess known as Naoko Takeuchi does. Nor, do I own the references to Angels & Demons; Dan Brown owns the copyright to the book, and I believe Warner Brothers the copyright to the film... If I'm wrong it was an honest mistake; you can't sue me for that.
And now, to shut up my ramblings, and without further ado, on with the story!
Emerald eyes contemplated the letter before her. It wasn't that she knew the sender not; on the contrary, she knew him very well, but rather it was his words which disturbed her. A long-fingered, pianists hand ran shakily through short, cropped blonde hair, before coming to settle upon the gold cross she wore; it hung about a chain of the same metal. The palm was slightly slick with sweat, though only this betrayed her nervousness. A breath of air was gulped, inaudibly, before she forced herself to look rationally at the situation.
Tenou Amara was the name by which this woman was known. She was a twenty-five-year-old racer, Formula One prodigy since the age of fourteen, and staunchly-devout Catholic. Standing at six-foot-one, she possessed piercing emerald eyes, short-cropped sandy-blonde hair, and preferred to dress like a man. This woman was all those things and more. However, anything about herself was, for the moment, far from her mind, as she re-read the letter from her long-time childhood companion; one of her best friends for life.
Patrick McKenna. The brother she had never biologically had. Amara allowed herself to fight her musing memores only for a moment, before relinquishing the fight, and allowing herself to slip into the comforting embrace of times past. Times, when everything was much, much simpler; mostly, times when her trio was together, and not seperated by thousands of miles, and their own lives. For the moment, her mind was turned to the relationship she had had with the only male memeber of the group - she would dwell upon her other best friend at a later date.
She and Patrick had been the best of friends since they were seven years old. The two had gotten lucky, when they ended up attending all the same schools. Of course, that hadn't always put them in the same social groups. Their differing social statuses had been the cause for much hillarity over the years, but all in all, so long as they could stick to each other like glue, they were fine.
Patrick had been the top of their class academically. The straight-A student everyone hated and loved at the same time, he had been one of the few non-geeky, non-nerdy, non-dorky geniuses. His downside, however, when it came to popularity, had been his unwillingness to date anyone. He had always said he would become a priest, just like his adoptive father was. The popular students disliked him for this; always said his "calling" was "uncool," or that celibacy was "overrated." Patrick never paid them any mind; he simply kept doing as he always had, and that was that.
Amara, on the other hand, had always been the sports star. She could remember the day she discovered her ability to perform above par at any sport she tried her hand to. It was a very thrilling experience, if she remembered correctly. Of course, as for her popularity, that was a shoe-in, as she was the star of nearly every team the school had. Her average grades – which even Patrick's help couldn't improve – were ignored for the most part. Of course, eventually she selected the few sports she was most passionate about, and played on those teams exclusively; it helped her to devote more time and energy to what she loved, rather than all sports simply because she was good at them. (She also finally knucled down and yanked her grades up to a high B average, so that was also a good thing.)
Somehow, despite everything that happened during their school lives, they stayed close. Actually, they became closer, if that were even possible. By the end of their freshman year in high school – their ninth year of friendship – Amara had given Patrick the pet name of "brother of my heart;" Patrick reciprocated gladly, calling Amara the "sister of his heart" as well. This was how it went, all through-out their school years. When they finished high school, despite the fact that Amara should have begun racing professionally, she pushed the subject until she was finally allowed to enter the military academy with Patrick.
They learned to fly together, and couldn't have been happier; of course, all good things must eventually come to an end…
Realizing she had allowed herself to drift into memory simply to prolong the inevitable, Amara mentally slapped herself back to reality. With a soft exhale through her nose, she re-read the letter again. She was just as knocked off-kilter this time, as she had been the first; the blonde could scarcely believe her eyes, and yet, there were those words. The ones which had turned her world upside down within moments. They were there, written plain as day, in the clearest of Italian.
Il Santo Padre e morto. The Holy Father has died.
Quickly placing the letter onto the desk in her hotel room – located in St. Petersburg, Russia – Amara picked up the phone and diled the operator. "Zdravstvuĭte, pozhaluĭsta, soedinite menya s zarubezhnymi linii, ya dolzhen svyazatʹsya s Dubline, Irlandiya." (1) She needed to get into contact with Michelle immediately; to do that, she needed to get into contact with Dublin, Ireland.
The hotel room in Dublin, Ireland which the violinist was currently staying in was comfortably, yet rather sparsely furnished. The furnishings included, and were limited to, a queen size bed with emerald green sheets, a teal comforter, and emerald pillows; a small vanity with a chair; and an armoire in which, presumably, Michelle had placed her clothes. One of the two doors on the opposite side of the room lead to the in-suite bathroom, the other to the small walk-in closet. Of course, as was clear, Amara was only looking about the room to distract herself – or, more accurately, to distract her mind from wandering to a certain Irishman, whom merely being in this place called to mind.
However, it wasn't just Dublin which was turning her thoughts back to her childhood; Amara was still lingering on the letter she had received a day prior. After calling Michelle, she had done the one thing which came to mind: burned the letter. She hadn't seen anything else to do with it; after all, it wasn't as if she wanted to keep the evidence around. She wanted to forget what her best friend had written - or put it out of her mind, if the former were not possible - as quickly as she could. The letter would have only hindered this, and so she had quickly disposed of it; throwing it away would only have made her think about it more. She was dwelling enough as it was, and needed to shut it from her mind if she wished to remain sane, she scolded herself. She tried, but wasn't sure if it worked.
The racer's thoughts were interrupted, by the opening of the door, and Michelle's breezing through it. Masking her turbulent emotions, Amara pushed away from the wall, and allowed the violinist to waltz into her arms. A quick, chaste kiss later, and they were seated on the bed, the smaller woman speaking of her recent concerts, a smile brightening her features. For these moments – Amara knew Michelle didn't wish for her to speak, just to listen for a bit – the racer examined her lover of five years; and examined her closely, at that.
It seemed as if Michelle hadn't aged a day in the years they had known one another; and yet, Amara suddenly felt older than she assumed any twenty-five-year-old had the right to feel. She supposed it was because of the letter, but again shoved the thought from her mind, focusing completely upon Michelle. The smaller woman had skin of a glowing, peachy white, and curves which most women would kill for. As for her face, it was much like that of a china doll, with all her features what most would call 'perfect.' Of course, Amara held that, though only God and Christ were perfect, Michelle did come a close second. The violinist's hair tumbled in waves down to the small of her back, their hue being much like the aquamarine of the ocean; her eyes, though sometimes called sapphire, were only truly captured by the expression 'sea-blue,' for that was what they were – the blue of the sea, and nothing was closer than her eyes.
Thinking about her lover's eyes, put the blonde in mind of another pair of eyes. Ones that were mostly grey, but held a spark of steel blue when the right mood was upon the one to whom they belonged. Unconsciously, these thoughts caused her hand to move to her cross; Michelle noted the action, and commented on it, one perfectly curved aquamarine eyebrow raised.
"'Mara, is everything… alright?"
Her words were almost hesitant, as if she weren't sure of the answer she would get.
At length, the blonde spoke in reply. "I… Had a letter, the other day…" Amara trailed off, almost uncertain of what to say next. At Michelle's nod of encouragement, the racer continued.
"It was from Patrick; he said he would like to inform me that the His Holiness has died."
When this received a somewhat perplexed look from her lover, the emerald-eyed woman sighed inwardly, mentally face palming. She should have known that the words 'His Holiness' would be lost on her Shinto girlfriend. Taking a breath and counting to ten before letting it out, so as not to snap at Michelle for something that wasn't her fault – it seemed she'd been doing that a lot lately, snapping at people for things they had no control over – Amara spoke again.
"The Pope, love; the Pope is dead."
The aquanette's lips formed a soft 'o' shape, her understanding clear now in her eyes. "I see," she murmured in response, her hands coming to join with Amara's own. "And, this saddens you not only because of the fact that your religion has lost a beloved leader, but because Patrick was so close to him? He was the Pope's adopted son, correct?"
Amara nodded in reply to Michelle's query – both of them – the vocalization of her 'yes' unneeded. Michelle then took a moment, unknowingly just as the racer had done before, to intently study her other half. Amara's short cropped, sandy-blonde hair; her intense emerald green eyes; her masculine, yet still beautiful facial features… Her strong, wiry, athletic build; her masculine style of dress; the way she touched her cross when in deep thought, or when that old sadness clouded her eyes. The violinist knew well what that sadness was; it stemmed from a deep hurt that the blonde had once caused to someone she loved dearly, a hurt which Amara was never sure she could heal.
It was that very sadness, which told Michelle something she would rather not have known; something that she hated to acknowledge, but that she knew she would need to accept. The fact of the matter was, that Amara would never be fully hers – some part of the racer, however small, would always belong to the Irish priest, whom had been the first person the blonde had ever loved. Oh, Michelle knew that all of Amara's love in a romantic sense would be hers; it wasn't that. It was simply that the emerald-eyed woman would always love Patrick as well, even if not in the way of a lover. The violinist had never come into a previous situation where she knew she had all of someone in one sense, but only most of them in all others.
Sometimes, Michelle hated that she had to share Amara with Patrick, even if the blonde only considered him a brother.
Shaking the dark thoughts from her head, the violinist noted that her lover's gaze was fixed just as intently upon her, as the aquanette's had been upon the blonde. Raising her brow in askance for the second time during their conversation, Michelle repeated her first query, which had begun this conversation in the first place. As she did so, the shorter of the two women stroked the back of the racer's hand with her thumb, intending to be calming.
"'Mara, is everything alright?" The hesitance from the first voicing of these words was gone. The concern, however, was still there.
For a moment, there was silence, though for Michelle, that moment felt like an eternity. Then, Amara spoke in reply. "Patrick's letter… It got me to thinking, mostly about the fragility of life, and how quickly things can end. It also helped me come to a firm choice on a decision which I've been wrestling with for a good year now." Though initially hesitant, the emerald-eyed woman quickly gained surety in her words. Releasing her lover's hands, the blonde racer slipped from the bed, dropped to one knee, and then reclaimed the violinist's hands in her own.
Michelle could have sworn her heart stopped at that moment.
Though, if that was what it did merely at the gesture, then it literally exploded at the words her other half uttered.
"Kaioh Michelle," Amara began her short speech thus, using the Japanese way of placing the surname before the given name. "My angel, my love, my soul-mate, my other half; the air I breathe, the light of my life, my reason for existing, my only and ever true love…" She paused, wondering how best to say the final words. Eventually she settled upon the simplest form of them. "Will you marry me?"
Deepest emerald locked with brightest sea-blue. A moment stretched, became a millennia between them. Neither spoke, both fearing what would happen if the silence was broken.
As the silence lengthened, Michelle stood, and tugged Amara with her. And then, in wordless acceptance, yet in worlds more profound than those of the greatest poets, the violinist closed the distance between them, and kissed her lover deeply, passionately, and lovingly. A heartbeat-moment passed – then, a fire of passion and love ignited within both women, one they had never before known. The two tumbled onto the bed, their clothes soon meeting with the floor of the hotel room.
And, as two became one over and over again that night, in more profound ways than words can ever describe, the only witness to the love of these two souls, was Michelle's violin. The instrument rested in its case, propped against the wall. It hadn't been touched since the aquanette set it down to greet her fiancée.
We stayed in Dublin for another day, so that Michelle could finish with her concerts there. After that, while booking a flight to Italy, we both cleared our schedules for the next six months. I don't know if we rushed into things too quickly, but after being together for ten years - dating for five and lovers for another five - being engaged for less than three days meant little. In the end, all I knew was that I wanted the two most important people in my life to date to get to know one another, and if I could, to get my best friend to preside over the wedding.
Never did I think about what might happen when Michelle and I reached our destination in Rome.
Never did I envision what happened happening.
Never did I expect to be so grossly betrayed by the one I thought of as the brother of my heart.
And I sure as all Hell never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would forgive him for what he did.
End Notes:
1: Translation: "Hello, please connect me to an overseas line; I need to contact Dublin, Ireland." Yes, Haru speaks Russian in this fic; as well as Japanese, German, Italian, and English.
2: The style of the ending is like that which Feisu-sama uses; s/he inspired me to end part one like that. None of the other chapters will end like this, unless the mood trikes me.
Now... I hope you enjoyed, and if you didn't tell me why. On second thought - tell me why you enjoyed it too. I like comments, encouragement, and critiques, but flames will be ignored.