Disclaimer: AU SM/GW. No characters are mine.
Kin Za Za
AzureChan
: II:
Serena Yui shifted her books from her right hip to her left and, cautiously, shoved her expensive sunglasses up to the top of her head while she balanced a hot cup of coffee, black, in her other hand. She tapped the unlock button to her bright red Mercedes and frowned when the car locks refused to open.
Not this again, she thought angrily, and struggled to put her coffee on the top of her car while still holding her heavy books. Ever since she'd taken the car to that mechanic across town—the one Lita had recommended because she used to work for him—her car had been giving her the worst problems known to man. Or, for that matter, woman.
"Shoot," she cursed, and bent from her waist down to the ground to drop her books on the pavement. She'd have to open the car manually. It wasn't that sticking a key into a lock was any difficult task, it was that she'd had problems with the locks on her door two weeks after she'd bought the Lexus from that dealership down the street, and she'd asked Lita for some help. Lita had given her "expert" advice and told Serena to take her car to the mechanic about two hours away from her home.
"I paid six-fifty for nothing," she murmured when the car opened reluctantly after she stuck the key in the lock. She gathered her books from the ground, threw them in the passenger's seat and slid into the car, huffing. She made a mental note to call Lita later in the evening to complain about her new and "improved" locking system.
"Piece of crap is more like it," she said, and put her car into gear after closing the door and securing her seatbelt. "I swear," she continued to herself. "It's so hard to find some decent help these days. Everyone is all for taking your money, but they never give anything back." She started to back up when she looked through her front window and spotted Hilde Schbeiker, her so-called protégée, waving frantically to her from across the parking lot.
Serena sighed. Hilde was a sweet girl, but a little on the needy side. It was always, "What do you think about this, Mrs. Serena?" or "How does that look, Mrs. Serena?" or "Am I doing it right, Mrs. Serena?" The girl just didn't have that crucial flair of independent flamboyance that was vital when pursuing a formal but artistic career—fashion design.
But still, Hilde waved and flapped her arms at Serena's car, the expression on her face one of immense worry and dread. Probably needs my opinion on the Peace Project, Serena thought reproachfully. That girl needs to learn how to go on a limb and just do things herself…
She backed up sharply.
And then she cursed when her coffee cup tumbled down off the top of her newly washed Lexus, and the dark liquid slid in rivulets down the front of her car's window.
From her position across the parking lot, Hilde winced at the impact of the cup and Mrs. Serena's pretty Lexus, and then winced again as she watched the woman's face brighten and redden while her mouth flapped open and closed, wide and angry.
Poor Mrs. Serena, Hilde thought sadly while she reached into her pocket to retrieve her cellular phone. She dialed quickly, held the phone to her ear and watched while Mrs. Serena's mouth closed for a moment, and she snatched her phone up and brought it to her ear.
"Yes?" came the snarled squeak on the other line, and Hilde sighed mournfully in response.
"Oh, Mrs. Serena," she gushed apologetically, waving when the woman's head snapped up to stare at her from across the parking lot through her car's window. "Oh, I saw the whole thing. I tried waving to you to tell you that your coffee was still on the top of your car, but I guess you couldn't see me through those big tinted windows…"
From across the lot, Serena glared daggers at the young woman, one hand gripping the wheel so tight that her knuckles were blotched with white.
"Mrs. Serena," Hilde continued, voice wrought with sorrow, "it's such an awful thing that's happened. Coffee stains are so hard, I hear, to wash off of car windows. No matter how many times you wash your car, that icky little stain will always be there—"
"For goodness' sake, Hilde," Serena sputtered, voice frustrated, "could you please tell me something that I am not already aware of?"
There was a small silence on the line as Hilde thought quickly, and Serena narrowed her eyes suspiciously when the girl across the lot smiled brightly after a moment.
"Well, Mrs. Serena," Hilde began happily, "I have a few good ideas on the Peace Project that I would just love to run by you tomor—"
Serena slapped her cell phone shut, then gunned her engine and sped off, smashing the rest of her coffee cup under thick rubber tires.
X.X.X.X
"Traffic? Yeah, sure. It's heavy on I-85. I wouldn't take that route if I were you, babe."
Serena slumped in her seat and fought an urge to completely turn off her car. Traffic had been backed up for the last ten minutes, and she'd called Lita, the mechanical expert, to know why.
"I already did, Lita," she said miserably, "and could you put Trowa on the phone?"
Trowa was Lita's current fad, current obsession. Technically, he was just her roommate until he found a better place to live, but Lita had quickly rented him the space for as long as he needed. Right out of technical college and he'd been pounced on by Lita. Serena almost felt sorry for him.
"Yes." And that's all he said when he took the phone.
For a moment, she smiled. Trowa was a curious character. His speech was short, precise, and to-the-point. His face often carried an expression that could almost be called blank, except the word would have done his features injustice. He was always concentrated, focused. He stood tall, over six feet, and held a stately posture and had a proper walk. He reminded her so much of Hiiro…
"Trowa," she greeted him happily. "Dependable friend. How goes the living arrangements?"
"I'm alive," he said, and she knew he was making a joke.
She laughed. "I'm sure Lita is working you to death, huh? Has she told you that she lost her bed sheets to the wash and needed to sleep with you until they found?"
"I slept on the couch," he replied calmly. "For a week."
"Oh, Trowa," she was laughing again, "you didn't!"
He remained silent.
Her laughter faded and she cleared her throat. Just like Hiiro, Trowa took things slowly, calculated every move a person made, every word a person spoke. He was a human computer, and when one challenged his word, whether in a joking manner or not, he reverted to silence to express his disapproval of their reply. He thought she was challenging his word, so he didn't reply to what she'd said. Exactly like her soon-to-be ex-husband, Hiiro.
That was one of the things that drove her away from him.
"—rena? Serena, are you there?" Lita was back on the phone, her gibbering halted. "Well, anyway, you know my policy about talking on phones while driving."
Serena rolled her eyes and moved her car. Traffic had become slow, but steady. At this rate, she'd hopefully make it home soon within the next half-hour.
"Your silence speaks volumes, my dear."
"Oh, Lita," Serena smiled wryly.
"What? Besides. I think Trowa is starting to warm up to me."
"Sure, Lita."
"Just last night, I sat next to him on the common-room's couch, and he only scooted over an inch this time."
Serena laughed. "Lita!"
"And that's not all, Nena," Lita's voice dropped down to a whisper. "I totally saw him checking out my boxers this morning in the laundry room. When I asked him about it, he told me he thought they were his."
"So?"
"So, turns out they were! But he was just using them as an excuse to talk intimate with me."
"Lita!"
X.X.X.X
Nine-thirty.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Amy tapped her fingers against Quatre's cold mug of tea. She'd left it on the counter for him just like she did every night. But tonight was different. He usually got home at eight, occasionally eight-thirty. If he was going to be late, he called an hour ahead of time. Quatre was brilliant in this way—he could plan his time down to the exact minute he'd be home. But tonight; nothing. No calls, no pages, not even a fax to his office at home. Not even an E-mail.
Amy was worried. She didn't want to be, however, because lately when she got worried concerning Quatre, it often lead to impossible scenario's including him and another woman. She'd never admit it to him, but Quatre was, in her opinion, far more attractive at thirty-six than she was at thirty-five.
It's because I'm so frumpy, she thought miserably, cheek in hand. It was true that after she'd settled down with Quatre, she'd let herself go a bit. Oh, she wasn't fat—but she wasn't as slim as she had been. She'd settled into a normal routine of crisp white matronly blouses and ankle-length black skirts. Her shoes were black with thick rubber soles to support her back. Ever since her and Quatre started seeing less of each other due to work, Amy's physical appearance and stature had waned. She wasn't happy, and it showed. Lex, of course, brought the utmost joy into her life, but nothing, not even a child, could replace the fact that the man she'd fallen in love with and married was not the same man she was living with. Not even sleeping with, because by the time Quatre came to bed after finishing work in his home office, it was well past midnight, and Amy's bed time was ten.
Nine forty-five.
Amy sighed, and with that sigh came one single, solitary tear. It slid down her cheek and caught at the corner of her hand. She was unhappy, maybe even depressed, and though Quatre had promised a vacation after the Hiiro and Serena case, it didn't erase the nights she spent without him and the days she spent worrying about him even when she was with him. She was worried about their relationship, and to add onto that, lately Lex had been very moody. She didn't like it when Amy tucked her in at night; she wanted Daddy to come kiss her, read to her, and tuck her in. It broke Amy's heart.
Another tear followed the first, and then another, and finally, Amy had to put her palms to her eyes to stop the tears. But they came anyway, and finally, frustrated, she let herself cry.
A cold, clammy hand wrapped itself around her wrist, and Amy jumped at the sudden contact. She found herself staring into two watery gray eyes, one a bit more pink in the corner than the other. Amy quickly wiped her eyes and offered Lex a smile.
"Hi, sweetheart," she said, her voice wavering. "What's wrong? Have you been crying? Your eye looks a little pink, honey."
Lex rubbed at it at the called attention. "It itches," she said, her voice full of sleep. And then, remembering her reason for awakening: "Mommy, were you crying?"
Amy smiled despite her state, shaking her head. For as long as she could remember, Lex had always been extremely sensitive to her emotions. When she was three, she would wake up in the middle of the night if Amy found it hard to fall asleep. When Amy was pregnant with Lex, the child would stir restlessly at the slightest notion of Amy's discomfort. Amy thought the connection quite special.
"Mommy's fine," she said, and reached forward to brush her hands over Lex's dangly ash locks. The child had inherited a shade of Amy's natural color, so her hair looked like a mixture between ash gray and blue. Her eyes were also gray with little flecks of turquoise, compliments of Quatre. Amy looked closely at the child's eye. It looked more pink than she had realized. And Lex had said it itched.
"Honey, how long has your eye been bothering you? Did it start watering on its own?"
The child nodded and reached up to rub the offending eye, but Amy took her hand and held it. She figured Lex had pink eye and decided she'd have to take the child to Dr. Maxwell for treatment.
"Where's Daddy?"
The question stung Amy. "Work," she mumbled. "He's at work. Daddy's working."
Lex looked uncertain, but she said nothing. She merely held her hand out and when Amy grabbed it, said, "Let's go to bed, now. It's bedtime."
It was a wisdom Amy would never understand but never forget.
X.X.X.X
Serena lay on her back in her bed, hair fanned out in wet curls against her silk pink pillows and hands wrapped gently around a rose that lay against her bare breast. She was nude. The deep pale peach of her room was darkened to an almost burnt orange color due to the darkness of the night outside, and the fire from the candles she had set up on her huge oak night stand splayed shadows across the ceiling. The hypnotic, almost haunting melodies of Kin Za Za floated throughout her room. The words played a game with her memories.
Midnight, and I'll be coming home…
Her eyes were staring up at her canopy. It was a fabric so sheer that she only saw it in the daytime. Now, through the darkness, it looked like a haze of nostalgia, and caught in that haze was Hiiro, staring down at her with eyes so piercing in color that she'd named them Promise. Others said his eyes were Prussian, but she always objected, saying, "My Hiiro's eyes are the color of Promise."
Promise.
The word made her turn her head only slightly and instantly, Hiiro's face faded and a new picture molded together. They were together in bed, apart but closer than they ever had been. The relationship had started off physical—they'd met at a high society party filled with a bunch of people searching for a purpose amidst money and expensive wine. She'd only had two drinks, he'd had none. Their chat was simple, common-place. She spoke of her profession, he spoke of his.
But something about his eyes had captured her from the first moment, and she admitted it later that night as they rolled together in her silk sheets and thick comforters. She'd spoken of her infatuation in her sighs and afterward, in her sweet, languid kisses to his closed eyelids. Her lips begged him to open his eyes, and he obeyed, staring both at her and into her. His piercing, promising eyes. From then on, it had been a living fantasy—work in the morning and an almost drunken enticement at night. It spread from his eyes to his body, and finally, to his mind. She longed to unlock it, discover his secrets, his past—his feelings for her.
Even after they married, he stayed the same. He only elaborated when necessary and the rest of the time, answered her questions directly. He never called her beautiful, only told her she looked "appropriate" when questioned about her appearance in a new Versace dress or crystal earrings she would wear to their next outing. He never spoke of his undying infatuation and love for her on Valentine's Day, only placed a single rose on her stomach because he always woke before she did, and before she opened her eyes, the fragrance met her—not him. He'd never even told her he loved her—not once in their three years of marriage. All he did was look at her, and even that became agitating…
"Hiiro," she said, and he looked up at her from behind his laptop. She was sitting on the bed and he right next to her, but she felt miles apart from him. Between her fingers was a steaming cup of coffee laced with rum, and the porcelain was burning her fingers but she didn't notice. "Hiiro," she said again, and her voice was shaking. She didn't look up from her cup.
"I know you're staring at me," she said, and paused to swallow. His eyes hadn't held promise in some time, and she'd noticed it fading just as she noticed his lack of spoken affection. "Hiiro," she said.
He didn't say a word.
She closed her eyes tight and two tears squeezed themselves out and landed in her coffee. "Hiiro," she said roughly, "answer me damnit!"
"I'm right here," he said, and that was it. No change in his tone from his usual voice, nothing. He waited.
Serena caressed the rose. A little breeze blew in from the window and the candlelight flickered restlessly. She remembered how torn inside she'd been to notice his "look" had become nothing more than a stare. And maybe, had always only been a stare. She closed her eyes and felt a slight burn as tears rimmed the eyelid.
"Hiiro," she had said quietly. "I can't do this anymore. I just can't do this. You don't love me—I don't know if you ever did. You don't talk to me. I can't do this."
He shifted. That was it. He shifted in bed. He said nothing.
It pushed her over her invisible edge. "I want a divorce, Hiiro."
This time, he closed his laptop and slid out from under it. Then, he got up from the bed and left the room. Without a word. Not one word.
Serena erupted in tears and anger, shouting: "Fuck you, Hiiro Yui! I want a divorce! You've never loved me and you never will! I don't understand you—why won't you talk to me?!"
Later that day, Serena remembered, he had emailed her. There was no subject line, and when she opened the email, only the words "Amy Winner" were in the message. Looking the woman up, Serena discovered she was a marriage counselor, and it brought tears to her eyes. "Why couldn't you just tell me this?" she whispered to the screen. "Why can't you talk to me?"
They had gone to Amy. She was a brilliant woman and the first thing Serena saw when she walked into Amy's office was the picture of her with her husband and daughter. She was a beautiful child with long hair and bright eyes. Amy's husband was a handsome man with strikingly blonde hair and a wonderful smile. Amy herself was a petite, very naturally pretty woman. She wore no makeup and kept her hair simple and short. Serena felt slightly self-conscious when she remembered her own powdered face and perfectly groomed hair and nails.
But the woman welcomed them both warmly. Serena spoke first, listing off every problem she had with hers and Hiiro's relationship. She went into full detail, even revealing the private name she had given Hiiro's eyes. "Promise," she had said. "I call his eyes the color of Promise because I see so much of it in them. I used to." The last words were added quickly, and it caused Hiiro to turn his head and look at her. She didn't meet his gaze.
"Well, Hiiro," Amy said, scribbling in her pad. "How do you feel?"
He was still looking at Serena, and she felt it. She waited, prayed inwardly that he'd open up and reveal every feeling he'd ever felt for her. Prayed that maybe she could go home today and spend the rest of her life loving him with a returned love. That was all she wanted.
"I'm right here," he said quietly. So quietly that Amy didn't hear it and asked him to repeat, but Serena heard it, and the last bit of hope she had faded. He would never admit how he felt. He was too proud, too scared, too—too something. And she was tired of it.
Serena turned her head. The next four sessions had been a waste and now, they were separated and going through divorce procedures. It would take maybe two more days because Quatre, their lawyer—and surprisingly their marriage counselor's husband—was dealing with both of them at the same time. He was the best. High society only chose the best, even if they'd have to share.
She kept the house and he moved out. He was staying in an apartment in the city, a high rise. He was exactly forty-five minutes away. She remembered driving past once. One night when she let her thoughts wander, as she was doing now. New words to a new song bounced off the walls and pricked at her heart.
What hurts the most was being so close, and having so much to say—and watching you walk away.
The tears burned through her eyelids and slid down her cheeks.