It had been raining for days now. A sad tribute to a spring that just wouldn't leave things alone, the water plagued almost as much as the company. He was standing in the kitchen, looking over the bar at her. She didn't need to pull her gaze from the outside world to know it. He never seemed to look away.
Part of it may be her refusal to wear his clothes. It was bad enough to sleep in his bed, smothered in the scent, forced to dream of their nights spent tangled together. The blankets became his cloak. The pillow became his soft hands in her hair. It was bad enough to wake up aching for a connection she'd never have, but to wear his clothes during the day? She hadn't brought any of her own, for obvious reasons. He'd offered to buy her some that first morning, so she could feel at home. It hadn't helped.
The only other option available had been her transformation brooch or her princess clothes. It hadn't taken much for him to put her together with his nighttime charge. He already knew, so what was the point of wearing a ridiculously short skirt? He'd already seen her disgusting naked body, so what was the point of worrying about something so childish? In the end, it was more functional, more comfortable to just give in and wear the stupid dress.
She tried not to hate him for it.
"Talk to me. It's been days." The timber of his voice never ceased to shake her to the bone. Even on the streets, fighting like children, he always seemed to leave her trembling and breathless. It should have been her most obvious clue when he'd tauntingly called her "Odango Atema" for the first time.
Instead it had just been awkward.
She shrugged, leaning her head against the glass. The buns felt more natural than the braid, though he had admitted to looking instructions up online to save another round of brushing. She should be grateful he'd taken the time. Instead, her face pressed to the glass, her fingers tangled in cream carpet, and nothing came out.
"I've never seen the great Odango Atema quiet before. It's weird." The sound of his footsteps left the tile floor, but still beat a steady rhythm into her palms as he crossed to her side. She didn't dare look up at him. With the change in her eye color, the radical shift into her Lunarian clothing, all he ever did was stare at her. She was the image of Serenity. Even those memories felt like a smoking ember as the past slowly surfaced day by day. There were no friends to quiet the terrible screams, the guilt. No one had called.
She didn't think they would.
He settled into the carpet, placed a plate of steaming food at her side. She hadn't touched anything since coming though. If he could lock away the knives, the bathroom plug, then she could protest in her own way. Besides, all eating would do is prolong the torture. She could live without more of that.
"I started it. The war." The sound of her own voice shocked her. It felt as if someone else had said it, someone else who was owning up to her mistake. She blinked, flicking soft lilac eyes his direction, but the face was complacent as always. The slow, crusty glide of fear slid along her spine, made her hair stand at attention. For which, she couldn't tell. He was sitting too close, waiting for her to recount a story that only seemed like pain now.
"Tell me," he urged quietly, his food left steaming and forgotten in his lap. It was so quiet in this apartment. Even the neighbors must be dead. The shiver broke across her at the thought, and she turned away again, wishing she could scrub the bloody images from her memory.
"I should pay for it." Again, they came without her knowledge, again they told only the truth. Tears felt so overdone, so pitiful and worthless after the last few days. Still, they glided down her face and dripped into gauzy white fabric. She didn't bother to try and wipe at them. The mess was so familiar at this point that it was odd not to cry anymore.
"No, you should rest and get better. Get out of your head." He didn't try to touch her, she noted. After the first few days of pulling away, he seemed to have given up that much. For once, the knowledge left a little sting. A part of her ached for his comfort, his companionship. The other knew it would lead to nothing but more pain, more misery. Perhaps, she worried more for him.
Now he was looking at her. Now, he would feel obligated. It wasn't the first time she swore to herself never to mention their past together, never to say they'd known each other before. Even the identity of Tuxedo Kamen she kept locked away where he couldn't see.
But those memories were bubbling up in a heap of words too broken to string together. The terror of her first night, the thrill of rebellion as she slid to the grass on Earth. This world had been so breathtaking by moonlight. The flowers hung heavy with scent, the sounds of alien birds singing low in the trees had been more than charming.
Intoxicating.
Sinful.
"I started it. I left the palace without permission, came to earth. I just…wanted to see the flowers. I wanted to be normal." This time, as she spoke, it felt more real, more immediate. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the ground, lost to the feel of warm summer wind, the taste of night so heartbreaking that the memory itself made her homesick. It was sad to realize that illness was not for her mother, nor her friends who had guarded her since childhood.
"So…what? You're saying a planet died because of flowers? Must have been the queen's garden or som…oh…." The realization flew across his brow as she glanced up again. It was hard not to find some amusement at his quick thinking. He'd always seemed almost supernatural in the way his mind quickly tore through the pretense. He would have made a great king.
"Even that doesn't make sense. Wars don't get started for something that petty, Usagi-chan. Not unless you took something you shouldn't have." The slap left her flinching away, turning back to the scene of vines crawling up the side of the building. The red buds were swaying in the breeze, the thick greenery locking the door in place. "You stole a flower?"
Ironic that he should make that connection. It would be easy to skirt the issue, pretend nothing really had happened. That part of her soul that still yearned for more was screaming, aching to open up and tell him everything all at once. The rest of her felt so bitter and broken. What good could it possibly do? It's not like it would make him love her, or change the past, or even make these feelings go away. It was just desperation. It was killing her to keep it all hidden away.
"Yes." The whisper was soft. The strange eyes flickered closed again, her head fell forward to rest against her knees. Her gaze stilled against the bud trailing outside the window, pulling from it the memory of his first gift. "A red rose. They don't exist on my planet, and this one," she licked at her lips tiredly, willing the image of her prince away. "Dark, deep, strong, and so beautiful. So…mysterious," her voice faded, the thought of him almost too much to handle. His eyes, always so warm, stretching across her face, his fingers at her jaw, his haunting, earthy taste. She shuddered, pushing the memories back.
"So…not a flower," he whispered. She didn't turn back, didn't want to see where his thoughts led him. The fear was clenching in her gut, forcing her muscles taunt as the silence continued. "A boy? A prince maybe?"
In one, swift thought, that soft part of her soul that begged for him to figure it out was silenced. A terrified gasp of air hit her lungs like ice, and even sitting, the world felt like it was falling to the side. She didn't look. She couldn't. The fear of being caught for her crimes, judged by him of all people, was worse than death. Even the crushing pain at the end was better than this.
"I can see how that might not have worked out so well," he mused quietly. "Tale as old as time. Forbidden love."
She was imagining the bitter turn in his voice. It wasn't real. He loved someone else. The tears began to flood again. She never should have mentioned it, never should have admitted there was more to the story. Her hands were clenched tight across the fabric of her dress, white at the knuckles and aching. She shuddered.
"When I was young, my parents died in a car accident. I don't remember them." He paused for a moment, the shift of clothing the only hint he was leaving. The confession shattered against her mind on repeat, forced her out of her shell just enough to risk a glance at him. "Just because something terrible happened doesn't mean it's your fault. You loved someone. There's nothing wrong with that."
He was walking away. Mindless to help, her fingers fled to the carpet, aching for the touch of him. How…how could someone like him be forced to carry such a burden? It felt…cheap to remember how she'd chosen to give her family away when he couldn't even remember his. The stuttering heart in her chest rammed against the ribs, nearly broke through bone to go to him, find some way to lift that terrible weight….
"Did you marry him?"
She blinked at the question, tugged so suddenly from her thoughts that it was hard to remember what she'd been thinking. He was pulling a blanket from the hallway closet, unwrapping the plain fabric as he walked toward her again. His voice seemed so quiet, so lifeless. After talking about his parents, though, of course he would be sad.
It was settled over her shoulders, his fingers brushing skin. The heady mix of scratchy wool in shifting gauze was nothing compared to that touch, to the softness of his deep blue eyes. Had he asked something? Did she really not remember anything before he stood so near? She sucked a deep breath, pulled the blanket from his fingers and settled back against the sliding glass door.
They were getting too close. It wasn't fair because he was crawling beneath her skin, driving her mad just by existing. She was the first to turn away, to gather her thoughts together again.
"N-no. He was engaged." The quick risk of a glance his way revealed an amused smile, the subtle twist of his brow. It wasn't the reaction she was hoping for. After all, no good woman would ever do such a thing. No one could be so selfish, so completely egotistic as to think that all things were rightfully hers. As if daring him to continue being amused, the final blow fell. "Her name was Beryl."
"Gods. This is all…some…love triangle? A whole planet was destroyed because of a love triangle?" The dark blue eyes grew wide, the amusement scattered. She shifted finally, allowing the discomfort to bleed across her like an accusation. It was strange to realize how badly she wanted him to hate her. "I thought Twilight was bad."
Any other moment, any other lifetime, she would have laughed at the jibe. It was so like him to make some clever connection like that to try and amuse her. Right now, though, it felt rushed and confusing. Mamoru was not Endymion, despite how similar they seemed. For one, that darkness that seemed to follow Mamoru like a cloud had never hung over his head in the past. It was exactly like Usagi and Serenity.
"Can't say I wouldn't be the same. Beryl loved him. She had him first."
"No offense, Usagi-chan, but I highly doubt that. Given the choice myself, there's really no competition." He flicked a speck of lint from his pant leg, but the embarrassment was pretty evident. Just as he had in the past, the tips of his ears were red. "She's got teeth like a shark, and her boobs are too much like... bowling balls. I really can't see someone choosing to sleep with her."
"And here I thought that's what all guys wanted." It seemed ironic that boobs were the deciding factor in all of it. Mamoru was obviously much shallower these days.
"Depends," the red of his ears deepened as he spoke, spreading slowly to his face. "I prefer a peach shape, myself." He was staring at the floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. She tried to think back to that moment outside the café. Did his brunette have that shape? Is that why he seemed so embarrassed?
"So he chose you and Beryl went off the deep end. What now? You're both here."
Usagi shifted uncomfortably, pulling the dress closer. Every wasted second lent the enemy more and more strength. She and Beryl seemed locked against each other and she wondered if the redhead even remembered the past well enough to know why. She wondered if that witch remembered the moment they both lost everything. The moment her sword slid through his chest with a soft little squish….
"My fault. He died protecting me and I…couldn't…." He had fallen back into her arms, weight bearing her down to her knees. "He died in my arms. Bled out." The sludgy iron red made her grip slide, made his beautiful face fall back into her lap splattered and stained. He was already dead, and the mess was soaking into her skirt, into her hands. She gulped, remembering the hard smell and the horror that ended every other thought. "There was so much blood."
The screams of the dying called through the mist. She'd screeched, so long and loud it deafened even the sounds of battle. Her fingers pulled the hair from his face, tried to wake him though she already knew. He was gone. Everything she had ever wanted had been ripped away in one selfless moment. Why shouldn't she join him? What was there left to live for when she had already failed to keep him safe? There was nothing left.
"So you dusted yourself off, kicked her ass, and lived happily ever after," he replied blithely, mouth twisted in a smirk. She blinked, realizing somehow that even lost in the memory, her eyes had pulled to his face, as if he was dying now and she could somehow stop the inevitable. She licked her lips, realized how shaken the memory left her. The sharp bolt of pain, the final gasp as the sensation of blood poured into her lungs.
"I put his sword through my chest." Her fingers traced the phantom sensation just above her breast. It was strange to wonder now, but hadn't she torn the skin here that night on the cliffs? Shouldn't she be bandaged? There wasn't even a scar, as if her attempt had been too pathetic to make one.
"You really were going to do it." His shocked mutter seemed out of place. The warm blood on her arms that night was just as real as the weight of that broadsword clenched in her fist. It wasn't imagined; he must have seen how serious she really was. The edge was so close to her icy cold feet, the bite of the knife against her skin was not a simple hallucination. Though her body didn't seem to bear the marks, of course he'd taken it seriously. Why else would she wake up in his home, with nothing capable of inflicting a significant wound within reach?
She nodded.
"I don't understand why that would fix anything. He's dead, it's not like she could bring him back!" His explosion rocked her from her thoughts. He was launching to his feet, eyes uncharacteristically hot. She sucked a tight breath into her lungs, watched as his features shifted just enough to betray his thoughts. "She could. He's here. Oh gods…"
His hand wiped tiredly at his face. The anger so evident just moments before was beginning to surge forward again, and the weight of his gaze fell like a scythe against her own.
"Who is he?" he snapped, coming to stand in front of her like a mountain.
"Does it…"
"I want a name." The rage sliced through her deflection as if it never existed. She turned away, clenching her teeth so tightly that her skull began to ache. He demanded again, "Did he do this?"
She was silent, belligerent. Even in the face of his wrath, there was nothing either one of them could do to change what was bound to happen–what had already happened. He knew too much.
"I'll kill him."
The decisive little snort was everything both her mothers had tried to train out of her. It was odd to somehow still be capable of amusement at the thought of him fighting a mirror. It would certainly be a show, Endymion with his sword and Mamoru with his roses and cane. Her poor protector wouldn't stand a chance.
"He didn't do anything."
"What then? You don't just go from being bouncy and ridiculous to killing yourself in two days, Odango. Explain. You just found out? You just put it all together? What changed?" His rough bark felt accusatory. The anger was rising up again, furious at having to defend herself and her actions. She was trying to do the right thing!
"Why do you care? Just go back to your books! Leave me be!" The only reason he was even angry was because he couldn't understand how significant her death would be. Probably driven by some new-world morality about the meaning of life, he was accusing her of more than just drama. It was so like him–that bit that always seemed to drive her insane no matter how much she loved him.
"Yeah, go all tragic princess on me! Like that will make me go away!" he snapped back, so angry his shoulders were shaking.
"You should have let me go! You should have just gone home! Why did you bring me here? To torture me? You think I like knowing so many people died because I was selfish? You think…"
"It had nothing to do with you! Beryl is insane and I'd put money on this mess being her fault, not yours!" He spoke as if he could possibly know. He said those words as if his thoughts were bias memory rather than assumption. Why? Why couldn't he just admit she was no better than a harlot? How could he look the charges straight in the face, knowing how selfish and irresponsible she'd been, and still place the blame elsewhere?
"I stole him! He belonged to someone else!" she cried, pulling herself tighter still. Here she sat, coated in a scarlet letter so broad that no one could say she was without fault. Even if he hadn't been Beryl's, she'd acted against her own people, against her planet, her friends, her mother, her queen. She should be tried for treason, burned and cast into the sea like the traitor she was.
It would have been a more merciful punishment than this.
"Did he?" The soft question pulled her up short. "Usa, did he really? Did he love Beryl? Ever?" His eyes were so blue. The dark, shuttered depths were roiling like a storm despite how quiet his voice was. The tall figure was bunched and tight, his shoulders rolled up against his neck as if to protect himself.
It hurt to realize she posed a threat, but the pain was smothered by a macabre sort of success.
"It doesn't matter."
It really didn't. Finally, he was beginning to see her for what she was: a danger to everyone around her, a liability. How long until that thought festered into hate? How long would it be before those eyes turned away with disdain?
She turned back toward the outside world, hoping the strong vines would wither once he put it all together. The balcony was not a cliff in the middle of nowhere, but it would certainly do the trick from this height.
She wished he hadn't known of her plans. The morning after the storm, he'd tried to break the ice with an apology. Why he'd been at the cliffs so late was easily explained once she knew of the strange bond. Tuxedo Kamen hadn't been a part of the conversation, but it was like painting a portrait. There was some link pulling them together, something that helped him know when she was in danger.
Even with that, it hadn't been enough...
"She starts a war. You just want to die. I guess neither of you got him this time."
She didn't turn back. There was still the subtle hope he would release the balcony door. The vision of that soft look on his face, staring at the brunette across the table hurt like hellfire. It seemed appropriate.
"He chose someone else." She focused on that memory, trying to squeeze her heart so tight from the inside that it might explode. He chose someone else and their fights had changed in an instant. Mamoru had become more than an upperclassman, more than a hope. He'd become a sentence. One she would have to bear alone until fate finally let go long enough to fix the problem.
"Fickle bastard. You shouldn't waste your tears on him." She almost didn't register his bitter voice, so lost to it all as that moment grew fresh in her mind. Every detail had etched into her brain with acid.
"She's beautiful," the quiet girl murmured, trying to defend him and his choice. If nothing else, it would show his improved taste. There was no mistaking the college textbooks, the sharp and elegant clothing the woman had worn. "Long brown hair, big green eyes, freckles."
"Don't torture yourself over it. He's not worth it," he tried again, but it was useless. Why he cared at all was still a mystery, one she had no intention of figuring out. It would just bring more questions, more pain. She was done with it all. He paced on the carpet behind her, the sound of his clothing certainly enough to hint that his hand was rubbing the back of his neck; his jaw was tight in thought. She didn't need to look. It was all there, playing out in her mind.
"You know, we could just hand the idiot over," he offered.
"Never." Venom dripped from her sharp retort. Even the idea of Metallia's puppet with her claws in Mamoru was enough to chill the blood. He may have been right about the political engagement; Endymion certainly never loved the power-hungry redhead. Without his memories and his full powers, he would fall like the rest of humanity. It had been the one saving grace of the past.
"You still love him." The scoff seemed disbelieving, perhaps even angry. It was a curious reaction. She turned back toward him, wondering how he could have possibly thought otherwise.
"I have no choice." She blinked, pausing to take a deeper breath. The soft violet gaze turned away then, afraid that bit of truth would shatter the flimsy mask she'd draped over their past. "I loved him the moment we met. Just like last time." It was inevitable. Did he see she would always be the weaker of them? If her soul were caught after every death, sent back here to earth where he could be, it would always end the same for her. There simply was no one else.
He turned away from her finally. The broad length of his shoulders were tense. With his eyes tucked securely away, she traced the lines of his back, the muscled frame and arms like an addict. It was okay because he would never be hers again. She could soak in that perfection just a little bit longer, taste the soft sorrow he always seemed to carry.
It was easy to see the mark of his past, now that she knew. Her heart ached for him and that he should have to live so alone. Perhaps they'd both been given their punishments. It wasn't his fault though! What had he done to deserve so much sorrow? She was the one who came to him! She was the daughter of a goddess, glowing light and power and everything else. He'd just been a human. He shouldn't have to pay for something he could barely control!
"There's something I don't get in all this. How is it this guy just…chooses someone else?" His words grew in strength as he turned again. The deep midnight eyes were burning with confusion and rage, slicing through her as if he could somehow glean the information from her skull.
"I…"
"No, really," he barged on, tone smothering the pathetic attempt. "He actually looked at you and thought 'maybe no'? What an idiot!" The scathing disdain in his voice dried the air from her. Perhaps she didn't know him as well as she thought, because this level of volcanic emotion had never happened before. The closest thing to this rage was the memory of Beryl's final offer and his cynical, if not outright cruel, reply.
Still, the flooding room felt thick with his anger, his frustration. He'd yelled the morning after, but there had never been this much straight intensity in his voice, in his face. She shivered, pulling herself full against the cold glass.
"He loved Serenity," she squeaked finally, hoping the explanation could appease him.
"So, what, Tsukino Usagi's not good enough for him? Sailor Moon's not good enough? The guy's obviously a complete moron!" He was actually screaming. She felt the blood rush from her face, the tremor of fear freeze across her shoulders.
"But–"
"What? What the hell could he possibly–"
"He doesn't remember!" The tears were coming again, hot and frustrated. She couldn't understand what was happening or why.
"That doesn't matter! If he loved you ever, if he even met you, I would think he'd throw himself at your feet. He would beg!" The man shook his head, breathed deeply to steady himself again. The violent shaking of his hands eased and the suffocating air began to lighten. She gulped finally, allowed her chest to rise and fall again. A tired scoff burst from his mouth while he turned away. "He probably thinks you're too damn good for him."
Silence stretched between them while the last words played on repeat in her head. Mamoru was still fuming, brain churning though he didn't say another word. The frantic, terrified beating in her chest slowed inch by inch as the quiet continued. She couldn't look away.
He sounded…possessive. Perhaps she'd imagined the bitterness in his voice from earlier, but there was no mistaking the tone. The agony and terror raged equally within because it wasn't right–because he'd chosen someone else. How dare he use that tone knowing how things were between them! Didn't he realize how cruel it was to say those things, to speak that way, and know he himself would never think those things of her!
"It doesn't make sense. Usagi," he licked at his lips, risking a glance at her finally. "I…would…"
"Don't!" she snapped, just as darkly as he had before. "Don't you dare. I know you hate me. I've always known. Don't cheapen yourself with lies." She was tired of this stupid game, tired of being tugged every direction by someone who only saw her as an amusing distraction. The pity felt ragged and dirty. He was saying this only because he thought it would help bring her back from the edge. It was much too late for that.
Filled with this hatred, this pain, she turned back toward the window and set her head on her knees. Never in all the time she'd known him had he stooped so low. And even if it were somehow true, it would be the same as the past. He belonged to someone else and the only person capable of changing that was her. Again. The harlot. The thief. All for some false prior claim that meant nothing because he hadn't come to her willingly.
She was just as bad as Beryl had ever been, perhaps worse. At least her enemy wore the truth like a gown, while Usagi did nothing but hide behind a mask.
"I don't hate you." His soft whisper was loaded with grief. She didn't turn, didn't want to see him again. If only this stupid door would open, if the end would just come to her already! Her captor shuffled just beyond her vision. It wasn't enough to pull her back. "You really think I do?"
The gauzy hem of her skirt wiped angry tears away. She reached for the cold coming from outside, remembered every terrible thing he'd ever said to her. That night on the cliffs, when he'd ruined everything, still burned when she thought of it.
"Of course you do. Why else would you keep me here?" Her voice was thick and slurring, so pained it didn't even matter anymore to admit it out loud. Her fingers sought the cold wooden handle. Of course it didn't budge. She smothered the growing sob as quietly as possible. He was already moving toward her, warm hands gently tugging her fingers away.
"But we…." He knelt down by her feet, the dark eyes forced so far down even his face didn't show. "I thought," he tried again, barely risking a shy glance up at her. She clenched her eyes shut, trying to force the sound of his voice from her mind. He choked, pulled completely away again. "Never mind. You already said…"
There was a moment of quiet, followed quickly by the sound of his bedroom door slipping shut.
.
.
…
A soft click pulled her from the cold, damp realms of sleep. Her stiff back was frozen against the glass, hair mussed and clinging to everything. She blinked, rubbing at her itchy eyes. It was dark out. Hours must have passed since their heated discussion. The moon had hidden away in the clouds and the dark room felt alien and cold. Her eyes searched the darkness without recognition, without clear thought.
He was walking toward her. The tired shuffle of his feet slid across the carpet, around the couch until he stood above her. The heat from his legs forced her skin upright and felt like the lick of hellfire. She shivered, the frozen twist of muscles screamed painfully in the process.
"I need to say something." His bulk settled into the carpet beside her, so close that the muscles of his arm pressed against her knee. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to flinch to. "I know…how pathetic it must sound after your…past," he gulped unevenly, face turned down away from her. There was a sarcastic twist to his mouth.
"Usa…Usako," he licked his lips, shifted to take her face between both hands and lean close. It should have been impossible to see the color of his eyes in the dim light, yet there had never been such a preternatural blue as the gaze that pierced hers. He was nervous–mouth shifting at the corner as if the words he would say somehow hurt to share. "I couldn't ever hate you." The deep indigo gaze spread across her face momentarily before he spoke again, as if he were looking for answers long before there had been a question. "I love you."
She gasped, as if it had been a slap rather than a confession. He blinked away in that moment, but didn't move to leave.
"And I know you love him. It's okay, Odango. I get it."
Wordlessly, her mouth moved; the seconds ticked by while that thought destroyed everything else. He was forcing his breath steady, the fingers against her jaw were shaking. It wasn't true. It couldn't be.
It couldn't be.
"The reason that I…can't let you leave is because, Tsukino Usagi, I can't," he gulped, pausing just long enough to look back at her. "I mean, we can't afford to lose you. Usako, you are exactly what this world needs desperately. If everyone could feel your light, your love and passion and sweetness, I know it would affect every single person. I know you are what will heal this planet. Until you see that…" His thumbs brushed the tear tracks crusting to her face. "If he can't, then there's no hope for him. He's blind. He'd have to be."
Those eyes touched every inch of her face as he spoke, so warm and yet so hopeless. It wasn't possible. It wasn't true. But his face was tired and downcast, his shoulders stooped. He looked defeated from within. It was as if he could mirror what she felt herself.
"You can't…." The words plugged her thoughts into silence. Despite the pain so evident in his posture, he smiled. The action nearly drove her from consciousness.
"I do." His smile grew warm within the sorrow. His gaze never wavered from hers. The tired, worn out tears were dripping from her eyes for the millionth time, spread down his trembling hands as he brushed them gently away. "I'm no prince, but," a self-mocking laugh broke his thoughts, "stay here, with me, until you're strong again. I'll protect you."
It wasn't true. It couldn't be. The vision of his smile that day on the street, the way he'd looked at the woman across the booth was unmistakable. She was Usagi, she was nothing! She couldn't even walk a straight line if her life depended on her, and everything she did blew up in her face! Even he could see the brunette was better! He could be so much happier with that girl and she was stealing him again!
"Don't you have a girlfriend?! That's cruel–" the accusation cut short as the face above hers drifted into confusion.
"No."
"I saw you with her!" she tried again, hating herself for making him sound unfaithful. He was perfect! He had more brains, more grace, more intelligence, more sophistication, and more worth as a human being!
"Sorry?" He actually seemed confused.
"The girl, in the café, I saw her! And you were smiling…and…and…"
"Saori?" His flickering eyes looked so dark in the light of the moon, growing soft like they had when they first met. His smile returned, just the upturned corner of his mouth. His fingers brushed the hair from her face. "She ordered a triple hot fudge sundae."
Everything went silent. Was that her heart beating, or her imagination?
She shuddered, horrified at herself. It was all a misunderstanding, then? She'd given up her family and her life because she saw a look on his face and couldn't bear the thought it hadn't been about her? She'd ripped herself apart, given up all hope, practically gave Beryl exactly what she wanted because of…a look?
And worse, the look had been because of her, Usagi. Not some princess, not a warrior. Just Usagi being Usagi.
The long months of listening to how awful she apparently was, locked against the shame of a failed life riding hard on her back made it all too real. The trembling hands clamped across her mouth, too afraid of what might come out if given a chance. Her whole frame was shaking.
And without knowing why, he gathered her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her tight and waited. When the sobs finally came, they were concussive and painful. She was drowning in the horror that somehow built the last several days of her life. How such a thing could have made so much sense seemed completely asinine now.
"M-Mamo-chan…I…I need help," she muttered finally, her words broken and pained. He was running fingers through her hair, steady and sure as he had always been. She wished that he would kiss her hair, that the arms around her shoulders would pull her tighter until she suffocated.
"Shh, I know."
It was all he offered. It was all she needed.
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AN: Well, there's Truth. Don't worry, I've got more three-bit pieces to put up, just slowly getting them ready. I should have another installment of Sleeping DEath for next week, and if not it's just me working on other things.
Hope everyone's having a great Friday!
Shoutouts to slightlyxjaded for editing, as per usual! She rox!
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.
...
It was hours later when she heard him stifle an irritated groan. Curiously, the girl glanced upward, wondering if he'd somehow fallen asleep leaning back against the balcony window. It wasn't cold anymore, not while his arms were wrapped so snugly around her. It must have been just minutes before morning light; already the purple sky was warming beyond the rose-framed terrace. She shifted curiously, looking up at the man she'd once called lover, and perhaps would again soon. It was hard to see him, though, because she couldn't bear to tell the truth. It would be too embarrassing, too revealing after her pathetic attempts to end it. She didn't want him to know that her desperation flirted with the line of madness.
"Damnit, it's me!" His angered words slammed against her conscience almost as fast as his kiss. He didn't bother to hesitate or ask, just roughly pulled her up against his frame and claimed what had been his all along. Shocked, but certainly not bothered by the intrusion, Usagi met his open mouth with just as much passion, just as much fervor, heat, and need as he did.
It was probably explanation enough.
