A/N: Long wait for a short update. Sorry, guys. Next time will make up for it!
Continued thanks to Jade for being amazing, and to you guys for reading.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sailor Moon or any proper nouns. Geography and culture will be swallowed, masticated, and regurgitated without regard to accuracy.
Date: 12.3.12
Warnings: Language
- o -
Subject to Change
Season 3
Chapter Seven: Asanuma
- o -
From Hokkaido they caught a flight to Hong Kong, and from there they would fly to Istanbul to catch a connecting flight to Paris. There, they had found by Googling Asanuma's name, they would find the celebrated young artist Asanuma Itto, whose most recent exhibition would be opening in the 3rd Arrondissement that very night.
Motoki didn't have a passport, but Mikai procured one for him somehow, at such short notice that Ami wondered, first, what contacts he had and how he had ever gotten mixed up with whomever they were, and second, how much it had cost. She had discovered that she had a decent sum of various currencies stashed in her SubSpace pocket along with a few sets of credit cards under various names that Mercury had probably obtained at the same time she got the ones for Rei. It had been so long, though—four years; it still shocked her every time she realized it anew—that a few of them were already almost expired, and she was almost afraid to use them. Despite all she had done, she had never done anything illegal before—not when she was her, when she was Ami, anyways—as silly a thing as that might be to dwell on.
But if Ami was uncomfortable with Mikai shelling out money on their "quest," Motoki seemed even more so; he fumbled with the passport when Mikai handed it to him, looking dismayed and mumbling something apologetic about paying Mikai back. Mikai waved it off ("Business expenses, Motoki, you wouldn't have needed this if we weren't dragging you across the planet").
Ami hated seeing Motoki look so uncomfortable, plucking at the worn cuffs of his windbreaker and hunching his shoulders in his seat as though to take up as little space as possible. In her memories, he had always seemed like the most confident person she knew, tall and strong, never afraid to smile at someone or crouch and ask a child why they were crying or get between a middle school boy and the kid he was bullying. She'd never spoken to him much, when she was Ami, knowing that their social strata were so far apart they might have been from different planets—ha—but once, when Rei and Serena had fought with each other at the arcade and flounced away, leaving Ami anxious and uncertain in their booth, Motoki had come over and brought her a new soda and told her seriously that Rei and Serena would have made up with each other again by the next day and don't worry about it, okay, Mizuno-san?
She hadn't even known he'd known her name, then.
Now their positions felt reversed, almost, and she wanted so badly to make him feel better the way he had her that it was almost like a knot of hunger in her stomach. But she didn't have the first idea of how, didn't have a "Things will be okay tomorrow" to offer him because it wasn't the truth and even if she said it with conviction he would just look at her and agree aloud but not believe it. She didn't have that magical power Serena had, of saying things with so much determination and fire behind them that they came true.
The plane to Paris began to accelerate down the runway. On Ami's other side, Mikai was smacking gum loudly, two pieces for each side of his mouth, to counter the takeoff's pressure on his Eustachian tubes. The smell of cinnamon was almost overwhelming, making her wrinkle her nose. He smirked at her.
She looked away. "Motoki-san?"
Motoki looked over, smiling. So did Mikai, hands pausing where they had been lifting earbuds to his ears.
"I…do you like jellybeans?" she blurted out, and immediately turned red. Even Serena would not have asked such a random question.
But Motoki didn't laugh. He thought over the question. "I don't really," he said after a moment. "They have too many weird flavors. I'd rather know what I'm putting in my mouth is going to taste like." He shifted, relaxing his shoulders slightly. "What about you?"
Ami had to think to come up with an answer. She had never really eaten them—her mother never bought her candy growing up, and Serena, who had introduced Ami to most of the candy she'd ever tasted in her life, had liked chocolate more than anything else. "I think I would," she said slowly. "I prefer fruity tastes to chocolate ones."
Motoki smiled. "At least then you can pretend it's healthy, right?"
"Chocolate is healthy," Ami protested. "It contains flavonoids that act as antioxidants—" She stopped, flushing. "Sorry."
Motoki was smiling wider now, and it actually looked real instead of polite. "It's okay. Keep going, it's interesting."
"That was all, really. Just that antioxidants are thought to lower risks of cancer. And they're being investigated to treat Parkinson's and Alzheimer's diseases."
"I should tell my patients that," Motoki said in interest. "A lot of them really miss eating chocolate, and maybe that would convince the charge nurses to let them have some."
"Well, it would have to be carefully considered according to their individual dietary requirements… Um. I'm babbling. Sorry."
He smiled at her. "It's okay. You're trying to distract yourself."
"I—what?"
Motoki shrugged, uncertainty creeping back into his expression. "I just figured—it seems like you're a nervous flyer? I thought you wanted to talk to keep your mind off of it."
"Oh. I." Ami felt stupid that while she was trying to make Motoki feel better he thought he'd been doing the same thing for her. But she found herself smiling. "I—yes. Thank you."
-o-
Upon their arrival at Paris-Charles de Gaulle Airport, Motoki tried again to call the number he had for Asanuma as they were pushed out in the gush of passengers hurrying toward the baggage carrel. To hear above their noise and the boarding calls being relayed over the intercom in fluid French, he had the phone speaker turned to its highest volume, and Mikai, pressed uncomfortably close to him by the crowd, heard the disappointing message: "We're sorry. The number you have called is no longer in service."
"Ah, well," Mikai said, accepting his cell phone back from Motoki. Motoki's couldn't make international calls. "We'll just have to do this the hard way, I guess."
"Can't Ami-san's computer just—?" Motoki began, but Ami had disappeared.
Mikai spun around, pulse already quickening as he remembered the little that Mercury and Ami had told him about the High Senshi. But he quickly found the dark blue hair a few meters behind them, stopped near the wall, and he struggled his way back through the crowd, ignoring the muttered French that sounded like insults from the people his duffel bag thumped into along the way.
"You do know how short and difficult to see in a crowd you are, right?" he said when he caught up to her, standing close to her shoulder as people pushed past them.
Ami glanced up over her shoulder at him and tilted her head forward, indicating the series of movie-poster-sized advertisements in front of which she had stopped. Next to some circus poster proclaiming, Coming Soon to dazzle the City of Light!, was a poster advertising Asanuma Ittou's cequichange exhibition at Musée Carnavalet.
"Wow," said Motoki, who had caught up. "That's a big deal, isn't it? That he's famous enough to have a poster in the airport?"
"Apparently," Mikai said, taking a picture of the poster with his phone and checking that the phone number to purchase tickets to the opening gala was visible in the photo. "All right. Back into the fray, people."
They hadn't checked any of their luggage—Motoki and Mikai just had a duffel bag each, and Ami didn't have any luggage at all—so they didn't stop at the baggage carrel. They headed for the metro line instead, Mikai pulling out his phone and then his wallet to hand Ami a credit card so she could buy them Navigo passes. But Ami was already heading for the ticket dispensers, reaching into her own pocket—her wicked awesome Subspace pocket, Mikai thought with the same little thrill of curiosity that kept hitting him whenever he watched her.
"Go with Ami?" he said to Motoki as he flipped open his phone. He handed him the handful of euros and his credit card just in case.
Motoki took the credit card and handful of euros Mikai handed him ("Just in case," Mikai said), hefted his duffel bag and joined Ami at the end of the line. She glanced up at him, and Motoki was reminded yet again of how small she was, her eyes not even up to her collarbone. He kept forgetting, because she was so knowing and reassuring, like someone older and bigger than she was. Although, he supposed, he really needed to remember that she was much older than she looked. At least four normal years older, and about a thousand extra years on top of that, if the story they had told him was true...which he was sort of banking on, considering he'd quit his job and hopped a plane with them with a most-likely-fake passport.
Oh, God. What had he gotten himself into?
"You left Mikai?"
Motoki blinked again. "Um. He's back there?" He pointed over his shoulder.
Ami followed his finger to where Mikai was leaning against a wall, speaking into his cell phone. She looked concerned. "I don't want you two left alone."
Motoki grinned a little. "I think Mikai felt the same thing about you."
That made Ami frown, the closest expression to annoyance he had seen her make. "Mikai-san needs to start worrying about himself for once," she muttered.
Motoki decided to sidestep that conversational Charybdis, aimed for Scylla instead. "You think we're in danger here? From-" He lowered his voice, looked around, "the High Senshi?"
Ami cast him a sharp look. He had overheard her telling Mikai that she didn't think the High Senshi would have left Darien-the freaking prince of the planet, he still didn't quite believe it-unwatched after her princess left Earth, that they wouldn't want to risk Darien regaining his memories and joining the princess. Since getting Darien to recover his memories and go after the princess was exactly what Ami was trying to do, it made sense that any High Senshi who had been left behind would be looking for them to stop them by any means necessary.
If they weren't already, that is.
Crap. How many more times could that Oh God, I'm actually risking my life here realization slap him in the face?
"I had hoped so," Ami said after a moment. "But this feels different. Darker."
At least once more, apparently. Motoki swallowed. "Dark like...that Chaos thing?"
The ticket line moved forward a spot. "I'm not sure."
Motoki was quiet as they waited for their turn in line and as Ami purchased them three Navigo passes. He followed her back to Mikai, who was still on his phone when they reached him, speaking what sounded like pretty mangled French. Ami handed the passes to Motoki and reached into her pocket. Mikai watched her hand disappear, then leaned down and forward slightly as she reached for his face. She touched his ear and he bolted straight, flinching with a cry and exclaiming, " Avertir un mec avant de lui donner un wet willy, Ami!"
Motoki gaped. "Did he just...?"
Ami put a tiny gleaming thing that looked like a frozen raindrop into his hand. She tapped her ear, and he obeyed, pressing the small device inside like he would an earplug. He could see now why Mikai had flinched; it burned like a piece of dry ice. Just as quickly, though, the icy-hot sensation faded, and the incomprehensible conversations and newscasts around him became snatches of comprehensible ones.
"-told you not to forget the charger-"
"-declared between Syria and neighboring-"
"Quick, if we get to the baggage carrel before-"
"-news today of another earthquake in Europe-"
"Mom, I'm staaaarving-"
He looked at Ami in astonishment. "What is this?"
Ami smiled at his surprise, a little shyly and a little proudly. "A translation device."
"Wow," Motoki breathed, except, weirdly overlaid in his ears, he heard, "Formidable," and damn, he just had to shake his head in wonder at that.
Mikai said, "Merci!" and snapped his phone shut just then, looking over at them. He pointed one finger at his ear and the other at Ami. "We're discussing this later," he told her, then waved his phone. "All right! I have just obtained tickets to the opening gala for Asanuma Itto's cequichange exhibit tonight. Which leaves us about-" He checked his watch, "four hours to find ourselves some black-tie attire."
Ami's smile vanished.
- o -
"I don't really see that this is necessary," Ami said as they walked up to the intimidating-looking department store Mikai had brought up with the MapQuest app on his phone. "We could just as easily get to him before or after the function. I could get us into his place of residence so that we would be there waiting for him."
"Yeah, and once he freaked out as finding a bunch of weirdos in his apartment you'd ice his arms together, right?" Mikai looked over at Motoki, lowered his voice. "That's what she did to me when she showed up randomly in my house."
Ami glared at him. "If Asanuma is anything like I remember him, what you call 'weirdness' will not faze him. And at any rate, he knows both of you."
"Uh," said Motoki. "To be fair, I haven't talked to him in a long time."
"And when I met him I was still a woman," Mikai said.
Ami gave him an I will shrivel your testicles with the sheer force of my disdain look. And Motoki looked at him in consternation, as though trying to figure out if he was for real. "I don't remember that..?"
"Because your memories were stolen," Mikai told him. "Okay, no, I'm lying. But look. Ami. We already tried the creeper approach, okay? With poor Motoki. And look how well that turned out."
"He's with us now, isn't he?" Ami said waspishly.
"Yeah, because we bribed him. Also, his life sucked so hard already that coming to risk his life with us was actually an improvement."
Motoki opened his mouth to protest this unrosy summary of his life, then closed it as he had to concede it was mostly true.
Mikai took a step closer to Ami. "Don't think I don't know what this reluctance is all about, Fearless Leader." He grinned. "You're just nervous about dressing up."
Ami glowered at the sidewalk. "That's not it. I'm thinking purely of strategy."
"We can help you pick something out," Mikai offered. "I'm thinking strapless for her, Motoki, what do you think?"
"I think you're being a jerk," Motoki said honestly. "Like a nine-year-old with a crush."
Ami turned pink, mumbled something, and headed up the steps, disappearing through the store's double doors.
"Remember, ruffles accentuate the bust!" Mikai shouted after her, and all of a sudden there was a crackling sound and his eyelashes were covered in icicles. He blinked and laughed.
Motoki shook his head. "I also think you're a masochist."
Mikai laughed again. "I think you're right."
Motoki shook his head again, smiling, but then they were pushing through the doors and into the men's formalwear section, and nerves began to crawl through his stomach. After a few minutes of wandering through racks of suits he couldn't have afforded even on two of his salaries, he cleared his throat.
"You know, you probably don't need me to go."
Mikai groaned. "What is this, did Ami infect you with her bashful bacteria? You have to come, we're counting on you to guilt Asanuma into coming with us with those puppy dog eyes of yours."
Motoki didn't say anything. He was nervous enough about seeing his best friend again for the first time in so long, didn't want to meet him in some fancy party where he wouldn't know how to hold a fork or dance a waltz or whatever. And he really didn't want to do it in an obviously cheap, rented tux, but there was no way he could afford one of these, and he didn't want Mikai to pay for one. He must have mumbled to something that effect, because Mikai's face and voice went abruptly gentle.
"Motoki. If this was a business function for your place of employment, wouldn't your employer give you a wardrobe allowance?"
Motoki had never had a job that involved business functions, so he really had no idea. He hazarded an "I guess?"
Mikai gripped his shoulder. "The answer is yes. So just think of me as the employer and this as your wardrobe allowance, okay? Okay." He released Motoki.
"But you're not my employer," Motoki said, feeling that a little more resistance was necessary in order to be courteous.
Mikai raised an eyebrow. "Aren't I? I need something done and I offered to pay you to do it. Sounds like an employer to me. Would you have done this if you weren't being paid?"
Motoki wasn't sure if he would be lying if he said yes. Mikai seemed to read this in his eyes.
"Look," he said quietly, losing the jovial, older-than-you smile he'd been sporting since the first time Motoki met him. "I just want to save my friend. For that we need Asanuma, and Asanuma's not going to talk to me, or Ami. So we need you. Let me buy you the tux."
He strode forward without waiting for Motoki to answer, plucked up a few sets of jackets and blazers and shoved Motoki into a dressing area with them. Motoki obediently pulled each one on, showing them to Mikai for approval, but when they had both picked their ensembles and were waiting for the store attendant to ring them up, he finally spoke.
"I don't want to shoot this all down," he said, "but you know, right? Asanuma and Darien weren't the bosom buddies Ami seems to think they were."
Mikai said nothing, just watched Motoki and waited for him to continue. Motoki cleared his throat a little, shoved a hand in his hair. "Did you ever watch that show Naruto?" he said, not really expecting an affirmative answer.
"Did I watch Naruto?" Mikai repeated in a tone of the utmost offense." Of course I watched Naruto, it's only one of the best anime ever."
"Oh," said Motoki. His estimation of Mikai went up a notch. "Well, I always used to think they were a lot like Sasuke and Naruto. Like, Darien was always so perfect, and Asanuma was always racing after him trying to keep up or do it better…and he never really could." He smiled sadly. "But I don't think that was what really bothered Numa. I think it was that Darien never seemed to really notice him. No matter how much better he got at calc, at chemistry, at track even, he just wasn't on Darien's radar."
He met Mikai's eyes. "I think for Darien, Numa and I were just part of the scenery," he said honestly. "I think you're going to be disappointed when you see just how little influence we have on him."
- o -
They hadn't even reached the party yet, and Ami was already regretting the modest cardigan set she'd gotten. While they were at Printemps, a part of her had wondered what Mercury would buy, had pictured either a severe blue pantsuit with pearls or an absolutely shameless dress, something tight and sheer and fearless. She'd taken the coward's route out, grabbed a soft pink, pearl-buttoned cardigan with a matching dress the filmy skirt of which swished around her knees. It had looked pretty in the changing room mirror, but she looked like a twelve-year-old amid the plunging necklines and bared backs of the other women waiting in line to show their invitations. She pretended she didn't notice the disparity, kept her eyes trained on the head of the line where two men in suits were checking names on a list.
"Down, Fido," Mikai said to her, which made Motoki frown at him and smile reassuringly at Ami. He seemed to sense her unease, which made her feel slightly comforted but also annoyed; she knew so much, could remember attending parties on Proxima and Alpha Centauri, dancing with earls and kings, and yet here she was feeling like a clumsy oaf among a bunch of Terrans?
But that hadn't actually been her, had it? Did it matter that she could remember the steps to a Baalteranian waltz if she had never actually danced it? She had never been to parties with royalty, had never danced with crown princes and kings. The closest thing to a party she had ever been to was that mixer at her boarding school, and she'd spent the night leaning against the wall with a plastic cup of punch.
Yet that life felt as distant and separate from her as her-Mercury's-life as a princess did. She had been a different person in both; she couldn't imagine trailing after the cruel girls she'd clung to in middle school like a lost puppy now, just as she couldn't imagine walking up to a king as she could recall doing a thousand years ago and trailing an ice-filmed finger up his arm in invitation to dance.
"Our turn!" Mikai put a hand to the small of her back as the couple in front of them were waved past the podium where two men waited with the guest list. "Kentaro, party of three," he said to them.
The mustached man flipped to the back of the book, looking at a page of late additions. "Yes, of course, Madame et Messieurs, welcome. Please enter."
Madame? Ami thought, earlier contemplation pushed momentarily aside. She certainly didn't look old enough to be called that because of her age, regardless of her matronly attire. What...oh. That half sneaky, half pleased look on Mikai's face as they swept inside probably had something to do with it.
Motoki looked equally puzzled. "Did you say she was your wife?" he said, looking slightly aghast and a lot protective as he flanked Ami.
Mikai rolled his eyes. "Do let's be adults here, Motoki. What does it matter if complete strangers in Paris think we're married?"
"Exactly," Motoki muttered. "What does it matter?"
Ami pretended not to have heard any of this by peering around the large room instead, ignoring the heat climbing up her neck. It wasn't as easy to spot Asanuma's blond hair here as it would have been back home; here, there were light-haired people all over the place, women with glamorous waves and luxurious curls and strappy, backless dresses, and insecurity began to chew at her again. For a moment, she wished for Serena's Luna Pen, then remembered its owner, remembered what she was here for. Not to impress a bunch of people she didn't know, or Motoki or Asanuma, or even Mikai.
She was here for Serena.
She slipped past where Mikai had fallen into conversation with one of the glittering women and Motoki was politely refusing champagne from a passing waiter. The press of people was warm and thick with perfume and cologne, and smooth bare shoulder and silken tuxedos brushed against her as she passed. She ignored them all, stretching her senses out, ignoring the way she felt like a child among them and forcing herself to feel like a warrior instead, like Mercury would have felt if she were walking among them. Their auras were alternately fizzy and flat, none of them like Mikai's or Motoki's...
There. Ami's attention snapped around fast as whiplash, senses zooming in on the writhing dark aura she felt. As her eyes caught up with her senses, her stomach sank. The fair-haired man the aura belonged to was in a close, intent conversation with another man whose curly blond hair was shorter than Ami remembered it but unmistakable all the same.
The man who was not Asanuma lifted his eyes behind pretentious black glasses and looked straight at Ami. For a moment, his eyes went impossibly long and curved, like the painted-on face of a clown. Then he was smiling at Asanuma again, saying something and clasping the other man's shoulder before walking away.
Follow me, his posture said, clear as if he'd beamed it straight into Ami's nerves. She felt herself jerking forward, caught herself less instantly than she would have liked, less instantly than Mercury would have, and moved toward Asanuma instead. The man, in his white-and-black checkered suit, paused and made a moue over his shoulder at her, then shrugged and disappeared into the crowd.
Ami's muscles went slack all at once, as if she was a puppet the strings of which had just been cut, and she stood there for a moment regaining her breath. What had that thing been? An alien, that was clear, but not one she recognized from her own memories or Mercury's, and certainly not a High Senshi. Should she have followed it?
Not on its terms, not when it had so clearly wanted her to, she told herself, and turned to find Asanuma again. His bright hair had vanished, but she could still sense him, somewhere outside, and she followed his aura to a pair of double doors half hidden by a set of potted plants. She shoved through them onto a balcony—
Only to realize Asanuma was occupied. He wasn't alone; there was another woman with him now, a dark-haired one with her arms knotted around his neck, and for a single moment, Ami thought with shock and joy, Rei.
Except it wasn't Rei, she realized with almost as much shock a second later. It was only someone who had dark hair like Rei, who made an embarrassingly loud moan Rei would have sooner died than made when Asanuma moved his attention to her neck, closing his mouth around the bare skin. The woman made a sound and attacked his neck in fevered reciprocity. Asanuma let her, opening his eyes lazily—and looking right at Ami.
Instead of starting and pulling away from the woman, he merely grinned at Ami, running a hand down the woman's waist. "Sorry, sweetheart, you're too young to join in the fun. Come back in a few years."
Dislike—hatred, even—flashed through Ami. It tasted like ice so cold it burned, like Mercury, as though Ami was her or she was Ami or they were each other; it didn't matter, because they both felt the same hissing contempt, the same boiling desire to force the memories into this Terran to make him remember Rei and love her.
How long she stood there staring at him she didn't know. Asanuma just stared back,
eyes growing less and less desire-darkened, until he finally huffed out a sigh and pulled away from the woman, who twisted around to glare at Ami.
"All right. You want an autograph or something? You're persistent, I'll give you that much. I admire persistence…to an extent." Asanuma snaked an arm around Ami's shoulders. Wine-scented breath hit her face. She stiffened as he led her inside, then went still altogether when a painting caught her eye. Asanuma was yanked to a stop as well, and he glanced down at her with annoyance. Then he followed her gaze to the painting of a bloodied, broken glass goblet.
"Oh, that old thing." He wiggled his fingers in dismissal. "It's a piece from my school days."
Ami knew; she had seen it in Pluto's mirror.
"It fit the whole "revolution" theme, you know, cequichange, and my agent wanted it up to show my progress from then to now—but really it's too overwrought for me to be proud of," Asanuma said contemptuously. "Gauche. I was a different person when I painted it, not really myself yet, you know?"
"But think, if you hadn't done immature work like that before, you wouldn't have grown into your current style." Ami turned to see Mikai stepping up behind them, hands carelessly in his pockets. "It's like a sand castle, right? You need all the unimpressive stuff as a foundation before you can build up to the fragile pretty bits."
Dislike sharpened Asanuma's eyes. With the arm that wasn't over Ami's shoulders, he lifted a flute of champagne from another passing waiter and put it to his lips. "Funny," he said in a tone that indicated it was anything but, "I don't think we've met."
"Actually, we have." Mikai came closer, extending a hand. "Mikai Kentaro. I'm a friend of Darien Shields. We met at your graduation."
Asanuma's eyes sharpened. "Ah. I didn't recognize you without green hair."
"I prefer to think I wasn't really myself yet then, you know?" Mikai said, his eyes twinkling. Ami couldn't help a smile.
Asanuma watched the exchange, pulling away to look down at her properly but not removing his arm. "And I suppose we've met as well?"
Ami hesitated for a moment. "Not really. But I know Rei Hino. I think you knew her? She went to TA Girls' Academy in Minato-chou."
Asanuma didn't bat a lash. "Don't think I did."
She must not have managed to completely hide her disappointment for Rei, as he smiled at her condescendingly. "Sorry, sweetheart. I had a lot of admirers back then, too. I can't remember all their names."
"Asanuma," came a voice from behind them. "You could at least wait for the second date before showing a girl what a douche bag you are."
Asanuma spun around, releasing Ami. His eyes were wide. "Motoki Furuhata!" He strode forward, clamping the taller man into a hug, careful not to spill his champagne. "Goddamn, man, it's been years!"
Motoki nodded. "You're doing…" He looked around. "Really well."
Asanuma was nodding almost stupidly, grinning. "Man, this is such a surprise! I didn't know you'd be here! Did my people send you an invite?"
If the fact that they hadn't, or that Asanuma hadn't asked "his people" to invite Motoki, bothered the taller man, he didn't show it. "Could we talk to you, Numa? In private?"
Asanuma's eyes swept back over Ami and Mikai. His wide grin faded, his expression becoming more guarded and condescending again. "I suppose so," he said carelessly, and drained the last of his drink in a single gulp. He set it down on a glass display containing a sculpture, plucked up a fresh flute, and waved a hand toward the balcony again. "After you."
They filed outside, Mikai and Ami going first to let Motoki stay closer to Asanuma. Ami cast Mikai a look, wondering if they should leave and let Motoki do his thing, but he just shrugged and put a hand to the small of her back, barely touching, as they moved to the side.
Motoki, meanwhile, had cast a glance at Ami, not sure if he should explain it all—she was the one who actually remembered (or claimed to) what they were and what had happened, after all. But her uncertain expression reminded him that this was the reason they had brought him in the first place: They thought Motoki would be better able than them to convince Asanuma and Darien that their story was true.
He had warned Mikai how unlikely that might be, though, and the Asanuma now leaning his elbows against the railing and smirking expectantly at Motoki only made him feel even more strongly that he would fail to convince them. The Asanuma he had known wouldn't have leaned back casually like this one was; he would have been bouncing around Motoki, telling him to spit it out already, Toki, God, make a guy die of suspense why don't you, hey, how do you think this tux would look in neon green?
But that Asanuma had begun to become someone else even before graduation, as he grew more and more terse toward Darien and spent less time at the arcade. Perhaps the Asanuma Motoki remembered was even more of a vanished entity than the Asanuma that Ami and Mikai sought. Perhaps those postcards with their wish you were heres that had come those first few months hadn't been sincere so much as awkward, falling back on clichéd phrases.
"You know, it's nice to see that some things don't change," Asanuma said in amusement. He took a sip from his glass. "Still as awkward as ever, huh, Toki?"
"I have to show you something," Motoki blurted out.
Asanuma's alcohol-glazed gaze sharpened slightly.
"We're…" Motoki remembered how Mikai had transformed in front of him. "Remember that show you used to watch with Unazuki sometimes? Magic Knight Rayearth?"
Asanuma was wearing that fake, contemptuous smile again. "Uh, I never watched that show, Motoki…"
Motoki sighed, mentally rolling his eyes. "No, sorry, I must have remembered wrong. But you knew about it, right?" Not giving Asanuma time to answer, since it was pointless—Asanuma had watched MKR, religiously—he went on, "We're kind of like them. Okay? Watch."
He transformed, not as flashily as Mikai had, but with a few sparks. His eyes stayed on Asanuma's the whole time, watched how Asanuma's eyes briefly narrowed, measuring, then went back to the glass in his hand. He took a swallow of it, looked amused, and said, "An impromptu magic show? Is that what you're doing these days? I thought you were some professional old people babysitter or something."
Motoki felt Ami stir behind him, peripherally, beyond the sting of hurt. He held out a hand, not looking away from Asanuma, to indicate it was okay. "Medical aide, actually," he said quietly, as if it made any difference. He suddenly didn't want Asanuma to come with them, didn't want to have to deal with the knowledge of what his friend had thought of him all this time, but he continued doggedly, "You can do this, too. I know how crazy it sounds, believe me, but we're actually these, er, planetary warrior people."
He could practically feel Mikai and Ami's winces, hurried to fix it. "We were part of a team of them when we all lived in Tokyo, but this set of alien warriors came and took away our memories of it, and we all split up, and..."
And God, he really should have rehearsed this beforehand, or brought cue cards or something, because he was sounding like the plot summary of a really bad season of Super Sentai or something. And he needs to do something, something, to fix this, and it's right there in his brain, right there on the very top, whatever you do, do not mention Darien, not yet, so of course the first thing that pops out of his mouth is "Darien needs our help."
A moment, and then,
"Of course," Asanuma said, his face bitter and ugly, "of course this is about Darien. I should've known you wouldn't've come just to see me."
"Numa," Motoki began, but Asanuma's face was already shuttered over. And Motoki knew it was no use, knew there was no way they were getting through to him now, if ever. He turned to tell Ami and Mikai that their only chance at this point was to come back later, but Ami had that angry determined look on her face again. She stepped forward and began to explain the whole insane story herself with impressive terms like "a form of forced retrograde amnesia perpetrated by a reactionary faction of the galactic peacekeeping force, the High Senshi," and "the leader of a consortium of celestial governments bound by the Treaty of Zero Sagittarius," and even demonstrated her own powers to Asanuma as proof. But Motoki could see from Asanuma's glazed, narrowed eyes that even if he was hearing it, he wasn't hearing it, he was just letting out angry little snorts, contemptuous ones, and when Ami was finally done he turned to Motoki, eyes cutting like a serrated knife.
"I don't know what kind of drugs you're on," he drawled out, paused and blinked to keep his eyes on Motoki's, "but I bet they're not legal." He paused, swayed. Motoki frowned, taking a step forward, ready to steady him if he needed it. Asanuma blinked and glared at him, said in a threatening tone that didn't really match his words: "I'm going to call you a cab so you can go sleep it off."
"Numa," Motoki said desperately, "even if we were on drugs, how does that explain how we can do this?" He motioned at his and Ami's hands, crackling with sparks and icicles, respectively.
"Because I am so fucking plastered it's not even funny." Asanuma held his drink up to his eyes, squinted and swirled it. "I think Xeno must've put something in this. My suggestibility right now is like negative five." He giggled, high-pitched and strained. Then the giggle became a sigh, and then his brows furrowed. He looked at Motoki, seemed suddenly angry. "But dude. Even if it was true. Why the fuck would I leave all this to come with you?"
Motoki looked away. Ami watched him, felt her face crease with anger. "Because he's your friend."
"Friend?" Asanuma regarded Motoki a beat longer, then looked at Ami. "I haven't talked to Darien Shields in years. And even when I did, he wouldn't recognize friendship if it bit him in the ass. He doesn't believe in it." His eyes slide back to Motoki, and they were clearer, suddenly, than they'd been all night. "But Toki…we are friends. So let me help you. I'll find you somewhere to come down, man, and tomorrow I can hook you up with a job somewhere—I know tons of chefs in the city, they'll take you on if I ask a favor."
Ami held her breath. The chance to work with Parisian chefs—that had to be a dream come true for Motoki. Better than the alternative they had offered: going out into the galaxy to be killed.
But Motoki was shaking his head. "Thanks, Numa, but no thanks."
"Toki—"
"Maybe Darien didn't believe in friendship," Motoki said over Asanuma. "But this is my chance to show him it does exist." His gaze, tired and sad, fell to Ami and Mikai. "Let's go."
There was another beat of silence as he followed them back into the gallery. Then Asanuma called after them, "You'll regret this, Toki!"
Motoki looked back, his hand braced on the doorjamb. Asanuma stood with his glass at his lips, smiling at him, half seductive, half vindictive, his eyes all anger. "I won't make this offer again!"
Maybe Motoki had been wrong. Maybe Asanuma was Sasuke, not Naruto. Or maybe, he thought even more sadly, turning away from his best friend, life wasn't simple enough to be distilled to Shonen Jump plots anymore.
- o -
Rini has buried Serena's feet under a foot-high pile of sand. The intention was to bury all of her legs, and make the sand look like a mermaid's tail, but on her third trip down to the water to get more wet sand, she stopped to help a group of kids decorate their sandcastle with seashells, and now they're all on their hands and knees digging a moat around it, Rini's bucket forgotten in the sand. Serena doesn't mind, has taken the opportunity to recline back on the Hello Kitty towel Motoki gave Rini for her birthday a few weeks ago and enjoy the feel of the the breeze combing through her hair.
When it gets a little more intimate, swirling in that sensitive spot behind her ear and teasing across her collarbone, the back of her neck, she doesn't sit up or take the arm from over her eyes, just smiles. And pushes her foot out of the pile of sand to where she senses him, finding his wet leg with her toes and running the inside of her foot up his calf.
"Careful, Shields," she says. "Don't start what you can't finish."
He settles beside her and leans over her, hooking his foot behind her ankle under the sand; she feels his shadow across her sun-warm stomach, the drops of salt water dripping from his hair onto her collarbone and then lower. "Oh, I can finish it."
"Not here," she says, her breath catching on the last word when he touches a cold fingertip to her stomach and begins to trace shapes on her skin. "Oh." She trembles, manages to say, "What are you," before his mouth cuts off her words.
She melts.
