Chapter Three: Seen, and Scene

He was flirting when he saw her.
Just one careless glance over the girl's shoulder, and he was distracted. A glimpse of russet hair, falling in careless waves over a slim, straight back. Then she turned. He saw her face, and knew. Knew her full lips would be curved in a secretly amused half-smile, knew those gorgeous green eyes would mirror everything she felt. Her soul and heart had always been easy to read.

The brunette in front of him looked up under heavily painted lashes, pouting a little when his attention turned away from her. The pout turned into an offended glare as he continued to stare past her, seeming to forget she even existed. She wanted to follow his gaze, find the object of his preoccupation, but his gaze was hidden to her.

She was sitting on a bar stool, her legs crossed at the ankles, flirty sandals tapping against the metal legs. Her body thrummed with energy. Not necessarily excitement, but the simple gift of life. Every moment was taken, cherished, filled. Her gaze floated lazily over the people dancing on the floor. Those eyes were starting to move in his direction when she was distracted.

The brunette moved away. He didn't notice.

He watched as she gave him her profile, laughed at a blonde. The sound carried over the crowd and brushed against his ears. Familiar. Foreign. She was relaxed, amused, comfortable. She teased, with the assurance of long familiarity, her hands moving gracefully to underline her words. He could almost hear her voice, with its amused lilt, pure and sweet. A sound that could hold him in thrall.
He didn't know her, but knew she'd been in his mind all his life. Even during the parts he couldn't remember. A year's worth of memories in his mind, and nothing more—except her face. Emotions flushed through him, leaving him trembling with their force. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, pulled them out again, without realizing he was making the half-nervous actions.
The impatient, anxious need to find her over this past year was almost forgotten as he greedily took her in. He saw her slide gracefully off the stool, almost lost her in the tangle of bodies towering over her as she slipped through the crowd. Unconsciously he tensed, his hands curling into fists, ready to run. Ready to beat a path to her, if necessary.
The head of auburn hair reappeared as she sank into a chair at an empty table, followed by the blonde and a raven-haired girl who had appeared from the crowd. Disappointment burned briefly in the pit of his stomach. Her back was to him. But still, the slight of that glorious hair was enough to soothe him for a moment. Then the need to catch her, before she disappeared, before he woke, slammed through him full force.
He moved now, suddenly and without conscious thought. His eyes burned into her behind shaded lenses. Possession arced through him, flashed into his mind. His head felt almost dizzy. Relief and a gnawing sense of anxiety nibbled away in his abdomen. She was here. She was his.
She turned. Curious, thoughtful. Her eyes met his, widened. Shock, disbelief. The feelings from her were so strong that he could feel them in himself. His left forearm tingled. Heat brushed gently against his skin. Another familiar/foreign feeling. This one was shoved into the back of his mind. She was the only one of any importance. Her. His life.
Then his eyes snapped to another figure, moving in the same direction. A soft growl rumbled in his throat. She was his.

~*~*~*~*

Miaka jerked, standing with such speed that her chair nearly clattered to the ground. Yui grabbed it out of sheer reflex, preventing the fall, much the same as she'd done hundreds of times before.
Her heart was pounding. Her mouth dried. All the moisture seemed to run straight into her eyes, swimming now with tears. Her hand half-lifted, then dropped to her side. Those liquid-drenched, wide jade pools of emotion darted from one man to the next.
Hotohori's stride slowed somewhat as he saw her stunned face. She saw an odd expression fly across his face; one she didn't recognize. The almost imperceptible decrease in speed had the flame-haired man reaching her first, and she stared at him, dazed, her thoughts reeling.
His movements were almost predatory. Determination filled his face. Anyone in front of him moved out of his way almost unconsciously, as they had for Hotohori. There was something in the way they moved; a sense of destination. A specific goal.
As Tasuki came closer, she felt herself move. Suddenly, she was in his arms, soaking his shirt in her tears as she sobbed his name.

He jerked to a stop, embracing her tenderly before he even realized that she was actually there. She wasn't a hallucination. Or a dream. The warmth of her body pressed against his, the tears wet against his shirt, his skin. His eyes closed with a sudden feeling of pain, and a rising feeling of triumph. Pain at having lost her, triumph at having found her. Rational thought flew from his mind as he crushed her to him, holding her possessively, and with a selfish urge to keep her with him—to never let her go.

Miaka's fingers curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, and she shuddered. Her body felt too small, too insignificant, to house her emotions. Tasuki. Hotohori. Her seishi. Friends. Family. Questions niggled in the back of her mind—where was Nuriko? Chichiri? Chiriko? Mitsukake? Why were they here? Was everything okay?—but they were ignored, for the time being. She felt safe, secure, and loved. She felt euphoric.
She pulled her head from the warmth of his chest, feeling his arms tighten at the movement. She couldn't move away, but managed to turn her head to stare at the other man standing before her. He was looking at her, his eyes and face shuttered. The same look he'd worn as an emperor, when his advisors were pushing too hard.
Then she looked behind him, and saw curious glances from the patrons of the club. Her eyes widened, and she jerked in her seishi's hold. He didn't let go.
Yui's voice broke into her thoughts. "Miaka… oh, God, they're staring at us." She reached over to grab her friend's arm, and stopped at a growl from the man holding her. A growl? She shivered slightly, and felt his eyes on her face. "Let's get out of here," she said quickly, and glanced at Shannon. Her eyes were guarded, speculative, slightly worried as they rested on Miaka. Seeming to shake herself from her reverie, the American nodded in agreement with the blonde's words.
"Come on, Miaka… and friends," she added dubiously, looking at the two men. They'd never been mentioned by the other two before, though by the look on her friend's faces…

He scowled at their words, but followed as they motioned to the door, sweeping the girl up into his arms. He ignored her soft gasp of surprise. The other man was being pulled along by the blonde, studiously avoiding looking at the two of them, though he held himself tensely.
He, too, was familiar.

The cool air bit into her cheeks, reviving her sluggish mind. Miaka struggled slightly, and Tasuki set her down carefully, almost reverently. As though he thought she'd break—or maybe disappear.
She stepped out of the circle of his arms, and his hands dropped to his sides. The movement was almost… dejected. She ignored it for the moment, her eyes flashing to the darker-haired man.
Yui relaxed as she noticed her friend's sudden wariness. Although she had nothing against the Suzaku Seishi—they had worked together against Tenkou, after all—some of her memories as the Seiryuu no Miko had yet to fade. At least around these two. And they shouldn't even be here, she reminded herself with a frown.
She'd recognized the bandit first, having met him twice. The other… apprehension snaked over her spine, as she glanced at them both. Neither seemed to know her. They don't remember.
Miaka seemed to have come to the same conclusion, as mortification stained her cheeks red. She stared up at the man who so resembled Tasuki. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, her eyes wide. She'd obviously remembered Tamahome's reincarnation as Taka, and his lack of memories. "You look like… someone I knew."
His shoulder jerked slightly, and he leaned against the wall of the club nonchalantly. "No problem," he replied quietly. He didn't seem to be the half-mad man who had swept her into his arms like he'd meant to brand her.
Yui cleared her throat, but neither man looked at her. They stared at Miaka like she was the answer to some deep, complex question they'd been researching for years.
"May I ask who you two are, and why you look like you're going to eat my best friend?" Shannon asked tartly, jumping in before her friend had a chance to ask in a more tactful manner. Her bluntness startled the others, and she shrugged slightly, coloring under the disapproving gaze of the second man. "I saw the way you both were looking at her in there," she muttered defensively.
"Andy Wong." A sudden smile flashed, and he bowed to the three women, though his eyes had returned to Miaka. Yui noticed his evasion of the second part of the question.
The other man shrugged as three pairs of female eyes landed on him curiously. "Tasuki," he bit out. Yui's eyes widened briefly. Miaka's slowly fluttered closed, almost in pain, before opening again.
"Why are you here?" Shannon asked, somewhat impatiently.
Andy ran his fingers through his hair, disheveling the honey-streaked strands. "To be honest…" His eyes lingered on the auburn-haired girl, a faint frown in their whiskey-warm depths. "I've seen her face before. She closely resembles another woman I… know."
Shannon suddenly gasped, grabbing onto the blonde girl's arm. Nails dug painfully into skin. "Andy Wong—Good Lord, you're that singer. From China."
Miaka struggled to regain her composure. Tucking her hands into her back pockets, she looked at Hotohori. His name is Andy, she reminded herself sternly, forcing herself to keep from turning to meet the watchful gaze of Tasuki. Forcing herself to stop thinking about the coincidence of his name. "Oh," she said lamely, in response to Shannon's revelation. She hadn't paid much attention to American music, preferring her Japanese CDs.
Andy smiled, running his hand through his hair again. He gave a slight shrug. "I was," he told Shannon easily, "but I gave that up last year so I could resume my studies."
Her heart was breaking. They couldn't be her seishi. It was impossible. Telling herself to breathe, the former priestess of Suzaku managed a tight smile. "So, who do I look like?" she asked lightly, laughing. If this is Hotohori… that has to be Tasuki. And if that's Tasuki, then the others must be here too. But if they're here, something must have happened. What the HELL is going on? And why don't they remember me?!
"I don't know." The words apparently came without thinking, and the singer-turned-student frowned again. Miaka's heart jerked, and she ignored Yui's panicked glance. Somehow she knew what he was going to say. "It's a portrait. An old one," he added. "The woman in it seems to be younger than you, but you could still be her twin."
Until then, Tasuki had been silent, content to stare at Miaka. Now his breath expelled harshly. "Shit—that's why I remember ya," he growled. "You and those other brainless idiots staring at that paintin'…"
Her heart jerkerd again, then pounded furiously in her chest. Breathe, Mia, breathe. "What's she wearing?" she asked quickly, breaking off Tasuki's tirade. She knew it was coming.
Andy gave the flame-haired man a cool look, before turning to her again. "It'd probably be better to show it to you. I doubt you've ever seen clothes quite like hers," he explained quickly, as Shannon's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "All of you could come." He jerked his head toward Tasuki. "He's seen it, too."
"Fine," Miaka broke in, before her other seishi's temper exploded. "Where is it?"
"At the apartment." He ignored the scowl on the redhead's face, and looked at Miaka thoughtfully. "You really do look like her. It's amazing."

~*~*~*~*

Her knees trembled. She fought against a wave of emotions and memories.
Nuriko. Chichiri. Mitsukake. Chiriko.
After the shock she'd already had, this was completely unexpected.
The four were staring at her, shock scrawled all over their faces. They recognize you from the painting—nothing more! she told herself harshly. She wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. She wanted to feel Nuriko's arms around her again, promising a warm haven. She wanted Chichiri to speak calmly, to help her come to terms with the thoughts that crowded her mind. She wanted Mitsukake to chide her for wearing heels, because the gods only knew how much trouble she'd get into with those things. She wanted Chiriko to make some deep insight that belonged in an eighty-five-year-old professor, and laugh with childish abandon when it turned out to be correct.
She wanted to hold everyone tightly to her and cry until there were no tears left.
Her lip trembled, and she bit it down fiercely as she looked them over.
Nuriko's hair was still violet, pulled back into a braid ending at the curve of her hips. Lavender eyes had that odd downward tilt that gave her a wistful expression. The beauty mark still had its place beneath her eye. She was the same as she'd always been, expect that she really was female, here.
Chichiri's light blue hair fell casually over his shoulders, while his bangs still spiked up. His face was no mask, and his eye held no scar. Even in his shock, he had that serene aura shimmering over and around him. He was still a monk at heart, even in this life and this world. His eyes were still understanding and warm, or hard with determination.
Mitsukake's hair was tied into a ponytail. It looked ridiculously adorable on the kind-hearted healer. Stubble was a dark shadow over his jaw. There were dark circles under his eyes, and delicate spectacles on the end of his nose. He was still large—tall and broad, looking more like a wrestler than a doctor. Somehow, she knew he still used his hands to heal.
Chiriko was the biggest shock. He'd been the youngest of them all, hardly more than a child. Now he rivaled Mitsukake in height, though he was spare and lean. Sawdust-colored hair was cropped short, but his eyes were the same. Wide, beautiful, clear and green, filled with vast knowledge.
Andy was making informal introductions (with Yui and Shannon introducing themselves), and a tremor of joy filled her as she realized they all still used their seishi names. Odd, though, that Hotohori—Andy—wasn't. She shook herself and paid attention to what he was saying, though her eyes continued to roam from face to face in an almost desperate attempt to assure herself that they really were here. Though she still didn't know why, or how.
"…at the club, and decided to bring her here to see the painting," he finished. Nuriko was the first to recover, nodding faintly.
"I'll go get it," she said, tearing her eyes from Miaka. "I'll just—ah—be right down."
"Take your time," her former priestess murmured. Once again she shoved her hands into her back pockets. Yui stepped forward, sliding an arm around her shoulders, offering silent comfort.
The room went quiet as Tasuki slid into a seat carelessly. The silence wasn't quite uncomfortable, though it was unnerving. Miaka glanced behind her, noticing Shannon's thoughtful frown.
Too bad she's been dragged into this. I know she's going to want an explanation. I wonder how she'll react when I tell her I met all six of them in a book?
"So, what is it about this portrait, anyway?" Shannon asked quietly.
The men all glanced toward Chichiri, as though looking at their leader. He cleared his throat, his brow furrowing slightly as he shot a glance at Miaka.
For a second, she thought he hadn't lost a single memory. As though it really was Chichiri, standing in front of her. It can't be, she thought sadly. He wouldn't look so different if he hadn't been reincarnated, and they lose their memories when that happens… that's what happened to Taka. Her eyes darkened with the bittersweet memories.
"We all are victims of amnesia, to varying degrees." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers together. It was startling, how alike that gesture was to his two-handed manipulation of magic. "We met in a support group, under Mitsukake's guidance, to deal with no memories and no family. We all came in at different times—I was the last. There were others, but they regained their memories and moved on. Eventually, there were the five of us. Oddly, we all had a single thought from our past. We all could see the face of a woman with red-brown hair and green eyes." He looked calmly at Miaka, then glanced to Shannon, who was leaning forward, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
"There was one other person with that memory, though he'd only been at one meeting." He nodded toward Tasuki. "I found a painting one day and sent them all copies of it. Everyone came to the next meeting, and everyone but Tasuki recognized the person who was painted."
Yui looked at the flame-haired man, at the flush on his cheeks. "You didn't recognize Miaka?"
"I didn't recognize the chick in the picture," he said flatly, staring at the wall. Her brows arched slightly.
Nuriko came in then, a small frame in her hands. She handed it to Miaka, a tense frown edging between her eyes.
The girl stared at the picture, blood draining from her face and leaving it alarmingly pale. Her knuckles whitened around the frame, her hands shaking. Yui looked over her shoulder and gasped.
It was Miaka, dressed in the ceremonial robes to summon Suzaku.


CJ's Blurb: So, this chapter sucks. My apologies. Filler/explanatory chapters are so hard for me. I've rewritten this thing three or four times now, aching finger and all (*kills her muse, which makes her write it even though she hates it*). The biggest problem was winding the other seishi in, and pointing out the reason that Hotohori and Tasuki were running her down in the club.

Just to clarify, it was coincidence Hotohori and Tasuki were there. It wasn't some big evil master-mind plan. Muahahaha, wait, it was! MINE!! MY PLAN! I SHALL RULE THE WORLD... okay, stopping that now. (Had a bit of sugar earlier)

KittyLynne: Wee, another review! *moves from cloud nine to cloud eighteen* *swoon* Hehe ^_^ This is definitely going to be a Miaka x Tasuki story, I think. Honestly, I don't think Hotohori could be aggressive enough to push her out of the past. Not the way I'm writing it, anyway. ^_^ I love Hori though, so I've got PLANS *wicked wicked grin*

Desiderata: Yes'm, will do ;)

Fire Pendant: *giggles* Like I'd leave out Chichiri... he's Tasuki's right arm! ^_^

God, I hate this chapter. I'm just going to pretend it doesn't exist. Hopefully chapter four won't be so bad... and hopefully it'll be longer. .;; I had to cut this one off so I could really get into it next chappy. It'll make things just a tad clearer.. So yeah, it's another explanatory chapter, which means it just might suck. Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I hates 'em all :D

Mucho love,
-CJ

PS: Muahaha... Keep an eye on Chichiri. 'sall I gonna say. Mmmhmm. *evil grin.. evil evil evil bad evil!*