Petit Fours

an anthology of four Tokyo Mew Mew short stories

by Cooking Spray


Morsel Three:

Sugar Plum Dreams


The material was a rich vermilion color, and quite of an expensive caliber as well. She'd decided to purchase it because the saleslady had remarked that it complemented her sage green hair. Holding the scissors in her hands, with what would soon become a beautiful dress in her lap, she hesitated. She'd always refrained from wearing red; it attracted too much attention. Shy as she was, being given excessive notice wasn't what she had in mind when adding to her wardrobe. And the particular pattern she intended to use was much more revealing than anything she had ever owned . . . again, a suggestion of the saleslady, who had insisted that the cut would emphasize her "full curves". Her cheeks tinted, and she almost lost her nerve and sat the scissors safely down again. But no, no . . . she had to do this. She had to learn to take risks sometime. She was going to make this dress, and she was going to look ravishing in it. Attention is good! her conscience protested. You're beautiful, and it's time you realized it. Maybe this dress will help you and everyone to see that.

As usual, her inner voice spoke the truth. Empowered, the young woman gripped the scissors more purposefully. She did want to look pretty. Especially if . . . he was going to be there . . .

She began to cut where the pattern she had pinned to the fabric indicated, pink stretched across her face. You think about him too much . . .

She hated to admit it, but it was perfectly honest. His perfectly mussed blonde hair, aquamarine eyes sharpened by sadness, spontaneous boyish grin . . . not to mention the easy, fluid way he moved, his careless grace and tanned skin, intelligence he could summon from seemingly nowhere . . .

She carelessly pricked herself with a pin, having let her mind wander yet again. The flush was beginning to become terminal. She sucked on her finger for a second to ease the pain, feeling guilty all the while. If she didn't start concentrating, the dress was never going to be completed on time. After all, there were only two days remaining until the ball . . .

Yes, the ball. In acknowledgement of the holiday season, she and her friends' former employers had decided to host a Sugar Plum Ball at Cafe Mew Mew. Lavish delicacies were promised to tempt them into attendance if they had any doubts, but as it turned out, this ploy was unnecessary. Also on the calligraphic invitation she had received was a reminder to come dressed for the occasion. When Keiichiro and Shirogane threw a party, no small detail went unnoticed. And this was the root of our heroine's late-night sewing frenzy.

On ordinary circumstances, she might've simply passed up the chance to attend at all, pleading some lame excuse about having nothing to wear. But this was a big deal, and she knew the others would never forgive her if she didn't show up. It would be the first time they had been together since high school, an event she was actually looking forward to. But what further persuaded the maiden to endure a night of sipping punch and watching men and women dressed to the nines do the tango in a skimpy evening gown had less to do with the reunion of her old chums and more to do with catching the eye of a certain fair-haired host . . .

She let her vice on the scissors slacken, her thoughts drifting not for the first time that night. She couldn't even explain how it happened, exactly, and knew only that it was something that had occurred gradually over time, and then hit her all at once when she least expected it. Somehow, quietly watching, she had developed a fondness, one that gave her endless torment once she realized its origin. She knew a girl like herself would be no match for the likes of someone so smooth and intelligent . . . her shyness would only cripple his free spirit. That, and many other, prettier girls admired him as well. Her predicament seemed hopeless.

Sighing resignedly, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Even now, 20 in an apartment of her very own, her decor reflected very little of her tastes. She'd tried to make the cramped space more lively, but after the furniture had been arranged there was neither room nor budget to add a personal touch. Thus, this clock was one of a rather run-of-the-mill variety, purchased for cheap. And if its readout, 1:08 a.m., hadn't depressed her already, the cheap pine paneling made her mood sink further still.

She had to get this dress finished! Ignoring her lingering thoughts on the previous subjects, she devoted her attention to finishing cutting around the pattern, using the possibility of catching a pair of blue eyes as her motivation to keep working. Blades clashed, needles threaded, tapes measured. Several times she modeled the dress for the mirror, clumsily grazing her skin with the fastening pins each time while looking for places where alterations were needed. Hems were brought up, material taken in, hands not stopping their feverish pace of work until the sun began to shine through her drably-draped window.

Having worked her fingers to the bone, the girl collapsed against the floor, dress crushed against her. A hollow tiredness consumed her, and both of her hands ached with a fierce passion. She held up the dress to examine her handiwork with eyes grainy from lack of sleep. All things considered, it wasn't a shabby job for someone as klutzy as herself. Satisfied, she stumbled into an upright position again, hanging the half-finished gown on a nearby nail that was protruding through the wall. Too fatigued to changed into proper clothes for sleeping, she all but fell into the bed, drawing the cheap cotton sheets around her gratefully. She'd make the final touches when she awoke again.

Ready for sleep to claim her with that resolution, she turned away from the invading sunlight and closed her eyes. And although it was not Christmas Eve, she did have dreams of sugar plums, or rather Sugar Plum Balls. Snow was falling, people were laughing, the smell of holiday confections heavy in the air . . .

And Midorikawa Lettuce danced with her handsome blonde-haired prince Shirogane in every one.


Brrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiing!

Brrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiing!

Blearily, Lettuce's eyes opened, still heavy with slumber. Squinting at the clock and then realizing that she had fallen asleep with her glasses on again, she read the time. According to the discount pine timepiece, it was 2:01 p.m. She should've been getting up anyhow. Still, what had aroused her?

Brrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiing!

Now the answer became clear. She groped for the phone, which was buried beneath the stack of books on her nightstand somewhere. A few seconds of upsetting various objects, one of which was a plastic (thankfully she couldn't afford glass, or otherwise she would've had a mess on her hands) cup of water, rewarded her. She pushed the 'Talk' button before the annoying device erupted into another 'Brrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiing!' and smashed it against her ear.

"Moshi moshi? (1) Midorikawa Lettuce speaking," she recited, puzzling at the caller.

"Lettuce-chan!" The bafflement ended immediately. That bubbly, cheerful soprano could only belong to one person.

"I . . . Ichigo-chan?" Ever cautious, she waited for confirmation.

"Of course, silly! I've missed you so much these past two years! You won't believe how much trouble I went through to get your number, that rotten Shirogane made me do all kinds of odd jobs around the cafe for it. And then, when I finally get it, he says, 'Now, don't bother her too much, or I'll have her change it.' " Her sulky tone indicated that she was still the same lovable catgirl. Only she could bridge two years of absence from each other's lives with instant conversation. "That jerk . . . I'm 20 years old and I find myself waiting tables again as if I were 12! Honestly . . ."

Unbidden, a hot flush crept into Lettuce's cheeks at the mention of Shirogane. He'd made Ichigo work for her phone number? He . . . didn't want her to bother me? Her heart thudded in her chest. She knew she was supposed to feel sympathy for Ichigo's enduring his teasing, but all she could concentrate on were those words. 'Now, don't bother her too much, or I'll have her change it.' What was that supposed to mean? Was he showing concern? Knowing Shirogane, he was probably just joking with Ichigo and she was getting all worked up over nothing. Still . . .

"Are you there?" The voice on the other end of the line intruded on her musings. She'd been so caught up in them, she'd forgotten she was on the phone. Shame washed over her. This had been happening a lot lately . . .

"I'm sorry." Lettuce struggled to find another conversational point. Her mind definitely needed to be dragged away from the last one. "So . . . anou (2) . . . how are you doing?" Oh, very creative.

"Great!" she chirped, obviously eager to share details about her life. "Masaya and I are looking at houses. He proposed to me about two months ago." A girlish giggle escaped her.

"Congratulations," Lettuce said convincingly. She really was happy for the couple. Of course, anyone who had known them at all was aware it was only a matter of time. Theirs was a match predestined in the Heavens.

"I was going to break the news to everyone at the ball, but I was too impatient. By the way, you are going to the ball, aren't you?" Lettuce could hear the pleading her friend hadn't bothered to conceal in her tone.

"Mmm-hmm," she said softly. The mention of the ball brought all of the thoughts she was trying to avoid back with a vengeance.

"Yatta! (3) I hope everyone will be able to make it. Have you bought your dress?"

"I'm almost finished sewing it. Actually, I stayed up all night putting it together because I waited until the last minute." Her voice was guilty at admitting her procrastination. She bet Ichigo and the others had their gowns selected weeks ago. It made her seem like she didn't even care. "I was going to finish it today."

"Ooo, you're sewing it yourself? Wow, I can't wait to see! What color is it? Does it have straps or not?"

"Red," she answered shyly. "And no, it doesn't."

"Wow, Lettuce-chan is getting daring," Ichigo said in a low, teasing voice. "Are you trying to impress someone in particular, hmm?"

Even with the knowledge Ichigo was just messing with her, the hated blush made its presence known again. She cursed herself from within. "N-no, no one, you know me," she stuttered, hoping she sounded like she was telling the truth.

"You know, you could get any guy you wanted if you tried. Just stop worrying and have fun! Men like women who assert themselves. And you're very pretty, too. Wish I had that figure!"

Enter the blush again, times two. "Oh, I'm not that pretty, Ichigo-chan. And I'm not looking for love or anything right now." Lie! her conscience screamed. She knew she'd have another guilt trip about this later. However, the body comment made her curious in spite of herself. Could other people really think of her as attractive? She'd always been humble about her figure and paid little attention to her looks. But the comment got her thinking. . .

"Suuure, you tell yourself that." The catgirl let out a laugh. "Anyway, I gotta go. I'm going to try and see if I can get a hold of everyone and talk to them before the ball, too. It's been nice talking!"

"To you, too. Bye!" Her voice was still soft.

"See ya at the ball!" The perky bride-to-be ended the surprise conversation with a click then, leaving Lettuce to hold the phone against her ear a few moments after, a bit shocked at the turn of events.

Realizing she couldn't stay in bed cradling the phone all day, Lettuce pushed herself out of the mound of covers. Her clothes were horribly wrinkled from having slept in them, and her hair was suffering from a severe case of bed head. Surveying her disastrous appearance, she could think of only one thing to cure it: a hot shower, on the double.

In full gear now, she crossed the short distance to the bathroom, passing the red dress on her way. She debated slipping into it again and judging if Ichigo's words were true, but the half dozen of pinpricks she'd received from previous fittings made her think better of it. Carrying only herself, she slipped into the small room that constituted as the site for all of her toiletries and began to draw the water, just to let it get warm. Stripping down, she caught a glimpse of herself in the small, dingy mirror provided above the sink. As inadequate as it was for studying your reflection, her curiosity won out, and she moved closer.

She cringed as she noticed her chest first thing. What to most girls would be a blessing was to Lettuce a curse. She had never been proud of her 38C breasts, always trying to flatten or make them less noticeable with every sports bra conceivable. She hated that they were so obvious. But, taking Ichigo's words into consideration . . . maybe they weren't so bad after all. At least she had cleavage to show off should she ever dare to wear something with a less conservative neckline.

Her hips came next. They were aligned with her shoulders, as was said to be ideal, and curved in proportion to the rest of her body. To her self-depreciating eyes, they looked fearfully large, but they harmonized well with her overall image. And her midsection was smooth and toned as well, resulting from years of swimming laps at the community pool. She'd never summoned the courage to actually try out for the school's team, but she'd have no doubt been a valuable asset. The residual finless porpoise genes in her blood had instilled in her a permanent love for the water. And it showed. Additionally, she'd always been slender, whether or not it was due to the fact she was a vegetarian and very health conscious. Altogether, she looked almost . . . sexy . . .

Lettuce was surprised. All her life, she had heard her petite classmates complain about their "boyish figures", always wishing to improve their bodies by going under the knife. And, consequently, Lettuce had despaired about her shape and envied their compact forms. It just now occurred to her that she, hard as it was to swallow, was the ideal they lusted after. So her skin was a little pale. In the Victorian Era, that was the vogue. And maybe braids were out of fashion. She could get a hair stylist. With this revelation, suddenly the evening ahead looked a shade lighter . . .

Something wet lapped at her feet. Lettuce looked down, her eyes widening in horror. That bathtub! She had totally forgotten! Worse, the water was still a blistering temperature, scorching the soles of her feet.

"Oh no!" she wailed, too frantic to let her burning feet distract her. She made a dive for the faucet to extinguish the flow, but, in true klutz style, forgot how the current slippery texture of the floor might affect her ability to run. Instead of moving forward, her foot slipped in the growing puddle, and she moved backward. She thudded into the floor on her back, eyes swirling. "Itai . . ."

So maybe her perspective had changed, but she was still as ungraceful as ever.


Throwing the last soaking towel in the laundry bag, Lettuce leaned against the vanity and sighed. Not only was her hair still soaking wet from her ill-fated shower, but now all of the towels in the apartment had been expended in cleaning up the mess. She fretted about what the landlord would say of rotting baseboards, so she'd hurriedly tried to absorb all of the excess water. As a result, the shower was cold, there was a lump on her head, and all of her clothing stuck to her due to inefficient means to dry herself. Just when she had started to feel good about something in life, misfortune had reared its ugly head . . .

Well, there was no room for sitting around and despairing about it. With considerably lower spirits, the sage-haired maiden sat her bag of soggy laundry in the hallway outside of her apartment with a tag for the maid to pick up. It was always something . . .

She ran a hand through her stringy, damp locks, contemplating the next item of business. Her rumbling stomach answered for her. Guess I'd better order some takeout before I starve myself to death. She dialed the number of her favorite eatery, indulging and ordering six egg rolls, a cup of hot miso soup, and some sesame noodles, making it up to herself for skipping breakfast and lunch. Comforted by the fact that nourishment was on the way, she let her eyes drift to the dress again, deciding to get down to business.

She lifted it delicately from the makeshift hanger, running her fingers along the smooth fabric. Just looking at it made something inside her tremble with excitement and expectancy, because the dress had come to symbolize the ball and the infinite possibilities that awaited her there, as well as a confirmation of sorts of her newfound sexiness. She gingerly sat it down on her shamble of a bed, to return with her sewing box and the pattern for reference. Her haste to get the garment completed was now replaced with a cautious preciseness to make sure it was accurate in every detail. On the night of the ball, she wanted to look the best she ever had.

The food arrived, but she paused in her stitchery only long enough to mumble a thank you to the delivery boy and hand him the adequate amount of money. In between sewing zippers and waistlines she consumed her food, famished but riveted to her work. For once, all of the things she had left undone ceased to bother her, and her sole attention became the dress. It was a priority above all others. Maybe a foolish one fueled by childish daydreams, but she persevered anyhow, not even taking the time to reason with doubt. For once in her life, she was going to treat herself to luxury.

At last, when again the sun had long set, the dress was completed. Lettuce could hardly believe how wonderfully it had turned out, especially since it had been sewn by her own hand. It still seemed befitting of someone with much more confidence and assertion than herself, but it was so beautiful she couldn't resist not wearing it now. Not after she had put so much of herself into it, volunteered so many of her hours just to see its completion. Now came the final step . . .

The model actually trembled as her everyday clothes tumbled into a heap on the floor, half in anticipation and half in dread. Over her hips slid the dress, arms buoying it up onto her torso . . . She dared to look in the mirror. What she saw made her gasp.

The dress was completely sleeveless, situated just low enough on her chest to reveal a hint of cleavage. The waist was encompassed by a large ribbon, which blossomed elegantly into a bow in the back. Pluming subtly outward was the skirt, full and slightly bunched where it met the bodice. Not only was the gown breathtaking, but so was the person in it . . . With time to style her hair and beautify herself, she would look every inch the princess.

Heart soaring, she pirouetted before the mirror, already composing a shopping list in her mind.


Her breath was visible in small puffs in the chilly night air as she stepped out of the taxi. She paid and thanked the driver and shut the cab door, her chest constricting as her ride sped off and she marveled at the cafe, supreme as any castle. A slow trickle of guests were pouring into the establishment, all richly attired. Even though it was dark and still in the world outside, Cafe Mew Mew seemed to exude an internal glow, golden and inviting through the heart-shaped stained glass windows. She was nervous, but the light seemed to draw her, so she made her way through the entrance. It felt strange to be going through those doors in anything but her waitress garb, causing her to feel out of place and overdressed despite the finery of those around her.

The main hall and dining area of the cafe had been artfully converted into a dance floor, candles alight everywhere and garlands of pine needles and red ribbon weaving themselves in spirals on the columns, stretching up endlessly to the ceiling high above. Wreaths of holly, tinsel, paper snowflakes, beautiful glass-blown ornaments, and ribbon hung from every fixture possible, only overshadowed by an authentic ten-foot Christmas tree at the very center of the room. It dripped with the finest, most eye-pleasing decor, alight in golden splendor and already gathering well-wrapped presents at its base. And everywhere the air was perfumed with spice and freshly baked cookies, tarts, pies . . . even an orchestra sounded in the corner, instruments glowing. Keiichiro and Shirogane had really outdone themselves.

The atmosphere reminded her of the ritzy party she and her companions of the Mew Mew days had attended, the one on the cruise liner. They had all been required to dress formally then, too, although Lettuce's dress then compared to the one she was wearing now seemed much too frivolous. It was also on the night of that party when she first developed feelings for Shirogane . . . he had given her a drink earlier that day to help her seasickness, seeming so genuine and caring. And later, when she had thanked him, he told her it was just fruit juice, and that she could do anything she wanted if she believed in herself. She wondered if she still thought those words to be true. Lately, her confidence had been so poor . . . she was in love with someone she had barely seen for two years, short on money, and lonely with all of her friends out of contact. Perhaps tonight, surrounded by the gaiety of others and the Christmas spirit, she could make up for it . . .

Noticing that the other guests were placing their gifts under the tree, Lettuce hurried to do likewise. Yesterday she had been out all day shopping, trying to find thoughtful somethings for everyone. As a result, she was now broke, but she still hoped to see her friends' faces light up when they unwrapped what she had chosen. That would make the amount of money she spent worthwhile. She bent over and deposited the parcels atop the growing pile, her wavy sage locks falling into her face at the motion. She had removed her braids for this occasion, and the result greatly flattered her. A hint of make-up furthered her comeliness, as well as a few articles of jewelry. It was silly, but she felt over-emphasized, bedecked in such finery. She knew it was only because she wasn't used to wearing attention-grabbing clothing or displaying her body, and, ever since her self-assessment in the bathroom mirror, she'd felt more bold about showing off her figure. This dress affirmed this new line of thought well.

Standing back up, she was met with a suit-clad maitre'd, his demeanor as polite and congenial as anyone's in his position should be. Lettuce blinked, slightly confused as to why he was beside her, apparently waiting for something.

"Your shawl, mad'am," he prompted, extending a gloved palm.

"Oh, yes, of course," she replied, flustered, as she clumsily shrugged it off of her shoulders and handed it over. She still wasn't used to the formalities at events like these . . .

"Thank you." He bowed and walked away, going to put away the garment. As Lettuce watched his black tux-fitted form recede into the crowd, she began to search the premises for a familiar face. As it turned out, she didn't have to look very far.

"LETTUCE-CHAN!" The clacking of heels heralded the arrival of a familiar burgundy-haired ex-heroine, and Lettuce turned at the calling of her name to witness Ichigo barreling across the dance floor with Aoyama in tow, the rest of the gang not far behind.

"Sugoiiiiiiiii! (4) Lettuce-chan, you look so beautiful! Is that the dress you made yourself? Oh, I wish I had the time to do things like that! And hey, where are your glasses? You didn't forget them, did you?" While her old companion continued to gush and stalk around her, examining every stitch, Lettuce could only blink in bewilderment.

"Anou . . . thank you . . . And no, I'm wearing contacts . . ."

Aoyama laughed nervously. "Excuse Ichigo's behavior . . . she's quite excited to see everyone tonight."

"And she's been milling around the punch bowl . . ." The devious speaker was Mint, who was watching Ichigo's scatterbrained actions with a satisfied amusement.

"Heey, I heard that, Mint-chan! I am perfectly cohervent, thank you very much!" Ichigo scowled.

"I believe the word you're looking for is "coherent", not "cohervent"," Aoyama whispered.

"Oh, well that just proves it!" Mint crossed her arms triumphantly, enjoying the frustrated red hue her comment caused Ichigo's face to turn.

"You know what I meant!" She latched onto Aoyama's arm for security, the childish glower remaining.

"Hey, you two, stop fighting! You're ignoring Lettuce onee-chan!" A surprisingly tall and slender figure stepped forward, her golden tresses swept up into a knot of ringlets. Lettuce looked twice. Could that be Pudding? If so, she'd really grown up . . .

The crooked grin that followed confirmed everything. "It's so nice to see you! Would you like any refreshments? The plum tarts are really tasty . . ."

"You only like them because they remind you of me," whispered a tall male in the energetic blonde's ear, inspiring an impressive blush. She smacked him half-heartedly. For the second time, Lettuce did a double take. That was . . . Tart? Wow, he had certainly changed from the cute-little-boy image she had of him . . . His ears were gone, too, probably hidden with some sort of glamour to avoid attention. And it seemed he and Pudding had a relationship . . . it was kind of cute, actually. She found herself smiling. It felt like old times . . .

The only one who hadn't spoken was Zakuro, but Lettuce couldn't say she was surprised. To be silent was her way. She had noticed that Mint was standing rather close to her, though, and that their hands were interlocked. The model didn't seem to mind any of this. Could they have gotten together as well? If so, that made her the only single one of the bunch . . . A familiar sadness began to creep over her, but she willed it away. She was going to have fun tonight. All of her friends that she hadn't seen in so long were here together with her again, and there was good food and music and merriment . . . She wouldn't let depression overcome her. Just this once, she wanted to enjoy herself . . .

"I'm going to the lavatory, does anyone want to follow me?" The voice was Ichigo's. Of course, everyone agreed, leaving their partners to stand around and wait for their return.

"Alright! We'll come back looking prettier!" Ichigo winked and blew Aoyama a kiss, and the group flounced off in a storm of finery, skirts swishing. Lettuce followed, her spirits lifting now that everyone was reunited. Maybe while studying their reflections they could do some catching up . . .


"Pudding-chan, I really think you should wear the plain lip gloss."

"Uwaaa, but what if he tries to kiss me? His lips will get all sticky!"

"It's better than them being dry! Here, use mine. It tastes like strawberries."

The beautification festivities had begun, and all Lettuce could do was sit back and watch as Mint and Ichigo attempted to plaster poor Pudding with every known cosmetic available. Since she was still in high school, the two had apparently assumed a sisterly attitude over her, finally making the titles she gave them fit. They had all sneaked into the upstairs lavatory, since Ichigo knew a secret entrance and wanted to go somewhere less crowded. From that point, the main objective had seemed to be giving Pudding a makeover. She had agreed only because they said it would make Tart pay more attention to her, but now it looked as if she was having second thoughts.

"This stuff is making me sneeze! Are you sure it's as sexy as you say?"

"Of course it is; you just don't know your perfumes. It'll make Tart want to ravish you in a second."

"Ravish me? But we're at a ball!" Pudding's embarrassed protest was lost as Ichigo began smothering her lips with gloss.

"Oh, there are plenty of unoccupied supply closets around here. You'll find one."

"That's not very romantic!"

"Of course Mint would know all about this. Now I finally know where you were all those times you were supposed to help me close the cafe . . ."

Mint's face burned crimson. "What are you insinuating!"

"Oh, you know what I'm insinuating."

"You're a fine one to talk, Miss "I Got to Second Base With Aoyama in the Back of a Taxi"!"

Now it was Ichigo's turn to blush. "At least we don't make out in coffee shops!"

"That was only once!"

Pudding sweatdropped, a little shocked at how dirty the conversation had turned. They were shameless in their insults! "Can we please get back to my make-up now . . .?"

And so continued their banter, poor Lettuce just soaking up every shocking detail from her place on the loveseat. Things were the same as ever between those two, it seemed. So much for bonding . . .


Things were going well.

Or so was the observance of a certain lanky figure slumped against the wall, his critical cerulean eyes examining every aspect of the ball. The guests seemed happy, judging by their smiles (or maybe that was the punch talking for them). The music was well-played and lively by one of the city's finest orchestras, and of course Keiichiro had outdone himself with all of the refreshments. Everything was running smoothly. And yet, he still couldn't shake that hollow feeling, a restless discontent . . .

Shirogane swirled his glass of punch in his fingers, the bitter tingle of the alcohol it had been spiked with still on his tongue. It was inevitable at these kinds of parties; there was always that rogue bottle of wine that seemed to make its way into the punch. Being drunk didn't seem appealing to him on this particular night, however. With all of the furtive glances that had been thrown at him by various ladies all night that he'd pretended to be unaware of, he wouldn't trust a mind addled with booze to refuse all of them. There was nothing that could soil a memory better than waking up in a closet half-undressed next to strange woman with a hangover.

A glimpse of red and pink caught Shirogane's attention, and he diverted his eyes to find Ichigo and Aoyama in a place of semi-seclusion behind a pillar. It was obvious that someone had consumed one too many a glass of punch, as her tipsy-ness was given away instantly by the constant blush that resided over nose (and her actions almost as prominently). Amused, he watched as she giggled and stumbled into her fiance, trying to engage him in a snog. Aoyama, obviously being the more clear-minded of the two, was trying to push her away, probably aware of her intoxication. But she was being incredibly persuasive, and after a while he gave up trying to refuse her. A smirk planted itself on the blonde's lips. He was only human, after all . . . He just hoped the couple didn't do anything they'd regret later.

Turning back to the bigger picture, he thought of how the scene he had just witnessed might have bothered him oh-so many years ago. When he'd been nothing more than a hot-headed, ambition driven youth . . . His jealousy over Aoyama almost induced a chuckle now. Now, eight years later, her could reflect that his supposed love for Ichigo was less romantic and more childish misinterpretation. Undeniably, she'd been attractive, but most of that attraction had to do with her being his first successful "experiment". Being young, he knew he had a desire to protect her, but he couldn't discover why. His fifteen-year-old mind chalked it up to love, when really, that wasn't the answer. Even now, he still felt like a guardian to her, but it didn't have anything to do with romance. Ichigo was a strong person who'd been a great Mew Mew, and this was the reason for his attachment. Artists get sentimental about their first paintings; scientists get sentimental about their first creations. And she was more than what he had made her because of it. It had taken a while to deduce this, but once he had, he'd felt better. Now, he could support Ichigo's love fully, and just be happy for her.

A slower tune was beginning now, and couples were making their way towards the dance floor. Shirogane spotted Pudding and Tart amongst the throng, being surprisingly serious and still. Zakuro and Mint were more intimately entwined, swaying gently and every once in a while giving each other soft kisses, not caring who saw. The only person absent from the scene, besides the two lovebirds who'd retreated upstairs, seemed to be . . .

There she stood, a solitary figure in the back of the room, concealed pain glittering in her eyes as she watched all of her friends out on the dance floor. Shirogane raised his eyebrows in surprise at how pretty she looked, unused to the bright shade and showy cut of her dress. He was reminded of a night many years in the past . . . and now, it seemed her confidence could use some boosting and reassurance again. Before he knew completely what he was doing, he straightened himself and began walking towards her, his curiosity at her sudden beautiful transformation and sympathy moving his feet along.


Lettuce was beginning to doubt the functionality of her new contacts as she saw him approaching. She was also worrying about the hospital bill she would receive for her cardiovascular problems, as her heart was beating so quickly it couldn't be healthy. And then, he spoke to her, and she made a mental note to have her ears tested, because surely she was hearing things . . .

"Lettuce . . .?" Shirogane blinked, the hand he had extended wavering slightly. "You would like to dance, wouldn't you?"

This was a hallucination, definitely . . . it was too good to be true. But if it was indeed her dream, what harm would there be in playing along? "Oh . . . y-yes." She took his hand slowly, the contact bringing even more warmth to her cheeks. It was a good thing she had decided not to wear blush . . .

As they neared the middle of the slowly-moving couples, Shirogane began to become confused about how embarrassed and nervous Lettuce was acting towards him. Was it he expressly him she was behaving this way to, or was she just shy to be dancing with someone at all? By nature, he knew Lettuce was very meek and mild-mannered, so it made sense for her to have such a flustered reaction . . . However, he'd never seen her in this state. Was she attracted to him? Recounting, there were several instances that supported this suspicion . . . And surprisingly, he felt attracted to her now, startled by this new beauty. Tonight, he saw her no longer as an employee or one of his Mew Mews, but as the woman she had become. And as it turned out, she was an exceptionally fine one, whether she saw it or not.

Lettuce was trying to calm her nerves. Her fondest wish had somehow came true . . . or rather, now had a high potential to. But it didn't make sense . . . It seemed surreal, having the object her affection so close to her after not seeing him in two years. Instead of savoring the moment as she should have been, she was once again worrying; worrying that she was jumping to conclusions. A dance was just a dance. She must've looked lonely, so he'd felt pity on her. That was it. There was a logical explanation for everything.

Shirogane saw the sadness seep back into her again. This also confused him . . . what was on her mind? Perplexed, he asked that very question. "Is something troubling you?"

His voice startled her for a moment, but she recovered. Could she answer this honestly? Her urgency to have things explained won out in the end. "Why . . . why did you ask me?"

"Is it so wrong to ask a pretty girl for a dance?" Apparently, she seemed disconcerted that anyone would find her appealing. There had to be a reason for it . . . A stain of color did blossom in her cheeks at the compliment, though.

She shook her head, appearing to dismiss herself. "No . . . n-nevermind." No matter, she had captured his concern and interest. Even though she unwound a bit after the exchange and relaxed in his arms, he was far from letting her go for the night. If nothing else, he would at least get to know her a little better, and maybe do something about that poor self-esteem.

The last notes ebbed and faded, and Shirogane gently released the hold he had on Lettuce. She thanked him for the dance in a somewhat regretful tone, and was about to turn away when he caught her wrist. If it was possible, her expression was more incredulous than it had been all night.

"Wait, stay. You don't have anyone to meet, do you?"

The sage-haired maiden's gaze moved to Pudding, Mint, and Zakuro, all still in slow dance formation and looking as if they weren't going anywhere soon. "N-no, but . . ." She let the sentence trail, at a loss. How is this happening?

He grinned, entertained by her disbelief. It was comical that someone that looked as she did was so shocked to have a man pay her attention. "Relax, I'm just going to get you a drink. What would you like?"

Lettuce truly thought she might faint then. He's being so gentlemanly to me . . . She managed to answer the question, however. "Anou . . . ginger ale, please."

"Now, don't run away while I go and get it for you." He winked and then vanished into the crowd, leaving Lettuce to combat the killer butterflies in her stomach alone.


When Shirogane arrived at the concession tables, he was annoyed to find many of the dishes ravaged and unreplenished. Nothing remained of the previously towering mound of baklava except crumbs and smears of syrup, and, he noted with a grimace, the deep crystal bowls that had once held drinks had been ladled dry. This reflected badly on the cafe's hospitality, and he wanted to know who was responsible. Additionally, the blunder was keeping a lady waiting . . .

Shirogane pulled aside a passing maitre'd, and the handsomely dressed man turned around dutifully, used to serving. "Yes, Shirogane-sama?5"

"Why haven't the refreshments been refilled? This insults the cafe and the hosts of the party." He gestured to the empty tables. He wasn't trying to be a tyrannous monarch, but nothing got the job done like a good subliminal threat. Fear kept feet moving.

"Akasaka-sama is a bit backed up on orders at the moment, but I shall see to it that things begin to move more quickly. Is that all, Shirogane-sama?" The man was so well- conditioned that he retained his stoic demeanor throughout the exchange. Shirogane was impressed. He'd have to remember this one and keep him around for hire.

"Yes. Oh, and he need not hurry if he's doing the best he can. I just suspected negligence."

The maitre'd nodded in affirmation and was gone, heading toward the corridor that lead to the kitchens.

Shirogane sighed, running a hand through his naturally mussed hair. He'd promised Lettuce a drink, and he didn't want to come back empty-handed, seeing what little faith she had in anything. He was a man who stuck by his words.

And that left only one other option . . . the wine cellar.


When Lettuce saw Shirogane coming back empty-handed, her heart sank, already assuming he'd changed his mind. But before she let despair totally consume her, she decided to wait and see if there was an explanation. This was a night of surprises, after all.

"They're all out of refreshments, so I couldn't get your ginger ale."

Lettuce breathed an internal sigh of relief. There was hope yet for her dream . . . "Eh, that's okay. It's not your fault."

But Shirogane wasn't done yet. "So, to make up to you, I'd like to ask you to join me for a glass of wine instead." He studied her, patiently waiting for her to make a decision and trying to gauge a reaction.

Just when she was learning to deal with the current situation, life threw yet another curveball at her. A glass of wine? She'd never drank alcohol before, and was frankly a little hesitant to, knowing all the accidents associated with it. But the way he said it made it sound so romantic . . . And besides, hadn't she resolved to try new things? Finally, she met his eyes again. "Anou, sure."

Shirogane was grateful that she was starting to show some trust in him, and, with a grin that was as much of a reward to Lettuce as the wine would be, took her hand and led her away from the hustle and bustle. "I have a wine cellar downstairs for special occasions like these. Or for hard days at work." He winked.

Lettuce was unable to appreciate the humor because she was too busy willing the blaze in her cheeks to be extinguished. He thought sharing a drink with her was a special occasion? Oh, this was really too much . . .

She really was cute when she was embarrassed. He'd have to stop being so charming, because it might begin to take a toll on the poor girl's health. The chaste attitude she had towards love gave her a sort of virginal allure, but Shirogane was even more interested in what was going on inside that pretty head of hers. There was a wonderful person in there just waiting to be discovered, he was sure. With a little effort, maybe he could coax her out . . .

The corridor they now occupied was very dark, well away from the epicenter of excitement. Shirogane produced an intricate set of keys from his pocket and inserted one into the lock of a humble door that would've easily been overlooked by anyone else. It clicked, and he turned the knob. The door opened with an ominous creak, giving the impression that they were about to descend into a place of great importance.

As was his duty, Shirogane took the first step down, once again offering Lettuce his hand. "Come on down, but watch your footing. It's kind of hard to see down here."

Slowly, he guided her down the staircase, and some seconds later both pairs of feet landed safely on level ground. Lettuce's surprisingly polite and gentle escort flipped a switch, illuminating the cellar subtly with the light of a single bare bulb that hung overhead. She was now able to see that the room was really rather small, and that there was no proper floor; instead the earth had been tightly packed to serve as one. That accounted for the metallic, musty odor she had noticed in the air. Wooden racks supporting bottle after bottle of wine encompassed most of the walking space, with a path just narrow enough for one person to navigate between each. There was a year scrawled in a messy script beneath each bottle in the tradition of dedicated wine connoisseurs everywhere. It felt very . . . private, secluded. Her heart accelerated.

As he watched her take in her surroundings, he felt slightly ashamed of their lackluster . "Excuse the lack of decor; my sense of taste seemed to fizzle out by the time I got down to this room." Actually, he'd left it that way on purpose. Being surrounded by frivolous pink hearts and flowers twenty-four seven got old quickly.

"Eh, I don't mind. My apartment's kind of the same way." Lettuce was surprised to hear her own voice. Had she actually managed to say a decent sentence to him without prompting? Her voice hadn't even wavered . . . She guessed it was because of how friendly Shirogane was being to her.

Ah, progress! It'd worked; she was beginning to feel comfortable enough to carry on conversation. He was surprised at how pleased this made him. Closing the short gap between he and the nearest wine rack, he regarded her again.

"So, what would you like? There's a little bit of everything down here. Just name it."

Lettuce blinked, not expecting the inquiry. "I've never really had any wine before . . ."

Shirogane wasn't at all surprised; in fact, he'd almost anticipated her response. There was a draft perfect for the occasion that had been in his mind ever since he'd thought to bring Lettuce here. "I see. I guess I'll do the choosing, then. Any preferences?"

"Something sweet, I guess, if it's not too much trouble . . ." She shivered, the temperature finally catching up with her. The cellar was quite a ways below the ground, and Lettuce was wearing a sleeveless dress.

This didn't escape Shirogane. "Here, take my jacket." He shrugged the garment off and handed it to her.

Lettuce hesitated. "But won't you be . . .?"

"Cold? No, I'm a man. I can take it." He grinned boyishly, and Lettuce had no choice but to accept. As she delicately drew it around her, she noticed the warmth that lingered from his body and, on cue, began to blush with a fury. Maybe she didn't need the jacket after all . . .

Satisfied, the shameless blonde turned back to the shelves. "You can sit there until I return." He gestured to a bland-looking table, smiled again to give her something to remember him by (as if she'd ever forget), and was gone.

Obediently, Lettuce pulled out the chair and sat, burrowing herself further into the coat for warmth. She still couldn't believe all that had transpired so far . . . Much as she didn't want this to end, some pessimistic part of her mind kept telling her it would. But for once, she shut it out. She really wanted it to be true . . . A sigh puffed out of her in a cloud of breath, visible in the cold air of the cellar. Don't give up! Just stop worrying for one moment and be yourself. If he's spent this much time with you, he must at least care a little!

Just as Lettuce was building her confidence, Shirogane returned, a bottle of wine and two stem-necked glasses in hand. "Miss me?"

She really hoped that was a rhetorical question.

Shirogane found her embarrassment to be adorable. Humoring her by not asking for an answer, he sat the glasses on the table and uncorked the wine bottle. "It's plum wine; year, 1996. Very sweet and of very high quality, as you specified."

"1996? Shouldn't it be expired by now?" Lettuce watched with building curiosity as Shirogane filled both glasses with an effortless precision. It smelled strongly of alcohol, but she could also detect an underlying sweeter scent. Bubbles rose to the top of the deep purple liquid, intensifying her thirst.

Shirogane laughed at her comment while filling his own glass. "No, wine is one thing that gets finer with age. Too bad it can't be that way for the rest of us." He corked the wine bottle again and sat down opposite of his entrancing guest, watching her peer with interest at the wine in her glass, tilting it this way and that. He fought off another chuckle.

"Now, for the toast. You can't drink wine without one."

Lettuce's attention snapped back to him. "A toast to what?"

Another grin. "A toast to your very first drink, of course." He raised his glass, and she hesitantly followed the example.

"I dedicate this wine to Miss Midorikawa Lettuce, and may it be as sweet on her tongue as the dress she's wearing." Her face instantly bloomed into a red that matched her attire. Shirogane took a moment to appreciate the cuteness of this expression.

"And now, we clink glasses . . ." A tink sounded as glass met glass. " . . . and drink!"

Shirogane tilted his head back and took an elegant sip from his glass, and Lettuce, sensing he was waiting for her mimic him, took a cautious sip herself. The wine tingled slightly on in her mouth, but was accompanied by a surprisingly rich and fruity flavor. It was almost like sophisticated punch. And, true to Shirogane's word, it didn't taste a bit expired.

"You like?"

She nodded, managing a small smile as well. "Yes, it's very lovely."

"Much better than ginger ale, I assume."

And, before she realized it, she laughed. It happened so naturally that she wasn't conscious of the sound until it escaped her lips.

It was a musical sound, and Shirogane smiled warmly. There was a person underneath that self-depreciative and shy barrier she hid behind. "You should do that more often."

Lettuce blinked in surprise mid-sip. "What do you mean?"

"Laugh. You should laugh more often."

She rested the glass back on the table. The dim lighting flattered her lithe figure, catching each strand of her free, curly hair and making it glow. In its bask, her features were more pronounced; her lips exuded a sensuous glow. Lettuce was, of course, unaware of this, but it did not escape her companion's eye. "Why . . .?"

There were only two directions in which this conversation could go, and Shirogane was going to risk it and take the second of the two. He reached a hand across the table and brushed it across Lettuce's cheek, fingering a lock of her exotic hair. "Because it makes you look beautiful."

Lettuce froze, eyes widening in shock. Is this really happening . . .? Her breaths were shallow, heart racing. If so, I don't want it to end now, or ever . . .

He continued, sure she would not refuse him. "Do you know how kissing was started, my dear Lettuce?"

She shook her head, paralyzed by his touch and the intimate direction of his words.

He laughed softly, moving his fingers so that they cusped her chin to caress her cheek. "It was quite on accident, actually. It started in Rome, when a couple was at the altar and about to be wed. The husband put his lips over his wife's to see if the wine that she had been drinking earlier was good. Isn't it funny that something so simple like that has endured all this time?"

The ability to respond was lost. Blood roared in her ears as she stared with a fearful, nervous expectancy into Shirogane's captivating cerulean pools.

"Isn't it funny that the tradition has survived now, even?" His voice was a whisper as leaned closer and kept the century old ritual alive, closing his lips over her own. Her eyelashes fluttered, mind filled with the sensation of the moment. Surprising to her own self was the way that she gave in and let him guide her, instead of freaking out completely. This is too good to be a dream . . .

Shirogane pulled away softly, breathless. Lettuce, too, took a moment to regain lost air, hardly believing what had just happened. As they both recovered, she searched his face, a million questions swirling in her head. "Why . . . me?" she managed after a time, voice just quiet enough to be perceptible. "Why not some other girl? Why . . .?"

She straightened, but out of haste her elbow knocked into her wineglass, upsetting its balance. It crashed against the table and shattered, wine spreading across the table surface. Lettuce raised a tight fist to her mouth, heart sinking. As usual, she'd ruined the moment. A string of apologies were on their way out of her mouth, as well as a few tears, when Shirogane tilted her head to face him.

"Because of little things like that. That . . . is why you're here." Absolutely taken by surprise at his answer, the lamentation ceased before it started. Shirogane stood and walked over to Lettuce's side of the table, enfolding her into his embrace. She was too dazed to make any reasonable protest, and settled into his hold without struggle. They remained like that for good number of minutes, Shirogane smoothing her hair and massaging her back and shoulders until she stopped shaking. When Lettuce was certain she could support herself again, he let go, looking down on her with a fond smile. "Okay?"

She stared at him for a few seconds, some doubt still lingering. But after a while, she couldn't help but give in to that face. "Okay." She gave a smile of her own in return, choosing to accept his words without argument. Sometimes miracles could happen, couldn't they?

"Good. How about another glass of wine, then? I don't think your old one is fit to drink out of any longer." It was a way of saying she was forgiven.

"But won't we miss the gift exchange?" Her voice was soft with lingering guilt.

"You don't really mind, do you?" Their faces were so close that their lips were almost touching. Even though she'd spent all day yesterday selecting presents for everyone, she knew they'd understand. She still didn't properly understand what had happened, but she wanted to stay and find out, however long it took.

"No, not really."

"Good answer."

As he brought her in for a second kiss, Lettuce gave up trying to be logical and let her emotions take control. Maybe there was no sense to make of love. Maybe it just . . . happened, and you took it for what it was, no questions asked. After all, this was definitely a gift better than any she'd hope to receive under the cafe tree.

For Midorikawa Lettuce, Christmas came early.


1. "Moshi moshi" is a Japanese greeting used specifically for telephone conversations.

2. "Anou" is the Japanese equivalent to "um" or "er".

3. "Yatta!" is a Japanese exclamation equivalent to "Yay!".

4. "Sugoi!", another Japanese utterance of excitement. Translates roughly to "Amazing!" or "Sweet!" and is generally used to express excitement or awe.

5. The maitre'd uses the honorific "-sama", meaning "honored", to address Shirogane because he is the head of the cafe. Technically, he is their boss, and the must treat him with respect.

So there you have it . . . extra long because it's so late! It's hard to imagine Shirogane being so gentlemanly, eh? But really, it's in his character. If you'll notice, it's only Ichigo he treats rudely or antagonizes, for obvious reasons. While he's not got the most pleasant disposition, he generally has a weakness for a lady in distress. Interestingly enough, you see this most prominently demonstrated with Lettuce in the manga, during that oft-quoted cruise ship party scene.

I feel this is a little rushed, but I'm working under a tight schedule (it's Christmas Eve, yikes!). In order to preserve the theme, I'm posting it before it'll be depressing (who wants to read a Christmas story after Christmas?). It could probably use some more tweaking, but at least it'll be on time. The two feet of snow outside of my window was an excellent muse!

So, to all of my readers, have a very merry Christmas! And keep hoping you'll find your own man (or woman, you never know!) to share a cup o' bubbly with . . .

Love,

Cooking Spray