A/N: Hey everyone, it's been such a long time between updates (oh gosh!) so I think you should start from chapter one and then continue to this.
Disclaimer: This story is based on the Crows Zero movies, as well as the characters as they are portrayed therein. All recognizable characters are owned by Hiroshi Takahashi.
There were good days. Then there were the bad days.
Her life was awfully monotonous. Busy, tiring, empty, for as long as Miyuki could remember—and today, for some confounding, vexing reason, the usual monotony wasn't a source of necessary comfort. It made her restless, prompted her to shuffle through the supermarket without her usual attention to detail; thus, by the time she returned to the back alley for her break—and today, for once, she had brought with a meager meal, truly unprecedented—she was struggling to hold back tears.
The surrounding squalor was a watery blur as Miyuki wiped at her eyes, sniffling and snuffling softly. With a grunt, she swallowed the last bite of her rice-ball and raked her trembling fingers through her hair. She drew in quick, shallow breaths, attempting in vain to calm down, just calm down! A high-pitched hum emitted from her throat as she swallowed. "Damnit," Miyuki hissed, feeling so utterly weary all of a sudden, "damnit, I should have gone to university! I could have had more!"
Miyuki shot to her feet, stilled for a moment, then paced up and down agitatedly, shaking her head and scrubbing at her face before leaning against a wall. She crossed her arms against her chest, pursing her lips.
"This is your fault, you bastard!" she informed the opposite wall, then lunged forward to kick her seat—the crate she always used, day after day—aside in a fit of rage. Thud! Miyuki stood frozen for a beat, breathing heavily, hands clenched in tight fists. Then she deflated. "I should have gone."
I shouldn't have been so afraid. She tilted her head back, looking up at the beclouded heavens. Somewhere in the distance, the sun was slipping slowly into the crease of the horizon. Her eyelids fluttered. But I'm still afraid. Miyuki sighed, stepping back to lean against the wall again, suddenly tired of her life, of her world—a quagmire of empty interludes of loneliness—of herself. She shut her eyes.
The fight rapidly drained out of her as her head lolled forward almost bonelessly, and she breathed gently, slowly, a long inhale and—out, a hitching exhale—and she looked at her surroundings again, feeling a little better. Just a little, just for a moment. For Ruka was standing before her, pretty head cocked and thin lips curved in a lopsided, barely-there smile. (Or perhaps it was a smirk. Perhaps not even a smile or a smirk, but a mere tilt of the lips. Nothing more. Nothing less).
The sky rumbled, the two girls stared at each other for a short moment.
Miyuki hadn't seen neither Kyoko nor Ruka (or Yu, or Takashi Makise, or Serizawa) since the day they had rushed into the supermarket for help and candy, respectively. Needless to say, it had been a quiet few days, and perhaps too quiet, for she had been alone for far too long with her thoughts, and they were the reason why she was leaning against a dirty wall in a (too narrow, too too too) alley behind her (second, oh she was tired) workplace.
"You're an ass," announced Ruka.
"What did I do now?" Miyuki asked without feeling.
Perhaps it had been the right thing to say; perhaps, perhaps not. But it was still strange to see the fight vanish from Ruka—and Miyuki had experienced the same just moments before, how strange. After an awkward moment, Ruka cleared her throat and nudged the crate over.
"Am I a pest?" Ruka wondered aloud.
Miyuki, bowing her head, dragged her left foot across the ground, back and forth, back and forth, continuously, as she stalled, and sighed, and looked up in time to see Ruka swallowing with difficulty. The lithe singer was watching her closely (too closely, no, yes), and Miyuki refused to understand what her expression meant; the tightening of her lips, the fast flutter of her shimmering eyes, the twitching of her cheek, no, it was all inconsequential.
"This … must be lonely. Right, Miyuki-san?"
It was Miyuki's turn to swallow with difficulty, her throat clicking audibly, almost painfully. Silently, she bent over to set her crate at its usual spot, then sat down on the rickety plastic and threw out her legs before her. Miyuki glanced to her left (young friends tottered past the alley, shoving each other, insulting each other) and then her right (her boss' daughter, name, name, name? Oh, yes, Sanada Aoi, yes. Sanada Aoi rushed up to the backdoor, stepped inside, then popped her head back into the alley, waving. Then disappeared again).
"You're with me," Miyuki responded. After a silent, strained beat, she finally looked at Ruka, discreetly squaring her shoulders as she met the girl's unwavering gaze, gesturing between them and then at the alley, "aren't you?"
"That's not what I meant."
"I know, and I'm not …" giving you what you want. But Miyuki caught herself, then steeled herself, sitting hunched as she clenched her fists, only to stop herself from massaging her now-aching brow. "Is this about Kyoko?"
"This is about you." Ruka, as always, never hesitated, and aired her guarded thoughts without once stammering. "I told you … Kyoko likes you. For some reason." She stepped forward slowly, then leaned against the wall behind Miyuki, pressing a lightly curled hand to her cheek, a move that the singer used when addressing Genji. "And if the person she likes is as closed-off and as secretive as you, I …"
Miyuki shifted uneasily. "What?"
Ruka brushed a hand down her face.
"What?" Miyuki scoffed, her entire being hardening, stiffening. Then, she thought, what about said Crow, Genji, what about his standoffishness, his silence, his (nearly) ever-present poker-face, his colorful family tree? Oh, but this wasn't about Ruka's own wellbeing. "I won't hurt Kyoko … is that what you think of me?"
"I don't know what to think." Ruka lowered her hand, slapping it loudly against her thigh. "What are you running from?"
"Running?" Miyuki scoffed again, but this time she was too breathless, too surprised, to be convincing. "Not—"
"Not running? I was there, remember!" Now, Ruka gestured away from the supermarket, in the direction of the nightclub they frequented. "When you asked for a job in the club? I was there. You said you've been here and there. For the first few weeks you would watch the doors, as if keeping an eye on the escape routes. You only gave Ushiyama your number, no one else. You refused to give your address to Kyoko. You don't speak about your hometown, you sit alone in dirty back alleys instead of—you're running."
"No." Again, Miyuki was breathless.
"Don't bother denying it."
"No." And she couldn't breathe properly. "No, I'm not."
The duo stared at each other, unblinking, both refusing to look away. Miyuki, head craned back, eventually shifted on her seat, rubbing the back of her aching neck as she watched Ruka cross her arms before shifting her weight from foot to foot. There was a thud from beyond the backdoor, then a shout, and a soft voice spoke in rapid-fire.
The duo still only had eyes for each other.
"Well," Ruka breathed. Well, one syllable. Well, hard and cold. Final. "Then why should I leave Kyoko alone with you?"
Rising unsteadily to her feet, Miyuki looked away and patted her hands down her uniform, keeping her gaze to the backdoor, determined. "You can take her. I don't need her. Don't need anyone."
Some days were better than others, but most exhausted her even though she hadn't done a thing of import, a thing that could have made her calves and feet and shoulders ache something fierce. And later that day, hours after being confronted by Ruka (of all people, but then again her list of acquaintances was pitifully short), Miyuki dragged herself back to her apartment. (Her cold apartment, her silent apartment). And decided that not thinking about the bad days was, perhaps, a wise decision.
So she kept her head ducked, shoved her fists into her pockets, and counted the steps it took to walk down the (almost deserted) street, walk across the (definitely deserted) courtyard, and walk up the stairs (past a number of gossiping neighbors). Then she focused her attention on her front door, refusing to look elsewhere (in the direction of Serizawa's place) as she slid her key into her lock. Finally, door closed behind her, she could look up.
And breathe.
Then gently press a shaking hand across her red eyes.
Miyuki drew in a long, trembling breath, and swallowed a strangled moan. Her fingers, agitated, clawed at the soft flesh of her cheeks, then at her greasy hair. Until she felt like she could scream. Repeatedly, she pummeled her fists onto her thighs, uncaring of any bruises she was inflicting, any damage her fingers could undergo. Eventually, calm swept over her once more, and Miyuki leaned back against her door.
Eyes closed, she brushed a trembling hand down the section of the door frame Serizawa had repaired for her. A moment later, with a start, Miyuki pushed herself off the door before barricading herself into her bathroom.
It was only in the morning, when the first bleak rays of sunlight peeked into the apartment, that Miyuki unlocked the bathroom door, and went about her usual business with the usual poker-face.
There were good days. Then there were bad days. During the later, she always thought of her sister. Her younger, stubborn dead sister. Those days were the worst, the lowest of her low.
In a certain province (Miyuki refused to think about), in a certain city (Miyuki refused to name), a breathless, sweaty (slightly younger) Miyuki rushed down the streets clad in yesterday's clothes, ignoring the cold sweat on her brow, the painfully throbbing stitch in her side. Her hasty stomping slowed to an abrupt, tired shuffle. As she pressed a shaking hand to her torso, Miyuki drew in a long breath, then another, and called out shrilly, "Rikako!"
A short distance away, her sister—also still dressed in yesterday's clothes, her rumpled school uniform—glanced at her over her shoulder, her gaze disinterested, tired. Rikako, silent but visibly irritated, looked away and continued strolling toward—wherever she was heading. But nowadays the younger girl had no direction, whatsoever.
"Rikako!" Miyuki rushed up behind her sister, reached out and yanked the girl around. "Where have you been?" she barked, gesturing wildly at nothing in particular. Miyuki breathed in, out, furiously. "Why didn't you come home last night?"
Lips pursed, Rikako glanced at her fleetingly before looking away. She shuffled her feet, cocked her head, then swallowed thickly.
"Answer me!" Miyuki shrilled, immediately bristling when her sister flinched. When had their relationship changed? she wondered sadly, when did they stop laughing, and gossiping, and doing everything close sisters would do? When did shouting and being secretive become the norm?
"Home?" Rikako scoffed without missing a beat. She hastily brushed her long hair out of her eyes, and Miyuki remembered how their Mother Dearest had hated how her younger daughter—her baby, her sweet pea—refused to bind her hair, and instead, allowed it to brush across her shoulders. "Can a shoe-box be a home?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, can you get us a better place?" Miyuki snarked as she squared her shoulders. More and more images of their mother forced their way to the forefront of her mind; hatred and anger boiled her blood, clouded her vision. "Are you working two jobs to keep your younger sister in school?"
"I—"
"Did you drop out of university—"
"Miyuki." Rikako, head now ducked, crossed her arms against her chest.
"—to keep those two jobs?"
"I …" and again, Rikako appeared on the verge of saying something important, but her eyes fluttered, then widened, and the fragile moment was lost as she cleared her throat and stood upright and seemed to … hold herself differently.
Behind her, a car door slammed shut, and Miyuki hastily followed the direction of her sister's gaze.
A police car stood idling near the sidewalk, and the slightly overweight cop handed over a carton of doughnuts to his partner. The man then buckled himself in, smoothed his hair back, and looked straight at Miyuki and her sister. After a beat, the cop smiled, then drove off. Down the busy road.
The busy road lined with shops and shoppers.
Shoppers staring at Miyuki and the scene she had been making.
Miyuki, now ducking her own head, turned to her sister. Who was watching the police car as it turned the corner and disappeared. Her anger now wilting, now almost forgotten, Miyuki watched her sister in interest, and asked tiredly, "Who's that?"
Rikako shrugged. "A cop."
The sisters eyed each other for a beat.
"You hungry?" asked Miyuki.
"You paying?" retorted Rikako.
Miyuki lightly punched her sister's shoulder—ignoring the feeble protest—before tugging on her arm. "Always."
Her front door was slightly open, and through the thin crack, Miyuki could see the distant grafitied wall, the numerous crisscrossing telephone cables, the cloudy sky that darkened the world to the point that early morning seemed like late evening. But none of that was truly important. It was the slightly incomprehensible conversation taking place downstairs, close to the entrance of the complex, that caught Miyuki's undivided attention.
A conversation between Serizawa and, his constant companion, Tokio.
Miyuki felt as tense as a hare in sight of a coursing hound; repeatedly, she glanced out at the walkway outside her apartment, then glanced at her uniform, and once again reminded herself that she would be late for work if she wouldn't stop stalling. Oh dear. She threaded her fingers together. But why couldn't they disappear inside Serizawa's apartment? Like they normally did?
It's just a walk across the courtyard, just a quick walk past the two boys. That's it. Yet Miyuki still eyed the door in trepidation, or appeared to be eying her surroundings in trepidation, for it wasn't the almost bare apartment that she was seeing.
It was the late, chilly night spent outside, drinking beers and staring up at the stars, struggling not to stare at the King of the Beasts sitting beside her. It was the memory of waking up in bed, and not remembering how she got there (not feeling scared or worried that something, anything undesired, had happened), that kept replaying in her mind.
Again.
And again.
Until she felt trapped in her sanctuary. For Miyuki didn't like, and didn't understand, her sudden, bewildering reaction. It was unwanted, undesired, and it would lead to nothing, she decided. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Feeling determined, Miyuki stormed out of her apartment, locked her door, and rushed down the stairs, blissfully ignorant to the few greetings she received from her neighbors (the obaa-san from next door, the 'friendly' mailman visiting his married lover). Miyuki only focused on the gates, and then the street just outside the complex, where the two Crows were standing beside a rather battered bike.
Miyuki felt her ears burn.
"Remember the view, Tamao!" the handsome friend, wearing a white shirt under a black jacket, patted Serizawa on the shoulder. "And remember your tab!"
"Heh?" was all that Serizawa said in response. He brushed his hands down his weary face, nails digging into his sideburns. "Heh?"
With a barely-there smile, one that she suppressed carefully, Miyuki took off at a run and thought for a moment, just a short moment, that today could be a good day. Today could be better. The thought grew roots, filling her every being, until it was all that she knew, the only thing that concerned her as she made her way to work, her comfortable jog soundtracked by the wet shoosh and spray of cars speeding past.
For once, her wish was granted, and at the end of the long, long day Miyuki took a moment to simply breathe, and stretch, and whisper to herself, "This was a good day." She was tired, she was hungry, but none of that mattered because, "let's just ... go home happy."
But can a shoebox be home? she remembered those words that—
No.
Miyuki was suddenly determined. She just wanted a good day without thinking about the bad. The bad days, the awful memories. And besides, she thought as she ended her shift, she was going to leave. Right? She was going to leave this place. Soon. It was time to move again, and at that thought, the image of a smiling Kyoko and a concerned Ruka and a confused Yu rose unbidden. It made Miyuki falter.
And it made her scan the street, abruptly, out of a sudden fear that nearly forced her to run back home instead of walk. It was while she was studying the street, crowded and bustling but not one familiar face to be seen, that she noticed the police car, that she realized that Keiji-san was watching her.
For a beat, Miyuki gave the man her attention—I don't like cops, she thought—then she was off, head ducked as she zigzagged through the crowd. Expertly making her way home. And she thought, this is what you get, eradicate one nuisance, then you'll become aware of every other pest you hadn't noticed before.
Miyuki was tempted to sneak a peek over her shoulder, but she stopped herself at the last, last moment. Luckily.
How long has he been watching me? Then: I'll never have a good day again.
It was impossible.
Days went by with their usual monotony.
Miyuki worked—the nightclub, the supermarket—and she went home. Ate, slept. Ignored the neighbors. Rinse and repeat. Rinse, and repeat. But eventually, she pulled out a sturdy box, one she kept hidden in her little apartment, and raised the lid. There, on the floor, surrounded by the few belongings she still had, she counted the money she had painstakingly saved.
It took her a while—she was distracted, nervous, anxious—but she double-checked, then triple-checked the amount, and decided. She could leave, she had enough to make a longer journey. Miyuki raked her fingers through her hair. She could also … do something else for a change. Could go to university. Could she still afford to be so afraid?
Undecided, Miyuki put her savings back in the box, put the box back in its hiding spot.
She pushed herself up to her feet.
Eventually, she told herself, all of these lonely days will add up into a year. And before you know it, many years have passed by, and you're old and grey and still so scared. Miyuki placed one foot before the other, step by step, and before she knew it, she was pacing up and down, up and down, until she felt dizzy. Until she came to a sudden standstill, heart pounding painfully in her throat. But was she safe?
She swept her gaze across her room.
Could she possibly take a chance? Miyuki crossed her arms, then raised her head, more, and more, and more, until her neck ached and she nearly fell over, unbalanced. She caught herself, brushed her hair aside again, and told herself, life goes on, and it won't wait for you.
There was an impatient knock at her door.
In a daze, still distracted, Miyuki headed across the room and turned the key, not thinking even for a moment to check who it was. She looked up, then frowned, and mouthed wordlessly.
"Ushiyama," was the first comprehensible thing she managed to voice. Then: "Yu?"
"You've seen them?" Yu blurted, and didn't wait for a response. "Kyoko! Ruka! You've seen them?"
"What's … wrong?" Miyuki asked hoarsely, eyes flicking from Yu to Ushiyama, Ushiyama to Yu, back and forth, over and over again. "What—?"
"When did you last see them?" Ushiyama questioned, leaning forward slightly, reaching out to lightly touch her arm.
"I …" and she thought about the quiet days, and the discussion she had had with Ruka, and the time in the supermarket when Kyoko had needed her help, and then the Crow that Ruka liked—and the danger of being associated with those thugs. Miyuki didn't have an answer. Sweat beaded across her brow as her heart skipped a beat. "I don't know."
Yu pressed two trembling digits—her index, her middle fingers—against her lips. Then she was gone, her loud footsteps echoing loudly in the heavy silence that welled between boss and employee.
Miyuki stared at Ushiyama. The tendons of her throat tightened, then relaxed when she finally swallowed.
"Miyuki-chan." Ushiyama nodded, then he too was running.
And Miyuki was now left alone in her doorway, staring at the distant grafitied wall, the numerous crisscrossing telephone cables, the cloudy sky that darkened the world to the point that early morning seemed like late evening. She raised a hand, scratching idly at her sweaty brow. Then looked over her shoulder, eying her cold, small apartment.
A silent beat.
I'm not that closed-off.
Then she ran, leaving the door open behind her. "Wait!"
A/N: It has been a long, long time. And this is most probably really rough and simple. I'm on holiday now, and knew I just had to write a new chapter about Miyuki. Unfortunately, I'll be really busy again starting mid-July, so I won't be able to update soon. I do want to update again this. This year. I will. Hopefully. One more chapter, and then I think we're done with the first movie. Eeeep! Thank you to everyone who's still reading.