Sayonara at the End of the Dance
They met for the last time quite by accident, on the platform of the
Juuban station. Literally ran into each other, you could say.
"Oh!"
"I'm sorry!"
Their eyes met, and there was the sudden jolt of recognition, and the
oddest sense of disbelief, as if neither of them were quite sure the other
was real.
"Haruka," Michiru said in slow bewilderment. "You've let your hair grow."
She reached out one wondering hand to touch the curling wisps that brushed
the collar of Haruka's coat.
"It's been a while." Haruka said uncertainly in reply. An uneasy,
tentative distance stretched between them, of long-ago friends meeting by
no design of their own, of old lovers reunited too late.
"How many years now? Six? Seven? They all start to blur together after a
while."
"Nine," Haruka said gently.
"You look..." Michiru waved one fine-boned hand in an all-encompassing
gesture.
"Older?" Haruka's response was teasing, slipping back into familiar
patterns with an ease that surprised her.
"Yes," Michiru said, looking her critically up and down with the eye of an
artist.
Haruka was dressed neatly, if conservatively, in pressed linen slacks, a
pale blue silk blouse (she'd bought it on a whim because it made her eyes
look startlingly dark) and a short navy coat. Her makeup was minimal, and
a simple gold chain glittered around her neck.
"Nobody will mistake you for a boy now." Michiru's tone was light, but
underlaid with resonances that echoed half with regret, and half with an
unreasoning betrayal.
"You cut *your* hair," Haruka replied inanely, staring. Cropped short,
Michiru's hair curled close around her face. It made her cheekbones look
much higher and the lines of her face much sharper. It made her look like
a stranger.
"Yes." She reached up to touch the shorn curls at the nape of her neck.
"It's less of a... liability like this."
Haruka was struck with the sudden memory of the curve of Michiru's
cheekbones and the silk of her skin beneath her palms as she cupped her
face in her hands, and the way Michiru's hair spilled forward over the
back of her hands and across her wrists. Her hair, Haruka recalled,
smelled sweetly of orange blossoms when it was wet. It must have been the
shampoo she used. Or still used, for all Haruka knew.
"It makes you look--"
"Older?" It wasn't quite a taunt. Her voice was just this side of cruel.
It could have been the short hair, or maybe the tailored suit she wore
with studied grace, but most likely it was a certain set of the mouth and
calculating wariness of the eyes. Michiru looked... harder. Sharper. The
graceful prettiness of the girl she had been was tempered and refined.
"Very grown-up," Haruka allowed gravely.
"Would... would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?" Michiru asked
formally.
"That would be lovely," Haruka said in like kind, and realized with a
vague sense of surprise that she meant it.
"I'm glad." Michiru smiled, and it was the same sweet smile with just a
bit of wickedness that she'd always had, and she didn't look nearly so
much like a stranger any more.
And so they found a street corner caf, and Haruka had to suppress the
automatic reflex to order for both of them, and Michiru smiled wistfully,
and let her.
"You're not racing any more, are you?" she asked, lifting the cup of
fragrant tea to her lips.
"No, not after that last time, four years ago. I almost didn't walk away
from that one," she admitted soberly, both hands wrapped around the
steaming mug of coffee in front of her. "How did you know?"
"Makoto kept a scrapbook of all your matches." Michiru smiled secretively.
"And Amy had an annotated notebook of all the reviews of your concerts and
exhibitions," Haruka countered, grinning.
"Did she now?" Michiru laughed softly. "It's always the quiet ones. Well,
it's been years since I've had time for that sort thing. Have you given up
music as well?"
"It just wasn't the same without you."
"I know." Michiru looked away. "I'm sorry. For the way it ended."
"So am I."
It had indeed ended badly.
* * *
They had first met at the school track, and though Haruka had admired the
pretty girl with the sketchpad, that hadn't been when it all started. No,
it had been when she'd knelt on the cold concrete in front of a monster,
reaching tentatively for the odd, jeweled pen that appeared in front of
her.
"Don't!" cried a girl's voice in shrill alarm.
And Haruka had stopped, considered, and withdrawn her hand. It wasn't
caution or fear that prompted her decision, but sheer stubbornness over
whatever mysterious power presumed to try to rule her life.
And the lovely Sailor Neptune saved her, and the two of them fell madly,
deeply, passionately in love.
True, some days Haruka wished more than anything that she had reached out
and taken hold of the henshin wand, but always underneath it all, she was
horribly, selfishly glad that her life was still her own.
And for a while, they were happy. Blissfully happy and head over heels in
love.
"Tell me a story," Haruka murmured one night, head pillowed on Michiru's
lap. Michiru ran soothing fingers through her lover's fine hair, and told
her a tale of a prince and a princess, and a kingdom on the moon, of brave
warriors, and love that never died.
Before she was halfway through, Haruka was fast asleep.
And Michiru had kissed her brow, curled up spooned against her, and also
fell asleep.
But as time went on, the most important difference between them became
irreconcilable.
Michiru was a Sailor Senshi.
Haruka was not.
Haruka became controlling and harsh.
Michiru became bitter and resentful.
And though they were still madly, deeply, passionately in love, that
wasn't enough.
Haruka would catch Michiru watching her, sometimes with pity or regret in
her eyes, sometimes with resentment.
But the day she looked and saw something perilously close to hate was the
day that she left for good.
It had begun as yet one more argument in a long string of bitter,
repetitive fights. It began with the inconsequential, who left the wet
towels on the floor, who drank the last of the milk, and proceeded as
always. Who was out late last night and forgot to call home. Who refused
to look whom in the eye. Haruka threw harsh, angry words. Michiru was
coldly, remotely pleasant and cruel.
This time, they pushed too far. This time, they both said unforgivable
things.
"You are so selfish. It's always about you, you, you. What *you* want.
What *you* need. Did you ever, just once, just for a single minute, stop
to think about the rest of the world?" Michiru said icily, lips tight and
pale with rage.
"What about you? You never think of anything but the rest of the world!
It's always duty, and destiny, and the fate of the universe! Is your duty
and your high destiny more important you than I am?" Haruka said fiercely
in reply, white-knuckled, shaking hands balled into tight fists at her
side.
Michiru looked away and did not answer.
Haruka did not slam the door when she left, but closed it gently behind
her. She never went back.
* * *
"So what do you do now?" Michiru asked formally, breaking the uneasy
silence.
"I teach automotives at a tech school, in Osaka," Haruka replied, knowing
full well how defensive she sounded. "It's not glamourous, but I enjoy
it."
"Mmm, I can see that," was Michiru's non-committal reply. "So what brings
you back to Tokyo?"
"My father is very ill," Haruka said quietly.
"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, Haruka." Michiru laid a sympathetic hand on her
forearm. Haruka squeezed her hand silently in response.
"Are... are you seeing anyone?" she asked tentatively.
Michiru shook her head. "No, not recently. There's been the odd, fling, I
guess you could call them--" Her lips quirked up in reminiscence "--but
nothing serious. Not since--" She stopped, hesitated.
"Since me," Haruka acknowledged.
"Yes. I try not to make the same mistakes twice." Michiru met her eyes
unblinkingly. "And you?"
"Nothing serious either," Haruka echoed, though it wasn't strictly the
truth. There had been the one girl from Kyoto, that had been fierce and
hot and ended dramatically. And a sweet young thing at the college, but
the two of them had simply drifted apart.
Haruka's coffee was luke-warm, but she drank it anyhow. Michiru finished
her tea in silence, and when they were both done, she over-ruled all of
Haruka's protests and paid for them both.
"Well," Haruka said uncomfortably, standing on the busy street outside, "I
guess this is goodbye. Again."
"Setsuna told me once," Michiru said distantly, "that who we were shapes
who we are today, but we shouldn't let it control everything about who we
become." She didn't need to add that this had been shortly after Haruka
had left. "There is always," she said, eyes far-away and terribly fierce
and horribly sorrowful all at once, "always a choice."
"Yes," Haruka acknowledged softly, throat tight. "There is."
"Are... are you happy with your life?" Michiru whispered, eyes bright.
"I... I think I am," Haruka said slowly. Much to her surprise, she found
it was true. She had no one true love, her father was dying, and her
regrets were too numerous to count, but when all was said and done, she
was... content. Not deliriously happy, but satisfied none the less. "What
about you?"
"I do what I have to." Michiru said formally, coldly. Her face softened
just the slightest bit. "I... I wish it had ended differently."
Haruka leaned forward on a whim, and brushed her lips chastely across her
former lover's cheek. She tasted salt and thought of the sea, but when she
pulled back, Michiru's eyes were closed, her face was suspiciously damp.
And she was smiling.
"Goodbye," Haruka said softly.
"Sayonara." Michiru reached out, touched her cheek gently, then turned and
vanished into the crowd.
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