Unapologetic OR "Kissing Cousins – Why Making Haruka and Michiru Relatives Doesn't Conceal their Relationship" Steel Michiru carefully bends down to correct the selvage of her dress – the delicate silver lace edging tending to get stuck on the buckle of her sandals – before straightening up, brushing some invisible dust of her shoulder and knocking three times on the door before her, politely waiting for someone to verbally consent to her entrance. The corridor she is standing in is bustling with students hurrying back and forth between classrooms, the sound of the orchestra practicing for next week's performance leaking out as the door to the assembly hall falls shut behind first a tall, redheaded girl and then a young black boy. Among the hundred of different sounds, Michiru can clearly make out the fragile tune of a harp. The melody floating underneath the gentle notes is one of her own compositions. "Shojo no Koi" – the love of a maiden; an ensemble of harp, violin and piano. Turning her head in the direction of the ceremonial hall fully, she is able to catch on to the refrain of the violin as well. The unknown artiste plays it a little more softly than she would have herself, but Michiru quite likes the outcome anyway. She clearly remembers arranging this particular piece of music; back when she was still watching Haruka trying to outrun her destiny from afar. Note after note weaving together as she had let her bow caress the violin strings freely – a musical replication of how she wanted to touch the tomboyish girl who had begun invading her dreams of the Kingdom they had once been part of... As a sleek, male voice calls out to her from inside the office, however, the college hosting the concert that has brought Michiru to the capital of the United States of America seemingly falls silent; the song of her heart – played by anonymous musicians further down the hallway – drowning in the harsh command. "Enter!" Reaching into the pocket of her white cardigan to make sure that she still has the leaflet with her, Michiru turns her attention back to the problem ahead, mentally bidding the beautiful music goodbye... for now. There is no music traceable in the voice she just heard, and – even without the foreboding roar of waves in her mind – the twinge of dislike she feels would have been enough of a warning. People without music in them are rare, but the few examples of such individuals Michiru has actually met in her life have never been very pleasant. "Ah, Miss Kaioh" she is greeted as she steps into the large, dark room, closing the door silently after herself. At the desk in front of a long row of small windows, all with the curtains drawn to keep out the light of noon, a bulky man is sitting with a phone in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. Clad in a grey suit and a black tie, he is all business, even the phrase "what a pleasant surprise" that follows his initial welcome sounding as if she is only another pay check. Perhaps I am, Michiru thinks – nevertheless smiling graciously in acknowledgement of his compliment. Civility is a universal factor when it comes to human interaction, and Michiru is a master at it. She discovered early on that it's the easiest way to keep foes at an arm's length and friends close in spirit. "Reynolds-sensei," she replies respectfully, bowing to him in the customary Japanese manner. Out the corner of her eye, Michiru sees a small smirk grace the man's lips at this gesture; something that only increases her original distaste of him. When Michiru called her sponsor about the matter that has led her to the organizer of the upcoming concert, Inari-san had cautioned her to remember that Luke Reynolds is infamous for his lack of acceptance for opinions and traditions conflicting with his own. With an attitude like that, though; Michiru imagines that advice shouldn't be too hard to bear in mind. "Have you had a pleasant stay in America thus far, Michiru," Luke-san beckons to the uncomfortable-looking chair closest to her, lightening a cigar as she sits down wordlessly, his cat-like green eyes studying her every movement almost as if she were an unusual animal in a zoo, "– you don't mind me calling you Michiru, do you?" A ring of smoke emphasizes the rhetorical quality of the question, because yes, Michiru does mind, but she knows just as well as him that it doesn't matter. He believes he has the right to call her exactly what he wants to, and she will not waste her energy on such a trivial battle. "It has been very interesting," she answers, letting the mask of courteousness slip onto her face by instinct; its sweet, calm appearance the only defence she can let him sense at this point. Sarcasm will have to wait since secret weapons are most lethal with the element of surprise, and she is going to make use of that advantage later. After all, Michiru has not been living as a Senshi for the past two years without learning a thing or two about warfare. "I especially enjoy your vast selection of museums," she adds after having looked around the room for something – anything – they could have in common, gaze coming to a halt on a beautiful copy of one of her favourite Rembrandt paintings. "Yes, of course," Reynolds-sensei doesn't look up at her, too busy filing through a stack of papers, the phone that he has abandoned on top of a tower of books ringing without him bothering to answer it. Folding her hands neatly in her lap, Michiru watches him while he works; the small smile positively glued to her lips, but her eyes slightly narrowed. Around him is an air of nonchalance; he is a man so sure of himself that he thinks himself immortal – untouchable by other human beings. His kind is the most dangerous in combat, she knows. They attack with great force and without strategy; killing simply because they can. With a long-suffering sigh Luke-san turns his attention back to her, her stillness apparently making him realise that she is not about to go away if he ignores the unwritten rules of pleasantries. "And Miss Tenoh has enjoyed herself as well?" The enquiry is forced, and Michiru can tell by the way the corner of his mouth twitches that he is asking merely out of convention. Granting him a polite nod of her head in return for his effort, she leans forward, feet elegantly crossed at the ankles. This is her game of choice... small-talk. In this aspect Michiru is so very much like the ocean she represents when in her Senshi form; hiding an enormous potency beneath a – at first sight – still surface. "She has been here before to race," she comments, thoughts straying to Haruka's entertaining little remarks about this place and another that she visited with her team mates back when she was still the star child of the Japanese national junior racing team and had been invited to a friendly in a town just outside Washington D.C. "Yes, I'd heard she is quite talented behind a steering wheel..." The tone of Reynolds-sensei's voice is enough to inform Michiru that she has made a fatal mistake in letting her guard down, even for those two, short seconds she was inattentive. His voice is an unmistakable foreboding; silky and smooth like the revolting threads sea cucumbers produce. Oh, how Michiru hates sea cucumbers; she has never been able to stand them – they both frighten and disgust her. Blinking as to shake herself out of the lovely, but treacherous daydreams of Haruka, she observes the impressive-looking man as he gets to his feet and walks to one of the bookshelves adorning the otherwise bleak walls. Caressed by the shadows of the room, his white hair adopts an almost lavender shine, bordering on violet. Cigar still in hand, he picks out a random book, studying the cover, although Michiru can tell that he isn't focused on reading the – to her – exotic letters of the English alphabet, but rather on the words forming in his mind. "You're quite a pair, aren't you?" he muses out loud, Michiru feeling the muscles in her jaw straining from the way her refined smile grows unnatural and strained. The realisation that he has known all along why she has come to his office shouldn't surprise her as much as it does, really, but it is not often she has met people like him; people with so smudgy auras that she can hardly tell the colours of it apart. The scarcity of such an occurrence is, nonetheless, no excuse. "One of you a world-renowned violinist and nationally acknowledged painter, the other a top race-car driver and capable pianist," Luke-san turns around to face her again, the grimace that she supposes should resemble an appraising grin looking more like a disdainful leer, "not every day two so talented girls get to share the spotlight..." He won't say the words. Like a vulture in the desert, circling above the thirsting camel, she thinks. Not willing to go for a direct hit before someone else has killed his target for him. "Hai, about that..." she says softly, making sure her tone doesn't betray the approaching attack, brushing a lock of curly, aqua hair away from her face while lowering her gaze to give him a false impression of mildness, "I believe there has been a mistake, Reynolds-sensei." "Oh?" He raises both eyebrows in mock surprise. Giving him a look out the corner of her eye, Michiru wonders for a moment if he knows that she has seen right through his little act... and if that revelation is mutual, because she is trained in looking past pretending – but is he? Does he think her as harmless as she tries to convince him that she is? For the first time since she sat down in the horrible, black leather chair whose back pains her spinal column to an extent she suspects is intentional, Michiru moves, reaching into her pocket for the booklet Haruka and she received the previous night about the concert she will be participating in come Friday. Holding it out for Luke-sensei to take, she raises her chin to let her own gaze meet his forest-green eyes, searching for some hint of him having rumbled her costume of innocence. She finds none. "Your catalogue," Michiru begins, waving the pamphlet to indicate what she's talking about, but Reynolds-san doesn't make any indication as to take it, instead simply staring at her with his unnerving eyes ripped of any kind of melodious harmony, making her think of two black holes in the galaxy of an emotionless face. Raising an eyebrow, she silently places the leaflet on the tabletop among newspapers and important letters. "It claims Haruka and I to be cousins. We're not. We are..." The expression on his face changes in a matter of seconds from a blank, slightly disinterested look to one of smug victory. The responding break of the tides within her is so overwhelming that Michiru has to wring her hands tightly together as not to grab hold of her transformation pen and call to the ocean for help. She feels her eyes widen, but wills her mask of civility not to slip, her lips pressed together in a thin line as she remains seated – muscles trembling from the effort not to get to her feet. "You're lovers, yes. So we found out after you'd accepted our request of bringing your ‘partner' at the performance." His words fall in a slow drizzle like fog misting up as it comes in contact with warm skin. She shudders. "Very clever, young lady, not to inform us your partner was also a woman." Smiling – a sharp, contrasting line of displeasure stretching along her carefully glossed lower lip – Michiru lets her gaze wander from the organizer who has (at last) put the book away in order to examine her for any kind of effect to the brochure on the table, it's its pink lettering announcing "Michiru Kaioh and her cousin Haruka Tenoh (Tokyo, Japan) in a loving duet " as one of the main events of the Valentine's Message Concert. She knows by now that he doesn't find her harmless at all – but the danger he sees in her has nothing to do with any kind of power she might possess but is based solely on... on... Uncrossing her ankles, she blinks twice before asking the question that she already knows the answer to, because it's the very reason she has engaged in this conversation in the first place, but her frankness will probably provoke someone like him more than anything else... Michiru rather likes that thought. "Ara, is that a problem?" Her tone is sweet – innocent – but underneath lies the taunt, emphasized by the way she cocks her head and looks straight at him, blue eyes twinkling. It's about time she lets Luke-san catch a glimpse of her true defence. Sarcasm. After all, Kaioh Michiru is not as vulnerable as one may falsely assume her to be at first sight. Snorting, Reynolds-sensei walks to his desk, putting out his cigar in the expensive-looking crystal ashtray before leaning in, his enormous hands sprawled out atop paperwork and the offending booklet Michiru has brought with her. The smoke from the cigar moves like curling snakes through the air, dissolving little by little. The silent war between them has just been confirmed, she senses – and finally acknowledged by both parties. "Miss Kaioh," Luke-san says, his voice taking on the monotonousness of official declarations from the loudspeakers on a train station, ready to ship her off – except that the formal way he chooses to address her is a small victory on its own, "you must understand that this concert is a national show aimed at families all over the country – families with children." Pursing her lips, Michiru gracefully crosses her legs and leans back in the chair again. "Are you saying Haruka and I aren't fitted for the drawing room?" she asks, half jokingly, not expecting any reply because she is well aware that it is exactly what he is insinuating. As predicted, Luke-san's unreadable face is the only response she receives, so Michiru allows her amusement to show in a small giggle, hand raised to her mouth to stifle it. Respectfully. "What precisely do you expect us to be doing on stage except playing our music, Reynolds-sensei?" The laughter in her voice she doesn't try to hide. Still, with this query she gives him the benefit of doubt. Despite the fact that Michiru feels a certain aversion towards Luke Reynolds, she is unwilling to believe that he is foolish enough to truly represent an opinion as irrational as the one he's just voiced. Meeting his dark, impenitent gaze with her own softer one, Michiru awaits his answer with a silken smile curving on her lips that disguises the steel core she will reveal to him if she finds out he really is the source of this idiocy. She has never put up with any kind of patronization and will not begin tolerating it now – especially not if this man is going to stomp on something that is as important to her as love. The one thing in this world she would sacrifice everything (her own life included) to save. "That is not the point," Luke-san answers after a long, pregnant silence, turning around to face the row of windows behind the desk. By his stance – rigid and self-assured, a dictatorial pride evident in the casual way he gesticulates with his hand – Michiru can tell that she isn't supposed to ask what the point is then. "If people are informed of Miss Tenoh's and your affair..." he says; Michiru watching the movement of the muscles in his jaw as he trails off once more. Suddenly he draws back one of the curtains, the late afternoon sunlight falling in a thick stripe over the floor, springing up the table and spreading over the tabletop like flowers blossoming in spring. It blinds her momentarily, but Michiru refuses to blink – instead letting her eyes get used to the intrusive whiteness. If he's trying to throw her off balance, it will take more than petty tricks such as this to succeed. Not letting her gaze drop, she gets to her feet. He is taller than her, of course, but height has never intimidated Michiru – she has learned long ago that being the typical Japanese lady in both appearance and stature has its advantages. When all comes down to it, strength isn't measured by build alone. If Haruka had been here, she would have had to agree, being the one in the world who knows Michiru better than anyone. "It would naturally bring associations of... more intimate... situations..." Reynolds-san carries on, turning on his heel, appearing to be nothing but a silhouette against the bright orange light pouring in through the window behind him. With his hands behind his back and legs slightly apart, he reminds Michiru of a police officer, ready to bark out orders. Startling slightly at his choice of wording, Michiru feels an unbidden laughter rise in her chest. It's not because she hasn't experienced homophobes before – unfortunately Tokyo isn't a homophobia-free zone – but at least in Japan public displays of intimacy is disapproved of no matter the sexuality of the couple. No, this excuse is ridiculous. Plain discrimination. She knows from the manuscript she has been given that the couple performing before Haruka and she will end their show with a kiss – but apparently no parents will object to such antics as long as it is between a man and a woman. "That's a little silly, ne?" she responds, the soft look in her eyes having disappeared, although her smile (a worldwide symbol of politeness) is still firmly in its place. Walking around the table, she comes to a halt in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't pose to threaten him – Michiru doesn't believe in solving disagreements through fear – but to corporally show him that she declines to be demeaned. If she says no to let him put her down, they will enter and leave this argument as equals. Thinking herself intelligent enough to not find it naïve to believe in the power of reason, Michiru continues in a practical tone of voice: "I hardly think knowing of Vladimir-san and Beatrice-san being romantically involved makes people think of them in any –" She throws his own words back at him with a small laugh, as if the words in themselves contain the sole funniness, her eyes not betraying the uproar of the sea in her soul as she mentions the two kissing artists, "intimate situations." Refraining to mention that whether it were the two Russian musicians or Haruka and herself who were known to be lovers, the music of their affection would be alike, Michiru searches for any trace of understanding in the colourless eyes examining her. Reynolds-sensei's eyes are as dim as his aura, and Michiru sees no choice but to accept the truth of this man. He would never be able to recognise that in the moment when two people love each other without demands, that love produces a melody – a melody that does not differ significantly depending on the factors that the human race tends to put so much importance in. Age, colour, religion, gender... No, the music of love never changes its rhythm. One of the main reasons why Michiru would go through fire and water for her princess is that Usagi-chan knows this; the nature of love – and that knowledge was what enabled her to save the world from chaos. But the organizer standing before her will never know... will never understand... it almost makes Michiru feel sorry for him. Luke-san's only reaction is to bow to her in a disgraceful replication of the curtsy she showed him upon arriving. "I'm afraid that isn't the point either, Miss Kaioh..." Almost... Narrowing her eyes, Michiru replies sharply: "Then I think I have missed the point, Reynolds-sensei." Even now she doesn't drop the honorific. Doing that would – by Michiru's standards – mean that she were trying to disgrace him in the same way he is apparently doing his best to humiliate her. To Michiru such behaviour would be unacceptable; it would eliminate her idea of fairness. She is not about to sink to his level. In the end, the waves of the ocean don't attack by ripping apart and cutting open. Her element attacks by stealing away its opponent's breath, leaving him with no other options than to give in to the power of the deep waters. "I came here under the impression that I was going to play an ensemble with my partner..." As Michiru tells him this she takes a couple of steps forward to draw back the remaining curtains, letting the daylight outside finally conquer the shadows of the room, the displeasure at this move on her part not passing unnoticed over Luke-san's face. She has vented into his territory; unbidden and – in his opinion – unworthy. By the way he wrinkles his nose at her, she concludes that he doesn't share her intention of viewing the opponent as his equal. Not that it surprises her; Michiru has an inkling that he is used to being obeyed and perceived as the highest power at this school. With her comment – even though it doesn't bear any sign of reprimand or scolding; she is simply reminding him of the reason she came to Washington D.C. to play in his Valentine's concert – she challenges his view of himself. The view his surroundings have of him. Nevertheless, seeing that Reynolds-san is not going to listen to emotions or reason, Michiru must speak in a tongue he understands. The language of business – and having played the violin professionally since age 9, she knows the vocabulary of his world very well. Inari-san would have set up conditions; conditions that he is most likely breaking with this cousin nonsense. After having freed the last window in the row of its dark red, theatre-like curtain, Michiru turns around to face him again. Correcting her cardigan and subtly re-adjusting the edging of her dress – once more immaculate in appearance – she pushes some stray tresses of her aquamarine hair over her right shoulder and meets his cold smirk with a soft look of her own as counter-attack. At this point, she is not directly aggressive; instead she is awaiting his next move. "Technically you are playing with your partner..." Luke-sensei says gloatingly, his voice smooth and loaded with a feel of triumph – as if this little word-bending loophole of his is the final blow in their battle of arguments. "It is a Valentine's concert; that theme wouldn't be disturbed by two cousins suddenly appearing on stage to perform together?" Looking at him curiously, she lets the three full stops at the end of his sentence hang in the air between them; ignored and unanswered. Her question is perfectly logical. She knows for a fact that all the artists involved were politely requested to bring their partners with them as a part of their performance. Most probably, the guests are aware of this as well – if stated to be relatives, Haruka and she will fall outside the circle. Reynolds-sensei has the nerve to laugh at her. Feeling the roar of her inner waves almost physically but deciding not to react on the uproar of the sea just yet, she raises an eyebrow at him and keeps silent, knowing that he will find her porcelain-like features and cool calmness unnerving. If there's something Michiru hates it is being coddled like this. Does he really think her so pathetic that he believes she can't handle a little laughter? "An idealist such as yourself, Michiru..." Luke-san advances at her, the sound of his footsteps swallowed up by the thick, Persian rug making up a small isle underneath the desk. His white hair shines like copper in the afternoon sun as he places one, big paw of a hand on her shoulder in a simulated, fatherly gesture. Not reacting at the way he goes back to using her given name, Michiru meets his gaze which is shrewd and always calculating, "... should know that the love between cousins is also love." Coming from him, love sounds like a swearword. "And the love between two women isn't?" Michiru asks him softly (icily), shrugging his hand off her shoulder and stepping back, fingers following the edge of the tabletop, skilfully digging out the brochure on the concert from between letters and documents before she sits down. For Luke-san's sake, keeping his distance would be preferable right now. His double-standards could very well cause her to experience one of her rare slips of self-control. No answer. Luke-sensei remains silent, every trace of his mocking leer disappearing as she uses his own excuse as ammunition. In his eyes, Michiru can see a flame of deep irritation. She is a small stone – only a pebble – in his shoe, refusing to go away, no matter how many times he kicks out... and with her query she has just ripped a small hole in his sock; his justification. Sitting down in his own chair as well, resting his chin on his folded hands, he scrutinises her for any sign of surrender. She meets his intrusive assault unyieldingly, her smile not faltering. Michiru will not be the first to fall. Clearing his throat, Reynolds-san breaks their eye contact, finding a ballpoint pen in the disorder on his table and clicking it impatiently. "Letting you perform as an openly lesbian couple at a school like this – the very symbol of our future – would be unheard of, so I'm afraid we have limited opportunities of changing it..." Once again his voice is droning and disinterested, stating facts he is reluctant to change, because he thinks he's in his good right to let reality stay that way. It is a clear-cut dismissal, but Michiru will not accept being dismissed so easily. "What would it take – to change it?" "Ah," he says, a glimpse of future victory showing in his dark eyes, "I see you're not as stubborn as I'd thought, Miss Kaioh." Michiru ignores the ill-disguised insult, not needing his approval in any way. Instead of reacting by verbally attacking, she cocks her head in anticipation. He may think that she will grab any opportunity he is offering, but she will have it her way or none at all. Haruka has dubbed this side of Michiru her "feminine pride and female strength", but she knows as well as Michiru does that is has nothing to do with her gender, but with her personality. Not until rocks and stones have bent to it, does the ocean give in. The man in front of her has yet to realise that, though. Of course, he hasn't lived with her for the past two years like Haruka has, so if it weren't because she disliked him so greatly, Michiru would be able to forgive him for his ignorance. Confident of her expression not giving away any of her thoughts, Michiru shifts elegantly to cross her legs at the ankles, putting the catalogue back in her pocket and making sure that her dress won't wrinkle before turning her attention back to Luke-san. "There are two – to us – acceptable possibilities," he informs her after a short absence of words, tapping his chin with his index finger in mock consideration, continuing his proposal with an evil gleam in his eyes: "One: Miss Tenoh and you allow us to inform the public that she is a man..." Standing up before really having taken in his words, Michiru feels her eyes widen in surprise, answering in Japanese out of sheer bewilderment. "Nani? Masaka!" Realising her mistake by the look on Reynolds-sensei's face – haughty and self-satisfied – she shakes her head to get a lock of hair out of her eyes and sits down quietly, forcing herself to calm down. "That is out of the question, Reynolds-sensei," she tells him in a more level tone of voice, her despisal evident in her brevity alone. Who does he think he is? Changing Haruka's sex as if she was some kind of prop, only important in the moment she is on stage with Michiru... "Think about it, Miss Kaioh," Luke-san dares her, "no one will be able to tell the difference." He clicks his ballpoint. "As far as I've been told, Miss Tenoh does make it a point to cross-dress –" click "and I've heard she sometimes deliberately –" click "misleads people – girls especially – into believing she is male..." click. Every statement is dripping with scorn, and Michiru feels the waves inside her finally breaking against the shore, roaring in an uncontrolled rage. Kaioh Michiru is a patient woman. She is not easily angered and does not react on impulse unless it concerns people for whom she deeply cares; she isn't bothered much by what people think of her – which is probably good, seeing that many consider her cold and snobby – but there is one thing she will not stand for. No one shall ridicule Haruka to her face, because Tenoh Haruka is the strongest person Michiru has ever met. Haruka has sacrificed everything in order to stay loyal to herself and her beliefs. No one, least of all Luke Reynolds, shall look down upon that because of something as insignificant as clothing. Narrowing her eyes until they're nothing but ocean blue slits, allowing the man on the other side of the table to finally see a small flicker of the power her alter ego (Sailor Neptune) possesses, Michiru leans forward, the civility she has managed to uphold throughout most of the conversation fading away, replaced by sharp, steely frustration. Her patience has worn thin. "How Haruka does and doesn't dress has nothing to do with her wanting to be a man," she says, pronouncing each word as if Reynolds-san is one of the children in her art class, needing the explanation fed with a spoon, because his understanding of the material he is working with is still at a beginner's stage. Her tone is chilly; detached. Before her inner eye, Michiru sees Haruka, sprawled on their bed, naked and unashamed; confident in her own body as she laughs at something Michiru has said. How often has Michiru not observed Haruka's reflection like that in the big mirror in their room, pretending to be absorbed in brushing her hair. Haruka doesn't dress like she does because she is unwilling to admit to her gender, but because she hates when her surroundings associate her with the stereotypical attributes of the fair sex. After all, Michiru's tomboyish lover is no different when dressed as a man than when dressed as a woman – but Michiru knows how she highly prefers the way people treat her when they see her as Tenoh Haruka and not just the girl, Haruka. "People believe what is most convenient to them, and Haruka simply chooses not to correct them," Michiru persists, noticing the flash of contempt in Luke-san's eyes as she points out the truth of the people who judge Haruka and herself – people like him. "That says more about the world than about her, I believe." It isn't Haruka's fault that the world in general is sexist. It isn't their fault that the opinion Reynolds-sensei is demonstrating has been allowed to find expression in the legislation of an entire nation; the collective mind of the western world. No, Michiru will not take the responsibility in this regard, no matter how much Luke-san is trying to force her to do exactly that. "Such a heroic little speech –" Reynolds-san replies sarcastically, Michiru knowing that she has been talking to deaf ears. With a sigh, she interrupts his rant before it has even begun. "She would never claim to be a man and therefore I cannot allow you to do it for her, Luke-san." Closing her eyes for a moment to gain the calmness of the sea when the storm has passed, already convinced she will not like anything Reynolds-sensei has to say from the point onwards, she asks: "What's the other option?" Lips pressed together in a thin line, Luke-san lets his eyes roam the tabletop, the ballpoint pen lying abandoned on top of a stack of papers. Michiru relaxes back into the chair, disregarding the pain in the small of her back from the uncomfortable position her body is forced to stay in, the back of the chair squashing her spine. With a hard, determined expression, the organizer pulls a thin folder from one of the drawers in his writing desk, pushing it towards her. Folding her hands atop her knees, Michiru looks from the portfolio to Luke-san's face, waiting for him to explain. "We have a brilliant pianist who graduated with straight As last summer," he flips open the folder, revealing a small picture of a tall, handsome youth with hints of Asian features, dark purple hair and a beaming grin. The picture fills Michiru with sympathy. This boy understands the music of love, she's sure of it. "Brad Ryo Summers," Luke-san's voice is filled with a certain pride that Michiru hasn't heard him expressing before, "he's written his term paper on your compositions and would see it as a great honour to accompany you on stage." Reynolds-sensei raises his gaze to meet hers, watching her as she contemplates the picture. Michiru knows what he wants her to do; he wants her to accept that they announce some kind of secret romance between her and "a fan" – who is very practically a male – and at the same time it will give the graduate his debut as a musician. With the feelings she detected in Luke-san's voice, he hosts certain warm opinion of this particular pupil... The fact that the large man in front of her is capable of compassion... for this student of his, but not for Haruka or herself... Lifting her chin defiantly, Michiru shakes her head. The boy who she feels an unconscious empathy towards is not going to play a part in this game of prejudice any more than Haruka is. She is not interested in having Brad Summers play the ensemble she has dedicated to the melody of her heart – the melody she originally composed with Haruka in mind. Because Haruka might not be a master pianist (she hasn't devoted her life to music in the same way Michiru has), but she has an instinctive feel for Michiru's music like no one else does. Haruka manages to do what Michiru has found nobody else able to – she captures the story written on the music sheets and expresses the original atmosphere of it. That in itself is enough for Michiru to not allow anyone else to accompany her when she performs her own pieces. "I don't think you've quite understood my point, Luke-san," she says quietly, her respectful smile back in play and her eyes shining like bottomless ponds in the last, remaining beams of the setting sun. Around her the lamps in the office are turned on automatically, one by one – the snapping sounds echoing in the stillness following Michiru's words. "I wish to perform with Haruka and no one else..." "Then you'll have to stay cousins," Reynolds-san dismisses her, the sharp note of his announcement telling her that he is tired of this game – this battle of words. Getting to her feet, Michiru draws her cardigan closer around her shoulders. Luke-san stands up as well. "I do hope you will still stay for the concert," he says without enthusiasm, looking bored. He doesn't care whether she stays or not, Michiru is certain – it's all a question of money and that he has enough of as it is. She will only be an absent pay check and perhaps one problem less. "Oh, I'll play at your concert, Reynolds-sensei," Michiru responds coolly, squaring her shoulders and straightening up; at her full height she only has to move up her gaze a little to meet his eyes directly, "but only because I respect Inari-san for her effort in getting me this engagement." Stepping back and bowing to him once more in the way she has been raised to view as the standard greeting, she turns around, heading for the door. If he believes she is the losing party, he is wrong. Michiru just didn't win this round. "Do you expect me to apologize?" The question – asked in a brusque, self-assured manner – makes her stop in front of the door. Turning around, she smiles softly, her eyes softening until they are the same colour as the small innocent waves nibbling at the beach on a warm summer's day. "I could ask you the same thing," Michiru answers gently, without any traces of the shame it is so obvious that he wants her to feel. For a split-second, Reynolds-san looks astonished; taken back by her mild attitude. Bowing once more, she exits just as wordlessly as she entered through the door to the hallway which has now been overtaken by the peace of curfew. He makes no attempt to prevent her from leaving; probably believing that her departure means she has accepted her shortcoming regarding this topic. She hasn't. Why should she? No, Michiru hasn't lost yet, because not winning does not equal being defeated – only giving up does. That is the most important rule in war.
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