Aftermath
by Tin Mandigma
NOTE: This Weiss Kreuz fanfic takes place five years after the ending (of
the TV series, at least). Since I did not exactly know what the ending is
when I conceptualized this story, I hope I could be forgiven for the
liberties I took in twisting the conclusion to suit my own ends ^_^v;;
Just how twisted it is would manifest itself soon enough. BTW, I made
use of non-yaoi pairings (e.g., Ran/Sakura, Ken/Aya...) in this fic,
again for my own nefarious purposes *manic laughter*. Not that I have
anything against WK yaoi (I love Ken and Yohji, thanks to Deena-chan),
but the fic wouldn't write itself in any other way *grin*.
Very ROUGH draft.
=========================================================================
Weiss Kreuz is copyrighted to Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiss. Characters
in this fanfic, except where otherwise noted, are used without permission.
========================================================================
<< >> - denotes flashback sequence
*The first scene of this chapter has a rather self-contained feel about it ^^;;
I initially conceived of 'Aftermath' as a series of short stories and
wrote it as such. I discarded the idea later on when I discovered that
I was actually repeating myself at some points ^_^v. Will revise.
Chapter 1:
The old man was drooling on her shoulder.
Tomoe Sakura edged away slowly, careful not to disturb the sleeper.
The latter grunted as his head knocked on the hard planes of his
seat's back rest before lolling back onto the soft contours of her
neck. Sakura gripped the arm rest of the seat next to hers for
support, waiting for the exact moment when the bus would jolt
and lift her unwelcome burden for a few precious milliseconds into
the air...
Ane--*there*... Sakura slid onto the vacant seat with a quick motion,
wincing as a flailing hand whizzed past her ear followed by the
unmistakable sound of something heavy--the old man's head, she
supposed--falling on the
She breathed a sigh of relief as her fellow passenger finally gave
up and used the window as his pillow instead. She straightened her
shirt with a wry tug, wincing as her fingers brushed against a
wet spot on her collar. Sakura shook her head amusedly. 'Being
a drool-magnet definitely has its drawbacks.'
The bus gave another jolt and her bag fell on the floor with a loud
thunk, depositing her wallet, sweater and a couple of books on the
aisle. Big heavy books. Sakura reached down in resignation. 'Serves
me right for thinking chemistry was just the right thing to read in
a bus... Damn,' she thought as her wallet started to slide its way
down, down, down...
"Here, I'll get those," a deep voice murmured. She looked up,
flashed a smile of thanks. The owner of the voice, who was sitting
across the aisle, grabbed the runaway purse and the books with one swift
movement of a long arm.
Sakura grinned as she obligingly picked up her sweater. "Thank you."
Her rescuer--a teenager, for he couldn't be more than that despite
his voice--blushed. "Uh, sure, no problem." He handed her
things back to her, an answering grin pasted on his pale face. "Here
you go... You're a chemistry major?" he said and blushed again.
"Couldn't help but read the titles, sorry."
"Biochemistry actually," she murmured abstractedly as she squeezed
her bag under her seat.
"Whoa," was the exclaimed reply. "That's cool!"
Sakura sighed as she lifted her head to study her new-found acquaintance.
'He's cute,' she decided wryly. 'And young.' She took note of the neat black
uniform and the equally respectable school bag. 'Very young.' She
smiled again. "It's no big deal," she answered gently with an affected
shrug.
"I want to study chemistry, too, as soon as I get to university," he
replied, tugging his forelock.
Sakura found the gesture oddly touching. 'Was I this young before?'
"And when would that be?" she questioned, knowing she shouldn't be
encouraging the conversation, but the young man was far better company
than the older, safer but infinitely less impressionable man sleeping so
peacefully at her left.
Her acquaintance flushed an even deeper shade of red. "In three years,
I guess," he muttered, probably embarrassed at having to confess his
age.
Fifteen. Youth ended at fifteen; at least in her case, it did.
Or, more accurately, *he* made sure it did. A reminiscent smile
curved her lips, surprisingly absent of the tinge of bitterness
which used to edge it before. The realization gratified her, made her feel
invincible. "What's your name?" she ventured.
"Shiro," he answered with a hesitant flourish. "Morita Shiro."
'Brave, brave boy,' she thought.
"And--and you?" Shiro returned in his man's voice.
She paused for a moment, remembering how and where she first met
*him*. She took risks then, she realized later on. He didn't.
The odds lay on his side from the very start. "Sakura," she
murmured.
The smile just wouldn't leave Shiro's face. She returned it with
interest, comparing, contrasting... "Where are you studying, Sakura-san?"
"England," she answered simply, waiting for his reaction, knowing
what she would see.
The expression on his face was breathtaking to say the least. "Wow!
That's great, Sakura-san!"
Her eyes darkened; she felt gratified, sad, detached, indulgent, all
at the same time. Was this how it was for him then as well? How
she seemed to him? A reminder, a novelty, a fleeting distraction.
"It's no big deal," she repeated.
"But it is!" he burst out, unmindful of the stern looks the other
passengers kept throwing his way. "I mean, did you go on scholarship...?"
"Yes."
"When?" he demanded.
'Ah,' she thought amusedly. 'Here it comes.' "Four years ago."
His mouth worked in shock. "You're in your twenties?"
She felt inexplicably threatened, all of a sudden. "Twenty," she retorted
stiffly.
"I'm so sorry, Sakura-san!" Shiro exclaimed, expression fearful,
unwillling to see this newfound idol driven into a seat of clay by
his own blunders. "It's not that you don't look--young. I didn't mean
to imply--" he stammered lamely.
Sakura sighed. "There's nothing to apologize for, Shiro-san. If
anything I'm flattered," she laughed lightly, reminded of her own
picture of shame in *his* eyes that long-ago night. He must have
felt like he was trapped in a kaleidoscope of emotions, unable to
do anything but to follow her lead and then trap her within as well.
"How did you do it?"
"Do?" she repeated blankly.
"Stay there for so long? You didn't come back, did you? Not once?"
"Not once," she agreed. "I wanted to--prove something then."
Shiro paused, hesitating. "I--"
She smiled at him. "Actually, I wanted to prove *lots* of things."
She shrugged. "Typical things, like, y'know, my worth, dreams...
"To prove," Shiro stated intently.
She understood. "Not exactly..." He shot her a look of surprise.
"To--save, I guess, at first. The proof came later on, when I
realized it wasn't really myself I was trying to save, but my--
place on the pedestal." She laughed again, remembering her sudden
plaintive appeal to Michael over dinner a couple of weeks ago.
Good old Michael. Constant dinner date, companion, friend, occasional
lover. She'd never have thought he'd be the one to straighten her out,
which is probably why she chose to ask him her life's number one
question. In retrospect, she supposed it was one of the best decisions
she ever made in her life. Maybe the *only* best decision.
<< "What's wrong with me, Michael?" she'd asked.
He didn't even blink, looking almost as he had actually expected that
question. "You don't know what you want," he answered calmly as he
poured a glass of wine.
*She* blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're after the wrong things, Sakura," Michael returned after a
preliminary sip. "Or thing, I should say."
"I--"
"You want to be desirable, and that's what you are."
She forced a laugh, trying to stall him. "Michael, you know that
flattery will get you everywhere--"
"Oh, shut up," he retorted languidly. "There you go again, trying to
confirm what you already know is true." He took another sip. "Sakura,
sweetheart, you've got it all backwards. You want to be admired, loved,
wanted, worthy--in a word, desirable--that's fine. But you have to know
just who you want to be desired by." He regarded her over the brim of
his glass. "Or maybe you do know but you're too afraid to admit it."
The shrewd thrust was as effective as a slap. "Damn you, Michael--"
"Let's not be violent, Sakura," he grinned. "I've known you since you
first arrived here looking like some--some sop whose master has deserted
her. And now look at you!" The grin became a laugh as she glared at him.
"You don't have anything left to prove to yourself, darling. You
knew that from the start."
"I don't want to talk about it anymore," she muttered.
"Oh you *should* talk about it, but not with me," Michael said wickedly.
"With *him*. Or, even better, don't talk. Demonstrate." And he laughed
even more. >>
"Sakura-san?"
She looked at Shiro's confused face. They had probably gone too far; one
did not discuss dreams and desires with mere acquaintances, even if they
were the very faces of those needs. No, she wouldn't be the one to
destroy his illusions. One day, another woman--or man--would come, and the
vicious cycle would repeat itself, and then understanding. There
was no greater threat to the love of another than the love of oneself. Or
was it the other way around? She shook her head. It had taken her a long
time before she could reconcile herself to her own imperfections and
failures; even longer before she could bear to accept his. Michael
was right. "Nothing. Please forget it, Shiro-san," she murmured gently.
"But--"
The bus slid to a stop, and she grabbed her possessions from underneath
her seat. Shiro watched her quietly as she stood up, balancing bag and
coat on one arm. The old man didn't even stir.
She smiled at both of them. "I have to go now."
"Maybe we could have coffee some time, Sakura-san?" Shiro inquired
hopefully.
She wouldn't destroy his youth, either. Her smile widened. "I'd
love that. Maybe one day."
"One day," he repeated solemnly.
Sakura walked quickly down the aisle. At the door she looked back.
Shiro had transferred to her seat, unaware of the half-awake old man
who had latched onto his wide shoulder. He waved at her. She waved
back, knowing he would find his purpose sooner or later; she only
hoped it wouldn't take him five years before he could get *there*.
'You want to be wanted. But by whom?'
She never really needed to think about it. A week after her 'talk'
with Michael, she had booked a ticket for Japan. Another week and
she was on her way--home.
As she emerged out into the open air, she felt exuberant, defiant,
gut-wrenchingly hopeful. It was bound to come out, anyway, but she
wanted to be absolutely sure--
Or not.
Constant denial had its merits, double-edged though they may be.
One, you realize its futility.
Two, it strengthens your resolve.
In her case, it did both.
There was no use denying anymore that she wanted Fujimiya Aya.
"Sakura-chan! Over here!"
Ran, she corrected herself as she walked toward a familiar dark-haired
girl, an answering smile lighting up her features. She wouldn't have left
Japan in the first place if she couldn't care less about Aya--Ran.
Fujimiya Ran.
She wanted Fujimiya RAN.
There.
And he *would* want her back, she resolved.
And may the gods help them both if she failed.
"Aya!"
It wasn't quite really what she wanted to say, but it was close.
The phone rang--
She flinched in surprise, her hand retreating abruptly from its careful
perch on her half-clad leg. A nail promptly got caught in a stretch of fine
netting, tore it in the middle, and twisted its way out with an abrasive scratch.
She cursed fluently.
--and rang.
Mutinously, she waited for another shrill scream before picking it up.
"Yes?" she snapped.
"Not even a hello? You're slipping."
Despite herself, she smiled. "You interrupted me in the middle of a very
delicate process."
"You *are* slipping. Delicate process or not, we have a timetable to
keep."
"Shut up," she retorted laughingly as she yanked another pair of
stockings from her half-open suitcase.
"So who is it?"
"My panty hose."
"You're that nervous."
"Of course not," she snapped. "I've done this countless of times before."
"Manx--"
"I told you not to call me 'Manx,'" she reiterated in a milder tone of
voice. She slid the fragile nylon up her leg, luxuriating in its silken
feel. "I've--half-forgotten that name."
"I thought this was supposed to be like old times. Or would you rather
I called you--"
"All right, Birman," she cut in as she groped for her lipstick. 'Not
here. Damn.'
A pause and then, "He's gone, Manx. We're on our own."
She stood up and walked over to the vanity table, cradling the phone on
her chin. Her makeup kit lay on its side, strewing tubes and sticks and
compacts on the wooden surface. "I'm aware of that, too, Birman," she said
softly as she rummaged for that lipstick... that exact red shade... "Don't
you go sentimental on me, OK? You know as well as I do that I've accepted
his--loss a long long time ago. It's not--" She closed her mouth abruptly,
cursing herself for her slip.
She could almost see Birman's pencilled eyebrows dangling high up in the
air. "So, it's not him, but *him*."
There. Found it. Her hand closed over the slim tube, opened it with
a jerky movement. "Who?"
"Him."
"Care to be a bit less obtuse, Birman?" she muttered as she pursed her
lips. She tried not to see the rest of her face in the mirror, or the
red hair streaming over her shoulders, the matching suit with its
businesslike collar...
'Like old times.'
"Come off it, Manx. I know."
"What--"
"You never told me but I know something happened between you. What was
it?"
"Nothing."
Birman's voice assumed a lecturing edge. "This is a mission, Manx.
Personal feelings could be a hindrance--"
Her hand shook and the lipstick landed with a gooey smear on her
chin. "Shit."
"What is it now?" Birman asked sharply.
"My lipstick."
"Damn it, Manx--!"
She grabbed a couple of tissues from the drawer. "Now who's losing
control, Birman?"
"But--"
She rubbed her chin free of lipstick angrily. "I can handle this, Birman.
I appreciate your concern, however misplaced it may be. And I certainly
don't need the lecture, OK?" She took a deep breath. "I've settled
everything a long time ago."
But Birman was unstoppable. "You rejected him?"
Hah. If only she had the chance.
"Let's just say it was not a one-sided affair," she said curtly.
"I'll bet."
She gritted her teeth. "I hope you didn't call me just so you could
nag me, Birman."
"Of course not!" came the mocking answer. "The papers are in the
bank, just like you requested. The customer would keep in touch via
the agreed security channels."
"In other words, everything's OK."
"Yes."
"Damn it, Birman!"
"Just don't get carried away, Manx." A click, a beep...
And the line went dead.
She tossed the phone onto the bed, half-angry, half-exasperated. Birman
was the ultimate test of any person's patience; the fact that she was
*her* best friend didn't help mollify her in the least. Birman should have
known better, been more sensitive...
She was nervous enough as it is, goddamn it.
Not because of *him*, as Birman so slyly put it, she thought obdurately.
Because of *them*. It had been years after all. She'd kept in touch,
of course, but still...
Mentally, she ran their faces over in her mind, seeing them as they
were five years ago, hearing their voices.
'Another mission.'
Aya, Ken, Omi... Yohji.
The lipstick fell on the table with a shaky clatter.
So maybe she was a *bit* nervous.
"Awfully quiet, aren't we?"
Sakura grinned and shook her head. "I was just marveling at the usual
city sights." She waved a hand in the air, face turned up to the Tokyo
skyline. "Things haven't changed. Much."
Aya laughed and twined her arm closer around the other girl's. "Oh, you
haven't seen everything yet. It's the novelty of coming home, I think.
You see what old-timers like me take for granted."
"I guess," Sakura acknowledged.
"Do your parents know you're back?"
Sakura nodded, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Yes, but
they're in Nagasaki right now. We'll see each other in a couple of weeks."
Aya glanced at her. "Where will you be staying then?"
"In our old place," she answered. She'd already had her luggage sent
over to her aunt's.
There was a significant pause. "You could stay in my house," Aya offered
with just the right amount of casualness.
She'd been prepared for it, but her heart skipped a beat nonetheless.
"Thanks, but I'll be fine on my own," she responded airily.
Another sly sidelong glance. "Are you sure?"
The hint was too obvious to be ignored. Sakura stopped walking and
glared at her friend. Aya returned her gaze mischievously, mirroring
the exact expression on her face, and she burst out laughing, pretended
anger forgotten. "At least *you* haven't changed," Sakura said fondly.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Aya returned lightly. "I do so love
to be confused for Tomoe Sakura... when she was fifteen!"
Sakura studied the other girl's laughing profile warmly. It had been
a long time since they'd first met, in a manner of speaking, but she
still couldn't get over the resemblance. It was just as well the
awareness of affinity was not only skin-deep; this girl who looked like
the sister she never had *was* the sister she had always hoped to have.
And not only in *that* sense, she mused wryly. Their friendship had,
ironically, been strengthened by the distance which had separated them.
Aya was a constant reminder of what she had left behind, and what she
had left to come back to.
"Hey, a penny for your thoughts?"
She grinned, recognizing the aphorism. "Where did you learn *that*?"
"I read English books in the sly," Aya replied. "So? What *were*
you thinking?"
She decided to voice her thoughts out loud. It would probably cost
her money if she didn't. "I just realized how alike we look. I mean
I *have* noticed, but I've never really thought about it. Just like
sisters..."
"Oh. But we could be," Aya said innocently. "Sisters actually, I mean."
She pretended not to hear. There was a time, and a place for everything.
"Are you hungry?"
"Changing the subject?"
Sakura laughed. "Yes."
"But--"
"We could have some coffee, if you want. I'm starving!"
"You should have let me fetched you in the airport," Aya remarked
chidingly. "It's way past lunch time."
"I wanted to see Tokyo clearly by myself first," she answered,
unrepentant. "And I had a nice time in the bus..." She smiled
reminiscently. Maybe she should have that coffee with Shiro-kun.
"OK. I guess I better feed you then," Aya said cheerfully. She tugged
on Sakura's arm and pulled her across the street. "But we'll go
to my place first."
Sakura blinked. "Your place?"
"The guys are waiting for us there. And, if we're lucky, Obaasan probably
has a sandwich or two ready for you as well."
She cleared her throat. "Really?"
"Yeah," Aya said, still towing her by the arm. "Don't you want to see
Ran?"
"Ran who?" she queried innocently.
Aya gave another impatient tug. "Come off it, Sakura. You know just *who*
Ran is."
She hadn't planned it this way. Not exactly. She'd visualized a chance
meeting in a restaurant, or in a crowded store... Anywhere as long as she
could maintain an act of cool off-handedness, and she definitely could
not do that if she was alone with him.
But Ran and the guys...
And suddenly she remembered. 'Oh yes. How could I have forgotten?'
Maybe this was the right opportunity she had been waiting for.
"Sakura?" Aya questioned, a concerned expression on her face. "Look, if
you don't want to go, I was only teasing and--"
She shrugged, obediently trotting along after her friend. "It's OK,"
she answered casually. "No big deal. Where are you staying anyway?"
"At the Koneko no Sumu Ie," Aya said, glancing at her over her shoulder.
The Kitty House.
"Oh," she said.
Their eyes met, understanding each other all at once.
Sakura smiled slowly. "That's great."
Better than great, actually.
Perfect.
He was down to his last rose.
He held it gently between his fingertips, the other hand carefully probing
into the bouquet, slowly parting a niche in the middle to make way for
the ubiquitous latecomer, the beautiful final entry. His searching fingers
latched onto a hollow recess with satisfaction. With a deft twist, he placed
his prize onto its perch.
"Give me the ribbon," he murmured abstractedly.
Something heavy was placed on his hand. He looked at it. A huge white
ribbon lay on his palm; it was certainly suitable for an ostentatious wedding
present, not a rose bouquet. He gritted his teeth. "Not that. The *ribbon*.
For flowers. Understand?"
A muttered apology. He sighed and grabbed the roll of gold-edged netting
himself, unrolling it impatiently before twining the edges around the
bouquet.
"Finished?" someone inquired sarcastically.
He ignored the sarcasm. "In a minute." He gave the 'ribbon' one last tug
before holding it away from him, eyes intent as he studied his creation.
The arrangement was beautiful from a distance, he observed detachedly and
brought the bouquet closer to his face. Up close, it was perfect.
Symmetry, proportion, aesthetic appeal, neatness... He mentally ticked off
the points. 'This should do.'
He placed the bouquet on the desk, careful not to disturb the flowers.
"I'm through," he said, dusting his hands on his apron as he turned to
regard the others.
Ken and Omi returned his stare with what could only be termed as speechless
disbelief. He raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Yohji grinned as he pushed his glasses up his nose. "I must say, Aya,
you do know how to keep your touch." He raised a conciliatory hand.
"Sorry, guess we never figured you would actually become a botanist.
I mean, hell, Ken maybe, but you..."
He shrugged coolly as he divested himself of his apron before hanging
the garment on a nearby peg. "It's my job." He pulled another chair
to the table, nodding slightly as Omi indicated the coffee pot with
an inclination of his head. "I'll have a cup, thanks."
"I suppose it is that," Yohji murmured reflectively. "I do miss working
in a flower shop--"
"Not enough girls in your gig, eh, Yohji?" Ken put in.
Yohji waved his hand airily. "Get real, Ken. I manage a nightclub.
Of course there are girls!"
Omi looked up from his sedate pouring. "Maybe you've been living in
the fast lane for too long, Yohji. Wanna trade?"
Yohji stared at him incredulously. "Did I just hear you say you're
willing to mix n' match in a *club*, Omi-kun?" He clapped a hand
over his forehead mock-seriously. "What have the years done to
you, guys? Aya owns a flower shop and he looks like he's actually
enjoying it; Omi wants to change places with me... wait a minute.
What is it that you exactly *do,* Omi-kun? The reports I receive from
Aya aren't exactly forthcoming."
"I manage a restaurant," Omi said casually as he handed a cup
to Aya. "On the side, I also own shares in a software company
which specializes in importing and modifying pirated--software."
He smiled. "Lots of excellent contacts, but boring sometimes."
"What the hell--?!" Yohji demanded. He turned to Ken. "Is this true,
Kenken?"
Ken shrugged. "In a nutshell."
Yohji nudged him. "And aren't you going to share?"
"You know what *I* do, Yohji," Ken muttered.
"I don't think so," Yohji retorted as he leaned back in his chair.
"Aya told me Omi's job was to establish networks, and that yours
was to solidify them, whatever the hell that meant. I assumed you
went back to sports, or something." He grinned. "Wait a
sec. Let me guess. You run a pharmaceutical firm stocked full
with steroids!"
Ken rolled his eyes. "Fine. I--own a private investigation firm."
Yohji sputtered. "The hell you do!" He turned to Aya. "I thought
we were supposed to stay underground."
He didn't move. "Ken is careful, and we need his information. We're
toeing the line here, Yohji."
"I could see that," Yohji muttered. "And now? We cross the boundary
once again?" he finished, a tinge of bitterness darkening his voice.
"Yes," he answered guardedly, studying them over the rim of his
coffee cup. It was the first time they had come face to face with
each other like this; he had seen them over the course of the years,
but always singly, never together as a group. After the entire
Takatori--fiasco, they had all agreed that staying together was
far too dangerous. Their identities were probably on file; it was
safer to disperse, to start new lives. Not that it had been easy,
he reflected. Manx and Birman had helped give them the security they
needed; it was perhaps too much to ask that they be left alone for
good. The cover stories which they had been given had a price.
The networks Yohji had mentioned had only been part of the deal.
Weiss Kreuz still existed; as with Persia, they were now at the beck
and call of the employer, in this case, his former secretaries. Not
that he minded personally. Like Yohji said, it was a job and something
he was forced to admit he was loath to give up.
Despite the fact that he already had Aya.
Especially *because* he had Aya.
The past few years had been relatively peaceful, but he had been unable
to completely pick up the pieces of his former life... His life as Ran, Aya's
brother. A part of him still existed in the shadow of his hate and
longing for revenge, and it was a part which he did not--couldn't really--
let go of. Saving his sister had driven him to Weiss Kreuz; the need to
protect her and their life together had kept him within. And he *was*
happy... almost happy, at least. And that should be enough.
He simply did not have the right--or the desire--to ask for more.
His gaze strayed toward the flowers resting on the table, pale petals
irridiscent in the bright afternoon sunlight which streamed into the shop.
Despite Ken and Yohji's repeated cracks about his apathy toward flower
arrangement unless it earned money, as had only been too visible during
their first years in the shop, what had started as a job had become so much
more. He wondered when the feeling of--rightness had begun, when he had
started to look at flowers not only as delicate ornaments, but as
*beauty* in themselves. Like miniature fragments of a dream almost become
reality, was how someone described it to him; bits and pieces of the
happiness he had shunned.
"Aya? You OK?" Ken asked, waving a hand in front of his face.
Yohji smirked. "He's probably fantasizing about a girl."
His grip tightened on the coffee cup. 'Keep your thoughts on the roses.'
"What girl?" Omi inquired curiously.
He didn't answer, concentrating instead on his coffee. "I don't know
what you're talking about."
"Denials, denials," Yohji taunted. "Don't tell me you've managed to
keep those cute little school girls at bay for five whole years?
Of course, maybe they stopped coming when I quit working here but still--"
"Back off, Yohji," Ken said dryly.
"Like hell," Yohji retorted, resting an arm across the back of his
chair. "I seem to recall one particularly cute girl who had a big
crush on Aya here... Or was it vice-versa?" He wriggled his eyebrows.
"What was 'er name...? Haven't seen her for a long time. Does she
still come over, Aya, or did you successfully piss her off?"
He put his cup down on the table with a loud clatter. "She's gone,"
he clipped out.
Ken stared at him, whether in surprise at his answer or at the
fact that he answered, he wasn't sure. "Where did she go?"
He couldn't seem to stop. "England."
"Do you miss her?" Omi asked softly, dangling his nearly empty glass
of juice loosely in his hand. His gaze was fixed on the bouquet of flowers.
Aya shrugged and took another sip of non-existent coffee. "It's been
a long time. Five years." His hand was shaking; he nearly dropped the
cup.
"Does it matter?" Omi again.
"I should think it does," Ken murmured. "If I remember correctly, that
girl helped us save Aya-cha--" He coughed, ignoring the others' sidelong
looks. "Aya-san."
Yohji looked from one to the other. "I do not believe we're actually
having *this* conversation."
He could not believe it, either. Not that he wanted to talk about anything
else... Perversely, he changed the subject. "Manx would be here anytime soon."
"Manx?" It was Yohji's turn to tense. "*She's* in charge? I thought
Birman will handle us!"
"No," he answered slowly, gauging Yohji's reaction. "Manx is our controller."
"What's wrong, Yohji?" Ken asked lightly. "I thought you had the hots for
Manx."
"Not now," Yohji snapped.
Aya regarded him narrowly, noting the other's pale tightly-controlled
features. "Is there something you aren't telling us, Yohji?"
The taut lines fell back into smooth place. "No--no," Yohji answered
and resumed his lounging position. "Of course not. I was just surprised."
He laughed lightly. "Haven't seen Manx for quite some time..."
Ken snorted disbelievingly. Yohji glared at him.
Aya was about to pursue the issue when Omi cut him off. "Speaking of
long absences, where is Aya-san?"
"You mean the real thing?" Yohji asked pointedly. He smiled widely. "What
do you think, Ken?"
Ken shifted in his seat, looking away from the others' scrutiny. "Whatever."
He *knew* he was missing something. First with Yohji, now with Ken...
A vague suspicion crossed his mind. As soon as it did, he dismissed it.
There was absolutely no way...
"So? Where is Aya-san, Aya?" Yohji questioned and grinned. "Or maybe
we should call you--"
The front door swung open suddenly in a merry rattle of chimes. He half-rose
from his chair, reaching for his work apron...
"Ran? I'm back."
Aya entered the shop, a bag of fruits in her hand, smiling. The
smile widened when she saw Omi and Yohji, the latter of whom promptly
mock-swooned on his seat with a hand over his heart. She turned
toward her brother, but the smile abruptly froze on her face when
she caught sight Ken who was sitting next to the door.
He raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Ken's transfixed expression.
He definitely did *not* miss that interesting little exchange. Frowning,
he wondered if--
Aya had apparently broken free of her momentary stupor. "Look who's
come home with me, Niichan."
'Come home?'
"Who--?" he began when another girl walked into the room. He stopped
short as his gaze moved with slow fascination from the thick auburn
hair to the finely-shaped face to the deep violet eyes, so much like
Aya's--and his--own.
He dimly heard the sound of Yohji crashing onto the floor over the
sudden frantic pounding of his heart, but he didn't move. He could
only watch, and wait...
"Hello, Ran-san," she said, bowing politely.
'These flowers... Like a dream almost become reality...'
The name when he said it was nearly unrecognizable, so eagerly had
his strangled voice twisted the syllables within and into each
other. "Sakura."
She fought the urge to fling herself into his arms and wipe that
decidedly catatonic look off his face with a well-placed kiss.
Instead, she forced herself to take a step back, smiling for all
the world like the casually polite visitor that she was--or appeared
to be. She turned to the other men clustered around the table, allowing
a surprised expression to cross her face as she noted how much
*they* had changed. Not just--him.
"It's been a long time," she smiled. "You don't look like flower
boys anymore."
Yohji had picked himself up off the floor. "Except for *Ran*," he
said smoothly, smiling back at her. He knew, of course, smartass
that he was. "Hello, Sakura-san. How was England?"
Cool detachment made way for a look of wistful longing. "Wonderful."
"You've made many friends there, I guess?" Yohji prodded, eyes alight.
Ken made a choking sound. "I'm sure Sakura-san had enough to keep her--
entertained."
Omi nodded solemnly. "Don't worry about staying in Japan, though, Sakura-san.
Aya would look after you," he said with deliberate--and meaningful--obtuseness.
Sakura stole a bemused glance at one of the Ayas, who was obviously trying to
control her laughter. Yohji, Ken and Omi only gazed at her with wide-eyed
innocence. *They* had a very clearly-marked sense of fun, after all.
This time, her surprise was genuine. They had seemed 'cool'
to her five years ago, but she had never really considered them--young.
They were people with causes beyond the reach of the banalities of school
life and adolescent problems. She had seen them as 'flower boys,' of
course, but then her attention had always been fixed on Aya...
'Ran,' she corrected. Speaking of whom, *he* still hadn't spoken, except
for that time when he had--in a manner of speaking--said her name.
She turned to look at him, intent on making another suggestive but
very polite comment...
But he was gone.
End of Chapter 1
NOTE: I didn't want to cut it off there, but it would have been too
long if I'd included the next--scene ^_^;;.
(
geocities.com/tokyo/market) (
geocities.com/tokyo)