Takeru and Hikari don't belong to me. Indeed, they belong to and with each other. (And Toei, but it doesn't sound as sappily romantic!)

Thanks to the lovely, talented and charming Wolfie and Arylwren for their help and encouragement.

To respond to some reviews,

* I'm pretty sure Japanese women do change their names on getting married, although I'd surmise it's a fairly recent development. I'm basing this solely on my textbook where they've always had wives with the same surname as their husbands. And Japan is pretty patriarchal so I can't see the man changing his name. I stand open to correction, however.

* In this story, Takeru is 20 and Hikari is 21.

* I'm intrigued by what you meant when you said you knew where this was going. I can't reply to this directly because you didn't specify what you anticipated, but I can assure you this isn't going to be your stereotyped ending with a fairy godmother pops in and fixes everything. . . .

***

DANCING

PART TWO

‘GOOD NIGHT, MY BELOVED’

Just the sound of the cars on the road, cutting through the wind

And the beat of our hearts echo through the room before the dawn

Thank you, I want to protect you forever

Please throw away your bad premonitions

Good night my beloved

~ Itoshii Hito yo Good Night, B’z

Wearing only a smiling face at any time hurts,

but I do not have anything but my bravery.

For a little while in bed, I will put aside my courage in sleep

Again, I will go to that place of rest.

~ Yasashii Ame, Araki Kae

*

With a frustrated sound, Takeru drew a thick, black line through the first paragraph of his short story, then crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the bin. He didn’t know why he was bothering with being such a perfectionist when he knew it was pointless. No matter how hard he tried or how good his work was, he would get the same, low mark and the same, sarcastic comments about ‘sticking to shooting hoops’ from his lecturer.

It couldn’t be his actual writing. He’d seen work by other people in his class, and knew without a trace of doubt or arrogance that his was better. And Hikari had always liked his stories when he had shown them to her. She kept asking him to write a sequel to one of them. Still, he had a sneaking suspicion that she was not the most unbiased reader when it came to judging the quality of his writing. In all probability, he could have written a shopping-list and she would have thought it wonderful, because it had been done by him. He was no different when it came to her photographs. They could have been out of focus and cut off half their subjects, he thought wryly, and he would have been surprised that an art gallery didn’t want to hang them. Love was the death of criticism.

Perhaps his lecturer was right, he thought, leaning back in his chair and tapping his notebook with his pencil. Perhaps he was just a dumb jock who belonged on a court and not in a lecture-hall. Perhaps he should just give up and see his classes like some of his other team-mates did: an excuse to play on a university team and be spotted by a pro scout.

After all, that was who he was. He was Takaishi Takeru, captain of the basketball team. Most mornings and afternoons found him on Odaiba University’s courts, either at practice sessions or at matches. On his days off, he was paid to coach it at local high-schools. He was going to play it professionally one day. Everyone knew that about him. So, why was he bothering to work hard at his classes and to get good marks? Why did it even matter whether he passed his writing course or whether his lecturer thought he was a dumb jock who was only in the course because there were fewer books to read? He only knew that a part of him felt freer and happier when he was writing than he ever did on the court.

He sighed and bent over his notebook again. He had been working steadily for about an hour, during which time he had finally hammered out his opening paragraph and the wastebasket had overflowed onto the floor, when he felt a pair of cool hands close over his eyes. They smelt of rose geranium hand-cream and astringent, developing chemicals.

“Guess who?” a familiar voice demanded.

“Hmm . . . Sounds like Taichi?”

“Idiot,” Hikari slid over the side of his chair to sit on his lap, before wrapping her arms around his neck and brushing her lips to his. At first, the kiss was soft, their lips barely touching, but it quickly deepened. The light kisses became slow and sweet, then hot and passionate. She tilted back her head, and he kissed her throat, her neck, her collarbone. He could feel her pulse quicken beneath his lips. His hand went to her shoulder to take off her jacket, but she pulled away from him with a shaky, little laugh,“Hey, Takeru, don’t make me hate having to go back to work tonight even more. You have no idea how close I am to blowing off the Kobayashi wedding at the moment.”

He exhaled deeply, trying to regain his composure, “Would that be a bad thing? I kinda hoped I’d have you to myself tonight.”

He traced the curve of her calf in an unspoken suggestion. It was a light, feather-like touch, but he felt Hikari shiver. Her cinnamon-sugar eyes were dark with passion, and her lips were parted as if in a kiss. He leaned closer to oblige her, but she pushed him away with a hand and slid gracefully off his lap.

“I have to get changed,” she told him, straightening her clothes, “The wedding starts in about twenty minutes.”

As she disappeared into the bedroom, Takeru sighed and leaned back in his chair, “I knew it was too good to be true. I didn’t expect to see you until after the wedding tonight, anyway. Let me guess . . . you and Miyako had a fight about the dance.”

“No-o,” Hikari replied hesitantly, her voice muffled, “It was more me yelling at her and making an idiot of myself in public than an actual fight. No biggie. I'll phone her tomorrow and apologise.”

Smiling to himself, “So, do you want to go?”

“Go where?”

“To the dance.”

“I have nothing to wear.”

“You could buy something,” he suggested, “I know you're paying off the camera, but I’ve got the money I was saving for the basketball camp in America at the end of the year. You could . . .”

“Don’t even think it!” Hikari reappeared in the doorway, buttoning up a red jacket. Beneath it, she was wearing a simple, white blouse and a knee-length skirt which was printed with tiny roses. It was the outfit she had worn to Jyou and Mimi’s wedding, and he realised with a sharp pain how tired and worn she was looking in comparison to that time. He wished there was something he could do to make things easier for her, something more than giving her money for a dress, “You’re absolutely not giving me your savings. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to that camp.”

“I can miss it,” he argued, “It’s not as important to me as you are, and . . . God, Hikari, I’m worried about you. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“If I’m about to collapse, then I probably shouldn’t be dancing,” she said tartly, walking up to him and kissing him on the cheek, “I’ll be back late, love. Don’t wait up for me. And don’t worry about me. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“That’s my line,” he replied, lifting her hand and touching his lips to her palm, “And how late is late? I don’t mind waiting up if . . . .” (1)

He trailed off suggestively.

Laughing, “Someone has a one track mind today. I'd better get going before you convince me to skip this stupid wedding. Goodbye, Takeru.”

"Bye, love."

*

It was after midnight by the time Hikari returned home, and their apartment was dark, apart from the kitchen light, which Takeru always left on for her. She kicked off her shoes at the door, leaving them next to his sneakers, and padded through to their bedroom on stockinged feet. Unsurprisingly, her husband was already asleep. The sound of his deep, peaceful breathing filled the room. She tiptoed closer to him, and was oddly touched to see that he had reached out for her during the night. His arm was flung across her side of the bed, and his hand was closed around a fold of sheet.

With a sigh of her own, she sat on the edge of the bed, stripping off her stockings and dropping them onto the floor. Her flimsy, rose-print skirt and red jacket soon followed them. She sat still for a moment, stretching out her bare legs in front of her, staring at the blankness of the wall. Her body felt heavy, and her feet throbbed from standing behind the studio’s counter all afternoon and behind a photographic tripod all evening. She thought she would scream if she had to develop one more set of holiday snaps or take one more photo of blushing bride plus groom plus wedding party. She covered her mouth to hide a yawn, and realised that she had forgotten to take off her ring.

She smiled to herself as she drew it off her finger and held it up the light to admire it. It was a slim, silver band, delicately engraved and set with a highly-polished piece of rose-quartz. She knew her friends thought that Takeru had been cheap because he had not bought her a diamond ring, but money had had nothing to do with it. When she had been a little girl, she had believed that all diamonds were pink. She had been so disappointed the first time she had seen one on a woman’s finger - it had been so white, chilly and brilliant. She had half-expected it to melt, because it had looked so much like a piece of ice to her. She had told Takeru the story once in passing many years ago, but he had remembered it and chosen the silver band because of it. And her ring was more precious to her than all diamonds for that.

Putting it on the bedside table, she glanced across to where he was sleeping and warmth rose up in her. She would have thought it impossible before she got married, but she fell in love with him all over again every time she woke up in the morning and returned home in the evening. It wasn’t only his looks - the way his hair fell across his forehead, or the way his mouth was always curved in a slight smile, or even the way his back was so finely muscled - but it was the innocent sweetness that had always been a part of him and that she doubted he would ever outgrow.

Her chest tight with an almost painful love, she slipped beneath his arm and put her own around him. His skin was very soft and warm; she could feel his heart beating against her. With her forefinger, she traced the muscles of his side, and felt them tighten in response. He stirred slightly, pulling away from her with a grunt of protest, but did not wake. She giggled. His ticklishness was one of his cutest qualities. It was one of the ways she knew the little boy she had known was still present in the man she had married.

Softly kissing his cheek, Hikari rested her head on his shoulder and whispered, “You do know I love you, don’t you?”

“Do I wake you up when I leave early in the morning for practice?” a tired-sounding voice grumbled from above her head. She looked up to see Takeru squinting blearily at her out of a single, blue eye, while the other was squeezed tightly shut. His hair was tousled into unruly spikes around his face, his forehead was crumpled like a used sheet, and he was rubbing the side of his head. Despite all of that, however, he still managed to look indignant.

“Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, unable to stop herself from laughing, “I wish I had my camera, though.”

“Well, Hikari-chan should see herself some mornings,” he yawned, sinking back into his pillow.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, “You’re my husband. You’re only meant to say nice things about how incredibly beautiful I am and how lucky you are to have me.”

“Will you go to sleep if I do?” he asked hopefully.

“Maybe . . . .”

“Okay,” he mumbled, “Hikari-chan, you’re more beautiful than . . . a very beautiful thing and I’m . . . I’m . . . .”

Hikari waited expectantly for the rest of the sentence, but was rewarded only by the sounds of deep, regular breathing. She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him, and saw that he had gone back to sleep. So much for her romantic, midnight speech!

Muffling her laughter in his shoulder, she settled herself more comfortably against him and closed her eyes. His heartbeat was more soothing than any lullaby, and his arms, warmer than any blanket. It was strange, she thought, as she drifted off into sleep. She had expected their love, she had expected their passion, but she had not expected this sense of perfect peace that being with him, that sleeping in his arms, brought her. With him, she could just be still.

Outside the window, cars went by in the street, and a light rain began to fall.

*

NOTES:

(1) Takeru’s 01 image song is called ‘Be All Right’. It’s worthwhile getting - Konishi Hiroko was a professional singer with a group called Radish Roxs (gotta love those J-Pop names) for part of her career, and it shows. It’s slightly disconcerting, however, because she sounds a whole lot like an adult women and nothing like an eight year-old boy.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

The B’z translation is from Meg-chan’s site. (http://www.megchan.com/lyrics/translations/goodnightmybeloved.html) For those who have no idea who B’z is, they’re a J-pop group who I think do rather lovely songs.

*