Rainie's Grounds

Here, I post all the stories, snippets and outtakes from the stories from all of my accounts online. You can check me out on Quotev and fanfiction.net at rainieblack, and Raineee on archiveofourown. I have a website too, effeervescentlight! 

[rainieblack-blog]

Catch Me When I Fall [Chapter One]

This is darker than my usual stories, so I’ll just put some trigger warnings first. 

Hints to rape and child abuse. All my girls have difficult childhoods. 

Kurokawa Sayako is a pale, tiny thing practically drowning in her quilted puffer jacket, with sleeves so long her fingers barely peek out from them. Snow has melted in her hair, and in all appearances, she resembles a trembling kitten dragged from a snowstorm. However, she smiles sweetly up at the heavily scowling teen, at what should have been danger she backs fearfully away from.

Her smile is two parts tooth-rottingly sweet and one part utterly fearless.

He reeks of alcohol, and when he takes a step closer, he stumbles. Already, her mind is whizzing away with calculations and numbers, and when she gets a very neat two percent chance of failure, Sayako immediately, ruthlessly, nails him between the legs. When he crumples to the ground, much like how a wet napkin would, he cries out in anguish, as though he would like very much for a boulder to end his pathetic existence.

Sayako doesn’t even spare him a glance, dusting the snowflakes off her shoulders, winds the thick, knitted scarf tighter around her neck, and walks off. If she had been in a video game, there would have been triumphant music following her dramatic exit.

As it was, only the silence of the night followed her footsteps.

“GO-OD MORNING, BUCHOU!” Watanabe Hotaru screams into Sayako’s ears, and she startles awake with a half-uttered curse on her lips. Before Hotaru can do anything, Sayako very blandly says, “Shut up, Hotaru,” and pulls a pillow over her head.

“BUCHOU, BUCHOU,” Hotaru continues to chant obnoxiously, shaking Sayako like she was actually supposed to be up at such a ridiculous hour. When Sayako remains stubbornly silent, curling further into her cocoon of multiple blankets, Hotaru shakes her head, an exasperatedly fond smile lighting up on her face.

“Brring, brring, Buchou! It’s time to get up! Early worm gets the bird!” Hotaru chirps brightly, simultaneously pulling the blankets away from Sayako and dodging the petite girl’s wild, enraged kick.

Sayako rubs tiredly at her eyes, and even with her hair messy and falling into her face, dark circles under her eyes from what must have been a mostly sleepless night, she had the air of a somewhat rumpled, but still adorable kitten. It really wasn’t really fair to be able to wake up looking perfect, not when Hotaru wakes up an hour earlier to brush her hair, wash her face, put some makeup on, but after seven long, long years of friendship, Hotaru had long resigned herself by now.

‘To being in her shadow?’ Something mean and nasty from the darkest part of her mind asks, but Hotaru has known for a long time now, that Sayako, with her blinding brilliance, would outshine her in many things.

It took her even longer to understand she had nothing to feel small about, because after all, if she could pick up the pieces of Sayako, didn’t that say something about herself?

Yes, Hotaru had an inferiority complex, but she loved Sayako all too much for it to affect their friendship.

And–

(A hand in hers, Sayako, small and sad, lips too red and eyes too bright,

stay with me,

someone whispers, but she doesn’t know who–)

“Get out,” Sayako grumbles grumpily, floundering blindly for her glasses while Hotaru dumps the bundle of blankets at the foot of Sayako’s bed. Hotaru watches Sayako fumble for another ten seconds before picking a delicate pair of round-rimmed glasses from Sayako’s table and hands them obligingly to her best friend.

Sayako shoves them on, clambering out of her bed with a long, drawn-out sigh while Hotaru, heedless to her best friend’s words, comfortably sits herself on Sayako’s bed and digs her sock covered toes into Sayako’s fluffy white rug.

Hotaru flops back onto Sayako’s bed with a sigh, lifting her hand to trace the glow-up stickers on Sayako’s ceiling. She distantly remembers the two of them, two, three years ago, back when Sayako got a big encyclopedia on stars and constellations, and they had spent a hot, sticky summer afternoon pasting them all over the ceiling.

She can distantly hear Sayako changing out of her oversized henley and baggy plaid bottoms and into her uniform, clothes rustling and footsteps muffled by sock covered feet against the hardwood floor. Downstairs, the soft clanging of pots and pans were the only sign that the Kurokawa Matriarch was up and about at such an ungodly hour. The Kurokawa household was almost never silent–it was never loud either, just like their occupants. At any given time, Sayako and her brothers were always up to something, be it roughhousing, playing in the yard, or even getting into all sorts of mischief. Whatever it was, it reminded Hotaru of something warm, something like comfort.

(It sounded like home.)

It was so unlike the utter silence that pervaded the Watanabe’s sprawling estate that when Hotaru returned home to frosty silences or an empty dinner table it made her chest ache with an old hurt.

Sayako, as she always did, snapped Hotaru from her thoughts with an expert pinch to her knee. Hotaru yelped and shot up from Sayako’s bed, a playful frown tightening her brow, holding her fists out in defence. “I’m warning you–I have a black belt.” Sayako snorted and flexed her fingers in acknowledgement, lips parting to reveal her sharp, pearly white teeth. Sharp, sharp teeth. It wasn’t so much of a smile as it was a predator baring its teeth.

“Oh really?” Sayako’s teeth glint a little, “so do I.”

Downstairs, Kurokawa Hiyori can only smile at the screeches and dull thumps she can hear come from the second floor.

Twenty minutes later, Sayako and Hotaru stumble downstairs still somewhat red-faced and laughing breathlessly. They take their customary seats opposite each other at the dining table, barely batting an eye over  Kurokawa Satoru, Sayako’s second oldest brother, slumped over the dining table, nursing a large mug of espresso, a tired scowl on his lips and his eyes screwed tightly shut.

He, much like Sayako, was completely unable to properly function before ten without some serious caffeine, but in Satoru’s case, it was because he was majoring in law at Tokyo University, one of the most notably difficult courses in one of the best universities, where learning a new language was mandatory.

Hotaru honestly didn’t pity him too much, considering that she knew Satoru bordered on being a certified genius, much like most of his siblings, he had just pulled an all-nighter on his essay because of only one thing–his habit of procrastinating.

Hotaru eyed the large mug Sayako pried from Satoru’s tight grasp. It looked suspiciously cloudy and way too much like tar for her comfort. Sayako took a long gulp from the mug, licking her lips with an odd expression on her face after she gave the now half empty winter-themed mug back to her brother. When her half-wondering, half-questioning expression cleared and was replaced by a grin touched with slight chastisement, Sayako reached out to tap Satoru’s head warningly.

“Stop that,” was the only thing she said, and Satoru grouchily stuck his tongue out at her in response. “God, you are such a child,” Sayako huffs and leans over to flick her brother’s forehead.

Satoru clutches at his forehead, lips drawing into a pout, whining in a high, petulant voice so unbefitting of his tall, muscled stature, it makes Hotaru laugh, “Mom! Look, Sayako doesn’t love me anymore!”

“I’ve never loved you to begin with.” Sayako shoots back snidely, cutting into her poached eggs with a delicate, decisive motion. “Okay, as if I cared about you, you chucklehead,” Satoru says, sticking his chin out stubbornly.

“Nice one, Satoru-nii.” Sayako answers sweetly, all spice and nothing nice, with a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth smile curling on her face.

“Whatever, nerd,” Satoru chuckles, standing up to leave with his mug in hand. When he reaches out to ruffle Sayako’s chin-length bangs, Sayako’s smile is a quiet thing, but it nearly doubles in brightness and she doesn’t quite pull away from the affectionate touch like she does to anyone else.

Hotaru’s heart twists. Longing is a lump in her throat she can’t swallow.

(I’ll be back, a dusky, shadowed figure says,

do you promise–

they don’t answer,

all she sees is their back.)

“You too, Taro.” Satoru says offhandedly like it doesn’t mean anything–it does–but his eyes are sharp and knowing. Hotaru musters a smile brighter than the dark feelings in her chest, keeping her eyes firmly on somewhere near the slope of Satoru’s nose. Hotaru never forgets Satoru’s brilliance–or even Sayako’s, not when the Kurokawa sibling’s awards and trophies grace more than just the walls of the Kurokawa’s quaint three-storey home with excellence–but in moments like this, it strikes her just how much more perceptive he is, how much more perceptive they are.  

(This is home.)

Satoru disappears up the stairs, and Hotaru drops her gaze back to her acai bowl, feeling her gut twist even further with the feeling of something just–just off, as though everything in her chest had been scraped out and studied carefully, then put back in again, and there was the unnerving sense of something not quite wrong, but also not quite right, it's something that makes her stomach turn.

However, interactions with Satoru often left Hotaru feeling that way, and it was four years too late for her to dwell too long on it–four years too late for it to properly shake up her psyche.

So she watches with a queasy stomach as Sayako absently pushes a slice of toasted ciabatta bread through the broken, runny yolk of her poached eggs. Hotaru was never one for a heavy breakfast, much to Hiyori-baasan’s chagrin, and much preferred protein bars and oat cookies to eggs and greasy bacon any day.

“Anyways,” Sayako says, and Hotaru perks up, taking the change of topic for the distraction as it was. Sayako absently taps the heel of her fork on the table and tilts her head straight into the sunlight streaming through the lace curtains. Hotaru likens the many shades of Sayako’s hair to–oddly, buttered toast and butterscotch, “ranking tournaments will be coming up soon.”

“If by soon you mean in three months then sure,” Hotaru shoots back dryly. Sayako makes an aborted motion of irritation, her grip tightening to something deadly on the knife, as though she would like to strangle someone’s neck.

Hotaru kept a wary gaze trained on the dagger-sharp weapon and very carefully leaned away.

“Arranging it is a logistics nightmare–and this time, Inui-kun is too busy to help me with this,” Sayako says in what would Hotaru would have liked to call a whiney voice–except Sayako didn’t really do acknowledging she was cute–and she ruins the unintentionally adorable picture by twisting her face as though she would very much like to pinch the bridge or her nose had it not been for the knife and fork in her hands.

“Well, I’m useless there.” Hotaru hastens to put in, because if there was one thing she hated, it was paperwork.

God, even just thinking the never-ending stacks gave her chills and her hand a cramp.

“Gee thanks, Taro–you’re helping me, by the way, or extra laps,” Sayako says in triumphant glee, smiling her small, smug smile, too sweet to be a smirk, but too mirthful and teasing to be considered something sweet. Hotaru calls it Sayako’s shark smile.

“God, you cur,” Hotaru says disgustedly, even though they both know Hotaru would follow Sayako to the ends of the earth, “I’m calling abuse of authority.”  

All Sayako does is smile her sharp, smug, shark smile.

Seigaku is a perfectly ordinary school with an average tennis team. It had stopped being something else more than a decade ago when Echizen Nanjiro leaves for something better, brighter, bigger. Maybe the students who left its halls were more exceptional than the others, but it was something to be expected of one of the better schools in Tokyo.

Seigaku stops being an ordinary school when demons started to appear. It stops when Tezuka Kunimitsu enters the scene. It stops, when Kurokawa Sayako looks at their girl’s team, and thinks to herself, no.

She wasn’t the only one who thought that way and fought for change, but Sayako wasn’t just anyone. She hasn’t been that for as long as she could remember.

And thus, change is brought.

It’s a frigid winter morning, but it doesn’t deter Sayako-sempai’s set jaw and resolute shoulders from calling morning practice into session. She is bundled up in an enormous quilted puffer jacket, a heavy, knitted scarf, and her trademarked steel-capped Timberlands. She looks like a defenseless kitten stranded in a snowstorm, with her hair mussed up, only half of her face poking out from the scarf wound around her throat and her nose a bright cherry red, but Yamamoto Takara has seen the same captain bark out orders like an actual slavedriver while still looking like an adorable kitten, so she isn’t quite sure if kitten is an appropriate description.

All the members they have–the most dedicated girls Takara had the pleasure of knowing are all squashed together in their clubroom, the heater hard at work to keep the pervading chill of late January winter away. It doesn't quite do the trick and more than half of the girls are bundled up like a marshmallow with their winter coats and gloves. Their clubroom hadn’t always been clean and modern like it was now, with warm lighting and tidy shelves filled with tennis books and files. In fact, a year ago, it didn’t even deserve to be called a building at all.

It had taken a long time for it to have gotten that way, and many tears were shed to accomplish it.

And Kurokawa Sayako, who had promised them with solemn, steady eyes, was the cause of it all. ‘Maybe’, Takara thinks, watching her upperclassman effortlessly command the attention of all twenty-seven of their members, even those her senior, with just a few words and her heavy, almost tangible presence, ‘that was why.’

Right now, Sayako-sempai has on a slight frown and looks seconds away from wanting to kick something, which was an imminent sign of trouble, because almost nothing could stop her bull-headed captain from getting what she wanted, and the things that did weren’t small fries to scoff at either. ‘Because she always gets her way’, Takara thinks,  and her traitorous mind whispers, ‘like only a monster could’.

But Sayako isn’t a monster, she will think to herself, years later, and heavy-eyed with something, not when Takara has seen Sayako break into pieces.

For now, Takara doesn't care about Sayako-sempai and how much of a demon she is–all she wants is to catch up to Sayako-sempai, with her terrifying abilities and even more terrifying mind.

“–now, but it doesn’t give you guys any other reason to slack off. Practice is temporarily suspended due to weather concerns, but I expect all of you to keep practising over the break. We will be meeting Shitenhoji in early fall, and I refuse to let them win again. Shizuka-sempai has kindly volunteered to hand out personalized training menus, so line up and collect them all later. Non-regulars can leave after collection, but regulars are to stay back for a five-minute meeting.”

Takara dutifully lines up with all the others and lingers as necessary. Her side feels empty, but that is only because Ayame-sempai was out of commission for student representative training. Sasegawa Megumi-sempai flicks her light blue hair over one shoulder, every inch the beautiful Ice Queen the younger years call her, and as always, accompanying her was Kimura Aoi, her intense amethyst eyes practically sparkling in the weak winter sunlight filtering in from the window. They take their respective seats on the arm of a loveseat and beside her, metaphorically attached to the hip despite Megumi-sempai’s seniority. Mizuno Suzume looked as composed as ever, with her wavy, dusky pink hair in a neat ponytail and not a single crease on her uniform, but she appears as discomforted by Tsukino Kaede-sempai’s absence as Takara was with Ayame-sempai’s. Takara fiddles absently with a strand of curly auburn hair at that amusing thought.

She had thought not too long ago that it would be a wretched, wretched day when they could relate to each other, but Sayako-sempai was a force of nature, and who were they but ants compared to her?

It is a sobering thought for Takara who only can work hard to move anywhere, and what is that compared to pure, unlimited genius? Surrounded by all very visually striking girls  Sayako-sempai should have fell flat, with common brown hair and brown eyes, but Sayako sempai didn't just have brown hair, she had brown hair in every shade possible and shifted in depth and warmth in different lightings, and simple, mundane, brown couldn't be used to describe the complexity that was Sayako-sempai’s eyes–no, they were amber and cognac, like honey held up against the sun. But, on Sayako-sempai’s side, Hotaru-fukubuchou who smiles kindly at them and takes over to speak, makes Sayako-sempai look less like a demon of unimaginable strength and more like a human, soft and pliable and real.

“You guys might not know it, but Tezuka-san and Ryuuzaki-sensei has kindly extended an invitation to us–to attend a training camp,” Hotaru-fukubuchou says, and though she has on a slight, sweet, smile, Takara finds it hilarious how even their ever amiable couldn’t quite manage to hide her mild hostility towards the captain of the boys’ tennis team. Hell–even Takara, who considered herself one of the most easy-going members, couldn’t quite contain the streak of resentment.

The words don’t even leave Hotaru-fukubuchou’s mouth for more than two seconds before Takara stubbornly, petulantly, childishly, wants to refuse. She instantly feels guilty, but–

She thinks about Kaoru and his friendship and doesn’t speak up.

Megumi-sempai had no such reservations, and without any qualms, says firmly. “No way in hell, buchou.”

Aoi, as loyal to Megumi-sempai as ever, wasn’t far away in her objections, and only just manages to cut off what Takara can assume is something foul. “Sorry, Buchou, what–”

Sayako-sempai doesn’t look quite that willing to allow Megumi-sempai to get away with this issue like she normally does, and it’s a testament to how comfortable she feels around them to lower her nothing-can-faze-me facade, for her to be able to sigh wearily and pinch the bridge of her nose. More than that, she leans slightly against Hotaru-fukubuchou’s side and she drops her always perfect posture to something more tired.

Inappropriately, Takara is instantly reminded of a documentary she had watched two weeks ago, of poisonous snakes and the doctor’s sombre warning, fatal creatures, never get too close to them.

Sayako-sempai looks like a snake, a cobra or something equally as dangerous, rearing to strike.

“Megumi,” Sayako-sempai says heavy with intent, and that is enough more than enough to silence whatever Megumi-sempai had to say. Megumi-sempai purses her brow and tilts her head down into her lap, which must have been some sort of signal, because Aoi, who looked ready to leap out of her seat and deliver a two hour powerpoint presentation on why training with the boys’ tennis team was dumb, lowers her hackles and relaxes her tensed stance. Takara might not have been the most perceptive person like Aoi was, but even she can tell Sayako-sempai’s words mean more than just the surface.

(I’m sorry, is what Megumi hears.)

“We need all the practice we can get,” Sayako-sempai says flatly and pauses, her lips twisting into something pained. “Headmaster Ishikawa–if we don’t even make it past Regionals–he’ll be disbanding us.” Takara vaguely registers that Sayako-sempai’s words are said in an inflecion that suggests those were the exact words Headmaster Ishikawa had not-so-nicely said to Sayako-sempai, but it’s dulled by the ringing in her ears.

Disbanding the tennis club, she thinks faintly, blankly, disbanding the tennis club. She doesn’t even realise she’s made a disbelieving noise until Hotaru-fukubuchou chuckles without real humour.

“It’ll be for one and a half weeks–Shizuka-sempai and I will be texting more about the details later,” Sayako-sempai says firmly, making direct eye contact with everyone. As usual, meeting Sayako-sempai’s blazing, purposeful eyes head-on was accompanied with the slightest flinch, and never failed to leave Takara feeling strangely vulnerable, but the message was heard.

And that was that.

“Man,” Kimura Aoi says non-committedly, crossing her legs by the ankles. She’s laying on her back, hands pillowing her head, staring hard at the drifting clouds as though they held secrets to uncover. Sasegawa Megumi was blinking at the ‘seven mile run’ like that would make it disappear, “Buchou and Suzu-chan are tough.”

“You helped with that menu, idiot.” Megumi and her eyes like the beginning of spring, says fondly, nudging her in the ribs without too much force behind it. But Megumi was learning taekwondo, and she was getting strong. As it was, it makes her curl away instinctively.

Aoi smiles sheepishly, rubbing at the ends of her french braid, glad that even for a moment, Megumi stopped thinking about the incident and could spare her a true smile, not like the one she gave Hotaru-fukubuchou when Buchou called them back and talked to her in a soft, solemn voice.

“I know they’re–it’s just–I don’t–”

Aoi waits patiently for her best friend to gather her errant thoughts, already knowing what Megumi was going to say, already knowing that she couldn’t help with her demons, already knowing she would be useless. The only thing that anchors her is Nakazawa-sensei’s words, you are her anchor, you are her anchor, a loop of words that follow her every waking thought.

“Let me help,” she had cried herself to sleep for the first few months, because Megumi was trying, and it was painful watching her claw for air and bite anyone who tried to help.

“I’m just so–” Megumi’s voice cracks and tears are sliding down, dripping into her skirt, her hands are fisted in her lap, and Aoi closes her eyes and thinks to herself, this is what heartbreak feels like.

Later, Sayako and Hotaru-fukubuchou will join them for lunch, and they will laugh about Sayako’s brother taking tequila with his espresso and Megumi’s sisters and their endless spats, and they all don’t mention Megumi’s red eyes and how she jumps when the school bell rings too loudly, too suddenly.

(They’ve learnt the hard way why you don’t touch Megumi when she’s breaking, they learnt the hard way why only Aoi can pick her broken pieces up.)

“Yes mother,” Takeda Ayame says blankly, staring blankly down at her straight, creaseless lap, feeling completely and utterly blank–devoid of emotions.

She doesn’t quite like it as much as her mother would like her to.

(Men are scum, Ayame, she says, not Russia’s darling four-time gold medal gymnast, but the woman who smoked weed and drank her liver into failure, the woman who ceased being her mother the moment she leaves her husband, Ayame’s father, and ruins herself for someone with deeper pockets, and cruel, watching eyes.

Always watching eyes.

I love you, she says to him the next morning, with a beautiful face Ayame sees staring back at her in the mirror, easily because she doesn’t mean it, doesn’t treasure it like Ayame does. I love you, she says, kissing Ayame’s cheek like she hasn’t tainted Ayame’s every memory about love, of something warm to be held and cherished.)

“For two and a half weeks,” Takeda Tamara says sceptically, icy blue eyes like her own hard and flinty, and adds, “with a group of boys.” Ayame bites down the nearly instinctive urge to lash back with something like, “You’re the screw-up, not me,” but the last time she had said that, the leering was tinged with something superior, and the backhand had made Sayako fume for days.

Sometimes, the cuts stung like a tangible reminder.

“Yes, mother,” Ayame says instead, even and blank, so, so blank. “I’m thirteen,” she wants to add, because she doesn’t think her mother even bothers to remember, not with how many times she forgets to even come home each year.

“Thirteen and more responsible than you ever were–than you ever will be,” but that’s crossing the line, even for her.

Ayame doesn’t think about how if she says anything, she will have to wake up and acknowledge she doesn’t have a mother anymore.

“Very well,” her mother says imperiously, like she even controlled a part Ayame’s life, like Ayame wouldn’t go if she forbade her anyways, flicking her eyes over to a butler hovering by the door.

It made Ayame sick that her mother probably thought of the man who had served her for ten long years of just that–a butler, that her own mother didn’t know her own servant’s name, how he had two fraternal twins and loved Ayame like his own child.

“Think about transferring to Hyotei, Ayame,” her mother calls out, just as Ayame passes the doorway. “I will, mother,” Ayame answers without looking back, as she had for the past two years, and like the past two years, her mother doesn’t say a word.

It was the only part her mother couldn’t kid herself into thinking that she has the upper hand because Ayame was a stubborn mule and would rather punch herself in the face than to consider transferring to Hyotei Academy.

‘Over my dead body, and yours,’ Ayame thinks to herself, viciously and means it. There was no way in hell she was letting her mother take away her family now that she knew better and had something to say about it.  

Tsukino Kaede often thinks she was born in the wrong era, the wrong values, in a family that wanted a beautiful, polite, gracious, puppet and not a living, thinking young woman.

Kaede was much unlike her graceful, quiet, frail, lady-like cousins and relatives. Oh, she was two out of the four, there was no doubt about that, but swooning into her prince charming’s arms and waiting for someone to come and save her had never sat quite right, even when she was still a little girl who had wanted to be a princess

Kaede was the Seigaku girls’ tennis team’s power player.

Many did double takes–including her doubles partner and best friend, Mizuno Suzume when they had first met each other–when they found out. ‘Of course’, Kaede thinks wryly to herself, too polite to voice it out loud, but not polite enough to think it to herself, ‘how could someone so prim and proper and so blatantly a fragile flower hit shots that shattered bulletproof windows?’

She wore bows in her hair, Kaede could hear people cry, for Inari-sama’s sake, she’s small and weak.

Kaede thinks about Sayako and her eyes like molten gold, gleaming like knives from across the net and laughs in their faces.

Weak? She wants to tell them, never in this lifetime.

In this lifetime, with trailblazing Sayako and her brilliant, brilliant mind, size meant nothing.

It’s the only reason why follows Sayako, why they follow her. It’s the only reason why Kaede hasn’t stopped trying yet.

Kaede is the perfect daughter for the Tsukino’s and their reputation for grooming beautiful housewives and socialites, but she ceases to be once she steps onto the courts. She knows her parents aren’t too bothered about it like her grandparents were, but sometimes, watching graceful, elegant, demure Koharu charm her parents, she wonders if they wanted a daughter more like her fine-boned cousin, with a mild, soft, nature so reserved it almost hurt for Kaede to watch.

A daughter who genuinely enjoyed flower arranging and tea ceremonies and hosting parties, and Kaede who just pretended to go through the motions–

Sometimes, Kaede couldn’t help but wonder, especially on days like this, with Koharu’s black hair in a low bun, secured at the base of her neck with a silver filigree hair stick, and her abyssal eyes more like her father’s than her always-shifting eyes would ever be.

However, as she watches Koharu go through the multiple, painstaking steps for a tea ceremony, Kaede finds that she cannot muster any resentment from her bones.

So when Koharu smiles at her over the tatami mat, Kaede is helpless when she smiles back.

It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Ayame was late–again.

Sayako wasn’t sure if the ‘pop’ she just heard was her vein exploding, but she wasn’t willing to find out. Briefly, Sayako felt a wave of unfamiliar, but no less potent embarrassment, because god she must have seemed like a failure of a captain to Tezuka and his team, who were all loitering about, waiting for her missing member, but Sayako would not have been Sayako if she ever succumbed to embarrassment.

Hotaru was on her phone, trying to contact Ayame without any success, but even she could tell that her best friend was pissed and only just holding back from going on a warpath. Her face was completely blank, all emotion chased from even the tiniest cracks, her spine held pole-straight. Even more unnerving, a single finger tapping slowly against the spine of her notebook.

It might not have looked like it to the boys, who looked surprised that Sayako appeared unbothered, but Sayako’s fury was fuelled by irritation and the fact that she didn’t have nearly enough coffee to deal with the dipshits, and with every minute that ticked by, Sayako mentally added ten more laps to her tally.

When she was tipping precariously over the three-digit mark was when Ayame stumbled into view, lugging an enormous luggage and a duffel bag slung over her slim shoulders. She didn’t even look the slightest bit bothered, with her face composed into a smirk and having not even broke into a sweat, but her clothes were ruffled and a few strands of silvery blonde hair had escaped from her always neat braid.

“Sorry, Buchou,” she said apologetically, and that suffused most of Sayako’s anger. She aimed a half-hearted kick at Ayame’s legs, and said, “Eighty laps, Ayame.”

“Eh~” Ayame drawled teasingly, drawing her fingers up the side of her legs under the pretence of smoothing down the creases in her knee-length socks, effectively drawing the eye of every boy within the five-meter vicinity. Involuntarily, Sayako’s eye twitched, and she was about to snap, “A hundred laps, Ayame,” when Hotaru swiftly bustled up with a frown and a clipboard in her hands.

“Alright, we have all members present, Sayako,” Hotaru confirmed and moved on to help Ayame lug her heavy luggage onto the awaiting bus, leaving Sayako all alone to talk to Tezuka, bitch.  

“We can board now, Tezuka-san.” Sayako belatedly tagged on the respectful suffix, acknowledging that she should be at the very least, cordial, to her fellow captain to make their trip less uncomfortable, but it was difficult to keep an unbothered face when she was keeping a watchful eye on her members who all surrounded a laughing Megumi at the same time.

“Aa.” Sayako nodded at the predictable monosyllabic answer and shuffled around awkwardly with her glove-clad fingers. She–very unknowingly–made an adorable picture, with a knitted beanie on her head, flushed cheeks and a thick scarf covering the bottom half of her face.

Tezuka’s entire face did a twitch. Thankfully, before she could give any a heart attack, Hotaru called her over to help with Suzume’s three luggage bags with a strangely knowing look in her eyes.

“Tezuka.” Fuji said teasingly, sidling up beside him, his arms folded and a serene smile Tezuka secretly found infuriating plastered across his lips. It was the only thing he had to say to make Tezuka’s eye twitch, almost violently. Sadly, Oishi was preoccupied with reigning in an exuberant Kikumaru and was unable to provide him with an out.

“Fuji...” He said warningly, sparing his friend a quick, sharp glance, trying to inject as much 'continue and you’ll get twenty laps' as he could into a single word.

“Saa, Tezuka, I wonder,” was Fuji’s only, infuriating reply. In Inui’s notebook, Fuji had a seventy-eight percent chance of infuriating Tezuka with a single sentence, the highest amongst all the regulars.

Tezuka hated that percentage.

“Mamushi talks to girls?!” Momoshiro screamed and was answered by a sharp “Fshh,” from his second year regular, and someone who Tezuka remembered as Yamamoto Takara, the more hardworking girls being trained by Ikeda Daichi to take over as the Student Council’s next treasurer, evenly arguing back, “is that so hard to believe, you peach?”

“Suzume–fifty laps.” Tezuka could faintly hear his fellow captain order in a no-nonsense tone. “Ahn, Buchou~” Mizuno’s unique, sugary sweet voice, the bane of all the teacher’s sanity, argued back, though it was less cheeky and about seven times more sexual. Oishi’s face exploded into red, Inui muttered, “Ii data,” scribbling into his notebook, and Tezuka felt an enormous headache building between his eyes.

When the two teams came back from their training camp, three boys were expelled, the girl’s team worked closer than ever with the boys’, and much to many of their fans’ disappointment, Fuji Syuusuke and Inui Sadaharu hung around Sasegawa Megumi and Kimura Aoi more, Tezuka was seen more often with Kurokawa by his side, and Yamamoto Takara was closer than ever with Kaido Kaoru and strangely enough, Kikumaru Eiichi.

“Take care of yourself, Sayako-buchou.”  The newly graduated third years chorused in a unison, bending deeply into a formal ninety-degree bow. Sayako, flanked by Hotaru and Ayame, bowed just as deeply back, and the entire club cheered when Aikawa Yuzuru, the previous captain who had stepped down for Sayako to take her place,  formally handed the clubroom keys to the now third-year Sayako and abruptly hugged the much smaller girl.

Half of the third years had burst into tears and the other half were mingling with their underclassmen, all three years gathered in their still cramped clubroom. Hotaru was laughing at something Yuzuru’s own vice-captain was saying, and Yuzuru took that opportunity to pull Sayako aside.

When the celebrations subsided and all of them left one by one, shaking Sayako’s hands as they left and wishing her the best in her journey to winning the Nationals, leaving Sayako and Hotaru to lock up the clubroom, Sayako sank into her seat with a sigh, simply blinking at the heavy envelope sitting innocently on top a stack of paperwork.

Someone knocked on her door, and Sayako looked up to see Hotaru leaning her hip against the door frame. Hotaru had made a snap decision over the weekends to chop off all her waist-length hair into a slightly longer than chin-length bob, and some of the midnight black strands brushed against her neck as she spoke.

“Hey,”

Sayako rolled her shoulders.

“Hey.”

Hanabusa Kaname sighed at the infuriating heat, still stifling hot even in the air-conditioned train, and tilted her cap further down to shade her eyes from the intense sunlight. She was on her way to the Kakinokizawa Garden Tennis Club to meet Kurokawa Sayako, captain of Seigaku’s girls’ tennis club, and from what Kaname had heard from her friends in Rikkaidai Chuu, a nationally ranked player. Kaname had no idea if that was all talk or if she was really that good, but after a good two weeks of not even stepping on the courts, she was getting antsy and was willing to play against anyone who even had a shred of skill like the rumours claimed.

Kaname sighed, almost inaudibly and thought mutinously to herself: ‘Man, what a pain…’

The little boys making a ruckus in front of her were equally a pain in the ass, yacking on about tennis. Normally, Kaname wouldn’t have minded–she loved people who loved tennis, but it got old quickly and felt a little sacrilegious when one of them started going on about the Western Grip, explaining it wrong, and having the gall to be cocky about it, of all things.

‘To-ler-ate.’ Kaname repeated to herself once as she slumped down into her seat, wishing that she hadn’t forgotten to bring her earphones along with her for the ride. Idly, she wondered what it was about puberty that seemed to amplify the amount of idiocy and posturing boys possessed. It was probably testosterone.

All her patience evaporated the exact moment the racquet swung past her face, narrowly missing her cheek by a scant inch to spare. “Hey, listen,” Kaname said with a saccharine-sweet smile, “if you can’t even get the Eastern and Western grip right, you need to sit down and shut your mouth, you understand?” Of course, they didn't understand a word, considering Kaname spoke entirely in english, but letting it off her chest was akin to the weight of a boulder disappearing from her shoulders and made her feel much calmer than two minutes ago.

“A-ah? I no speakeu engrish.” The little boy answered, and his generic cronies, no one worth much mentioning, shuffled anxiously among themselves.

“That’s okay,” Kaname smiled easily and responded in fluent Japanese, waving her hand as if dismissing a group of reporters, and promptly caught the gaze of amused hazel–almost golden eyes of the boy sitting opposite from her. They were very pretty eyes, with an equally pretty boy owner.

Kaname would recognize a fluent english speaker anywhere. Especially the four-time winner of the American Junior Tennis division.

She winked at him and held a finger to her lips.

As she got up to leave, Kaname faintly heard, “Hey, you guys are being too loud.”

“You must be Hanabusa Kaname.” Kurokawa Sayako said, “I am Kurokawa Sayako, the captain of Seigaku’s girls’ tennis team.”

Kurokawa Sayako was nothing like the fearsome demon the rumours made her out to be. For one, she looked adorable, with a perfectly pink rosebud mouth, big eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, and was barely even taller than her. That itself was odd. How could a girl who appeared to be only two inches taller to her five foot nothing be the captain of the girls’ tennis team? She looked like she just stepped off the poster cover for an adorable younger sister.

It was unnerving because her amber eyes were serious and hard, like the golden irises she had seen not too long ago.

However, instead of daunting Kaname, it oddly made the captain appear even more adorable, like a toddler behaving like an adult, and Kaname, who was a sucker for cute, small creatures, was valiantly trying not to reach out and ruffle Kurokawa’s honey brown hair.

It was even harder for Kaname to take Sayako seriously when they were in a Pororo inspired cafe, the one that amber-eyed girl had arranged for them to meet in. It was almost a cuteness overload. Her thoughts must have translated into her actions, because Sayako only looked at her with cold, flinty eyes, and had said quite sharply, “Do not demean me, Hanabusa-san.”

Kaname could only smile cheekily over the rim of her cup, thinking to herself, 'Let’s see.'

Two hours later, sprawled out on the tennis courts, soaked in sweat and exhaustion seeping into her bones, Kaname fully understood why they called Kurokawa the demon of Seigaku’s girls' tennis club. And to think, Sayako had stuck to the bare basics for half of the match while Kaname ran herself ragged with every technique and special moves she possessed in her arsenal.

She had played her best, but the glaring ‘6-2’ on the scoreboard spoke volumes about her skill, and her now-semi-official captain’s. Kaname could see why facing Sayako could be terrifying, because in the face of a monster, what could you do but wait helplessly for your death?

Kaname slowly sat up, wincing at the pull of her tired, aching muscles, Sayako was sitting on a nearby bench, not nearly as soaked in sweat as Kaname was, barely even winded, carefully examining the strings of her racquet.

“You are a good player, Hanabusa–but there’s much you could improve on.” Kaname barely even blinked at the backhanded compliment, for it was not the first time she heard those words directed at her, especially from those she respected. While Kaname entertained the thought of Sayako being as good as the rumours claimed, she was not expecting for her to respect Sayako nearly as quickly as she did.

“Hai, Buchou,” Kaname responded dutifully, only for Sayako to jerk like she’d been shot. Kaname quirked her lips, privately wondering why it looked as though Sayako was choking on air and what she could do to make the unflappable girl look more like a human than a statue.

“Hanabusa–” the amber-eyed girl started, and Kaname stood up, interrupting with a racquet directly pointed to Sayako’s face. “Buchou, I will make the team this coming ranking tournament,” and with that said, Kaname bowed deeply, and beamed at Sayako. “Please take good care of me!”

Sayako flew off the bench, kicked Kaname non-too-gently, and snapped out, “What are you talking about, brat? Who said you were making the team?”

Kaname did a peace sign, sticking her tongue out playfully at the still blank-faced Sayako, grabbed her tennis bag, and made a quick run for it.

“Hanabusa!”

“So is she as good as the rumours claim?” Hotaru’s voice was tinny and distant over the phone, but Sayako could clearly hear various crashes and shouting in the background. Sayako’s hand twitched with the urge to rub the bridge of her nose.

All her brothers, Sasuke-nii and Setsuke-nii in particular, gathering home for a big reunion dinner had never once not resulted in a complete chaos.

“She is,” Sayako confirmed, trying hard not to think about the bedlam she would be walking willingly into and the distant crash followed by the muttered string of expletives she just heard.

“A lot of talent,” Sayako offered thoughtfully, hiking the strap of her tennis bag higher up her shoulder, “I can see why--”

Her sentence was abruptly cut off by footsteps, something hard connecting with fabric and flesh, an anguished cry, then a body collapsing on the ground.

Hotaru barely even batted an eye at the disturbing crunching sounds. “So you want to allow her to join the ranking tournament?”

Sayako hesitated for a brief moment, “What about the rest of the members if I do? Megumi and Aoi--even if I did separate them, would never get on the court without each other. Suzume and Kaede have always been our best doubles players, Ayame and Takara are both one of our best singles players. Removing any one would completely disrupt the team’s dynamics. Allowing Hanabusa to join the team and have her sit out for all the games would just be cruel.”

Hotaru was silent, then she tentatively suggested, “Have her take my place, then.”

“Hotaru--”

“Listen, Sayako, I’m not saying have her be the vice-captain--just have her take my place in matches. If she’s as good as you say, then that will only increase our chances of victory. But you’ve already considered that possibility, right?”

“..yes.” Sayako admitted reluctantly, and Hotaru continued, slightly more enthused and amused, “Not replace me completely, of course, I’m not selfless like that. Just taking turns to play.”

“Alright, I’m ending the call, okay? Satoru is going to destroy your mom’s favourite vase at the rate he and Seiichirou are going.”

“Bye,” Sayako said, and sighed heavily when the call ended with a loud click.

Her last year leading the team was shaping up into something else entirely.

[rainieblack-blog]

if i asked, would you stay? [Chapter Two]

Here’s Chapter Two! 

“I would try to create a construct of him, an illusion for her, but Takara is impervious to my illusions now,” Mukuro says, idly swirling his wine glass. Lilith lounged opposite him on the sofa, is stretched out, her legs draped over the armrest of the sofa, and she hums in muted pride. Her hair, inky black, spills over the other armrest, and for a split second, a ludicrous, breathless moment, he is certain that the shadows reach out and play with the curling strands of her hair. He blinks, and the faint, ephemeral image is gone, but Mukuro still wonders, what are you?

If Mukuro hadn’t seen the proof of Lilith’s blazing storm flames, painfully pure and hungry in its intensity, as loyal to Takara as the foolish Gokudera is, he would have thought her to be an illusionist. It wasn’t the first time he, or any of the Guardians have doubted that she truly did not wield a dual flame with how often he has caught fleeting flickers in the space around her, the air distorted as if reality has ripped a jagged hole just for Lilith to pass through. Shadows worked differently for Lilith, bending around her like a lover would, as did sound.

“She is now, but she wasn’t always.” Lilith says in return, feathery lashes brushing against the gentle slope of her cheekbone. Her voice has gone low and contemplative, a sign that she has slipped into a meditative state. The last time he saw it, Takara was risking her life for the cursed Arcobaleno, most of which hadn’t even bothered to spare a more than a flippant thanks to his Decimo. That voice is savage, ruthless, and hungers for blood. It sends shivers down his spine.

“Yes,” Mukuro returns dryly, taking a small, appreciative sip of his wine before continuing, “you’ve trained her well.”

Lilith’s eyes flutter open, sharp gold irises, weren’t they always purple? focused intently on the patterns drawn into the ceiling. Mukuro faintly remembers Chrome stumbling upon the two,  her memories folding into his like the remembrance of an old song, Takara and Lilith, painting the ceiling full of constellations. Lilith and her too-old eyes lock with Chrome’s and at that moment, an indescribable feeling wells in his Nagi’s, chest, but he pushes that memory from his mind as soon as he catches a glimpse of her eyes, striking eyes so similar to his Sky’s own, hazing over in thought.

“She’s prepared now, to face him.” Lilith murmurs, diverting the topic to what they were previously discussing with ease, and her piercing eyes slide over to meet his half-lidded eyes.

A lesser man would falter at the fear-inducing gaze of the unflappable woman, but Mukuro has seen the same infallible woman break down when Takara’s cavort with death turned from shy gazes shared across the ballroom to an intimate tango across the floor, and it doesn’t work as well as she might have liked for it to be.

“For Takara, what would you do?” Mukuro asks quietly, for though he already knows the answer, he and all the others do, as his Sky’s guardian, he needs to hear her promise.

Without missing a beat, Lilith responds with the exact same thing she has told Iemitsu all those years ago,

(what she has promised all of them for every single lifetime)

“For Takara, anything.”

Lilith stands in the shadows of the pillars, content with watching over her student, as she had all those years ago. Her inky hair,  too pale skin and violet eyes always too old and tired for her age chase everyone away like they have always, always, have.

She has always shouldered the responsibility of her Sky’s safety, most often than not, she has done it alone. Now,  in this lifetime, Takara’s guardians accompany her.

Kyoya, the  ever distant, ever aloof Cloud, lurks amongst the perimeters of the building with his Disciplinary Committee. He is as vigilant as ever, and though he is far enough from the ballroom to ignore the crowds, he is near enough to keep an eye on his Sky.

Ryohei, silent, stands uncharacteristically still behind her, his body coiled with loose awareness, primed for a burst of instantaneous movement. His neatly pressed suit is ever at odds with the tape that winds proudly around his calloused knuckles, a token from his childhood. His eyes are sharp and flinty, and they linger on those who leer perversely at Takara with a dangerous light.

Perched on the highest railings, his sharp, verdant eyes flitting from one guest to the other, Hayato’s lit cigarette dangles roguishly from his lips, and he casually huffs out an occasional puff of smoke, even as he idly juggles the explosives held carelessly in his hands. He too has his gaze lingering on those who sought Takara’s downfall with disparaging acidity, only Hayato’s is considerably more calculative. This was a Storm who would do more than just destroy those who stood against his Sky. This was a Storm who would drag out their deaths, make them hurt and beg for mercy. This was a Storm who put the fear of God, the fear of loyalty to those who stood against his Sky.

Mukuro, draped in one of his illusions, hangs off Dino’s arm, his features eerily similar to Takara’s, from the slant of his eyes to the delicate line of his neck. They are everything Lilith knows stares back at her in the mirror, all hinting at who he has modelled his illusion after. The resemblance is not so similar to cause any suspicion, however, and Lilith has taught him well enough to know that his presence goes unnoticed by the Dons’, Donnas’, hitmen and the like, who are casually milling about, some of them accompanied with their guardians. All of which, Likith notes, warmth blossoming in her chest, possess flames that are nothing but embers compared to the blazing beacons that were the  Vongola’s Tenth Generation.

Yamamoto is the only one who isn’t in the shadows, and he trails Takara’s every step. His smile is kind and sharp, tempered with a deadly edge, and it promises the threats that he would gladly carry out if they stepped too close.

All of them make up a picture-perfect image of faithful guardians. They’ve grown, so much. If Lilith left now, Takara would be able to take care of herself and those she loved. Her job should have been done two years ago, the moment Takara bested her, but she had stayed. She wanted to stay. Lilith didn’t want to see Takara survive, she wanted to see her live. Truly, happily, with no regrets.

She knew that he would not be attending today, but soon, the time would come. Lilith would enjoy seeing him grovel of Takara’s forgiveness, but for now, she backed deeper into the shadow of a pillar and watched.

[rainieblack-blog]

if i asked, would you stay? [Chapter One]

This story can be found on fanfiction.net under the account rainieblack and also archivesofourown, under Raineee.

Summary: Meeting your soulmate is a blessing, they say, but if your soulmate leaves you every single lifetime, that is agony. To remember your soulmate is a privilege, but can you really call it a blessing if your last memory is of his retreating back? Sawada Takara is just a girl, but when she dreams, it’s of her past lives, always intertwined with heartbreak.

Tags: Fem!TsunaxReborn, R27

When Takara is seven, the scrapes on her knees are the badges of victory from the playground that she wears proudly, and she is too young, still too bright-eyed to fathom the cruelty of children. She dreams of stars like pinpricks of hope in the sky, of whispered vows, of a girl so vibrant, her every step brought flowers blooming beneath her feet, of a boy with sharp eyes and whose every step brought on war and bloodshed, of how as she walked on the dew-slick loam, her steps rang with the surety of only those blessed by Persephone Herself could,  and how the boy whose every steps the shadows faithfully chased, was believed to be blessed by the ruler of the Underworld, and how they would forever stand at opposing sides, eternally warring.

Her hair is of the damned pomegranate which entraps the vibrant Persephone, and his eyes are the gaping chasm of land beyond the living, the land of which they whisper he rules.

But those are but the stories that mothers tell their children, warning them to beware of the monsters shrouded in death.

The truth is something much simpler.

When Takara is seven, the wind tangling the flowers in her hair with playful fingers, she knows that Persephone had never been such a foolish girl, and as she splits the fruit, it stains her fingers like how his touch left her forever electric. She swallows the six seeds, burnished red like the roses at feet, and smiles. Ichor, the divinity that runs in her veins, sing when he smiles back.

When she wakes, it’s with the weight of a babe, warm, beautiful, and perfect, with his abyssal eyes and her flaming hair in her arms, but his scornful eyes as he walks away is the only thing Takara can remember.

Then, Takara is ten, and she dreams of quiet afternoons under a rustling willow, the promise of forever, a smile made of warmth and eyes like the abyss she steps fearlessly into, knowing that he will always catch her if she falls. When she wakes, she finds that she has been crying in her sleep, Mama smoothing the hair from her brow like she was still seven, with blood staining the soft youthfulness of her skin. Takara knows now, that dreams that are made of gold but shattered as easily as glass, and they hurt the most when only she bled from their jagged shards. She knows now that promises, no matter how sacred, could be easily muddied, of broken promises, and when she hears Mama’s tired cries, her heart singing a mourning tale of pain, aching for Papa, she wonders if the bone-deep ache in her chest is what Mama felt when Papa walked away.

She thinks that dreams are fickle things and that nothing is worth the heartbreak that he brings.

Takara is eleven, and she dreams of an emperor, with a tongue like razors but with a smile like warmth, and a gilded cage, a princess without her crown, a queen without a kingdom, her legacy that he had muddied with blood. He promises, forever, but around them, her people burn and cry for their empress to ascend the throne. Takara awakens to the shadowed curve of his face, war in his eyes and a cry on her lips. She thinks, her soulmate wanted nothing of her, and maybe, she might just be fine with that.

Years later, she has sadder eyes and scars that her guardians despised, for all it did was remind them that they were not enough, always, not enough. After years of sleepless nights laying on the roof, watching the stars twinkle, wishing to just forget, Takara will wake up, and on the good days, she will believe that she is good enough.

Takara turns twelve, with bruises like ugly smudges of purple and muddy green that makes Mama cry everytime she sees them, splotching her ribs like the cruelest gift from god, and she dreams of a girl who is a fighter in all ways that her failing body isn’t, of a messiah whose steps parted oceans and touch that healed the ailing. She thinks of warm hands, a warmer smile, lazy mornings in the sun, with eyes that promise her the world. When she wakes, all Takara can feel is the weight of his hand on her back, knowing that he will catch her if she falls. Somehow, when Lilith’s gaze burns like flickering embers, her golden eyes slitted and sharp in the shadows, Takara doesn’t feel so alone.

She doesn’t think about how all her dreams always end up with him walking away, of how her heart always ends up in pieces, for that sort of heartache is reserved for the silence of dawn, where the sun rises like it was always meant to be with the sky.

When she meets Ryohei, her darling Sun, there are no words to describe the lump in her throat, and Takara tells no one of the sudden blur in her vision, a man with an all-too-sharp, an all-too-familiar smirk curving his face, a man whose presence makes her feel two inches tall and suddenly, inadequate, overlapping with Ryohei’s.

Over Ryohei’s shoulders, Lilith’s eyes are sharp, like they know anyways.

When Takara is thirteen, she dreams of an empress, and her hair is the sepia of the land she rules, but she is only one, and her ravenous cousin yearns to ascend the throne, if only to run her kingdom into war, fill their rivers with the blood of their people.

She dreams of a girl made to grow up too early, too alone, and fear is the cloak she wears until she meets him. Her advisor whose hands were tarnished in the name of his queen.

When Takara wakes, a trembling sob breaking from her lips, it is not the curve of his smile that she remembers, but rather, it is of the apathetic light in his eyes when her cousin slits her throat, and blood, the colour that her cousin carries so proudly in his eyes, the echoes of their heritage sing in her heart like a wardrum.

Takara wonders if his eyes will flicker when she tells him that their babe dies with her. She does not get to see, for death has already dug its unforgiving claws in.

The breeze rustles the curtains on her window, and all that she is reminded of, is him waiting there, a language she doesn’t remember learning, rings clearer in her mind than Lilith’s instructions do.

“συγχώρεσέ με”

(They remain in her mind longer than Lilith’s words too)

(Takara does not want to know what they mean)

Now Takara is eighteen, on the cusp of womanhood, her hand in marriage yet still sheltered by her youth. She is Vongola Decimo, the tenth to rule the Vongola empire, the first to bring about change, to wash the blood and sin from her birthright. Its hard to imagine that she had championed the revolution for a future she wants for everyone who deserves better when she is trapped in this precarious situation, begging for mercy.

“Lilith, please,” Takara says, fear crawling up from the darkest pits of her heart to fester angrily beneath her skin. “You can’t do this, please-” Takara tries again, tears fogging her vision like how her unspoken emotions clog her throat. Between them, the briny air is stilted, as if the world was holding its breath, Takara feels like she is free-falling, clawing desperately for the assurance that she would never have to meet him again.

(Not in this lifetime, the wind mocks, but Takara does not listen)

“Do you know how painful it is to encounter your soulmate, and have them walk away from you every single lifetime?” Takara whispers, the last of her words dissolving into a broken sob, disgusted at herself, at how easy it was to finally let it off her chest, after years of harbouring those emotions, at how easily it falls off her lips, at how Lilith’s face barely even twitches at her pained admission

“What is the use of snatched snippets of joy, when they make his back the last thing I see even the more painful?” Takara says raggedly, like it physically pains her to admit that every sleepless night spent in silence underneath the starry night had been of her tears, of her worth, stealing away from her, every single thought dissecting her self-worth turning into an endless loop of not good, not enough.

“Takara.” Lilith says, softly and tenderly, so unlike her brutal, straightforward way of getting to the point that Takara drags a desperate lungful of air, trying for some composure as she turned to face her tutor.

(Her friend, Takara would come to realise, like Lilith has always been silently calling, and slowly, bit by bit, Takara had been answering.)

“This is your last trial as my student, Takara,” Lilith says quietly, and their figures must cut a striking, if not contrasting one against the ethereal moonlight of Okinawa’s beaches, Takara in a white sundress, and Lilith in her form-fitting black dress, the frothy waves lapping gently at their ankles. One would never tell that they both concealed weapons within easy reach, a lesson that an assassin had learnt painfully.

Solemnity hugs the elegant lines of Lilith’s figure, and like a goddess, she is bathed in the light of the waning moon above them. But for some reason, Takara finds herself thinking the proud set of Lilith’s shoulders lonely.

Takara and Lilith, student and teacher, stand across each other, Lilith with her face too cold, too smooth and Takara, with her bleeding heart, always feeling, always living.

There is innocence, and Lilith sees it in the arch of Takara’s back, the lilt in her laugh, the generous curve to her lips, but she has drawn out the poison that will protect her student, much like the belladonna that Takara favors, Lilith has made sure that the Takara will be just as, if not more than beautiful as she is deadly.

Lilith has done everything there was to do, but there was something she had never been able to fix no matter how much she had tried.

(Takara just didn’t see how much her guardians treasured her, despite whatever they did)

(Lilith, no matter how much she understood why, hated him for doing that to Takara)

Takara stares at her with her desperation of a drowning man, all that her innate pride, one that Lilith had reckoned was akin to Nana’s, silently regal, ancient from weathering through storms, will allow. Lilith wavers slightly, filled with the resigned acknowledgement that Takara will hate her, however briefly it would be, for this. But she stands firm in her decision because Lilith knows that after this, with unshakeable security, Takara will face the darkest that the Underworld has to offer and come out laughing, and people would scramble to make way for their queen, as most who have encountered her already have.

All she has to do is to see that she was worth something.

They are different, as the sun and moon often were, and Takara and her hair like the sun, milky skin flushed with warmth and lips like the first bloom of spring, is life, if life could laugh and speak and love. Lilith, swathed in darkness, a smear of deep wine red on her lips against the lily white of her skin, a shade too cold to pass for a human’s, was death, and as death did, it just took and took.

They stood opposite each other, never one, but Lilith knew that wherever Takara went, she would gladly follow.

Afterall, for lifetimes before this one, she had done the same.  

(tell me the story, of how the moon loved the sun so much, she died every night to let her breath)

(but you already know that story)

(sing our song louder so i will never forget)

Well, tell me what you think! Many more posts are coming your way, just give me some time to sort it all out!