Crescent Moon Fan Fiction ❯ Fidelity ❯ Rollercoaster ( Chapter 6 )

Author’s Note: Sorry for the long wait. I had trouble with this chapter; my heart wasn’t in it. The chapter actually just took off in a way that moves the story along, just not in the way I wanted it to. That’s what happens when I try and write through writer’s block. Also, I wanted to give you guys a bigger chapter to read. It’s not as big as I wanted (and there are more than a few grammatical errors) but it’s here nonetheless.   Contrary to popular belief, I do not hate Nozomu. He holds a big part of the story, or will, later. He is not gone without reason, as you will see as soon as I get my lazy arse in gear. However, he will not make an appearance for a long time coming.   ENJOY!!   I have livejournal now!   User name: rayerei  URL: http: // rayerei. live journal. com/   (Just remove the spaces).

Summary:Not only did he hate her for being her and being human, he hated her for making him care.

Rating:PG-13 (Rating may change in later chapters)

Fidelity

Chapter 6: Rollercoaster “No. I know.”   A pause.   “I can’t—I’m—listen!”   A sniffle. A hand brushing away tears.   “I’m sorry, okay.”   A tear.   “I’m sorry.”   Breath catching, a hiccup. More tears to brush away.   “You don’t understand. I can’t come back. Not yet. It’s not—“   Another pause, shorter.  Grip on the phone, slowly growing tighter, knuckles white.   “—safe… It’s not safe.”   Someone walks by. She pushes her body into the wall, forehead resting against the cool painted cement.   “Please go.”   She bites her lip.   “I love you.”   More tears.     =   Mitsuru had been watching Mahiru for the past nine minutes. He watched as she called her aunt, the conversation anything but pleasant—a fool without an ounce of brainpower would know that.   It was amazing what the knowledge of body language could unlock if one chose to look hard enough. Mahiru played with the hem of the second baggiest t-shirt she owned while waiting for her aunt to pick up—nervous energy. Mitsuru knew the moment Mahiru started chewing her thumbnail her aunt had answered. He knew the moment Mahiru turned her back on the American-themed diner that she was distressed. It wasn’t until he saw her vainly wipe away tears that his feet started itching for a walk, possibly to the little boy’s room, which was (conveniently) next to the phone, just to see if she was okay.   Nope. Nope! Don’t move!   However, his body and heart never really liked listening to his brain. As Mahiru placed the phone in the cradle and slipped into the little girl’s room, he was just barely scooting out of the slightly uncomfortable booth, and away from Akira and Keiko’s blatant, sickening displays of affection, when the waitress blocked him in.   Mindy, or at least that’s what her badge said, placed their drinks on the table inquiring if they were ready to order. When she straightened up and began pulling out her notepad, Mitsuru attempted to leave again. That was until Mindy shifted her weight to her right leg and (not so conveniently) blocked Mitsuru’s exit yet again.   He was so occupied by trying to get up for the next minute that he didn’t realize the waitress had acquired everyone’s order except his and was waiting expectantly for him to speak.   “What would you like, sir?” Mindy asked with an exceptionally nasal voice.   He cringed slightly. Sir? He was only nineteen. In no way was it acceptable for her human self, or anyone else for that matter, to call him ‘sir’. However, in light of present company (A.K.A. the entire diner and Mahiru, who was still in the restroom) he decided to leave it for another time.   “Two eggs over medium, hash browns, bacon, and white toast.” Mindy nodded, writing down the order.   “What about Mahiru?” Keiko asked, handing over her menu. “Should we order something for—”   “French toast, with scrambled eggs and bacon on the side. No butter and extra cinnamon.” Mitsuru stated, effectively cutting Keiko off, and, again, trying to get out of the booth, completely unaware of the awe-filled stares sent his way.   Mahiru exited the restroom more composed than when she entered, so Mitsuru decided that everything was fine and dandy, and therefore didn’t need to waste his energy to see if she was all right, even though he had no inkling going to check to see if she was okay in the first place. He turned towards the window noticing five smirking stares.   Thoroughly confused, Mitsuru’s brow furrowed. “What?”   “Nothing,” all five said in perfect unison.   Not believing a word, he gave them a weird look before focusing his attention outside.   =   Mahiru trudged her way over to friends, occupying the far corner of the diner. Akira and Keiko were laughing excitedly, Misoka, Oboro, and Katsura talking to each other very mature-like, and Mitsuru staring out the window. “Blue Suede Shoes” emitted from the old jukebox, and floated over the diner’s patrons; one waitress behind the counter was singing along adamantly in horrible English and nasally tones.   It would have been much more appropriate for Mahiru if the funeral march played instead. With each step Mahiru took towards the far table, the harder it was for her to keep the tears at bay. She had already spent the last three minutes in the ladies’ room trying to compose herself after her talk with her aunt.   Not only could Mahiru not tell her aunt where she was, or where she was going with the Lunar Race, she couldn’t tell her why. The only thing Mahiru was able to get out in the tense, upsetting, five minute conversation was the need for her aunt to leave town (more preferably, and much more safe, the country) for awhile under the pretense of going on an overdue honeymoon. If it wasn’t safe for Mahiru to stay in Tokyo it was even worse for the only person left in her family. Dawn’s Venus (and Nozomu—how unsettling it was to think of him as a threat instead of an ally) could use her aunt as a hostage to ransom Mahiru, the Lunar Race, and the Tear Drops.   Oboro had enlightened her of that fact this morning, and Mahiru all but begged on her knees to call her aunt and tell her in person. However, considering how the conversation went, it would have been better if Oboro had talked with her aunt instead.   Looking towards the ceiling and trying desperately to remove her aunt’s aggravated (and extremely worried) voice from her head, she heaved a choked sigh. God damn it! Mahiru screamed in her oh-so-lovely head that was beginning a second rendition of the funeral march. Tears were starting to fall again. Desperately she tried to think of something funny, but ended up with Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, which was, more than anything, disturbing.    Mahiru was sliding into the booth next to Mitsuru—clad in a leather jacket, green shirt and blue jeans, which did wonders for his physique, and, no, Mahiru did not notice this (though, she so totally did)—when Oboro spoke. Mahiru stopped mid-slide.   “Mahiru?” He was worried, she could tell by his voice, which meant her attempts to push aside her troubles hadn’t worked as well as she hoped.   It was then Mitsuru looked at her for the first time that morning, since he fell asleep on the floor, eyes full of masked concern. For a moment, everything she had desperately tried to let go and stop feeling, vanished. The first time in four days she felt calm, controlled, and happy, only for a moment. Only for a moment. Then it all came back as she finally sat on the uncomfortable booth. Breaking eye contact, she focused on the table top, worrying her fingers under the table as she mustered up the courage to, one: admit that she was wrong in wanting to talk to her aunt first, and two: speak to Oboro with so many expectant faces.   She took a deep breath; it’s less painful if you just rip the band-aid off in one fluid motion than to pull it off slowly. So, she ripped the band-aid off.   “She’s not happy.” Granted, she kept her eyes locked on the table, body shaking, and voice tremulous, but she managed to speak with six people dissecting her every move. She knew they were all staring at her awed, worried, and so god-damned-sympathetic it made her want to scream. She had done it though, and that was all that mattered.   “I’ll talk to her today, if you want me to,” Oboro offered gently, testing the waters.   However, three words in front of so many people and the semi-crowded diner, was enough stress for one day. Mahiru only nodded to Oboro before picking up her paper napkin and ripping it to shreds under the table.   The food came ten minutes later—by that time Mahiru had moved onto sugar shots—served by the terrible singing waitress.    Only then did Mahiru realize she hadn’t ordered. Her stomach growled as she watched the waitress who couldn’t sing (must it be mentioned again?) hand over plates overflowing with food.   “Um…” Mahiru mumbled quietly. However, she had nothing to worry about. A plate of food gracefully took its place in front of her, holding her favorite foreign breakfast with no butter and extra cinnamon. She almost cried right then and there from pure happiness. For the first time in days one thing in Mahiru’s crazy, stressful, emotional-rollercoaster life was going right.   =   God damn it all to hell.   Damn it.   Damn it!   Damn it!   Stupid Oboro. Stupid fucking Oboro. He just had to make Mitsuru’s life even harder. It wasn’t enough that he made Mitsuru follow her around like a lap dog, made him her personal “bodyguard” for the trip down to Kyoto (which, for the record, Misoka did just fine taking his place), now he had to fucking live with her too.   Mitsuru understood the concept of twenty-four-hour protection, and understood that the Lunar Palace would take care of it all.   He understood wrong.   Oboro, being the sly bastard that he is, made sure that the girls were given twenty-four-hour protection. Oh, yes, he did. Just not in the palace. Keiko and Akira were assigned living quarters on one side of the city, and Mitsuru and Mahiru on another. Akira and Mitsuru were to be the girls private bodyguards for however long they were needed, as in however long it would take to defeat the Dawn’s Venus and/or Nozomu.   It wasn’t enough Mitsuru couldn’t figure out his feelings for Mahiru in peace, now he had to be around her twenty-four/seven….f or days….weeks…months. He’d wake up and she would be the first thing he’d see in the morning; her lovely ocean blue eyes, musical voice, her beaming smile, her slender torso…   It just wasn’t fair. The object of his desire so unbearably close, yet so god-damned far away.   Stupid fucking Oboro.   Can’t a man hate a woman he loves in peace?   Mitsuru growled as he pulled in front of Akira and Keiko’s new home. Yes, a home.   Akira and Keiko, rather the Lunar Palace, rented out a small modest home in the hoity-toity neighborhood of Kyoto.   If God or any other celestial being looking down on Mitsuru had any mercy they’d give Mahiru and him the same luxurious living-quarters… for Mahiru’s sanity if nothing else.   Oboro’s truck pulled up the narrow street followed closely by Katsura’s van. Akira and Keiko parked nearby as Oboro and Katsura exited their vehicles. It wasn’t until Oboro unlocked the front door and started unloading boxes did Mahiru and Misoka appear, eating cookies from the bakery down the street.   Mahiru (long, black, wavy locks of hair and sea-foam green eyes courtesy of a Lunar Talisman now hanging around her neck, powered by Mitsuru’s magic) climbed out of the car handing Akira—disguised as well—a cookie. She walked towards Mitsuru with a cookie bag in one hand and half-eaten cookie in the other. There was a bit of chocolate on Mahiru’s cheek and it took all of Mitsuru’s energy to not walk over to her and wipe it off in some underlying suggestive manner.   God damn it.   He was not going to survive.