Michiru had certain rituals she indulged in on the day of a concert. Although she always played in her home (she had favored Barber’s Adagio for Strings lately), her stereos remained silent. It was important that her style remain free of the influence of other masters. She took pride in her accomplishments; she would not ride anyone’s coattails.
She began the day with a leisurely swim and a long shower. Water always grounded her, brought her a sense of peace and purpose. On these days, she needed that more than anything.
The rest of the day, she spent in direct preparation for her performance. Haruka knew to keep her distance. She carefully selected which of her favorite dresses to wear. For this evening, she chose a black lace ensemble, though to be frank, black was not an adequate description of the color. Ebony perhaps? Or midnight?
She supposed it wouldn’t do to quibble over the exact name. Her mother, who always attended these functions, would still scold her for such a funereal selection. She would brush Michiru’s hair away with long, tapered fingers and frown, a standard expression on that aging, elegant face. She would ask why Michiru hadn’t worn that green dress she had sent over the week before. She had designed it herself with Michiru in mind.
Michiru would make excuses, claiming she wanted to wait for a special occasion. She would not tell her mother that the frock was too celebratory, too cheerful. She would not say that she had chosen black to match her mood and her fate.
She did expect this to be her last concert, after all.
Michiru brushed that thought aside and put the finishing touches on her make-up. She had been tempted to select a dark, almost purplish red lipstick, but she had sensed this would verge on parody. Besides, with her hair, deviating from a neutral palette was often a recipe for disaster.
She took a deep breath, gently running her fingers along the hand mirror at her vanity. It was nothing like the mirror she had nearly died for just weeks before, but it was precious to her nonetheless. Her father had gotten it for her just before….
Well, there was no sense in pondering that. After all, it was likely that she would join him before long.
Outfit selected and make-up completed, Michiru turned to her most cherished possession: her violin. She resisted the temptation to pet the case, another fine gift from her mother. With careful, gentle fingers, Michiru lifted the lid and gazed down out the instrument inside. This, she could not help but caress.
This was hardly her first or her only violin, but it was her favorite. Every instrument she owned was hand-crafted, and this each produced its own unique sound. One these strings, she believed she played the most beautifully.
She couldn’t adequately describe to the uninitiated the difference in tonality. They would likely stave her off with compliments that she could make heavenly music with a broken bow. She would nod politely and try not to hate them for their ignorance, for pretending to love her without really knowing her.
She exhaled, shaking her head softly. Now was not the time for bitterness. Superstitiously, she thought it might leech into the wood of the violin and color her performance. She had no plans to rail against the unfairness of fate that night, though she had every right to.
Instead, she wanted to mourn. It was an indulgence in self pity she would not normally have tolerated, but for just a few hours, she wanted her audience to know her torment and to feel it with her. She had done that too with her series of apocalyptic paintings, but this would be different. Music and art affected people in different ways. A painting you could only look at; music you sometimes only heard, but the vibrations resonated in the blood. She wanted the notes to sink into their bones and shake them at their core. She wanted it to stay with them. And when her fate was known throughout the city, she wanted them to remember her performance and be haunted by it, if only for a little while.
If there was one dry eye in the house tonight, she would think herself a failure.
She lifted the violin out of the case, drawing a soft cloth with it. She dipped an edge into a jar of violin polish and began to move it methodically over every inch of her instrument. Her teacher would likely scold her for over-polishing again, but she couldn’t help but dote on a thing she loved.
And she did love the violin. It was not often that Michiru would admit she felt love. In truth, she was not capable of the all encompassing, depthless love she had seen those five strange girls she fought with and against.
She thought she loved her father, or at least the memory of him, though nostalgia and a sense of loss may have colored her affection. She certainly cared for her mother, but she was not willing to claim love. The woman did not make it easy with her distance and frequent criticisms.
The only two things Michiru felt prepared to say she loved without reservation or condition were Haruka and her violin.
She paused in her ministrations, wondering what would become of the instrument once she was gone. Her initial longing was for Haruka to take it, but she knew better than to expect this. If Michiru fell in the final battle, Haruka would not survive it either. That had been made perfectly clear at the cathedral when Haruka had….
Well, Michiru didn’t like to think about that.
Her mother was the next obvious choice, but she wouldn’t want it. After losing her husband, all of his possessions had been given away or put into storage, never to be seen again. She had not even been able to hold onto the house they had lived in for the length of their marriage. Michiru couldn’t bear to bequeath her violin to have it locked away somewhere, never touched, never looked upon, never played.
Then she remembered the day that Usagi, strange little girl with the brightest of hearts, had come to her wanting to be a lady. Usagi had played her violin that day – horribly, harshly – but Michiru had detected a certain reverence beneath the clumsiness. Michiru knew that Usagi would never put away the prized possession of a loved one. And Michiru did believe that in spite of everything, Usagi loved her. Maybe Michiru even loved the her a little; it was hard not to.
So it was decided: when Michiru fell, Usagi would get the violin.
Assuming the girl did not die herself.
Michiru surprised herself by genuinely hoping that this did not happen. She was prepared to cut the girl down if she got in the way, but she didn’t want to. She could not fool herself by saying that her regret was only for Haruka’s sake. She genuinely hoped that Usagi – all of them in fact – survived.
Was that love?
“Ready?”
Michiru turned her head towards the doorway, unsurprised to see Haruka looking masculine and debonair in her favorite tuxedo. She smiled and placed the violin back in the case. “I can be. I’ll tune at the auditorium.
Haruka’s eyes fell upon the gown she wore. “Black. Appropriate.”
She nodded, rising. “I thought so.”
For a moment, Haruka’s lips quivered and a flash of grief passed over her face like the headlights of a passing car. It vanished a moment later. They had silently agreed not to dwell too much on the likelihood of what would come to pass within the next few days.
“You’re beautiful,” Haruka said softly, earnest as always. “You always are.”
Michiru wanted very much to kiss her then, but she feared it would give the moment a significance she’d like to avoid. So she merely reached for the other girl’s hand. “As are you.”
Haruka snorted. She hated being equated with feminine compliments, but she endured it for Michiru’s sake. She pulled Michiru gently as if to draw her forward, but then paused. “I was thinking.”
“How dangerous.”
“Do you think Usagi would have any use for the Ferrari?”
Michiru stared, disbelieving but still unsurprised by the parallel of their thoughts. Then, significance be damned, she did kiss Haruka, languorous and slow. It smudged her lipstick.
Haruka arched an eyebrow, her cheeks colored. “Words fail you?”
“Actions have a music to them,” Michiru said, slipping her free arm in Haruka’s. They both stared at the open doorway, into the hallway, and beyond.
“I’m ready.”
