standard disclaimers apply: I don't own sailor moon or any of the characters related to it, so please don't sue me! a friend is one to whom one may pour out all the contents of one's heart, chaff and grain together knowing that the gentlest of hands will take and sift it keep what is worth keeping and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away - Arabian Proverb However far apart we may be, love will always carry me close to thee. - Tuxedo Mask/Kamen April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain "I'm sorry sir. I have some news." Silence. His master said nothing, remaining seated in the large mahogany chair, a cold mask etched on his face. The servant, Nigel, gulped nervously, feeling the effects of the thick, stifling, silence that had filled the room. "Sir?" Ebony locks fell over darkened eyes as the young master nodded. Shades of Lilac: Red "Koban wa, Motoki-kun!" "Argh Mamoru! Why are you here?" "Me? Oh, I don't know. Something about the assignments you missed today," Mamoru said mischievously. "Don't remind me. Did I miss much?" "Don't you think that we should talk about this inside?" Mamoru asked, pushing the slightly ajar door further. Motoki, although weak from the flu, resisted, leaving the door as a barrier between them. "I would, demo, I'm expecting someone." "Really? Who? Does Reika know?" "Har, har, Mamoru," Motoki feigned through fits of coughing. "You sound really bad." "Tell me about it," Motoki croaked. "Seriously though, I need to come in and explain the assignments to you." Motoki sighed audibly. Mamoru heard the shifting of clothing and the sluggish footsteps as they made their way across the polished wooden floor. Sighing, Mamoru pushed the door completely opened. Upon entering, he closed it and followed Motoki to the living room. Motoki lay sprawled on the sofa bed when Mamoru entered. Soft, fluffy, white tissues were scattered about. It looked like clouds fell from the sky, depositing themselves in Motoki's home. "You think you have enough tissues?" "Don't start," Motoki said with his eyes closed, "Just tell me the assignments Mamoru." "Well, aren't you in a hurry to get rid of me," Mamoru said half-jokingly. A part of him wondered who it was that was so important to Motoki. He was also a little annoyed because he didn't get his "fix" today. Since Motoki was sick today, he had missed seeing Odango at the arcade. He couldn't show up there, lest she think that he came to the arcade for other reasons. To top that off, Motoki was sick, in a bad mood, and ready to kick him out the door. "You never answered my question. Who are you expecting?" "A friend," Motoki stated simply. "Must be some friend," Mamoru replied, slightly hurt by Motoki's indifference. "Gomen ne Mamoru, demo, I'm not in the best mood. To top that off, I have to break a promise to someone I care about." Shocked, Mamoru stared at Motoki, jaw agape. Motoki hadn't moved from his position the entire time. A promise . . . to someone he cared about? Mamoru was beyond curious now, but the way Motoki was acting, he realized that he shouldn't push it. Motoki never kept anything from him, even though he did, Mamoru thought guiltily. But, if Motoki wanted his privacy, who was Mamoru to deny him. After all, Motoki was very patient and understanding with him, so why not return the favor? Because this wasn't the Motoki he knew. Sure he was sick, but he never acted this way. It would be like saying that Odango would become cold-hearted. Maybe that was a bit extreme, but it was the same concept. Deciding not the push the issue further, Mamoru conceded, "Alright, um, I won't take up any more of your time. Basically, you have to read this for Hartman's class and write an essay on it. Next week we're going to present the findings obtained in the essay." Motoki groaned and opened his eye, "Are you for real?!! She's actually assigning that! Didn't she say something about postponing it till after spring break." "She did. But she changed her mind," Mamoru said sheepishly, eliciting another groan from Motoki, followed by several, uh, unmentionables. "Anyway, Dr. Tanazaki wants us to read the next two chapters and to prepare for the test on chapters 1-5. Oh and before I forget, Hartman also wants us to interview someone for the paper. Professor-" "Iie. Yamete. I can't take anymore. Have a heart! Just leave the assignments. I'll sort through them later." "Ok. Do you need anything?" "Iie." "Alright," Mamoru said, gathering his things. He was about to say goodbye when Motoki stopped him, "Wait!" "What?" "Um, could you get me a glass of water please?" "Sure. No problem," Mamoru said as he got up and walked to the kitchen, missing the distinct creak of a door opening before softly closing. Surprisingly the kitchen looked cleaner than the living room. The dishes were placed neatly on the drying rack and there were a few pots on the stove. Curious, Mamoru opened one. The smell of chicken soup filled his nostrils. "Wow," Mamoru whispered, "it smells good. Must taste great! I wonder who made it? Must be his sister." Trying not to make a sound, Mamoru closed the pot and reached for a glass from the cabinet. He filled it up with water and began making his way back to the living room. He stopped mid-step, hearing someone whispering, "Don't worry about it. I really don't mind." "I'm really sorry. I thought that I'd be better by now. The doctor said that I need to be on antibiotics for another week. Then, he said that I needed another week to get my strength back." "I understand." "Really? You're not mad." "Mad? Me?" the stranger said giggling, "You know I wouldn't be mad. It's not your fault that you got sick." That laugh. Mamoru could recognize that laugh anywhere. It. was. hers. The one she would use when she was trying to change the subject, or lighten the mood. It was very childish, yet had a seductive undertone to it; it was almost flirtatious, but she probably didn't even know it. Mamoru's hands began to shake and he could feel his palm sweating, loosening its hold on the glass. His other hand reflexively reached for the glass, keeping it from falling to the ground and shattering into a thousand pieces. What was Odango doing here? What was she talking about? She was the last person Mamoru expected to be Motoki's mystery "guest." Mamoru realized that none of his questions would be answered just standing there. Shaking his head, Mamoru cleared all thoughts. Ebony locks fell over his cobalt eyes. Sighing, he pushed them back into place. He had to look perfect . . . especially for *her*. "Really though. I'm alright with it." Before Motoki had a chance to respond, Mamoru strode in, ready for "battle," "Fancy meeting you here, Odang-" Mamoru stopped. Whatever he was expecting this was not it. His jaw dropped as he took in the intimate position *his* Odango and best friend were in. Motoki's head was placed in Usagi's lap. Her small, soft fingers were playing with Motoki's unruly blonde hair, in an attempt to comfort him. He seemed to relax under her ministrations. His eyes were closed and his face was etched with a dream-like expression and a small smile tugging at his lips. Mamoru on the other hand, was not happy. Red. Mamoru saw red. His eyes darkened to an almost black color. Still, he saw red. His fingers, no longer sweaty, tightened around the glass. His jaw, getting back its normal function, also tightened. "Mamoru?" Motoki jumped up at the sound of Mamoru's name. He had forgotten that Mamoru was still there. At the look of shock and betrayal present in Mamoru's eyes and on his face, Motoki gulped, only now realizing the extent of Mamoru's infatuation with Usagi. *grins evilly* *winks at patch* couldn't help the hartman thing. the poem in the beginning was written by T.S. Eliot. it was called "The Waste Land," and was written in 1922. japanese translations demo - but gomen ne - sorry hai - yes iie - no koban wa - good evening odango - dumpling/meatball yamete - stop feedback is always appreciated. ja ne! redrose