Fandom: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon: Sailor Stars (anime)
Date Finished:
Classification: Alternate Universe, Romance, Angst
Pairing: Seiya/Yaten, Taiki/Ami, Mamoru/Usagi, Haruka/Michiru  
Rating: NC-17

The Long Road
By Elsewhere
elsewherecw@shaw.ca

Disclaimer: The characters and story of BSSM are not mine. Oops. ;P

All lyrics and the titles of the chapters belong to Nickelback.

Distribution: If you want this story for any page other than the ones I’ve sent it to, please ask me first, so I know where it goes.

Spoilers: This story takes place about three years after the anime’s end. Constant reference will be made to the Stars season of the BSSM anime, and some references may be made to the manga (although this will be primarily an anime story).  

WARNING: This story contains quite a few graphic, consensual m/f and f/f sexual situations.

Legend:
Emphasis is shown with * *
Thoughts are shown with / /

Summary: Missing for a year, the two remaining Starlights have finally found their lost companion. Now, Yaten faces the most difficult task of her life: trying to find some way to get back the Seiya she knew…

Part One: Flat on the Floor

Glossary:
ano - um
fuzakeru na - don’t mess with me/us---if said in a rough tone of voice, can have the meaning of "don’t fuck with me/us"
hai - yes
iie - no
ita! - ow!
moshi wake arimasen - I’m terribly sorry (very formal honorific expression)
na - a masculine version of ‘ne’---seeking confirmation or another person’s attention
oi - hey
ojou-sama - my lady
omae - you (not a very polite pronoun; nonetheless, Seiya’s usual method of addressing people)
omae tte! - I said, you!
warui - my bad

*****
Not like I need to depend on anyone
Since I can see the lack of need
For you to be here at all
"One more" the anthem for the know-it-all
You won’t be standing up for long
You better learn how to crawl
*****

Every day in his life was more or less the same. He had reached a point of static stability, and he was comfortable that way. A lack of change meant no particular need to think about things like the past, or the future, or the meaning of life.

So everyday he slept until late afternoon, got up and watched some kind of mindless TV program that didn’t make him think about too much, made himself something simple to eat without really worrying about little details like nutrition or the fact that he was losing weight, and then he headed off to work.

Work was the only remotely interesting part of the day, of course. It began in the early evening and went until well into the early morning---usually one or two o’clock, but sometimes three or four if he stayed with the guys to have a drink. And work…work was ideal. The ideal place, the ideal occupation, where he could set his mind free, and not have to think about anything. When he was sitting there at the piano, letting his hands go wherever their own memory took them, he could just close his eyes and let the music carry him away into a kind of lulling nothingness. That kind of numbness was way better than alcohol or any other drug. Music was the only thing that ever kept him that calm.

Of course nobody at the club knew that he was like that. Everybody thought he was just an ordinary guy---maybe a bit better-looking than average; maybe a bit too skilled at the piano to have just wandered in off the street looking for a job the way he had, but hey, there was nothing they could do but let that one slide. They all thought he was just a guy; just the guy who played the piano at the jazz club on Shindou street every night, who was a little eccentric, a little quirky, but still a nice guy.

Nobody knew that he was always on the edge of some kind of…madness. Nobody knew that the well of nothingness in his mind sometimes left him screaming helplessly in the middle of the night, when he thought he could see something in that blackness…something horrifying. They knew that he was different; oh yes. They knew that he’d lost his memory; that he had ‘amnesia’…what a cold, clinical term for what he felt. Could any of them really understand this feeling? Could any of them sympathize with what it felt like to have no idea who, or even what you are?

No. None of them had any idea. He was totally alone. But he was comfortable. As long as life was routine and he didn’t have to contemplate the empty blackness in his mind, he was fine.

He wasn’t sure exactly when *she* became a part of the routine. He was quick enough that he noticed everybody who came and left the bar, and he remembered them. Present memories were clear enough, sharp enough to cut. He knew that she had first entered the bar about two months ago, and on that first visit she had looked fidgety and nervous, as though she was looking for someone. She had taken a seat at the bar and ordered something girly---that he couldn’t quite remember, but something fruity, not like the kind of drinks he would drink. She had remained there for some time, that tight expression on her face, as though waiting, until he had started his set on the piano. He had caught her eyes glancing at him once in a while---brilliant emerald eyes; he’d got used to them---while she’d listened to his playing. After a while, she had calmed down. He’d wondered at the time if it was because she, too, found the music calming.

Either way, ever since then she had come to the bar frequently---several nights a week. He always noticed her the moment she walked in; he wasn’t sure why. She was beautiful, that was undeniable. Those piercing green eyes; a small, elfin face framed by shimmering silver hair that tumbled over her shoulders, down her back, and tapered off somewhere near her knees…she was like a goddess, if a very short one. She was always dressed impeccably, usually in an expensive dress. Her dresses were always dark-colored and perfectly fitted to her form, showing off an appropriate amount of cleavage and thigh. She had to be wealthy, he thought.

But these weren’t all that caught his attention. There was something else about her…he wasn’t sure when, but at some point, she became a part of the routine…his routine. There were other regular customers who came to the club as frequently as she did, if not more often, but she just made that kind of impression, somehow. His eyes were always moving to her. Part of that, he’d come to realize, was her fault. She glanced his way every so often, and there was something bewitching about her eyes, something that made his breath catch. She seemed to know that he was watching her, and she always timed things perfectly: just when he would look her way, she would drop something and bend to pick it up, providing him with a nice view of her cleavage. Even though he was all the way across the room, behind the piano, his eyes could easily scope out *that*. Or he would glance over just as she was adjusting her pantyhose, so her skirt was a little higher up her thigh than usual.

The truth was, he hadn’t realized how easily taken in he was until he noticed these little flirtations of hers. The first time he had to wipe drool away from the corner of his mouth, he recognized the truth. He was, for the first time, feeling genuine, serious attraction of the type that a man is supposed to feel for a woman.

Well, he’d thought he didn’t have those kinds of feelings. He’d thought that sort of thing was buried in the black hole in his mind, with the rest of the things about his life that he didn’t understand.

Of course he did have some idea of what a man was supposed to do about those sorts of feelings. He’d attempted that sort of thing before, during the part of his life that he could remember, as he thought of it. But those attempts had always been total failures. He didn’t intend to repeat the same mistake, so he hoped to ignore her a little more successfully than he had been so far.

But that didn’t change the fact that she had become a part of the regular routine in other little ways as well. He felt some kind of gratitude towards her that she always came to listen to him play. Somehow he knew that that was why she came. He felt some kind of…deeper connection to her than simple carnal lust, or whatever people called the feelings a person had where cleavage and thighs were concerned. She was mysterious to him. He *wondered* about her…and he didn’t wonder about things. That alone was cause to think of her as something entirely different in his experience so far.

And despite all of this, for the two whole months that she came to the bar and listened to him play, and he watched her drop her napkins and adjust her pantyhose and bat her eyelashes at him---and sometimes she would even send him the tiniest, slightest, strangest of smiles, a kind of all-knowing smile as though she knew exactly what he was thinking about her, and even about himself---he never did go up to her and talk to her, and she never talked to him.

Until that night. The night when he did something unnecessary. He was often doing unnecessary things. He never was sure why he did them. But he always felt compelled. He couldn’t help it…

*****

He’d noticed it earlier that evening, the way he tended to notice everything that went on in the bar. One of the younger waitresses---Hisako-chan was her name---had been assigned to serve a table of rowdy young men. They started saying things to her. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she started to look upset, and then one of them grabbed her hand. She struggled to get away. He started to move over towards her, but then they let her go. He was close enough to hear them now. They were harassing her, saying sexual things, the kind of things a young woman like her wouldn’t like. He considered stepping in again, but one of the bouncers beat him to it. Still, he kept the incident in mind all evening.

When Hisako-chan left at midnight, he gave his regrets to the Master, saying that he felt sick and had to go home early. He so seldom asked for favors or any kind of sick leave that of course Master let him go as he wished, but it wasn’t like he was really sick. He followed Hisako-chan as she started on her way home. It was just a hunch, but his hunches were far too often correct.

Just as he’d thought, Hisako-chan had only gone two blocks before the guys from the table earlier surrounded her. Hisako-chan stopped in her tracks as soon as she saw them, holding her bag close to her chest as she stared at them, a look of horror spreading over her face. The men surrounded her, laughing and calling her names. He waited until one of the men had grabbed Hisako-chan by her arms, to make sure that they meant her more harm than name-calling---name-calling she could get over, he knew she was that strong---before he stepped out of the shadows.

"Oi…let go of that girl," he called out as he walked towards them, his voice vaguely muffled by the toothpick he was idly chewing on.

A few of the men spun around, surprised to find someone else on the dark street with them---or at least, someone with the balls to approach them.

"What’d you say, punk!?" the one holding Hisako-chan demanded, his voice coarse. Nothing musical about a voice like that.

"I said," he said, taking the toothpick out of his mouth and stepping forward, planting his feet firmly shoulder-width apart, just in case this got ugly, "that you’d better let go of that girl."

He heard Hisako-chan let out a small gasp of surprise when his face came into the light, so he flicked her a V symbol and a roguish grin to let her know it’d be okay.

"Are you actually threatening us!?" one of the other thugs shouted. "What do you think you can do, idiot!?"

He glanced down at himself, blinking. True, he probably didn’t look very scary, standing there in his casual suit and trenchcoat, long black hair done up in its usual ponytail. He knew he looked kind of girly. But hey, if they underestimated him, so much the better.

"Well actually," he suggested conversationally, "I was thinking of dropping you all to the concrete in---" he glanced down at his watch, "---oh, say, the next minute."

"What’d you say!?" the one holding Hisako-chan said again.

He rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on…this is getting tiresome," he said, closing his eyes briefly and picking at one last particularly troubling spot in his teeth with the toothpick---must’ve been that pork earlier, he speculated---before he tossed the toothpick aside and cracked his knuckles. "I don’t like repeating myself over and over. So let’s just get it over with, na?"

"Fuzakeru na!!" one of them shouted, predictably, as they came flying at him, fists in the air. He almost sighed. It was so depressing. These sorts of things were never any kind of challenge. All he had to do was duck the punch, shift his weight; a sharp punch to the stomach, and that one was down, groaning. The next one went down with a kick that knocked the thorax. One more to a body twist and throw---oops, he hadn’t meant to break the guy’s finger, but sometimes that happened---and then he was at the one holding Hisako-chan.

"Do you mind?" he asked mildly as he grabbed the guy’s hand. He did notice that the other hand had retrieved a knife, even as the thug jabbered some kind of nonsense about a ‘monster’ or something. But that was taken care of with a simple press to the wrist’s trigger point with his free hand. This guy didn’t have the will to use a weapon like that; he didn’t even have to be serious in taking him out. One punch to the face and the guy’s lights were out.

"You okay?" he asked, turning to Hisako-chan, who stood as though stunned, staring at the scene around them.

"H…hai," Hisako-chan said, her voice shaking. She turned to him slowly, watching as he brushed himself off. "S…Seiya-san…"

"Eh?" he said, and then he straightened up. "Ah, don’t worry about these guys. The cops will be here soon and then they’ll get medical attention."

"Iie…Seiya-san…your arm…"

"Huh?" He glanced down at where she pointed, and finally noticed the rip in the cloth of his coat and shirt, and the blood welling up through the tear. "Ah…his knife must’ve grazed me and I didn’t notice. It’ll be fine. More important than that: mission accomplished, na? If any guys like this bother you again, just let me know, okay, Hisako-chan?"

She nodded and offered him a shy smile, but she also seemed vaguely frightened. Well, sometimes girls seemed that way when they saw blood and violence, after all.

He made sure she got safely to a bus stop that would take her home and then he turned around. He considered how far it was to his house and knew that he probably wouldn’t make it with a wound that was bleeding like this. A hospital was out of the question---it just was. So he headed back to the club, confident that it would still be open. Now that it was over, he could explain about his lie from before, about being sick.

By the time he got back to the club, he’d been gone for about an hour, and the club was mostly empty---emptier than it would have been if he had still been around, playing the piano. He shrugged off this thought as he headed for the bar, idly noticing that *she* was there, sipping at some kind of pinky-orange drink.

"Hey, Joey-kun, grab me a towel or something, could you?" he called across the bar to the barkeep, who turned, surprised to see him.

"You’re back, Seiya-san…? I thought you were sick."

"Nah, I just wanted to leave early," he said with a slight smirk, to which Joey replied with a grin. "But I ran into some trouble on the way."

He lifted his arm, pulling back the bloody fabric, and Joey paled slightly.

"Seiya-san! That’s a serious wound! We have to get you to the hospital!"

"No!" he said loudly enough that several people turned to look. He quickly lowered his arm, not noticing that it bled a bit on the bar. "I mean…look, I don’t have to go to the hospital. It’s not as bad as it looks."

"Seiya-san, what’re you talking about…you’re bleeding all over the bar!

"Eh? Aa, warui."

"Seiya-san, come on, you *have* to…"

"I don’t *have* to do anything," he said abruptly, gritting his teeth, a sudden intensity flaring in his eyes that made Joey swallow his intended words. "I’m not going to the hospital, so just…pass me a towel or something, would you?"

"Seiya-san…"

"Here."

He stiffened at the sound of the new voice that intruded into their private---he thought---conversation. A voice so soft, so feminine, kind of cute and bouncy like walking on clouds---definitely a musical voice, the kind of voice someone who appreciated voices could listen to all day. He knew instantly, even though he’d never heard it before, that it had to be *her* voice.

He turned his head, catching his breath when he saw her big green eyes so close to him, looking him right in the eye as she held out a white napkin.

"Are you just going to stand there bleeding?" she said after another few seconds of silence, which startled him into glancing down. She was right; he was making a puddle.

"Ano…"

"Lift your sleeve," she said. Her tone was quiet and so lovely, but held an undeniable note of command. For some reason he couldn’t help but obey it. He lifted his torn sleeve and held out his arm, and watched with a frozen grimace as she stepped forward and started to sponge the wound with her napkin. He tried not to glance down at her familiar cleavage from such a close angle; it didn’t seem like the right time.

"You there…do you have any antiseptic? Bandages? Possibly a needle and thread? In other words, a first aid kit?" The woman fired off questions so quickly that Joey seemed to get a headache; he held a hand to his temple and just stared at her. Just like with him, she showed no patience with Joey’s silence. "Look, everyone has their reasons. He says he’s not going to go to the hospital, so that means we have to take care of this here. Do you understand? If so, then do as I say and look for something useful. And get him something to drink, too. Preferably brandy."

"Brandy?" he repeated a bit numbly. This was strange. What was she doing? And wow, losing this much blood was weirder than he thought. His head was starting to feel a bit…echo-y.

"It will calm your nerves," she said in the same even, measured tone. "We’ll need that, especially if I have to stitch the wound."

After that he was silent for a few minutes while she did something to his arm. He thought she was just cleaning and wrapping it, but there was something funny about her fingers; they were really warm, and the wound started to feel really numb wherever she touched it. He didn’t stop to wonder about all that for too long though. This was too strange. It was the first time they’d talked, and under such circumstances. He felt like he should tell her…something. But how to approach her? How to tell her that she had become part of his routine?

He cleared his throat nervously.

"Ah…omae," he said, glancing down at her.

A few seconds passed and she continued her work on his arm.

Well, that went well, he thought, mildly irritated. There she was, standing right in front of him, and she outright ignored him when he addressed her? What was up with that?

"Omae tte!" he said, a little louder this time.

This time she lifted her head and arched a pale eyebrow at him, and he swallowed, seeing the disapproval in her eyes.

"Are you speaking to me?" she asked levelly.

"Yeah," he said, blinking.

"I see," she said, dropping her eyes back to her task. "Then you should know that my name isn’t ‘omae’. It’s Yaten. Yaten Kou."

Her language was formal and delicate to a degree that wasn’t especially befitting of her tone.

"Ah…" he said, now frowning slightly as he realized the problem. Wow, she really was a proper lady. He smirked. "Moshi wake arimasen, ojou-sama."

"Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated either," she said crisply, tightening the fabric abruptly around his arm, so tightly that it stung.

"Ita!" he exclaimed, and then he frowned again before he forced himself to relax. Time to start again, he decided. "Kou-san, na?"

"Yaten," she said, her voice becoming harder.

/Ah, so the given name is a no-no for a low-life like me. I’m getting used to how she works,/ he thought with a mild grimace. "Ah, Yaten-san; sorry. It’s a coincidence, though. My name is Kou too. Seiya Kou."

"I know," she said simply, not seeming in the least impressed by the coincidence.

"Ah, yeah, you’re a regular here, so I guess you would have found out my name at some point, na?" he said, reaching up his free hand to scratch his head.

She didn’t respond.

/Wow, she’s a bundle of joy./

That was when Joey finally returned with a glass of brandy and a first aid kit. Seiya occupied himself with drinking the brandy while Yaten---it felt strange for *her* to finally have a name---cleaned the wound again with antiseptic and stitched it, ignoring the grunts of pain he couldn’t help but let out.

"You know," he said, as she was wrapping the wound with proper bandages, "I never imagined that a beautiful woman like you would be able to do stuff like this."

She lifted her eyes and considered him in silence for a moment.

"We all do things we don’t like when we have to," she said finally, her voice quiet.

He blinked again. This woman really said the oddest things.

"If you didn’t want to help me, you didn’t have to," he said, feeling a bit flustered. "I never asked for…"

His voice trailed off when he saw the way the corner of her mouth curved upwards towards a smile, like the ones he’d seen before.

"No, no…I’m happy to help you," she said, shaking her head before offering him a smile that seemed almost…weary? "I just don’t like the sight of blood. That’s all. Besides, you shouldn’t keep getting into fights like that."

*That* startled him. She had started to walk away, but he got up to follow her.

"Wait a minute…how do you know that I get into fights?"

"It’s obvious, isn’t it? You come in here often enough with some kind of injury or another. You try to hide them, but I’m sorry to tell you that you do it badly."

"Well…no one else has said anything," he said, a bit indignantly.

"So it’s all right as long as you don’t get caught, hmm?" she asked, shaking her head disapprovingly. He frowned. She really was snotty.

"It’s not like that. I don’t fight ‘cause I like it or anything like that. I fight to…protect people."

"To protect people? Hn. A likely excuse."

"It’s true! I can’t explain it, but…when someone’s in trouble, I always feel like I should do whatever I can to help out. Don’t you know what that feels like at all?"

He stopped, catching his breath again as she turned to regard him with her blazing green eyes. There was something in those eyes, some kind of new curiosity. It made him feel kind of watery inside.

"Heh…of course you don’t," he said, lip curling slightly as the words poured out of his mouth. "Of course a princess like you wouldn’t know anything about those kind of instincts or impulses or wanting to get into a down and dirty fight for the sake of another person."

He had expected her to do something like say, "You’re absolutely right I would never think such a low-class thing!" or to slap him or something like that, but she did something very unexpected.

She started to laugh, so hard that she clutched her stomach.

"Mm…you might be right," she said after a moment, through her chuckles. "You just might be right, Seiya. Then again…you might be wrong."

Her eyes were dancing. They were laughing at him, and she was laughing at him, and she gave him a wicked little smile and a wave before she turned on her heel and left. He just watched her go, because he wasn’t sure what had just happened or why her words had stopped him in his tracks.

Maybe he was wrong…well, it was true that he’d made all these assumptions about her from just a few words and actions. But he thought they were justified assumptions, and he was usually a pretty good judge of character. But…that had sounded like a challenge.

Damn. A challenge was definitely not routine.

*****

END PART ONE