Notes: Written for Lysapadin, for the prompt "conversations late at night, in the dark."

Winter Cities

Haruka leans back against the cool surface of the wall, counts slowly to herself, an exercise in acting cool and not pacing in circles or screaming in frustration. One, Michiru will be stepping through the doors; sweeping out onto the street from the bustle of the hotel bar, a light word and a cool smile to the doorman. Two, quick steps along the pavement. Past the bus stop, past the steps of the national art museum, purposeful steps toward the bridge. Three, perhaps a pause, checking in her purse, looking at her phone. A frown of irritation. Four, she changes course, turns quickly along the line of the quay instead, past rows of dark yachts. No-one much around here at this time of night; they're in restaurants still, in bars, talking and laughing in a language Haruka doesn't understand. Easy to see if one is followed. Five. She should be able to ring now. Six. Why isn't she calling?

Fuck it all, Haruka thinks. Maybe she counted too fast; pull it back, imagine her just passing the museum, at a leisurely pace - no hurry, nothing to see. But making her way safely, not a single hitch except in Haruka's internal clock.

It's fine, everything is fine.

Her jacket, which seemed so warm when she tried it on back in Tokyo, isn't cutting it. The cold is inside it, wrapped close around her like something solid against her skin.

She's just beginning to lose the last of her confidence in her own mantra when her phone beeps, and she has to fumble to open it with numb, gloved fingers.

"I'm ready for that ride home I was promised," Michiru says, and Haruka is so relieved she laughs, smiling at nothing, at someone who can't see her.

"Where?"

"Beach hotel," Michiru says. How did it go? There aren't any clues. Michiru just sounds a little tired - which could mean anything.

Haruka is already moving for the bike as the line cuts, pulling her helmet back on. Kicks the engine into life and speeds away, breathing again - as though they were already home safe.

"I don't think I like this city," Michiru says lightly, kicking off one delicate shoe at a time in exchange from the sturdy winter boots Haruka has for her, shivering a little. There's snow in the air, and her dress is too flimsy, light material that Michiru promised her would only work with thin tights. Michiru claims not to feel the cold, not since—well, since high school and everything that happened then. She drew the line at letting Haruka take along a whole change of clothes for her, but to hell with the possibility of running on icy streets in stilettos. Only Sailor Neptune should get up to that kind of shit. "OK, there. Let's go."

Haruka takes her hand and pulls her up, steadies her while she gathers her dress out of the way so she can settle onto the bike. "How did it-"

"Later," Michiru says quickly, smiles, a little flash of almost-humour. "But no-one is about to try and murder us, I don't think. If that's what you mean."

Haruka doesn't need another hint.

No warmth seeps through to her back where Michiru leans against it as they speed away.

They creep into their darkened room as though trying not to wake—who? There's no-one else here.

Outside the hotel window the harbour ice glows in the city lights, like a vision of a crystal future.

"A dead end, possibly," Michiru says. She's frowning in concentration. "There's something-I could feel it when I was there. But I can't see."

Her mirror glitters between her hands, her fingers that are stained red by the sudden indoor warmth, and Haruka looks away hastily. There's something wrong, she thinks. Maybe with the mirror, or with the world.

"I was so sure this was the place," Michiru says, "but now we're here it's pulling me further east."

"Where?" Haruka asks. Wraps her arms around herself, stares out into the night, stares into the glass of the window and sees the two of them reflected, indistinct.

"I don't know," Michiru says. Haruka can't see her face clearly but is sure she's frowning, matches the expression. East could be Helsinki, Tallinn, St Petersburg. Further, into Siberia. Could be all the way home.

"We shouldn't have left," Haruka says.

Michiru sighs. A flash of movement as she turns the mirror over in her hands, lays it on the little bedside table. "We shouldn't have come in the first place," she says.

In a dizzying rush of perspective Haruka doesn't think of Stockholm or Tokyo at all, but of Earth, of how deep in the solar system they are. Far from the border and far, in some way, from themselves. She wants, suddenly, to see the Milky Way stretch above her—but in the city, of course, it's impossible. Even if they travelled to the middle of Siberia and looked up, it would still be nothing like—

"Don't," she says. "I won't be sorry." Usagi, trusting and open. Hotaru demanding another bedtime story. Setsuna, startled into laughter, looking at them as though she can't quite believe they're there. Or that she's there, maybe. Michiru's hand in hers, squeezing reassuringly. Open-mouthed kisses, Michiru pressing her back against the bed.

"I know," Michiru says. "I'm only tired."

Haruka turns away from the reflections to look at Michiru properly, at the shadows under her eyes and the droop of her mouth. "Look," she says. "Let's go to bed. And if it doesn't make any more sense in the morning, we'll go home."

"You're right," Michiru says, manages a smile. "I never thought I'd miss Tokyo in winter."

And I never thought I'd miss Uranus, Haruka thinks. I never thought I'd be away from it to be able to miss it. But when she turns it over in her mind it's a pleasant sort of longing, nostalgic rather than pressing. Michiru is wrong; they're on exactly the right planet.

They curl up tight against each other in the soft hotel bed, Michiru against Haruka's back, wrapped in the smell of clean linen, curtains drawn against the night. But sleep is harder. On the bedside table Haruka imagines that she can see small flickers of light from around the edge of the mirror.

Something must be coming. She wonders if it would feel better to know the shape of it, be able to pin it down. If they're just not meant to know yet, or if it's all about to fall apart.

"Relax," Michiru murmurs against her shoulder. Her hand slides under Haruka's nightshirt. Her fingers splay warmly across Haruka's stomach. "Think how bored you'd get if it wasn't like this."

Haruka laughs, a muffled huff of breath. "I'd have to—invent a whole new sport. Michiru—can't you—"

Michiru hums agreement, slides her hand downward. Heat spirals uncontrollably through Haruka, and she shudders pleasantly with it. "Or you could rob a bank."

"Become and international con artist—oh—fuck—"

"You mean to say," Michiru says, laughing, "that you aren't already? I feel rather disappointed." Her hand is so sure. Of course she'd know exactly what Haruka needs right now.

"Come with me next time," Michiru says, later, when Haruka is finally starting to believe that she might be edging closer to sleep. "I know we decided—and it makes sense—but—"

"Whatever," Haruka mutters, before anything too openly soppy can come out and make them both uncomfortable. "Two people looking's always better."

She doesn't exactly enjoy going into places that might be dangerous without Michiru to watch her back either. But it's not like she can say that. Not even in this strange, quiet time, still hours before dawn, which seems to invite confession.

"Exactly," Michiru says—sighs, really. For a moment Haruka thinks she's going to say something else, is rather afraid of what it might be. But it's silent. There's only the sound of their even breathing and, somewhere far under that, the quiet hum of the city.

Haruka closes her eyes and pretends to fall asleep.

[end]