They drive fast away from Tokyo, because Haruka doesn't know the meaning of the latter half of "speed limit." Wind skating across the bonnet makes messes of their hair, but Michiru is well accustomed to multiple brushings and Haruka doesn't even notice. The car takes curves like someone double-dared it to, reckless and rash and yet they don't worry. There is trust here, however misplaced it may seem at times. It's a miracle, but no one stops them – no one breaks the spell of silence. They don't talk about the question coiled between them, unspoken but not unanswered. Tonight it is yes, finally yes, and though neither girl would ever admit it, their hearts lodge in their throats in just the same way.

When they've gone far enough for the night and stop for dinner, conversation is strangely mundane. They don't talk about Sailor Moon or saving the world or what happens from here. They talk about things any pair of teenagers may talk about after leaving what had become their hometown – will people wonder what happened to them? Will they miss anything about Tokyo or Mugen or those five silly girls they'd come somehow to call friends? Michiru spears salad and Haruka stirs her coffee and silence falls in comfortable intervals. Their eyes meet – sometimes by accident, sometimes not – and the candle on the table, its light playing perfectly off of gently curling lips, seems a flawless representation of the something they see in each other's gazes. And although the waitress eyes her with typical interest, Haruka is, for once, nothing but polite. Michiru's oolong tea warms her all the way down.

They choose a modest but clean hotel near the found restaurant and Haruka brazenly requests a one-bed room. Michiru lets her, smiling at the proffered, "Thank you, sir" from the girl at the front desk. Their room is on the third floor. In the lift, they stand side by side, not touching. In the corridor, Haruka walks just slightly on the balls of her feet, a runner waiting for the gun.

Michiru takes an alarmingly long time in the shower.

Haruka sits on the edge of the bed – their bed, she thinks, something in her breast fluttering at the truth of the thought – her fingertips pattering a nervous tattoo against her kneecaps. For all her flirtation and bravado, she has never had a night like this and she can hardly swallow. The linens are soft and cool and white and all she can think about is what will happen on them and between them. She is terrified and excited and ready and somewhere at the edge of all this, she feels fatigue pulling at the corners of her eyes, quite uninvited.

Michiru really does take an unnecessarily long time.

When she emerges, shell-smooth and pink and smelling of satsuma, she finds Haruka sprawled on the bed, one long forearm slung over her closed eyes. She doesn't snore, not really, but her breath comes heavy and deep through her nose as her chest rises rhythmically, drawing Michiru's eye. Fast asleep, because Haruka does nothing slowly.

She considers, for a moment, being irritated. For a longer and much more interesting moment, she considers waking her. She considers sliding her way up her body and bringing her back to consciousness with barely-there kisses and teeth on her exposed collarbone. It's an attractive possibility. But they have played their messy role in saving the world – they have fought with fury and passion and they have died and returned and perhaps they have both earned their rest. So she lies down beside the lank, tired form of her partner, and for now, they sleep.