2014-04-01 - Sehnsucht

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Title: Sehnsucht

Mamoru still has Zoe's purse from when she left it when they made each other cry. He's been carrying it around since, hoping he'd see her at school, never knowing she was actually Zoisite, sulking at D-Point and watching Golden Girls while eating tubs of expensive ice cream and staying way the hell away.


Zoe Palissandre, Mamoru Chiba


Sapporo Crab Buffet, Hokkaido

OOC - IC Date:

December 23th, 2013 (IC) - April 1nd, 2014 (RL)>

<Pose Tracker> Mamoru Chiba [Ohtori Academy (11)] has posed.

The inside of the place smells absurdly delicious, of course. It's not terribly busy at this time of day -- late afternoon -- but that just means it's not loud. There are people scattered about here and there, dining in pairs or small groups, walking up to get more food from the buffet, browsing it.

There's at least one guy dining alone, though; he's on his way from a two-person table to the buffet with an empty plate, tailored leather jacket hanging from the back of his chair. He's not, it should be noted, in a uniform-- students are supposed to be wearing them on the trip-- this guy's wearing some black Dolce & Gabbana thing with understated dark red and gold accents, and his black hair's a bit windswept from having entered recently.

Somehow familiar, but he hasn't turned around.

<Pose Tracker> Zoe Palissandre [None] has posed.

They're supposed to be wearing uniforms? Huh. No one told--

"Palissandre-san, you are in violation of the trip dress code!! Where is your uniform??"

It's a familiar screech, though usually one directed at a certain Utena Tenjou. No one's really sure how Ohtori's shrill guidance counselor weaseled her way onto what's supposed to be a fun vacation (as much as she's insisted, loudly and often, that it's her 'duty to the students' to be present), but the fact that she's practically taken up residence at the crab buffet is somewhat suggestive.

Either way, the ripple of turning heads might aid in drawing the solitary diner's eye to where she's bottlenecked the lane between two steam tables, simultaneously trapping a growing line of disgruntled crab-seekers and--


Dressed without thought to how messy delicious crab can be, the girl from the piano room stands with her back to the low wall demarcating the buffet, her chin tilted up -- the better to glare down her straight nose at her attacker. She's left her glorious fiery curls loose, and they tumble over her near shoulder in such a contrast to the delicate lavender of her thin cashmere sweater as to snatch aubades from dawn itself.

"Excusez-moi?" she replies, flatly unimpressed. "C'est vacances. More importantly, I don't care. Go find someone else to torment, s'il vous plaît."

With which Parthian shot she turns on her heel and exits the buffet, leaving the guidance counselor gaping. (A few people applaud as best they can without upsetting their crustacean caches.)

'Damn Beryl-sama,' Zoisite thinks as he pushes his way out on to the terrace. A youma could just as easily have come on this trip as he, and it wouldn't have interrupted his angst!

<Pose Tracker> Mamoru Chiba [Ohtori Academy (11)] has posed.

And yes: that solitary diner turns and stares. And he weighs one thing and another in the blink of an eye and comes to a decision after he's already started acting on it, putting his still-pristine plate down and going over toward the source of the frisson rippling through the room (and the godawful shrieking).

By the time he's half there, though, Zoe's already stomped out toward the terrace doors, so Mamo doubles back for his jacket and his backpack, abandoning his dream of a delicious crab meal in favor of chasing after her.

Somehow managing to avoid being recognised by Gakuen Kaitou Sensei -- it's probably the sunglasses he puts on hurriedly -- Mamoru pushes open the door moments after Zoe does. "Palissandre-san," he calls out, digging in the rucksack, not quite noting, yet, the set of the petite French shoulders. Another step closer as he roots around, and another step closer, and then he triumphantly pulls out Zoe's forgotten bag and holds it up.

"You forgot this," he says completely unnecessarily, but no less cheerfully for it.

<Pose Tracker> Zoe Palissandre [None] has posed.

He's too busy wallowing in self-pity to hear the clatter of footfalls behind him, approaching him, getting ominously closer...

'You forgot this.'

Those tapered pianist's fingers (painted saffron-yellow today) curl around the railing, tightening until their knuckles pale to bloodless white, at the sound of Mamoru's voice. Inwardly, Zoisite curses the boy's chivalry or whatever; beneath that, he reflexively cringes as the film over his real, true memory is once again disturbed.

Maybe the bastard will go away if Zoi satisfies this ridiculous honour of his. What he wouldn't give to have Kunzite arrive to deliver him from this torment!

Zoë turns, then, and lays eyes on her pursuer before glancing down to the object in his proffering hand. The way she looks at the handcrafted Hermès leather bag, you'd think he'd just offered her a slice of day-old pizza.

"Oh," she says, and folds her arms beneath her bust.

<Pose Tracker> Mamoru Chiba [Ohtori Academy (11)] has posed.

There's a distinct expression on Mamoru's face that isn't often seen.

'At a total loss.'

He holds it out for a second longer, then sighs and comes over to the railing next to her, putting it down on the terrace between them. There's not any hesitation or tentativeness in any of his motions, just a sort of exasperated amusement.

When he straightens again, he slings his backpack over one shoulder, then, all uninvited, leans on the railing and looks out across the snowy island. "I am sorry. I wanted to tell you that, too. And to thank you, as well."

His voice, his manner, aren't so absurdly cheerful now: only conversational. Serious, but not heavy. He glances aside at the redhead, blue eyes studying her again, if briefly. "There's a word in German that I haven't found a translation for in any other language. Sehnsucht. If you don't know the name of the piece, that's what I'm going to call it."

Because apparently he has the right to decide these kinds of things.

<Pose Tracker> Zoe Palissandre [None] has posed.

As good an actor as Zoisite is, there are times when he just cannot force himself to be the mask. So the bag sits where it's placed, there on the snow-dusted terrace; the French girl doesn't so much as reach into it to check for her also-missing mobile phone.

Instead, she turns away from Mamoru, back to the railing, and leans her crossed forearms against it. When he addresses her -- apologises -- thanks her -- she doesn't respond, but a few coppery strands do fall from her shoulder down her back as the slight tilt of her head disturbs them.

He says he's got a name for the piece, a sentiment that precludes any opinion of hers. That, now, does at least get her to look his way; the green of her heavily-lashed eyes is darker than it was that day in the piano room, poison crystallised to emerald.

"It is usually rendered as 'longing' or 'yearning,' but defies adequate encapsulation in any other language," Zoë finally replies, her words clouding the chilly air. (Being the Heavenly King of Europe has its advantages, though he hadn't anticipated the subsequent cursory knowledge of German to become relevant quite like this.) Those shadow-veiled eyes land on him, and she continues, "What makes you think you have the right to give it a name?"

Zoisite would be angry, if the strangled feeling that accompanies Mamoru Chiba's presence didn't attempt to muffle any other emotion.

Out of the dim dining hall, Zoë's ensemble is more clearly visible: below the lavender sweater is a wool skirt in heathered grey, its fabric clinging to her hips and flaring out just beneath to end some few inches above her knees, over faintly patterned charcoal tights and a pair of honey-brown button-sided boots. Silver-striped violet silk loops around her neck, knotted at the shoulder.

<Pose Tracker> Mamoru Chiba [Ohtori Academy (11)] has posed.

Instead of answering the demand, Mamoru just smiles a little bit lopsidedly, indefinably sadly, and looks back out over the vista again. He braces his long arms against the top of the railing and leans that way, for a while.

His warmth is dry and present, as if calming the air around him just by being there, and his expression is distant, as if engulfed by a waking dream.

"Homesickness for something that doesn't exist," he says, finally, his eyes closing, his pointed face calm. "An all-encompassing awareness that things aren't as they should be, and grief for it." He takes off his sunglasses and squints into the sudden brightness, letting out a small sigh.

"A loss of something so great and so central that it defines your every moment, but no knowledge of what it is, or was, or could be." Finally, wind picking up his raven hair and dancing with it, he looks back at Zoe, his eyes like an ocean becalmed.

"Because whatever its name is, that's what it is to me."