Sailor Moon Fan Fiction ❯ One of These Nights ❯ One of These Nights ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

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One of These Nights
by Edmondia Dantes
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I'm not making money off of this.
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Silence was golden, or so somebody said. He wasn't sure, could care less, and yet it was true. Silence. Calm. The moonlight streaming through his window. Yes, he rather enjoyed silence. It helped. He could hear it better without any extraneous noise.

Mamoru rolled over, tucking his hands behind his head. The clock glared 2:47 a.m., the proper time for all good little college students to be frantically typing up the papers that were due the next day. His had been done since last week. Ever since this life had started, he'd taken to doing things in advance. You never knew when somebody would try to kill you this week, after all.

He sighed and closed his eyes. They fluttered back open soon enough. The silence and the full glow of the moon were not conducive to sleep. Little was, at least during the night. He hardly thought it strange anymore, this fondness for the shadows and the stars.

As a boy at the orphanage, he'd been yelled at more times than he cared to recall for being out of bed after hours. Not to mention being on the roof, he thought rather wryly. Oh, how they'd bellowed about that. A ten year old troublemaker, quiet, intense, studious, and wandering around past hours right over their heads. Not exactly a normal boy, but then, none of them were. All scarred, all secretive, some shy, some brash, some wild, some broken, but all different. Untrusting, the psychiatrists had told each other, every one untrusting.

It hardly formed a bond. He knew he was envied, could see the jealousy in their eyes. "His parents died in a car crash," they'd mutter, voices bitter, "He was wanted."

Oh yes, special him. Never mind he had no memory, never mind he had nobody, never mind anything at all. The boys formed little bands, sheep following a slightly larger sheep, occasionally switching and mingling herds but always the same. Except for him.

Except for him, who had learned early on that a sharp tongue always helped. Except for him, who preferred to read outside rather than play, to run rather than to walk, to stare out the window while the tv blared in the background.

"He's not normal," they whispered, "strange,"

He hadn't known why they'd singled him out. It wasn't as if he was despised. He was just... different. Subtler. Able to talk his way out of any situation, sounding calm and reasonable and completely in the right, even if he was lying through his teeth. Able to stand on his own and to fight better than any other boy his age. He got good grades, all his teachers adored him, and if he hadn't any friends than he would just have to live with that. It wasn't bad, living like that. Comfortable, and yet foreign, at a strange distance from everyone he knew.

But most unsettlingly of all, it felt familiar. He knew somehow that this was the way life had always been, and would always be. They weren't like him, and he wasn't like them, and that was that.

"How old is he?" one janitor had asked the headmaster one day. Mamoru had been passing in the hall, and had paused mid-stride to hear the reply.

"Why... he's all of eleven now."

The old man had chuckled, a dry, rustly sound. "Don't be absurd. That boy's over twenty."

Mamoru could almost see the look the headmaster's face. "I beg your pardon?"

"Not just an old soul," the old man had said patiently, "an ancient one."

"Rubbish," the director said crisply.

The old man had given him an inscrutable look, and he'd squirmed. Which, as far as the children had been able to tell, was a nearly impossible feat. The headmaster never got nervous. Then the calm, patient gaze had swung around towards the door. When it slid into the hall and fell upon Mamoru, the old man smiled, slow and... expectant.

Mamoru clutched his book to his chest and ran.

Later, out in the yard, he'd climbed his favorite tree, the one nobody else had been able to scale. He loved that tree, spent long hours daydreaming beneath the gentle arch of its branches. Sometimes he fancied he could hear its heartbeat, low and thrumming and strong. It was comforting, warm, and most of all welcoming. It knew his name.

He scrambled up, catching his clothes on twigs and nearly dropping his book twice in his haste to get to his favorite branch. It was halfway up the trunk, smooth and sloping, splitting into a 'v' that was just the right size for him to fall asleep in. He collapsed there, fingers digging into the smooth, warm bark, vividly alive in a way that the sterile environment inside could never simulate. He pressed his face against the warmth, grateful for the peaceful silence that always pervaded this place. A place to brood, the psychiatrists had mumbled, staring at him with clinical disregard. They knew nothing.

It was here he dreamed. His dreams, as most children's were, were fanciful at first. He dreamt of throwing a pie in the director's face, playing pranks on the other boys, having a five-course gourmet meal for dinner. Then they were idle, nothing in particular. Then they changed into ethereal things, wispy and strange, the ones he could never remember. Those he cherished, admired, and wondered at the fragments left behind when he fully awoke. But never could he study them at length, for if he did, they would start to dissolve as if they had never been, spiderwebs ripped apart by a gentle wind, and nothing was left at all.

Of the faint recollections only emotion remained. Warmth, sunlight, playfulness, love, mischief, boredom, disgust, hate. The last frightened him, the darkness he clung to for fear of never feeling again. Better to hold a piece of a shattered mirror in your hand and let it draw blood so long as you knew it was there.

"He'd be all right if he got on with people," they said, and he turned away and ignored them.

What were people? He felt no strong connection with them. They were nothing like him. He could never be a part of them, never. No, he'd be out at night, on the roof, on the walls, slipping by as silent as a shadow. He supposed he'd always been sneaky, sly, or something. He didn't know why it was such a thrill, wandering down corridors in the middle of the night, yearning to be outside, up in the air or sitting on the ground, warm and velvety beneath his fingertips. The stars, the planets, the night. And oh, how he loved the moon.

He would spend hours just staring, lost in its silvery perfection, admiring the way it gleamed in the sky, the way it shimmered through phases like quicksilver, dancing through the night like a playful child. Yes, he loved it, adored it, knew that there was something more than wonderful about it. Her, his mind whispered, and he wished he knew what he was thinking of. He loved it more than the sun itself, the daystar that pushed away the darkness. He knew it did, for sometimes when everything was horrible he would dream of it, burning away the cold blackness and letting things live again.

"Weirdo," they whispered, staring at him as he checked out another astronomy book. He ignored them, sweeping by as if they weren't there. "Who does he think he is?"

And even in winter he ran out, sat under his tree, and read. Even when they yelled that he would catch cold without a coat, get pneumonia from sitting out in the snow, even then he was warm inside.

Once, he'd fallen asleep outside, in the dead of winter, his only protection a heavy sweater. When they had finally found him, he'd been curled up beneath the tree, head pillowed on his arms, and green grass growing fresh and sweet-smelling all around him. He'd woken up warm, sleepy, and deeply content. Faintly, beneath the rush of anxious voices, he heard a slow, haunting melody, warm and steady, almost loving. Then they'd picked him up, and their voices overran the glow of the song. As he was carried back inside, he noticed that the place where he'd been sleeping was as fresh as summer. And it had snowed half of a foot in the time that he'd been outside.

They fed him, scolded him, and left him alone in the infirmary with a cup of hot chocolate. Outside, he heard them talking.

"Never seen anything like that before..."

"Nonsense, probably shoved it all away himself!"

"Three hours, do you realize how cold it's been?"

"The boy is more than strange, that's for damn sure."

"By all means, he should be dead by now."

Mamoru drank his chocolate quickly and tried hard not to listen. He focused instead on hearing that music, but the rise and fall of their voices drowned out anything he could dream of. He rolled over, looked at the moonlight glimmering on the snow, bright enough it should have been painful to watch. It made his eyes water.

They watched him more closely after that, took care to see that he was in bed at night, made sure he didn't go outside for too long. He despised it. He was all right, he knew that. They were the ones with the problems.

And spring came, that glorious season of release and rebirth, and he could be outside and hear the song, vibrant, bright, shaking off the easy peace of winter. They went to the city then, and he loved that too, though the song was different, more rushed, but he loved it all the same. Though he didn't know the people, didn't understand them, didn't communicate with them, he was content. Some corner of his mind was pleased that so many people had gotten along so well, was admiring of the social structure, whispered curiosity about their lives; but that was the voice that he usually ignored.

Then summer, sweet wonderful summer, when the sun hung rich and full in the sky, and the moon glowed like a diamond. He ran barefoot that summer, much to the horror of the directors, and he had laughed at them all, knowing himself to be safe in the warm grass and atop the sun-heated brick walls.

Autumn came, and he went to school and made a friend. He was a bright, sparkling boy, his opposite in almost every way, carefree where he brooded and light where he was dark. His eyes were green, his hair was blond, and his name was Motoki.

And that year he learned, and spoke, and discovered people.

When the taste of smoke lingered in the air, and the song was spicy and clear, he remembered how to sing along. He hadn't forgotten, or at least that was what he thought, but...

He sat in his tree until daybreak, determined to pick up the tune. And sometime when the moon was high, he finally caught the melody. Exquisite in every way, more beautiful than anything he had dared to dream about before - and amazingly, astonishingly, incredibly, it knew him! It curled around him like the autumn winds, sharp and brilliant and delighted that he had come at last. And he loved it for that, and knew it loved him too.

They found him, called him down, and he went quietly. But they didn't dare confront him, the boy with dark eyes and bright leaves burning in his ebony hair like an autumn crown.

Motoki played games and laughed while Mamoru sat and hummed the tune.

They weren't alike, no, not at all, but there was something he had to do. Protect his new friends, keep them safe, but he needed to learn to defend himself first. He vaguely recalled voices, smiles, bright eyes and laughter, echoing through great hallways, something out of his dreams, and he knew those were *his* protectors.

But they were gone, and he had to do the protecting now.

So he grew older and taller and still he knew the song. And he made other friends, spoke to others more often, and was considered by all to be a nice, quiet, polite, if somewhat bookish, upright student.

Until one night when the song was loud and the moon was full and he awoke with a start.

He could remember his dream now.

A girl, a palace, mist and her sad voice.

And he'd been chasing that dream ever since, running through the night as silent as a thief, as quickly as the wind, pushed ever-onward by the chorus of her sorrow and his song.

But not tonight, no, not tonight.

Mamoru sighed and rolled over, fiddling with his pillow. Another sleepless night, Chiba, he thought to himself, and listened to the silence.

He fell asleep to the sweet melody of the song.

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AN: Just tweaked to get rid of a few annoying little problems. Probably not what you were expecting. I make no apologies. It obviously had nothing to do with the wonderful Eagles song.

Feedback please, if you bothered to read.

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