It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that Michiru is painting again, up on the roof of some building (a tall one, but she was spat into the Nexus again with supplies on her arm - she has no idea where she is, exactly, but she knows that she has a beautiful view of the city, and that's all that really matters.) No, if anything should surprise
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"What are you doing?" he asks coldly. His posture is tense with the effort of self-control not to simply cut the canvas into pieces.
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"Painting."
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"Evidently," he says, lips parted in something between a sneer and a cold, humorless smirk. "Why this?"
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"Can't say I have a reason," she says, and pretends the lie is flawless. "Tragic scenes sell better."
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Your facetiousness is not wanted, here. If she were Zoisite at that thrice-cursed piano, the musician would already be in pain for an answer like that. For a moment, he has the distinct wish to give her a taste of just what a scene like what she's painted feels like.
"Your taste has yet to improve, Sailor Neptune," he remarks dryly.
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Michiru is not afraid of a lot of things. This bitter man (familiar oh god why can't she remember) will have to do a little more than heavy steps and angry faces to ruffle her feathers.
"If you know who I am," she says cooly, "then you shouldn't have to ask why I paint a scene like this."
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"Put away your toy," he tells the senshi. He's not here to attack her. It might disturb her even more to know they've fought together.
Fighting on his side does not exempt someone from his anger.
"No," he corrects her reasoning brusquely. "Those memories are unwanted. Do not stir them up."
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"Perhaps they're unwanted for you. If you don't like them, you don't have to look, but you will not tell me what to paint." Her words are quick, clipped.
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It might be an ironic question for a man so driven by the past, but focusing on vengeance here and now is, in his view, different from brooding over the broken pieces and bodies of everything he ever once cared for, when he was still capable of such an emotion.
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