Michiru supposed she was having just a bit too much fun at Haruka’s expense. But it was her birthday, she rationalized, so such transgressions could be forgiven.

Haruka had chosen the venue, a Michelin-starred restaurant nestled discreetly between the international boutique stores of Omotesandō. The cuisine was French, and the décor lavish, plush carpets and chandeliered ceilings. The waitstaff were all elderly gentlemen in immaculate suits, while the diners were a more cosmopolitan crown than typical of Tokyo, with smatterings of English, French and Russian rising above murmured Nihongo.

The maître d' guided them to their table - tucked by the window overlooking the zelkova trees below - pulling out the chair for Michiru as he did. Michiru smiled in appreciation at the gesture, one hand, clad in a kidskin evening glove, gently brushed over the maître d’s arm as she lowered herself into the seat. She shot Haruka the quickest of glances - just the dart of her eyes - confirming the presence of the predicted flash of jealousy. Good. Haruka was, in her humble opinion, never more attractive than when she was feeling protective of her beloved.

“I’m surprised we’ve never been here before,” Michiru said, once the waitstaff had withdrawn for a moment. She plucked the elegantly-folded napkin from the table, smoothing it out over her skirt.

Haruka fidgeted a little with the silverware, twisting a knife by its handle. “Doesn’t strike you as a little pretentious?” she asked, despite herself. Despite knowing that this was exactly the place Michiru had wanted to go to for her birthday.

Michiru smiled. Because Haruka’s grumbling, as predictable as the rising sun, was part of the fun, too. “And come your birthday, we can have all the ramen and rice in Japan,” she teased in reply.

Haruka stuck her tongue out, managing to get it back in her mouth only a fraction of a second before the waiter arrived with the menus. Michiru managed to hold back an unladylike giggle as he detailed the plat du jour, but only just.

Michiru kept her gaze focused on the menu - the dishes were, predictably, en français - but watched Haruka in the periphery of her vision, watched as fingers used to clenching a race car's wheel wrapped themselves around a glass of water. Listened to the sounds of ice cubes clinking as Haruka took a steadying sip, gently setting the glass back atop the tablecloth.

“That dress looks beautiful on you, Michiru,” Haruka said, her menu long forgotten.

It was the kind of compliment Michiru was used to receiving from her lover. Simple, straightforward, utterly earnest. Typical Haruka.

Her heart still skipped a beat.

“Thank you,” Michiru replied, setting down her own menu. “It came in from Los Angeles just this morning.” Form-hugging and sleeveless, a dark turquoise tone that reminded her of the colors you saw in the ocean, right at the extreme limit of where the Sun’s light could reach. And it had a zipper in the back, which Haruka could always be roped into helping with. “You’re looking quite dashing yourself.”

Haruka blushed, despite everything. A two-piece navy-blue suit atop a burgundy dress shirt, open at the collar. Still meeting the dress code, with just the right amount of roguishness. Michiru had spent the drive over imagining how easy, how rewarding it would be to unbutton that shirt one-handed.

“Have madame et monsieur decided?” asked a waiter, returning after a few minutes. Haruka raised an amused eyebrow but didn’t bother correcting him, letting Michiru make her order instead.

“Bien sûr. Je voudrais le coq au vin, et elle aura le jarret d'agneau braisé. Et une bouteille de Laroche, s'il vous plaît.”

The waiter fumbled for a short moment, before regaining his composure, withdrawing with a nod and a bow. Haruka caught Michiru’s eye, and the small smile on her face. “Did you just order for me?” she asked, amusedly, tenting her fingers beneath her chin. “My French is perfectly fine, you know.”

Michiru took a dainty sip of water, veiling her smile behind the glass. Haruka had picked up a serviceable proficiency in a half-dozen languages, courtesy of her time racing on the continent, though she was much better with the Germanics than the Romances.

They made small talk until their meals arrived, chatting amicable about school and sport, work and play, acoustics and mechanics. The petty details of so-and-so's life. All the things that had nothing to do with Neptune or Uranus or the fate of the Milky Way galaxy. Just the lives of Haruka Tenoh and Michiru Kaiou, together at peace.

The food arrived, and it was, Haruka begrudgingly admitted, as good as all those stars suggested it’d be. Richer and heavier than traditional Japanese fare, and better than anything either woman had had in the City of Lights itself.

“Could I have a bite of yours?” Michiru asked, midway through the meal. “It looks delicious.”

“Should have ordered it yourself,” Haruka replied, her voice a gentle tease, as close to hard-to-get as she could ever play. Michiru let a wisp of a pout cross her face, and Haruka folded like a house of cards in a typhoon.

With surgical deftness, Haruka carved off a slice of her lamb, skewering it on the tines of her fork. After a moment’s debate, Haruka leaned forward, over the table, extending her fork for Michiru to pluck the meat from. She was gambling that this was what Michiru had in mind, rather than the bland transfer of meat between plates.

Judging by that small smile, she’d guessed correctly. Michiru leaned forward by degrees, elongating her beautiful neck as she did. Her lips, reddened by Giorgio Armani, wrapped neatly around the morsel, savoring and swallowing it.

She didn’t lean back, though. “Don’t look now,” Michiru murmured, her voice a sonorous whisper, “but I do believe we are being watched.”

Haruka’s heart jolted for a moment - she wasn’t sure whether she’d rather fight yōma or paparazzi - before Michiru’s smile calmed her nerves. Michiru flicked her eyes to a position just over Haruka’s shoulder, before lowering herself back into her seat. Haruka, meanwhile, pretended to fidget with an unused spoon, which could serve well enough as a mirror.

“Ah.” And, sure enough, there they were, just as Michiru had said. Distorted funhouse-style by the curvature of the utensil, but there was no mistaking them. Blue, blonde, and brunette, five young women doing their best to bury their faces in their menus. “Do you think they followed us here?”

“That seems reasonable,” Michiru agreed, twisting the stem of her wine glass. “You have to admire their doggedness, if nothing else.” Haruka said nothing, but inclined her head by degrees. “Their curiosity will have to be sated, eventually.”

Haruka shrugged. “I suppose.”

Michiru lay her utensils down, brushing aside a few stray hairs. “May I have another bite, Haruka?” she asked, her face the very picture of angelic innocence.

Haruka grinned, both at Michiru’s request and her expression. “Sure,” she agreed, carving off another morsel. “On your birthday, you can have anything you like.”

They leaned in, and Michiru took another bite off of Haruka’s proffered fork, licking her lips of the sauce as she did. As before, neither woman leaned back, and for a second Haruka thought that Michiru was waiting to whisper another message to her, or perhaps, expecting to receive one. Haruka’s brow furrowed, until Michiru’s lips parted to speak. “Anything, you say?”

Haruka’s throat tightened and her lips reddened, her sangfroid melting in Michiru’s gaze. “Well, uh, yeah.” Haruka swallowed. “I’m ready for anything.”

Michiru’s eyes flickered once more to the girls over Haruka’s shoulders. And then around the rest of the restaurant, to the well-heeled and -connected patrons and the waitstaff who no doubt noted everything. Her hand found the lapel of Haruka’s jacket without conscious thought, trailing upwards.

With the smallest of tugs, Michiru pulled their lips together. A million miles away, a few Juuban schoolgirls shrieked in surprise and excitement.

...And Haruka kissed back, shaking the world with her lips