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eagle-raider · 28 days ago

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Perchance Encounter - A Strawberry Panic fanfiction

Am I writing fanfic for a 20+ year old anime with a fandom dating back from when FF.net was the fanfiction graal for all writers?

Why, yes I am.

No, it's not Eye of the Beholder, no I haven't forgotten about it, trust me. It won't let me forget about it.

But this? This is more than fifteen years old. Yes, you heard (or read) right. Fifteen. Years. More than.

I have 250 000 words worth of world-building of this, written in the span of 10 years. I'm just scratching the surface.

I had the itch to revisit this universe - with a more adult eye, hopefully a better English, and the means to do research on anything related to the classical world (and I'll still get things wrong so don't come at me too hard, okay?).

If you're familiar with the source material, don't tell me. I don't need to know - a heads up that I have moved Astrae Hill to England because I can't be bothered with anime logic.

If you've already read it (or its much larger bigger sister) when it was posted on FF back in the days, don't tell me. I really don't need to know. This is already mortifying.

Yes, I kept Shizuma's hair silver. Sue me.

For the curious souls who'd like to read: it's fandom-blind friendly.

And the story is complete. I'll post the rest later, maybe. If I don't delete the whole thing.

Perchance Encounter - Chapter 1

Words: 1595 Pairing: Shizuma Hanazono/Original Female Character Setting: Takes place after the events of the anime Strawberry Panic! Shizuma is twenty five.

Voices filled the station in a low, buzzing swell, like the vibration of a string section warming up. It rose above Shizuma’s head and settled into the bones of her skull, dull and persistent. She shifted in the rigid lounge chair for the fifth time, the molded plastic still jabbing between her shoulder blades like an insult.

The book in her lap wasn’t helping. Her eyes moved across the words, but the meaning slipped off them like oil. Her patience had frayed three pages ago.

Then came the voice overhead.

“Due to unforeseen circumstances, Eurostar train number eighty-nine-five-thirty-two to London, initially scheduled for departure at four thirty p.m.—”

A hush. Heads lifted in perfect unison. Even the child crying nearby paused, like the entire hall inhaled.

“—has been delayed by one hour and fifty-five minutes.”

Groans. Swearing in three different languages. Phones reappeared like weapons unsheathed. A wave of silent resignation swept through the terminal. Shizuma, for her part, rolled her eyes, quietly, but with commitment. Saint Miatre’s polish could take a hike.

Wonderful.

She had booked the train specifically to avoid the airline strikes. This strike was not supposed to affect international lines. Apparently, “unforeseen circumstances” was France’s velvet-gloved way of flipping everyone off.

And she couldn’t postpone. Her recording session in London was scheduled for the next morning. One hour and fifty-five minutes of her life now dangled, useless, between delay and duty.

Shizuma tried again with the book, then gave up, snapping it shut with a thud. Rising, she gave a polite nod to an elderly couple eyeing her seat and slipped away, tote bag slung across one shoulder.

Two hours to kill.

She wasn’t hungry. The smell of burnt espresso from Paul café made her wince. Rain blurred the glass outside, so much for fresh air. As she passed a tucked-away corner, Shizuma’s eyes landed on the upright piano stationed near the wall.

She stopped.

Turned.

Bingo.

It wasn’t a Steinway. It was likely out of tune, but it was a piano. And she could do something with that.

She set her bag on the bench beside her, ran her fingers lightly over the keys, testing. The action was shallow, the tone a little tinny, but it would do. A few people glanced her way, curious. Shizuma ignored them.

This wasn’t a performance. It was passing time.

She started slow, notes dripped like water through leaves, hesitant and soft. Something minor. Something Chopin. Her eyes closed without permission.

Within seconds, her fingers were no longer interpreting, they were remembering. Chopin always did this. He slipped into her bones and played her back to herself. Schumann had left her emotionally dehydrated after weeks of rehearsal. But Chopin? He never asked for more than she could give.

The station softened around her. Even the buzz of conversations quieted to a respectful murmur. A few passengers stopped nearby. Some filmed. She ignored them.

The final note rang out like a breath caught in the throat. Shizuma held it. Then released. It took several seconds before a quiet, almost confidential applause followed.

She offered a small smile, checked her watch.

“Excuse me…?” the voice came from her left. She turned.

A woman in her mid-twenties stood just beyond the curve of the piano, holding a violin case, her smile gently lopsided. Her eyes were warm, a shifting shade between amber and dominant blue.

“Would you mind if I played with you?”

Shizuma stared.

She’s beautiful.

“Yes,” she said.

The stranger’s smile faltered.

“I mean—no.” She coughed, flustered, and switched to French, “No, I don’t mind. Please, go ahead.”

The woman’s smile returned with a knowing tilt. She crouched to open her case.

Yes. Please.

It had been a while since anyone had short-circuited her like this. Not since Nagisa. Not since gentle laughter and almost-goodbyes in the dorms. Nagisa had ended things cleanly before her graduation; two lives, two directions. They’d stayed friends. Shizuma wasn’t bitter. Really.

Nagisa was somewhere with Tamao now, building a life out of inside jokes and mutual chaos. And that was fine.

More than fine.

Besides, after Nagisa came freedom. There had been flings, free of grief this time. Brief entanglements. Nothing heavy. Nothing haunting. She was done with ghosts.

Now, this stranger with her violin and her sharp smile was brushing the edge of something else entirely.

“Ready?” the woman asked, snapping her shoulder rest into place. Her eyes sparkled.

Shizuma nodded, adjusting her posture.

“Any preferences?”

Yes. You. Please.

She smirked. “Classical?”

“Shocking,” the violinist teased. “How about… classical with a twist?”

“A twist?”

“Improvise. You start, I’ll follow.”

Shizuma blinked. Improvisation with a stranger? That could be a disaster.

The woman tilted her head, confidence gleaming like a challenge. “What? Afraid I can’t keep up?”

Shizuma laughed under her breath, eyes still on the keys. “Fine.”

She paused for a moment, searching her memory like a library shelf. Thousands of scores, studied and stored since she was four, jostled for attention. And then, she found it. A memory. A game. Something she used to play at the Royal College with her classmates during long rehearsals and lazy afternoons. They called it “twenty questions for classical nerds.”

Simple premise : answer two questions using only music. It was ridiculous. And brilliant.

Her two questions hadn’t been especially memorable at the time. Her song to wake up to. Debussy’s Rêverie, obviously.

And, her go-to piece she’d play to set the mood. Shizuma smirked, throwing a quick glance at the stranger standing next to her.

Let’s see if you can dance.

Her fingers hit the keys in a bold burst, rapid and teasing, the sound sharp enough to make the violinist flinch slightly.

Classical with a twist?

Fine. She could play that game. The overture spilled out with deliberate swagger, distorted enough to be puzzling, familiar enough to spark memory.

They locked eyes. The other woman’s lips curved in recognition.

Shizuma shifted her hands and replayed the phrase, less twisted this time, carving a path wide enough to be followed. And follow, the violin did.

What began as an improvised echo quickly turned into a conversation. Shizuma’s phrases blooming open, the violin answering with crisp, bold counterpoints. They traded rhythm, handed melody back and forth like dancers sharing the same floor but leading at different turns. It wasn’t perfect. That was the thrill.

Push and pull. Call and response.

A brief flicker of eye contact mid-run felt almost like a dare.

The woman’s playing was precise but alive, full of instinct. She leaned into her bow with grace, then pulled back just slightly, as if coaxing the next phrase into existence. Her wrist flicked lightly on a high trill, sharp, clean, utterly confident.

Shizuma’s smile widened. She’s good.

The tempo surged. For a moment, it was breathless; something between a chase and a courtship. A line drawn in music and crossed willingly.

By the time the phrase began to dissolve into a natural close, a crowd had gathered again. Phones out. Faces lifted. The applause came almost before the last note fell.

Shizuma let her hands slide off the keys with an exhale. She turned on the bench and dipped her head in a half-bow, laughing softly. The violinist scratched her cheek, visibly flushed.

“Thank you for humoring me,” the woman said as the crowd’s noise ebbed.

“Thank you for joining.”

Shizuma wanted to say more, something clever or sincere, but the overhead chime interrupted.

“TGV number sixteen-eight-forty-two bound for Marseille–Saint-Charles has entered the station. Platform E.”

The woman flinched. “Ah. That’s me.” She crouched quickly, slipping her violin back into its case.

Shizuma stood, blinking like she’d surfaced from underwater. Trains. Departures. Right.

The knot in her chest returned, quiet and unwelcome.

The woman straightened and offered her hand. “I hope yours comes soon.”

Shizuma checked her watch. “Twenty minutes,” she said, almost surprised. “Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” the other echoed, with a knowing smile.

The surrounding crowd had begun to dissolve. Passengers peeled off toward platforms or phones. The mood had shifted back to transit. They stood in it for a breath longer, watching the tide of movement sweep through the terminal.

“You should go,” Shizuma said gently, nodding toward the chaos.

The woman’s eyes flicked to hers again. “Right. Yes.” She smiled, no teeth this time. Just a small tilt of the lips and a deepening of the dimple on her cheek.

Shizuma hadn’t noticed that before.

Cute.

Yes, please.

“Safe travels,” they said at the same time.

They laughed quietly.

“So…” The violinist glanced down, then up. “Goodbye. And thank you again.”

Shizuma nodded. “Good luck.” She gestured toward the crowd, grimacing. “Try not to die.”

That earned her a proper laugh.

“Promise.”

She winked, then disappeared into the current of people. Shizuma watched her vanish. For a second, she almost stepped forward. Said something. Stopped her.

But the moment passed.

She turned and made her way back to the lounge. Folded her coat beside her. Sat, and breathed.

Her fingers tingled. Still remembering. Still playing.

She hadn’t felt that kind of spark in years, not even on a concert stage. Not like this. Not with someone she didn’t even know.

She smiled, a quiet, private thing.

Chance encounter, she thought. Sweet. Harmless. Fun.

Shizuma didn’t believe in fate. Not really. Not after Kaori. Fate had teeth.

But maybe, just maybe, that duet had been a small mercy. A karmic echo.

Still.

Her smile wavered.

They hadn’t exchanged names.

Not even first names.

She hadn’t thought to ask, hadn’t thought she’d need to. And now…

Shizuma scowled.

“Brilliant.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #Shizuma hanazono #strawberry panic #ooof please don't judge me i'm already doing. it #Shizuma plays Chopin in the anime to impress Nagisa #nobody was impressed here #lol #At least i'm writing eh!#writing #They play libertango by the way #i love this piece #If you ever had to deal with a train delay in France you know how shitty that is

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