Chapter Text
“Michiru, if you had to choose a career path that wasn’t being an actress, what do you think you would be?”
Michiru raises a brow. Scattered across the table of their booth is various papers with highlighted lines, sticky notes, and drenched with white out. Michiru has a pen tucked in each ear, two different colors, while a third rests in her hand, gliding across and marking different lines on the pages. Tucked into the pocket of her shirt is another three pens that, from the looks of it, are already half drained.
“Stupid question,” Fumi acquises. “Let me rephrase: if you had to pick a career that didn’t involve the stage whatsoever, not a director or a stagehand or anything, what would you be?”
Michiru furrows her brow. “Why are you even asking me that in the first place— no, wait, don’t answer that. You’re not distracting me from finishing this rewrite. If I don’t get to this, then the scriptwriters will take it as a green light, and I can’t let my Edels perform a sloppy play.” She groans. “God, this is awful.”
“The job or the script itself?”
“Yes.“ Michiru shuffles the various papers, trying to find a specific one. “How this even got cleared to get on my desk is beyond me.”
“You dug this grave yourself, you know,” Fumi says, shrugging. “Anyways, answer the question. If you weren’t digging this grave, which grave would you dig?”
“Can we not with the grave digging metaphors? You make it sound like I’m robbing a grave.”
“That was barely even a metaphor.”
“Don’t lecture me about language. It was definitely a metaphor. You’re ignoring my question.”
“And you’re ignoring mine.”
Michiru holds her gaze for a moment, then probably decides that it’s not worth her energy since she sighs, leaning back into the seat. “You first, then I’ll answer.”
“A chef,” Fumi says, near instantaneously.
Michiru hides a smirk as she goes back to editing the script. “Predicable.”
Fumi huffs. “I am not predictable.”
“A teacher, then. Literature, maybe?” Michiru smiles a bit too innocently. Fumi growls. “What, am I wrong?”
Fumi coughs, looking away from Michiru. “Well. Not necessarily.”
“If it helps, I could see you still performing,” Michiru says. “Not acting, but maybe singing. Oh, and of course, you also play piano.” She smirks. “Maybe you’d even be in a band or something.” Fumi wrinkles her nose. “Not a fan?”
“Not my thing.” Fumi takes a sip of her tea. Iced, sweetened, with tapioca pearls at the bottom.
“That’s totally your thing, and you’re just denying it to be contrary. As for me…” Michiru stares at the pages below her. “For some reason, I’m getting ‘editor’. How weird, right?”
Fumi snorts. “You’re critical enough to be one.”
“My criticisms are out of love and respect.”
“And pride.”
“Look who’s talking.” The scratch of highlighters continue. A moment’s pause, before Michiru speaks up, head tilted. “Are you going to explain the boba, by the way?”
“No.”
Another moment’s pause. “So, you’re aware that I’m not going to let that go without a proper answer, right?”
Fumi sighs. “Lalafin and Ichie. Somehow, Ichie got it into her head that I was a ‘tea purist’, whatever that means. Lalafin suggested I get boba, since we tried making up together when we were stranded. Honestly, Tamao’s more of a stickler for tea ceremonies and procedures and stuff than I am.”
“You were a tea purist,” Michiru points out. “So, she’s not too far off the mark.”
Fumi rolls her eyes as she drinks her boba.
It’s strange to talk like this with Michiru again, spending time with one another so casually, without the weight of the king’s crown and jewels strapped to them like explosives. Being friends with Ootori Michiru, while something she could’ve claimed before, never really felt as such until recently.
She rolls her drink, watching the tapioca peaks swirl with the movement.
“Okay.” Michiru shuts the script, slamming her highlighter on top of it. She moves her elbows onto the table, fingers laced together into a bridge that gives her chin a place to rest. Her coffee, half drunk, is cold at this point. “What’s up with you?”
“There’s nothing up with me,” Fumi scowls.
“Fumi, we’ve been making small talk.”
“And?”
Michiru folds her hands in front of her. “Are we small talk people, Fumi? Answer quickly.”
“Yes.”
“Liar.” Fumi scowls again. Michiru rolls her eyes. “Come on, can’t you at least give me a different expression?”
“No.”
“I can stop moving the conversation forward and let this go on into awkward silence,” Michiru threatens. “Do you want that? Do you want us to sit here and talk about nothing until our designated coffee shop time is over? We’ve got an hour and a half to go, Fumi. I’m nothing if not patient.” She gestures to her work. “And I have things to occupy me.”
Fumi’s silent. The pride tax, Michiru mentally notes, the thing that keeps her from conceding immediately. After Michiru’s waited that out for a few seconds, she sighs, taking another sip of her drink.
“How do I…” Her face twists up into distaste. “Connect with my sister?”
“With that expression!” Michiru chirps.
“Don’t be a pest.” Fumi sigus, expression softening. “Do I just— do I invite her over for dinner? Ask her how she’s doing?”
“Yes, actually.” Michiru clicks her pen, circling a word and replacing it in the margins. “You’re overcomplicating things. She loves you, looks up to you. At the same time, she wants your attention the only way she can think to get it.”
“The stage,” Fumi groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Siegfeld is bad for her. Akira is bad for her.”
“By all accounts, Akira’s actually been pretty lenient since you’ve left!” Michiru tilts her head. “No, no— this is just classic Yumeoji genes popping up again. Refuses to communicate, obsessed with the stage, always wanting to prove herself even though nobody asked her to—”
“Michiru,” Fumi warns. Michiru giggles.
“I’m not wrong! She’s just at that age, you know? Teenage rowdiness.” Michiru takes a sip of her coffee, nose wrinkling at how cold it is. “You can’t really do anything but let her at it. You were the same way. It’s what got you your position as an Edel.”
“Hm,” Fumi says. “I guess so.”
There’s a natural beat of silence as Fumi idly watches the people around the cafe. Michiru hums as she works, making more annotations, highlights, and spelling corrections than she’s happy with.
Michiru looks up from her work to stare at Fumi. “What are you waiting for?”
Fumi blinks. “What?”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Michiru shoots her an exasperated sigh. “Invite her out! Or, even better, maybe tell her what your new address is? She talks about your cooking a lot. She’s even dabbed some of her food in ponzu. Please, spare her sodium levels and just spend time with your sister.”
Fumi crosses her arms, locking eyes with Michiru. Within a few seconds, she huffs and pulls out her phone.
“This doesn’t mean you were right,” Fumi can’t help but argue.
“Mm, whatever help you sleep at night, Fumi.”