Chapter Text
I did not sign up for this, Yachi thinks as she swats at the dragon with a broom.
All things considered, it’s a very pretty dragon. As an artist, Yachi can admit this. Opalescent eyes and translucent wings, scales the colour of sunlight on honey; if she weren’t so busy trying to knock it out the tree, Yachi would take a picture. Play with the colour a little, capture its beauty in pixel form. It’s not often you get to see a dragon up close, she reminds herself as she teeters on the step-stool. Truly a moment to be cherished.
She pokes it with the broom and is rewarded with growls and snapping teeth. If I get out of this alive, of course.
The dragon hisses at her, tiny fangs bared, and she tightens her grip on the handle. Its gemstone eyes narrow – almost as if it’s glaring at her, if dragons could glare – and she stares right back, brandishing the broom like a weapon.
“Don’t you mess with me,” Yachi says bravely. “I’m a black belt in, uh, sweeping.”
Apparently unfazed by her martial arts prowess, the dragon spits in Yachi’s face.
“Rude,” she mutters, wiping drool from her cheeks. At least it didn’t start breathing fire. “I only wanted to pick some peaches.”
It regards her with an unimpressed eye, and Yachi sighs. Why do dragons happen to good people?
Yachi is a good person. She knows this, because everyone tells her so. There is rarely a customer that comes into her little jam shop (well, not entirely hers, and not entirely a jam shop, she reminds herself as a fuming, potion-covered Hinata materializes in her brain) and leaves without a smile - and, more often than not, a jar of peach preserve in their hands. Yachi makes amazing jams. Yachi’s jams are the talk of the town.
So yes, Yachi knows she’s good at her job. The cluttered potion shop – peach jelly sold alongside magic ailment cures, the one-stop-shop for anyone in need of a fix (food or otherwise) – can testify. She eats them herself when customers are scarce: the jams, not the potions, though she has had some ‘culinary experiences’ over the time she’s been making them.
(“A culinary experience,” Hinata had called it once, in between laughter, as Yachi tried her best not to vomit toast-and-plague-remedy all over the floor.)
Other than the occasional breakfast slip-up, Yachi loves her job beyond all else. What better place to be than curled up amongst tottering jam jars, listening to the shrieks of your potion-college as he tries to concoct a boil remedy? It’s a good life to have, growing fruit, making art and rooming with Hinata; this Yachi knows. And, despite the fact that she sometimes eats gout remedy on toast, she is happy.
However. There is one tiny problem with running a jam shop in a world entwined with magic.
Orchards are very hard to maintain, especially when the dragon shelter next door doesn’t know how to keep their doors locked.
(The dragon nips at her fingers, and Yachi damn near falls off the stool.)
Ok, so maybe this problem is a little more than tiny.
Picking herself back up, Yachi takes a closer look at her assailant. The dragon itself is minute, measuring no more than a forearm from nose to fork-tipped tail. Glancing back at the shop from between the fruit trees, she wonders how such a miniscule creature could inspire so much terror.
All I want to do is pick peaches, she implores of the sky, swatting at the dragon once again. Let me make jam. It’s all I want in life.
She thinks a little. Apart from maybe a girlfriend, too.
Caught in these wistful thoughts and quite possibly the step-stool, still trying her best to dislodge the dragon, Yachi doesn’t hear the girl approaching. All she can think of is her impending death by dragon-breath, what a fantastic obituary that would make, and also what would happen if the orchard burnt to a crisp before she had the chance to harvest all her peaches.
(Her nervous tendencies never seem to help much in these situations, either.)
“Need a little help there?”
This time, Yachi really does fall off the stool.
***
“She’s our serpentum germinabunt, I think,” the girl says softly, glasses glinting in the sunlight. Her hands are clasped around the Yachi’s assailant, one very indignant dragon: the poor creature squirms in her grip, distended belly (a feature Yachi had put down to eating too many peaches) sticking out in its distress. The girl casts an experienced eye over its body. “Full of milk too, by the looks of things.”
Her expression one of utter gratitude, she tucks the dragon under her arm, ignoring the look of disgust twisting its reptilian face. “Thanks for finding her! We were worried sick at the shelter; it looks like she went off to forage for food. She left her eggs behind, though. Couldn’t bear the thought of the babies starving - have you ever seen a dragonling? Adorable, those things, but without a mother’s influence they’ll blow your head off, soon as look at you.”
(The significance of this is lost on Yachi, whose brain has decided to implode.)
Yachi is a smart girl. She’d studied hard in school; taken art and science workshops whenever she fancied. Normally, she would’ve been intrigued by the fancy terms the girl has attached to this unfortunate creature, or have clamoured for a camera to capture its expression.
But that was past Yachi. Present Yachi has no intent of moving from this position ever again.
Her dungarees are muddy. Her hands are scratched from the dragon’s claws. She has a bruise on her forehead from where she didn’t quite miss the stool as she fell.
But this girl is here with her.
And this girl is pretty.
The most beautiful dark hair Yachi has ever seen – black as an angry sky, and is it scattered with stars or is that the dizziness talking? – cascades over petite shoulders, leading down to a, well, a figure that Yachi is definitely not looking at, nuh-uh, no way.
(Well, internal Yachi reasons, maybe a little.)
Her eyes are soft grey, just like love interests in the cheesy romances Hinata’s partial to - ironically, as he always insists – and her mouth is small and – shut up Yachi, now is not the time - kissable. Just like all the star-struck couples in the shoujo anime, Yachi is pretty sure their height difference – around a head, perfect for make-out sessions – has been written in the stars. As if that wasn’t enough, tiny freckles constellate upon her cheeks; a beauty mark adorns her chin, and dark eyelashes swim behind thick-lensed glasses.
Glasses with pink rims.
Pink rims, to go with those beautiful grey eyes.
Is she my soulmate? I think so.
She sighs contentedly, away in a world of her own, where dragons don’t raid orchards and appreciating other peoples’ faces by maniacally staring is allowed. Socially acceptable or not, Yachi can’t help it: not only does this girl look like she’s stepped straight out of a chick-flick, but she wears glasses that compliment her eye colour. And she can wrangle a peach-stealing dragon.
Inner Yachi nods approvingly. A match made in heaven, if ever she saw one.
(Yes, she makes all these deductions in a minute or less, but is she really to blame? With the combination of the dragon encounter, her impromptu fall and the appearance of this beautiful stranger, Yachi thinks she might just swoon.)
“…Excuse me miss, are you ok?”
Yachi blinks, realizing that the world has not been spinning with her, and she has indeed been gawping at aforementioned stranger’s face for the past minute. Said face is now very close to hers. Damn. Judging by her reflection in those sinful pink-rimmed glasses, Yachi realizes that she really needs to do something about that blush.
She sticks out her hand, narrowly missing the dragon as she does so. “Yachi Hitoka. Pleased to meet you.”
Bemused, but smiling nonetheless, the girl takes her hand. “I’m Shimizu Kiyoko, from the dragon shelter over the way. The pleasure is all mine.”
At this information, Yachi briefly considers asking her about the reliability of her door locks, but decides it may not be the best wooing strategy: her previous flirting fails are embarrassing enough without a neighbour to add to the mix. She settling for wringing the dragon girl’s hands, hoping beyond hope that her cheeks have decided to calm down. Over the beating of her heart - she should probably invest in a defibrillator for these kinds of moments - she notices how rough Shimizu’s hands are: the skin is littered with half-healed scars, matching the shape of the dragon’s weathered talons.
Perhaps a result of this discovery, Shimizu withdraws to adjust her hair self-consciously. The air turns slightly sour. Dammit, Hitoka, Yachi curses under her breath. Now you’ve made it awkward. You’re going to have to shave your hair and change your name. Maybe move house. The neighbourhood over seems a good choice –
The smile that interrupts her ponderings, although a little manufactured, may be the most beautiful smile Yachi has ever seen.
(A different planet, she decides desperately. Oh fiddlesticks. As if I could get any gayer.)
Thankfully, however, Shimizu seems to take Yachi’s curiosity with a pinch of salt. “Yeah,” she says, gesturing. “Side effect of working with dragons. Gotta suffer for my art, I guess.” Shimizu scratches the neck of the specimen under her arm, which relaxes entirely at her touch. Yachi gapes. Is this really the same creature? “Running a dragon shelter is anything but pretty.”
Biting back her response of “unlike you” (because she may have just shamelessly imagined a whole lot of situations that she is never going to address out loud, but Yachi does have some principles), she bows her head in flustered apology. “It’s fine,” she says hurriedly. “My partner makes potions, so his hands are kind of messed up, too.”
(It takes a quizzical – and is it her imagination but slightly disappointed too – look from Shimizu and a few seconds of awkward silence for Yachi to realize the connotations of what she’s just said, and begin to completely combust.)
“NOT my boyfriend,” she splutters, wringing her hands pathetically. Shimizu starts to giggle, all traces of fake smiles gone. “My partner! For the shop! I run a jam shop!” Good Lord, Hitoka, get your tongue under control. In the reflection of Shimizu’s glasses, her cheeks are a spectacular shade of crimson. She grimaces, mortified. “The jam shop right there! I’m going to stop talking now!”
Shimizu is still laughing. Yachi has never felt such a distinct urge to throw herself into the sun, or maybe bury herself in the orchard and be done with it, and that’s saying a lot - a chronically nervous disposition and her tendency to ramble have never been a good combination, and Yachi has landed herself in a good deal of sticky situations over the years.
(Highlights including trying to convince the local police officer that the shop was not, in fact, a drug den - Hinata had to get her out of that one, but it did result in him scoring the guy as a boyfriend, so at least that turned out well. Buying a dozen crates of dubious saplings off a travelling merchant solely because he complimented her dress, however ridiculous it sounds, was not such a fruitful experience.)
Yachi is the queen of compromising situations.
But as she looks up into the shining, chick-flick eyes of Shimizu Kiyoko, neither of those incidents, or the many others she’s endured besides, have even come close to matching the embarrassment she’s feeling now.
Shimizu smiles and tentatively pats her on the shoulder, eyes still glittering with mirth. “I know you run the shop, Hitoka-chan. I may be new to the shelter, but my two coworkers are always raving about your jams. I’d love to try one sometime.”
(If Yachi thought she was combusting before, it had nothing on what’s happening now.)
“Sure,” she squawks, pretty sure steam is beginning to pour from her ears. “I’ll bring one over. And I’ll make sure it’s not boil cure. Because take it from me, potions do not taste good on toast -”
She slaps a hand over her mouth – shut up Hitoka shut up shut up – but it’s already too late: once again, Shimizu has started to giggle. Yachi has no idea how this day could get any worse, but compiles a quick mental list to be sure of it.
1. Dragon eats my peaches.
2. I fall off a stool, just as an impossibly beautiful lady comes to my rescue.
3. I attempt to partake in civilized conversation, and ends up embarrassing myself further in front of aforementioned beautiful lady.
Her musings are interrupted by the appearance of two heads over her orchard wall, and the abrupt stop of Shimizu’s laughter.
“Kiyoko-saaaaaaaan!”
4. Whatever the heck this is.
Suddenly there are two more strangers in her orchard – who knew the wall was so easy to climb? – but at least Yachi recognizes these ones slightly: they’re the guys from the dragon shelter, the ones who keep turning up to beg for Hinata’s potions. And sneak all the jam samples when they think her back is turned. She never thought she’d see them outside the shop, but hey, after the events of this morning, anything is possible.
Both of the troublemakers are very much here, in her garden. And, by the ringing of her eardrums, making quite a ruckus.
“Kiyoko-saaaan,” the taller one wails, and Yachi could swear she sees tears in his eyes. “We thought we’d never see you again…”
The shorter one takes up the case. “But she’s found our blossom dragon! See, Tanaka, I knew we could trust her. Our brightest and most beautiful never fails to succeed.”
(Shimizu looks less than amused, as does the dragon, though Yachi thinks she can see a fond twinkle in her eyes.)
The shorter one – Nishinoya, a name she’s picked up from Hinata’s fragmented conversations – stops fawning over Shimizu for just enough time to acknowledge Yachi’s existence. His face splits into a grin as he points an ecstatic finger at the peach in Yachi’s hands, a foghorn voice bursting from his mouth.
“Hey, it’s the jam lady!”
“Noya…” Shimizu scolds – the first time she’s spoken since the two boys arrived – but Yachi is too out of it to care.
The jam lady, she thinks distantly. Has a nice ring to it.
Shimizu is less accepting of this new, eccentric nickname. “Her name is Yachi Hitoka, not the jam lady. Come on. We’d best get back to the shelter: this dragon is just about ready to burst.”
Pulling exaggerated dejected faces, the troublemakers head back over to the wall, giving Yachi good-natured winks as they go.
(“Kiyoko-san is so talkative when she’s with you,” Noya whispers as he passes. “Next time you have to tell us all your secrets, ok?”)
(Next time? Yachi thinks bewilderedly.)
Having successfully staved off her coworkers, Shimizu turns back to her, expression filled with apology.
“Sorry about that,” Shimizu says softly. “They’re a little overbearing.”
Yachi can see why the boys would choose to work at the shelter – they almost resemble dragons themselves, filled with energy, bright-eyed, grinning. She nods slightly, an exhilarated smile spreading across her face. This day has been interesting.
“I should get back to the shelter now,” Shimizu continues, scrutinizing the dragon under her arm. She notices a tear in its wing, no doubt a result of the earlier scuffle. “Should probably get something on that, before it gets any worse. Sorry for the intrusion!”
“My partner could probably make a salve for it,” Yachi blurts, all too aware that she does not want this encounter to end. “The wing, I mean. And not my boyfriend. My work partner.”
Shimizu laughs again, and Yachi tries her level best to imprint the sound in her brain. “I know. And that would be great - if he could have it ready for tomorrow, you could bring it over, right? We’re just next door.” She turns to go, velvet hair swishing behind her. “Thank you ever so much, Hitoka-chan!"
Yachi bows for the last time, and is once again reminded of the state of her dungarees. “No, thank you, Shimizu-san. For rescuing me from that dragon. And, well, everything else.”
Shimizu turns back. “I didn’t do much, Hitoka-chan, I just got her down from the tree.” One last smile graces her features. “I’ll see you tomorrow, at the shelter. And you can call me Kiyoko, if you like.”
Only one thought crosses Yachi’s mind as Shimizu – no, Kiyoko-san walks away.
Dammit.
I guess I really did sign up for this, after all.