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At fifteen, it was expected—no, required that Yoshiko attended dinners and parties with her parents.
It had been only three years since her first formal party, and sometimes Yoshiko liked to think about how much has changed since then. When she was still a child, she would beg her parents to bring her, she would sit on her mothers bed and pout as she watched her stylist paint her face and curl her hair for hours, she would secretly stay up until three when her parents got back home, giggly and drunk from all they had, and she would bury her face into her mothers gowns in her closet. The parties were the closest thing to a fairytale ball on Earth, and Yoshiko wanted her invitation.
Twelve was when she was deemed mature enough to attend. Yoshiko remembers that day so well, feeling so beautiful and powerful when she twirled in her gown and listened to the echo of her heels on the tile, not being able to hold still for the stylist, bouncing in her seat in the limousine ride to the party, feeling so welcome in the crowd of both the richest and most powerful people in Japan. She remembers the dancing, the tiny sips of wine, laying awake for hours because every time she blinked she could see the light reflecting off the glass and gold and marble.
Even then Yoshiko knew that the first time was the time like no other, but she hadn't expected this to happen. Yoshiko didn't know about the harshness of the people she stood with, their fake laughs and smiles as they begged with their eyes for money. She didn't realize how many affairs she would watch right in front of her, when a twenty-something woman would get too close to a sixty-something man. She didn't see that wine wasn't the only drink the bar sold, and that the warm smiles and intoxicated buzz was nothing but sloppy drunkenness. She didn't pay attention to the songs the pianist played, the same loop of notes hour after hour. She didn't realize that every time she went, she would have to reintroduce herself and people would ask the same questions over and over again.
At fifteen, it was expected—no, required that Yoshiko attended dinners and parties with her parents. But that didn't mean Yoshiko enjoyed them. Now, in fact, it was the opposite. Yoshiko dreaded putting on that black dress and watching the lights of the mansion get bigger and bigger. She dreaded standing in that ballroom and listening to nothing but gossiping mouths of people she hated. Nothing about the parties were grand and special. They were just a big lie.
What freaked Yoshiko out the most was knowing that one day she would take over her family's business and the parties would only get worse. Her cheeks already hurt from the fake smiles and her chest heaved with every forced laugh and her nose burned when the person she talked to exhaled because the alcohol on their breath was so unbearable. With each passing hour, minute, second of the party, Yoshiko felt the columns of the ballroom start to crumble and collapse and she prayed the ceiling would just fall on her so she wouldn't have to deal with any of it a moment longer. But she would have to deal with it for the rest of her life. Because soon, the parties will start getting even more frequent and everyone will want to invite and talk to the new head of the Tsushima business.
It made Yoshiko's stomach churn.
Tonight was one of those nights. She tried to act indifferent as she put on her fitted black dress and when her stylist put so much makeup on her that she looked like another person entirely. Her hair was pulled and prodded, pins and clips scraped across her scalp until it was both held up and flowing loosely onto her shoulders. She put on her heels, standing tall and not swaying an inch. Yoshiko still wasn't ready, however.
To her unfamiliar reflection, she sighed. "Well, send me straight down to hell and throw me right into the fire." Yoshiko's diamond earrings dangled as she whipped out her phone.
The only place, she felt, where she could be herself was online and under the guise of Yohane. She had already sent out several "I'm gonna die" tweets today, as she usually did before these stupid parties. She always wondered how her followers felt when they saw her tweets. She never explained why, never replied when people asked if she was okay, and never addressed the people who asked why she only posted that on almost the same day every two months. The next day, she was back to her usual "black-magic aesthetic" feed.
Her mother walked in without knocking, per usual. Yoshiko quickly stopped mid-type and turned her phone off, shoving it back onto her vanity like the most obviously suspicious person on Earth, but all her mother did was ask, "are you ready?"
Yoshiko nodded, forcing herself not to shrug in front of her mom. "As I'll ever be," she responded smoothly. Boy, was she not ready, and felt the weight of the nights upcoming hours bear down on her like the weight of the necklace around her neck.
Looking like she was about to say something, her mother opened her mouth, but then quickly shut it again. Yoshiko felt a tad bit of disappointment from the hope she hadn't even realized was there. "Well, hurry up then," she said instead. "We don't want to be late." And then she vanished, leaving Yoshiko alone in her room, the click of heels on the hardwood floors of the hallway growing quieter as the only proof she was ever there at all.
One of Yoshiko's favorite things to do on the long limousine rides was stare out her window and into the windows of others. She watched them notice the presence of her limo and get excited. Some would merely glance at it curiously, and others would get the attention of their kids, who got extremely happy and excited looks on their faces. Yoshiko liked to think that they would argue over who they thought was in the limos—their favorite singers or actresses. But it was only her. Only Yoshiko.
Pulling her attention away from the window, Yoshiko faced her mom who was across from her. She stared at her, a bit confused as her mother kept mouthing something, a serious and intent look on her face.
"Oh," Yoshiko said aloud and understandingly as she pressed the button on the wire of her earbuds, stopping the flow of electric guitar and heavy drums. "What? Or, um, excuse me?"
Yoshiko was still not used to referring to her own parents so formally, but she'd been trying for years ever since they started asking her to. The words felt like dirt in her mouth—dry, sticky, unable to swallow.
Thankfully, her mother only sighed. Used to it, Yoshiko guess. "Pay attention. Do you even know whose party we're going to?" Her mother asked, exasperated.
"The Ohara's?" Yoshiko asked, almost excitedly. She would never tell her parents, but she actually really liked their daughter, Mari. Although Mari didn't exactly share Yoshiko's interests, they both would entertain each other in the crowded boring ballroom. She was the only person Yoshiko knew who accepted (and put up with) Yohane, and valued fun and excitement over parties.
However, to her dismay, her mother shook her head. Yoshiko deflated with a sigh. "No, dear, but they might be there. Tonight is the Kurosawa's." Yoshiko's jaw dropped, and her mother huffed. "Oh, close your mouth. I've already told you. Why don't you turn your music down? You can't hear a word when you're listening to that."
Without saying a word, Yoshiko fell back against her seat, slouching and crossing her arms over her stomach, pouting her lip like a child. The Kurosawa's were extremely prestigious, all traditional and fancy. They only held a party about twice a year, sometimes once. And their parties were the absolute worst. There was some type of tension in the room that Yoshiko knew everyone felt. Even if Mari was there, everyone would be so on-edge for perfection that they most likely wouldn't even get the chance to speak to each other.
The Kurosawa's had a younger daughter her age: Ruby. When they were both in kindergarten, Yoshiko's mother took her to Ruby's birthday party, but Ruby was so shy she didn't even come out of her room. The party mainly consisted of a group of little girls silently sitting together, waiting for instructions on what to do next while they listened to Ruby's sobs and the gentle yet annoyed coaxing of her mother. Yoshiko doesn't remember that day very well, only that it was the most awkward thing ever.
Yoshiko had seen Ruby a few times since then (never at another birthday party), but they've only exchanged a few words. Ruby never exactly got over her shyness, and every time Yoshiko glanced at her, Ruby was overwhelmed and distressed and scared, like a little baby deer surrounded by a group of ten-year-old boys with evil grins on their faces and rocks in their hands.
Dia was the Kurosawa's other daughter—their eldest, the heir to their company. Despite being in the same position, Yoshiko and Dia were nothing alike. Dia was so perfect and mature—back straight, face expressionless, graceful gestures, polite and quiet yet demanding of attention. The only time Yoshiko had ever seen her smile was to Ruby, who's always hiding behind her. Mari assured Yoshiko she really wasn't that bad, but Yoshiko was too terrified to even attempt talking to her.
So, at the Kurosawa's parties, she was left to fend for herself with the people decades above her.
Hoping to distract herself, Yoshiko rammed her earbuds back into her ears and pressed play. Within minutes, the music had taken her to some other place, a place filled with black magic and candlelight and card tricks.
The driver of the limousine was like a footman, and when he opened the door for Yoshiko, she felt like a princess getting out of a carriage. A very annoyed princess with a very tight dress.
Yoshiko slung her little purse over her shoulder and followed her parents up the stairs of the large mansion like she was walking the stairs to hell, or at least that's what Yoshiko thought. But, if she were honest, she'd rather be engulfed in the ravenous fire than be here.
Security nodded towards Yoshiko's family before opening the door for them—no matter how many parties Yoshiko had been to, this always surprised her. They could be under a disguise or seduction. They could be anyone.
But as they passed, Yoshiko glanced at his face—it was the bodyguard Mari and Yoshiko had talked to that one time. "Oh," Yoshiko said aloud in realization. "Thanks, Steven." Steven gave her a tight smile before closing the door behind her.
Neither Yoshiko nor Mari knew his name. They had just started calling him Steven, because Mari said he looked like some American singer named Steven. Whoever that was.
Looking around in slight wonder, Yoshiko and her parents walked down the foyer hallway. The walls were covered in paintings, chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but the traditional Japanese undertones were still there. It was beautiful, no matter how many times she had been there. Yoshiko knew her parents were clenching their teeth to hold their jealously in.
The sound of their footsteps on the tile and soft piano coursing through the intercom drowned out the whisper of people down the hall, but as they grew closer, the sound of life slowly got louder. Yoshiko's stomach clenched as she and her parents rounded the corner to the ballroom.
"You are okay," she muttered to herself as the majority of the room turned towards her. The lights were too bright and the smell of alcohol was too strong. "You are Yohane, the fallen angel. You are strong, you are powerful, you are...um..." the people who had looked to them turned their heads back to whomever they were talking to, and Yoshiko let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Perfectly in sync, her parents swept into the room like the perfect couple they were to speak to the people who called them with their drunken eyes. However, when Yoshiko walked, no matter how hard she tried she couldn't find the beat in which her parents walked. Keeping her head down, she broke away from them to busy herself with a glass of wine. They probably wouldn't want Yoshiko with them anyways.
Not even bothering to say excuse me, Yoshiko shouldered her way into the crowd until she got to the bar. Couple upon couple lined the countertop. Two expressionless men busied themselves making drinks while one stood taking orders, followed by a long line of people waiting patiently on the other side of the bar that Yoshiko hopped into.
The line was long and moved slowly, so Yoshiko busied herself with watching the pianist, a girl who couldn't be much older than her, with flowing red hair and a light pink dress. The pearls around her neck glistened under the spotlight as she passionately moved with her fingers, seemingly in another world entirely. Yoshiko wished she could be transported like that, unaware of the entire party going on around her.
The pianist played a song Yoshiko knew but couldn't remember the name to. Her parents had made her take up piano a couple years ago, but Yoshiko absolutely hated it. She ended up burning her sheet music as part of a ritual on one of her live-streams. She told her parents she had lost them, but she and her thousands of viewers knew the truth.
Looking around, Yoshiko turned around to smile at the trio of middle-aged women behind her, stuck in their own little conversation. "Good evening!" Yoshiko said as sweetly as possible, using that voice she had been trained to use on people.
Once she had caught their attention, one of the ladies asked a simple, "hello there, who might you be?" What a nice old woman, Yoshiko thought to herself.
"Tsushima Yoshiko," she answered brightly, cheeks already beginning to hurt from that smile she always has to smile out of respect.
Another lady nodded, a knowing smile on her face. "Ah, Tsushima," she said with an air that made her seem like she knew something Yoshiko didn't, like a wise old owl. Now that she looked at her, Yoshiko did notice the woman had owl-like features. "What do you think of the party?" The woman continued.
Taking a minute to think, Yoshiko calculated her response. If she was honest, she would get so much hell for it. If she lied, she would only feel worse. After mentally weighing the pros and cons of each, Yoshiko came up with a conclusion: half-truth.
"Honestly?" She said with a shrug of her shoulders and tilt of her head. "I'm surprised someone actually has a ballroom in their house."
One by one, the ladies exchanged unreadable expressions, and then went back to their conversation as if Yoshiko were never there at all.
Yoshiko hated the sense of loneliness and shame that washed over her. Even if they were only a couple of old owls, it was yet another slip-up made by Yoshiko and a failed attempt to seem mature and normal, a true corporate heir.
Standing there alone, Yoshiko wondered if she'd ever belong—if she'd ever be seen as something other than weird and abnormal.
She had no idea how long she'd been standing in silence when a light hand brushed her arm. Yoshiko jumped, snapping out of her trance that seemed to last forever. When Yoshiko turned, she was face-to-face with Mari, a devilish grin on her face. "Good evening, Yohane!" She singsonged in an accented English. Yoshiko gasped and covered Mari's mouth in a flash as soon as she heard her secret name.
Mari froze, eyes still wide under Yoshiko's hands. "Mari-san!" Yoshiko hissed, angrily scrunching up her face. "Why would you say that out loud for everyone to hear?! I bet everyone—"
When Mari slowly removed Yoshiko's hands from her mouth, Yoshiko's voice died in her throat. "Nobody heard, silly Yoshiko, but everyone sure is staring now." A sense of dread washed over Yoshiko as she slowly tore her eyes away from Mari to face the crowd. It could've been worse, but there were still a few people who stared right back at her with weirded-out faces as they whispered back and forth to each other.
Slinking down with embarrassment, Yoshiko muttered a tiny "sorry" before turning back to Mari, who offered a sympathetic smile.
"Sorry, Yoshiko-chan, but you know this place is too much for theatrics," she said softly, and Yoshiko nodded in both shame and agreement. She hoped her parents didn't hear of her stumble. "But, on a brighter note," Mari said happily, back to her usual energetic self, "I want you to meet my friend. Yoshiko, this is Kanan! Kanan, this is Yoshiko."
Yoshiko watched Mari's hand secretly slink around around the girl's wrist and eventually thread her fingers into Kanan's to gently pull her forward. When the girl smiled warmly, Yoshiko saw her long ponytail swing behind her. Kanan wore a simple forest green dress that showed off her sculpted arms. "Nice to meet you, Yoshiko," she quipped brightly.
What an easygoing person, Yoshiko thought to herself. Wearing a plain dress and a ponytail to a formal party? She must not be as rich as them—she had to be someone extremely special to Mari for her to bring her to a Kurosawa party.
When the thought occurred to Yoshiko, she couldn't help the smile that slipped onto her face. Yoshiko knew Mari's secret, as it was something they both had in common. She looked at the way Mari looked at Kanan, and the way she hid their intwined fingers in the fold of her dark purple dress. The way she referred to Kanan as a "friend," and when Mari tore her eyes from her to look at Yoshiko with a gaze that seemed to convey something, some type of plea for her to understand.
Yoshiko chuckled darkly at the couple, and for the first time, she could've sworn she saw Mari blushed. Meanwhile, Kanan looked as confused as ever. Yoshiko had to refrain herself from spreading her pointer and middle finger over her eye and falling into Yohane, but all she could think about was the passionate fire between two young lovers, burning brighter than the depths of hell!
"Uh, Yoshiko-chan!" Mari's voice suddenly penetrated Yoshiko's thoughts, and she suddenly looked up. Looks like she had lost herself for a minute there, and found that she unconsciously did the finger thing. She slowly lowered her hand, feeling the gaze of many on her once again, but refusing to even look at them. "Kanan and I are going to go say hi to Dia-chan," Mari continued, and just like that, they were gone.
Kanan turned around as she was being dragged away by Mari, calling out a loud, "it was nice meeting you!" Feeling abandoned, Yoshiko raised a weak hand up to wave goodbye, but she doubted Kanan even saw her. She watched, almost as if she were stricken, as the girls walked up to the dais the Kurosawa's stood on.
While their parents stood off to the side to talk to some other, Ruby and Dia stood alone. Dia stood protectively in front of her sister yet her stony face conveyed nothing, and behind her, Ruby had her gaze on the floor, her face the color of her hair. However, simultaneously, their faces both lit up in a smile that showed how much they resembled each other. Yoshiko saw Mari and Kanan suddenly appear on the dais, inviting themselves. They both hugged Dia, and although the couples faces were turned away, Yoshiko saw Dia's—a soft smile, a smile different than what Yoshiko had ever seen her direct at Ruby, the type of smile Yoshiko had seen only lovers give to each other when they walked the street hand-in-hand. Yoshiko wondered what the trios relationship with each other was.
Yoshiko wondered what would happen if she brought home a girl. She imagined holding her hand as she introduced her to her parents. She imagined the look of pride in her parents smile as they watched their happy daughter.
No, that wasn't right. Yoshiko would never bring home a girl. She would never fall in love, and another girl could never come to love her. Yoshiko imagined the look of horror spread across her parents face as she came out.
"Ma'am?" A sudden voice asked, and Yoshiko looked up. Several feet from her was the man behind the bar, ready to take her order. She hadn't even noticed it was her turn. She hadn't even noticed it had been that long.
But suddenly, Yoshiko didn't feel too good. Well—she never felt good at parties, but never like this. This...this was different. The melancholy piano played the soundtrack to Yoshiko's emotions, and the room was beginning to get a little blurry, and her eyes were starting to sting...and she didn't know why. "Ma'am?" The cashier repeated, and Yoshiko finally met his gaze.
All she could manage to say was "never mind." Then she was gone.
Back to square one, shouldering her way through crowds, this time more hastily and feverish. Yoshiko suddenly couldn't breathe; the air was too hot and there was too many people and her dress was too tight and there was a dull ache thrumming in her feet. All she could think about was how desperately she needed out, she needed air, it was a thought pounding through her head like a freight train screaming out of control.
Yoshiko would never get out of this place. She would only run in circles through her life trying to find a way out, trying to find a way to happiness. No matter how hard she tried, nobody would ever love her and she would never escape the clutches of business and relationships. When your entire life is planned out for you when you're born, some things aren't put in the agenda.
For Yoshiko, it was freedom and and true love. True love with a beautiful woman.
The pianist must've taken a break, because it was silence throughout the hallway, which was replaced with thoughts running through Yoshiko's crowded mind. She couldn't even find the way out.
Surely, Mari knew whatever her relationship was with Kanan and Dia wouldn't last. It was like a dynasty—they would have to take over their family's business, marry someone, have kids, and then they would take over the business, and so on. It had been like that forever. It was so incredibly cruel.
Yoshiko let out a broken sob as she tore down the hallway, clutching her shoes she hadn't even remembered taking off. Her bangs were plastered to her forehead with sweat and she was sure the wet spot on her dress underneath her arms and lower back had completely ruined it, but all Yoshiko was focused on was getting out and getting air.
The slap of her bare feet against the tile echoed in the hallway as she ran, looking for a window, looking for a way out, looking for anything, but her thoughts were too clouded to see straight or remember the way she came in.
Making a sharp turn, Yoshiko encountered another dead end. But this time, at the back wall, was a pair of french double doors, windows covered in satin curtains, leading exactly where she needed to go.
Yoshiko was there in a flash, the metal of the knob cool and sweet against the palm of her hand when she opened the door, letting in a blast of cool breeze. The balcony beaconed her forwards, but Yoshiko stood still in the doorway.
The pianist begun to play again the moment Yoshiko realized she wasn't alone, the moment the girl on the balcony turned around.
Claire de Lune. The one piano song Yoshiko actually enjoyed listening to, learning, and playing. It was fitting, as the name translated to "moonlight," and when the doors faintly clicked shut on their own behind her, Yoshiko could've sworn every trace of light the full moon above casted down fell on the girl in front of her.
She seemed to radiate and shine, the light reflecting off her pale skin and silky caramel-colored hair. Her brown eyes, wide with something Yoshiko couldn't tell, glittered with the light of a thousand stars.
Was she an angel? Yoshiko had never seen someone so beautiful.
They stared at each other for a moment that seemed to last a century before they finally came to their senses. The mysterious girl blinked, and Yoshiko blushed with the heat of hell. "I-I'm so sorry," she stuttered, taking a step back. "I didn't mean to intrude..." she whirled around, desperate to get out of this beautifully disastrous situation.
Yoshiko had her hand on the doorknob when she spoke. "Wait!" She piped, her voice sweet and thick with accent—just like honey.
Turning around, Yoshiko found that her face looked almost desperate, and Yoshiko was surprised to see how hard she bit down on her bottom lip, which was painted the color of the roses in the garden below them. "Do I know you, zura?" She asked, taking a step forward, squinting and knitting her brows together as she looked into Yoshiko's eyes.
Under the beautiful girls scrutiny, Yoshiko blushed once again, because she kept getting closer and closer, and Yoshiko was already against the door. What was worse was that Yoshiko already got that pretty often, and it usually followed with how much the person loved Yoshiko's fallen angel accounts and persona.
The girl in front of her didn't seem like the type of person to be into that sort of thing, so if she had randomly run across her account, she'd probably be a bit freaked out...Yoshiko didn't want her to know about that side of her. She didn't want her to look at her strangely, as if she were crazy. "Just one of those faces," she tried to say, but her voice came out weak.
After a second of stillness, her eyes finally lit up, and the girl took a step back. Here it comes, Yoshiko thought to herself, bracing for her to beg her to do the fallen angel pose for her or ask to take a picture together.
But it never came.
"Yoshiko-chan!" The small girl said instead, and Yoshiko's eyes widened as she got up in her face once again, and Yoshiko took a step back. "It really is you, zura!" When she grinned, she looked so cute, but the urge to run was overtaking Yoshiko's thoughts.
"W-what?" She croaked, her emotions all over the place from feeling confused and very, very gay.
She hadn't realized the girl was on her tip-toes until she backed down off of them, the height difference even more significant. "Do you remember me, zura? Hanamaru, from Ruby's birthday party?"
Hanamaru didn't even need to finish her sentence. A sudden flow of memories rushed to Yoshiko's head—six years old, sitting at a round table with a group of a bunch of other little girls, listening to the sound of a tiny Ruby's sobs. Repeatedly making eye contact with the girl who sat across from her. Playing footsie with the girl who sat across from her. Sneaking out of the room with the girl who sat across from her, discarding their tea party hats and gloves and necklaces at the doorway floor before running off to explore, giggling down the massive mansion hallway. Being found in the backyard soaking wet and knee-deep in the Koi pond hours later by two sets of angry parents. Throwing a tantrum as they attempted to separate them. Their parents eventually giving into their children before taking them home and changing them into a dry pair of clothes and then to go out to eat together. Their parents exchanging numbers to set the two friends up for a play-date. Never seeing the little girl again.
Rather, never seeing her again until now.
Yoshiko slowly drifted back to the present, feeling a tinge of bittersweet nostalgia deep within. "Wait...Zuramaru?" She asked, astonished, although she already knew it really was that same little girl.
Hanamaru's smile grew even wider. "It's been awhile since I've been called that, zura," she said softly, making Yoshiko's heart beat even wilder at the look in her eye. Hanamaru stared at Yoshiko again with that same cute, bewildered smile. "Wow, zura...how've you been? It's been so long."
Yoshiko nodded in agreement. "Yeah," she said awkwardly, tracing invisible little circles on the concrete ground of the balcony with her big toe. "I've been...well..." she was faced with one of those situations again. The lie or tell the truth situations. Last time, she opted for the half-truth, and even that got her into trouble. "I've been great," she lied, plastering on a big, fake grin. "How've you been?"
Rocking on her heels, Hanamaru tugged on a curled piece of hair. "Oh, I've been good, zura," she said casually. Then she glanced up at Yoshiko through her dark lashes. Yoshiko's stomach did a somersault. "I never thought I'd see you again, zura," she laughed.
As soon as Yoshiko opened her mouth to respond, a strong gust of wind blew through the two, and Hanamaru wrapped her arms around herself, cringing under the cold. As soon as the wind died down and Yoshiko wrestled the flyaway hairs from her face, she stepped forward towards Hanamaru. "Are you cold?" She asked with worry. Yoshiko was always cold, but not in that way...her skin was freezing to the touch, even in summer, so low temperatures didn't bother her at all, only high ones. "Do we need to go back inside?" In a bold act of bravery and protectiveness that washed over Yoshiko, she reached forwards to wrap an arm around the smaller girl.
"No," Hanamaru practically snapped, and Yoshiko had to pretend that it didn't hurt as she took a step back. But Hanamaru was right—Yoshiko was a stranger. That day a decade ago didn't change anything, and probably didn't mean as much to Hanamaru as it did to Yoshiko. So she just stood there, stricken.
But then Hanamaru looked back up, panic washing across her face. "I-I'm sorry," she said with a forced laugh. "I just—zura—can we stay outside?" Then, without waiting for Yoshiko's response, Hanamaru turned to go back to the balcony ledge. She never dismissed Yoshiko, and even stood a little to the left of the center, where she stood when Yoshiko first found her, so Yoshiko took it that she was silently inviting Yoshiko to her. Slowly, Yoshiko slid into the place beside her, happy when Hanamaru didn't object.
"Again, I...I'm sorry, zura," Hanamaru repeated, turning towards Yoshiko. "I don't know what came over me."
Looking back down, Yoshiko simply shrugged it off. "It's okay, Worry-Maru," she laughed, gently shoving Hanamaru, and Yoshiko felt relieved when Hanamaru laughed too, a real and genuine laugh. "Don't fret."
Hanamaru looked down, the ghost of a smile on her face as she turned back to face the scenery before her. "Okay, zura," she said softly, and that was that.
Claire de Lune could be heard over the sound of nature, but it was coming to a close. The moonlight illuminated the garden—the house was on a hill, giving a balcony to look over the backyard a story below them. Yoshiko thought about the past, surprised she had ever forgot about that day.
Looking back at Hanamaru, Yoshiko secretly studied her. She had changed an awful lot since then...has it really been almost ten years? Yoshiko couldn't help herself—her eyes acted on their own accord, skimming over Hanamaru's collarbones, the deep neckline of her dress and tightly fitted bodice, past the empire waistline and to her wide hips.
Had she really once been the girl who shakily held Yoshiko's hand as they made their way into the Koi pond to chase around the fish as if they were in the ocean?
Even as a young child, Yoshiko didn't have much of a childhood. Her parents were never home, her time was devoted to studies and being trained to use proper manners. And attending birthday parties for little girls she had never met to keep business relations with their parents, like a pawn in a game.
Even if it was only for one day, Hanamaru had made little Yoshiko feel alive and whole and authentic, a true child for the first time. So, even if it was only for one night, Hanamaru would make Yoshiko's heart beat wildly and her stomach fill with butterflies and make her fall in love for the first time. And Yoshiko was totally going to let it happen.
As Claire de Lune ended, she wondered if Claude Debussy was falling in love when he wrote it. Did he write it for the lovers? Did he write it for the girls who came across their childhood crush on random balconies?
"What are you even doing here, anyways?" Yoshiko asked, not facing the girl beside her, but she listened to the fabric of her dress rustle as Hanamaru shifted.
"My family has long been friends with the Kurosawa's," she said after a moment. "Though we're in no way rich, zura...we run the local Buddhist shrine. But I met Ruby-chan at the library one day when I was little, and we became friends, I guess," Hanamaru said as if she couldn't remember the entire story. "The Kurosawa's have been more than generous to me—they take me on trips and let me go to fancy dinners with them, they loan me dresses like these, zura." Yoshiko let herself look at Hanamaru's body again, as she lovingly smoothed the yellow fabric over with her hands, a gentle smile on her beautiful face.
Taking a deep breath, Hanamaru continued. "Tonight was the first night they invited me to one of their parties." Hanamaru held her hands to her chest and looked down, as if in prayer, or mourning. Yoshiko knew why. "I was looking forward to it, but it's not all that I thought it would be, zura. I'm just...so out of place. They made me feel bad for the way I spoke, and the way I carried myself, and where I came from." Hanamaru sucked in a breath and Yoshiko felt a deep ache within her, a distant throb.
Should she...hug her?
"Nobody even noticed when I left, not even Ruby. It was at least half an hour ago, zura. I was planning on going back, but I just couldn't bring myself to." Yoshiko tried to ignore the quiver in her voice but couldn't. Hanamaru was still looking at the floor so Yoshiko couldn't see her face, but she could imagine how her eyes watered...
Not even realizing what she was doing, Yoshiko reached a tentative hand forward. Using only the tips of her fingertips, Yoshiko brushed the side of Hanamaru's arms, feeling goosebumps rise on her soft skin.
Hanamaru snapped her head up, and Yoshiko froze, not being able to do anything but stare down at the girl in front of her. Yet again, she had screwed up. "I'm sorry," she whispered, pulling her hand back.
But Hanamaru did something that surprised Yoshiko—in one fluid motion too quick for her to even digest, Hanamaru stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Yoshiko, resting her head on her chest. "No, zura," she said back to Yoshiko, who was too frozen to move. "I really needed that. Thank you."
Then Hanamaru pulled away, leaving Yoshiko feeling like she had stepped out of the sun and into the dark shade. Hanamaru still didn't let go, holding Yoshiko at arms length and staring deep into her eyes as if she were a puzzle Yoshiko wanted to solve. She held her gaze, still and almost hopeful as the last few notes of Claire de Lune ended.
A silence filled the air when Hanamaru let go, a silence louder than anything Yoshiko had ever heard.
The quiet suddenly stopped, replaced with a song Yoshiko didn't know, a brighter and more upbeat one. Hanamaru blushed, turning to look away, but Yoshiko caught her attention before she had a chance to. "Do you want to get out of here?" Yoshiko asked quietly.
Hanamaru gasped quietly, as if it were an outlandish thought, and her mouth fell open slightly. Yoshiko's heart pounded in her chest—she was awfully cute. "I mean...go get a pizza or something..." Yoshiko trailed off, raising a hand to scratch the back of her neck.
Almost immediately, a low rumble echoed through Hanamaru's stomach. Yoshiko looked back down, a smile spreading through her face, as Hanamaru let out a loud and embarrassed "zura!" Yoshiko didn't know if it was possible for Hanamaru to blush even more, but her face was fire-red.
Laughing, Yoshiko smiled assuringly as an embarrassed Hanamaru looked up at her through her lashes. "If it's okay with you," she said.
A bolt of excitement washed through Yoshiko. What was she doing?! Sneaking out from one of the most upscale parties she'd ever been to?! With a girl?! Her parents would kill her, and Yoshiko would go to hell to live an eternity of endless suffering.
Then she noticed the way Hanamaru happily bounced on her toes, looking up at Yoshiko with a beautiful glint in her eye, and suddenly that didn't seem too bad. She didn't even have to say it—Yoshiko knew the answer
"Okay then, Zuramaru. Take off your shoes," Yoshiko demanded. She had already been holding hers from her previous incident, but Hanamaru didn't seem to notice until she begun to take off hers.
"Wow, zura!" She marveled. Yoshiko raised an eyebrow and held up the sparkly silver heels for Hanamaru to see, and the smaller girl held up her kitten heels beside it. "What high heels, zura!"
Yoshiko shrugged awkwardly, suddenly self conscious. "Are you ready?" She asked Hanamaru, gripping the handle of the doorframe. "We've gotta go pretty fast," she warned, and Hanamaru knitted her brows together and gave a determined nod, smiling with excitement.
Turning so she could see her smile, Yoshiko opened the door just a fraction before she felt something small slipping through her hand and lacing into her fingers. It was Hanamaru's. Yoshiko hoped she wasn't sweating too much.
"Alright then, Zuramaru," she whispered with a voice weak from her crazed emotions and heart thrumming haphazardly in her ear. Then Yoshiko opened the door.
They started with a jog. Yoshiko pulled Hanamaru along with her, trying to stay quiet, trying to keep her footsteps soft. Hanamaru wasn't, as her soft giggles could be heard over the music, but luckily she was practically silent when she ran. They moved with the pace of the beat, their footsteps dancing across the tile floor like the pianists hands flying across the keys.
This time, to Yoshiko's benefit, she could remember the way she came, now that she felt light instead of dark, like the sun, or rather, the moon. Like the night, so clear that the stars shone brighter and the moonlight was so bright it was otherworldly, rather than a thunderstorm.
Rounding on turns and corners, Yoshiko knew that they were getting closer to the ballroom, but she didn't feel the dread she thought she would. Instead, the rush of adrenaline from sneaking around made her feel powerful and almighty, a great unstoppable force.
She spun around on Hanamaru when the distant chatter from the room got so loud she could pick out individual words.
"Zuramaru," she hissed, and Hanamaru looked back up at her with those big, brown eyes. "You have to stay quiet, and you have to go fast," Yoshiko said with nothing but seriousness. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, and fear was finally getting to her.
But Hanamaru didn't disappoint. She nodded, whispering back a quiet "I understand, zura." She squeezed Yoshiko's hand. And then they ran.
Yoshiko pulled Hanamaru as fast as she could, pumping her free arm back and forth and stretching her legs out as far as she could, desperate to make it across the wide entrance without being noticed. "Yoshiko," she could barely hear from behind her over the sound of her blood rushing through her ears. "Yoshiko-chan, wait, I can't, I—"
Hanamaru let go of Yoshiko's hand.
A loud smack resounded through the hallway, and the rumble of the crowd ceased.
With horror, Yoshiko turned around, to where Hanamaru was sprawled on the tile floor, her hair a mess, her shoes flung across the hallway, her dress lifted to her knees to expose...tights.
Tights.
Hanamaru had slipped.
Someone in the crowd gasped.
That's when Yoshiko realized she herself had made it. She was on the other side of the wall where no one could see her; the party only saw Hanamaru on the ground, and had no idea why.
Yoshiko had two options. She was safe on the other side of the doorway, most likely completely unseen. She could easily make it out, giving Hanamaru an apologetic shrug of her shoulder and running before anyone found out where she was. Or, she could let everyone see her in all her diminished light and glory, help the girl off the floor, and lead her away from the fury of her parents.
The girl's head was bowed to the floor, but Yoshiko could see the way she shook, the way her ears were glowing a bright red. Yoshiko remembered her words on the balcony. About how she didn't belong. About how the people relentlessly judged her.
It bothered Yoshiko to feel everyone's eyes on her as she walked over to the fallen, but she tried not to let it get to her. Yoshiko dropped her heels on the ground without looking back and without looking at the reaction of the crowd, but she could hear their quiet whispers and mumbles.
Hanamaru must've felt Yoshiko kneeling down beside her, but Hanamaru barely even looked up out of shame. "I'm sorry, zura..." she said for only Yoshiko to hear, even in the silence.
Yoshiko only smiled, offering her hand down. "It's okay, Zuramaru. You should've told me you were wearing tights." She laughed, but Hanamaru looked away, puffing up her cheeks. "But seriously," Yoshiko continued, "are you okay?"
Tears swam in Hanamaru's eyes as she took Yoshiko's hand, pulling herself up, not daring to look anywhere but the floor. "Can we just go?" She asked softly.
Yoshiko formed a crease in her brow. "Are you sure? You took a hard fa—"
And, yet again, they were running.
But this time it was Hanamaru, barreling down the hallway with all the power of a Corvette, dragging Yoshiko behind her. Yoshiko watched the way her curled hair danced around her neck and noticed the way her wrist clutched onto Yoshiko's. And then Yoshiko felt herself smile, felt her heart pounding, and she laughed, because once she thought about it, it wasn't really that bad.
Who cares what they thought? Yoshiko was, for once, actually living.
Hanamaru crashed through the door and pulled Yoshiko outside, letting the cool spring breeze kiss their skin and fill their lungs, but she still kept going, practically unstoppable. Yoshiko matched her pace, running right next to her, and they ran hand-in-hand down the steps and into the night, as far away as they could get from the place behind them.
When Yoshiko looked, Hanamaru was smiling too, the faint tear-tracks on her cheeks practically dry. In a matter of seconds, they would disappear entirely. She looked at Yoshiko and laughed too—a breathless, out of air laugh, but still, she didn't stop.
You know that feeling, that one sensation of stepping outside from the dark shade or a cold building or a freezing pool and into the bright summer sun, letting the warmth spread through your skin and all underneath like welcoming a long lost friend? Yeah. Yoshiko felt like that.