Work Text:
They’d lived in the rain all their lives but could never manage to shake the chill of the coldest days; as hard as they tried to keep themselves flush to the walls of the closed and shuttered buildings, the awnings waterfalled the coldest drops, those closest to ice, down the backs of their necks, so they forgoed caution, simply running for shelter.
Turning a corner, Konan slipping and Yahiko just catching her by the underside of an arm, they found themselves at the front face of a brightly lit restaurant, at the end of an otherwise dull street.
Inside they could seat themselves and did so whilst peeling off their outer jackets- trying to dry their hair somewhat with the less-soaked insides before forcing the articles of clothing into the corners of their booth, nuzzling up inside the dry fleece they wore underneath.
Konan was dazed, warming up quietly with her eyes closed and the neck of her sweatshirt up over her mouth, so Yahiko ordered for the both of them, picking hot things in constellation shapes around the menu.
“I ordered a lot so I’ll pay for it, okay? What if you don’t even like what I got you?” Yahiko yawned as the waiter left, as Konan blinked herself somewhat awake.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said but didn’t argue as Yakiho was stubborn, in general and about his friends extending themselves, especially for his sake.
The conversation tapered off then, a pot of tea arriving to thankfully distract them from how abruptly it’d dwindled. Their lives had been shaped by hardship and now that survival wasn’t the singular focus, they found themselves still in similar routines but chasing an end that had already been tied; there was no more to do and it was time to move onto something else. It would be something brighter, something better, if they could only make out what “it” was: what the outlines in their dreams were supposed to be.
But for now, they busied themselves with the warped neon shapes in the puddles outside, hoping maybe the other had something to say.
The food arrived in waves: shrimp and vegetable tempura, tamagoyaki, inarizushi, miso soup, natto, and finally two chest cavity sized bowls of shio ramen. They ate slowly to make excuses for not talking but by the time they had only the ramen left, they couldn’t avoid speaking for much longer.
Konan drew lines through the oil bubbled in little, untouching circles, haven eaten enough noodles to expose them in the broth. Yahiko continued eating for just a minute more, the last slurp lingering awkwardly in the following silence. She picks the umeboshi from the broth and skins it with her teeth, placing the pit neatly in her pocket. He would place his in her broth, as he’s never liked sour taste, but feels as if he should eat his as well, as if it’s a ceremonial thing. He bites into his not so gracefully and pockets the pit as she did. Her smile is faint but sweet and hits him hard.
“So…” he starts, reeling from her smile and taking a sip of tea to replace the taste in his mouth (and steady himself.) “Have you, uh, made any art recently?” It felt odd to ask because of course she had, she always has- every smidgen of time not dedicated to fighting, eating, sleeping, repainting her nails, piercing her ears- she was folding or fidgeting with something; he just never knew what.
“Yes actually,” she said and he internally threw a fist in the air as it was a conversation they could continue. “The other day I drafted out a painting.”
He twitched back slightly in surprise, expecting perhaps a large scale origami piece instead. She didn’t immediately carry on the conversation and he waited expectantly. Impatiently.
“Well, aren't you going to tell me what it is?” She smiled in return and it broke into a bigger one with her teeth visible, her hand not covering her mouth. He wanted to smile like that in return, as full as his heart was, but was sure he just looked lovestruck, stumbling foolishly in the space between anxious and giddy.
“Well it’s going to be small…” she began, before delving into a mix of art jargon he can’t understand and shape descriptions he can. She had her fingers loosely kept together and made swiping motions in the air, shaping waves as accurately and intricately as she would were she holding a brush.
She wanted the work to be of the ocean in oil paint, made first with neat bumps with a large paintbrush before chopping the wave edges with a palette knife. The details above the ocean would be flowers done in watercolor, pink and in full bloom- their heads unfurled to show the pollen dust inside, like babied clam pearls. She said that once the rain in their village finally cleared, she’s sure spring and summer will come as it does elsewhere and she wants to envision that the best she can, to pray it comes true: the ocean strong and clear, reflecting sunlight onto the budding blossom trees nearby.
He realized he’d caught her eyes as he’d watched her hands diligently, like a puppy dog waiting for a ball toss, but didn’t need to vocalize it as the second round of hot drinks they ordered arrived: amazake this time. He knows he has to do something now that the waiter is gone but doesn’t want to lose the eye contact or the place in their conversation- an all-encompassing mystery feeling making his heart sit hot in his throat.
She raises her glass and tilts it his way, for them to clink them together.
He raises his in return and they clank the glasses, the edges ringing around one another more than they hit dead on, and they slide their hands together by the outsides instead. Neither recoils from the touch and they press their knuckles in harder, to get even just a millimeter more in touch, as much as a knuckle can feel in comparison to fingers.
He thought her artist’s hands would be calloused only at the fingertips and blushed thinking of running his fingers over the rough and smooth parts; she knew his fingers had been nicked a few times, with anything from fishing hooks to cooking knives, but didn’t know what those little pinprick scars felt like. She could only imagine the full parts of his large hands contrasted with the crooked, bony knuckles.
They pull away to drink but look back at one another as they tip their heads back, eyes crinkling in hidden, half-smiles. They bask in the dim light until the drink has warmed them enough to brave the cold now-night and head out, intent on taking their time walking home.
But they’re treated to a surprise when they again greet the frigid sea-breeze: snow drifting down like dust, dissolving on their skin like sugar but beginning to stick elsewhere. Konan takes note of the lanterns and lights muffled by the snow, hit first and without the warmth to melt it: how the snow takes their color in return, making a curve down the street and onto the next in red, pink, blue, and green. She wants to paint this, wants to draft it as soon as she gets home, but is sidetracked as Yahiko takes her hand in his. Vulnerable and honest.
Somehow this embarrasses him more than the eye contact, more nerve-wracking than relying on that shaky bravado, toppled with just a look from her. He can’t lie and say it’s something it’s not, say he didn’t mean to make that starstruck face or say those sweet words; it’s accentuated with a squeeze, to confirm he didn’t reach out just because he’s cold.
In turn, she kisses his cheek and leads him home, smiling so widely he can see it from beyond her hair, though he can’t see her face. He laces their fingers together and squeezes harder this time.