Work Text:
Karakura, 1961
There are many bad things about living too long. As for which one is the worst, he finds that changes with his mood. Tonight, he’s decided that his least favorite thing about living too long is that it takes a long time for a place to feel like home, even if you’ve lived there for upwards of fifty years. This place, though it’s now free of cobwebs and its walls and rooms somewhat bespoke, still feels like a temporary place.
But they keep making an effort. They keep struggling through calling it their home, keep bringing things into it that might make it look more like a place one might want to live.
Tonight, they’re hanging fairy lights and paper lanterns from the rafters, trying to throw some approximation of a party. Shinji knows it’s not really a party if it’s the same people, in the same place, drinking the same booze as any other night. But the lights...he supposes their glistening will change the atmosphere. That, or they’ll burn the place down and they can find someplace new in which to feel cold and strange.
She’s balanced on a ladder, ankles peeking out from beneath her too-long pedal-pusher slacks. He knows she’s thankful for having the option these days. No more forcing herself into dresses and skirts. She’s been tying her hair into two round buns lately, wearing flat slip-on shoes that make the most annoying clicking sound against the wood floors. Large sweaters that cover her modest figure. All these things, he notices, and he can’t find a single thing worth complaining about there, but he still finds a way.
“Yer gonna need a bigger ladder, Hiyori,” he teases, leaning against the makeshift bar, opting out of helping.
“Shut up ,” she demands. “You could get up and do this for me, you know.” She turns around on the ladder a little, scowling as ever, and he feels a familiar tremor in his heart. The worry that she’ll fall. As if she’s not capable of getting up, dusting herself off, pretending she meant to do it in the first place.
He shrugs, and she rolls her eyes. This is always the way. It is easier to always be at war with her than to attempt detente. Every time he’s sincere, she just makes it worse. Every time he says something kind, she thinks he’s playing a prank. Or she gets flustered, and it’s enthralling, and he chickens out.
She finished hanging her light, and begins her careful descent down the ladder. It’s kind of rickety, old and rotten and made of wood, so even Hiyori climbs down it with a sense of caution.
“Hey…” he says, gentle enough, because no one else is around to hear. “Lemme help ya.”
“As if ,” she says, waving an arm behind her, warding him off for the sake of her pride. She reaches the ground. Click-click . “There.” She puts her hands on her hips, looking up and admiring her work. Her grin is wide, that single sharp tooth, so endeared by now. He wants to tell her she’s hung it crooked, or it’s not been lit properly.
“Looks great, Hiyori,” he says, folding his arms. He looks up in full, at the glowing ceiling, and turns in a small circle to take in the sight. “Where the hell is everyone?”
“Lisa is in her room putting on makeup,” she says, sounding exhausted by it. “Kensei is at the grocer’s getting stuff to make for dinner. I think everyone else is out buying more booze or napping.”
He nods. They often find themselves like this, alone. He wonders if it’s by design, if their friends find little excuses to leave them together in a beautifully-lit room on a cool summer evening. The assholes. He knows what they’re trying to accomplish. But he can’t say he minds. He can’t say that the moment doesn’t hold its own, happy little thrill.
He pours them both a drink. She’s a lightweight, so he’s careful with the ounces of champagne.
“I’m not a baby , Shinji. You can give me more than that.”
“I dunno, Hiyori, champagne makes ya a little handsy.”
“It does not!!” She protests, and then takes a generous sip. “You’re talking about yourself. Last time, you could barely keep your hands off me, ya pervert.”
“You wish.”
She doesn’t contest that, just glowers at him, holding the glass to her lips. She holds it in her surprisingly dainty hands. After a few sips, he leans on the bar toward her, and grins.
“Little music?” he asks. He’s bought a new record. A recent smash-hit right out of Japan that’s had success all over the world.
“Sure, whatever,” she agrees.
He pulls the record from the brown paper bag, and then takes it out of its sleeve.
“Heard it on the radio. Yer gonna love it.” He says that about all the music he shows her, and she insists he’s never been right. But he catches her tapping her little feet, from time to time, when it plays.
He carefully sets the needle down, and after some gentle scratching, Ue o muite arukou begins to play, and he sways subtly.
“Ah,” he says. “Gorgeous.” He is looking at her when he says it, and he swears, or hopes, that her cheeks turn a little pink.
“It’s alright I guess.”
“Lighten up,” he pleads, snapping his fingers, approaching her, his steps in time with the lilting beat, the moody lyrics and crooning. He holds out a hand.
“What?” she asks, guarded then, folding her arms across her chest.
He raises his eyebrows. She scoffs, but still comes closer, taking his hand, settling into their chaste routine of playful dancing. His hands barely at her waist, hers barely on his neck. She steps, and he shakes his head. Click-click .
“Would ya take off those shoes?”
She pouts, slipping her feet out of them, and kicks them gently to the side. And then, as she always ends up doing, as if this is the only way the puzzle piece will fit, she places the balls of her feet atop his shoes. She’s a bad dancer. Needs guidance.
He smiles, his trademark wide, toothy grin. He steps to the side, and she has no choice but to follow. He hums along, and she finds it in her heart to smile just a little.
“In other countries this song is called Sukiyaki ,” he tells her, slipping his arm around her waist just a little farther.
“Like the stew?” she asks, amused.
“To make it easier for people to pronounce.”
“Dummies.”
He snorts in light laughter. She leans a little bit closer. He rests his chin between the smooth knots she’s tied into her hair. Hiyori is like a ravenous, angry beast. You have to know how to soothe her, calm her. And when you do, if you’re clever enough and lucky enough, she can be sweet, docile, and even kind.
Shinji wonders if he’s the only one who gets to see her like this. He doesn’t ask. If he points out her occasional sweetness, it’s likely to go away forever in a fit of embarrassment. So he enjoys it while it lasts, a glorious three minutes, and then the song fades into nothing, but she is still standing so close to him. On top of his feet, she’s weightless. She should be such a fragile little thing, shouldn’t she?
He hears a key in a lock, and on instinct, he steps away from her. She, too, cannot allow their friends to gloat, to be right.
“Oh, it looks just lovely in here!” Rose proclaims, looking up at the array of lights. “Let’s finish up, it’s kind of a mess in here.”
They move the ladders to the darker corners of the wide room. Everyone else comes out of hiding. They finish dusting the floor. Shinji sets the song to play again, the inaugural music of the evening, and they all make a little toast to nothing. It is hard to grasp for things to celebrate these days.
The party meanders on. They all dance a little, and laugh a lot. They cluster together to eat and talk and drink, and the music is slowly turned up over the passing hours. More top-ten hits, and some classics. Everyone groans when Shinji begs to put on some Duke Ellington, but they allow it for just a few songs.
Eventually, because they find themselves so enamored of it, Ue o muite arukou plays again. Shinji finds himself in one of the corners, with the ladder, Hiyori sitting on one of the rungs, and him standing before her. No one pays them any mind. Another one of their schemes, or simply an inevitability of the evening. This has happened before. It will happen again. His head swims just a little from drink, and she, too, looks subdued and just a little bit giddy. They laugh about something, a moment later it’s forgotten. And, as they always do, things grow serious.
“You did a good job makin’ this place look beautiful,” he admits. She offers no retort.
“Just wanted it to--”
“Feel like home?” he finishes, his face full of sincere sadness and sympathy.
“...Yeah.”
She looks down, then. There is a loose strand falling from her neat, updone hair. As if pulled by a string, he reaches up to tuck it behind her ear. She does not flinch, and she does not grimace. For once, her smile is soft, appreciative.
This is home now. In the dark, leaning against her knobby knees, his hand on her warm cheek, her toes curling against a lower rung of the ladder. There is a sense of belonging, here. Damn the lights and the rooms and the sweeping and the decoration.
The song reaches the bridge. He kisses her softly. If he has imagined it, and he’s sure he must have, it feels nothing like how he thought it might. There is no severity to her lips. They have give. They are soft. They part just slightly, nervously, as if so rarely kissed before.
They rest their foreheads together. In the morning, in the light and the clarity, they will not talk about it. They never talk about it.
But there will be other parties, and there will be other songs. There will be plenty of time. They live for far too long.