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You don’t make a habit of dancing, but something in your partner’s voice makes you want your steps to sing of motion.
No need for music, you’ll murmur, window’s open. There’s no shortage of noise in your city.
(Ours, Hoshiguma reminded you one night, voice cutting through the sound of wind and water. Somehow, one word lightened the load off your shoulders. It’s her way of reassuring you: this burden is not yours alone to bear.)
It could be the voice of some hawker claiming he sells the best cheung fun in town. You’ve lived here long enough to know you’d get a better deal two streets over.
A kind grandmother will season the steamed rice noodles with a smile. The chili sauce is hot enough to sear your tongue, just the way you like it; she would pepper the dish with scallions and sesame seeds. Told you once you looked like you needed it: I’ve a daughter around your age, see. Grandmother’s intuition.
You’d always sneak a tip on the counter when her back was turned. Moments later, you’d already be halfway across the street, disappearing into the crowd.
Kindness is scarce in a life like yours. Kindness makes you remember why you’re up at some godforsaken hour: hunched over four different case files, your head throbbing from ten thousand tiny paragraphs of legalese. You’d only be awake from the power of spite and copious amounts of caffeine.
It could be every ticked off driver on the street laying on their horns like they’re getting paid for every curse spilling from their lips; you swear their collective ire could power Lungmen for a month and leave energy to spare.
In the distance, the sounds of the harbor are always there. There is nothing gentle in how waves crash against the shore: colliding with all the inelegance of a drunkard in their constant shift, their erratic sway. They remind you of Hoshiguma, though her alcohol tolerance is the kind of thing they spin songs about, weaving tales with eyewitness accounts and so much ink.
At first glance, her height draws the wandering eye to linger. She’s no stranger to the unabashed stares, ducking beneath doorways with such practiced ease. Unfair. You can’t even tease her for it.
At first glance, one might think: demon. Even without the roar of spellfire at her fingertips, howling at her command — the heat in her voice as she snaps commands is an old friend; emblazoned on her Hannya, the noh mask is all bared fangs: a portrait of ferocity.
You would be a fool to mistake the parts for the whole. You’ve known Hoshiguma long enough to know she is disciplined enough not to snatch the last tangyuan sitting in your bowl. Hoshiguma has principles, unlike a certain insufferable brat (looking at you, Miss S.) You were never one for sweets, but you had the misfortune of being outnumbered by colleagues with a craving. Besides, it had been the New Year — and you’d take tangyuan over a thousand files any day.
Hoshiguma commands her emotions far better than you ever will. It’s far too easy for you to get lost in the winding corridors of your mind, even when faced with the threat of enemy fire. She’s called you back countless times from that fathomless sea, dragged you to shore with the sound of your name: your anchor amidst the maelstroms of memory.
You’ve never doubted her strength for a moment, but hearing the pain in her voice made you remember what it is like to be afraid. Bearing two floors’ worth of rubble, waiting until you were awake… it’s the least you can do, to pay your partner back.
By the time Hoshiguma alights on your doorstep, the setting sunlight’s starting to curl across her face like a caress. Your heart does a pathetic little somersault in your chest. For a brief, dazzling moment, the sight makes you think there is something in this world worth salvaging. A white bakery box is in her hands.
“What for?” You say nothing of sunlight, or the way the lilt of her laughter makes you feel lighter than anything. You don’t know why you bother asking. You already know the answer.
“Do I ever need a reason for dessert?” A wry voice, laughing: just let me in already.
Opening the door to your flat, you rolled your eyes. If you were one for dramatics, you would’ve sketched a mock bow. “Knowing you…” you scoff, guiding her into the kitchen. Offer her a seat with a deadpan stare, “no.”
“Damn straight.” You don’t bother dignifying this with a response, firing back an unimpressed stare. You can’t even be mad, though -- the laopo bing’s flaky crust is infuriatingly fragrant, while the mouthwatering pineapple buns are still warm.
You’re halfway through an egg custard tart when she starts singing in a low, soothing voice. Its steady cadence reminds you of the sea, calls back a memory of a childhood friend’s hand clasped in yours. Talulah’s hands were always warm, you remember; they became too hot to touch when her temper was inflamed, which was too many times for you to count. She always held tight, as if she was afraid she would one day have to let go.
Ah… but there’s no use in reminiscing about long gone days, is there?
“I didn’t know you could sing.” You murmur, sweetness fading with a final bite. A warmth settles over you, sunlight on your skin.
“Does it really count, if I can’t remember half the lyrics?” There’s mirth in her eyes. Looks good on you, you’d say, if the words hadn’t caught in your throat. Did she know? Her voice reminded you of candied city lights, melting against the water. Blinding. What can you do but look away?
It’s a song from her hometown. Melancholy lyrics mourn a dream that fled like a thief in the night. Stubborn cicadas still screaming their summer quartets, the syllables of a name still lingering on your tongue like lemon soda long gone flat: fizzing, sparking, fading. I was a fool, murmurs the chorus, to believe in forever. But I keep holding on. I keep holding on.
(No one ever taught you to let go. You spent too much time suffocated by your parents’ ceaseless strictures to learn how to breathe. Held onto your anger so long, it’s steeped itself into your veins: smoking, smoldering, and oh-so-easy to ignite.)
Huh. That reminds you: Hoshiguma’s always had a fondness for keeping old-fashioned things. Her apartment’s proof enough: a stack of vinyls from her favorite artists sits next to faded polaroids, carefully tucked into the lovelorn pages of a photo album. There’s bittersweet memories, like Hoshiguma with an affectionate arm slung over Phal’s shoulders, ruffling his hair.
Then there’s that one infamous Mid-Autumn Festival evening. You and Swire lost a bet to Hoshiguma over osmanthus wine (ugh, you’ll rue her godly alcohol tolerance until the day you die.) You looked half apoplectic, half resigned: drowned in the folds of the oversized “Get Along Sweater” you’d been forced to share with Swire, who hadn’t been faring any better. She looked ready to murder the innocent mooncake slice sitting on her plate.
You’d banter without any heat about it later, though — how united in your animosity you’d both been, Hoshiguma grinned. If looks could incinerate, she would’ve had to file a complaint to Shaw: Lungmen Fire Department, Missy and Ch’en have been committing arson through looks alone.
Afterwards, Swire had probably complained to the moon and back about “Ah Chen” being infuriating as always, languishing to a larger than usual crowd. Families get together for the festival, after all. Come to think of it… they’re probably desensitized to her stories, by now. You are childhood friends.
You’d sulk over steak sandwiches with Swire in the weeks following the incident, venting about everything and nothing between bites bursting with flavor.
Maybe that’s why Hoshiguma still hangs on to those trinkets. A part of her still thinks: as long as I hold onto these mementos, I can keep these memories alive. I can put our comrades’ ghosts to rest.
Some nights, she wonders if they haunt her still. She’d been the one to tuck some of them to eternal sleep, after all: their fragile, fleeting dreams had been shattered by her own hand. I left them with nowhere to go, she murmured. Left them with nowhere but the place I call home to belong.
(You’ll offer to talk about it, in turn. You’ll boil dried chrysanthemum on the stove for tea, offering a means of distraction for her restless mind. Tell Hoshiguma: I’ll let you add the rock sugar, this time. You’ll sigh over the sweetness later, but it’s worth the smirk she sends your way. Mirth looks good on her. Makes it somehow just a little easier to breathe. It suits her far better than moodiness, at any rate.)
Time is the greatest thief of them all, isn’t it? It’s taken so much from Hoshiguma. From you.
(Silvery strands frame the unforgiving set of her face. Copper sunlight shatters over her features, but fails to give her expression any warmth. Feels like you’ve forgotten what happiness looks like on her. Heat hangs heavy in the air: shimmering like a summer mirage, there and gone. Ashes on your tongue: the taste of goodbye.)
It’s never been kind to us, you sigh, but at least we have this. Idle days where you’d fall asleep to the rain’s rhythmic drumming on the roof, curled up on Hoshiguma’s lap. Hoshiguma would always watch the rain-slicked streets when she thought you weren’t looking, like she was afraid they’d vanish when night fell. All smoke and mirrors, pulling a magician’s disappearing act.
Then she’d turn back to flip through a manga she’d read at least twice over, only half paying attention. Thumbing through dog-eared pages with a melancholy little smile.
You’re all I have left, her smile seems to whisper. Time’s claimed everyone around me, Ch’en, and I can’t keep on running from it forever. Isn’t it cruel? I bet the gods are laughing, huh. But I… selfish as it might sound, I don’t want it to steal you from me, too.
Can’t make any promises. A little gesture’s your response. You’re tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, eyes half-lidded in a post-nap haze. But I’ll stay the night — maybe the next, if you buy me dim sum — and the next. I’ll warn you in advance: after a while, I might start wanting to keep you to myself.
You don’t have to buy me anything to keep me here, you don’t say. You don’t make a habit of making yourself vulnerable to anyone except your closest confidants. Hoshiguma knows this, reading your heart as easily as another manga off her shelf.
You must be drunk when Hoshiguma tells you she’s fine with that, because your arms are wrapping around the sculpted lines of her waist like they belong there. Your insubordinate mouth’s asking for just one dance.
You had already been drinking before she set foot in your flat, decadent desserts in hand. You’ll regret it later. (You’re already regretting it now.)
Hoshiguma’s hands have their share of calluses, their share of scars. (Mother would’ve called them unladylike; you’ve long stopped caring about her judgement, though you can still feel the ghost of her burning glare against your back.) You find their rough edges a comfort. Over the years, those hands have saved you so many times. Those hands always ensured you made it home — maybe not hale, but whole.
“You’re drunk,” Hoshiguma’s voice chides, a whisper in your ear — but she’s already guiding you through the steps. “You’ll break my poor little toes, and we can’t have that.”
“Shut the hell up,” you grumble, rolling your eyes. The slightness of your frame in comparison to Hoshiguma might make dancing a little awkward, sure, and vertigo tends to ruin moments of intended romance — but she can sweep you into her arms without breaking a sweat.
”I’m only a little tipsy. You and your toes will be fine. It’ll take more than that to get me wasted.”
“If you say so,” Hoshiguma scoffs, hand at the small of your back. Steadying you as you sway, skepticism sharpening her voice. You know it’s out of concern.
The warmth lingers.
You don’t think you’ll be making a habit of dancing, but something about the easy synchrony your steps slot into alongside Hoshiguma makes it easy to forget the cruelty of time. You let yourself laugh, just this once — fingers entwined. The moonlight falls like silk against your skin, suspending gravity’s leaden weight — if only for a while. It’s foolish, but… in her embrace, you wonder if this is what flying feels like.
For a moment, you forget to mourn the ephemeral when you trip over your own feet, stumbling into her embrace. Listen to Hoshiguma’s steady heart, unshakeable as the mountains. She leans in for a chaste kiss. You lean into that faith, fathomless as the seas. Steal another with the taste of salt on your lips, grinning all the while.
(You remember. Even in the wreckage of a gutted building — more skeleton than structure — light limns those broad shoulders, those bright eyes in gold. Shattered glass crunches beneath your soles. Your head’s pounding something fierce. Swire’s cursing you out over the comms.
Through the clang and clamor of chaos, Hoshiguma’s voice makes you feel so very alive.
“If you fall, I’ll be there to catch you. Simple as that. Isn’t that what partners are for?”)
No need for music, you muse. Not if I’m the one singing this time: stanza by steadfast stanza, verse by unrelenting verse.
I already know the sound of your laughter by heart.