Chapter Text
“How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.”
— Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Regardless of Ako's murmurings, Rinko Shirokane could not stop quivering.
It was a feverish feeling, deep in her arms and legs and chest. Her tongue seemed to be locked in place, and her fingers, arguably the most important part of a pianist's body, were just as locked as her gritted teeth.
"Rinko." It was Ako still. Her auburn eyes were widened in concern. The door opened and closed behind her small frame, staff and band members alike rushing in and out in preparation for the third last show of the Rose Blue Tour.
Rinko herself had designed the stage outfits: A blue, elegant bodice, silver lacework, accented with smokey makeup from the stylists. Mysterious and calming.
"We only have three shows left, okay? We-we can do it?"
Rinko gasped, as when she looked back at Ako, the walls behind her appeared to be closing in, and black dots overtook her vision. She stumbled.
"Rin-Rin?”
The walls were up against her, pulling in her chest, tugging on the strings of her limbs like a marionette doll. Hot, everything was hot. The air, the walls, the stickiness in her mouth that kept her from speaking. Even Ako’s hand, against her shoulder, was searing through her thin sleeves.
With a final gasp, Rinko collapsed. A staff member ran over with a water bottle, but Rinko was fixated on something—or rather someone —else
Sayo Hikawa—guitarist. Teal-coloured hair, emerald eyes. A cloth was clutched in her hand as she bolted in Rinko’s direction. Rinko let out a strained cough that wracked her body.
“Rinko . . .” A small but sharp voice was speaking to her; it quivered with concern but also anxiousness—someone was worried, not just about Rinko herself, but anxious for the entire group’s success. It was only in this moment that Rinko remembered the tour, and her hard work, and with that, she felt a surge of reckless courage. Get up!
A cold compress held her down. With her vision still dotted, Rinko could just make out Sayo Hikawa with both hands on Rinko’s forehead. Rinko tried to reassert control over her legs; a disheartened moan escaped her lips.
I just can’t, Sayo, I just can’t.
Even though she wanted to. Even though the band depended on it.
And yet, Sayo was out of character. She did not yell, or prod, or snap Rinko out of it. She only kept her eyes on her, wet with concern, and kept holding the cloth to her forehead, murmuring all the while to keep her conscious.
Seconds or hours later a group of staff members arrived and spoke with Sayo. An agreement must have been made for she begrudgingly parted with Rinko with a final warm look, leaving the staff to hoist Rinko’s responseless body onto a stretcher.
With Sayo’s eyes in mind, Rinko soon fell into sleep.
Outside the closed door, on a stage, Sayo’s fingers made their first contact with the guitar strings. With Rinko in mind, she began to play. Her eyes didn’t meet the crowd once.
When the music had ended, and so did the thrumming adrenaline that came with it, Sayo could not think to return to the staff rooms. If anything the music had heightened her worry; she saw Rinko’s pale features in every song she poured to the audience; the way she had fallen like all her quiet strength and fortitude had evaporated haunted her truly. Sayo knew firsthand what strength Rinko held inside; it was not like her, at all, to simply collapse.
The back rooms were chaos—women and men in blouses with clothes and brushes in hand—and yet Sayo, gratefully, was the first one out of the two band members to enter. Feeling a telltale burn in her eyes, Sayo rushed past the protests of the staff, seeking the exit. Her stage outfit snagged on the entrance and for a second she struggled, cursing and thrashing.
Eventually she broke, and made haste. The night was blissfully cold, yet there was a longing for warmth that the young adult couldn’t deny.
With the moon on her side, Sayo continued into the night in search of her girl.