Chapter Text
“On Christmas, huh?” Kaoruko had said. Shioriko figured her sister would get a kick out of that. “Well, a proper date might actually do you some good. I’m glad you were ‘ tricked into this. ’”
“I was tricked into this,” Shioriko protested, but her sigh signaled obvious weak resistance. “At any rate, it’s not a date. She’s just a friend from class.”
“Is she cute?” Kaoruko asked, almost indifferently.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shioriko quipped, feeling splotches of heat forming on her face. “She’s a girl. We’re both girls.”
“Uh, okay? When has that ever stopped anyone before?” Kaoruko asked. “It has certainly never stopped me before.”
“Kaoruko!” Shioriko hissed, and looked around as if her sister had just divulged a millennium-old secret. “If mother and father knew that, they would…”
“They would what? Disown me? Please, Shioriko,” Kaoruko laughed. “I know enough family secrets to bankrupt their entire operation tomorrow if I wanted to.”
Shioriko sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, Kaoruko.”
Kaoruko hummed a note into the receiver. “Maybe it’s better that way, sweetie. So, where are you guys going?”
“Shimokitazawa,” Shioriko said, rolling her eyes. “It was her suggestion, as neither of us really goes there very often.”
“Ooooh, trendy,” Kaoruko said, sounding genuinely impressed, which irritated Shioriko. “I’ll shoot some recommendations your way later. You should stay at the Shinjuku apartment if you’re planning to go all the way there.”
“That was my intention. I might offer her to stay in your be—“ Shioriko started, before she had absolutely any time to think about how her words could be construed (or misconstrued). She could not even think of a fall-back. “Um, yeah. I’m looking forward…to it.”
Shioriko could practically hear her older sister break into a grin.
“My bedroom, huh? Nice,” Kaoruko sang, sounding pleased. “It’s soundproof, you know? Just clean up after you two are done.”
Which were the last words Shioriko heard before she summarily ended the call, walking over to the kitchen sink and splashing cold water on her face.
Shioriko can’t seem to make her heart stop beating at the speed of sound, light, and other such fast things, combined and multiplied by another very large number. That’s how she reckons it, mostly because it stops her from being angry at herself for not understanding why it even beats like this in the first place.
And why am I here this early? She wonders, as she swings her body on the heels of her brown loafers near the entrance of the metro station—their agreed rendezvous. She could look at her watch, but she already knows it will be a while, so she walks over to a nearby outdoor café ( isn’t it winter? ) and orders some tea. It smells of a spring meadow, she thinks, as the steaming liquid envelops her and makes her brain fire signals through every corner of her nervous, freezing existence.
Ayumu Uehara.
It’s not exactly that she had lied to Kaoruko either, save maybe by omission. She had fully intended to spend Christmas by herself, curled up in bed and reading a book, or maybe even getting ahead in her classes. As her first holiday break not spent at the main Kyoto house, in the company of her family, she did not (indeed, could not) consider this season any different than any other regular vacation. And as with every other vacation of her life, she would spend it either studying, volunteering somewhere, or in quiet repose—in the solitude of her room. That is, until the last day of class.
“Shioriko, is that your family?” Ayumu had said, pointing at Shioriko’s laptop wallpaper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to look.”
“Ayu—Uehara,” she stuttered. Why had she stuttered? “Yes, I…those are my parents, and she is my sister.”
“Wow, she’s gorgeous,” Ayumu said, eyes wide open. Shioriko was used to that reaction and yet, for perhaps the first time in her life, felt only something unpleasant from it. “Looks like it runs in the family.”
Oh.
“I…,” Shioriko tried, failed, and tried again. “I used to have long hair like her, as well.”
What? Who cares, Shioriko?
Ayumu hummed happily, hands in her coat pockets, giving Shioriko’s hair a once-over, as if imagining it flowing down her tense shoulders. Much like Shioriko had been earlier, she swung her weight on the heels of her boots.
“Yes, I…I usually…,” Shioriko could not think of anything to say under such scrutiny. Had Ayumu’s eyes always been so pretty? “This is the first time we are not spending the holidays together. They will be in Kyoto and…well, I will be in the dorms.”
“Oh,” Ayumu said, suddenly stopping. “You mean, like, Christmas and stuff?”
And the rest, it should go without saying, is history.
Christmas in their country is, pretty obviously, more of a romantic affair; Shioriko knew, and perhaps it was this fact alone that kept her mind running faster than it ever had. She watches swaths of couples stroll hand in hand out through the station turnstiles, no doubt on their way to some romantic hole-in-the-wall that was sure to impress. Shioriko hasn’t come up with much of a “plan”—she has some ideas of things they could do, sure, but nothing she might call date-worthy ( as if I knew what that even meant , she thinks)—and yet, she figures that, given the perfectly-platonic nature of this…meet-up…there might not be much harm in a little spontaneity.
She reckons that, given her reasoning of this whole thing, it isn’t no wonder she didn’t have many friends in high-school.
Or maybe—oh, my god—or maybe this is a date, and I am preposterously unprepared for it , is her first thought as she watches Ayumu swipe her card on the electronic turnstile and look around. From across the street, Shioriko finds herself rendered immobile by who-knows-what invisible force.
Shioriko doesn’t know too much about fashion outside of what Kaoruko teaches her, but even she knows enough to recognise Ayumu as a stylish person. Unlike herself, Ayumu looks to be fairly popular with her classmates, and Shioriko reckons that Ayumu may have never as much looked her way if they hadn’t been paired up for a short project halfway through the semester. What Shioriko sometimes finds funny (though not so much now), was that she didn’t find it particularly difficult to talk to Ayumu at first. It had been just a project for a class, after all, and sure, Shioriko would never be dubbed as particularly friendly, but even she could hold herself up in conversation (especially if it was about school). It became difficult to talk to Ayumu as the barriers of formality slowly gave way to a surprisingly warm acquaintanceship; it reminds Shioriko of the smell of cypress, dissipating into the chilly, diaphanous refractions of a winter morning’s light. She thinks of several other metaphorical suggestions as she freezes on Ayumu catching sight of her, and waving excitedly before crossing the street to catch up to her. She wears a slim tartan skirt, with a threaded sweater stylishly tucked at the waist. Matching wool coat and beret, Shioriko guesses, and dark tights meeting under Chelsea boots. A classic, feminine getup that looks like it was made for Ayumu—like it was meant to knock out anybody that had as much as a pair of eyes.
And a pair of eyes Shioriko does indeed have.
“I’m sorry, I hope you weren’t waiting for long…” Ayumu says, her sentence fading as she gives Shioriko a slow, painfully long once-over. “Wow, Shioriko. Wow. You look so…different.”
‘ Different’ is a word for it , Shioriko thinks, chastising herself for not opting for something— anything —else in her very limited selection of western-styled clothing. She had decided, against her usual infallible judgement, to listen to Kaoruko and go for something her sister picked. Never one for dresses, she wears a pair of faded skinny jeans of Kaoruko’s, its waist circumscribing a tucked-in black turtleneck sweater. Tokyo is cold this year, so both a gray, fine tweed blazer underneath a black wool peacoat completes Shioriko’s outfit, like a bow on a very monochrome Christmas present.
“I…these are not all my…they’re…,” Shioriko starts, wondering if the Japanese language has always been so difficult. She lands, instead, on a sigh. “They’re a bit…boyish, are they not?”
She awkwardly shoves her hands in her peacoat pocket, too quickly for it to appear like a natural gesture. Ayumu takes a moment to smile a radiant display that puts the city’s holiday decorations to shame, eclipsing the cold of the December wind with a warmth that hails from the pit of Shioriko’s stomach, spreading in elegant swirls throughout her body—a single drop of rose-coloured ink landing on Shioriko’s once-crystalline conscience.
“They are boyish,” Ayumu says and, before Shioriko has any time to react, holds out her open palm. Shioriko forgets how to breathe. “And it suits you. Let’s go eat something?”
A nod, which is all Shioriko can offer apart from her balmy hand ( thank goodness for gloves ), and then they’re on their way.
“Vice-president?” Ayumu says, eyes wide in obvious surprise. “Of the student council? Like, of the whole school?”
Shioriko can’t help a bit of a proud, almost wry, smile. This wouldn’t be the first time somebody hadn’t felt that particular piece of information coming a bit out of left-field. She knew most, including Ayumu, did not mean any harm, but it always feels peculiar to her that nobody sees it coming.
By now, they’ve moved to a little restaurant, a few ways up a gentle hill off one of the main streets, that specializes in curry. She hardly knows, and tries not to think about, the romantic value of a curry shop, but Kaoruko had strongly recommended it and Ayumu seemed genuinely excited at the prospect. Besides, Shioriko muses, judging by both their immediate neighbors (two couples speaking to each other with tangible intimacy that makes Shioriko just the smallest bit uncomfortable), not even a working-class ramen shop could escape the romanticism of the holiday.
Why exactly do I care if this place is romantic, again?
“That’s so cool!” Ayumu says, clasping her hands below her chin. Shioriko feels prouder than ever for something that, at least for her, has always been par for the course. “Wait a second. That would mean that you work with Setsuna, no?”
Shioriko cocks her head just a tiny bit, not recognizing the name.
“Oh, uh,” Ayumu says, correcting course and looking a bit sheepish. “With um…Nana, I mean.”
“Oh,” Shioriko says, with a perk. “President Nakagawa? Yes, of course. Are you friends with her?”
“You…could say that?” Ayumu says, making a face. “We’re coworkers…of sorts.”
“What do you—,“ Shioriko starts.
“Hello! Welcome to Rojiura,” The waitress chirps, suddenly occupying the whole of Ayumu’s attention. “May I take your order?”
Ayumu, looking visibly relieved, begins discussing her options when a flash catches Shioriko’s eye. Turning, she realises it to be Ayumu’s phone which, facing up, lit up at a notification for a text message. Much as Shioriko, out of prudence and propriety, willed herself not to look at the contents of the message, she did not manage to turn her head in time to miss the name of its sender:
❤️ Yuu ❤️
A feeling hitherto unknown to Shioriko springs from a dusty alcove in her chest, quickly running laps down her spine and up her arms, freshly clamming up her palms and fogging her brain. When she tries to push the feeling back down the pit of her stomach, it retaliates with such fervor that the sensation makes her want to cry out.
Shioriko had known and understood, at least to a clinical degree, the meaning of jealousy, but she figures nothing could have so starkly illustrated its experience than the feeling that now pullulated her body.
“Shioriko?” she hears. “Are you okay?”
She snaps out of it, and looks up to find both Ayumu and their waitress looking at her—the former with heartbreakingly candid concern.
Jealousy doesn’t mix well with guilt, Shioriko learns.
“Y-yes. Yes, of course,” Shioriko manages, clearing her throat with some effort. “I must be really hungry. I’ll have the vegetable curry, please.”
“Understood,” the waitress says, with expert cordiality. “And please do not hesitate to let me know if you need anything else.”
Ayumu waits for the waitress to be out of earshot before she reaches out and gently grasps Shioriko’s forearm with her hand.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You looked really pale for a second there,” Ayumu says, cautiously. And then, smiling: “That’s more like it. The colour is returning to your face.”
“Oh,” Shioriko musters, reckoning the heat that splotched her cheeks must have something to do with that. “That’s…good.”
“Anyway,” Ayumu says, looking satisfied and finally removing her hand. “Speaking of Nana, she actually recommended I check out a place around here that she likes going to.”
“She did?” Shioriko asks, genuinely surprised. President Nakagawa comes to Shimokitazawa? Shioriko makes a mental note to ask her ever-serious superior about that after the holidays.
“M-hm!” Ayumu sings, and Shioriko feels like she would happily listen to the voice forever. “You like music, right?”
The shop is unassuming, off one of the main streets, and sparsely decorated with nautical accents. A pretty redhead welcomes them from the counter and invites them to take their time looking around before sitting down. Shioriko hadn’t been to a record shop in a while, not since she used to accompany her sister to shop for used vinyls in Shimogyō, but those old, dusty shops didn’t resemble the subtle chicness of the place Ayumu had suggested, which seemed to be equipped with a sort of bar and several tables. Nonetheless, the sight of record players felt homely and familiar. Kaoruko would like her , Shioriko thinks with a smile, before she catches herself and shakes her head.
“So, this is how the place works,” Ayumu starts excitedly, spinning on her heels to face Shioriko, and the latter’s breath hitches for the thousandth time that night. “Go look for a record or two that you’d like to listen to. I’ll order us drinks in the meantime. Once you’re back, we both listen to the record wearing headphones that play from the same turntable, while we drink. We can, of course, just have our drinks and talk, right? But I read online that the charm of the place is relaxing at our table, and letting the music do the talking.”
Ayumu sounded so excited at the idea that, regardless of whether Shioriko may be into it as well (she was), she would do it in a heartbeat. She scans the room and spots a corner table, straddled by the store’s large front windows and a wooden display case, creating a secluded spot in the otherwise open space. It’s perfect, Shioriko thinks.
“Sounds fun,” Shioriko says, smiling; she points to the open table. “Let’s get that spot…before anyone else does.”
Ayumu orders them glasses of wine while Shioriko selects a couple of records for them to listen to. The selection is mostly not a contemporary fare, but she recognises a good amount of names from her childhood. She opts for a couple of ones that she remembers being pleasant, fetching a Beach Boys LP and a Nino Ferrer 7-inch 45 that she’s surprised to find anywhere else outside of her father’s eclectic collection. When she returns to the table, she’s surprised to find Ayumu waiting with a record already on the turntable, looking at her sweetly, resting her chin on one hand.
“I’m sorry, I saw this one on my way back from the bar and knew we had to listen to it,” Ayumu says, motioning at an old, dusty record sleeve bearing the picture of a trumpet player. Jazz, on Christmas, huh? “Let’s?”
The record begins with a sleepy, intimate rendition of a show tune from the 40s (at least, according to the back of the sleeve), recorded in 1954 in the United States. Shioriko finds it perfect for the mood, as she sinks deep into the padded chair opposite to Ayumu. It doesn’t do much to calm her nerves though; Ayumu raises her glass in a silent toast and takes a sip of the claret, not taking her eyes off Shioriko’s for even a moment. Shioriko, for a lack of some better response, does the same and takes a sip from her own cup.
She doesn’t drink very often, but she reckons she will need it tonight.