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Five years after Seiji left for Cremora for the second time, Shizuku saved up from her job and her work and flew to Italy. It wasn't a surprise; he might have surprised her standing under her window, but she felt that flying halfway around the world and showing up on his doorstep would have been ill-advised. She was always less impulsive than him, more methodical. Perhaps it was something to do with how she wrote, how she started with an idea and had to nurture it along until she had a plot and characters and a beginning and an end. Seiji could just pick up his violin and spin a tune out from a few simple notes, or take something already wholly formed by another artist and make it his own by sounding it out with the shivering strings. Still, he seemed just as delighted to see her as if she really had surprised him.
The visit was less of a whirlwind than she might have expected. They visited the local sights, with Seiji explaining the importance of the Stradivarius violins. Amazing how a maker's work could last for years. She could see in his eyes that he aspired to achieve even a tiny corner of that greatness, the same way she hoped her books would live on in libraries in the future.
Later, as they walked onwards, the streets were silvered by a light rain. Seiji reached for something in his pocket and she saw the gesture and knew what was coming. Hadn't she read a thousand stories like this? He gave her an emerald ring, with the understanding that she had waited five years for him and would wait for five more. They were little more than children when he asked her the first time. Now he drew her close, in the shadow of a stone archway thousands of miles from Tokyo, shielded from the hissing rain, and he asked her again. She gave him the same answer. This time they kissed, before they ducked their heads against the rain and dashed out into the night.
That night they huddled together in his bed, speaking secrets into the darkness. Shizuku told him how his grandfather continued to support her, reading every one of her stories before she thought it was finished. And she listened as Seiji spoke of his fear of disappointing his parents, how his father had hoped he would become a doctor and the sadness in his mother's eyes when the first mention of Cremora had been made. They talked about Shizuku's family, her father's understanding of a life lived in books and her mother's appreciation for education, and discussed how Seiji's grandfather had interceded and assured the Amasawas of Shizuku's suitability for their son. And they talked about their plans, the far-off wedding and the possibilities of sustaining themselves with their arts or the necessities of day-to-day work that would rob them of the time for creation. Finally they trailed off into silence and waited for sleep, the rain still pattering on the window. Shizuku found herself drifting off to sleep as she watched Seiji's profile in the watery light from the streetlamp, thinking that the soft quiet of his breathing was strange, that it would someday be familiar.
Sometimes he comes up from the studio for lunch and finds the kitchen dark and empty, and slips silently into the study where Shizuku works. He loves seeing how completely absorbed she is, how she loses herself entirely in her work. It's familiar, after all.
Some days her brow is cloudy and the line of her jaw is taut, her hand gripping the pen with such force it seems she will snap it in half. Like the days he accidentally shaves off a layer too thick of the wood and irrevocably alters the sound of the violin he's trying to make. At least, he thinks, Shizuku has the luxury of the editing process. Other times the pen flies across the page and her hair curtains her face as she bends over the paper, utterly unaware of anything other than the story she's creating. Like picking up his own instrument - the one his grandfather made for him years ago - and sinking readily into the beauty of a composition he knows by heart, fingers finding the steady rhythm of the notes and the bow levering back and forth.
Today is one of those days where she's writing as fast as her fingers can go, and he knows without looking that her page will be smeared when she's done from writing faster than the ink will dry. He turns away with a smile and heads to the kitchen to start making lunch. No sense in hurrying her; eventually the scent of cooking food will bring her out of her reverie.
When Shizuku finally comes into the kitchen she looks like she's just woken up from a dream. Her hair's disheveled from the number of times she's run her fingers through it, and her gaze is still far away, her mind still off in whatever castle in the air she's been constructing. Seiji deftly slips the slices of kamaboko into the bowls of waiting ramen and wipes his hands on the apron he's wearing, waiting till she speaks first.
"Did I keep you waiting long?"
"I suppose the food isn't completely cold yet." She shakes her head at him before taking her seat at the table, rubbing her eyes briefly. When he brings the bowls to the table and sets them down, his hand brushes her cheek. She accepts the caress, but her eyebrows go up when she sees the smirk he's wearing.
"You've got ink all along here," he informs her helpfully. By now she's learned not to throw a tantrum or shout, settling for a mere roll of the eyes instead. It's just not worth the effort, he figures. They sit down to eat and discuss the day-to-day matters - what they need from the grocery store, the heat of the day, a party some of her friends from school are throwing. It's rare for them to talk about the work of their respective mornings. Their jobs aren't easily broken down into a few hours' labor: Shizuku might write twenty pages that she later throws out, or two pages of stunning brilliance, and Seiji might only make a few changes to the f-holes in a single violin, waiting for lacquer to dry.
As they finish their lunch and begin cleaning up, he realizes Shizuku must be in a wonderful mood. He often wishes Shizuku would sing more. Sometimes she hums while she's washing the dishes, and he'll whistle in counterpoint to make her smile. But she rarely agrees to sing unless it's with Grandfather and his friends - missing one or two now, since so many years have passed since their first meeting. Today, though, she's singing softly as they move around each other in circles, never bumping into each other. He smiles at her and pauses to drop a kiss on her neck as he slides past her to the sink. The song trails off into a trickle of laughter. His hands smooth over the curve from her waist to her hips, mirroring the shapes he carves from wood time after time. It's not an original comparison. But as he traces over the sweet geometry of her form with his hands, her warm laughter brushes over his cheek. And he thinks that he'll never grow tired of discovering this every day.