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Emi observes one travel rule.
One should sample whatever a town has to offer whether the included things are something loved or utterly hated. She tries new food and music. People ask her whether she would be interested in whatever's on sale with some things a high necessity and some useless for her work . . . However, it brings her happiness.
One thing rises over the other activities, though. Her experiences range with some being thrilling and worth a repeat. Other experiences are less memorable, or in her opinion, better off forgotten.
One thing can salvage her situation or improve the already lovely day. Her favorite tavern.
It’s easily missable. It's tucked between a rundown inn and stall where the owner is known for her sour mood and unfair dealings. Passersby give one look and mutter a prayer or apology for whoever lives in the dingy building sandwiched between them.
They've never experienced a good celebration. Open the door and one will find that, inside it's a shocking difference. The walls are a deep green, warm and inviting. Emi’s one grievance is the small bar, and that's for the barmaid. Poor thing looks overwhelmed when her patrons are overly hungry or whining for more beer. Tonight, she's lucky. Everyone is scattered around, chatting with one another, dancing, or attempting to sneak off for some privacy. Emi glances around the tavern, contemplating where to strike first.
Aizawa lurks near the door. Eraserhead is a difficult one to pin down for her. . . She’s tried over and over to convince him that he should travel with her, whether it's for work or purely for pleasure. He's a known loner in the community, preferring difficult solo work. It's rare to find him here, or anywhere with a crowd.
Unfortunately, everything he picks pays well and has him gone for over a month or more. He's uncomfortable with the scene, shrinking into his scarves and watching the room's activity with a panicky gaze.
“I haven't served him. . .I think he's a little distracted.”
Emi practically leaps off her chair. Wiping off the countertop with exaggerated swipes and coming close to murmur in her ear, is Momo.
Everyone loves her. Her creation skills are beyond impressive, whether she's developing something for the tavern or showcasing a personal creation.
“Give him a closer look. Should you work up the courage to go over there? Please urge him to drop some money on food. Man looks as though he could starve I have to go and check on some food.”
Well, that's going to fuel the rumor that Aizawa never has food, and survives on some unknown substance.
-
Taverns are overwhelming.
Well, maybe he should be more specific.
Aizawa believes people are overwhelming.
Whenever work is complete, he would love to have a long uninterrupted soak and collapse in bed. Hunger can be managed later. Used to be, he would forget food and wake up with a rumbling abdomen and desperately pawing through his cupboards. One evening, he found that everything required he cook, and he reluctantly stumbled into the nearest building. Truly, he intended on being a one-time visitor. Momo and her tavern's occupants are determined to ensure otherwise, though.
Hizashi’s a repeat offender. Everyone loves the Saytr and his irresistible charm. Wherever he goes, he manages to draw a crowd with stories and music. Tonight, he's serenading the crowd with some new song. He's so carefree, it's enviable.
Aizawa watches his fingers glide over his mandolin’s strings, legs kicking back and forth. How can one be so comfortable? Men and women dance, forgetting that other parties exist, and come close to knocking Hizashi off his stool. He laughs and asks whether he can be compensated with a drink.
“I’ll pay for a drink! I think those two are a little distracted. . .” A woman offers. “You're a wine drinker, right?”
One could give him disgusting well water, and he would be thrilled to receive a ‘delicious’ offering. Is she new here? Aizawa tries to crane his neck and look closer. Oh. . . The woman is familiar.
Few can miss her.
Everyone here recognizes her whether it's the pretty hair or clothing.
Tonight, she’s adorned her hair with a bronze band, decorated with curled horns and a shimmering red gem in the center. Some recognize her for her clothing, handmade and marked with uneven stitching. Her volume can and on occasion, does compete with Hizashi.
Even now, when she's using a ‘normal’ volume? Newcomers are looking over, frightened by the newfound noise, or attempting to stifle a giggle. Her arms are loaded with booze. Someone’s poured far too much into the mugs, and she's unsteady. One more misstep and she will spill booze everywhere on some unfortunate patron.
Aizawa leaves his precious wall, the comfortable space he's never willing to give up, and grabs one. Perhaps, he's being dramatic, and he could be imagining things, fueled by his discomfort over giving up his familiar area.
Everyone is watching them, though. People have ceased dancing and drinking, preferring to watch him fumble with the overfilled drink.
Everyone mumbles and shuffles towards the door. Even Hizashi’s no longer playing his instrument, fingers poised over his mandolin strings and gnawing on his lower lip.
Aizawa opens his mouth to ask. . . What? What is the issue? Surely, no one is that frightened by him? Some are slowly relaxing and whispering. The progress comes to a shrieking halt, though, when Momo's voice rips from the kitchen. It's nearly a roar, and everyone’s stiff as kitchenware rattles.
“Fukakdo! Is that my alcohol being poured?”
“I used to work here! I know the rules,” Emi uses a singsong tone. “I only give away the bargain alcohol. Our stuff is secure!”
Everyone begins to laugh, including Momo. The kitchen noise is again drowned beneath music and dancing, livelier now. Is she giving them the ‘bargain’ alcohol? He's a little scared to drink now and contemplates leaving it for someone else and sneaking off. Hizashi’s watching him, though, and it’s making him feel extremely thirsty.
“I promise the wine is delicious,” Hizashi’s voice somehow carries over the noise. “The woman could make rotten food a delicacy. Give her a sample. . .”
“I don't think you mean the wine anymore . . .”
-
Tomorrow, the whole room will argue and attempt to remember whether the following happened.
Few can give the real description save for Nemuri. Shame, several are unwilling to gamble with her otherwise she would be raking in cash. One man will gamble will her, though it feels wrong to steal her partner's money. Toshinori’s a little reluctant to give up his cash, too, petulantly counting it out.
“I knew she would do something. You were close with betting on Hizashi. . . He would never hand over his instrument, though. Someone else will take over and he’s going to ask for the next dance.”
Here's the real and right version. Aizawa has one sip and looks rather unsure on his legs. She can't blame him. . . Emi’s wine is strong. Hizashi decides it's appropriate to begin a song that demands a rapid, unrelenting dance. Aizawa realizes it too late, and Emi has him twirling around, laughing as she tries to guide him through the steps.
“Can we be sure that Hizashi will dance with them?” Toshinori winces as the pair crashes into someone. “I think he’s going to stay with his mandolin. . .”
Nemuri tries to conceal her smirk. The tavern rarely receives a new person. Toshinori can no longer be considered ‘new’ given he's been attending for well over a month now. No one’s eager to pick up work with him. One looks over his skeletal body and everyone is too busy or already has someone coming with them. Personally? Nemuri adores hum. One day, it's going to be love. In the meantime, she's completely fine with watching him grow comfortable with the atmosphere and attempts to understand the ongoing dynamics.
“Never underestimate love. . . Never underestimate lust either.” Nemuri watches them with fondness. “You’re too new to know. Hizashi and Sho have been in love with one another for a long time. They’re just determined to dance around one another.”
Where does Emi come in? Perhaps, she needed to give them the proper kick. Or, she's completely oblivious and there's love between more than just Hizashi and Sho.
There's another oblivious person here. One that’s causing her to suffer. Usually, experiences in love are far easier. Just a little poetic waxing. . . Order some food and wine. Men and women are weak to her. One man evades her, though. It's embarrassing. . . No one can help her. People usually come to her for help with love. Several have managed to mend relationships or found new love due to her. One would think her experience would be simple. Instead, she's a fool, watching him. Wine has his cheeks a pretty red. One sip and he's a mess. . . It’s so fun to watch him.
“I would dance.” Be calm. Be forward. “I don't have someone to dance with, though.. . .”
He's slow to pick up the meaning. Toshinoris's cheeks color an even deeper red, and he stutters something as he wipes damp palms on his legs. Whenever he manages to find his voice, it is timid and a little high.
“I’ll dance with you. . .” His red cheeks darken more. “I’m no skilled dancer, though. You're risking injuries.”
She tries to conceal her smirk. Poor man. . . He's completely unaware that she, too lacks dancing skills. Some sneak a glance and look utterly thrilled to find another relationship developing. Things change, though whenever the parties draw closer and closer to the dancing bodies. Several couples scatter, nearly spinning themselves into the wall or bar to dodge the incoming disaster.
They give one another a nervous smile. Someone going to emerge bruised, and some items in the nearby vicinity could be broken. Whatever happens, she is willing to pay for the damage or do whatever she can to fix things. It can come later, though, her world right now, is centered on Toshinori, and being spun around.
-
Hizashi watches the new couple with a smile. Everyone is thrilled for the new couple and knows the danger attached. Several are rushing off claiming I am starving or I could use a drink. One couple dares to hang around, collapsing alongside him. Aizawa shrinks beneath his scarves, clearly unaccustomed to the attention. Hizashi’s tempted to tease him. People are too absorbed in conversation or polishing off a meal and drink. No one is interested in watching them; they’re completely oblivious to his overly dramatic sigh.
“I can't believe it's happening. . . “ Hizashi whispers. “You're getting more comfortable. Will I have to share my instruments with you? No one’s going to come here and view my skill. People will come and brag. I saw him! I saw Aizawa playing his mandolin and singing.”
Aizawa scoffs, his skin coloring a pretty pink. “I would never consider stealing attention. I have far too much competition.”
No one could argue that. One would never view Aizawa and believe he is someone Hizashi, or anyone could love.
Yet, Hizashi’s abandoned his instrument to fix Aizawa’s tangled hair, grumbling when he comes upon a new snarl. Everyone in the building knows the unvoiced rule. You can sneak a glance at another couple. Pause and admire them for a second. Use only a second, though. Emi knows that rule better than anyone.
No one else has been around longer than her. Yet, she leans into them, her shoes unlaced with wine on her lips. Giggling, she tries to tug them in for a hug, settling instead for an awkward snuggle, her arms stretched uncomfortably.
“Thank you for dancing with me, Aizawa. Thank you, too, Zashi’ for playing.”
Red covers Hizashi’s ears, whether it's due to the nickname or hugging? Emi’s unsure. It doesn’t matter right now, though when she's warm , and her brains a little fuzzy with wine. Someone’s desperately wriggling his arm around her and grumbling, face red as he tries to ignore the giggling.
Emi’s happy.