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It’s August, the month where she forgets to blow dry her hair and instead sits on the bedroom floor wrapped in a towel, mesmerized by the watercolor sunset that spills between the blinds and the inexplicable loneliness of summer evenings. Eichi doesn’t ask Tsumugi what she wants for her birthday.
When Tsumugi teases her about her dandruff, Eichi wants to ask her to rip out her hair or maybe her heart and watch Tsumugi sink her teeth into its hard rind and let the bitter syrup run down her chin. Tsumugi has the most gorgeous collarbones, and it’s such a waste that Eichi won’t ever get to witness her own blood pool in their divots. That would be far less painful than the game they’re playing.
But Tsumugi’s hot skin is a band-aid, and when Eichi shuts her eyes, she can imagine their naked silhouettes drawn in dusk rather than drenched in the darkness of a practice room, that their sweat is the remains of a sunshower. At least even in shadow, the navy curls made silver by stress and the liquid glow of her eyes are discernible. Tsumugi’s eyes have always reminded Eichi of a pond—algae and dragonflies and summer grass. Eichi whispers this through a kiss against Tsumugi’s earlobe.
In a voice overridden with pleasure, low and halting, Tsumugi says, “Yours are pretty too.”
And even in their private moments as other people, Tsumugi’s performance of affection is disturbingly convincing.
It’s unearned and uncalled for, and when her face is nestled between Auxo’s thighs and her mouth overflows with the honeyed tang of yellow peach, Eichi decides she’s going to break up with her. She kisses Tsumugi with lips still stained with nectar. Eichi will drink and drink until she drains the last bittersweet drop of summertime.
Break up is such a silly, juvenile phrase, but all of this is silly. Walking over corpses like they’re spotlit stairs, forcing a caged bird to worship or be worshiped—Eichi doesn’t remember which. She can’t quite remember what the point of any of this is, but it’s ridiculous, and that must mean it’s emblematic of the havoc of youth. Tsumugi tells her they’re missing out on their youth, and Eichi doesn’t get it. Doesn’t Tsumugi know that there will never be anything but ennui? Eichi learned a long time ago, and yet she’s dying for a legacy she doesn’t care about, so maybe they should glut on cheap whiskey that tastes like cinnamon and ash and break into water parks or whatever normal kids do instead. But tomorrow their connection will be severed, and Horae lead the unfolding future as a trio; there’s no room for Eichi in their lives or her own, so what would be the point?
Tsumugi cries backstage before their final Live when Eichi explains the contract wasn’t a joke, but there’s no tears the next time they meet by chance in the school courtyard. The afternoon sun is soaked in lemon juice, harsh and bright, and Eichi disregards dramatic tension so she can flee to an empty hallway as soon as possible and recuperate, or maybe fall apart. Their last conversation should be short and sweet, so maybe Tsumugi will care enough to remember Eichi and briefly be struck with resentment.
“Let’s not see each other again.”
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“Were we ever together?”
The sharp teeth that shape the counter would squeeze Tsumugi’s heart until it was nothing but mush and sour seeds if it wasn’t already rotten under the sun. Eichi knows Tsumugi can’t be hurt anymore, but the yellow-green of her eyes ripple like melted gold, and that’s enough. Eichi wonders if she started wearing glasses to hide them. But today, the slight dent in her nose bridge and those pools of eternal summer beauty are on full display.
“You look better without them.”
Tsumugi’s features pinch in an expression Eichi has never seen before. There’s no semblance of Tsumugi’s sunshine voice when she scoffs before walking past her, “Fuck you, Eichi.”
And the sound is refreshing like lemonade. Not Tenshouin, not Eichi-chan—Eichi. For the first time these past weeks, where tears fall to scorching pavement and turn to flame, she’s certain that Tsumugi isn’t pretending.
Eichi has no excuse to be at Yumenosaki this late. She supposes she wants to savor the stars or the desolation of her victory. She’s sitting at a bench framed by lantana, and their fragrance is wafted by the summer night breeze. Eichi doesn’t look over her shoulder when she hears footsteps, half-hoping someone will try to sneak up and strangle her.
But it’s a familiar figure with incandescence behind thick lenses that sits beside her and munches on something. Tsumugi wordlessly angles the bag towards her—dried mango, maybe—and Eichi takes one of the candied slices. Dried grapefruit.
“You should go home.”
Eichi doesn’t face her, “You too.”
A small, knowing smile graces Tsumugi’s lips before it’s quickly willed away, but the warmth remains in her eyes as she looks out at the courtyard; just them, the fireflies, and a hundred bodies underground.
“This isn’t me forgiving you,” Tsumugi steadies the words with a breath, “Not yet.”
“Okay.”
It’s August, the month where birds dry their feathers in the sunset, soothed by the warmth whether their wings are dripping with saltwater or blood. Eichi doesn’t ask Tsumugi what she wants for her birthday.