Work Text:
An empty (and if she’s honest, rather expensive) sketchbook fills Ena with dread. Its many leaves free of any sort of blemish. No ink. No lead. No crease from her fist. No smear of charcoal from her hand. No tear stains from her frustrations. Just pads of pristine paper bound by thread and leather, wire and cardboard.
(She bought it on a whim—in passing—when she roamed the grid-like shopping streets of Shibuya. Entering the towering and vertigo inducing arts and stationary stores that she’s grown to know the ins and outs of; picking random supplies she knows will either be used to some extent or left to gather dust in some corner of her messy room.)
She hates the fact that she hasn’t even torn through the plastic wrapping. More evidence that she’s never touched the thing at all.
Barely a glance at its direction.
With a growl under her breath, she pinches at the wrap—with a bit of effort—pierces a manicured nail through and tears the film away, watching it flutter pathetically to the floor. She’ll remember to clean it up later. (Lies.)
Sighing, she picks the sketchbook up and shoves it inside her bag with a bit of force. Her brow twitching in irritation.
Memories go back to her latest assignment in her art class: draw a thousand different poses, all taken from real life.
At the very least, she’ll be able to fill up the pages relatively soon.
Today is their group’s after-party. A routine celebration for releasing yet another music video. A little get-together at their group’s usual diner.
Ena got here a little earlier than normal. Well, what’s considered normal for her, at least. (She’s usually the last one to make it. Dragging her feet out of the station, trudging towards the group as they wait for her under the sun, near the statue of loyal Hachiko. She would grumble about her preference in using the underground tunnels where the sun’s rays wouldn’t burn her.)
Typing out a quick message in the group chat, she lets them know that she’s reserved their booth.
Kanade, to no surprise, thanks her and tells her that she and Mafuyu are on the way.
She tears her gaze away from the screen and scans the diner, more importantly, the diner’s patrons.
She has her blank sketchbook open in front of her. Two pencils positioned neatly next to it: one mechanical, and another made of wood and lead, sharpened in a way that would allow her to make broader strokes. A kneaded eraser on the other side. And, lastly, an ink pen just off to the side. She is anything but unprepared… in terms of art supplies.
Ena’s phone dings in her hand. A Nightcord notification (a distraction—a chance for procrastination). A message from Amia saying that she’ll be a bit late, plus an obnoxious amount of kaomojis. “Mizuki… what did you do now?”
Her question goes unanswered as the din of the diner livens up. Chatter here and there. A waiter walking up to her table and taking her order. She opts to order her usual: some fluffy pancakes with a light dusting of powdered sugar and topped with fruit… and if she orders a plate of fries in advance, just enough for it to cool down, because a certain someone can’t handle hot foods thanks to their overly sensitive cat-like tongue…
She feels her cheeks flush (for no reason, whatsoever). Mizuki better be grateful.
Placing her phone face down on the table, she begrudgingly picks up a pencil. Eyes lazily tracing a person’s way of standing as they wait for the toilet’s occupancy. Or that person’s way of sitting as they look through the menu. Are those even considered poses? What constitutes as a pose? She thinks about the exaggerated ways actors move in plays. She thinks of a certain troupe, and maybe if she gets to watch a show or two, she could squeeze out a couple of hundreds of drawings of stupid poses—why does it have to be a fucking thousand?
She thinks of her group’s members. Kanade would be able to give her a handful of usable poses. She’s skittish enough at times that it’d be entertaining to put on paper. Mafuyu, on the other hand… she’s literally that one emoji in her phone that Mizuki loves to spam as a reaction on Mafuyu’s messages. That standing emoji.
Speaking of Mizuki, she’s the most animated of them all. Every movement she does catches the eye. From the way her long flowing hair tied in its signature side ponytail sways with every step, to the lackadaisical way she waves an arm as she tries to placate Ena and Mafuyu’s frequent but mostly harmless exchange of barbs. The way she places a hand on her hip, or pumps a fist in the air. The way she would point at her cheek, all cutesy-like until Ena finally gives in and compliments the new shade of blush she used. Or the way she would laugh, dimple deepened, hand fanning to cover the grin forming on her face—Ena blinks, once or twice, then shakes her head. What’s gotten into her? Those are minute details that are most certainly not needed in figure drawing.
Mizuki could easily be Ena’s model for this assignment, she admits.
Peering down at the sketchbook, she’s barely drawn ten poses, and they’re all of people just standing or sitting. Ena groans, hand poised at the edge of the page, ready to tear it off when a familiar soft voice greets her. She looks up and sees Kanade, with Mafuyu in tow.
“Ena, sorry for the wait.” Blue eyes glancing at her sketchbook as the two slide in their respective seats in the booth. “You seem busy.”
“You’re drawing…” Mafuyu, ever the wordsmith. It’s a wonder that she’s in charge of the lyrics.
Ena scoffs. “Yeah, thanks for stating the obvious.” A halfhearted eye-roll. “It’s for my art class. I’m people watching.”
“What does that have to do with drawing?” Dark eyes boring through her.
“Figure drawing. I have to draw about a thousand different poses, or something.” And it’s becoming a major pain in the ass.
Kanade grimaces. “That seems excessive.”
Ena shrugs, already in the acceptance stage of grief. “Maybe. But what can you do.”
As the conversation lulls, hurried footsteps clack loudly as Mizuki all but busts through the doors of the diner. “Sorry I’m late! I promise I didn’t get ketchup on my clothes this time.”
Ena gives the girl a once over. “You look… disheveled.” She frowns. “Did you run here?”
Mizuki huffs, before slumping down on the cushioned seat next to Ena. “Guess you could say that…”
The artist slams her sketchbook shut, eager to take a (well-earned? hah, be serious) break. “Here,” she pushes the warm plate of fries closer to Mizuki. “A little pick-me-up.”
“Aww, Enanan, you shouldn’t have~” The girl eagerly reaches for a piece of golden fried potato before popping one in her mouth. Her gaze brightens instantly. “It’s cooled down just right.”
“What will you be ordering, Mafuyu?” Kanade asks as they look through the menu.
Mafuyu scans the top left, and says, “Beef Bolognese.”
Mizuki snorts. “Still going down the pasta lane, eh?” She jests, a mouthful of fries.
Which earns her a whack on the shoulder, and a glare. “Don’t talk with your mouth full of food, dumbass.”
With an audible gulp, Mizuki swallows, before shooting a teasing look at Ena and a lazy salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
The group go about their routine, of eating, of chatting, of talking about their latest video and bravely going through the comment section. Until the topic eventually goes to Ena’s mostly ignored sketchbook.
“We don’t need to talk about that.” She winces, pushing the wretched thing further away. “I’ll deal with that on my own time.”
“A thousand poses, huh?” Mizuki hums.
Kanade can only offer a smile, and a small yet encouraging, “Good luck. I know you can do it.”
To which Ena returns, grateful, “Thanks, Kanade.”
“Will you be staying here then?” Mafuyu asks.
“Maybe? Probably not here, but in some cafe or whatever.”
Mizuki perks up, interested in the prospect of gallivanting around Shibuya more. “Oh! Can I come with?”
Ena shoots her a sidelong glance. It could prove useful in having Mizuki around. One: for company so she doesn’t lose her mind entirely by being some freak who stares at people; two: she could sneak in some drawings of Mizuki’s treasure trove of poses. “Okay, fine. Just don’t distract me, alright?”
“Yay!” There it is—the bright grin, the arc in the wave of her arm, the tilt of her shoulders, the puff of her chest. Ena’s hand itches for the pencil. “More Enanan time for me~”
“Geez, you’re impossible.” If Ena breaks into a fond smile, no one mentions it.
The exquisite cheesecake in front of her, thick and decadent, is left untouched—abandoned as her hands swiftly flick the pencil onto the page. Lead, dragging and marking. Focus on gestures, line of movement. Worry about the details later. Eyes sharp and hidden behind her fringe as she scours the cafe for her next drawing target.
That is, until the girl across from her sips her drink annoyingly loud.
Sighing, Ena squints at Mizuki. “I thought I told you not to distract me.”
Releasing the straw with a pop, Mizuki simply says, “I’m just drinking.”
“Well, drink quieter.”
“Enanan’s mean.” A moment’s peace. “You gonna eat that?”
She hisses. “Don’t touch my cheesecake.”
“Just a nibble?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Mizuki.”
“E-na-nan.” The girl has the gall to lean over the cake platter, picking up the dessert fork next to it, and waving it around threateningly over the slice she wasn’t going to touch until she got around to reaching her goal of fifty poses. “Pretty please?”
“Ugh,” she groans. “Save some for me at least.”
“Of course~ Anything for you, Enaemon.” Mizuki picks up the plate all delicately, and poised. Marring the slice with the fork, lifting it to her lips. As the cake hits her tongue, she sighs, swaying happily from side to side.
Ena’s hand moves before her brain registers it.
True to their agreement, Mizuki leaves half for Ena, who’s been too engrossed in her work to notice a fork being lifted near her face. “Ena, say ahh~”
Mechanically, she opens her mouth without thought. But as the mellow taste of the fluffy cheesecake envelops her mouth, she beams, looking over at the younger girl. “That’s so good.”
Mizuki giggles. “I know right?”
Ena opens her mouth again, demanding.
To which Mizuki complies the princess’s wishes. The fork touching Ena’s lips. “Heh, we basically shared an indirect kiss.”
Ena almost chokes, but thankfully, manages to swallow it down. “What the hell?” An amused expression on her face as she shakes her head, focusing on the sketchbook in hand.
(And because of that, she doesn’t notice the light dusting of pink on Mizuki’s cheeks, or the shaky exhale that slips past her lips, or the way her grip on the fork wavers as she places it back onto the plate.)
“Ena,” Mizuki starts, “want a change in scenery? We could head to the park, if you want. There’s bound to be people there.”
Parks usually mean people flocking around gardens, and flowerbeds, taking photos to post on their preferred socials. Rowdy kids running around—playing, chasing family pets whose leashes got loose. The elderly sitting idly by as they take a gander, keeping a close eye on their grandchildren. The park could give her a plethora of usable poses. “Sure, let me just clean up.”
Mizuki sags (in relief?), playing with the hem of her skirt. “Nice. Cool, cool.”
Ena finds this nervousness strange, but knows better not to pry. Mizuki will tell her if there’s anything wrong. And Ena will do her part, and wait. “Alright, let’s go.”
The park is a ways off from central Shibuya. Instead, nearer to Meiji Shrine than where they originally were. Mizuki proposed they walk the distance—a crazy suggestion, mind you. (“Aw, c’mon, Ena. You gotta burn those pancakes and cheesecake off somehow!”) After a rather heavy smack on the arm and some complaining on her part, they both agreed to take the train.
So now, here she is, seated on a bench, sketching down her… hundredth (or was it one-fifty?) figure. She was loosely counting. Honestly, her shoulders are starting to hurt.
Footsteps and the rustling of a plastic bag makes her look up. “Bought us some drinks and snacks from the convenience store,” Mizuki raises the bag as she approaches the bench. “You should take a break, Ena. Wouldn’t want to strain your pretty little wrists.”
A joke. One made with thinly veiled concern. Ena sees the logic in it, placing the pencil in between the pages of the sketchbook before closing it shut. She reaches for the plastic bag with grabby hands, “What’d’ya get?”
“This.” Mizuki hands her a cold bottle of honey lemon tea, and pulls out a little paper cup of chocolate covered potato chips for herself.
After taking a refreshing sip of her drink, Ena places it off to the side.
The mild ache on her arm bothers her. Closing and opening her fist, tendons stretching carefully. She shakes her wrist, rotating it slowly, once, twice, with a loud but satisfying pop.
“What the hell was that?”
Turning to look at the girl next to her, Ena watches in amusement as Mizuki’s face contorts in horror. “My wrist. Obviously.”
“Did you break your bones or something?” Abandoning her potato snack, Mizuki gingerly takes Ena’s wrist and examines it closely. Worry knitting her brow.
Ena’s breath hitches. Hoping that Mizuki doesn’t notice the quickening beats as delicate, slender fingers ghost over her pulse. “It’s fine. It happens when I forget to stretch for a long time.” A consequence for something that requires repetitive actions such as art. “I’m good.”
Mizuki frowns. “If you say so.” Though she doesn’t let go of Ena’s hand, and instead, plays with her fingers. Tugging it ever so lightly, and feeling the callused bump on her index and ring finger. “Enanan’s hands are so small…”
“Excuse me?” She’s mildly offended by that.
Mizuki slides her left hand over her right. “See?”
Ena stares at the way their fingers intertwine, involuntarily curling together. Clasping. Thumb caressing the crevices of Mizuki’s knuckles. If she knew any better, she’d say they were a perfect fit. “Huh. You’re right.”
“S-so, uh,” Mizuki says eloquently, “how’s progress?”
Ena hums in thought. Closing her eyes as she leans back on the bench. “Not even halfway there. I have half a mind to cheat and just pull up dancing videos and draw those.” Maybe use one of those websites that show a multitude of timed poses.
“There a deadline to this?”
“About two weeks or so.”
She feels Mizuki squeeze her hand. “If you need help, I’m right here.”
Ena chuckles. Nose scrunching. “What, gonna pose for me, Amia?”
“…Do you want me to?” A voice, low and so timid.
She peeks from below her lashes, a laugh bubbling out of her lips. “Can you do a thousand?”
“Yeah!” Mizuki exclaims. Then, swings their joined hands together. “I’ll even dance for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” With a sigh, Ena reluctantly lets go. “Break time’s over.”
Gathering her sketchbook and tools once more, Ena twirls the pencil around her fingers as she scans the area for anything interesting. Tap, tap, tap. She already drew the elderly couple sitting on a far-off bench. Tap, tap, tap. She drew the kids chasing each other too. Tap, tap, tap. The couple having a picnic while surrounded by the flowers as well.
Tap. Click. Tap.
Too busy in her own wandering, bemused mind, she fails to notice Mizuki standing up from her spot on the bench, walking up to a nearby tree, leaning on it, then striking an exaggerated and embarrassing pose.
When her eyes trace back in front of her, she cackles. Loud, and unbecoming. Hiding her wide, silly grin behind the sketchbook, she wheezes, “What on earth are you doing?”
Mizuki stays put. Holding the ridiculous pose. “Draw me, quick! Before someone sees!”
Ena, scrambling to pick up her pencil, hastily puts to paper the many stances Mizuki’s been switching to. One: she’s leaning cooly on some tree trunk. Two: she’s picking up fallen flower petals and scattering them in the air, arms wide and twirling. Three: she’s pretending to point at some random direction. Four: she’s doing some horrible and cringeworthy dance that made Ena wince and laugh. Five: her model is sitting on the ground now, whining about the possible grass stains on her butt. Two hundred. “Eight hundred more to go…”
Her muse scurries back to the bench, picking stray grass, leaves, and petals off her outfit. “So,” Mizuki pants, “did it help?”
Brown eyes meet pink. Fond, soft, thankful. “Yeah. I still have a long way to go but…” A warm smile. “It helped a lot, Mizuki.”
And her gaze trails to the corner of Mizuki’s, watching it crease as the girl’s reddened cheeks stretch into a wide, proud grin. “Man, being Ena’s personal model is tough.”
“I didn’t boss you around at all.” She says, exasperated. Then adds, “You did that all on your own.”
“Yeah, but…” Mizuki trails off. She scratches her cheek (Is it getting redder? Is she about to pass out? Ena readies the bottle next to her—) and clears her throat, averting her eyes. Foot kicking up loose pebble on the ground. “Having you watch me that closely feels kinda embarrassing.”
“Oh.” Well. “I, uh, can’t really draw something without observing what’s in front of me now, can I?”
Mizuki mutters under her breath. “…Being stared at by you is different though.”
“Hmm? What was that?”
“I said I just hope you got my good side.” Cheeky.
“Yeah, yeah.” With a flip, Ena closes her sketchbook shut, placing the items back in her bag. “We should head home soon.”
“All done for the day?”
Ena nods, shouldering her bag as she stands. “My station’s the other way so… I’ll see you on Nightcord?” A question she knows the answer to.
But Mizuki offers her a warm look, and nods. “See you on Nightcord, Ena.”
Nine hundred and forty-three. That’s how many she has right now. The once empty sketchbook she thought would never see the light of day, now was almost filled to the brim with sketches of varying details and postures. A week and a half of figure drawing. She’s just about done with this assignment—so close to going crazy and tearing all this hard work (and her hair out).
But she grits her teeth.
Violently clicking through the website she used to collect references before settling on a page that she hasn’t yet seen.
Leafing through the pad in front of her, she scans the drawings she’s made throughout: people in a diner, people in a cafe, people in a park, Mizuki, Akito being a prick, dancers, her mom cooking in the kitchen while she waits for dinner, the virtual singers sitting on scaffolding in the Sekai, Kanade, Mafuyu, Mizuki again, people in the train, her teachers in night classes droning about the lesson, people waiting for the train, parkour, skateboarders, roller skaters, people playing all sorts of sports, then, to no one’s surprise, Mizuki again.
Ena feels a crick in her neck as she finishes another session of timed figure drawing. Forty-seven to go. And she has but a couple of days left before she has to go back to art class and submit this awful thing.
Her phone vibrates. A notification pops up in the corner of her computer’s monitor. A message from Amia. Asking if she wants to meet in the Sekai before one in the morning. She clicks on the private message and types a reply, “Okay.”
Standing up—knees creaky and legs wobbly—she stretches carefully, allowing her shoulders and her back to crackle and pop. Before gathering her sketchbook, pencils, and her phone. A swift swipe of her thumb, a tap on the song, and a flash of a myriad of colored shards and prisms.
Ena stands in the cold, sterile breeze of the Empty Sekai.
“Yahoo! Enanan~” A flash of pink appears alongside specks of color. “How’s it going?”
Ena plops down on a steel beam, flipping through the many pads of paper to reach a blank one. “Just need forty-seven more poses and I’m officially done with this assignment.”
“Yeesh.” Mizuki whistles, taking her spot next to her, before pulling out a woolen cardigan beneath her arm, a spool of thread, and a needle from her pocket. “Well, while you work on that, I can work on sewing these buttons back on.”
A silent permission given. You can draw me if you want, she says.
In the quiet and still air of the Sekai, a comforting silence covers them like a heavy blanket and the two work on their own projects side by side. Parallel.
With nothing but the sound of lead scratching on parchment, and thread sliding through cloth.
It is tranquility, in all its definitions.
Until a glitch breaks the barrier, “Ah. You’re both here again.”
Glancing up from her work, Ena spots a brown haired virtual woman standing at a distance. Hand on a protruding metal furring. Observing, once again. “Hello to you too, Meiko.”
Mizuki, slumped over the cardigan on her lap, curtained by her light pink hair, jolts up. “Ah! Meikooo, you almost made me stab myself on the finger.”
The virtual singer blinks, unaffected by Mizuki’s dramatics. Instead, turns to Ena. The glitch of her voice, a welcome static. “The others are at the lake, if you need more help with your drawings.” A pause. “Rin’s also been trying these …figure drawings ever since.”
The artist looks down at the current page. The number 967 next to a drawing of Mizuki sitting still, hair cascading down the sides of her face, an arm outstretched as she pulls on an invisible thread. “I just need thirty-three more, so it won’t hurt to take a look.” She nudges Mizuki, shoulder bumping against each other. A casual touch. “Wanna go for a walk?”
The pink haired girl ties the last button secure, before snapping the thread. “Okey-dokey. It’ll be nice to say hi to Miku and the others.”
“I’ll be going ahead then.” Meiko announces. “I’ll let them know you’ll be visiting.”
Ena watches as the virtual singer goes off in the direction of the vast lake while waiting for Mizuki to pack her things. And by that, she means Mizuki shoving the needle and thread in her pocket and shrugging the cardigan over her shoulders. “Are you cold or something?”
The taller girl sticks out a tongue playfully. “Says the one wearing a hoodie so big it swallows her up.” Pink eyes travel up and down. “Are you even wearing…” Her gaze stop near her hip and thighs, squinting.
Ena gasps, pulling the edge of her hoodie further down. A furious blush across her face. “I’m wearing shorts, perv!”
“Wha—!?” Mizuki flounders, a similar crimson spreading on her cheeks and ears. “I didn’t mean it like that!”
The flustered artist storms off towards the lake. Not peeping a word.
“Ah—Ena!” A pleading whine. “Wait up!”
This girl is her weakness, she swears. Slowing her pace, she crosses her arms, huffing. The flush still evident on her cheeks with how warm she is. (Overwhelmingly so).
When Mizuki catches up, looking everywhere and anywhere but Ena, she mumbles shamefully, “I didn’t mean to…”
The embarrassment that hangs over them is palpable.
Groaning loudly, Ena runs a hand across her face, rubbing (willing—) the blush in an effort to calm it down. “It’s fine.” She can’t help the silly laugh that makes its way out of her throat. “So stupid.”
Mizuki joins her laughter. Melodic.
“Besides, I can say the same to you too.” Brown eyes trailing at the hem of Mizuki’s night gown that ends just above her knees. It looks soft to the touch.
And when Ena looks back up, she sees:
Mizuki’s arms are splayed across her chest, angling her body away from Ena. She opens her mouth and playfully shrieks. “Help! Enanan’s undressing me with her eyes!”
Ena bristles. Cheeks aflame—she’s vaguely aware of the growing warmth at the tips of her ears, all the way down to her neck. Not again! “That—I am not—“ She sputters, indignant, before ultimately deflating in defeat, covering her reddened face with both her hands. “Ugh, shut up.”
A soft giggle brushes against her ear as a weight leans on her side, causing the two of them to slow down even more so. A languid pace. As the two walk by the lake’s strange shoreline shoulder to shoulder. The small gathering of virtual singers nearing close.
“This is… nice.” Mizuki’s voice is tentative. Cautious. A nervousness causing it to waver. “Being with you—with everyone—it’s nice.” I’m glad you didn’t give up on me, she says somewhere in there.
And when Ena’s voice is soft, and dripping with affection when she agrees wholeheartedly, Mizuki doesn’t mention it.
It is merely a silent promise between the two.