Chapter Text
Autumn.
The word is happy. Said in celebration. Spoken with satisfaction. Spelt through hard work, through success, through harvest. A little flatbed comes around the corner, laden with abundance that will soon fuel the city. Rusty hubcaps slowly rolled to a stop, blinkers almost invisible in the setting sun. Delighted yells broke through the glass, as the man dressed in a cheap leather jacket waved something fierce. All that joy, all that merriment, all that happiness, indeed, carried through the dry wind, finally landing on the point of a particularly sharp tooth.
Oh, yes, the word is dry. As dry as the tiny upturn at the edge of her mouth as the truck set off, as dry as the hands on her wheels as they began to turn again, a slow meander along the path. The Path, as it is respectfully referred to, winding beside the Arakawa River that runs through Northeast Tokyo. Made famous by the numerous who once tread to and fro, a staple in racing history around the world. A split strand of auburn traced across her face, slowly landing in her lap. Oh, her hair was dry as well. The once shiny mane has fallen to disrepair, the slightly rough touch of a comb long lost, long ago. The only semblance of care amounts only to a red bow, pinned in place. Scarlet eyes flicked upwards. Strange. How did she never notice how tall the trees were, how vibrant a shade of red the leaves turned? Ah, it was a blur at the time. Her eyes surely were looking at something else then. After all, who would look at trees when they were running? Trees. Hah.
But of course, Autumn is red. She did not say that herself, no, but countless reporters, fans and classmates that one particular fall. To be honest, she felt it was a bit too much. Yes, it was three huge wins. Yes, two of them were G1, in front of thousands. Yes, she won the Shuka Sho. She would blush, bashfully, and utter humble pleasantries to anyone who approached her. Oh, the praise they would shower her with. The gold they would heap upon her, as countless as the leaves waved about by the wind, as shiny as the fields next to her wheels. A shiver made its way down her spine. She was truly close to the river now. But her real trophy that season would come in the form of a leaf, pressed and red and perfect with a splatter of yellow around the edges. The moment as it was discovered remained in front of her eyes, a speck of red lying innocuously upon the grainy yellow of her desk. She found it herself, she argued, amongst the books that she kept perfectly on her shelves. It was a gift from the Three Goddesses themselves, she insisted, as a favour for her hard work. It has remained her signature bookmark since, a proud monument amongst the yellowing pages she has always enjoyed from childhood. But, like her other trophies, it lies forgotten, somewhere, in the wake of her run through the top of Japanese racing. It was odd, though. She could have sworn she closed the windows that day.
The speck of red grows steadily larger. Larger, still, until she could no longer mistake the outline of a knitted sweater. A wave of silver splits the red sea, the iconic brown headpiece now shines golden. She sits, legs drawn, unmoving amongst a shimmering field of gold, almost like the bow of a ship breaking the waves. For a split second, she held her breath--any moment now, laughter will come over the hill, swirling orange and lilac and brown and white-streaked, and the thud of arriving shoes will disturb the tranquil of this little riverbank. Any moment now, the smell of carrots and yakisoba and stupid cologne and cheap leather will invade her sinuses, and she will have to get up and yell--
The leaves kept swirling. Leaving a slightly salty tang, more and more of the yellowing, dead memories of seasons past land beneath her slowly rotating wheels with little, pitiful, brittle crunches.
Oh, but of course. Brittle. Autumn is brittle, like the falling leaves, like her legs, which gave way after the second Arima Kinen. Flexor Tendonitis, they called it. If she kept running, it would not end well for her, they said. And like the perfect student she was, she listened. She understood. She obeyed. But in the dark confines of her room, she would dent the wall with a thrown tiara. Screaming, crying, she ripped her own treasured diary to shreds, as her world shattered all around her. She pleaded. She begged. For everyone, anyone, to just put strength back into her legs and let her run one final time. But the Three Goddesses have long since judged her time to be over, so she handed in her letter to the President, unable to stand the smell of turf anymore. In a swirl of Spring petals, she packed her bags and left. She was offered transport, but she refused. How can an athlete, a runner, a champion like her be helped out the front door? She walked, head held high, every inch the red princess she was, to the applause of everyone else. Spe-chan, Suzuka, Mcqueen, Teio, Gold Ship, Kitasan, Trainer-san, everyone was there. Oh, sure, she collapsed after turning the corner right outside the school entrance, but it did not matter--she was sure no one saw it. Like how no one would see her in public since.
Wheels rolled to a stop. She has reached her destination. Carefully locking her wheels, placing her palms upon the black armrests, she pushed herself upwards. Her legs are weak, even weaker than when she attempted to refill her hot water bottle last night. The act of straightening then walking hurts too much, so she chose to stand in place, some distance behind the grey legend.
She waited, eyes following an airplane making its journey through the sky. It then suddenly occurred to her that they have not spoken for very, very long. Weirdly long. They tried to keep in touch, but one week became two, two months became four, someone changed phone numbers, someone lost their Umastagram account, and suddenly here they were, no better than strangers. She almost shredded the weird letter pinned to the door of her tiny apartment, but the familiar scrawl made her pause. The rather badly drawn Rubik’s Cube in place of a signature confirmed the sender, and she would be lying if she denied any hyperventilation. How does one speak to an old friend again? Tongue swept over cracked lips, tracing the poking tooth. A swallow to rid herself of the dryness on the sides of her throat. A deep breath. And then--
“Hey, Gold Ship.”
The voice was weak. Shaky. Weathered and crackling, it no longer held the bright chime of an Uma whose best years are yet to come. But somewhere in the slight tilt at the end, somewhere within the nervous “Hey”, it was undeniably Daiwa Scarlet, here to once again answer the summon of the mythical creature that terrorised Tracen Academy.
“Long time no see.”
There it was, dry humor. Golshi never could resist a fruit hanging so low. Immediately, she half-expected Gold Ship to spin around, kicking and grinning, making her sound ten times worse. Come on, its Gold Ship of all things, what would she even do--
A tear rolled down the proud, slender cheek.
Her breath caught.
Gold Ship never cried. Its Gold Ship. Gold. Ship. The prankster of Tracen. Self-proclaimed God. She bought two whole litres of eye drops just to trick McQueen into joining Spica. On her retirement race, Kitasan cried harder than herself, and Spe even more so, but Golshi herself just flicked Kitasan on the head, and waved. Not even one tear. She then boasted in the changing room that not even the Three Goddesses could make her cry.
No. Wait. That was a lie.
Gold Ship did cry. At Teio’s Arima Kinen. At her own Arima Kinen. At--
A weight pressed down on her chest. The headpiece was metal, cool in the Autumn air, but a fiery wave surged downwards, down from her lungs, deep into her gut. Not even the purest alcohol has ever made her feel this sick. Her knees buckled.
The last time she saw Gold Ship cry was at Vodka’s funeral.
She tore the bronze headpiece from her collarbones. She gripped it. Hard. With both hands, as if it would disappear the very next second.
How could she forget? Oh, how could she have forgotten? Her best enemy. Her worst friend. Her rival forever. Loud and rude and annoying, a dark splotch on her life. The hardest, thickest, most stubborn skull in all of Tracen, with the weakest nose in the entire world. She was the shining princess, a model student who prided in sewing and reading. Vodka, the sleek shadow, lanky in all leather and motorcycles. They fought every week. No, every day. No, every waking second. They fought so much, she was sure Fuji Kiseki would have had enough and switched their rooms. But can she blame her? Vodka was a horrible roommate. Seriously, who staples magazines and posters to walls? Staples! If it was herself, she could have hung up everything better, in half the time, with none of the mess. She had to comb plaster dust out of her hair for weeks! And, oh Three Goddesses, her alarm. That was the worst thing about living with that mess of an Uma. Who uses an air siren as an alarm? That abrasive alarm would assault their eardrums every morning. That is not to mention all the moving around in her sleep. Gosh, she had to buy so much lavender fragrance. Vodka did stop moving around one day, however. That was strange. And, oh, oh, the arrogance. How dare she think herself better? Against Daiwa Scarlet? The Daiwa Scarlet? No chance. No chance at all. To be honest, the only reason they were considered rivals was because Vodka needed one, and she took pity on her. Come on, who else wanted to be rivals with her? They would have been so annoyed by that idiot they would just let her win. And her training was so weird. Umamusume are racers, not weightlifters. Why did dumbbells matter so much? She did not even appreciate writing! She taught her half of her homework! She was scared of a pen! A pen! And the leather jackets, all those cheap, stupid leather--
A weight settled on Scarlet’s shoulder. Gold Ship has moved to stand behind Scarlet, her previous weakness nowhere to be seen. Purple eyes peeked downwards. Her hand tightened on the shoulder. Voice almost murmured, she tried to be as gentle as possible.
“Scarlet-Chan, is that Vodka’s…”
Scarlet opened her mouth, but words found no purchase.
Oh, some of it is coming back to her now, like someone was trying to press on her temples. She was just back from a walk alongside the river when someone smashed down her door. It was Gold Ship, dragging a sobbing Kitasan behind her. Then they broke the news. Vodka was gone. The immediate sixteen-hour flight, the looks of pity from the other two, the business class cuisine that crumbled into ash in her mouth. How it rained as they landed, wet and miserable, cooped onto a van that sped off. It was a leg injury, they muttered on the way. A dislocation and infection so serious it was a miracle she lived through her first night. She remembers herself thinking about what miracles meant. Then she threw up.
The headpiece was given to her on a cushion. It was the one she wore on the left, because the other one was slightly dented on the bottom during a kidnapping mishap. It was the first time Scarlet saw Vodka cry. Sure, Vodka tried to hide it with coughs, and muffled herself in her bedsheets, but Scarlet heard all of it. After all, she made sure to delete the metalworking tutorials from her search history the next morning. Vodka had a small funeral. Small, but very warm, and very heartfelt. Scarlet did not question why she was asked to sit with the family during the funeral. Not like anyone else had anything to say, really. They looked at her. Then looked around and shook their heads. Vodka’s father was a tall man. Tall, with a black head of spiky hair and a streak of white that was almost painful for Scarlet to look at. Then he handed Scarlet a box, and led her to a side room. He patted her head, and closed the door.
She woke up, hours later, in a hospital with no memory of the past day.
And she would have no more new memories for the next six years.
Her mind had fractured. Umamusume were famously strong, but something had broken inside of her that day, never to be put together again. Vodka’s father had found Scarlet comatose on the floor, hand still gripping onto the headpiece.
Gold Ship had returned to Japan with her, and moved in nearby. Every day, day after day, for the past six years, Scarlet would leave the apartment for her walk, the same routine she had on the last day she could remember. Gold Ship would wait for her at this spot, and hand her something important--wait--
A wooden box was placed in her lap, brushing aside some leaves that had made their way there. It was a slightly hefty box, made out of solid wood. She muttered a ‘Thank you’, and returned the headpiece to its place around her neck. A stray thought wandered past--Where did Golshi keep the box? Ah, alas, like the wise Suzuka once said, it is best not to think about such things. Golshi always had her own secrets. Scarlet felt herself running a finger over the smooth surface. It was once a solid block of wood, rough and ungainly, but someone had sanded it down to more resemble a gift box. Her own hands stilled. Paused. This box is wrong. Wrong. Very, very, very wrong. She could hear something inside screaming. Yelling. Begging, even, to not open the box. To stop looking. To save herself.
Slowly, gently, with shaking hands, like she had done hundreds of times before, she opened the lid.
Inside laid her tiara. A crack ran down the right side, just next to the blue gem, but it has been crudely repaired. Honestly, to describe it as crude is a heavy understatement. The person who repaired this either had no eye for detail, no patience or no experience with jewellery, because the work was so shoddy it was almost laughable. Burnt lines from soldering marred the silver, uneven bumps making the crack look grotesque. But it is back in one piece. Really well-polished, too--her red eyes peeked back at her, the rest of the ornament shiny as the day her mother had first placed it upon her head. The tiara sat upon a doll of her own likeness, well-used and well-hugged by the looks of it. Judging by the suspicious darker patch on the left cheek, the owner had horrible sleeping habits. She can almost feel the wetness on her own face.
She shivered.
Then she gasped.
Partly in shock, and partly in pain, as a fresh wave of migraine swept over her. There, at the bottom of the box, beneath the doll, was a very familiar book. After all, who would forget what their first diary looked like? She lifted the book out of the box. ‘Daiwa Scarlet’. Her script, neat and tiny, written with an ink pen, stark against the perfect pink. The stationery store she bought this from has long since closed. The wrinkled hands that carefully folded paper over the little book likely ash. DO NOT OPEN DO NOT READ STOPSTOPSTOP
She flipped it open.
The pages, if possible, are stiffer than the cover. Well, it is possible, since someone had painstakingly drenched every page in glue. Page, after page, after page, the paper no longer resembled paper, but more like the plastic menus in restaurants. It was needed, too, as the book was destroyed. Tears, deeper than the one on her tiara, ran across every page, every line. But she watched, as childish scrawl became neat, pictograms became drawings, everything is as it should have been, in their correct respective spaces. Just…heavy-handedly put back together.
For example, the last few pages were loose.
A glance at the print revealed them to be the appendix pages. Ah, yes. Appendix pages. The useless additions at the end of the book.
Familiar laugher surged upwards--Hah, look who is useless at the most basic of tasks? How stupid can you be to not even put a book back together properly--
The pages were written on.
Ugly handwriting greeted her.
‘Hey Idiot,
You left your diary in the dorm.’
‘Hey Idiot,
You dented the wall? Are you kidding me? I got blamed for it! I hate you!’
‘Hey Idiot,
I’m going to write in your diary. Payback for the time you stole my flask. And the wall thing. Hate you.’
‘Hey Idiot,
I lost.’
‘Hey Idiot,
Lost again. Might give up running.’
‘Hey Idiot,
I won the Japan Cup! Although, it was a bit boring. You could have come second. I think.’
‘Hey Idiot,
Are you stupid or what? Did you forget your little book? Come get it!’
‘Hey Idiot,
You forgot your tiara as well? What happened to Miss Tidy? Oh Three Goddesses, how stupid can you be? Get your stuff back!’
‘Idiot,
If you don’t take your stuff back, I’m throwing them away tomorrow.’
‘Hey Idiot,
I’m going to Europe.’
‘Hey,
I’m going to Ireland first. Then England. Don’t mix it up!’
‘The Worst Uma EVERRRRRRR,
You didn’t come to the airport? How dare you! Everyone else came! I am never talking to you! Again! Bye!’
‘Hey,
How do people fly sixteen hours? It’s been two hours and I want to cry already! The food is sooooooooo boring! I miss Golshi’s yakisoba…'
Her head is truly pounding now. Her vision blurred. Her hands shook. She kept reading.
‘Hey,
It’s so cold. Like, colder than Hokkaido winter cold. So. Cold. My legs are frozen.’
‘Hey,
The food here is terrible. Awful. I want yakisoba.’
‘Hey,
I’m bored. There. Is. Nothing. To. Do. Here.’
‘Hey,
Your tiara is hard to repair, you know? Geez, what’s your problem? Violent idiot always breaking stuff.’
‘Hey,
Soldering is difficult. Not doing it. Nope.’
‘Hey,
I did it. Don’t you dare complain. NOT ONE WORD’
‘Hey,
I fixed your diary as well. When you get these back, you better kneel and say that I am the better Uma.’
‘You were so cute funny as a baby! What happened to you growing up?’
‘Did you really cry when you thought Tracen would reject your application? That’s sooooooo funnyyyyyyyy’
‘Hey,
When are you going to call? Still waiting for my better Uma award.’
‘Scarlet,
I just found one of the ribbons from Gold City’s Salon. I will never forgive you. Neverrrrrrrrr’
‘Did you sneak something in my tea?’
‘You stole the leaf I saved for Geography Class?’
‘We are over. We are so over.’
‘Hate you.’
‘Hate.’
‘HATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATE’
‘I am the better Uma. I forgive you.’
‘Scarlet,
I I I I’
‘S’
‘STOP WRITING IN HERE’
‘STOP’
‘Why can’t I forget about you?’
The writing ends abruptly. Her headache reached a crescendo. Scarlet flipped through the sheets of paper again. STOPThat was it. Nothing else. PLEASE STOPPerhaps the writer was tired. Perhaps the writer forgot to pick up the pen one day. Perhaps the writer gave up. NONONO DONT LOOK
Or perhaps there was one final entry, donned with dots of brown, dried nosebleed, etched into the back cover of that little book she once called her heart.
‘Hey,
Never thought I would write this, but I have to want to will.
I miss you.
I tried so hard to forget about you. So, so hard. But nothing ever works. Every run I take the outer line, like someone should be there. Every run I look to my left, like someone should be there. Every run I stop at the finish line, smile, and turn. Like someone should be there. But there is no one. Not anymore.
Can I tell you a secret? I hated my bed in Tracen. It was my first time living somewhere new, and the bed was never right. Too warm, too soft, too big. So, I couldn’t sleep. Strangely, your plushie helped. You know, the one we won from the claw machine? The angle between your hair was just right, it was the perfect size. Funny, huh? I thought I hated you. For the longest time, I did. I really did. At least, I thought I did. But it was you that helped me sleep every day. So, thank you, I guess?
You know what’s the worst part? There is no one here to run with me, to keep up with me, to annoy me with how stupidly perfect you are. Funnily enough, I always wanted a room to myself. But…it’s like I am missing something every time I stand up and look around. Your long hair is missing , your lavender smell is missing, your little tooth that would poke out every time you spoke is gone. I miss all that blue in your wardrobe, I miss you correcting my writing every time you see it, I miss running through the finish line and seeing your smug face in the paddock. Honestly, I didn't get it. I had everything here. And one day, I suddenly realised.
The only thing I am missing here is you.
My dad noticed, you know. He said, ‘Why don’t you just call her?’ What does he know, huh? If only it was that easy. What if you changed your number? What if you moved to another place?
What if you don’t want me your rival anymore?
I am getting a new room next month. My dad asked me the reason behind choosing two beds, but he wouldn’t get it. Won’t you come visit? I even bought some of the smelly lavender stuff you like so much. There is a desk, and a bed, and shelves for you to put your books on. I remember you like a softer mattress right? The mattresses here are much nicer than the ones we got at Tracen. Even my alarm wouldn’t wake you if you sleep on one of these.
There were times when I wanted to just
But
Please come live with me again. Please come run with me again.
Please?
Vodka.’
There it was. The confirmation. A confession that was never meant to be seen, but always waited to be read. Because who else would be so childish, so unsure, but yet so sure that she would return, to write all of these in the diary of a rival?
Indeed, who else?
Who else would take up metalworking to fix an ornament? Who else would remember a grudge for almost a decade? Who else would pick up the writing instrument she hated the most, and wrote three full pages? Who else would be so blind, so oblivious, that subconsciously still sleeps on her side of the room?
Tears run freely down her cheeks now. Was it the headache, or the pain? She wished she knew. Like how she wished she knew that under the leather jackets, the yellow t-shirts, the stupid cologne, once housed a heart. A heart which, for the longest time, to everyone else, seemed to only beat to the roar of motorcycles and the crowd. Now, finally, almost a decade after, she knew.
Her heart beat for her as well.
She could almost see it--Vodka, freshly back from training, kneeling on the floor picking up pieces of herself. Hiding next to their door, ready to surprise her. Ready to show off the book repairing skills she learnt online in the last half hour. Waiting, waiting, waiting. For days, for hours, for weeks, for years, Vodka had waited, next to their door, for Daiwa Scarlet to return.
And Daiwa Scarlet had walked away.
Like the princess she was, she retreated to her castle. She locked herself in her tower. Life had been unfair, and so she would hide, pretending she had nothing to do with the world outside. She closed her windows, shut her doors, cutting herself from anything that reminded her of the famous Daiwa Scarlet, the Uma who turned Autumn red. She avoided the public, missed gatherings, pretended that she never existed, simply because she could not bear to be seen as anything other than the shining princess, the perfect student, the gleaming champion that she no longer was. For her, she was done. Tracen Academy was a dream, nothing more. She forgot. She packed her trophies away. Locked away her racing outfit. Worst of all, she rid herself of her shadow that had made her who she was. But besides the door to their dorm, their bedroom, their lives, Vodka had still stood there, white-streaked hair against the turn of time. Poking her tongue out, as she glued her heart back together. Messing her hair about, as she repaired the symbol of pride that ruled a season. She did everything she could to prepare for the one day her best rival would return, prideful and boastful as ever, and challenge her to one more race. She lived, waiting, in different countries, in different seasons, just for Scarlet to live oblivious, stuck in her self-imposed exile.
She died, waiting for an answer that everyone knew, but would never come from the one she needed the most.
She died, not knowing across the oceans, there would be a bed waiting for her as well.
In a tiny, tiny apartment, alongside the path they once ran together.
Her face is dry now. Her tears spent. The dark splotches on her clothes and red eyes the only evidence of her grief. She tasted the salt at the edge of her mouth. She savoured the pain in her eyes. She deserved it. She had tried to forget about her as well. And now she will remember her again, again and again.
Gentle but firm hands pried the book from her grasp, her own hands finding the bronze ornament instead. With a sigh, Gold Ship returned the memorabilia to the box, snapping it shut. It was getting late now. The plane flying overhead long departed, the draft mixing with evening clouds. Tracen Academy over the river began to glow, a mirage of lights and hopes and dreams. Gold Ship shifted her weight once, twice, and--
“Are you still thinking about her?”
She regretted it the moment her words left her mouth. Purple eyes once again peek from under the silver fringe. Not crying. Good. Safe. Phew. Of course, Gold Ship knew that. Gold Ship knew everything.
The reply was almost inaudible. Even with her ears, she barely heard it. Like its owner, it was a soft, broken, fractured thing, coated in grief and sorrow. She looks so tiny there, sitting in her chair, as if the next gust of wind will tear her brittle silhouette apart. Oh, how Gold Ship wished she was truly a God. To smooth away the cracks. To wipe away the pain. To put her back together. But she could only stand and watch, because Scarlet will never move on from here. The only one who could do it, the only one who ever did it, the only one who could manage this miracle is forever a silhouette beyond the clouds.
Purple land on Scarlet again. Okay, no fainting. No crying. No crying is good. See, Gold Ship knew that her friend was strong. Gold Ship knew everything. And Gold Ship knew that her tears today would return tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, until the river runs dry, until falling leaves turn to snow and then petals again, like last year, and the year before, until everything is lost to the Autumn wind.
“The world keeps moving, but I’m still in the moment she left.”