Archive of Our Own

I wake up, and you’re right beside me. You’re the first thing I hear when I jolt up from my slumber.

Your soft breathing—gentle, measured. In restful sleep. You’re exhausted after a whole day of work yesterday. I am, too.

Tokai Teio. My lovely wife.

I look to you, and I look back towards the dim glow of the room. I am awake right at the crack of dawn, with distant birdsong as my only greeter.

My sheets are damp.

I think I’ve been having night sweats. It tracks—there've been times recently when I’ve been so stressed out I bring it with me to bed, but I didn’t think it would be so bad as to leave me shivering in the cold even under a thick layer of sheets. You can blame the Dream League. You can blame my job search, maybe, even though it’s coming to a close. I don’t know what the matter is. At least the stress doesn’t do to me what it does to you—a number of your gray hairs lie beside my pillow, and I feel them grazing my right forearm.

When I move to shift myself to a drier spot on the bed, that’s when it’s your turn to wake up. You stir—you’ve always been a light sleeper—and then you flip over to face my way, and then you open your eyes, and then you ask.

“Natie? Sweetheart?”

Ah. Damn it. “Shh.” I place my hand on your forehead. “It’s okay. Go back to bed.”

“Mmh.” You toss back in the other direction.

I take a moment to get myself comfortable. I feel the added distance from where you are, and though I try, I just can’t stand the cold anymore.

“You okay?” you mumble out.

“A little… chilly. You don’t want to go back to sleep?”

“Maybe,” you say, yawning. “Just… wanted to check on you.”

Oh, that’s so sweet of you. “Okay.” I try my best to jog my memory—I was dreaming about something right before I woke up. Something about the turf, and about fighter jets? “I think I had a bad dream,” I tell you.

Then you flip right back to face me. “Mmm. What time is it?”

Six a.m., likely. I know it by the way the light bounces on our bedroom walls at this time of year. “Six. We’re supposed to be up soon anyway.”

“Okay.” You lie on your back; you face the ceiling. I do too.

There is a ceiling fan integrated with the chandelier. It’s mismatched and gaudy—crystal against hard plastic—but I vaguely remember something about you not having had the time to replace it. Interior decoration’s not that much of a priority at this moment, anyhow. The house is pretty brand new.

“We should probably get up.”

“Yeah.”

I reach for my dream journal. I want to write what I remember. It’s that gift you purchased me on your trip a year ago—a lovely little Moleskine, accompanied by a cute dip pen I keep by the sealed inkwell. I don’t write with that one. The gel pen is in the drawer.

When I reach for the drawer handle, I find your hand over mine instead. “No.”

“Huh?”

You, Teio, shake your head. “Tell it to me over breakfast.”

“You sure? My journal’s right there—”

You yawn as you speak. “I’m sure.” A few slow blinks, and then you open your eyes in full.

In this light I can still see your brilliant cyan eyes so clearly. The morning sun is a catchlight; there’s the open window to the far end, just the way I like it, streaming in, and the full moon, almost faded, peeks over treetops as it sets.

An orange glow shines past the windowsill to land right here, right onto you. “Yeah,” you say.

“It might be a bit messy,” I warn. I try to think of the dream again, and I get a pang in my heart.

“Oh, c’mon. I’m used to your messy, Natie.” You place a hand on my thigh. “I’m here for you.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get up.”

You nod. We rise from the bed.

Stepping into the kitchen still feels so surreal. It’s a cute small place on the first floor, right below our bedroom, connected to the living room in the open-concept style of the house. Sometimes I complain about the lack of sound insulation, but that’s not important. Faux marble countertops—quartz, really—meet expensive cookware and pots and pans hanging on wire wall organizers. I selected all of them by hand when we went to shop at the restaurant supply store. I told you I take nothing less than the best for my kitchen, although we begrudgingly agreed to compromise on a non-stick pan with a hexagonal inside pattern for your use, mostly. You still refuse to learn how to cook on my stainless steel.

We jump straight for the fridge. I take out the leftover rice for a simple breakfast. You pick up your smoothie maker and create that abominable protein mix of frozen fruit and greek yogurt. It tastes alright, but I can’t handle not having hot food to start the day.

It’s so simple, it’s so you, I think to myself. I couldn’t possibly.

“What did ya dream about?” you ask, pouring your drink into a tall, Tokai Teio-branded plastic cup. There’s a framed picture overtop your head—the one we hung up, the victory circle from your Miracle. Tokai Teio, Arima Kinen 1993, it reads. Oddly relevant.

“It… might be a long story.” My own egg finishes quickly—I head over to the bar counter with my breakfast fully plated.

You join beside me. “Whatever. Tell me everything.”

I eye your drink. Something about it feels so much more appealing today. Maybe it’s because I still feel so sleepy—a good blast of cold could wake me up from this slow and half-asleep morning.

“What, you thinking of taking my smoothie?”

“No. I’m just staring.”

My eyes glaze over to the rest of the living room. There’s a nice TV with a lovely light wooden stand, custom carved—chosen on the recommendations of Trainer, for something more modern that doesn’t look like it's from a generic furniture store. Paintings and pictures dot the living room wall.

Near the window, positioned perfectly for natural lighting when the sun eventually streams in, stands a three-level trophy case filled with our greatest accomplishments. All the trophies there are for you, and you alone. I never got the chance to win a G1, but all the bronze medals in their cases and the Dream League team winner medals cover the entire bottom level. I know I’ve left my mark on the turf, trophies be damned. I tell myself that every time I look.

I’ve been chasing you all these years, you know? I try to keep it inside me. I don’t want it to be a source of conflict, but it’s true.

Part of me even believes that that’s why I joined the Dream League. The whole reason was to… chase after you.

Right. I’m supposed to be telling a story about my dream. Okay. I take a deep breath.

I close my eyes—try to take myself back to the slivers of memory I still hold inside. The green of a freshly mown track. Fanfare along the stands. Confetti in the air.

“I think I was dreaming about the Arima Kinen, actually.” The same one that hangs in a frame over the kitchen counters.

Yes, yes. I think I’m right. I haven’t dreamed about the Twinkle Series in so long.

“I haven’t dreamed about the Twinkle Series in so long,” I tell you. A repeat. “It was the one where you made your miracle happen. That last one before you went to the Dream League—our last time racing together.”

The track is still green in my mind. Even and unblemished, racing around the outside, as we’re the first race to go over it this week, and I’m ahead. I don’t have to deal with the other racers’ cleatmarks making me stumble on my final spurt. And I just run. I’m on her left, and her, and her too—I’m passing everyone. Even you.

“It was… kind of weird. I knew you were supposed to win, but I just kept running anyway. I wanted it so badly. And that’s where the dream starts properly, I think. I win the race. The crowd’s all blaring and noisy and a little intense, and I look at you and you’re slumped down on the grass, exhausted, and Hayahide’s there too. And then suddenly there are… uh, fighter jets. Trailing colorful smoke.”

You perk up at that. “Why fighter jets?”

“I don’t know. But… I know Mayano Top Gun was piloting one of them. Or all of them? Wait, there was just one.”

“My old roommate? The junior racer?”

“Isn’t that weird?”

“That’s kind of weird, yeah.”

I chuckle. You chuckle too.

Time passes. We finish our individual breakfasts.

Outside the living room window, I can see the golden sunlight start to reach the ground. I’m still not too familiar with the neighbourhood that we have—the shops, I know, are two intersections down the right, towards the main road, but I struggle to find where north even is in the mornings before I leave.

It’s just a phase, I like to tell myself, something that passes with time. But then a big black crow comes down to the street and snatches something, and it makes me feel all the more unfamiliar. We didn’t have this many urban crows back home.

“You should keep telling me the story while we get ready,” you chime in. Your leg is bouncing on the chair, and I can tell you want to get going with the rest of the morning. “Do we have anything to do today?”

I tilt my head at that. “You don’t know your own schedule?”

That catches you by surprise. You look cute when you’re sheepish. “Eh… heh.”

I shake my head. “We both have to go to Tracen, remember? Or, I think?”

I don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon—you’ve brought a hand under your head, your cup fully emptied out, and now you’re propped up on the chair and listening to my story. But we have vague plans to visit Tracen today—you have some papers to sign before your trainer position starts, and I have a casual meeting with the Emperor to talk about the details of joining her research group.

“Yeah,” I confirm. “Yeap, it’s Tracen day. We have people to meet.”

“Cool.” You jump out of your seat. “Let’s get dressed!”

“Mhm.”

I take the dishes in both hands as you tug on my shirt. I need to clean them, but you’re begging me to just get on with it, and then you’re tickling and you’re mean for that, and—

In the blink of an eye, I’m in the train station. Everything moves by so fast these days. I guess we just autopiloted putting our clothes on and packing our work bags.

The train comes to a stop. It’s one of the new-generation ones! They have posters about the new trains all over the station. We take a seat by the large windows they hype up on the marketing material. It lets us enjoy the view as we pass over Tokyo heading west.

You’re leaning against the window again, one hand against your cheek, supporting your head. “Continue.”

“Okay. You remember where we were?”

“You beat me and stole my Miracle from me!”

“Yup. Exactly. Hey, don’t put it like that!” I kick you on the shin.

You laugh.

A brief tangent. Your laugh—it’s taking up space in my mind now. It’s the laughter I’d always dreamed of hearing in the mornings. Back at Tracen—back when I saw you as my hopeless dream to reach, a star I needed to catch—laughter meant comfort. Familiarity. It meant bringing you down to Earth. Having you with me, side by side. So I deeply enjoyed every occasion where I got to see you smile or laugh. You felt closer, then, closer than the moon in the midnight sky, or the golden trophy of a sweet G1 victory in the Series.

I feel so lucky to be able to hear your laughter everyday now.

“So, anyway,” I continue, “I go to the winner’s circle, ready to stand on the podium, and then Trainer—who’s there for some reason—hands me the Dream League invitational letter. I know what it is immediately because it’s got the URA wax seal on it. You know the one?”

“Yeah.”

“And so, I’m excited, right? You’re leaving. I want to leave with you, too. But then Trainer tells me I can’t go. Says ‘I have to stay and finish my Twinkle Series career’, or some stuff like that. I think I get, like, sad.”

We pass by a tall building and get a full-frontal blast of sunlight on our faces. It tickles my cheeks with warmth.

“Anyway. This scene ends here.”

You pause to process. “Hmm. Okay.”

I look at you for a sign.

You look like a child waiting on storytime right now, do you know that? Your eyes are wide open. You’re looking at me like I’m telling the coolest bedtime fairytale to have ever graced this Earth.

I mean, I think the story’s just alright so far.

You blink. You do that when you think. “Yeah, it’s kind of okay right now, I guess,” you say.

“It’s a dream,” I tell you. “It’s not supposed to be that interesting. Or make sense. I think.”

You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter. Tell me anyway!”

“Okay. I’ll still make it quick.”

“Aww.”

I’m already ignoring your protests. My head’s back against the super comfy chair—did I ever say just how comfortable these new chairs are? “Anyway, the next thing I know is I’m at my family’s bar, and I think I work there, but the bar is also Tannhauser’s family restaurant.”

You nod.

“I think I’m waiting. On somebody. To come through those doors and tell me that my time is up—that I’m good to go to the Dream League. But this whole time I’m working in the kitchen, but I’m not… a full time employee or a trusted staff member. They treat me like it’s my first day the whole time.”

My memory of the dream is still so vivid. The clinking of plates. The sound of a gas stove lighting up into the air—that muted ‘whoosh’ when all of it catches fire. The front entrance has a small shopkeeper’s bell that rings when someone walks inside, and someone is always walking inside, and the bell keeps ringing.

“They tell me my cooking is great—but just not up to Tannhauser’s mom’s standards—and they tell me to keep my back straight when I bus tables. The TV is playing foreign movies. There’s a lot of stuff I’m skipping here. After a while, next thing I know is I’m at Tracen again. I’m in front of Rudolf. She hands me the same invitation to the League I got that day of the Arima Kinen, which is apparently years ago by now.”

The train announcer tells us about the next station in line. I vaguely think it’s ours.

“And I ask her what’s taken her so long. And she says it’s because I’ve ‘been training all this time’. And that only now was I ready to join her—and to join the rest of you. My generation.”

I catch a glimpse of your wide-eyed awe. At this point, I could pretty much draw stars over your irises. “Woah. Prez is there,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“What else did she say?”

“Well. Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow at me. “Nothing?”

“Not really.” I take a moment to think about it, but this part of the dream’s almost entirely faded from memory. “I can’t… remember what comes after. When I join the Dream League.”

“Yeah?”

“There’re, like, lots of our friends that show up. I think we’re somewhere, I just can’t… agh, whatever.”

“Huh.” The train stops again. “Oh, we’re here.”

You’re right, we are. “You’re right, we are.” We’ve made it to our usual station, closest to Tracen. You drag me by the hand out the door, past the swinging doors, up the escalator, foot tapping on metal.

It’s a sunny day outside. The sky is dotted with birds flying about—crows, mostly—and the occasional jetliner.

I watch you run ahead of me. You’re always so restless, did you know? Do I tell you that enough, Teio? Do I tell you the things about you that make me like you so much? That’s what I enjoy about you. How you’re always rearing to go to the next destination, always with a pep in your step. Always ready to do the next big thing.

We take the Uma-lane and run to the main campus grounds. We’re laughing all the while. I hadn’t run this roadway in a hot minute—some of the shops have changed, I notice, but others have stayed the same.

It’s a shame I don’t get to pass this side of town very often these days. The Dream League Academy is two stops away, in an entirely different part of the city. That’s where I belong. The main campus, on the other hand, is your turf.

Tazuna is happy to greet us at the gates, just like the good old days when we were Twinkle Series racers.

When we reach the fountain, you ask: “Do you think you’re stressed about your meeting with Rudolf?”

“I guess.” I tighten the straps on my backpack. “Why else would I be dreaming about her?”

“That’s exactly why I asked!”

We share playful jabs on the shoulder.

Walking past the doors of the main campus building, you say, “If you remember what the rest of your dream was like, tell me about it, m’kay?”

I nod. “Sure. I’ll see you in an hour or two?”

You nod. “Love ya, babe.”

Oh, my god, that line makes me cringe. I know you’re just doing it for fun—it’s a targeted performance. But it works. I shake my head and give you a brief chuckle, and wave you goodbye. You vanish into the morning horde of students. I watch the top of your head as it melds in with everyone else’s.

Prez’s office is upstairs. I head over and knock on her door.

“Come in.” That’s her, alright.

I open the door, and am greeted by Symboli Rudolf in her President’s chair, looking the same as always. Except for her reading glasses—those stay on permanently these days.

“Rudolf-san.”

“Nature. Come, come and sit.” A chair’s been set aside for me on the other side of the desk.

Symboli Rudolf. Her radiance and legacy shines so bright, I think she has to be the new star to chase in my adult years. Since graduating from the Twinkle Series, Rudolf has decided to focus her time on racing in the Dream League and fulfilling her faculty responsibilities when she’s off-season. She spearheads a full research-and-racing team focused on Umamusume race theory, and she herself leads a number of select upper-year classes as part of the tenured faculty at the Dream League Academy. Her position as the Tracen Student Council head has long since been formalized into a salaried labor and management role, too, focused entirely on the well-being of both the Twinkle Series student racers in Tracen and her Dream League colleagues in the Academy and beyond.

How does she do all of it at the same time? No one knows.

And I’m about to join her research team. Exciting! “Hey, Prez,” I say, poking fun at her old title.

“Only Teio calls me that these days,” she says.

“Well, I was prez-zed to find a good joke to tell you.”

“Ha!” She leans back on her chair and lets out a loud laugh. “Not bad! Nature, you know how to get me started. Ahh.” Looking right at me, now, she adds, “Trying to cozy up, I see.”

“You could say that.”

She finds the thought funny, I think. She’s smiling. “Well, alright, then. I can’t say it hasn’t been working.” She pulls out a stack of paper from amidst the massive pile of documents surrounding her on the desk. Formalities. “Let’s get started.”

I nod. “Yeah. Let’s get on with it.” I say that, but…

I feel like I’ve been here before. A sense of deja vu permeates the air as I look at the papers, the forms, the agreements and tables detailing everything we’ve settled on. I write my signature on each one and I feel as if I’m tracing a line that’s already there. We laugh all the while, sure, but the conversation feels rehearsed, almost—as if we’re both just doing this for the fun of it. As if I’m ready to just hop in and do the work, and make it a part of my life, and make it a part of my life every day, and make it the thing I wake up to and fall asleep to and make it a part of my life.

I have the thought midway through that Prez is here in Tracen. Her office for all her Dream League matters are back at the Academy. Why is she here?

I try not to think too hard about it.

Time passes, and before long, I’m heading back in the direction of the subway station again, walking underneath the fading orange of the evening sky. Teio’s gone ahead and gotten a late lunch without me, though she says she packed something to-go. Rudolf was nice enough to offer some snacks while we went through the documents, at least.

A text from somebody rings in my phone. Teio, it reads.

Ah. You’re looking for me.

> hey. super late last minute invite just came in. do u wanna go see the rest of the gang tonight? were free right?

I swipe a reply on the keyboard with my thumb. It saves me the hassle of typing with both hands.

>> Are you still at that intersection? Where we said we would meet?

Your reply, succinct as ever:

> ya

And then, a second later, you add:

> its at the mejiro residence

>> Out further west?

> yeah!

Interesting. Before long, I find myself right at that intersection we agreed on. You’re leaning against a light pole, still dressed up all nice and fancy in your black suit and tie. Like a proper, dashing salarywoman—my salarywoman! And a soon-to-be excellent Tracen trainer too, of course.

You see me coming closer—you give me a big wave with a jump and a smile.

I wave back. “Hey there. How did your meeting go?” I ask, giving you a light tap on her shoulder.

“Good! I think that’s everything I need to get started.”

“Wow. So, should I call you Teio Torena-san, now?”

“Pfft!” You stifle a quick giggle. “C’mon, what are you—my student?”

We walk towards the train station. “Mmm. You know… I can be your trainee,” I joke. I shoot you a very specific, eager look, though I don’t think you catch it, seeing as you’re staring out into the sunset sky. Or maybe one of the nearby billboards has your attention—I’m not too sure.

On the train, you ask me about the rest of the dream.

I say: “I don’t know, like I told you.” I look out, past the towers and the houses in the distance, towards the quickly fading daylight. The entire day’s gone by so much faster than expected—I didn’t think it’d be sunset already, and now I feel like I could eat a… whole cow for dinner. “Maybe I’ll figure it out over some food?”

“Aw. Boo.”

“Heh. Yeah, sorry,” I say.

Off the corner of my eye I see another crow flying by the train. We’re seeing each other eye-to-eye. The crow is trying to tell me something.

The bird reminds me of El Condor Pasa, and of a question I should probably be asking. “Wait. Who are we seeing?”

“Everyone who you know and love.”

“Okay.” I don’t push it.

The train chugs along.

We hit a bump in the tracks, and I remember something else too. Something more latent. Hidden a little deeper. “Oh, you know, I know how it ended, at least.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Remember how, when I was a kid, I used to be able to wake myself up from nightmares? Did I tell you that?”

You hum in response.

“That’s what I did, I think. It was a nightmare. I can’t remember what it was about exactly, but I do know I forced myself to wake up from it. When I realized nothing was real, all I wanted was to go—”

“—Out,” you finish.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Out of there.”

The train stops at a faraway station, close to the end of the line. We’re close to the edge of the Tokyo city limits, now. Approaching the area with all the larger homes—properties big enough to have lawns and to need gardeners for maintenance and upkeep.

“Hey,” you start, poking me on the shoulder. I look back at you with an incredulous face. You’re still smirking. “Have I said this to you today?”

“Uh, what exactly?”

“I love you.”

I pause. That came out of nowhere.

“You’re thinking it came out of nowhere,” you say, waiting ahead of me with both hands on your hips. You’ve got such a proud look painted on your face. “No, not really. I just had to hit my daily quota!”

That’s funny. I never realized we had a daily quota to hit.

We keep walking towards the houses on the uphill, chatting all the while.

When we arrive at the location, I get a little spell of nausea. The sheer scale of the Mejiro residence always makes me dizzy. It’s not as glamorous as the family’s main estate that’s even further away, but it’s still fancy all the same. Fancy and large.

I remember. “Huh.”

We’re walking up the steps towards the residence’s front gate now. There aren’t very many—the street is like a quick saunter away. Still, it trips me up to see an entranceway that isn’t flush with, or isn’t pretty close to, the street. It’s a small indicator of wealth I’ve always been sensitive to. Inset entrances.

I watch you ring the bell. “I think this was one of the locations.”

“Huh?”

“In my dream,” I clarify. The intercom buzzes, and the latch snaps open, letting the door swing lazily inwards. “Yeah—I remember this door.”

“Ooh. Ominous.”

The restaurant—Tannhauser’s. Which was also my family’s bar. Which had a set of comfy cushioned chairs at the corner, by the window, and which—this was dream logic, I have to remind myself—was almost supernaturally connected to an entirely different location.

A location that we’re fast approaching.

“The Mejiro living room,” I continue. The memories keep coming back. We’d ordered honey-glazed carrot hamburger steak, and it arrived in takeout boxes while we were at the restaurant. “But it wasn’t just the restaurant, was it? We didn’t eat it there.”

You lead me past the front door and into the overly sized dining room.

I feel my stomach sink.

There’s—there’s a lot of faces here. A lot of unexpected ones.

“No,” I say, finishing my thoughts with a spark of recognizance. “We… had our dinner here.”

The sinking feeling suddenly pulls me down and onto the solid ground. I can’t find the strength to take another step into the grand hall. Meanwhile, everyone’s already inside, chatting joyously, sharing drinks and laughing and greeting each other with the exuberance of old friends in remembrance.

Some of them see me enter. Some of them wave.

I muster the energy to wave back.

Mejiro McQueen emerges from the kitchen, carrying a large metal tray filled with food hot enough to still be visibly steaming. Her oven mitts are neatly crafted with a flower pattern on the non-rubber outside, and she’s wearing her usual cozy casual outfit that always seems to fit every occasion. “I hope you’re all hungry?”

Several voices reply in earnest. Several that I don’t recognize. But your voice cuts through the miasma. “Oh, heck yeah! I’ve been starving!”

“...I’ve been starving,” I mutter. Where do I know that line from? Why—why have I heard you say that before, with that exact enunciation?

A blink. I find myself seated at the dinner table now. I want to look away from the food, but there’s nothing to see. The sun has all but set outside, leaving the dark blue of a late twilight sky overtop the trees. I can’t even make out the treeline. I don’t even think there are other houses around us.

The gears turn in my head. As far as I can tell, we’re as secluded as we would be if we were in the family estate proper, instead of the downtown residence.

We’ve moved places, and it somehow doesn’t bother me.

As the food gets passed round the table, I realize that a more pressing concern is at hand. There are faces around me—faces I don’t recognize. Faces I do recognize. My peers. My juniors. Mejiro Ryan is here. And, for some reason, some of the Golden Generation, too—Special Week, El Condor Pasa—and others whose presence I don’t understand. A whole bunch of juniors—Suzuka, Vodka, Daiwa Scarlet. Gold Ship. Am I remembering their names right?

I turn to you. You, Teio, who stay seated right beside me, holding a fork and a knife and ready to dig into the food on your plate. “Hey… what’s going on?”

“Dinner.”

“N-No.” That can’t be right. “Sweetheart. Hey. T-Teio.”

I look around the room. I don’t recognize anyone—no, no one that I really know, no one that I really love. Everybody I’m chasing, but nobody who was there by my side.

I tug on your arm. A thousand thoughts are streaming in my head. Where’s Ikuno Dictus? Where’s… where’s Twin Turbo? Where is Tannhauser, even?

You swallow your first bite. “They’re all retired now.”

No. That doesn’t make any sense.

“They never lasted in the Dream League, you know.”

That can’t be true!

I want to look around some more. See if I can’t find my friends in this massive labyrinth of a house. But just as I try to rise from my seat, I hear someone clearing their throat, and I look towards the source of the sound.

Mejiro McQueen is seated across from me, her elbows on the table, hands clasped together in front of her. “So, Nature. I heard you’re finally entering the Dream League?”

I nod. I am back in the seat. A napkin—made with materials far too expensive for me to ever consider buying—is laid out on my lap. “Uh. Yeah, yeah. I am.”

“You spoke with the President today.”

“I did.” I want to pull out my phone and show her my new employment contract, but I can’t find it in my pockets. “I signed onto her research team starting today. And I’m also—”

“Entering the Dream League.”

“N-No, I’ve been in for—”

“You’ve been working at that restaurant for quite a long time, Nature. You must have been waiting for someone to tell you that you’re relieved of such duties?”

That’s right. That’s where I’ve been, this entire time. “Yes,” I say. I don’t need my phone anymore. “I guess you could say that.”

“Well,” McQueen says, pulling out a lacquered wooden box from somewhere behind her. “I have something for you.” She places it down on the table. “It’s a gift—from all of us.”

I look around the table again. Everyone’s staring at me, now. Everyone. Everyone is in the Dream League. Everyone has been in the Dream League, except for me, since I’ve been in the Twinkle Series, and I’ve also been in the kitchen. Here and there and everywhere.

“Nature. You’re the best junior we’ve ever had. We look at your racing legacy with such great pride. To last in the Twinkle Series for that long—such strength! Such endurance!”

The box opens up to reveal a single scroll, wrapped shut and secured with a wax seal. It has the Mejiro crest on it. I know exactly what’s inside.

“Consider this your final reward, Nature. You’re catching up to the rest of us.”

The box is in front of me now. I rip open the wrapping and stare at the inside. It’s exactly like how I remember it.

“Welcome to the Dream League.”

It’s just like how it was in the dream, and how it was in real life. Replaying, replaying, replaying—nested scene after nested scene after nested scene, and—

—I look up.

Nobody is there.

I look to my left. I look to my right.

You’re not here, either.

I stand up. There’s nothing stopping me from walking around, now, so I do.

This house is massive. I mean, I’ve always thought of it as such, ever since the first time I stepped foot in here. The decorations far surpass anything I could ever hope to afford. I struggle to think about the land in terms of pure acreage. I mean, I’m a simple family girl, for crying out loud! My family owns a bar. That’s as good as I’m ever going to get.

I step out into the hallway. It’s just more glitz and glamour. I follow the green carpet down the hall, looking at every doorway, wondering what’s behind each one. I don’t stop until I find a door set ajar.

I peek inside. It’s a reading room of sorts.

I step in.

The door shuts right behind me.

Alone, now, in this room. I look around—towards the immeasurably tall ceiling, to the walls on either end that feel like a short walk’s worth of distance, and down onto the hardwood floor, occasionally interrupted by fine rugs laid down to protect the surface from rough furniture legs. All of it serves to make me feel… small. Diminutive would be a good term. It reminds me that I don’t belong in this estate, built upon years and years of a racing family’s great legacy.

There is a fireplace just ahead of me, flanking a simple setup of a couple of couches around a coffee table. It seems like the perfect place to warm up and tuck in for a good night’s read. I head towards the lit-up logs and the lively flame.

I stick my hand out, close to the grated metal fireplace door. It’s rather warm.

“You’re here.”

That’s your voice. I turn around. You’re lying down on the couch, tucked underneath a blanket, with a really big novel over your chest.

My Tokai Teio, looking as cozy as ever.

I never thought of you as a reader.

“C’mere.”

I move closer. I kneel down on both legs and rest my head on your lap.

You put your hand to my head and start playing with my hair.

It’s strange. In all our years, I’ve always known you as the rowdy girl. You’re bright and bubbly—always rearing to go, like you had a roaring flame inside your body that couldn’t shut itself off. Every time you pulled me by the hand to go somewhere, I was ready to just get dragged along. It was fun.

But seeing you here now, I notice something different. Between the fireplace, the blankets, the expensive couch and rug and chandelier hanging above our heads, I sense a subtle effect. You’ve grown a sense of restraint. You feel… subdued. You look like you’ve allowed yourself a chance to rest for the first time in your life—like this was the first time you’d ever stopped racing, after a whole career’s worth of running non-stop, always going ahead, chasing after your next big dream.

You look almost regal, now. Still with your youthful energy and your snark and your sass, but somehow… more vulnerable. Older. Gentler.

Resting within this great estate, I think to myself: You look like you’ve always belonged here.

A Mejiro’s prince at heart.

I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to see this side of you properly. I wonder if all I’ll know is the Tokai Teio who’s forever animated and full of life and doesn’t know when to stop; never the Tokai Teio who’s trying to learn to rest, trying to learn to slow down, trying to find her place in life after everything’s said and done.

I wonder if you trust me with that side of you?

“Hey.” That’s you.

I look up at your face. You, with those brilliant cyan eyes, the ones that I always love to see in the mornings before we head out for work.

“Sweetheart.”

I close my eyes.

I want to savor this moment.

I open my mouth to speak. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

“Heh. Yeah… me too.”

This is a replay of a conversation we’d had years and years ago. Or maybe a stilted recollection of it. “Finally caught up to you after all these years. Look, I made it.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“The Dream League.”

“Yeah.”

I nod in the dark.

“So. You got tired of the Twinkle Series, huh?”

I laugh—that’s not exactly right. “No. Trainer and I just… thought it was finally time for me to graduate. I’ve left my mark.”

And there’s something inside me that wants to be choked out, so badly, but I am here. I am in control. Calm. Patient. Savoring. It’s a good dish. I don’t need to say any rash words. And in this patience, I keep my true feelings quiet.

“Yeah. That’s that,” I finish. “So, what about you?”

Your turn to snicker. It feels a little forced—like you’re trying to hide your embarrassment after a bad joke. “Well…”

“Hm? C’mon, anything exciting?”

“I think I’m done with the Dream League, actually.” You look away, a smile still painted on your face. It seems more fake than ever. “Yeah.”

“Wait. You’re—you’re done?”

“I know, right? I just got here.” Looking distantly, now, towards an endless darkness. Two malformed figures of memory conversing with sentences half-remembered. “I can’t find any teams who want to run me in the Champion’s Meetings or anything else, really, so… I made the decision to quit.”

My protests have always gone unnoticed, but I try anyway. I have to. “B-But why? You could always—”

“Hey. It’s okay, Natie! I had my time.”

“But I…”

“Hey. Queenie and I have a lot of great things planned anyway. She’s retired already, so I get to join her in that good old retirement bliss. Got some great projects cooking up. Thinking I… might be a trainer.”

That’s not fair. It never was fair—it still isn’t. “I… darn, I just caught up to you guys, you know?” I croak out, trying so hard to keep tears from flowing down my face, faking a smile with the eyes and all. Closing my eyes to fake a genuine smile also helps me keep from crying. “That’s really bad timing. Wow.”

“Yeah.”

You can’t bear to turn around and face me.

“I’m… sorry. I’ve already moved on.”

I don’t know what to say. I’ve never known what to say to you.

“But, hey! You should hop on over to the estate some day. And, who knows—maybe once you’re done racing for real, we can do something together?”

There it is—those fateful words. Maybe, once I’m done racing. Right. As if stopping could ever be that easy—as if chasing my dreams was a simple whim I could end with the snap of a finger.

I want, so badly, to make you understand. You’re such a big reason why I race—always have been, always will be—but you’re far from the only thing that’s keeping me here.

Without you, what else is there for me in that world?

“I don’t know,” you say. “Can’t you find something else?”

You know the answer to that. It’s never that easy.

“You can’t hold on to me forever, Natie.”

What choice do I have?

“Find something else to do.”

Like what? What else could actually give meaning to this miserable life of running around in circles? Do I just give up on all of this and, what, go back to helping my family run a bar? Take up the family business?

I look to you for an answer.

I need your help.

You have to help me.

You open your mouth. “Didn’t you just score a professorship?”

I open my eyes.

I wake up.

I am standing.

I am back in the room where it all began. It’s midnight, now, and a bright moonlight pierces through the blinds, painting the queen-size bed a brilliant white. The sheets are undisturbed. There is a pillow at the center of it—an ergonomic pillow fit for just one, and an Umamusume-specific bolster for good measure. A decent setup for joint and back pain. Everything I see is stark white, plain, unremarkable, bought from department stores and washed until the fine quality of the fabric degrades into an unwelcoming coarseness.

This room used to be filled with framed pictures and paintings, but looking around, I don’t see anything adorning the walls. Bare paint greets me on every corner. There is no Moleskine journal on the nightstand. All the furniture looks like cheap particleboard fare.

A light breeze billows past the open windows. I am soaked. I am sweating. I am freezing.

I look towards the bedsheets, and I realize: I am cold, and I do not have anyone to warm me.

Do I even bother tucking into the bed? Another breeze makes me shiver, and I figure it probably isn’t worth it.

Funny, these nested nightmares.

I think of you again.

I entered the Dream League three years after you did. You, Tokai Teio—I was chasing after you. I wanted to race with you.

But by the time I got in, you weren’t racing anymore.

I… never got to realize that the Arima Kinen was the last time we would ever race together, either. I never got to say goodbye.

And we were so, so young. All I knew to do was to just feel the heartbreak.

That’s right.

It’s all in the past.

I look to the treeline outside. We are still far from the city—we are still in a secluded grove.

None of this is real. Once more I try—and for good, this time. Praying to the air. Praying to get out of here.

I need to wake up.

Please.

Wake me up.

Wake me up!

Nice Nature jolts out of bed with a loud gasp.

She shivers.

Her sheets are damp.

She thinks she’s been having night sweats. It tracks—there've been times recently when she’s been so stressed out she brings it with her to bed, but she didn’t think it would be so bad as to leave her shivering in the cold even under a thick layer of sheets.

She blames everything for it. She blames her 9th place finishes in the Dream League, where she’ll never get the chance to sing a Winning Live properly. She blames her dead-end job with no upward mobility—a desperate attempt to find something that’s still tangentially related to the world of racing that isn’t actually racing on turf. She doesn’t know what the matter is. All she knows is that she has nightmares, night after night, especially when things get very stressful and she wants nothing more than to run away from it all.

The dream rushes back at her. Everything—every part of it, in perfect clarity.

She doesn’t even need to pen it down in the dream journal. This dream, she’ll remember forever.

She gets nauseous.

Throwing away the blankets, Nice Nature stumbles out of bed, both arms outstretched to stop her from falling. She’s looking for the bathroom. One wrong step, and through sheer disorientation she leans onto the unlocked doorway, and she stumbles into the bathroom with a crash. She hits her head on the tile.

“Ow…”

There’s a stirring coming from the bedroom—more rustling sheets, a grumble, a sign of life.

Nice Nature sighs. She wasn’t planning on making so much noise. Ugh… I feel so sick. She slams the bathroom door shut with one hand and reaches out for the toilet.

She empties her stomach. All of it. Every piece of dinner. And then she slumps on the tile, weakened, no spirit left in her body to wake.

She groans. There’s a knock on the door. She ignores it.

The dream flashes back in Nature’s mind. Teio, and herself, holding hands, walking up that hill. She can still smell the summer breeze. She can still feel the setting sun’s warmth.

“Hey. Have I said this to you today?”

“Uh, what exactly?”

“I love you.”

Those words. They ring in her ears. She can still envision that silly grin back on the campus, before they split apart for the day.

I am nodding. “Sure. I’ll see you in an hour or two?”

You nod, too. “Love ya, babe.”

The taste of her simple breakfast lingers at the tip of her tongue. The morning whirr of the blender that greets her by the countertop—she can hear it too, distant past the knocking and the call beyond the door, distant past her sobbing and her tears. She can hear it all.

“What, you thinking of taking my smoothie?”

“No. I’m just staring.”

The knocking gets louder. She doesn’t want to worry anyone, so she grabs the sink by the edge and tries to use it to help herself up.

Midway through, the shoddy DIY caulking shatters. The sink takes on a slightly stilted angle. She leans against the wall as she stands, and then looks at the cabinet mirror.

She looks miserable. God, she looks like she could die.

It makes her cry all the more.

Nice Nature falls back down onto the tile—this time, out of sheer despair. Her heart aches with the sensation of a knife plunging into her, again and again, and she cries out, and she unlatches the lock on the door with a strained reach of her arm, and then she crumbles into a heap.

The opening door shoves her arm out of the way. It hurts.

Hands start to travel over her body. Worry. Worry everywhere. Yelling in the air—her spouse is here, asking her if she’s okay, asking her if someone needs to call 119.

She wants, so badly, to be able to respond. But she can’t. Teio’s voice is still reverberating in her head, and with every line she just wants to cry harder. It’s the only way she can drown it out.

“Wow. So, should I call you Teio Torena-san, now?”

“Pfft! C’mon, what are you—my student?”

“Mmm. You know… I can be your trainee.”

The memories keep coming in. A false hope from a false dream. Stuck in this nightmare. Chipping at her soul.

She just wants to wake up.

Wake up. Please.

Please.

Wake me up.

Somebody. Anybody.

Teio…

Please…