Work Text:
Mizuki had been at this for hours.
Usually, she enjoyed making dresses. One might even argue it was her life’s purpose. Cutting and threading and designing were as easy as breathing to her; it was almost as if she’d been born to create, and the rest of her life had fallen into place around her desire to design.
But recently Mizuki felt as though she was starting to forget the carefully crafted language she’d spent her whole life learning.
It had started small. She’d find an issue she wanted to correct - usually a slightly crooked stitch or a misplaced ribbon - and she wouldn’t be able to forget about it like she usually would. Mizuki didn’t mind her work being imperfect, in fact, it was something she liked about her pieces. But for some reason she was suddenly finding it hard to allow herself to make small mistakes. So, she fixed the stitch. Moved the ribbon ever so slightly to the left. Just to put her mind at ease.
And then she’d find something else to correct.
And the cycle would continue.
It wasn’t much of an issue at first, reworking a stitch she’d just sewn was hardly doing God’s work. After eating, sleeping and breathing textiles her whole life, Mizuki was quite efficient - a simple mistake didn’t set her back by much.
Until she started spiralling.
Very quickly, a crooked stitch became a whole seam needing to be redone; a misplaced bow became five mismatched accessories that needed to be moved; and Mizuki simply couldn’t leave them untouched. She needed to fix every single imperfection. Otherwise a sharp twinge of anxiety would come lunging at her, and she wouldn’t be able to sleep as long as her gown remained imperfect.
Which led her to now, hours into a project with barely any progress to show for it. She’d resewn the lace to the sleeves five times. She’d attached and reattached three different styles of buttons because she was convinced she needed to see every design fully sewn on to make the right decision. She’d reworked the pleats in the skirt more times than she could count, because every single time one fold was slightly too large or there were too many pleats or it just didn’t look right and Mizuki couldn’t function if it wasn’t absolutely perfect.
Her hands were sore. There was fabric littering the floor of her shared bedroom. She was starting to think her back would snap if she worked any longer.
But she had to, because she’d just spotted a mistake in the neckline of the dress, which meant she had to pull out all the stitches and start again.
Angrily, she lunged at the dress infront of her, reaching for the neckline to tear it at the seams. She couldn’t hold back the aggression anymore. She was so, so sick of this dress. She was so, so sick of reworking everything because nothing felt right. She was so, so sick of this goddamn spiral she’d thrown herself into and couldn’t get out of.
And yet, she continued.
~
The sun was dipping below the horizon when the door creaked open behind Mizuki, although the sound didn’t stop her. She continued working on the embroidery she’d reworked at least six times, her fingers numb as she did so. Her laser focus didn’t seem to deter the intruder though, as she vaguely heard slow footsteps before a warm hand found solace on her shoulder.
For the first time in hours, she looked up, her neck screaming in pain at the motion.
Ah. It was Ena. Looking extremely concerned.
Mizuki shrank back a little, mind beginning to cloud with memories from earlier on in the day. Ena had tried to pull her out of her obsessive routine, gently asking her to come into the kitchen for a few minutes for something to eat. But Mizuki had been halfway through re-pleating the skirt for the second time. So she’d snapped at her.
Ena hadn’t retaliated like she usually would have. Instead she’d retreated to the kitchen to make Mizuki some toast, and had returned briefly to silently place it on her desk.
And the designer was just now coming to the realisation that she hadn’t even touched it.
Ena's eyes must have followed Mizuki's own to the untouched toast on her desk, as she sighed slightly and reached for the plate. A wave of cold, undeniable guilt washed over the designer as she watched her girlfriend leave the room, toast in hand, before she heard the familiar clang of the kitchen bin opening. Ena had spent time making that food for her. She'd made it out of pure love. And Mizuki had just forced her to throw it away.
She felt sick.
Ena returned in ample time, and before Mizuki knew it the artist was standing by her side again, her hand clasped over Mizuki’s own, which was still gripping the embroidery needle. Ena squeezed, her second hand coming to card through her girlfriend’s rosy locks as she spoke.
“Put the needle down, Mizuki. You've been working all day.” She said, voice firm, but not unkind. Mizuki panicked, a hot bubble of anxiety growing in her chest.
“I can’t Ena. I need to-“
“You don’t need to do anything, Mizuki.” Ena gently interrupted. “You’re spiralling. Nothing bad’s gonna happen if you put the needle down, I promise.”
The hot bubble of anxiety grew stronger as the air around the designer became thick, preventing her from breathing in fully. Ena was there in a heartbeat, crouching down to meet her girlfriend eye-to-eye. She reached out, brushing a piece of Mizuki’s hair behind her ear.
“Breathe, Mizuki. This has happened before. Every other time you’ve spiralled like this you’ve been fine. You’ll be fine. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”
Mizuki looked at the desk through her blurred vision, eyeing the dress she’d spent the past few hours obsessing over. There were still so many mistakes she could see, even through her unfocused gaze, and the thought of leaving them untouched made her want to throw up. She couldn’t help it, her brain was screaming at her, telling her that if she didn’t fix every single error she spotted something absolutely terrible would happen. The thoughts were suffocating.
Logically, she knew Ena was right. That she’d be fine if she left the dress alone for tonight. But the hot pool of anxiety within her didn’t listen to logic. It wanted her to act. To right her wrongs just in case her brain was right. She didn’t know what to do.
Beside her, Ena seemed to have sensed her girlfriend’s inner turmoil, and turned Mizuki’s head to tear her gaze away from the gown.
“Don’t think about that. Focus on your breathing first. Then you can make a decision.” Ena offered, taking in a few deep breaths herself to demonstrate. Mizuki nodded shakily, before clumsily copying the artist’s actions.
It took a while, but eventually Mizuki’s breathing had mostly evened out, aside from the odd stutter here or there. Ena smiled, her brown eyes shimmering under the bedroom light in a way that almost made Mizuki melt. She offered a small smile in return, trying not to stare at her girlfriend’s unfairly beautiful face. Her attempts appeared to be in vain however, as Ena rolled her eyes in amusement.
“You’ve literally just recovered from a full on panic attack and your first instinct is to check me out?” She mumbled, obviously trying not to giggle. Mizuki smirked, feeling free for the first time in a while.
“But Enanan’s just so pretty!” She croaked, tears still evident in her voice. She watched as Ena tried and failed to fight back a smile, before she eventually gave in and pecked the designer on the cheek.
“So are you. I guess.” She replied, before squeezing Mizuki’s hand, still cradling the needle, “Come join me in bed?”
Mizuki gulped. She could still feel the barely-there weight of the cold needle against her hand. Her brain was wailing at her to stay, to pull away from her girlfriend and carry on spiralling. But deep down she knew she didn’t want to surrender to the dark depths of her mind. And besides, she knew that Ena could quell the storm of anxiety Mizuki often felt in a heartbeat.
Reluctantly, Mizuki unwound her fingers from around the tiny stick of steel. It hit the desk with a small clink and rolled in a small circle for a few seconds before coming to a stop. Mizuki watched it for a moment. There, alone on the desk without anyone to hold it, the needle looked harmless. It couldn’t move without Mizuki, it couldn’t sew without Mizuki, it couldn’t make or fix mistakes without Mizuki. Mizuki had full control over the tiny slip of metal currently laid flat against the desk.
Mizuki felt her lip wobble, out of exhaustion or relief or frustration she didn’t know, and immediately Ena pulled her close, hands coming up to stroke her girlfriend’s hair. The designer collapsed against her, all fight draining out of her body, and silently cried, emotions pouring out of her as her tears stained Ena’s shirt. It took a while, but eventually her body stopped shaking, and all her despair had been drained. She pulled back, throat sore, and glanced at the damp stain she’d left behind on her girlfriend’s clothing.
The first mistake today she didn’t feel the urge to fix.
Ena smiled, hair glistening under the pink rays of sunset spilling in through the window, and pulled Mizuki up towards the bed.
“I’m proud of you, Mizuki.” She whispered into the serene air of the room.
Mizuki’s brain was still screaming. Her eyes kept wandering over to the dress on her desk.
But eventually, the soft, overwhelming love of the artist beside her drowned the screaming of her brain out.
And when Mizuki slept that night, she didn’t dream about the mistakes, or her numb hands, or the spiral she couldn’t escape.
She dreamt of Ena. And warm toast.
And love.