Work Text:
Fuma is new to Chuncheon a year before Kei is new to city.
According to the other kids in their grade, this gives her seniority over the new girl.
“She should call you sunbaenim,” Ham Koeun says to her, in that characteristically serious tone of hers that unnerves Fuma to no end. “Since you came from Japan first.”
It’s confusing—Kei is older than Fuma, she introduced herself as a gu-chil-nyeon-saeng in front of the class, with all the confidence Fuma lacked a year earlier despite the clumsiness around the syllables. She’s born in 1997. Fuma came right after her, sometime in 1998.
Lim Tia makes sure that they remember. “Won’t it be so rude if Fuma tells her to call her sunbae, then?”
“Look at this girl,” Koeun scowls. “You never call me unnie and I’m older than you.”
“That’s different,” Tia says. “Because you don’t look like you could beat me up for that. Kei-ssi, on the other hand…”
Kei doesn’t look like she could beat Fuma up, either. All she’s got on Fuma is her height. And that walk. And they way every other kid seems transfixed on her, the way she highlights a line on her book and scribbles something down on her notebook. She looks interesting, and Fuma wistfully wishes she felt familiar, too.
In the end, what happens is this:
“Are you Japanese too?” The language tickles warmly in Fuma’s ears. Somebody other than her mom speaking in sounds she doesn’t have to think about, just hear.
They’re part of the group that stays behind to clean the classroom today: Fuma’s got a broom in her hand, Kei cleaned the blackboard and the erasers until not a single speck of chalk was visible on either.
“I- I am,” Fuma says, uncertainly. “I’m from Shizuoka-ken. What about you?”
“Chiba-ken.” Closer to Tokyo, more populated than Shizuoka-ken. “I’m older than you,” she says, doesn’t ask. It’s not a competition, but Kei’s eyebrows are tense like it might be. When Fuma looks away from her face, her eyes land on the white traces of chalk littering the floor.
Fuma hums. “I was born in 1998,” she says. Japanese people don’t care about stuff like this. She’s half-expecting Kei to ask her. To tell her she can comfortably tack on a sweet chan at the end of her name, ask Fuma if she can do the same to her. If she wants to be friends.
She gets an eyeful of Kei’s white sock digging into a clump of chalk particles instead. “Call me unnie. We’re friends now.” Even though they are all meant to stay in the classroom until everyone’s tasks are done, she leaves.
Fuma’s left in the classroom with the rest of her classmates, who don’t say anything about the girl who walked out of the room without looking back. She’s sweeping up the last of the dust and the chalk when she remembers, right, Kei-unnie is in the track team.
Right. Kei-unnie.
Tia moves back to America sometime during middle school and Koeun no longer finds Fuma insteresting, prefers to hang out with other like-minded people, other Koreans.
Fuma’s sixteen when she starts feeling terribly alone.
“Join a club.” Kei is out of breath, about to turn seventeen and into a legend at school. She keeps breaking her own records on the field. Fuma likes to watch from the bleachers, how the other kids’ legs start to shake the moment she overtakes them. Fuma likes to watch from the bleachers; ignore the way her own knees weaken at the sight. “That’s what most people do.”
“You know I’m not like most people, unnie,” Fuma mumbles, passing her a water bottle, a towel.
Kei is mesmerizing in everything she does. She’s tall and beautiful and fast – fast in ways that tie Fuma’s tongue in a knot and make sweat gather along her spine. It’s best she doesn’t think of that. It’s best if she focuses.
Her mama did suggest the same before the school term. She grabbed Fuma by the shoulders over the summer and kissed her forehead, leaving an awkwardly wet spot there that Fuma itched to wash away, wished would seep into her skin like a brand forever. She told her, “Won’t you do something different for once, baby?”, like a plea. Like the clump of hair in the shower drain, begging to be ripped away.
Just like the mass of hair, Fuma filed it away for later.
“You’re just freakish, Fuma, not an actual freak,” Kei laughs, gulping down a mouthful of water. “Put yourself out there. Sign up for a club. I heard the judo team is looking for members. Put that pudge to work, why don’t you.” She jogs back to the field, the edges of her bobbed hair swishing with the movement.
Later is now, with Fuma watching the ripples of Kei’s shoulders under her thermal shirt.
There’s a snack on Fuma’s desk when they get back from lunch.
Kei swipes it immediately. “Who is – Ei-ju?”
Euijoo—Byun Eui-joo, sounds like Wi-ju—is an underclassman. He’s sweet and nice and kind, and he’s part of the fencing club. She only tells Kei part of this, avoids the filler words.
“Why’s he giving you candy?” It’s a choco pie from the concession stall, Fuma sees. Kei unwraps the treat slowly, brings it to her mouth for a delectable bite. Fuma’s own fills with saliva for some reason. “Is he flirting with you?” Kei laughs, lips wide-open and teeth stained in chocolate. She looks too sweet for how undesirable she makes it sound.
“No, unnie. I don’t think he is,” Fuma says meekly.
Byun Euijoo is just sweet. He’s a kid, a year and some months younger than Fuma, with an older sister that graduated last year. Flirting is not what he’s doing, even if he touches Fuma’s hand during fencing training, or walks her to judo club on the days the fencing team doesn’t meet. It’s just her bag on his shoulder.
“Right,” Kei keeps giggling. “Who would do that?”
It’s just Euijoo’s note crumpled up in the trash can. It’s just a choco pie in Kei’s mouth.
Kei travels to Japan for her seventeenth birthday.
The week before, she’s on Fuma’s bed with her dirty socks rubbing against her comforter. “You should come with me,” Kei says, casually. “To Japan.”
“What,” Fuma asks from the chair by her desk.
“Well, duh.” Kei rolls her big eyes at her. “You’re my best friend, I want you on my birthday with me. It’s only obvious.”
Fuma almost recoils at that - she is Kei’s best friend, isn’t she? They have been through so much together. Every loss Kei has experienced, as few as they are, and the tears on Fuma’s clothes—well, they’ve held each other through it all, differently. She knows the hard steel of Kei’s eyes that toughens her up, and Kei’s burrowed in the warmth of Fuma’s arms many times. That’s what they are, then. Best friends.
It hits her so hard it brings a sigh out of her. “Really?”
Kei ignores her. “I’d like you to meet my family and my friends from Japan, you know?” She says, “I think you’d like them,” because she knows Fuma well. “We could go to my favorite restaurants and I’ll show you the parks I liked best growing up, before I came here…” She sighs wistfully, Fuma joins her right along.
She envisions nights out with Kei in Chiba-ken, a train to Tokyo together. She imagines a sunset in the city with her, a dessert with two spoons, and laughter. She wants to laugh with Kei in Japan the most. They don’t do it together as often in South Korea, in Chuncheon. It would be different in Japan—in Chiba-ken, in Shizuoka-ken—in Shinjuku-ku. She knows it as well as the print of Kei’s body on her bed.
She knows it almost as much as the edge of Kei’s jokes, slicing through the atmosphere with the precision of a sword.
“I wish you could afford it,” Kei clicks her tongue. “Start pulling your weight, Fuma-ssi.”
Fuma stares at her and her closed eyes, divine in the softness of the pillows Fuma sleeps on, long enough to notice the moment Kei dozes off.
Thursdays, the judo club and the track club meet.
Thursdays, Kei goes to the locker room in the East wing; Fuma changes in the West wing.
Thursdays, Euijoo walks Fuma to the judo club.
“You don’t have to do this, Euijoo-ssi,” she tells him like a habit.
“Noona,” Euijoo lets out that long-suffering exhale that comes after the defeat of a loose grip, “didn’t I tell you to stop being so formal with me? I feel awkward being so casual with you if you’re being like that.”
Fuma can’t help but blush under the intensity of his brown gaze, so lit-up and honest. She wonders how it’s possible to carry that much emotion at sixteen, if it’s possible to store it away. “Sorry. Euijoo.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic about it,” Euijoo laughs, full-body. The charms on her bag jingle with every one of his steps, the strap bouncing off his shoulder. “I told you already. I know I don’t have to walk you there, noona, but I want to.” He did say that already – many times. It’s always brave in a meek way, something big said in a hesitant, small voice. She always hears something right after it, an echo in her head: strange, isn’t he.
She laughs down at her feet. She watches them, forcing them not to stumble. “You’re very peculiar, Byun Euijoo.”
He chuckles, slowing down as they come up to the door of the judo room. Euijoo stands in front of her, hand gripping the bag strap on his shoulder, and just. Stares at her, overwhelmingly.
It’s a scene she’s used to, grows shy in front of. Her clumsy hands always try to wave it away.
“Well, thanks to you I’ve survived the dark hallway of doom. Good job, Euijoo-y—”
“Noona,” Euijoo interrupts her. Quiet, his voice clutches at her just the same, and the step he takes forward stifles her in warmth. “Is it really that weird?”
Fuma swallows a mouthful of saliva. “What, Euijoo?”
She does her best to ignore his wandering eyes, how closely they observe every inch of her face. She does her best to put a name to what she’s feeling. All her mind comes up with is a note, discarded and balled-up before she even got a chance.
“That I want to spend more time with you. Does it really put you off that much?”
All it turns into is a familiarly long and pale, doll-like face mouthing along - who would do that?, it asks.
She opens her mouth to say something. Puts up her hand to – push him away, pull him closer. She turns it into a weak fist. The fist around an épée, around a letter; the hand wrapped around a bottle, soaked in condensation. Condescension.
Kei’s voice comes out instead. “Who is this?”
She’s walking towards them, eyeing the space existing between Fuma and Euijoo with disdain. The same disapproval on her face as the time Fuma fell off her bike, failed the lesson.
“Unnie.” Fuma feels parched, like her tongue has been replaced with sandpaper and her mouth filled with salt. “This is Euijoo.”
A light blinks in Kei’s eyes. “Ah,” but that’s all she says to him. “Fuma. You left your hairtie in my bag.”
Fuma takes it. She hadn’t noticed. Her hair’s usually down around Euijoo, she likes the way it brushes against his arm when they walk together. Kei says she looks better with it up.
“Thanks, unnie.”
There’s a silence here that’s probably not in the judo room, where she won’t have to see Euijoo staring at Kei like that and Kei looking right back at him.
“I’m going to leave first,” she says quietly, grabbing her bag from Euijoo and slowly inching towards the door. “Thanks again. To both of you.”
Inside the room, she’s wrapped in the sound of people stretching and feet padding across the ground, the chatter of her teammates.
Outside the door, stands the question still, hanging on a cliff - who would do that?
The answer dangles.
Kei is fast.
Fast in ways that look like other boys wrapping their hands around her waist, fingers sneaking into her shirt. A club with low lights and a fake ID, a cute pout to hide the inadequacy of it. She weasels through life. Already has had mouthfuls of the future, fistfuls of her very own lust. She’s bent her knees, drawn blood, sobbed out against the lockers and sworn off names before making it to eighteen.
She gives advice to Fuma like she’s years ahead, not just a round of months and then some. She says stuff like, “You’re so lucky,” because, “nobody wants you. It’s better like that.”
She says many things she doesn’t mean because Kei speaks faster than she thinks, is all. Because she’s fast.
Fast in ways that have pushed Fuma against walls with a finger pressed to her lips and a hand sneaking down, past her waistband. And when Fuma, strength flimsy thin, asked her what she was doing, Kei told her, “I’m helping you.” She promised, she was. Fuma knew she was. They both did, because Kei asked her, “Don’t you want it?” like she already had the answer.
Yeah, Fuma wanted it. She wants it all the time. She wants Kei to touch her past the disgust, the unsightliness, and sink into her. She realized the moment Kei’s eyes lit up at the wetness—a cat about to eat the poor, hungry mouse, cornered and helpless.
Kei is fast. Has a fast mouth.
Fast as in, they’re done before anyone notices. Can’t let anyone know. It’s their secret.
Fast as in,
“That Euijoo kid – you don’t like him, do you?” They’re arranging the classroom, duty after class. Fuma bends a fingernail by gripping a chair too hard.
She looks down at Kei, unimpressed as she scrapes gum off the underside of a desk. Nobody asked her to do that. She’s just done with what she was tasked with. “Um,” Fuma mumbles, “why do you ask, unnie?”
Kei sighs – long-suffering, wise beyond her years. “I think he likes me,” she says.
“Why?” Again, Fuma asks. She doesn’t really want to know, she thinks. Her question keeps sprouting arms in her head—questions of Euijoo correcting Kei’s posture with his hands on her shoulders and carrying her bag and leaving snacks on her table, and sitting on the bleachers just to watch her and cooling a bottle of water for her and letting Kei push him against the wall and—
“He’s been texting me.”
“Ah…” is Fuma’s reply, just as grating in the silent room as the scratch of the metal scraper against the wood.
There isn’t much else for her to say. Kei is fast.
Fast as in,
“I think I’ll send him a picture today,” said cheekily, viciously, hurtfully.
She skips off to track practice soon enough. Fuma stays right there.