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“Why are there so many baldies, oi,” mutters Paako. “Does your father think you have some kind of fetish for that kind of thing?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” huffs the smaller woman. “I don’t know. You’re not even reading them, give me those - ”
Paako makes a dismissive nose, flapping a pink-nailed hand. “They aren’t worth it, I think they’re all monks from the same temple.”
Leaning over to inspect the pile, Zura frowns. “…Uwah.”
“See?”
“…Put them in that pile.”
The white-haired woman practically throws them into the substantial reject pile, although she can’t help but add, “I knew you were too vain to marry a baldie.”
“Shut up! That’s not why.” Zura sits up, pushing that soft, inky black hair behind her ear. The taller woman watches it slide smoothly against the other’s fingers ruefully. …Not that she’s jealous of that damn wig, or anything. Natural perms would come into style eventually. “Bald men have bad temperaments. Without hair, the sun goes straight into their scalps all day, and it makes them disagreeable.”
“What? Your brain is the one that’s fried. You vain bitch.”
“I’m not vain!”
“Aa, maybe you’re right.” Paako props up onto her elbows, listlessly shifting the pile of marriage applicants. “A vain person would want a baldie, so they could spit-shine that dome and see themselves in it.”
“Ew.” The long-haired woman hums, bare lips pursing and catching Paako’s eye next. She’s not wearing any make-up today, which is frustrating, because she looks like something out of a fashion magazine anyway. Zura always looks good, fresh-faced and composed. Paako supposes that’s probably why there are so many goddamned folders to go through.
“…He isn’t bad,” the smaller woman murmurs dubiously. “He… has hair.”
“Don’t set the bar too high, now. Let me see.” She shifts on top of the other’s knee, peering at the photo, and then tsks. “Are you kidding? This guy? He looks like he’s never smiled in his life.”
“He’s a doctor.”
“Who would trust a doctor that looks so glum? Have any of his patients ever survived? That frog-face of his seems to say no.”
“Stop basing everything off looks!” Zura’s voice suddenly raises. “You have to read them, too! I need to finish going through these! If you’re not reading them, you’re not even helping, and if you’re not helping, why should I even bother - ”
Paako holds up her hands, taken aback by the outburst. “Oi, oi, calm down.”
The other woman gives another tight frown, putting Dr. Frog into the reject pile. After a few moments of strained silence, she mutters stiffly. “…It’s not because of what you said. He’s allergic to pets.”
“Aa.” She doesn’t push it; she knows why the other is so tense, after all. Zura’s stress levels seem to be directly proportionate to the number of times she goes back to her father with a thick stack of refusals in hand. “…Got any ice cream left?”
“Just green tea.”
“What the hell kind of girl are you? You don’t have any chocolate?”
“You finished it yesterday. You’re going to get - ”
“Fat? You sayin’ I’m fat? I can’t help it if I’m goddamn curvy. Who are you to say anything, you shitty twig? Come back to me when you finally grow some boobs.”
“I was going to say diabetes.”
Paako ignores her, propping herself up on the bed and rolling off. Zura’s apartment is extremely small, but cozy and well furnished. She supposes it makes sense her friend would choose such a place to live, considering how large and lonely the Katsura family estate is. A comfortable den with plenty of hot water is all Zura needs out of a living space to be happy.
Not that any of those bastards in those stupid folders would know that. They didn’t know anything about her happiness, and yet they would be the ones who Zura would end up with –
She calls out, sudden and gruff, mostly to distract herself from the tightness in her chest, “Oi, Zura, are you havin’ any?”
“It’s not Zura, it’s Zurako.”
“Well?”
“Fine.”
Zura eating ice cream in the afternoon? This is bad, Paako thinks, yanking open the freezer. Why does God hate her so much? First she’s cursed with a perm and wide-load hips, and now she has to emotionally support the person she likes while said person tries to pick a husband? Whatever the hell wrongs she did in her past life better have been worth it, because this hopeless affection definitely isn’t going to be.
When she walks back into the bedroom toting two bowls, Zura is lying face down among the sheets of paper and shiny photographs.
“I should just give up,” the puddle of hair intones dully. “They’re all old and bald and they never smile.”
Shit. “It’s not so bad?” Paako responds unconvincingly.
It’s ineffective. Zura sounds like she’s going to the gallows. “I am going to become Mrs. Frowning Baldie Grandma.”
Paako puts the bowls down on the floor, plunking back on the bed. After a moment, she reaches out, fingers sifting through dark hair. “…Just tell your father you’ll get married later. After grad school.”
“He says it’s better if I start young.”
“What, so you’re eligible for the old perverts?”
“I don’t know.”
The taller woman sighs, idly segmenting the other’s hair to either side of her nape. It’s a beautiful neck – smooth and flawless, pale like a damn powdered-up geisha girl. Her fingers trace down the sensitive skin, just to feel the other shudder. Zura doesn’t disappoint, shivering to the teasing touch and mumbling, “Kn-knock it off.”
“Mm.” Paako isn’t listening. “…What’s your folder say, anyway? ‘Twiggy wig seeks enormously well-endowed - ’”
“Paako.”
“Fine, fine. ‘Seeks nice, sensitive guy, who enjoys historical dramas, small fuzzy animals, and shitty bland food. …Dick optional.’”
“It doesn’t say that.”
She wishes it did. “What’s it say, then?”
“What does it matter? It’s in this mess somewhere. I think it’s stapled to the green folder.”
The white haired woman roots around in the papers and folders, picking up her ice cream while she’s at it, thank you very much. When she finds it, she opens it on her lap, dark red eyes scanning. “Foo carefth abow diff fit?”
“Take the spoon out.”
Pop. “Who cares about this shit? University classes, career goals, flower arranging skills? This reads like a report card.”
“My father said this is what men would be interested in.”
“Yeah, right. If that’s how these things worked, they’d be centerfolds. Oi, and this is a bold-faced lie, you can’t cook worth a damn.”
Zura lifts her head, glancing back over her shoulder. She’s flush. “Shut up. I have to make myself seem worthy of consideration.”
The taller woman growls at that. “Are you kidding? It’s these worthless bastards who aren’t – ” She stops short. If she insists these losers aren’t worthy, she’ll have to get into who is, and if she gets into who is, she won’t be able to stop herself. She may not have the right parts for the paperwork, but she knows she’d be a better option than any of these suckers. “Your folder is stupid. You’re just getting all the wrong kinds of guys because it doesn’t actually say anything about you.”
“Aa?” The dark haired woman rolls onto her back to peer up, and Paako resists the urge to lean over her, just to see what kind of view it’d be. Zura picks up her folder, lips curving down as she rereads the neat lines of photocopied handwriting. “You think I need to re-write it? To say what?”
“How you could burn water, first of all,” she responds immediately. With a grin, she then catches the other’s thin wrist as Zura goes to punch her. “Ah, how ‘bout that one? ‘Temperamental, and quick to lash out.’ Like gran’s housecat.”
“Kuonjouchi-no-hime-san is old and you’re mean to her, so you deserve every scratch you get.” Zura struggles to pull her wrist from the other’s grip, and when that fails, she attempts a punch with her other hand. “Just like you deserve this – ”
“Ah, shit.” Paako scrambles both protect her side and snag the other wrist. Both are bent back onto the bed and pinned. The pouting, flustered look Zura is giving her is too much – she softens a bit, mumbling, “You could put your best Mario Kart time.”
“Be serious,” Zura huffs back, but that somber look is starting to fade from the corners of her mouth, replaced with a fierce pride. “…Although I agree that 1:39 on Rainbow Road, with the CPUs on Hard, is a significant and noteworthy achievement.”
“Yeah, sure, but whatever you do, don’t put your cup size,” Paako continues flatly. She can’t help herself – she releases a hand to skate her palm up the other’s ribcage, and Zura hiccups a ticklish, startled noise, twisting out of the way. The white haired woman veers off-course, grabbing a lock of hair. “Or – watch it, you little – or how long you take in the bath. Although, maybe you should put that out there, so they can financially prepare for their water bill to be tripled.”
“Ow, don’t pull my – get off, you ridiculous ass…!” A snort of laughter interrupts what had promised to be a string of pointed insults, and Paako feels her chest constricting again, in an entirely different way than earlier. She may worry about losing Zura to some gloomy doctor or hotshot lawyer, but that folder doesn’t say how to make her happy, not like this. Maybe she has more of a chance; maybe this useless affection isn’t so useless.
No, Zura doesn’t want to dishonor her family, or disappoint her father. But Paako knows the other could never marry someone she doesn’t love – not with how hard she cries at daytime dramas, not with how dreamy and devoted her personality is, not with how many Shojo Friend magazines line her bookcases.
All Paako needs to do is keep making her happy. It won’t be hard to outsmart, outwit, and outlove her rivals. The Shonen Jump magazines lining her bookcases can attest to that.
“You could say you have a hot best friend,” she says. “With a mean right hook.”