8A/N: Hello!
This one-shot is a bit different than the ones I have written so far. Please, don't yell at me - but leave me a comment if you can, let me know your thoughts!
Thank you for reading!
It's funny how life takes us places we never thought we'd go. When we're young, our lives are so compartmentalized, our hopes perfectly divided into these vacuum-sealed vessels half-filled with the simplest of ideas. I'm very much a victim of always selling myself short, never topping off these bottles of dreams, afraid of the consequences of an overflow. Though the fact that I am wandering backstage inside this old theatre is very much proof that sometimes, the breaking of these vessels and the amalgamation of these half-dreamed dreams can be a catalyst for unthinkable things.
Still, I'd trade these broken bottles of dreams and what they brought about for a two-minute trip to the past, back to my first year of high school, back to that post-festival night when the bonfire illuminated Lillian and one could hear the crackling of the cherry wood from as far as the farthest hills. All I need is enough time to deny her request: "May I place this over your neck?"
That rosary never belonged to me.
"Can you not find your room?" Yoshino asks popping up from Maria-sama knows where. Then she looks at the door in front of us, "Ms. Fukuzawa Yumi," she says, pointing at the piece of paper being held up by clear tape.
I smile at her, "Thanks, Yoshino-san… I appreciate your detective skills."
"Don't mention!" she says honestly, like she really helped me find the nametag I had been staring at for the past five minutes.
So, I open the door and invite her in, but she turns down my offer with a mopey, "It looks just like mine…"
Yoshino has always been terribly honest, and her feisty attitude has never bothered me, on the contrary, her straightforwardness is what makes her so unique and such an incredible friend. I've lost count of how many times she stood up for me when I couldn't find the strength to fight, and for that, Yoshino holds a special place in my heart, there just for her. She – much like Touko – is the sister I never thought I'd have. Having her being part of this journey has been a blessing to me.
I walk into the dressing room and close the door behind me. Thinking of how nervous I am right now when all I have to do is sit in front of an auditorium to talk about the book I wrote makes me wonder how terrified I'd be if I had to actually perform in front of them.
"I wrote it, Shimazu Yoshino, my best friend, illustrated it. We're very happy about the positive response from our audience." I repeat in my head, and chuckle because that's such a ridiculous thing to say when our audience can't even reach the counter to buy our book. "The idea comes from years of catholic school and a silly joke made by one of our good friends Todou Shimako, where she asked Yoshino if she was part of a secret army of ninjas disguised as school girls and led by a nun. It's funny to think that a simple joke turned into an incredible opportunity for us."
Whatever… I'll just let Yoshino speak.
I throw myself atop of a recliner and toss my bag on the old coffee table in front of me, opening the purse and searching for my phone so I can call Yuuki and make sure he's made it here okay, but somehow the phone is nowhere to be found. I don't panic anymore, though, I've misplaced so many mobiles that my carrier backs up my media every few hours for me. It's a bit sad to think back when I was younger, and how horrified I was of losing things – the blue umbrella comes to mind, and I cringe at the thought of everything else I've lost along the way since then.
Walking out of my room I hear the door click shut behind me, and I press on, looking for Yoshino's name on the multitude of doors that surround this dim-lit corridor. Not in a hurry, I walk slowly, and my pace is not a matter of conscious worry, I'm never concerned about disturbing the pleats of my skirt –not that I wear them anymore – or getting reprimanded by a teacher on the hallways of life. I simply choose this speed; I choose to watch life unravel in front of me as I drag my legs along. I'm very much done running around skittishly, like a squirrel holding on to the last acorn of the season, afraid to death of losing it and starving through winter.
I've gone hungry for how long now?
There are people everywhere, voices seep through closed doors and I hear someone laugh from across the back entrance. I walk by a restroom just to hear the sounds of toilets being flushed – maybe Sei-sama is right, maybe we're all part of a big crapper, some of us praying nobody flushes, others hoping for the contrary.
But in the midst of that discord there's déjà vu.
I hesitate for a split second as my heart hammers against my chest, though I wade through the urge of crying by pressing on.
"Wait!" I hear again, this time clear and crisp like the first time I heard that same exact request leave her lips.
Then a déjà entendu follows, "Don't go."
I clench my jaw, grinding my molars like I've learned from Yoshino's fits of rage against Rei – the biggest difference, in this case; however, is how Rei's love for Yoshino still remains strong as ever.
"Gokigenyou, Sachiko-sama," I greet her politely, but I don't bow, I just clasp my hands together after turning to face her.
"Gokigenyou, Yumi. You look well."
She's a liar – a very good one. The black jeans and gray sweater over a collared white shirt I'm wearing might fool some in thinking I am trying to look decent in front of people I don't know, and since my hair remains wildly unmanageable for the most part, I have recently taken upon myself the heavy task of learning how to French braid, so I know for sure that some strands are out of place and the flyaways are there, too. I'd be lying if I say I care about what people think of my appearance, though I'm also aware that 'well' is far from what I truly look.
"Thank you," I say dryly.
Taking a step closer she smiles bashfully before adding, "It's… nice seeing you."
She still smells like my youth, her voice remains the soundtrack of my adolescence, present during the good and the bad, tattooed in the depths of my memories, each word she says hit me straight in the heart with a nostalgic homesickness that I haven't felt since the last time I saw her. And it's so cowardly of me to pretend I'm okay with the fact that she is not part of my life anymore when I really am not. Because she was what made sense in my life, because out of all of the things I though were right in the world, loving her was on the top of my list. And because out of all the things I've lost, she has left the biggest void inside of me, one which nothing nor anyone seem to fill.
"You, too" I respond, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear and wondering if she feels in anyway as if she should have been the one making sure my hair doesn't look the way it does, and perhaps even chastising me for the massive wrinkle that cuts across my sweater.
She closes the distance between us even further and for a moment I'm afraid she can read my mind, because her hands wrap around my neck, "Your collar—"
"Please," I stop her at once. I'm not her responsibility any longer. For what it's worth I am thankful for the time she spent trying to mold me into a decent human being. The fact that she has failed at it shouldn't be a reflection of her capabilities, but instead, it should only solidify the fact that I am unyielding, uncouth and should have never been entrusted with her rosary and the obligations which accompany the title of Petite Soeur, en-bouton, Rosa Chinensis. I was never the right person for such positions, and coming out of those three years of Yamayurikai with only a few scratches like I was able to is vastly due to the incredible feats performed by Yoshino and Shimako. At times I even wonder if I've clouded the best years of Touko's life just by standing by her – she deserved better than inarticulate and ordinary.
Reaching behind my neck I lift up my collar and fold it back down while she apologizes with decorum she would have never used around me when we were soeurs.
What a difference a couple of years make in people's lives.
I invite her over and she follows me to my room quietly, all but counting my steps to make sure she remains behind me, because falling into step with me, standing by my side would probably make her burst into flames – apparently, that's what I do to people: I have this extraterrestrial power to make them spontaneously combust.
And it hurts me so very much to look back and think I was the one left with the burden of the "I love you, too." Because in the grand scheme of things, "I love you," is weightless as it is selfless; however, "I love you, too," is binding, terrifyingly compromising, it carries the finality of a last sentence. When I said to her, "Onee-sama, I too, love you, very much," inside her late grandmother's bedroom, when she begged Maria-sama for me not to be a dream, I was giving her ownership of my heart, which she already had in her possession regardless. And my, oh man, to me, when she spoke her three words, she looked as wonderful as a summer day even if she had not slept in days, even as the eyeliner smudges stained her cheeks, even with heaviness in her eyes, even with darkness is her soul… even still, she was the most beautiful woman in the universe, and "I love you, too," made her mine.
I open the door, "Please," I point to the couch, "I'll make tea," I say, and from the corner of my eyes, I watch her take a seat, she keeps her coat on, nonetheless. Maybe it's better that way. Maybe making sure she doesn't feel comfortable is her way to keep herself accountable around me.
Does she remember when she used to find any excuse to touch me? Running her fingers along my shoulders as if by doing so she'd straighten my sailor-collar which was never in need of straightening. Does she remember when she'd take my scarf by fistfuls while pressing her chest against mine, one of her legs between both of mine? And she'd kiss me unabashedly inside the Rose Mansion, "I love you," she was always the first one to say. "I love you, too," I'd answer with my lips pressed against hers, terrified that if my mouth left hers, she'd vanish from my arms.
I'd love to know in which corner of Lillian University she buried her heart, because there, I'd also find what's left of mine.
"Here," I hand her a lonely teacup, "I couldn't find the saucers."
"I can't find the strength to let go either," I think about adding, but there's no use conjuring up old ghosts when we had summoned so many monsters day after day before I decided to leave Lillian University. Come to think of it, we fought so much during the months preceding my leaving all I can remember from that winter break is the burning in my lungs and the emptiness in my chest.
"Don't worry about it," she responds.
I sit across from her taking a sip of the hot black tea which tastes as cheap as the one we used to have at the Rose Mansion.
"It's delicious," she lies again.
She is good at it, but I am the one who lives with this burden of knowing everything about her, so I know that her eyes turn a shade darker when she's not telling the truth. And I know she lies to save face, to keep her father happy – not even knowing exactly what he really wants from her. She lies to maintain the Ogasawara name unharmed, and by doing so she hurts herself, she hurts me.
"Thanks," I humor her with the little graciousness I still have in me.
Then she continues, "It's been—"
I cut her off, "A long time."
"Can you believe Onee-sama graduates this year?"
"Time really flies," I'm careful with my mouth because even after all of this time, my heart tends to get me in trouble. If I let my guard down, my words would incriminate me terribly, "I thought about you everyday," I'd say.
She leans forward, placing the teacup on the coffee table in front of us and I catch a glimpse of the rosary around her neck. For a moment my lungs burn, I fight the urge to gasp at the sight of something that was once mine, something that long ago was as part of me as my fingers, my ears, my lips, my heart.
"It really does," she smiles and her eyes glimmer. For a second I see the Sachiko I once knew, I see the girl who was as in love with me as I was with her, but just like that, that girl is gone.
"…"
"I… saw your book at J station."
"Yoshino is known for leaving them at random stores," I try to joke, but can't even get a chuckle out of her. She used to laugh at my jokes, giggle like a little kid when she'd tell the story of how horrified she was when she thought I was going to perform the Yasuki Folk Song at Saionji-sama's birthday party back when we spent that week at her parents' summer home.
"…You must be happy."
"Not yet…" I let it slip, and feel a fever reach the tip of my ears.
Somehow she looks disappointed, and it's fitting that after all this time I can still frustrate her with as little as two words.
"—I write kids' stories… I'm not sure I should be proud yet."
"They're wonderful."
"Sure…"
"But… You write more than children's books, right?"
I raise an eyebrow at the strange question. If I am sitting on this couch inside this theatre is because of children's literature.
"…"
"Minako-sama told me…"
"…"
"About the letters she published the semester after you left."
"…"
"Yumi."
She looks me square in the eyes, and asks, "Did you really write them?"
"…" I stand quietly.
"You wrote all of them, didn't you? Even the ones that were only published on the blog…"
She stands, too, slowly closing the distance between us and I lower my head down, closing my eyes tightly only to reopen them in a panic when I feel her fingertips softly upon my cheek, then she cups my face and I give in, leaning into the palm of her hand with abandon, like that touch is the next breath I should take. The warmth of her touch, though overwhelming, doesn't bring me an ounce of solace, instead, it showers me with desperation.
"Does it really matter?" I ask with despondence while she withdraws her fingers from my cheek.
"Did you write them for me?"
"If you have to ask, then I'm afraid you've forgotten who I am." I let my heart speak. I let it because it burns inside my chest and spreads that fever through my limbs. I let it because it still burns for her, after all of these years, after the decisions we've both made, which led us here, strangers, tip-toeing around each other, it still burns for her – though I must admit, I prefer the screaming matches, the hot tears on both of our faces, because that was proof that she still cared, and that she still wanted to fight for a future with me. If I ever seemed angry, it was never at her, but at her lack of peripheral vision, her lack of willingness to see beyond the fog that suffocated us, her lack of faith in me and my ability to take her by the hand and lead her to safety without taking a wrong turn and killing both of us.
"I would never—"
"It seems as if you have..."
"Wasn't it what you wanted from me?" she shoots back.
"That's—" so unfair, Sachan, I want to add.
"You gave Touko a new rosary so you could give mine back, Yumi…"
"It was a constant reminder of you…" then I swallow the, "of us… of what we could never be…"
"…"
"I… didn't mean to raise my voice," I breathe out, then in again. She smells like my youth, like the first warm days of spring when I still wore my heavy coat across campus on my way to the Rose Mansion. And there she'd greet me with a soft, "Gokigenyou, Yumi," no honorific necessary, because to her, I was Yumi, not Fukuzawa Yumi, or Yumi-san, or Yumi-chan… just Yumi. She smells like the days it was enough just being Yumi, not Fukuzawa-sensei, not Yumi-sama, not Ms. Fukuzawa. I was just Yumi. I was her Yumi. And it was enough for her.
"I didn't mean to upset you," she apologizes.
"It's fine…"
She takes a step back, "Your hair… has grown out…" she strays from the main topic.
"It's more manageable when my bangs are off my face."
"I see…"
"How's your grandmother's house?" I ask.
"We're finally done with the renovation."
"And Kashiwagi-san?"
"He's fine."
"…"
"You've moved, too, right?" she asks and I'm surprised she knows as much.
"Yeah… I have a house now."
"Do you remember packing Sei-sama's flat on Saturday nights? We'd sleep on the floor, drunk off cheap sake…"
"I sure do…" I respond, afraid that if I tell her I still do that, she'd think even less of me.
Then her phone buzzes inside her coat; she reaches for it, looking at the message on the screen. She tells me she has to go.
"I'm proud of you and Yoshino, you know."
"It's not that big a deal."
"Don't be modest."
"…"
"Would you sign a copy for me?"
"Eh?"
"A copy of your book…"
"I… don't have any on me, b-but I can send you one on Monday."
She thanks me for the tea before saying goodbye, then she walks out, and I'm left inside on my own, the two teacups still sitting on the coffee table.
I lower myself on the recliner. I take a deep breath. The silence buzzes in my ear like the loudest of noises, still, I brazen through the ringing, hoping I can come out of it unscathed – or at least just as bruised and broken as I already am.
So I lean back, crackling my knuckles until I hear a knock on the door. Even before I give whomever is on the other side permission to come in, the handle twists open, "Did you lose your phone ag— The fuck happened to you?!" Yoshino shrieks.
"Nothing."
"Something has clearly happened," she says worried.
"Nothing has happened."
"There's… some people you should meet," she adds with hesitance after looking at the coffee table.
"I couldn't find the saucers…" I say quietly.
We walk out.
The door clicks shut behind us.
A/N: I'd like to give credit where credit is due: The general idea for this one-shot comes from the song "Old Lovers in Dressing Rooms" by Keaton Henson.
Thank you for reading!
A/N #2: 10/21 - Replaced file to update a scary sentence structure flaw and another typo... Holy mother of Jesus! Please, feel free to shoot me a PM if you see a typo or a weird sentence! :)
A/N # 3: 4/3/18: Corrected misspelling of word "decent" twice - thank you, trinculo!
