It NEVER Entered my Mind
SwannsWay
Summary:
Christmas is, pretty obviously, a romantic affair; Shioriko knew, and perhaps it was this fact alone that kept her mind running faster than it ever had.
Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)
Chapter I
“On Christmas, huh?” Kaoruko had said. Shioriko figured her sister would get a kick out of that. “Well, a proper date might actually do you some good. I’m glad you were ‘ tricked into this. ’”
“I was tricked into this,” Shioriko protested, but her sigh signaled obvious weak resistance. “At any rate, it’s not a date. She’s just a friend from class.”
“Is she cute?” Kaoruko asked, almost indifferently.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shioriko quipped, feeling splotches of heat forming on her face. “She’s a girl. We’re both girls.”
“Uh, okay? When has that ever stopped anyone before?” Kaoruko asked. “It has certainly never stopped me before.”
“Kaoruko!” Shioriko hissed, and looked around as if her sister had just divulged a millennium-old secret. “If mother and father knew that, they would…”
“They would what? Disown me? Please, Shioriko,” Kaoruko laughed. “I know enough family secrets to bankrupt their entire operation tomorrow if I wanted to.”
Shioriko sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, Kaoruko.”
Kaoruko hummed a note into the receiver. “Maybe it’s better that way, sweetie. So, where are you guys going?”
“Shimokitazawa,” Shioriko said, rolling her eyes. “It was her suggestion, as neither of us really goes there very often.”
“Ooooh, trendy,” Kaoruko said, sounding genuinely impressed, which irritated Shioriko. “I’ll shoot some recommendations your way later. You should stay at the Shinjuku apartment if you’re planning to go all the way there.”
“That was my intention. I might offer her to stay in your be—“ Shioriko started, before she had absolutely any time to think about how her words could be construed (or misconstrued). She could not even think of a fall-back. “Um, yeah. I’m looking forward…to it.”
Shioriko could practically hear her older sister break into a grin.
“My bedroom, huh? Nice,” Kaoruko sang, sounding pleased. “It’s soundproof, you know? Just clean up after you two are done.”
Which were the last words Shioriko heard before she summarily ended the call, walking over to the kitchen sink and splashing cold water on her face.
Shioriko can’t seem to make her heart stop beating at the speed of sound, light, and other such fast things, combined and multiplied by another very large number. That’s how she reckons it, mostly because it stops her from being angry at herself for not understanding why it even beats like this in the first place.
And why am I here this early? She wonders, as she swings her body on the heels of her brown loafers near the entrance of the metro station—their agreed rendezvous. She could look at her watch, but she already knows it will be a while, so she walks over to a nearby outdoor café ( isn’t it winter? ) and orders some tea. It smells of a spring meadow, she thinks, as the steaming liquid envelops her and makes her brain fire signals through every corner of her nervous, freezing existence.
Ayumu Uehara.
It’s not exactly that she had lied to Kaoruko either, save maybe by omission. She had fully intended to spend Christmas by herself, curled up in bed and reading a book, or maybe even getting ahead in her classes. As her first holiday break not spent at the main Kyoto house, in the company of her family, she did not (indeed, could not) consider this season any different than any other regular vacation. And as with every other vacation of her life, she would spend it either studying, volunteering somewhere, or in quiet repose—in the solitude of her room. That is, until the last day of class.
“Shioriko, is that your family?” Ayumu had said, pointing at Shioriko’s laptop wallpaper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to look.”
“Ayu—Uehara,” she stuttered. Why had she stuttered? “Yes, I…those are my parents, and she is my sister.”
“Wow, she’s gorgeous,” Ayumu said, eyes wide open. Shioriko was used to that reaction and yet, for perhaps the first time in her life, felt only something unpleasant from it. “Looks like it runs in the family.”
Oh.
“I…,” Shioriko tried, failed, and tried again. “I used to have long hair like her, as well.”
What? Who cares, Shioriko?
Ayumu hummed happily, hands in her coat pockets, giving Shioriko’s hair a once-over, as if imagining it flowing down her tense shoulders. Much like Shioriko had been earlier, she swung her weight on the heels of her boots.
“Yes, I…I usually…,” Shioriko could not think of anything to say under such scrutiny. Had Ayumu’s eyes always been so pretty? “This is the first time we are not spending the holidays together. They will be in Kyoto and…well, I will be in the dorms.”
“Oh,” Ayumu said, suddenly stopping. “You mean, like, Christmas and stuff?”
And the rest, it should go without saying, is history.
Christmas in their country is, pretty obviously, more of a romantic affair; Shioriko knew, and perhaps it was this fact alone that kept her mind running faster than it ever had. She watches swaths of couples stroll hand in hand out through the station turnstiles, no doubt on their way to some romantic hole-in-the-wall that was sure to impress. Shioriko hasn’t come up with much of a “plan”—she has some ideas of things they could do, sure, but nothing she might call date-worthy ( as if I knew what that even meant , she thinks)—and yet, she figures that, given the perfectly-platonic nature of this…meet-up…there might not be much harm in a little spontaneity.
She reckons that, given her reasoning of this whole thing, it isn’t no wonder she didn’t have many friends in high-school.
Or maybe—oh, my god—or maybe this is a date, and I am preposterously unprepared for it , is her first thought as she watches Ayumu swipe her card on the electronic turnstile and look around. From across the street, Shioriko finds herself rendered immobile by who-knows-what invisible force.
Shioriko doesn’t know too much about fashion outside of what Kaoruko teaches her, but even she knows enough to recognise Ayumu as a stylish person. Unlike herself, Ayumu looks to be fairly popular with her classmates, and Shioriko reckons that Ayumu may have never as much looked her way if they hadn’t been paired up for a short project halfway through the semester. What Shioriko sometimes finds funny (though not so much now), was that she didn’t find it particularly difficult to talk to Ayumu at first. It had been just a project for a class, after all, and sure, Shioriko would never be dubbed as particularly friendly, but even she could hold herself up in conversation (especially if it was about school). It became difficult to talk to Ayumu as the barriers of formality slowly gave way to a surprisingly warm acquaintanceship; it reminds Shioriko of the smell of cypress, dissipating into the chilly, diaphanous refractions of a winter morning’s light. She thinks of several other metaphorical suggestions as she freezes on Ayumu catching sight of her, and waving excitedly before crossing the street to catch up to her. She wears a slim tartan skirt, with a threaded sweater stylishly tucked at the waist. Matching wool coat and beret, Shioriko guesses, and dark tights meeting under Chelsea boots. A classic, feminine getup that looks like it was made for Ayumu—like it was meant to knock out anybody that had as much as a pair of eyes.
And a pair of eyes Shioriko does indeed have.
“I’m sorry, I hope you weren’t waiting for long…” Ayumu says, her sentence fading as she gives Shioriko a slow, painfully long once-over. “Wow, Shioriko. Wow. You look so…different.”
‘ Different’ is a word for it , Shioriko thinks, chastising herself for not opting for something— anything —else in her very limited selection of western-styled clothing. She had decided, against her usual infallible judgement, to listen to Kaoruko and go for something her sister picked. Never one for dresses, she wears a pair of faded skinny jeans of Kaoruko’s, its waist circumscribing a tucked-in black turtleneck sweater. Tokyo is cold this year, so both a gray, fine tweed blazer underneath a black wool peacoat completes Shioriko’s outfit, like a bow on a very monochrome Christmas present.
“I…these are not all my…they’re…,” Shioriko starts, wondering if the Japanese language has always been so difficult. She lands, instead, on a sigh. “They’re a bit…boyish, are they not?”
She awkwardly shoves her hands in her peacoat pocket, too quickly for it to appear like a natural gesture. Ayumu takes a moment to smile a radiant display that puts the city’s holiday decorations to shame, eclipsing the cold of the December wind with a warmth that hails from the pit of Shioriko’s stomach, spreading in elegant swirls throughout her body—a single drop of rose-coloured ink landing on Shioriko’s once-crystalline conscience.
“They are boyish,” Ayumu says and, before Shioriko has any time to react, holds out her open palm. Shioriko forgets how to breathe. “And it suits you. Let’s go eat something?”
A nod, which is all Shioriko can offer apart from her balmy hand ( thank goodness for gloves ), and then they’re on their way.
“Vice-president?” Ayumu says, eyes wide in obvious surprise. “Of the student council? Like, of the whole school?”
Shioriko can’t help a bit of a proud, almost wry, smile. This wouldn’t be the first time somebody hadn’t felt that particular piece of information coming a bit out of left-field. She knew most, including Ayumu, did not mean any harm, but it always feels peculiar to her that nobody sees it coming.
By now, they’ve moved to a little restaurant, a few ways up a gentle hill off one of the main streets, that specializes in curry. She hardly knows, and tries not to think about, the romantic value of a curry shop, but Kaoruko had strongly recommended it and Ayumu seemed genuinely excited at the prospect. Besides, Shioriko muses, judging by both their immediate neighbors (two couples speaking to each other with tangible intimacy that makes Shioriko just the smallest bit uncomfortable), not even a working-class ramen shop could escape the romanticism of the holiday.
Why exactly do I care if this place is romantic, again?
“That’s so cool!” Ayumu says, clasping her hands below her chin. Shioriko feels prouder than ever for something that, at least for her, has always been par for the course. “Wait a second. That would mean that you work with Setsuna, no?”
Shioriko cocks her head just a tiny bit, not recognizing the name.
“Oh, uh,” Ayumu says, correcting course and looking a bit sheepish. “With um…Nana, I mean.”
“Oh,” Shioriko says, with a perk. “President Nakagawa? Yes, of course. Are you friends with her?”
“You…could say that?” Ayumu says, making a face. “We’re coworkers…of sorts.”
“What do you—,“ Shioriko starts.
“Hello! Welcome to Rojiura,” The waitress chirps, suddenly occupying the whole of Ayumu’s attention. “May I take your order?”
Ayumu, looking visibly relieved, begins discussing her options when a flash catches Shioriko’s eye. Turning, she realises it to be Ayumu’s phone which, facing up, lit up at a notification for a text message. Much as Shioriko, out of prudence and propriety, willed herself not to look at the contents of the message, she did not manage to turn her head in time to miss the name of its sender:
❤️ Yuu ❤️
A feeling hitherto unknown to Shioriko springs from a dusty alcove in her chest, quickly running laps down her spine and up her arms, freshly clamming up her palms and fogging her brain. When she tries to push the feeling back down the pit of her stomach, it retaliates with such fervor that the sensation makes her want to cry out.
Shioriko had known and understood, at least to a clinical degree, the meaning of jealousy, but she figures nothing could have so starkly illustrated its experience than the feeling that now pullulated her body.
“Shioriko?” she hears. “Are you okay?”
She snaps out of it, and looks up to find both Ayumu and their waitress looking at her—the former with heartbreakingly candid concern.
Jealousy doesn’t mix well with guilt, Shioriko learns.
“Y-yes. Yes, of course,” Shioriko manages, clearing her throat with some effort. “I must be really hungry. I’ll have the vegetable curry, please.”
“Understood,” the waitress says, with expert cordiality. “And please do not hesitate to let me know if you need anything else.”
Ayumu waits for the waitress to be out of earshot before she reaches out and gently grasps Shioriko’s forearm with her hand.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You looked really pale for a second there,” Ayumu says, cautiously. And then, smiling: “That’s more like it. The colour is returning to your face.”
“Oh,” Shioriko musters, reckoning the heat that splotched her cheeks must have something to do with that. “That’s…good.”
“Anyway,” Ayumu says, looking satisfied and finally removing her hand. “Speaking of Nana, she actually recommended I check out a place around here that she likes going to.”
“She did?” Shioriko asks, genuinely surprised. President Nakagawa comes to Shimokitazawa? Shioriko makes a mental note to ask her ever-serious superior about that after the holidays.
“M-hm!” Ayumu sings, and Shioriko feels like she would happily listen to the voice forever. “You like music, right?”
The shop is unassuming, off one of the main streets, and sparsely decorated with nautical accents. A pretty redhead welcomes them from the counter and invites them to take their time looking around before sitting down. Shioriko hadn’t been to a record shop in a while, not since she used to accompany her sister to shop for used vinyls in Shimogyō, but those old, dusty shops didn’t resemble the subtle chicness of the place Ayumu had suggested, which seemed to be equipped with a sort of bar and several tables. Nonetheless, the sight of record players felt homely and familiar. Kaoruko would like her , Shioriko thinks with a smile, before she catches herself and shakes her head.
“So, this is how the place works,” Ayumu starts excitedly, spinning on her heels to face Shioriko, and the latter’s breath hitches for the thousandth time that night. “Go look for a record or two that you’d like to listen to. I’ll order us drinks in the meantime. Once you’re back, we both listen to the record wearing headphones that play from the same turntable, while we drink. We can, of course, just have our drinks and talk, right? But I read online that the charm of the place is relaxing at our table, and letting the music do the talking.”
Ayumu sounded so excited at the idea that, regardless of whether Shioriko may be into it as well (she was), she would do it in a heartbeat. She scans the room and spots a corner table, straddled by the store’s large front windows and a wooden display case, creating a secluded spot in the otherwise open space. It’s perfect, Shioriko thinks.
“Sounds fun,” Shioriko says, smiling; she points to the open table. “Let’s get that spot…before anyone else does.”
Ayumu orders them glasses of wine while Shioriko selects a couple of records for them to listen to. The selection is mostly not a contemporary fare, but she recognises a good amount of names from her childhood. She opts for a couple of ones that she remembers being pleasant, fetching a Beach Boys LP and a Nino Ferrer 7-inch 45 that she’s surprised to find anywhere else outside of her father’s eclectic collection. When she returns to the table, she’s surprised to find Ayumu waiting with a record already on the turntable, looking at her sweetly, resting her chin on one hand.
“I’m sorry, I saw this one on my way back from the bar and knew we had to listen to it,” Ayumu says, motioning at an old, dusty record sleeve bearing the picture of a trumpet player. Jazz, on Christmas, huh? “Let’s?”
The record begins with a sleepy, intimate rendition of a show tune from the 40s (at least, according to the back of the sleeve), recorded in 1954 in the United States. Shioriko finds it perfect for the mood, as she sinks deep into the padded chair opposite to Ayumu. It doesn’t do much to calm her nerves though; Ayumu raises her glass in a silent toast and takes a sip of the claret, not taking her eyes off Shioriko’s for even a moment. Shioriko, for a lack of some better response, does the same and takes a sip from her own cup.
She doesn’t drink very often, but she reckons she will need it tonight. -Summary:
“Well, that was rather direct, wasn’t it?” Ayumu says, smiling. “Come here, Shioriko.”
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter II
Shioriko struggled with even getting her wallet out of her bag and against the metro turnstile scanner. By the time she’s across, Ayumu is leaning against the station wall, watching her, and decidedly amused. Her cheeks are red, to be sure, but she seems to be handling the two glasses of wine that they each had better than Shioriko is.
“You okay, Shioriko?” Ayumu says, her smile softening. “Do you want me to get you some water?”
“I think I will be okay,” Shioriko says, as truthful as her inebriation allows. “I usually only drink saké, and even that is usually limited to my family’s new year celebrations.”
“That sounds nice,” Ayumu says, holding on to Shioriko’s arm as they climb the stairs down to their track. “Your family sounds cool.”
“I suppose, yes. I have not really thought about it too much,” Shioriko says, ignoring the heat radiating from Ayumu’s arm, through both their coats and right to Shioriko’s core. In her current state, however, she can’t bring herself to care too much.
They step onto a Shinjuku-bound train where, by some miracle, a couple rushes out of their seats. After mulling it over a bit, and at the behest of quite possibly the nicest salarymen in Tokyo, who insist they take the seats, they alight on the warm velvet; all the while, Ayumu does not let go of Shioriko’s arm.
“Well, I am used to people thinking Kaoruko is cool,” Shioriko says, not knowing where else to take the conversation, and in dire need of a distraction from a certain lot of unfamiliar, very intrusive thoughts. “I suppose she is what you would call the…cooler…sibling?”
Ayumu hums to herself thoughtfully. “I’m sure she’s cool. She certainly looks it.”
Yep, there it is , Shioriko thinks, and holds back a sigh.
“But I happen to like you better,” Ayumu says, shooting straight through Shioriko’s foggy conscience.
“Oh,” Shioriko manages, and can’t even imagine the shade of red that must be burning through her face at the moment. “Th-Thank you.”
She’s then surprised to hear Ayumu sigh in a peculiar way, which Shioriko doesn’t like. She turns to find Ayumu looking down at her hands crossing elegantly over her lap. She doesn’t look happy, that much is certain, and Shioriko begins to panic.
“Hey, Shioriko?” Ayumu begins, not looking her way. “I think I should apologise for today.”
Shioriko freezes. “Apologise? But why?”
Ayumu shrugs a bit, and uncoils her arm from Shioriko’s, who instantly misses it in possibly the most bittersweet way possible.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but I get the feeling that I’ve been making you uncomfortable all day today,” Ayumu says, sounding genuinely upset at this notion. “That was not my intention whatsoever. I’m not usually like this…this pushy , I guess.”
“Pushy?”
“You know, I’m not usually one to suggest things, or plans outings like this. I think this may be the first time I ask somebody on a…”
The train slows to a stop, and the doors open to the bustle of Yoyogi-Hachiman Station. Shioriko doesn’t notice, and holds her breath.
“…um, well. I’m really sorry if I’ve been making you uncomfortable,” Ayumu says, barely audible. “I hope you had some fun, at least.”
“Uehara?” Shioriko steels herself.
“Hm?”
“I…did not mind you asking me to do things,” Shioriko says. “I cannot think of the last time I was so happy to be out with someone. This…might be the best Christmas I have ever had.”
It was Ayumu’s turn to be rendered speechless, and instead looks at Shioriko with an intensity that has her breaking into cold sweat.
“But, um,” Shioriko continues. “If you are used to being more on the receiving end of requests, then…”
I’m so sorry, mom and dad.
“Odaiba is a bit far, so I was planning on spending the night at my family’s apartment in Shinjuku,” Shioriko says, not believing herself. “Why don’t we watch a movie there…or something?”
Ayumu’s lips part.
“You can stay over too. We have a spare room and…well, if you want to, anyway,” Shioriko says, and runs out of steam. “Sorry, I am not sure why I said that.”
Ayumu slinks her arm around Shioriko yet again, drawing a tiny, surprised gasp from her.
“That sounds like a lovely idea,” Ayumu says. “If I’m not imposing too much—and please, tell me if I am—then I’d be glad to.”
Shioriko is having a good amount of trouble breathing, and she figures the sight of Ayumu uncorking a bottle of wine at the kitchen counter, in the conspiratorial silence of the large, empty apartment, might have everything to do with it.
What the hell am I doing?
“That stereo is amazing,” Ayumu says, signaling to the old turntable set of Shioriko’s father’s. “Do you guys still use it?”
“Yes, definitely,” Shioriko says, thankful to have something else to think about. “If you open the drawers next to the cabinet speakers you’ll find some of my father’s records.”
Shioriko gets up and pads towards the stereo, sliding the drawers’ wooden door and revealing a set of carefully stored vinyls.
“It is not his main collection, but it has some good stuff,” Shioriko says, picking out a Joāo Gilberto record she likes. Without having to think about it, she slides the disk out of its protective sleeve, then out of the paper one, placing it carefully on the turntable and turning the system on. Before moving the needle to the first groves, she takes a soft brush with a wooden handle and lightly presses it on the spinning vinyl, removing a thin film of accumulated dust. Finally, sliding the arm to the first song of side A, she lets it alight. As the sentimental strings of the track stream from the speakers, Shioriko turns to find Ayumu sitting at the table, with two glasses of Merlot at the ready. Shioriko wills herself not to look at Ayumu’s legs—colour shifting from the dark of her tights and the gentle, suggestive pinks of her skin underneath.
“Wow,” Ayumu says, smiling with her chin resting on her palm, staring straight at Shioriko. “That was kind of amazing.”
Shioriko doesn’t know what it was that she did that was so amazing, but she certainly is glad that she did.
They talk, with surprising ease, through about half of the bottle and some snacks. Shioriko finds herself really enjoying the warm, dulcet high of the wine. It feels of the carelessness of childhood, tinged with the intimacy and maturity of adulthood. And to be sharing it with one as Ayumu, who takes whatever topic Shioriko may bring up in vivid conversation, makes it all the better. As Shioriko takes another sip from her glass, sweet bossa nova dissipating her uncoiling inhibition, she finds herself meeting—and this time, for a very long time—Ayumu’s eyes, during one of the conversation’s natural pauses.
And then, Ayumu’s phone rings.
“Oh,” Ayumu says, looking at the screen, then at Shioriko. “Dang it. Do you mind if I take this on the balcony?”
“Not at all,” Shioriko says, a little confused. “Take your coat. It’s cold out.”
“Thanks,” Ayumu says, smiling sweetly. She gives Shioriko’s hand a gentle squeeze, and drags her fingers lightly on her skin as she removes it. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” Shioriko says, temporarily losing her ability to construct a longer sentence.
And such a feeling would have remained, had she not picked up Ayumu’s first words into the phone, before she closed the balcony’s door. A sweet:
“Hi Yuu! I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
Oh.
Shioriko steps into the bathroom and takes a few deep breaths; she is angry, she doesn’t know why, and she doesn’t like it.
She is being unreasonable, and she knew it, but somewhere in the confines of her young, inexperienced mind, she feels her anger to be oddly justifiable. There is a certain sobriety in her frustration that wrings her back to her usual logical self—the one who spelt danger on this whole date idea from the very beginning and to whom Shioriko refused to listen to, choosing instead to ignore every red flag hoisted around her heart’s most sensitive places. Those very same spots now reeled in a way Shioriko didn’t understand.
She looks in the mirror and discovers a few stray tears running down her face, thrown under the starkness of the bathroom’s harsh lights. Why is she so upset? She does not trust herself to face Ayumu in this state, so she furiously seeks a contingency plan. She figures, above everything else that plagued her mind, that her most urgent need was to find out where Ayumu stood with respect to her.
What, exactly, is Ayumu looking for? she asks herself.
If she figures this out, then, in her own time, she can help reconstruct her own reality, pulling whatever she can from the vestiges of what she hopes will not be heartbreak.
Heartbreak? Yes, that’s what this could turn into, and you know it.
This simple, unwavering admission calms Shioriko a good amount, and she realises that she may have been more angry at herself all this time than at Ayumu. She figures there will be time, later, to think about what it would imply with respect to her life, and what she should do about it.
But there were other things to be done for the time being.
She finds Ayumu back at the table. Stepping into view, Ayumu smiles sweetly, before it falls somewhat. Shioriko had tried to fix her makeup as best as possible, but who knows what she must look like.
“Shioriko?” Ayumu calls, with some caution. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Shioriko says, not trusting herself with more than that. Before sitting back down, she goes to the turntable and places the record on side B, taking a couple more discrete breaths on the way. She sits back down and finds a glass of water next to her glass of wine.
“Hydration is important,” Ayumu says, sounding sheepish.
The remark catches Shioriko by surprise, and she can’t help but laugh. Ayumu laughs with her, holding that dainty hand of hers in front of her mouth. Shioriko, for a moment, forgets why she was upset in the first place. The feeling is short lived, though, as she feels, below the table, the feeling of Ayumu’s foot drawing slow, languid circles on hers.
They are impossibly warm and, lest Shioriko pass out from a heat stroke, she skips several steps in her plan and blurts out:
“Um,” She starts. “Who…called earlier?”
“Huh?” Ayumu says, face flushed and clearly distracted. “Oh, just now?”
Shioriko nods.
“That was Yuu; we live together back at the dorms,” Ayumu responds. Roommates. Okay . A simple enough answer, but something about the way she avoids Shioriko’s eyes makes her uneasy. “She just wanted to ask why I wasn’t home yet. I forgot to tell her I wasn’t coming back tonight.”
“I see,” Shioriko says and hopes that she sounds casual enough. “She must really care about you.”
“Well,” Ayumu starts, a small smile tugging at her lips. “We’ve been together since we were kids. We’ve been looking out for each other ever since, so I can’t imagine not caring about her like that as well.”
It hits Shioriko like a speeding bullet and she doesn’t know how to react. Ayumu, too, seems to notice the sudden shift in the atmosphere, and turns to look at Shioriko. She feels fresh tears welling up from the depths of her asphyxiating world, and takes a large swig from her wine glass to hide as much of it as possible.
“Shioriko?” Ayumu says, suddenly alarmed.
“I’m okay,” Shioriko says, coughing a little. “I think it’s…wonderful to be together with somebody like that.”
Ayumu peers at her thoughtfully for a few moments, her eyes darting all over Shioriko’s face in search for something Shioriko couldn’t begin to understand. She finds it painful to meet Ayumu’s gaze, but something inside Shioriko alerts her of the importance of this moment—as if that delicate thread connecting her to Ayumu would be severed should she so much as blink.
“Oh,” Ayumu finally says, her eyes suddenly wide. “Oh, no. Yuu? No, no. It’s not like that. We’re very close friends—she’s my best friend—but nothing more. Nothing…like that, anyway.”
Ah.
“Ah,” Shioriko parrots herself, out loud, and feels as if the weight of all the water of all the oceans of the whole world had been lifted from her chest. “Yes, yes. That makes sense. That is a relief.”
Ayumu blinks twice, before Shioriko has time to realise why. A small, knowing, and puncturing smile makes its way across Ayumu’s mouth. “ What is a relief?”
“I…” Shioriko tries. “I don’t know why I said that.”
A terribly long (by Shioriko’s estimation, anyway) pause.
“Hey, Shioriko?”
“Yes?”
“Should we watch that movie?”
“Yes.”
They watch an old, British, Christmas comedy with so many characters that Shioriko has a hard time remembering all of their names, but that Ayumu seems to love. Just as well , Shioriko thinks to herself; given their close proximity on the couch, underneath a single blanket, there was not a story simple enough for Shioriko to have been able to focus on. The fact that the bottle of wine lay empty on the kitchen counter, its contents now performing chemical mischief through Shioriko’s small body, did not help in the least bit. At certain points during the movie, they laugh heartily and press their bodies against each other, making Shioriko wonder if this is what intimate friendship—shy not of a single platonic touch—is like.
The fact that Ayumu, then, does not move back to her original position and instead sinks her weight against Shioriko’s chest reminds her that this is likely something else entirely.
When the movie ends and the credits start to roll, neither of them moves, nor says a word. Shioriko is at a complete loss, as she can’t see Ayumu’s face from her vantage point.
She wonders if Ayumu has fallen asleep, and if so, it would be impolite to wake her up. At the same time, she reasons, it would be less polite to have her sleep uncomfortably, when she could obviously offer better accommodations. What troubled her the most, however, was that she didn’t want Ayumu to move, and she wondered, at this point, if she was taking advantage of Ayumu.
That is not what she wants.
She continues this internal dialogue through the entirety of the credits, and the screen returns to the main menu. Still no word from Ayumu.
“Hey, Uehara?” Shioriko whispers, not knowing what else to do.
“Ayumu,” Ayumu says, in full voice, startling Shioriko. She turns up to look at Shioriko. “You can call me Ayumu by now, silly.”
“Ayumu,” Shioriko says, and it feels so good that she almost has to gasp it. “Should we…call it a night?”
“Hmm,” Ayumu hums, resting her chin but not taking her eyes off Shioriko. “If you want.”
Then, Shioriko remembers.
“Your present,” Shioriko says. “I forgot to give you your present.”
“Huh? You got me a present?” Ayumu says, rising a little. “You…what? You didn’t have to!”
“Well, um, it’s Christmas, right?” Shioriko says, feeling awkward. “Can I…go get it? I will be right back.”
“Okay,” Ayumu says, sounding almost sad. “But come back?”
Shioriko nods and slowly removes herself from the warmth of the blanket. Reaching for the plastic bag inside the leather backpack she’s had on all day, she takes a small, flat object, wrapped neatly in paper with little cartoon ships on them. She walks over to the couch, and hands it to Ayumu.
“Oh, Shioriko,” Ayumu says, beaming at her. “Thank you. I am so sorry; I didn’t know if getting you something would have made you uncomfortable. So I…I guess I opted for being safe.”
“Please, do not worry. I bought this rather last minute, myself,” Shioriko hurries to say. “Today, in fact.”
“Oh,” Ayumu says. “Can I open it?”
Shioriko nods, feeling suddenly self-conscious. It really had been a last-minute purchase—a lightning-fast consensus made between her, the pretty redhead at the store, and her colleague with the light grey-brown hair, before she came back from the bathroom.
“A record,” Ayumu says, and then gasps. “Don’t tell me. You got it at the store?”
“It’s by Otis Redding,” Shioriko stutters, feeling the need to justify herself. “I used to dance to this song all the time with my dad. I think you’ll like it. At least, I hope you do.”
A lull, and Shioriko holds her breath.
“God, you truly are too much for me to handle,” Ayumu says.
Before Shioriko has time to think of a response, Ayumu rises from the couch and heads toward the turntable. Wordlessly asking Shioriko for permission, she changes the settings to 7-inch 45, and lowers the needle onto the groves. These Arms Of Mine begins playing.
Walking back over to the couch, Ayumu sits next to Shioriko, listening to the music. Not knowing what else to do, Shioriko does the same, holding her left hand under her right and taking deep breaths again. The lyrics were, for a lack of a better word, incriminating. Shioriko hadn’t much thought about it when she bought the record, but she knew the words by heart and knew exactly what they meant in English. And now, hearing the smooth, pained crooning ride those gentle piano triplets, bringing stark clarity to her feelings, Shioriko knew that a lot—too much—was riding on how effectively they were being communicated to Ayumu.
When the record ends, Shioriko waits a few, silent moments before getting up to the turntable, and setting the needle back in place. Taking one last, long breath, she turns around and looks at Ayumu—whose eyes glisten under the little light that filters through the window, from the clear night outside.
“Well, that was rather direct, wasn’t it?” Ayumu says, smiling. “Come here, Shioriko.”
Shioriko awkwardly pads her way towards Ayumu, who takes her hand as soon as she’s close enough. Then, without warning, she pulls Shioriko down toward her, resulting in Shioriko landing directly on top of Ayumu, spread out down the length of the couch. Shioriko could not imagine the way fear and urgency churned their way down her chest and her stomach, rendering her breathless before she had any time to process the situation. She stood before a wide, endless precipice—one she knew she would never return from, and yet could not wait to jump into.
“Shioriko?” Ayumu asked, bringing her left index finger softly onto Shioriko’s lower lip. “I’m going to do something, and I want you to stop me if you don’t like it. Is that okay?”
Shioriko might have known that her first kiss wouldn’t go like they did in Kaoruko’s dramas, but nothing could have prepared her for the sensation of absolute catharsis—of unmitigated bliss—that came with kissing Ayumu Uehara. She might have rued the fact that she was not completely sober, for had her remaining drunkenness not propelled her to seek them again and again, she might have otherwise faltered. Was it the alcohol, then, that possessed her to lower the direction of her mouth, planting those kisses not on Ayumu’s lips, but onto her exposed neck? Perhaps , she thought, later. At any rate, she might also blame it for not hesitating before softly taking Ayumu’s skin between her teeth when Ayumu, between bated breaths, had asked her to.
There is a fair amount of hesitation. Shioriko, after all, could not be ignorant of the implication of Ayumu placing Shioriko’s hand on the belt of her skirt, gently pushing both down. Shioriko could not be blamed for being scared—possibly more than she had ever been in her life. It was not then, but rather at the point when all that remained of Ayumu’s clothes were her sweater and underwear, and when Ayumu reached to unclasp Shioriko’s bra from under her sweater, that Shioriko finally hit a block on the road and tensed up. Ayumu instantly stops.
“Should we stop?” Ayumu smiles, looking at Shioriko with an expression that promised infinite understanding under its aegis. Shioriko could have cried. “We can stop.”
“No,” Shioriko says. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Hey, Shioriko,” Ayumu says, looking up and past Shioriko. “How about we move to your bedroom?”
Shioriko feels herself losing almost all semblance of self-control as she is pulled by Ayumu’s hand, who pads her way leisurely from the couch to Shioriko’s room—her bare legs a shadowed suggestion, and only barely, under her oversized sweater. Once inside her room, Shioriko closes the door and is met, under that oppressive silence, by Ayumu. Running her fingers through Shioriko’s hair, Ayumu breathes with such palpable urgency that Shioriko wants nothing more than to relieve her of whatever spell the night has cast on both of them.
Shioriko tries something, nudging her nose under Ayumu’s chin and planting a single kiss on her exposed neck. She is surprised by the results: Ayumu offers virtually no resistance and, much on the contrary, appears to collapse onto the simplicity of the gesture, as if asking Shioriko for more. Shioriko makes an important discovery then: That, for what could have been the whole night, Ayumu had been waiting for her to take the initiative; that it may have been much beyond Ayumu’s gentle disposition to force herself onto the headstrong Shioriko and, now that the latter had made her first advance onto the former’s expectant skin, it may as well have been a message of complete and utter capitulation.
It’s a short trip to Shioriko’s bed, and she doesn’t even bother with Ayumu’s sweater. That magnetic topography of Ayumu’s body gives Shioriko silent instructions: the heat of Ayumu’s pliancy providing the fuel—the little push of Ayumu’s hand on the back of Shioriko’s head the spark that lights it all. Ayumu throws her head back and lets herself be taken; Shioriko, nervous as she might have been, never lets her movements escape the rhythm of Ayumu’s bated breaths.
They shift their bodies before long.
Shioriko had never thought it possible to feel this way; celestial bodies moving towards alignment, casting wave after wave of light and sound over them and washing their combined chemistries into astral pastels. Ayumu, impressing onto Shioriko’s bare back the candour of her desire, pushes her fingers through the thick of the warming air until Shioriko, unable to withstand that insurmountable mountain, collapses into an infinitesimal ball of fire and calls out Ayumu’s name over and over again.
Ayumu was loving, and gentle, and patient, beyond Shioriko’s wildest expectations; Shioriko cries a little, surprising even herself, as they lay in bed afterwards. Without anything by way of hesitation, Ayumu holds Shioriko and strokes loving patterns on the younger girl’s back, being gentle on the marks inflicted only minutes before. Not even Shioriko knows what goes through her head for a few hazy moments, thinking of everything and nothing at all in the span of a single second. She feels lost in the abstract melancholy of loving but not quite knowing how.
But love she does, as she feels Ayumu’s fingers coil around hers, and she reckons she’ll have plenty of time later to work these things out.
Shioriko awakens from a deep sleep sometime in the early morning, alone. She thinks it a cruel trick of nature to have her, even for a second, think that what transpired the night before—the consummated dilution of a single drop of rose-coloured ink landing on Shioriko’s once-crystalline heart, giving it the most radiant of hues—had been just a dream. Ayumu breaks that spell when, walking out of the bathroom wearing only Ayumu’s black turtleneck, hugging the immaculate sinuosity of her figure, gives her a smile.
Whatever residual guilt dissipates from Shioriko almost instantly and, whenever it was to come back, she at least knew she’d have somebody to help her keep it at bay.
“So,” Kaoruko says, and Shioriko anticipates it. “How did it go? Did you get laid?”
“Hm…yup,” Shioriko decides, pretty much on the spot. “Four times, actually.”
“Good, good,” Kaoruko laughs, picking up on Shioriko’s nonchalance. “Wouldn’t expect anything less from my baby sister.”
On the other side of the receiver, Shioriko can hear the sound of running water, and the clinking of plates. She’s a little disappointed that Kaoruko doesn’t pry.
“I’m assuming mother and father aren’t around,” Shioriko says.
“Nah, they’re out visiting the neighbours. I’m gonna go meet them later,” Kaoruko says. “So, did the now-changed Shioriko Mifune learn something new about herself from her date with whatshername?”
“Ayumu,” Shioriko laughs, with the customary eye-roll. She thinks about it for a few moments, and finally makes up her mind. “Well, I guess I did learned that I am what they call a ‘top.’”
Shioriko hears what sounds like a splash of water on the other end of the receiver, and not long after, the sound of running water stops.
“Pardon?” says Kaoruko.
“Hm?” parries Shioriko.
“…Shioriko?” asks Kaoruko, slowly and evenly. “My Shioriko? Little Shiopi? The same Shiopi who used to cover my eyes whenever there was a kiss scene in one of my dramas until she was like, in high school? Student-council-vice-president Shioriko?”
“Could you…stop calling me Shiopi?” Shioriko sighs, bringing a hand to her forehead, and trying her hardest to hold back a smile.
“On second thought, I think I’ll be stopping by Tokyo after leaving Kyoto,” Kaoruko says, with some effort. “I don’t know if I want to interrogate this Ayumu girl or shake her hand.”
“Absolutely not. You do not touch her,” Shioriko says, adopting her best student council timbre. And then, so soft that the phone barely picks it up: “But…if you want to meet her, I’m sure she’d like that as well.”
“It’s set, then!” Kaoruko shrieks into the phone. “I’ll send you the details of my train later. I’m so happy for you!”
“Thanks,” Shioriko just says, and then:
“Wait…wait a second,” Kaoruko stops. “Did…did you say four times?”
Which were the last words Shioriko heard before she summarily ended the call, walking over to the kitchen sink and splashing cold water on her face.
Notes I:
This came…much later than expected lmao. Super sorry for the wait! I had the hardest time writing THE scene lmao. I essentially had the entire chapter written except for bits and pieces of that part. I think I’m relatively satisfied with it now, so I hope those who get around to reading it enjoy it. As always, any and all feedback is more than welcome!
By the way, the title of the fic is a reference to the jazz record they listen to in Shimokitazawa. It’s a Miles Davis recording from his Volume 3 album, if anybody is interested in checking that out!
ShioPomu is an entire mood tbh. Nijigasaki S2 announcement when??
Notes II:
I wanted to get the whole two chapters up by today, since it was Christmas, but the holidays were a bit busy, so I hope this first chapter is enough to keep those of you who think ShioPomu is criminally under-appreciated hooked for the rest! I will do my best to get the second one up by the new year. :)
I hope anybody who celebrated had a safe and wonderful holiday season, and thank you for reading! <3 Any feedback is much welcome.