Submission 8 - Breathe

Title: Breathe
Author: TBA
Rating: R
Characters: Subaru, Hokuto, Seishirou, OCs
Warnings: Adult themes
Summary: It's difficult to see her face in the mirror nowadays.




It's difficult to see her face in the mirror nowadays.


BREATHE


i.

1994年 1月 11日
金曜日4:47PM

The dress in the shop's display window isn't quite the same as the sketch it suddenly brings to mind, but the similarities are enough to arrest Subaru's attention and make him stare with haunted eyes. Colour, first of all, that's what gets him, a particular shade of cool burgundy that's more dusky than rich like a spill of old red wine, but as well as that is the dress's cut: fitted bodice, cap-sleeves at the shoulders, mandarin collar with a keyhole cut-out at the neck. The skirt is ankle-length and narrow with sides slit to above the knee, and the whole dress is trimmed with black. It's a dress that brings to mind the Chinese actresses in the foreign films he watched sometimes with Hokuto, a logical association given the inspiration behind his sister's sketch, and the mere sight of it existing in three dimensions is like a violent stab in the heart.

(Someday, he hopes, someone will do that to him. Until then, but, his heart disappointingly beats and he hasn't seen his someone for nearly four years.)

In the shop, there is a woman browsing the wares. She's dressed in a coat and tailored dark grey suit that hugs her generous curves, has copper-bleached hair that clashes with a bright pink scarf, and is given extra height by virtue of pink stiletto heels. She sweeps through the clothes racks with the restless air of someone who wants something but isn't sure what. After a while she eventually comes to the window and the burgundy dress displayed there between a man's business suit and a floral summer dress. Subaru can see her coloured lips moving silently behind the glass. In response a figure steps into view from beyond the window's frame; another woman, older in her late forties, with tired lines around her face and an autopilot smile. She's wearing brown trousers with a loose blue jumper; there's a yellow measuring tape around her neck.

Breath caught, Subaru watches the pantomime in front of him. The second woman – undoubtedly the shopkeeper or dressmaker – has stepped up into the display window's alcove to get the dress for the customer, a task which involves stripping it off the display dummy. This is done clinically firstly by unzipping the side-zip, then twisting off the dummy's rigid arms before tipping the dummy over so that it lies over her knee. The shopkeeper tugs the dress over the dummy's faceless head then leaves it lying on the floor naked and white next to its disconnected arms. Without the dress the dummy is oddly asexual, with a featureless groin and the barest swell of a chest that allows it to be used interchangeably for both men and women's clothing; it also looks like a decapitated corpse. The shopkeeper reluctantly hands the burgundy dress to the customer who sweeps off with it to the changing cubicle, then stands to follow though not before glancing curiously at Subaru through the glass. It's a brief glance, not even long enough to make Subaru embarrassed at being seen, but it does give a distinct impression of shadowed, closed off eyes.

The changing cubicle is visible, but partly concealed by a low shelf of shoes and bags. The shopkeeper stands to one side of it on hand in case the customer calls for assistance. This happens soon enough if the way the shopkeeper suddenly lifts her head is any indication, and after a bit of discussion the shopkeeper pulls the cubicle curtain half-open so as to physically help. The problem is immediate apparent; the dress is too small for the curvaceous customer who is having trouble closing the zip. Subaru has done enough shopping with his sister (in another time – how long ago now?) to know the sensible thing to do is ask for larger size and give up if there isn't one, but the customer doesn't seem to be the sensible type and is trying to get the shopkeeper to pull the last of the zip closed for her. Judging by the body language the shopkeeper is unwilling to do this but the customer is insistent, tugging on the zip while her lips rapidly move as the act of talking can make her drop a dress size. Subaru can remember his sister's comments about how forcing a dress only ruins it, and that is enough for him. Without thinking he finds himself pushing open the shop's door and stepping inside blurting, "I'll buy that dress."

The shopkeeper stares at him, the cubicle curtain beside her yanked shut and automatic irrashaimase lying dead on her tongue. Her brown eyes are lined with age and dark circles. "I beg your pardon?" she asks in disbelief.

"That dress. The dark red one you took from the window. I'll buy it."

The cubicle curtain shifts. "Okay, I admit it's a bit tight," the customer inside says airily, "but it's only a little small and it's such a unique colour, so you know what, I'll buy it anyway; it'll be my weight loss incentive and I don't mine spending twenty-eight thousand yen now since I made myself stop eating out so much and cook at home more since like my friend Hitomi said it also gives me more control over my diet…"

She keeps talking while a bare arm reaches out from behind the curtain holding the burgundy dress. It takes a moment for the shopkeeper, who is still staring at Subaru, to react but react she does, taking the dress back and draping it over her arm before looking from Subaru to the cubicle and back. Subaru begins to feel a prick of desperation. "Please," he says, low and urgent, "let me have that dress. I can pay the price, any price, that's not a problem, but the dress, it belongs to—" He catches himself. "I-I mean, it's for my sister."

For a long moment the shopkeeper looks him up and down. "Is your sister like you?"

Subaru wills himself to sound detached. "We're twins. Identical."

She hesitates, just slightly. The customer is still talking about recipes and diets oblivious to her lack of response as she presumably gets dressed again. Then the shopkeeper gives a short nod. "Fine," she says curtly, moving towards the counter. Subaru follows her with heart in throat already pulling out his wallet – it's a lot of money but he just did a job yesterday, he has enough. "Quickly!"

There's a pang of guilt for the other customer as he puts some notes on the counter but it's too late now, the shopkeeper has already rung up the charge and is folding the dress in white tissue. In the space of seconds the dress is in a brown paper bag and is being handed to him along with his change, and Subaru blinks as he realises that the shopkeeper is smiling – no, grinning at him over the cash register. "I'm glad," she whispers, "I'm so glad when my dresses are bought by people they'll look good on. Now go!"

Subaru doesn't need to be told twice. With the bag's handle clutched between his fingers he flees the shop and runs, not daring to look back let alone think about what he has done or why. For block after block he runs like a man pursued until at last his strength gives out and he slows to a halt, crouching over with hands on thighs as he gasps and gulps for breath. The bag digs into the skin of his wrists; he's not wearing gloves anymore, hasn't worn them for years. Not since that day.

Harsh neon lighting on his face. Subaru bows his head; his chest hurts.


* * *

It is in the oppressive silence of his apartment that regret begins to sink.

Subaru heavily leans one shoulder against the shadowed wall of his living room as far away from the sofa as possible. It's the only piece of furniture in the room; he never had much in the first place and when he moved out of Shinjuku trying to escape the memories he took even less. This sofa is both seat and bed for him, and other than the floor the only surface he can lay the dress so there it is, draped as if sitting upright, wine-dark and rich against the cream upholstery and looking none the worse for wear for its earlier ordeal. It's made of silk, Subaru knows that much, lined kimono silk in fact, and while the colour may look plain from afar a closer inspection reveals a subtle pattern pressed into the fabric that shows best under direct light. The pattern is of tiny cherry blossom petals.

It’s impossible to avoid cherry blossoms, real or as a motif, when living in Japan. Subaru personally hates the very sight of them but forces himself to ignore the reminder of his past and concentrate on the dress. It is uncannily similar to one of his sister's last designs.


"Here, Subaru, look at this!"


Hokuto loved designing outfits, either around some feature piece she had found or completely from scratch, and a sketchbook was every bit as essential to her handbag as lipstick or purse. The sketchbook would over time be dissected as each page was pulled out to be filed into Hokuto's ever-increasing collection of designs, which was remarkably organised into categories: designs for herself, designs for Subaru, others for friends, still more for special occasions for of course every birthday, every New Years and festival and more had to have its own specific costume no matter how far off in future. This dress, Subaru recalls with clarity, was an idea for Seijin no Hi – Coming of Age Day – conceived in the aftermath of a Chinese film they had watched at the cinema. The film had been Hokuto's idea ("I heard about it from my friend," she'd explained, "the one who works at the cabaret club, when I said I wanted to learn more about her country she suggested watching some movies to start and this one was just released") and hadn't been enjoyable at all, but Hokuto had been fascinated by the film's costumes and vivid colours and began sketching ideas that very night. For Subaru's part, the only thing he remembered about the film was its hopelessness.

(Subaru tries not to think about how there had been someone else with them at the cinema. That someone had sat in the seat beside Subaru's and when Subaru grew distressed at the cruelties inflicted on and by the film's characters, reached out in the dark and comfortingly covered Subaru's gloved hand with his own.)

It had been several weeks later, when the impact of the film's tragedy had faded from Subaru's mind, that Hokuto was sufficiently satisfied with her designs to bring them out to show. They had been colourful, even lavish like the visuals of the film, but Subaru had been particularly struck by the burgundy dress which was far simpler than the rest and incongruous with Hokuto's usual style. He had asked her about it, and Hokuto had answered him this: It's a grown up dress idea, for a grown up me. It's a dress I'll wear when we come of age.

When it's our Seijin no Hi, I want it to be special. I'll wear a furisode that day, of course, but afterwards, when the ceremonies and speeches are over, I want to wear something different. Something I can go out at night in. We'll have dinner at an elegant restaurant together but after that I want to go out by myself a bit, somewhere nice and grown up where I can order my first cocktail and be seen, a simple announcement to the world that Sumeragi Hokuto is here, she's arrived, and she's no girl anymore.

And then afterwards we'll meet up again and go home, grown up twin brother and sister together, ne?

The dress sits on the sofa, placid and quiet, like a benign tumour. Subaru shudders; he can't bear to look at it anymore. With jittery movements he pushes himself off the wall and goes to snatch up the dress, roughly bundling it back into the brown shopping bag which is then unceremoniously dumped in the hall. Yet although the dress is now thankfully out of sight, Subaru still doesn't find himself breathing any easier. His hands are shaking, he feels ill.

Subaru is nineteen going on twenty, with Seijin no Hi in three days. Hokuto has been dead for nearly four years.


ii.

1994年 1月 12日
土曜日10:27AM

The door of the dress shop is open when Subaru returns the next morning, bag in hand, already nervous and guilty about what he's about to do. There's no one inside but bare seconds after the door swings shut there is the sound of footsteps above his head rushing down an unseen flight of stairs. It heralds the appearance of the dressmaker herself in the shop's back entrance, wisps of greying hair around her face and yellow measuring tape about her neck. "Irrashaimase," she says breathlessly. "Welcome to Shinya, how may I—" She stops when she sees who it is. "You again?"

Subaru bows deeply with hair falling over his eyes; he needs to get it cut soon. "Sumimasen. I-I want to apologise for the trouble I caused you yesterday—"

"Oh, that was no trouble, the customer screeched and ranted a bit but I told her the dress didn't fit anyway so she shouldn't be buying it, save her money and oh, by the way, good luck with the diet because you need it, at which point she shut up and left."

"—but while I appreciate your very great kindness to me I'm afraid, and I'm very, very sorry, but I, ah—" Subaru stops. Swallows and takes a breath. "I'm ah, afraid that I must return this dress."

He holds the bag out stiffly, silently praying that the dressmaker will take it. She doesn't, instead standing behind the shop counter looking offended. "Return it?" she repeats, voice full of disapproval. "Why, is there something wrong? Did it not fit your sister properly, because if that's the case I do alterations—"

"It's not that." His hand is trembling, sweaty even, he feels terrible about what he's doing. "I just made a mistake in buying it."

"A mistake? Well, young man, that's too bad because I don't do returns for wrong choices. I'm not a big business, I can't afford to be making returns for every customer who has second thoughts."

"I—"

"And in any case why are you the one here? Your sister wants to return the dress, she should be doing it herself. I want to know exactly what she finds wrong with it, and if it's just on some flighty girl's whim the best I'm going to do is offer her an exchange for another item—"

"My sister is dead."

The statement falls like a bomb. Subaru fixes his eyes on the floor and tries to keep his mind blank of cherry blossoms and blood. He can feel the dressmaker's shocked gaze upon him but she doesn't move or speak, so stunned is she by his revelation. One by one seconds tick by each seeming to stretch tortuously long as Subaru wills the woman to say something, only she doesn't, in fact Subaru can't even hear her breathing. The only thing he can hear is his traitorous heartbeat, and soon Subaru has to either say something more or scream. He chooses the former.

"She died nearly four years ago, when we were sixteen. We were identical twins, same build, same eyes, same face, but our personalities were like the sun and moon. She loved clothes, she would use any excuse to dress up. A lot of things she wore were things she designed herself, and this dress, the one I bought from you, it's just like something she created and would have worn this year for Seijin no Hi which was all I could think of when I saw it in your window, I didn't think, I just bought it on impulse because in my head it was Hokuto-chan's dress and no one else should have it … but my sister is dead, there's no one to wear this dress and I shouldn't have bought it in the first place. I know I'm causing you no end of trouble and for that I cannot begin to say how sorry I am, but please, I can't keep this, let me return it. Please."

He doesn't remember the last time he talked so much. He doesn't remember the last time he made excuses for himself either. Hokuto would have been proud.

For a long moment it seems that his efforts have been wasted. The dressmaker still stands unreceptively, still doesn't take back the bag, and still stares at him though whether or not with pity Subaru daren't look close enough to see. Then, suddenly: "Take off your parka," she commands.

Startled, Subaru jerks his head up. "W-what?"

The dressmaker looks down on him, lined eyes hard and bright and brooking no argument. "Take off your parka," she repeats, pushing up the sleeves of her black cardigan, "and stand up properly."

He's obeying before he realises he's doing so, accustomed all his life to taking orders from women like his grandmother. Hastily he slips his left arm out of the old navy blue parka he always wears in winter and shifts the bag to his now free left hand to do the same to his right only to blink as it is suddenly taken off him. "You're remarkably slender," the dressmaker comments, reaching into the bag. Subaru flinches as the burgundy dress is pulled out into the open and gently shaken free of creases. "Pretty as well – since you were identical twins I'd imagine your sister would have grown up to be much the same. Here, use this."

She hands him a coat-hanger; Subaru slides his parka onto it completely confused as to what's going on. Beneath the parka he's wearing a woollen grey turtleneck with black pants, all of it slightly too small because he's grown a bit and without his clothes-mad twin shopping is an ordeal he avoids unless absolutely necessary. "Um, excuse me—"

"Fuyutsuki. Fuyutsuki Chizuru." She takes the parka off him and hangs it on the nearest clothes rack – women's skirts, as it turns out – where it looks awkwardly out of place. "And you are?"

"…Subaru. Excuse me, Fuyutsuki -san, what is going on?"

"Stand up straight." Subaru does so, head up, shoulders back in a posture that comes automatically whenever he puts on his shikifuku, and draws in a sharp breath as Chizuru places the dress against him. "Just as I thought," she muses, pulling the dress flat across his shoulders and leaning back to inspect the tableau. "There'll have to be a few alterations of course, but those are easy. Lift up your arms."

Hushed and intimidated by the focus in Chizuru's voice, Subaru does so. She takes the dress away to place it on the counter before whipping off the yellow measuring tape from around her neck and grabbing a pen. With practiced briskness she begins to measure him: chest under arms, breadth of shoulders, waist, neck to waist, waist to ankle … she moves around him jotting each measurement down on the inside of her right arm, all the while muttering under her breath. Her hands are dry, not at all like how Hokuto's were, but the firm businesslike manner in which they touch him is the same. Infinitesimally and against his will, Subaru finds himself relaxing.

Finally she is done. Chizuru stands up with a groan; she's about the same height as him and they can see eye to eye. "All right," she says coolly, "I'll take the dress back today – but on one condition. You, Subaru-kun, must come back here the day after tomorrow. Come in the evening after five o'clock. I'll leave the door open."

His mind is flustered, he doesn't know what to think. "I – Fuyutsuki-san—"

"Promise. Promise you'll return on Monday, or you walk right back out of here taking the dress with you."

When put like that the choice he's been offered is really no choice at all. Subaru wets his suddenly dry mouth. "I promise."

"Good." A gust of cold winter air blows in to the tune of an electronic chime, and Chizuru looks around him at the door. "Customer. You should go now, I have a shop to run."

She steps past him with service smile already sliding into place as she approaches the newly arrived customer. Subaru grabs his parka back and pulls it on, a comforting shield, wondering what it heaven's name just happened. "Ano, Fuyutsuki-san!"

She pauses mid-stride and looks back at him. "What is it?"

"Why do you want me to come back?"

She smiles at him, briefly, even sympathetically. "So I can show you your sister."

To this Subaru can make no reply. He stares at Chizuru as she turns her back on him for the new customer (a young woman, slim and shy and fashionably dressed) is more than willing for Chizuru to show her the best items. They pass the counter where the burgundy dress still lies; the customer questioningly points at it and Chizuru shakes her head. "It's already sold," she says apologetically, "I'm just doing a few alterations for the customer. But if dresses are what you're looking for then I have others over here …"

One, two, three steps backwards. Subaru has reached the exit. Before Chizuru can say anything in goodbye he pulls the door open and stumbles through almost tripping in his haste. Outside the street is full of people passing left and right, they give him no attention whatsoever – or at least, not until he braces his arm against the wall leaning his forehead on it like a man about to be sick. Even then, but, they just give him a wide berth as they pass. No one actually stops walking.

Subaru is crying.


iii.

1994年 1月 13 日
日曜日7:50PM

In Shibuya, groups of girls flit from shop to shop like butterflies and just as brightly adorned.

In Akihabara, boys battle virtually for supremacy through giant robots and fighting avatars.

In Odaiba, young couples bask in the lights of the Bay and Bridge and the company of each other.

Subaru lives his days like a man through fog. There are no jobs for the moment to distract himself with and for all that he lives in Tokyo there isn't a single thing he wants to do. There are things he has to do, of course – cleaning, groceries, chores of daily life – but it’s not enough, nowhere near enough to fill his hours let alone his mind and stop him from thinking. Everywhere he goes there are young people, people his age, all of them animated and socialising and living as they discuss what they're going to do on Monday, who they are going to go with, and for the girls, what they are going to wear. They talk of furisode and zori and make-up and hairstyles with a fervour that is almost dizzying. Any one of them could have been Hokuto.

(There had, last New Years, been a request made for Subaru to come back to Kyoto for his Seijin no Hi. He'd flatly refused on grounds that there isn't anything to celebrate about coming of age without his twin, but also because he doesn't see the point – twenty may be the age for legal adulthood but as far as Subaru is concerned he was forced to grow up years ago, through position, through duty, through loss and betrayal. For once his sentiments were understood.)

He has a suspicion about what Fuyutsuki Chizuru is trying to do; in fact he'd be stupid not to have one given that he had (has, he tells himself viciously, has) Hokuto for a sister. Female clothing is nothing new to him; when he was younger, much younger, it was one of Hokuto's favourite pastimes to dress him up in her clothes and herself in his before going to dinner or lessons and seeing how long it took for people to realise the trick. Subaru would always be the one to be caught out first, because no matter how hard he tried he could never bring himself to act as vibrantly as his sister. Hokuto in contrast, found imitating her shyer, quieter younger brother almost as easy as breathing.

That game stopped when Subaru started taking jobs on his own. Cross-dressing, even in fun with a twin sister, wasn't respectable for an onmyouji already named as the next Sumeragi clan head. Since then, the only time that one of them had dressed up as the other was when Hokuto had taken his shikifuku and gone to find a cherry tree.

What would Hokuto have looked like if she had been given the chance to grow up?

Cigarette smoke curls beneath the darkened ceiling. Subaru hasn't left his apartment the whole day. It's hard to breathe, but the smoke keeps his eyes dry.


iv.

1994年 1月 14 日
月曜日5:50PM

The shop is dark when he returns. He didn't want to, but a promise is a promise and Subaru is too honourable to even think about breaking one. Still, however, he hopes that maybe he kept her waiting too long, that she's given up on him and when after no one answers his hesitant knock he can slink home to hide and pretend that the world around him isn't moving on. Of course, it doesn't work.

"I said I'd leave the door open," is the first thing Chizuru says. She's dressed in black tonight, simple and practical, and gives him the ghost of a smile. "Come on in."

She closes and locks the door behind him – no getting out of this now. Apprehensively Subaru follows Chizuru through the darkened shop to the back entrance glowing warmly from a light in the room beyond. The room turns out to be a stockroom, but one with a flight of stairs in it, and Subaru follows Chizuru up these into the small apartment that sits above. Small kitchen, smaller bathroom, a tiny raised space with tatami matting in one corner, and a slightly larger living area that seems to be mostly sewing room. "Would you like anything to drink?" Chizuru asks.

"No, thank you." He stands in the genkan uncomfortable and out of place. What is he doing here?

"Don't mind me then." Chizuru has gotten out a beer for herself and takes a gulp. Lowers the can when she sees that Subaru is still in the genkan. "Oh come in, I'm not going to bite. Sit there."

She points at the raised corner space with tatami matting. At night it would have a futon for sleeping but right now there's only a cushion and a round mirror on a portable stand. Subaru's stomach clenches, but he slides his shoes off anyway. "Ojamashimasu," he murmurs, picking his way carefully across the floor – it's a neat apartment, but there's a lot in it. He passes the burgundy dress on the way, hanging from a hook in the wall on a clothes hanger – it looks no different to before, at least to his eyes – before gingerly kneeling down in seiza on the cushion. There's a photo sitting on a wall shelf to his side; there's a younger Chizuru with a man and little boy smiling out at him from the frame.

Chizuru puts down the rest of her beer and picks up a beige cloth and a large silvery metal box. "So did you go to any ceremonies this morning?" she asks as she comes over. Subaru makes a negative sound; he feels almost fatalistic. "In that case, let me be the first to congratulate you for Seijin no Hi." She kneels down in front of him on the tatami with the white cloth over her shoulder. Subaru tries not to flinch as she looks with unsettling directness into his face. "I said I'd show you your sister," she says softly, "and I can see from your face that you already have an idea of what I'm getting at. Are you all right with this?"

His face heats, there are moths in his stomach, but his morbid curiosity outweighs all. "Yes," he whispers. "Yes."

A sad smile crosses Chizuru's face. "Take off your top," she instructs.

It's impossible to try preventing the flush of embarrassment that comes over him, but he moves to do as he's told. Parka first, which Chizuru bundles to one side, then his woollen turtleneck is discarded leaving him clad in faded black jeans and a white long-sleeved t-shirt. Chizuru drapes the beige cloth about his shoulders before using a plastic headband behind his ears to push his hair out of his face. Already Subaru feels faintly ridiculous, but he forces himself to keep calm. "Good," says Chizuru, sitting back on her heels, "now close your eyes."

She opens the metal box revealing an intimidating array of paints, powders, brushes, sponges and more, and Subaru feels a not entirely pleasant thread of anticipation curling in his gut. Still, however, he does not resist as Chizuru gently takes hold of his chin, and closes his eyes as she wipes a dampened tissue over his face. "Why are you doing this for me," he asks quietly.

"Because I want to." The tissue stops, disappearing to let Chizuru's fingers rub a light cream into his skin. "Because you're letting me. Because I know what it's like to grow old wondering what someone you've loved and lost would have looked like had they lived.

"I had a son, his name was Shinya. His father and I were so happy when he was born and we thought he could achieve anything. We watched him grow imagining how we would attend his school festivals, his graduations, even his wedding, how proud we would be on each of those days. Open your eyes and look up." Pencil-tip around his eyes; Subaru tries not to flinch. "Shinya was such a handsome boy, I loved making clothes for him and made sure he was the best dressed child each Shichi-Go-San. Which was fine when he was little, but then again, that might have been when the trouble started. Close your eyes." Subaru does so obediently, keeping still as something is brushed over his eyelids. "When Shinya was in school, he was in the upper ranks of students in his class. His father thought he could do better, I thought he was doing well enough, but what became more of a worry was the fact that although he had plenty of girl friends through school he showed no interest in any of them. What's more, he was friends with girls because he could talk like and with them about girlish things: clothes, make-up, fashion, things like that. Boys. My handsome Shinya talked about boys like he was a girl.

"I was disappointed in him, I can admit that. Still, he was still my son and I loved him. His father was the one who took it badly. He would yell and scream every time he found Shinya with new clothes or with make-up, and it got worse every year as Shinya grew older and showed no signs of changing. Once he found lipstick in Shinya's bag and somewhere in the shouting that ensued he backhanded Shinya across the face. He told Shinya the only red a man could honourably have on his face was blood. Don't breathe for a moment." Subaru holds his breath and tries to relax as a soft brush dusts his face. "Shinya ran away that night.

"I blamed his father, and he blamed me of course. Said it was my fault Shinya turned out that way because I treated him like a doll when he was little. I retorted that if that was the case then Shinya's father obviously wasn't enough of a man to make up for me. I was the one hit that day. You can breathe now, by the way.

"Shinya came back a few days later. He had been staying with a girl friend but had to leave because of the trouble he was causing, and although he worked part-time jobs he didn't have the money to live on his own. So he came back. I convinced his father to be civil and tolerant, or at least try to be, and begged Shinya not to provoke him. Open your mouth." Subaru does so, smelling strawberries as something thick and sticky glides over his lips. "The peace, if you could call it that, was intermittent at best. Shinya had grown his hair long and while he no longer wore make-up at home he would put it on outside, and barely a month would go by without some terrible fight. Later I found dresses in Shinya's cupboards. Of course, I didn't tell his father. Keep your eyes closed, I'm going to do your hair now.

"Shinya's Seijin no Hi would have been six years ago. He told us quite bluntly beforehand that he wanted to wear a furisode and he had saved up his own money to buy one, complete with obi and everything. After all this time I was prepared to let him do what he wanted but his father of course was having none of it. Said he'd rather see his son dead than standing up there in front of everyone we knew dressed in women's clothes bringing shame upon us. He probably didn't mean it, but he got what he wanted. The next morning we found Shinya hanging from the ceiling of his room dressed in the furisode. He had done his hair and make-up perfectly.

"His father was left a broken man. He and I divorced some months later, and I think he moved back to his home town. I stayed in Tokyo and opened up this shop in my son's memory. The men's and women's clothes I make and sell downstairs? I make them all with Shinya in mind, and wonder what he would look like wearing them. I'll never know, of course, but seeing other people look good in my clothes, that helps a little. Just a little.

"Your hair is done. You can look in the mirror now."

Slowly, almost frightened, Subaru opens his eyes. He blinks for a moment as his vision refocuses, wondering at how weightless his eyes feel, before finally focusing on the surface in front of him. His breath stops.

Hokuto is staring out of the mirror.

It's a startling transformation. Subaru swallows nervously, unsettled by the way Hokuto does as well, trying to tell himself that this is him, this is his face only covered with powder and paint. Eyes, first, that's what he looks at, noting how they've been thinly lined with black and the upper eyelids smudged light rose. The corner of each eye is dotted with a daub of shimmering palest gold that brings out the emerald green of his irises. The shadows under his eyes are gone, there's even a hint of blush on his pale cheeks. Finally there are his lips, and if ever he feared that they would be coloured as brightly as was Hokuto's preference he can feel relieved, for all Chizuru has done is applied a sheen of gloss with nothing but the barest hint of colour. All of this is set off by ebony black hair that although short, has been brushed and sprayed so that it whimsically frames his face much like it used to do when he was sixteen. The only adornment is a small kanzashi that has been pinned into the hair on the left side of his head, dark red and accented by white pearlescent beads. Hokuto would have loved it.

Still, however, for all that is now Hokuto's face, there's something not quite right. In the mirror, Hokuto is not smiling.

Chizuru leans over his shoulder and looks into the mirror beside him; although the emotion in her face is fragile she manages to smile with a fairy godmother's pride. "You have a lovely face, Subaru-kun, I really didn't have to do much other than bring out your eyes. Your sister must have been a beautiful girl."

Somehow Subaru finds his tongue. "She was," he says hoarsely, only to catch himself as in the mirror Hokuto's lips move with his— "I mean, she is."

Chizuru's smile widens, there are tears in her eyes. They seem to embarrass her, for she ducks her head out of the mirror and quickly wipes them away. When she looks up again, she is back to being her old self. "Well then!" she says with forced enthusiasm, "now that hair and make-up is done, shall we see how she looks with the dress? It belongs to you, after all. I'll go get it, okay?"

Mechanically Subaru nods, happy to let Chizuru do as she feels right and keeping his eyes on Hokuto's face in the mirror. Hokuto still isn't smiling, Subaru notes achingly, and what's more in the frame of the mirror it's almost like she's trapped. Cooped up, or caged, even, like a pretty princess in a fairy tale.

Hokuto hated feeling confined in any context. Unlike Subaru she was a people person, an extrovert who shone best in social situations and who drew her energy from the presence of others. Keeping her cut off from the world in any way is not only unkind, it's heartless.

Hokuto needs to be seen.


v.

1994年 1月 14 日
月曜日8:55PM

The Grand Hyatt Tokyo in Roppongi Hills. Although a Monday night it doesn't matter to tourists or travelling businessmen, and while not busy there are enough guests in the hotel's intimate lounge and bar to keep staff occupied. Lit by candlelight they sit scattered about the room around low tables and in shadowed alcoves, flickering silhouettes against the wood panelling and dark gold drapes. There's a live band on a stage – keyboard, percussion, bass, a couple of strings with a female singer in slinky black – playing chilled relaxing music that softens faces and brings down guards. As the singer sings whispers of conversation float by in the low light interrupted now and then by laughter; there are relationships being deepened over wine and drinks.

Hokuto sits at the bar alone.

Through the hourglass I saw you
In time you slipped away

To any voyeur – and there are several in this lounge – Hokuto is an attractive picture. Slim to almost the point of androgyny she wears a fitting, high-necked, burgundy dress trimmed with black that contrasts with the fairness of her bare arms and skin. Low black peep-toe heels set off slender legs exposed to the thigh by the dress's slit. She has short ebony hair decorated with a silken dark red flower and strikingly vivid emerald eyes. These eyes avoid any contact and are kept shyly or nervously lowered on a half-empty glass of lemonade; their owner seems somewhat detached, even, perhaps, a little unreal.

One voyeur, tall and blond and intrigued, decides to approach.

"Good evening." Startled, Hokuto glances up. The blond stranger smiles and leans against the bar. "Looking a little down and lost there – you waiting for someone?"

It takes a few seconds for Hokuto to reply. "…No," she says slowly, voice soft and low, "I'm not waiting for anyone."

"You mean you're here by yourself? Wow." The stranger shakes his head, still smiling. "Have to say that takes some courage, going out to a bar like this alone, I mean. Especially for a girl. Usually the only people you see by themselves at places like this are guys like me on business trips. I'm John, by the way, and you are?"

He extends a hand, large and open, one eyebrow inquiringly lifted. Hokuto stares confusedly for a moment before hesitantly reaching out to shake it with the tips of her fingers. "Hokuto," she says, lowering her head as she pulls back; her fingernails, one would notice, although not particularly long are manicured and painted with a clear polish.

John acknowledges the customary bow with an exaggerated one of his own. "Nice to meet you, Hokuto-chan – I can say that, right?" Hokuto doesn't respond either way and John takes this as tacit approval, though he does give a rueful chuckle. "I've been learning Japanese for nearly eight years and yet I still sometimes slip up on the honorific language stuff, what's appropriate for who and when, but since the company keeps sending me over here for work I must be doing something right. Mostly." He flashes Hokuto a grin. "I tend to trip up around pretty girls."

The compliment makes Hokuto's fair cheeks flush pale pink. John's grin widens; he can't be any older than twenty-eight, and he has an easy confidence that sits well on his square-jawed face. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Too polite to say no Hokuto nods slightly and nervously attempts at a smile. John beams and victoriously waves the barman over. "A Long Island Green Tea for the girl and a Johnnie Walker on the rocks for me, please," he says, "and you can put it on my room tab. You have to try this drink, Hokuto-chan, it's named after my home part of the States but this version uses sake steeped in green tea so a bit of an eastern twist on the traditional mix. You ever been to the United States, Hokuto-chan?"

Hokuto hasn't been anywhere, but at one stage she dreamed of doing so. She can't dream any more, obviously. "No, I haven't."

"You should definitely try to get yourself over there sometime, and if you do and find yourself in New York you can be sure I will show you all the best places to go. Ah, here we are." A low square glass with ice and golden liquid appears on the bar in front of them, followed a few moments later by a highball glass filled with something pale yellow and decorated with a brandied cherry. John pushes the drink towards Hokuto who takes it with no small amount of trepidation. "Okay, then. Kanpai!"

John clinks his glass against Hokuto's and then the two of them drink, or at least John does. Hokuto lets only a cautious mouthful pass her lips. Onstage, the singer has begun another song.

I know, it's late, I shouldn't call at this hour
But it's, my fate, I need lips to devour

"How do you like it?"

The drink is refreshingly sour with a hint of sweetness. Pleasant. "It's – good," Hokuto replies, surprising herself perhaps with the sentiment. "I'm … enjoying it." For the first time she lifts her eyes to meet John's. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. And no, don't even think about paying me back, it was my pleasure. After all, how else is a guy like me supposed to keep a conversation going with a pretty girl?"

Hokuto blushes. "Ah, by talking?" she ventures hesitantly.

The laugh that bursts from John's mouth is bright and startled. "Talking? Oh, Hokuto-chan," he manages to say, and then he is laughing again, warm and full and genuinely amused. Infectious, actually, and strange as it feels Hokuto can't help but shyly smile a little. She self-consciously hides it behind another sip of her drink, though.

I know, it's late, we've known each other a while
I, can't wait, to see your twisted smile

"So, Hokuto-chan," John continues when (with the whiskey's assistance) he's finally gotten hold of himself, "tell me, what are you, a university student? Model? No, wait, let me guess, a professional breaker of hearts—"

"She's a ghost."

Freeze, shatter. In a split second 'Hokuto' is gone leaving only Subaru, Subaru, white and vulnerable wearing a woman's dress and holding a stranger's drink in his left hand. He knows that voice, knows the speaker who is standing behind him, and knows also that what was supposed to be a little adventure has now become a nightmare. "Of course, ghosts are still capable of breaking hearts," continues Seishirou, coming out around from behind Subaru's back with a smile, "but here in Japan the ghosts that do that are usually ones that need to be exorcised or destroyed, isn't that right," Seishirou stops to stand unsubtly between Subaru and John at Subaru's shoulder. "…Hokuto-chan."

He shouldn't look at him, really he shouldn't, but Subaru can't help himself, and his gut tightens immediately. Seishirou looks breathtaking in black, black hair, black suit, black tie, all of it in stark contrast to his white shirt and silver cufflinks. He's taller than John, or at least the same height, and for all that he has one white eye and one amber-gold the mismatch does nothing to lessen the intensity of his gaze, particularly since it is no longer hidden by glasses. Immediately Subaru ducks his head, clenching his free hand on his lap so hard manicured fingernails cut painfully into his palms. "Why are you here," he whispers.

"I'm on a work trip," Seishirou says simply. "A late evening appointment with the lady there—" here he points across the lounge at a woman in a fitted blue office-dress talking to a group of men in suits, "—that I will have to eventually attend to."

John is not blind; he can tell there is something going on and it is painfully obvious that 'Hokuto' is deeply unsettled by the man's arrival. "That so? Then why don't you go attend to her?" he asks Seishirou coolly.

"Oh, I can delay it, she won't mind. Besides, Hokuto-chan's company is so much more engaging, and she doesn't mind me being here." Significantly Seishirou glances down at what 'Hokuto' is wearing. "You have a beautiful dress, by the way."

Subaru wants to die.

Drown out the machinery in my head
Bring your peace as mine, to my bed

Seishirou's smile darkens as he turns to John. "Hokuto-chan always did have an eye for clothes," he explains, voice mercilessly conversational. "She intended to study fashion design after high school but in the meantime she would make up outfits at home and use her brother as a model. He was a very good model, pretty as a doll and just as obedient, wouldn't you agree, Hokuto-chan?"

He's having trouble breathing in the dress; he feels faint. John to his credit is not easily moved and is regarding Seishirou with wary eyes. "Look, Mister, I don't know who you are and quite frankly don't care to know, but I think Hokuto-chan actually does mind you being here so why don't you leave us alone and mind your own business, okay?"

"Ah, but you see, this person here is my business." As if to emphasise his point Seishirou puts a hand on Subaru's shoulder, seemingly casually but Subaru feels the weight of it like iron. "Besides which, I need to offer my congratulations." He reaches down with his other hand to take Subaru's clenched right fist. Lifts it up before his lips to kiss the back of it paying absolutely no attention to their startled one-man audience; it makes Subaru shudder, and not just from the way the star-marks burn. "Seijin no hi omedetou, my dear," Seishirou murmurs.

Any other time, any other situation, Subaru would be fighting back. This, however, is the here and now and for all the rage that Subaru feels (along with hate and love, always hate and love together) it is nothing compared to the utter humiliation of being caught in a woman's dress and make-up. Worse still is the way Seishirou is so perfectly and cruelly playing along. "You bastard," he whispers helplessly.

"Such language, Hokuto-chan," Seishirou chides. "What would your grandmother say if she heard you? For that matter, does she even know you're here?"

"Okay, that’s it." John puts down his drink on the bar with a loud clack. "You, ex-boyfriend or whatever, time for you to go, either by yourself or escorted by security."

Challengingly John takes a step towards Seishirou; Subaru's eyes widen in horror. "Don't—"

"I advise very strongly against you trying anything," says Seishirou quietly. His hand is still holding Subaru's. "In the first place I have absolutely no intention going anywhere, and in the second—"

"Actually, you know what, fuck security; I'll escort you out myself for the sheer pleasure of teaching abusive bastards like you that—"

"In the second place," Seishirou repeats, still quietly, "it is a warning for your own good."

The words stop John in his tracks. He stares at Seishirou with narrowed eyes. "Are you threatening me?" he asks in disbelief.

"I am, yes."

A touch of uncertainty creeps into John's face, more, perhaps, from the calmness of Seishirou's reply than the actual substance. Still, however, he seems unwilling to back down and darts a look at 'Hokuto' who rigidly avoids his eyes while making no attempt to break out of Seishirou's grip. Onstage, the singer is dragging out the ending note of her song while the band segues into the chords to another. Seishirou's smile lights up with an idea. "Come," he says, pulling gently on Subaru's hand, "let me take you for a dance."

Even knowing Seishirou as he does Subaru is still taken aback at the request. "W-what?"

"A dance. Right here and now."

John sneers. "Are you stupid? This is a lounge, not a club, and what's more not only is there no dance floor this isn't a dancing song."

Seishirou ignores him and keeps his eyes on Subaru who keeps his eyes on the floor. "One dance, Hokuto-chan, and then I promise I'll let you go tonight." Suddenly he lowers his head to whisper in Subaru's ear. "Dance with me, or your would-be knight in paper armour doesn't live to see tomorrow."

It's all Subaru can do not to punch Seishirou in the face.

I want you the right way
I want you, but I want you to want me too

Seishirou waits out Subaru's silent outrage with a hunter's patience. Subaru's lips thin. Then, like a prisoner to an execution, he puts his drink on the bar and allows Seishirou to pull him off the barstool over to the small patch of clear floor in the corner beside the stage. They attract little attention other than a surprised smile from the singer, and soon enough Subaru is standing stiffly, head bowed refusing to meet Seishirou's eyes, with one hand flat against Seishirou's shoulder and left hand in Seishirou's right. Seishirou's own left arm is wrapped around Subaru's waist. With the heels Subaru comes up to just above Seishirou's chin; for a moment he can see John watching them from the bar but then the singer's voice is growing low and husky and Seishirou is leading him in a turn. Slowly they begin to move together, small steps only side to side, nothing complicated, Subaru can't dance to save his life wearing his own clothes let alone in a dress and Seishirou knows it. But he still makes him try.

I'll give you all the love I want in return
But half a love is all I feel, sweet darling

"You surprise me, Subaru-kun," Seishirou murmurs after a while, body warm and solid against Subaru's. "Even with Hokuto-chan's influence I never would have imagined you to do anything like this – did you get dressed by yourself? Even with a padded bra?"

Subaru's hand tangles into the cloth of Seishirou's jacket, the only evidence of the scream he's clamping down on; constantly put off balance as he is there's little else he can do especially in public. "That's none of your business," he bites out.

"Well, whoever helped you, they did a masterful job. You look absolutely beautiful." Without warning Seishirou spins them, too quickly for Subaru to make a misstep. "Also like Hokuto-chan, which, I presume, is the whole point. But you know, Subaru-kun, if you're going to put so much effort into being your sister for one night, you could have done better."

The words shouldn't hurt but they do. After all, Seishirou is the only other person here who has any memory of Hokuto. "What do you mean," Subaru asks, stung and breathless. He keeps his eyes lowered; his heart is racing.

"Your sister was an independent, confident girl who would look people directly in the eye and never flinch. She had pride and self-respect right up to the end, and would have become a strong woman had I not killed her. You, on the other hand, are simply pathetic. Getting picked up in a bar by a sweet-talking foreigner? Hokuto-chan would at least have made him work for the privilege of buying her a drink. No, Subaru-kun, for all that you look like a grown-up Hokuto-chan your Hokuto-chan is exactly the kind of passive and weak woman your sister looked down on and would have hated to be. In other words, it's just you in a pretty dress." Unpleasantly Seishirou's lips curl into a smirk. "Maybe you should wear dresses more often; you certainly suit them well."

Don't play with something you should cherish for life
Oh baby, don't you wanna care?
Aint it lonely out there?

Violently Subaru shoves Seishirou away – it's too much, he can't take this anymore – awkwardly stumbling backwards in his heels. For a moment he stands humiliated, half bent over and shaking, until a horrible realisation strikes: although he can still hear the music there is no one looking over at their struggle, not the singer on the stage, not John, not a single curious guest, no one. It's as if the two of them are invisible, and even as Subaru stares around at the dimly lit room each oblivious figure begins to disappear, fading like smoke until finally Subaru is staring at a room of empty chairs and abandoned drinks.

The two of them are alone.

Eyes wild, Subaru whips around to Seishirou. The man simply looks at him not needing to say a word to underline how his power has pulled them out of the real world into one of their own. Only the music, dark and disembodied, is allowed to penetrate the illusion. Seishirou always had a flair for the dramatic.

I want you the right way
I want you, but I want you to want me too

There are empty and half-drunk glasses on the nearest tables. Desperately Subaru grabs one and flings it at Seishirou, breath sobbing in his throat, then grabs a second and throws that without even bothering to see if the first one hit. A third and fourth follow in quick succession untargeted and driven increasingly by grief because Subaru knows, he knows he can't ever have or bring Hokuto back that wasn't the point of dressing like this, he just wanted to do something in her memory … another glass and another, he's lost track of how many not that it matters because he can't see, he's shaking with tears – blindly he reaches out again only to be stopped short as a hand grabs his wrist. Immediately he brings up his other hand for a punch but that too, is caught and held, and then Subaru is sinking to his knees crying uncontrollably barely aware of how Seishirou kneels as well to hold him— "Shh, Subaru-kun, that's enough, that's enough now—"

—he lunges up to wrap his hands around Seishirou's throat.

The back of Seishirou's head slams against the floor. All at once Subaru is straddling him, burgundy skirt riding up about his thighs as he digs manicured thumbs into Seishirou's windpipe. The man looks surprised, Subaru notes wildly, surprised but not much more because for all that Subaru is intent on throttling the life out of his enemy his slim hands are shaking too much to do so. The more strength Subaru tries to force into his grip the more unsteady it gets, and the only thing Seishirou has to do is take Subaru's wrists in his own larger hands and hold them back just enough to safely breathe. All the while his eyes never leave Subaru's face.

Futile, then, like this.

Gradually Subaru's hands go limp. His head is bowed, defeated; his shoulders are trembling offering no resistance as his hands are carefully detached from Seishirou's neck. They aren't, however, let go of. Instead Seishirou cradles them, warm and firm, and begins massaging out the strain with a gentleness that makes Subaru's groin constrict, something that only worsens when after turning Subaru's hand over to see the four small angry red crescents marking his palm, Seishirou brings it to his mouth to kiss. His lips are soft, speaking a language all on their own, and also insistent leaving Subaru's palm wet and damp. It takes a moment for Subaru to realise that he's hard but when he does he nearly passes out with shock, nearly gives himself carpet burn as he tries to get away on his knees knowing the dress offers no concealment especially straddling Seishirou like that, only his hand is still in Seishirou's and Seishirou is following him across the floor all the way to the drape-covered wall where Subaru tries to hide his mortified and make-up streaked face. Every time Seishirou tries to grasp his chin and turn his face Subaru jerks away until finally, either in exasperation or something else, Seishirou abruptly changes tactics. He reaches under the dress instead.

Subaru inhales sharply. Now he looks at Seishirou, terrified and shocked before instinct kicks in and he tries to grab Seishirou's invading hand to pull it away. Seishirou, however, is having none of that; his face is unreadable, grim, even, and he stops for a moment to catch Subaru's wrists and pin them against the wall above their hands under his left hand. That taken care of his right hand slides once more under the dress taking advantage of the skirt's slit to reach up and in, pushing down Subaru's underwear to grasp his straining cock. Subaru chokes.

Time trips, disconnecting from meaning or reference. Panicked, Subaru tries to twist his body away only to be pinned down as Seishirou slings a leg over his and begins to stroke with a determination that dissolves any further struggle in pleasure and heat … as if drowning Subaru feels in fragments, the dampness of his skin, the strain in his trapped arms, the strength of Seishirou's fingers holding him tight, oh so tight, shattering what remains of his already broken dignity and moving up and down. Soon he's moaning, making sounds like some mortally wounded beast and just as helpless as he tries to push up into Seishirou's hand in a need so acute as to be almost like agony … without warning his hands are freed as Seishirou bends down low over his leg, pushing the skirt of the dress up further in order to expose him and lean over to – Subaru slams his eyes shut unable to watch as Seishirou takes him into his mouth, but the sensation of it, all wet heat and tongue and suction, is overwhelming and he begins to shudder uncontrollably, whimpering even as he jerks to Seishirou's rhythm, the feel of him there between his legs – blindly he reaches down to clasp Seishirou's head twisting fingers in black hair as he comes—

—it's almost like falling apart.

Jagged pieces of himself scatter and melt. Groggily Subaru opens his eyes to near darkness, the flickering of the empty room's tea-candles feeble against the illusion's power. He feels soft and loose; he can feel Seishirou swallowing around his cock.

Seishirou sits up. Wipes his mouth with a handkerchief from a pocket somewhere. He leans against Subaru, hot and heavy, and if Subaru couldn't face him earlier he certainly can't do it now, so embarrassed is he. He doesn't resist as Seishirou takes his hand again, doesn't resist as Seishirou draws it over and down, jerking only when Seishirou pulls him under unfastened black cloth and around taut flesh. Strong fingers close around his wrist guiding him to action – Subaru swallows dryly and begins, his already flushed face burning under Seishirou's harsh breaths as his caresses turn rough and fast.

It doesn't take long. Between one movement and the next Seishirou spasms against him, leaving Subaru's hand slick and wet. Like a great cat Seishirou relaxes, releasing Subaru's hand and stretching up to put his lips to Subaru's ear. "Now," he murmurs, "will you face me."

Subaru glances at him, startled. Seishirou is smiling again, still the darkly amused expression of earlier but now there's almost easy about it. His mismatched eyes, one blind and white the other amber-gold, are almost light. For the first time tonight, Subaru meets them without flinching.

Seishirou's smile widens. Then he pulls away, standing up and putting his clothes back in order with quick, efficient movements. Subaru numbly does the same with his own outfit, or at least begins to. He stops when Seishirou extends a hand down to him, one eyebrow inquiringly lifted. Without thinking Subaru accepts.

Smoothly, Seishirou pulls him to his feet. Passes him the handkerchief to clean his hands before pulling a little at the dress making it sit properly again and smoothing out the deepest creases. What his face looks like Subaru doesn't know, but Seishirou does and he gently takes hold of Subaru's face in his hands using his thumbs to wipe away the worst of the make-up smears presumably making him presentable. "Th-thank you," Subaru stammers.

"You're welcome." Seishirou lets him go fingers coming away smeared with black. There's a strain of music on the air, Subaru belatedly notices, and he turns trying to see where the illusion is fraying. Seishirou catches his chin and makes him stop; he's still smiling that odd little smile. "I prefer you in white," he says quietly, "but one can never fault your sister's style. You really do look beautiful tonight, Subaru-kun."

It's impossible not to tense at the reference to Hokuto, but the rest of what Seishirou says, makes Subaru blush. He does not, however, lower his gaze from Seishirou's, instead standing straight, shoulders back and head up, emerald green to white and gold.

Seishirou's smile widens. Then he disappears.

Subaru blinks, disorientated. He turns left and right looking for his companion – suddenly sound rushes in around him like rain from a storm-front and he realise the room is back to normal, the lounge guests back in their chairs hands lifted in enthusiastic applause. Onstage the singer and band are taking their bows, tired but triumphant. A few people glance at Subaru, startled, perhaps, by his sudden reappearance, and stare at his dishevelled state either in concern or curiosity or both. Subaru flinches at their faces; the air feels cold on his sweat-soaked skin.

The applause goes on. Subaru flees.


vi.

1994年 1月 15 日
火曜日 11:45AM

"Ah, Subaru-kun!" Chizuru greets brightly as the door closes behind him. She's wearing yellow today, a baggy yellow jumper over dark blue jeans, and working on some sewing as she waits for customers. "You look very well this morning – did you have a good time last night?"

Subaru bows, a pair of brown paper bags in his right hand. "Good morning, Fuyutsuki-san, and yes, I did have a good time last night, thank you for asking. I've come to return your things."

"Oh, wonderful, thank you." Chizuru comes forward to accept the pair of bags he holds out to her and looks inside to check; one bag holds the shoes, bra and kanzashi all individually wrapped, the other— "Eh? You still want to return the dress?"

Subaru tries to smile. "It's a beautiful dress, and really, Fuyutsuki-san, you worked wonders with it giving me my sister for one night for which I can't thank you enough but … I can't keep it. It's a woman's dress, I'll have no use for it, and it would be selfish of me to keep it never to be worn again just because it reminds me of her. You're a wonderful designer; the clothes you make should be owned by people who appreciate them and wear them out to be seen. It's been laundered and pressed, of course," he adds hurriedly as Chizuru's eyes narrow, "and I don't need the money back, it's just that really, I can't keep it, I'm not like your son, I only wanted to dress up once for my sister—"

"It's all right, I understand," Chizuru waves his increasingly anxious explanation aside and gives a wry smile. "And I never did see you as my son by the way, I just understood what you were going through and wanted to do something nice. Okay, fine, I'll take the dress back and put it up for sale again, probably at a reduced price since it's already been worn – but I'm not taking your charity. You paid me money buying something from my shop, you shall have something from my shop. I sell some men's clothes as well, so take a look around, pick something out, and we'll consider it an exchange, all right?"

It's impossible to argue with such reasonable logic. Subaru gives an awkward nod, then hesitantly steps over to the rack of men's clothes. It's a small rack, running only half the length of the wall, and in black, grey, white and blue seems almost drab compared to the women's clothes which come from every colour of the rainbow. He begins to push through it, unsure of where to even start, going through shirts and pants and jackets painfully aware of how Chizuru is watching him refusing to make any suggestions—

A flash of white catches his attention, and he lifts it out of the rack on its hanger. A long coat. "What about this?" he asks Chizuru.

"Let me see." With light steps Chizuru comes over and takes the coat, taking it off its hanger and holding it up against Subaru who stands up straight. "Ah, this, I made it last year as a protest against all the dark coats the salary-men were wearing over their black suits. Here, put it on." Subaru complies, taking off his navy parka which he hands to Chizuru and sliding his arms into the coat-sleeves before turning around. Chizuru inspects him closely. "Hm, not bad. A little big, perhaps, but you've still got a bit of growing to do and these kind of coats are made to last for years, so … what do you think, do you like it?" Subaru nods, and Chizuru grins. "Good choice, I wholly approve."

Subaru blinks as she yanks out the price tag. "Don't I need a bag?" he asks.

"I wouldn't bother." Without looking back Chizuru sweeps away to the counter with his old, worn parka. "Dressed as you are in black already you look fine with it on so you might as well wear it out. Besides which, you look so much better in white." She looks up to find Subaru staring at her with wide, emerald eyes. "Well, go on, what are you waiting for, stop hanging around this old woman's shop and go show off your new clothes, all right?"

Her voice is clipped, brooking no argument, like a mother to a child. Subaru hastily bows again. "Th-thank you, Fuyutsuki-san!"

"Hai, hai. Now off with you!"

Subaru obeys. Hurries out the door onto the streets of Tokyo with a new, almost edgy determination in his posture that fits him as newly as the long pale coat flaring around his legs. High above, a shadowy hawk is watching in appreciation. It waits for the day they will meet again.


おわり

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Featured music:
'Take My Breath Away' (Berlin), http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86MY-quTiJs
'Sleep' (Conjure One), http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugnv-h343gI
'I Want You' (Madonna and Massive Attack), http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JR-jYTzP1s