Work Text:
How to sink slowly
“Wakaba-san.” Yahata Umiri walks to the corner of the studio, past the drum sets, the familiar cracked stool. Past the lights, to where Wakaba Mutsumi sits, perched so quietly in the shadows.
Everyone else has left, and she leaves the easiest to schedule to the last.
“Your schedule for this week.” Umiri holds out the paper, neatly colour coded. She slides a finger down the column of light green and almost frowns, before catching herself.
“Questions?”
Thin slender fingers start to run parallel to the guitar strings, lining up with the calluses. Umiri takes it all in, she has plenty of her own to go with.
“Wakaba-san?” A pause. There is a soft note when the fingers leave the strings, and the owner finally looks up to face her. Mutsumi reaches for the paper, thumb almost perpendicular to the edges, and Umiri hastily folds it into half, before handing over.
“Focus on the ones in the afternoon. Not so much the ones in the morning.”
Mutsumi nods. There is an arrangement, a schedule, this is how they can work.
“I will see you. Tomorrow.”
Mutsumi manages another nod.
“Mm.”
Umiri stops her face from twisting.
Two new lines have appeared next to the cracks of the stool; Yahata Umiri takes it all in, the off key strings, the obvious splitters on the drum sticks, the chipped guitar pick. How much does it cost to buy a pair of sticks? Or a stool?
Everyone else has left, and she leaves the hardest to schedule to the last. She makes a beeline for the shadow in the corner.
“Wakaba-san.” She says, mind still whirling. Should she grab one from the storage of her defunct bands? Surely they wouldn’t mind, at least the discarded stuff would still have value.
“Your schedule for this week.” Umiri holds out the paper, neatly colour coded. She slides a finger down the column of light green and frowns, before catching herself.
“Any questions?”
There is the familiar shake of her head, Umiri folds it mechanically, sliding it into the pouch of the guitar case. Mutsumi’s fingers are on the strings again, ghost and wordless, Umiri thinks.
“Then. I’ll see you.” Umiri finishes with a nod.
A soft hum, a satisfied response.
Three steps later she is back at the drum set, looking at splintered wood. There is blood in her mouth, iron on her tongue — the next moment Umiri knows, she is holding Yutenji’s drum sticks, splinters digging into her palm. She grips harder, an ache to be soothed, and lets it break her skin apart.
“Wakaba-san?”
The pain is oddly comforting. She thinks about the calluses on the strings and lets herself indulge just this once. Maybe they can still make it work; Yahata Umiri is going to start trying.
“Do you want to ride with me?”
She doesn’t know why she has a two seater bicycle in the first place. She hands over her only helmet to Mutsumi, and watches her put it on.
“I figured it’s better to let you get your own picks.” Umiri nods, hopping on the bicycle, steadying it with her feet. The battery meter lights up, a near full charge.
“Might be risking a warning here and there if they catch me without a helmet but,” Umiri mutters, “It’s a damn e-bicycle.”
There is a ghost of a smile, a fleeting moment of mirth in those gold eyes, and they sink into silence again as Mutsumi takes up the passenger seat.
“Grab onto my jacket. I go fast.” Umiri says, and fast does she go.
They zip past the cars on the road with comfortable ease; it is a ten minutes ride to the instrument store, a route that she has been so familiar with. That is, until the sharp bend nearly tosses the both of them off, balance so severely off for she has never rode with two.
Mutsumi’s arms are on her waist, grabbing onto her dear life, and Umiri finds herself not minding it. There’s a hasty apology, a quick hum that nearly sounded out of breath.
And then they ride again, this time much slower.
She doesn’t think about ramming her bike into cars for once.
Yahata Umiri’s escape has been cut off, she knows she is doomed the moment Togawa Sakiko is out of the door, with Misumi Uika chasing the dust she left. Yutenji gives her a look that could nearly double as concern, if not for the slight tilt of her lips, a Nyamu smirk alright.
“Well then, I have a podcast to do.” Nyamu says, albeit much softer than usual. “Let her sleep a little more. Orders from our Oblivionis.”
“The last bit was not necessary.” Umiri follows up quickly, a slight nod towards Mutsumi. “I don’t cover my eyes with a mask.”
She knows she’s got the cat’s tongue when Nyamu stops rummaging through her bag for her phone, her brand new drum sticks jutting out of it, so unbelonging and off-palette.
“Good thing they gave you one that covers your mouth then, Timoris.” Nyamu manages a wink, eyes twinkling the way they do before she drops her Amoris lines. “See ya tomorrow~”
The door closes once more, and Umiri waves the rest of the staff off wordlessly, sinking them both into peaceful silence.
Mutsumi is leaning on her shoulders, sound asleep, still in her Mortis outfit. Their masks are still on, and she could hear her soft breathing through it, almost a little laboured. They stay like this for a while, ghost and phantom bathed in stillness.
The orange glow from the dressing room lights doesn’t help her complexion; there are bags under Mutsumi’s eyes, face so pale that they had to double up on the make up today. The pick they bought the other day is latched between her fingers, so tight that Umiri gives up on her third attempt at removing it, defeated and mildly concerned.
She knows a string cut when she sees one—and there are multiple, riddled throughout their lead guitarist’s hand. The high tension strings don’t help, in many ways the bass and the guitar are almost the same, Umiri nearly smiles, it makes her so very sick.
Her thoughts are cut short when Mutsumi’s phone rings, a summon to go home. A sleepy eye cracks open, a shaking arm reaches for the device, and then Mutsumi is on the phone, barely registering Umiri’s existence.
She fixes her mask as she waits for Mutsumi to end the call, half her mind flipping through the band schedule.
“Wakaba-san?” She waits, teeth on her lips, fingers digging into her palms.
Soft gold eyes hold hers, and she is drowning in her own voice.
“Should we get you a new set of strings the next time we go to the store?”
Their train rides go like this.
They take up a corner, standing till the interchange; They take up a corner, always in the last carriage that opens next to the staircase for exit. They take up a corner, bass and guitar on the floor, and try to make themselves as small as possible.
Mutsumi’s eyes are always on the outside, the passing poles, the intersecting rails, the occasional fields they see. She looks at Mutsumi, whose eyes never falter; Umiri looks at the crowd and thinks about how to disembark with the greatest ease.
“Your stop?” Mutsumi asks, eyes on the station, fingers tugging on Umiri’s sleeves. “Hurry.”
Yahata Umiri watches people leave, and decides to stay.
“Another five more today.” Umiri replies, “Your stop.”
Umiri slides a finger down her arm, down veins the colour of her hair. It’s easy to see them when Mutsumi is so pale , she nearly smiles when Mutsumi’s hand curls into chords instinctively, for a song she recognises almost instantly.
“Black birthday.”
Mutsumi smiles in approval.
“Yes.”
The tendons move, her fingers twist into another.
“Kami-sama-”
“Baka.” Mutsumi finishes, a rare chuckle, so light as if it was never there.
“That’s you.” Umiri says, almost a little too stiffly. Her fingers trace over the arm again, and she leaves it at that; she has those where people cannot see too.
“Mmm.” A soft whisper, and then a shake of her head as if there are too many things to be said and nothing to be said at all.
“Lesser now.” Mutsumi says, and Umiri thinks of her thirty bands, Umiri thinks of Disruption; Umiri thinks about Ave Mujica.
“You make the guitar sound cool.” Umiri says, with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Cooler than most people.”
And then there’s a smile she wants to keep protecting for as long as she is Timoris.
She holds the sparkler upside down, feeling the heat dancing on her finger tips, feeling the smoke rising up to choke her.
Wakaba Mutsumi does the same, but with two. They snap together to burn brighter than Umiri’s, and for a moment Umiri finds herself briefly entranced, by how short-lived it is, by how Mutsumi’s eyes dances with life.
She pulls out another two and hands it over, pulling out two for herself as well. The fireworks over their heads almost drowns out her voice and so she nearly yells.
“Let’s do this together.”
Soft gold eyes hold hers, and she is sinking, sinking, sinking.
She has never seen sparklers burn so bright.
.
.
.