Work Text:
Akira runs into Yumeoji Fumi on a cold Thursday afternoon.
More specifically, Akira sees Yumeoji Fumi on a crowded train home from work, on a cold Thursday afternoon.
She stands at the other end of the car, separated from Akira by a dense swath of fellow commuters. Akira doesn't need to justify to herself that it's Fumi—she looks exactly the same. She even wears the same hair clip she did so many years ago and the same green colour on her sleeve, though it's a proper winter coat Akira hasn't seen and not the blazer she has. Her face has barely changed. Of course, it must have in insignificant ways the way they all do, the cheeks of youth just ever so slightly shrinking, leaving the bone structure just ever so slightly more prominent.
Akira wonders to herself if she's less recognizable. Hair not-so-recently cropped to a medium length bob, rounded glasses, earrings, and an inconspicuous padded coat like that of so many others here put her far from the kingly stature she held at Siegfeld Institute of Music. Perhaps her face has remained unchanged in ways similar to Fumi's, or perhaps she's lost more baby fat than she'd realized. She won't find out this or where Fumi's going or where she's been, because until the moment she steps out of the train doors, Fumi's eyes are glued to her phone in her right hand, gloved left hand holding on to a pole.
Akira had expected it to be a chance encounter, the kind that only happens once every ten or so years, the kind that you let go of if it's more convenient to because you're not looking for an awkward half-conversation on a Thursday afternoon. She still keeps in touch with Shiori, sees her at least once a year at their annual reunion, knows what she's up to because Yachiyo sends every performance announcement of hers to the group chat the five of them have (the Edels of her second year of highschool, her Frau Platin). But Shiori doesn't talk about Fumi much, only obliges a quick response when asked (by anyone else but Akira, really). She's studying abroad, they video call every now and again but she's busy, she'll be taking over the family business or otherwise trying to escape said fate. Akira doesn't know where she studied, but maybe Shiori had told them and she'd forgotten, or maybe she wasn't around for it. Asking was out of the question.
She'd expected it to be a chance encounter, until she sees her the next day in the same train car, on a cold Friday afternoon. A snowy one.
Akira makes no move to seek her out, but she watches her. She's always staring at her phone. Akira slides her own smartphone out of her coat pocket, and hesitates. She doesn't have much to do with it on the train except check the time. It's 5:48 PM. She puts it away. When she looks back to Fumi, her head is raised, her hand with the phone lowered. She's looking back at Akira—they're making eye contact. Well.
Akira can't do much but stare back at her. It's literally too crowded to move from either of their spots, so they stand and they stare. Had she refused to look up before because she had felt Akira's eyes on her, or was that another coincidence? Fumi looks away first, but Akira knows she recognized her. Strangers don't stare at each other, mutually.
When the train jostles to a stop and the doors open and it's time for Akira to step off, she doesn't expect Fumi to follow. So when she feels two taps on her shoulder as she's nearing the exit gates, she flinches, and when she turns around to see Fumi standing in front of her, she isn't sure what to say first.
"You're Akira... right?" Fumi asks, voice small. When did she become so unsure. It's laughable. Akira nods.
"It's been a long time, Fumi." Fumi sighs, deflates a centimetre or two.
"Was I that hard to recognize?" Akira asks. It's an empty question—she knows she was. Quite a lot of her appearance has changed. Fumi smiles, sheepish.
"Um, yeah. Your, uh." She waves her hand around vaguely. "Hairstyle and glasses can do a lot to a person's impression."
"Did you mean to get off here, or were you following me?"
"What? No, I mean, yes, I meant to get off here. I'm not following you."
"Technically you followed me to talk to me even if you did mean to get off here." Fumi sighs again.
"You haven't changed as much as I thought."
"You haven't changed much at all."
"I'm not so sure about that," Fumi mumbles. "Are you busy? I um, I live nearby, but I don't really know what's around here yet, food wise."
"I suppose it is far from our old high schools." Akira hums. "I'll take you up on that dinner invitation, but only if you agree to answer any questions I ask."
"What the hell kind of condition is that?" Fumi laughs. "Fine. I promise."
The first time Yukishiro Akira met Yumeoji Fumi in their fifteenth year of life was the first time she'd met anyone more arrogant than herself. Back then, she'd never call herself so, but she would like to think she's at least self aware enough to admit it now—that her teenage years were fraught with overconfidence and singlemindedness.
Fumi, she'd been told by Michiru, was the most well known candidate for Frau Platin, having aimed for it since her time at Siegfeld's middle school. She exuded confidence and grace, held herself and others to a high standard, was striving for her dream. A noteworthy rival, Akira had thought. Someone who would certainly push her to greater heights. Someone who could reach the height of the king alongside her or against her.
The first time she'd met Fumi after she had left Siegfeld, Fumi had hid. Weakly, unconfidently fought off Michiru until Michiru had won out. Refused to meet Akira's gaze for more than a second. Akira hadn't understood. She was furious later, alone in her room, after it was all over. The first of many times.
A betrayal, a betrayer, is what Akira had thought. A betrayal of their unspoken trust and unspoken understanding, as if such things could be set in stone. The second time Akira had seen Fumi after she'd left, she'd said as much. The king's stage had felt emptier than it should have, even as empty as king's stages are. Various things had happened after to teach her of her misunderstandings, and of Fumi's own. There wasn't necessarily a resolution of the clean and positive kind. But so many years have passed since then, and after graduating and going their separate ways and graduating again, none of it feels as significant as she remembers it being.
Now, Yumeoji Fumi walks by her side like an old friend—which she is, an old friend—as they cut across a public park and pass by three children in a playground. Children suited up in snow-proof clothing who cannot be more than ten years of age, who must have the early formings of dreams in their hearts, or perhaps are so carefree as to not understand why they'd need one. Were Akira less of a realist, she'd long to be in their place, reliving all her dreams over again. But she cannot pose such an idea. For everything she's lost of her oblivious innocence she has gained the invaluable knowledge that comes with experience and age.
One of the children stops and stares at them. Fumi waves at her and warns the girl to be careful on the slide. Akira smiles at them halfheartedly and says nothing.
Akira takes Fumi to a curry rice restaurant. Curry is a safe option. Who doesn't like curry? It's definitely not just because this is basically the only place she ever eats out at. They're welcomed by a blast of warm air, the smell of onion, meat, and spices, and the sound of jubilant customers. Akira gets beef, Fumi orders the katsu curry.
"You're still carrying that around?" Fumi asks when Akira takes her trusty spice container out of her bag.
"It's important," Akira answers. "Nothing is ever spicy enough as it comes."
"You're insane." Fumi takes out a small bottle of ponzu from her purse. Akira can't help but laugh.
"And you're not?"
"Ponzu isn't spicy. It just tastes good. You're just making something already spicy even spicier."
"I don't think I'll ever understand."
"That's fine. We all have our vices."
And so Akira and Fumi, twenty-six years of age, dig in to their meals with their extra chili powder and splashes of ponzu. Fumi, Akira learns, had majored in business in England, and then worked in marketing at a manufacturing company for a few years. She's returned to Tokyo on the request of her parents, but is still working for another company for now. She jokes (perhaps not) that she's mostly back so she can see Shiori's plays in person. Akira can understand that.
Fumi asks how Akira's spent her time. She has an undergraduate degree in history, and decided to pursue graduate studies in the same subject. She works part time as a figure skating coach.
"Have you been acting at all?" Fumi asks. She says it hesitantly, like it's a topic she shouldn't breach.
"I did sometimes in my undergrad. But things got busy, and I haven't recently."
Fumi nods. "That makes sense."
"Have you?"
"No... Language barrier. And it wasn't what I was there to do, I guess."
"It must have been hard to adjust." Fumi stops with her spoon in her mouth for a second.
"I guess so," she says after she swallows. "I made it through okay."
They leave for work at different times, and almost never see each other in a passing-by way in the neighbourhood, but always take the same train car on the commute back (it's the car that's closest to the exit on their stop). Sometimes they go out for dinner, most of the time they walk out of the station together and half the way before their paths diverge. Sometimes Fumi's not there, and Akira thinks it has to be some work social function, dinner with her coworkers. Maybe it's overtime. She hopes it's the former. She wonders if Fumi thinks about how Akira's on the train. If when Akira has to stay late at school to reference their collection of texts for her coursework Fumi wonders where she's gone. It's a silly little game.
It takes them too long to exchange phone numbers, citing blatant excuses of technological ineptitude and forgetfulness. It takes them longer still to do something other than eat dinner in the neighbourhood. Fumi invites Akira to go watch the last performance of Shiori's most recent stage play, where she's one of the leads—Akira had been gifted a ticket for the first performance, but she doesn't say. She makes an excuse to the Edels, tells them her supervisor had to move her meeting to that day, makes Shiori swear not to tell them when she sees Akira and Fumi together after the performance ends. Has to try to explain to Michiru a week later regardless.
One day Fumi asks Akira to come to her apartment for dinner instead of eating out (it's too expensive). They don't eat out much after that, and Akira wonders if she'd tired of eating at restaurants long before and just kept it up for the sake of it. Akira may be starting to acquire a liking for ponzu, though it mixes questionably with her standard chili powder base. She starts to experiment with different varieties. When Akira invites Fumi over, they get take out. Fumi brings Akira with her to visit Tamao's flower shop, and they bicker over the size of the flowers they should get to fit properly within the empty vase on Fumi's dinner table. Akira's glad to see that Tomoe's store is successful, booming with business. She visits on her own twice after that, when the flowers have dried and wilted and the vase has been empty again for months. Fumi never remembers, or rather is too busy, to fill it back up. This time it's an arrangement based on dogwood. Durability.
It's in their twenty-seventh year of life when Yukishiro Akira finds herself face to face with Yumeoji Fumi, close enough to feel her breath on her nose for the first time since they'd kissed for a role when Fumi was still an Edel. It's the eighth time they've slept in the same bed—Akira's been sleeping over a lot recently because she's reaching her thesis submission deadline and the internet is faster at Fumi's place. The first time was 6 months ago, when Fumi came to Akira's apartment drunk after a work dinner, red-faced and teary-eyed, stumbled over the books on the floor of Akira's room and passed out on her bed without another word. No drinking today. It's a weeknight. Outside, the snow is falling yet again, the ground not quite frozen enough to hold the snowflakes without melting them.
Fumi's eyes hold hers with ease now. Akira doesn't like the way she can feel her heart beating in her chest. She'd like to silence it, or at least muffle it. Does it reach Fumi? Akira rolls onto her back and heaves a breath. She hears Fumi moving next to her, rustling the blanket.
"Those flowers," Fumi mumbles after some time. "I can put the vase away if it bothers you when it's empty. You don't have to keep filling it."
"You don't like them?"
Akira hears Fumi blow air out of her nose.
"They're wonderful, Akira. Of course I like them. I just mean," another rustle, "you don't have an obligation to."
"I think I'll keep doing it. I enjoy the process of choosing which flowers to buy. Tomoe has an outstanding knowledge of plants."
"That's true."
"She takes a great deal of time to consider every customer's situation and existing knowledge. Last time I went, I considered buying a house plant, but the window in my apartment doesn't get enough sunlight for the one I'd been interested in. Next time I might buy a succulent. Naturally, I would get flowers for your vase at the same time."
"Akira."
"Hm?"
"The window in here gets a lot of sunlight."
"That's nice."
"You could buy that house plant and put it here."
"But it's not my house."
"I think you've spent more time here recently than I have."
"That's..." Not untrue. "Maybe that's not a bad idea."
"I mean, you wouldn't even really need another apartment if you just moved in here. It's a waste of money."
"It's hard to argue with that."
Fumi buys the plant on the weekend (Tamao remembered which one it was) and checks with her landlord how much rent she'd have to pay if she had a roommate next year. Come late March, Akira doesn't renew her lease. The vase does not go empty. Akira cycles through many flowers—cosmos, magnolias, lilacs, asters. Dogwood is her favourite. She buys more house plants, some succulents as well. It's fascinating to watch the jade plant grow aerial roots, and she propagates a cutting successfully.
The kiss does happen, some time in that winter before, some where in between. It's a small thing, it was inevitable. It's nothing compared to what they've grown.