Chapter Text
When the shock wore off and the world came bursting in, he dared to breathe and the reality of his fractured gasps made everything hurt.
Especially his throat. The despair and dry disappointment felt the worst of all, every shuddering breath a raspy whisper like something barbed and coiled, drawing out an intense discomfort that he stubbornly tried to push away and ignore. A clock ticked in the silent office beneath its searing fluorescent lights; a vacuum of tension and cloying dread, sweltering, despite the ice-cold January snow falling softly outside the window. They melted upon contact, tiny trickles of water crossing each other like spindly fingers on frosted glass.
If he focused on that, instead of the clawing sensation in his chest, then the anxiety seemed to lessen, his next breath and words – such difficult words – easier by some small, fragile margin. They came out as a quiet whimper after clumsy, desperate tries.
“You’re… firing me?”
There was no better way to put it.
The slow yet gentle brush of a hand on his shoulder was from Mr. Takasugi, and he spoke in a calm, even manner that gave no indication of any guilt he might have felt. “I’m not firing you, Horokeu. I’m letting you go. Japan’s economy has been hit hard and with a reduced budget in the arts and cultural sector, this museum simply doesn’t have the capacity to retain all its staff.”
‘Which is basically the same thing,’ Usui Horokeu thought bitterly, running his fingers through ice-blue hair, now free from the confines of his usual white headband. He had thrown it on the floor sometime ago in his grief and had not retrieved it since. Truthfully, he wanted to drag himself off the chair, give his (former) boss some choice words and maybe a shoe to the face, and make for the door with his usual confidence and cheer, his persona worn with perfect ease. But, taking another unsteady gasp, that was impossible now.
Like all managerial staff, Takasugi wore a blazer that was as stiff and hard-pressed as his personality. He had a massive gold-plated badge on the front, his designation listed on it in slanting characters – Head Curator, Tokyo National Museum of Eastern Art & Culture. It was enough to make Horokeu scoff. He wondered how many staff they laid off in order to squeeze one of those into the so-called budget.
With a resigned sigh, he finally bent over, retrieving his discarded headband and did not miss the way Takasugi angled closer. But the attention was unnecessary. Horokeu yanked the plain white cloth over his forehead and started on the knots, the familiar ritual serving a comfort and temporary distraction from addressing the obvious elephant in the room. Takasugi arched one grey eyebrow and Horokeu’s fingers, numb still, slipped over the fabric.
“I can tell you have some questions.”
“... Yeah, I got one.”
A decisive tug and the pure-white headband was firmly in place, spiky hair pushed back and away from his face, save for a few stubborn strands that fell forward to frame his eyes – a striking and brilliant cerulean with a whirlpool of emotions and a desperation that almost showed through.
“Why Tomomori and not me?” he began slowly, every syllable like a low ache. “I’ve been a loyal employee for 6 years and I’ve only ever called in sick twice. Sure, I had no real work experience, but whatever I didn’t know, I learned, didn’t I? I pulled all those extra hours without complaint. I’ve read more books and research papers on Asian art and history in the past 3 months, than a university graduate in a year! I work harder than anyone else – you said so yourself!”
He bowed just head and the fire died, leaving him with nothing but his kicked pride and the shame of what he was about to say.
“Please, Takasugi-san, I… I need this job. You know I do.”
His pleas left only the constant buzz of silence around him, underlaid by the sharp and continuous click of a pen and the awkward clearing of a throat. The head curator was giving his reasons – the words ‘unfortunate’ and ‘unexpected’ sound over and over, his name swapped out for an impersonal ‘Usui' – and Horokeu felt his heart sink further the more Takasugi talked, at the finality of his inevitable termination. Nausea curled in his stomach along with the telltale build-up of tears behind his eyelids, something he needed to deal with now, least he made himself sick and broke down in the man’s office.
“Horo- Usui,” said Takasugi, regretful, his attempt to word his speech in a delicate manner made obvious by the low and gentle dip in his voice, and Horokeu glanced up at that. He had almost forgotten that the man had kids around his age. “Don’t misunderstand, I do value you; in fact, I’ve never been more proud of the character you’ve become. But Tomomori has a degree with honors in Art History, and 4 years of related experience. You on the other hand, are a 21-year-old high school drop-out, who wandered into this museum 6 years ago with no money and no place in society.” His shoulders lost their usual stiffness, his gaze soft with sympathy. “I’m not saying this to intentionally put you down. But these are the facts and they were reviewed in our year-end employment quota.”
No, it couldn’t end here.
“... The Ainu exhibit.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Ainu exhibit,” Horokeu pressed, desperate and exasperated, clinging onto what ammunition his past contributions managed to rake up, no matter how futile or insignificant. “All those tomes and parchments, the craftwork and their influences – I was the one who transcribed and translated them. The whole shipment; an entire heritage and its customs; the Ainu life itself – Tomomori can’t do that. Nobody in Tokyo can do that. Nobody in Kanto, Kyushu, Chugoku, Kinki-“
“Usui-“
“Why don’t I matter?!”
The air shuddered.
The snowflakes that fell and collected on the windowsill were a sharp contrast to the warmth indoors, the clash of temperatures a crackling contour that split the surface of old glass, their vein-like seams and jagged branches reaching out. A sudden gust of cold wind slammed into the window and aggravated the cracks further, sending out tiny shards.
Horokeu had his fists on polished mahogany, clenched and white at the knuckles, trembling, like the strong facade of a once-hopeful, starry-eyed teen worn down over the years from way too many disappointments, the constant discouragement, and the cracks were starting to show. Something fell out of his front pocket and clattered onto the desk, the brief interruption much welcomed from a close brush against physical assault. Reckless. He fixed his gaze on the object to conceal his embarrassment.
It was a carved wooden stick, unsuspecting, modest and obviously well-loved with elaborate and intricate designs etched into its surface – symbolic of the owner’s patriarchal lineage; a prayer for protection. The ikupasuy had been in the Usui family for generations, handed down to his grandfather, given to his father and now, it belonged to him. Takasugi’s eyes darted to it and returned his unimpressed gaze to Horokeu. But something had changed and the air pulsed with static. That momentary glance was all he needed to know that there were just some things that never changed, that the head curator’s unease was both a reaction and disposition that he had experienced time and time again, despite how hard he tried to hide who he was.
“Guess I got my answer.”
Fuck it, he was tired.
He snatched the ikupasuy and shoved it in his pocket, just barely missing the offended frown on Takasugi’s face.
“I’m not firing you because you’re Ainu, Usui.”
Ah, he finally said it.
“You’re not,” Horokeu agreed, fixing the curator with jaded, accusatory eyes, “You’re firing me because I’m not good enough.”
The curator’s shoulders sagged. There was really no more he could say. And he didn’t know which was worse: the man’s utter lack of response, or him not exactly denying it either.
“I’m very sorry… Horokeu.”
He wished those words to be true.
Slowly, like a subdued animal that lost its will to live, the Ainu lowered his fists and head, his light blue hair falling in front of his cerulean eyes like icicles. “This job was everything to me,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else who bothered to listen, “P… Pirika and I hardly make enough to keep a roof over our heads. Our parents left us since we were kids, and… and I’m her brother. How am I supposed to raise…” The back of his eyelids hurt again. He didn’t know rain still fell in the middle of winter. “Takasugi-san, what do I do?”
He flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but when he looked up and was greeted with an aged, sympathetic smile, Horokeu knew that this particular chapter of his life had come to an end and he had to let go.
“Someone once said that fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like.” Takasugi gave the Ainu one last reassuring clap on the shoulder, but didn’t allow himself to linger, stepping away quickly. “Don’t lose hope. You’re hardworking, resourceful and in your prime. Sometimes opportunity knocks in the most unexpected of times, in the least likely places.”
The dry chuckle that escaped Horokeu’s mouth was dark and liberating. “Funny you should say that. Pirika works at a ramen bar and their service is shit.” It was sad because the joke wasn’t even funny. “Guess I’ll budget my last pay cheque and treat her to something nice…”
The curator had nothing more to offer his youngest ever employee, except for a smile. Horokeu only wished it reached his eyes. “I wish you all the best, Horokeu. Oh-“ it was an awkward, nervous pause dancing on tiptoes, “happy new year.”
“... Thank you, Takasugi-san.” He stopped. He backed up, and his voice was strained and unsteady when he continued. “Happy new year. It was nice working with you.”
After the door had slammed shut, his feet leading him out the art museum for one final time, the snow continued to fall from the sky like gentle kisses, like someone trying to comfort and embrace him, whispering that everything was going to be fine, even as dark clouds swarmed the deep-grey sky. And Horokeu thought then of how he was going to tell Pirika, a mass of turbulent emotions, a bleak and undetermined future that he dared not face. He clutched his ikupasuy and offered up a silent prayer to the winds. Those thoughts stayed with him still.
A deep cold had set in.
Night stole the sun away along with the hours, cheating those who glanced still at their wrist watches out of habit, wandering where the day went. The city outside had darkened, the lights of its towers on in asymmetrical blocks, had more and more going out as time passed. But wintertime was where nightlife reigned supreme, the lonely alleyways scattered around Tokyo coming alive in a steady, deafening roar of music and people; laughter, screams, cries, idle chatter and gossip mingling together like an overture of a grand orchestra, rising and falling to the sporadic tempo of life.
And it was in one of these haunts tucked away by the river, where Usui Pirika stopped to throw open the door of a nameless, decrepit ramen bar, a hurried “I’m here!” shouted into the dim, crowded space, and removed her sneakers to slip into the standard waitress heels. Despite its size and location, the bar was a rowdy meeting point for overworked salary men and strange characters alike. She always paused to marvel at the peculiar atmosphere, the sights and smells mingling in a lazy swirl of tobacco smoke and overlapping sound, feeling oddly displaced in a scene she had acted in over the past year. In a strange place she learned to call home for over six years.
Tokyo was a city of contradictions: monotonous and colorful; dazzling and full of shadows; obnoxious and conservative; hospitable and unkind. It was as charming as it was terrifying, made harder by an underlying social stigma, a thinly woven grey thread frayed at the edges, close to breaking point. But she had a job to do. It was time to pull her own weight, and tuition didn’t pay itself.
Step one was tea, and, throwing on the nearest apron, Pirika strode into the little kitchen, grabbed an old teapot strung with one too many soggy sachets and jabbed at the hot water dispenser. A little too hard apparently, as a drop of hot water landed on her forehead, making her wince and hurriedly wipe it off. Her hand brushed over her fringe, over a thick hairband that held silky, ice-blue locks in place, and she paused.
Cut out of quality cream fabric and dutifully hand-stitched with the Ainu symbol for ‘bird’ – Pirika meant beautiful and free – her brother had made this for her shortly after she came of age. Normally, it would’ve been her mother’s job but – well, that was a long time ago. She should probably swap it out for the red service bandanna, but she didn’t want to. It was her favourite.
“Hey, Missy! Where the hell’s my tea?!”
“C-Coming!”
A rush of blue-and-pink and the sharp click of heels had Pirika at the customer’s side in a heartbeat, hot tea sloshing in the pot, her hand going straight for the nearest cup like clockwork. But the stares were hard to ignore and her composure, a single leaf against the wind, shook under their scrutiny. It was a group of young punks dressed in a mismatch of casual wear and school uniforms: ties, shirts and blazers thrown on in varying styles and combinations like an afterthought, a game of who could mangle the face of institution, best – and winner gets to pester the part-timer.
“What’s old man Fuji get for hiring an immigrant, anyway? Damn girl can’t even keep up,” said the apparent leader of the group, lips curled in a sneer, dark eyes trailing every inch of the young waitress as she moved, lingering. “At least she ain’t a sight for sore eyes. Aren’t ya, ya pretty little thing?”
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Pirika kept her head bowed, refused to bend and let their hateful words and catcalls get to her, remembered she was here to work towards a better future for herself and her brother. “Please enjoy the food.”
This was normal.
“Oi, look up when someone’s talking to ya!”
Coarse fingers grabbed and yanked her chin up hard enough to make her neck hurt. Pirika winced, suppressed a cry in a place that often pretended not to notice, where its people chose ignorance over action, turned a deaf ear to the poor village girl whom no one would miss if she were gone.
“Come on, ya stupid Ainu! Open that pretty mouth of yours and speak up!”
“Please-“
And then, she looked over her shoulder at the chime of the entrance bell.
Against the backdrop of Tokyo’s night sky and midnight waters, stood the imposing silhouette of a man: deep purple hair – so dark, it appeared indiscernibly black – flowed down his back, three distinct spikes pinned up and crowned his head in a fashion that straddled precariously between elegant and unorthodox; broad shoulders made wider by a sleek trench coat procured from some black-label couture designer; an effortless grace to his movements. The stranger stole Pirika’s attention like a kiss in the dark, and she watched the rolling cityscape fall away, a darkness covering him in thin blotted strokes, like those from an ink brush dipped in too much water. Like a fine piece of artwork, the man was incredibly attractive.
But the one thing that stood out the most were his eyes – gold-slitted, hypnotizing and like a cat’s, seized rather than gave away.
Once again, the stranger ended up at that corner table by the faded vintage posters on the wall, their edges dog-eared and frayed, yellowed from clouds of tobacco and too much oil in the air. He had draped his coat over the chair next to him, and he wore a suit the same shade of black as the last time and the same leather boots with the clipped heels, the laces done up impeccably. He picked up the old laminated menu like he always did, gold eyes darting about the items but never really reading, and Pirika already knew what he was going to order before he even put it down: a pot of hot tea and a plate of gyoza – steamed, six pieces lined in a neat row.
It was the same thing every night.
“Where ya think you’re going, Missy?” One of the boys tugged Pirika over, his fingers a death grip around her thin wrist, dragged her up when she tried to escape and laughed when a small cry of distress passed her lips. “Hah! Not a bad sound either.” He then dragged her back to the table and another guy pulled off her hairband. “But we’re not done with you yet.”
Pirika reached out feebly, bottom lip trembling, struggling to find words. “Give it back!” But her hand was slapped away, her body pushed and pulled, tousled around like a cruel game of hot potato. And still, no one came to intervene; people seemed to talk louder, each table increasingly engrossed in their own conversations, patronizing grins stretched uncomfortably thin on faces that all started to lose their shape and features, indistinguishable shadows with deceitful eyes and painted smiles that reached out to her from the corners of her consciousness.
Why were people like this?
“Give it back! Please!”
The fingers digging into her forearm were her own, the pressure almost too much, yet nothing compared to the festering ache in her heart. Around her, the boys had gathered, their sneers and simpering laughter something she tried to brush off. This was normal. Her brother told her to be brave. But he had also warned her to hide her symbols in a land that would never welcome or remember them. That the one thing that made them who they were and the pride they felt, was no longer-
Someone threw her hairband on the ground and stomped on it, and Pirika’s world shattered from her screams.
“ Onii-chan made that! Stop it! Stop it!”
She had no idea what happened then, because the next thing she saw was the group leader’s body sailing past her and straight through the bar’s rice paper doors, ripped an ugly hole down the middle, the jagged edges of paper a facsimile of broken glass and splinters that intended to harm but didn’t. Predictably, the others got mad and it didn’t take long for fists and insults to start flying. But their attacker was a lot faster, experienced; moved with the speed and lucidity of a passing shadow as they dodged, countered and anticipated every move and punch thrown, struck hard and fast with calculated force and precision behind each blow. Like the first guy, the remaining members laid sprawled on their backs, the top halves of their bodies hanging outside the ramen bar on the damp street, eyes wide in a daze, their brains struggling to catch up.
What the fuck just happened?
The leader was the first to rise and he stumbled to his feet fast enough that everything tilted, the chairs and tables in sharp diagonals. The stranger stood in front of him, harsh angles of black and purple, golden gaze narrowed in silent warning, a hand tucked casually in his pocket. Not a single wrinkle or article of his suit out of place, while the bar entrance had certainly seen better days.
“Leave.”
It wasn’t a request.
The punks had already run off down the street, and Pirika, stuck processing the situation, made a series of violent hand gestures, her lips flapping helplessly like a fish. They accomplished nothing and she felt more than heard the silence grow around her, the patrons and kitchen staff just as stunned as she was, the head chef and owner more astonished than upset. Nobody asked who was going to pay for the door.
“How did you…?” Blinking fast, Pirika turned on the stranger, who had stooped down to retrieve the fallen hairband, dusting it off with the back of his fingers with the utmost care as if it were immeasurably valuable. Golden eyes swept over the embroidery, before the man held it out to its original owner, expectant, a single eyebrow raised when the young waitress failed to move.
Suddenly remembering her manners, Pirika blushed and accepted the hairband graciously, took her time to put it back on, movements nervous and a tad jerky. “T-Thank you, sir,” she breathed, each word a soft flutter of feathers, “for helping me-“
“I was waiting for 10 minutes and you’re the only waitress in this godforsaken establishment,” the man interrupted and turned his back to her as he made for his table in slow, measured strides, the sharp clip-clipping of his heels reverberating off the floorboards. He glared at the nervous patrons as he passed and it didn’t take long for them to get the message, the droll chatter of the night once again filling up the small space, the previous incident forgotten.
He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Now, my order.”
“Oh, just a minute!”
Pirika popped into the kitchen and when she returned, a plate of steamed gyoza sat in one hand, while a pot of tea was clutched in the other. Neatly, she set the items on the table and flipped over a clean cup to place it between the tea pot and her nighttime regular.
“Six pieces of steamed gyoza all in a row and a pot of hot green tea – just the way you like it.”
The stranger folded his arms, mildly amused.
“Not bad.”
“Why do you always come here?” Pirika couldn’t help but ask, startled by her own forwardness, but too late to take it back. And for the second time that night, the stranger surprised her.
“Would you believe me if I said I like the food?” he answered.
Her frown was skeptical. “Would you?”
“I suppose not,” he ended with a deep chuckle, and Pirika relaxed in his presence. There was a feeling of trust and ease, despite them not knowing each other’s name; two entirely different people brought together in this common space where noise and shadows met.
In Tokyo, people often pretended to be kind, but really weren’t. This man clothed himself in secrets and silence and chilling hostility, but was the only person who showed her kindness. It wasn’t her place to hope, but Pirika wished that he would keep coming back – at least until the allure of whatever drew him here, faded away.
Their gazes met, and something flashed in his eyes.
“You’re Ainu,” he remarked, matter-of-fact. Those words carried a greater weight than they intended.
A tense silence. Then, Pirika pulled out a chair and sat facing him, hands crossed over one another, her body angled towards him, and the stranger frowned at the determined look in her ice-blue eyes.
“Those guys never leave me alone. Others too, sometimes,” she began, but paused when her companion let out a particularly nasty scoff.
“Silence, too, is not a pardon for culpability.”
“I know.” The smile on Pirika’s lips was a sad one, but it didn’t diminish the fire in her eyes. “Still, thank you. There must be some way I could repay you… I-I could get your dinner-“
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But-“
“You have a brother.”
“Eh?”
Pirika watched, confused, as the stranger tipped the pot and poured himself a cup of tea. A pair of glowing golden eyes stared at her from behind a cloud of steam, and when she blinked, they burned into the insides of her eyelids.
“The one who made your precious hairband, the one you hold dear,” he purred and took a delicate sip of his tea. “Tell me about him.”
To be continued...