fic | rain

[feathershedding]

Title: rain
Summary: All she’s got to do is make the effort.





Tokyo is a dark grey tonight and her windows look almost liquefied, the view outside blurred from rain. Five minutes ago, she was forced to rescue her tiny, portable greenhouse from the veranda, afraid that the rain would creep in through the slim cracks between its glass walls and ruin her herbs. Her hair is still soggy - from standing outside for ten seconds at most. Crazy weather. Sitting on her bed with her feet propped up onto a pillow and ice bags draped across her ankles, she looks the greenhouse over slowly, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders and her pillow slightly damp as a consequence. The basil looks beautiful now, sprouting green leaves everywhere. She frowns. Tomorrow, she’ll have to move the anise to a new spot or it’ll be left in the shades of the basil, pushed into the corner like that. It looks sort of scrawny at the moment, doesn’t it? Forgettable. Too slow to grow up and develop. Her frown turns into a very small smile. The metaphor isn’t lost on her.

She wriggles her toes. The resultant pain is a measure, she knows, of whether her night will be good or bad. Swan Lake is not a kind bit of choreography in any context and while she’s been… spared most of the really difficult and challenging parts, her feet have taken both the brunt of the ensemble steps and her failure to avoid over-stretching. It’s okay. For the new line of shows, she will be ready again and this time, she will make fewer mistakes from the beginning. That way, the strain is minimized. All she’s got to do is make the effort.

Pat, pat, pat. Quiet, unobtrusive sounds of dog paws against the wooden floor, followed by equally quiet breathing. The door’s always half-ajar and Marimo pushes it open easily, entering the bedroom with her head down and her tail wagging sporadically from side to side. The retriever’s grown fast already, her fuzzy coat leaving long, golden hairs all over the apartment. Pausing by the bed, she sits down obediently, watching Ayako with dark, gentle eyes. Waiting to be told. Ayako sighs. Buying pets on impulse is no good; but getting advice on dog training has been invaluable. It’s made their relation tolerable at this point. Not perfect, but better. She’ll definitely need to thank Miyaki-san properly for her generous assistance if she can produce something that’s good enough. Wouldn’t do to be insulting. Or sloppy.

Nodding once in approval, she steels herself for the impact as Marimo shuffles onto the bed, managing to step on her legs in the process. “Ugh, Marimo!” She can’t retract her feet without dropping the ice bags onto her sheets and her voice comes out as a squeak, the silence in her bedroom well and truly broken. For a short moment, there’s a burst of activity; Marimo, trudging around in circles, trying to shape a dog-sized bed amongst her sheets – Ayako, trying to move her legs without moving her feet, a predictable failure waiting to happen. A moment later, the dog finally settles down; she curls up, head and front paws resting right above Ayako’s knees. She’s got a warm snout, does Marimo, and Ayako can feel her breath slowing down gradually through the thin fabric of her silky nightgown. Once in a while, Marimo looks up at her and every time, her response is almost automatic; a quick stroke over her forehead and ears, the most reassurance she can be bothered to give. It’s enough for Marimo, of course. Doesn’t take a lot to make her happy.

For the next few minutes, silence descends on her bedroom once more, the only remaining sounds being Marimo’s rhythmic breathing and the rain, beating against her windows. Ayako leans back, hands idle and her mind easing into a familiar, unhurried trail of reflection. The events of the day. The events of the week. Her plans for tomorrow. The choreography. Every mistake she’s made, every step that needs refinement (she has a notebook to keep track). Mmn. She’ll have to ask permission to film a training session sometime soon for closer inspection of her problems. Apart from the multiple mirrors in the practice room, she’s long since accepted that she needs all the help she can get.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere… something happens. Something confusing, something that’s been happening more and more frequently over the past week or so. Ayako starts to think about Kotori Miu. The girl simply pops into her head. Miu during practice, the way she moves as she tries hard - her very best - making mistakes and fixing them with relative ease, improving visibly from show to show. From practice to practice. Miu-chan’s moving up the hierarchy too fast, though Ayako’s been curbing her social popularity with rumours. Talk. Rie-chan is still wary of her, just a bit. There’s something intimidating about Kotori Miu, they say. Something that makes her cold and unfriendly, despite her sweetness and vibrant positivity. It’s fakeness, Ayako usually replies. It’s because she’s totally fake. They don’t all agree with her but that’s okay; so long as they remember what’s up and down, she won’t push it.

She doesn’t tell them, though, that she’s as infected as they are. That even when she’s shut the door, left her training clothes for washing, stepped into her private sphere, even then… No, it’s nothing to talk about. The more she talks, the more things solidify – it’s true of rumours and it’s true of this, whatever it is. Poison. Miu-chan poisons people, like a witch. With her smile and her friendliness, with the story of past achievements and that weird, unspoken greyness the others can’t seem to spot behind her eyes. That’s all this is, that’s all there is to it. Of course, someone like that will draw people in. Look at Miyaki-san! It’s about charisma and status. It’s about finding your place amongst them so you don’t get blinded. Thrown into shadow and losing your growth as a consequence. Talent equals effort. And there’s always too little effort, she thinks, behind a failure.

Grabbing her phone from the bedside table, she unlocks the screen and thumbs through her videos. Finds her training play list, old practice runs recorded throughout the past three years. Then, she settles back and sets the sound on mute.

It doesn’t stop raining. Not for the entire night.

~