Ship: akira/chinatsu Fandom: ballroom e youkoso Major Tags: gore, internal organs as external Other Tags: unrequited love, unreliable narrator, magical realism, reverse chronological order Word Count: 738
***
“Why keep dancing, then? If you don’t–since you don’t love it, anymore.”
Akira still watches Chinatsu. It’s habit now, and one she no longer tries to break. A familiar numbness, almost, and one Akira welcomes even on days when the nothingness of her chest aches more profoundly than feeling something inside did.
“What a striking pair,” says someone to her left. Akira doesn’t turn to see who.
They’re not wrong, though–Chinatsu’s body arches in a sweeping, elegant curve, even as Akira counts every near misstep, the almost distances Chinatsu refrains from creating with Tatara. But Tatara must notice anyway, the set of his shoulders straight but not entirely at ease.
The dance finishes. Chinatsu and Tatara melt apart, slumped against each other, breathing heavily.
Akira’s fingers fold into a fist, nails digging into her palm.
The pain is fleeting, but felt. Chinatsu looks up–Akira is standing near the entrance, after all.
“Chii-chan,” Tatara begins, and Chinatsu turns to him before he can tap her shoulder.
Akira watches, waits a moment longer for something she cannot name, then walks away.
//
Chinatsu still walks home with her. She has no reason not to, of course: Akira has found a new partner, Chinatsu won’t dance with her, and they’re no longer partners. There are three weeks of middle school left. Things changed and then they didn’t.
The air is somewhat cold this early in Spring, but the afternoon sun is gentle against Akira’s back and radiant against Chinatsu’s hair. Akira’s pissed off at her but won’t say it.
“I hate this,” Chinatsu says. “Partner interviews suck.”
“Only because you’re so bad at them,” Akira corrects.
Chinatsu knees her. Akira dodges, says, “My new partner is lovely, though.”
“Of course he is,” Chinatsu snorts. “You actually know how to follow, for one...”
Akira smiles, and Chinatsu narrows her eyes. Akira’s definitely, definitely still pissed off.
“Not my problem you can’t follow anyone’s lead but your own.”
“...But it’s not my fault,” Chinatsu finishes, quiet.
“Of course not,” Akira agrees. “But I certainly can’t do interviews for you, can I?”
Chinatsu stops walking.
”God. You, you’re–don’t you feel bad about it? At all?”
Akira glances at her, only for a second. “Would it matter if I did? Guilt doesn’t change anything, Chinatsu.”
“Of course not.” The words sound almost honest in Chinatsu’s mouth.
Akira’s heart is too big, beating clumsily where it sits cupped in her palms. It isn’t as red as she thought it would be, pale but firm. Tough. Akira’s not sure what one is supposed to feel, staring at one’s own heart like this. She doesn’t feel anything at all, and wasn’t that the entire point?
Except–that’s not quite true. Rather than nothing, it’s more like–
A soft hum: Akira’s phone is ringing beside her on the bed.
–like the absence of something, a gap where something once lived but doesn’t anymore. Akira thinks it changes less than it should; she still feels cold, and she can still laugh. But now in her chest lives an absence that spools outwards and doesn’t ebb away.
The ringing stops, pauses, then starts again.
It might be Chinatsu, so Akira peers at the screen, but it isn’t Chinatsu and Akira picks up before the line drops again.
“Hello,” she says.
Resting on a single palm now, Akira’s heart beats on, oblivious to the existence of anything but itself.
//
The first time Chinatsu sleeps over, Akira asks, “We’re friends, right?”
“Well, duh,” Chinatsu says. “You’re my best friend.”
Akira’s heart is so, so loud in her chest. She turns so she’s facing Chinatsu, Chinatsu already turned to look at her. Their faces are close together on the same pillow, almost touching.
“My best friend,” Akira echoes.
“What? Who’s yours,” Chinatsu mutters, but her eyes are bright.
Akira pokes her nose. “Who else, dummy? You are.”
“Oh,” Chinatsu says. “Good. That’s–good.”
“Right,” Akira says, turning to lie on her back again. The ceiling is a blank shadow, untouched even by moonlight. She rests a hand on her heart, still beating furiously in her chest, asking to be heard. Chinatsu’s breaths are soft beside her, and Akira listens to them instead, waiting for her heart to steady, for the even rhythm of Chinatsu’s own to anchor her.
FILL: Team Kuramochi Youichi/Miyuki Kazuya, T
Fandom: ballroom e youkoso
Major Tags: gore, internal organs as external
Other Tags: unrequited love, unreliable narrator, magical realism, reverse chronological order
Word Count: 738
***
“Why keep dancing, then? If you don’t–since you don’t love it, anymore.”
Truthfully, Akira never did. Not dance.
Akira smiles, mouth thin, cutting. Chinatsu doesn’t.
“Why, indeed,” Akira answers.
//
Akira still watches Chinatsu. It’s habit now, and one she no longer tries to break. A familiar numbness, almost, and one Akira welcomes even on days when the nothingness of her chest aches more profoundly than feeling something inside did.
“What a striking pair,” says someone to her left. Akira doesn’t turn to see who.
They’re not wrong, though–Chinatsu’s body arches in a sweeping, elegant curve, even as Akira counts every near misstep, the almost distances Chinatsu refrains from creating with Tatara. But Tatara must notice anyway, the set of his shoulders straight but not entirely at ease.
The dance finishes. Chinatsu and Tatara melt apart, slumped against each other, breathing heavily.
Akira’s fingers fold into a fist, nails digging into her palm.
The pain is fleeting, but felt. Chinatsu looks up–Akira is standing near the entrance, after all.
“Chii-chan,” Tatara begins, and Chinatsu turns to him before he can tap her shoulder.
Akira watches, waits a moment longer for something she cannot name, then walks away.
//
Chinatsu still walks home with her. She has no reason not to, of course: Akira has found a new partner, Chinatsu won’t dance with her, and they’re no longer partners. There are three weeks of middle school left. Things changed and then they didn’t.
The air is somewhat cold this early in Spring, but the afternoon sun is gentle against Akira’s back and radiant against Chinatsu’s hair. Akira’s pissed off at her but won’t say it.
“I hate this,” Chinatsu says. “Partner interviews suck.”
“Only because you’re so bad at them,” Akira corrects.
Chinatsu knees her. Akira dodges, says, “My new partner is lovely, though.”
“Of course he is,” Chinatsu snorts. “You actually know how to follow, for one...”
Akira smiles, and Chinatsu narrows her eyes. Akira’s definitely, definitely still pissed off.
“Not my problem you can’t follow anyone’s lead but your own.”
“...But it’s not my fault,” Chinatsu finishes, quiet.
“Of course not,” Akira agrees. “But I certainly can’t do interviews for you, can I?”
Chinatsu stops walking.
”God. You, you’re–don’t you feel bad about it? At all?”
Akira glances at her, only for a second. “Would it matter if I did? Guilt doesn’t change anything, Chinatsu.”
“Of course not.” The words sound almost honest in Chinatsu’s mouth.
Chinatsu doesn’t keep walking. Akira doesn’t wait.
The sun feels warm at her back.
//
Akira’s heart is too big, beating clumsily where it sits cupped in her palms. It isn’t as red as she thought it would be, pale but firm. Tough. Akira’s not sure what one is supposed to feel, staring at one’s own heart like this. She doesn’t feel anything at all, and wasn’t that the entire point?
Except–that’s not quite true. Rather than nothing, it’s more like–
A soft hum: Akira’s phone is ringing beside her on the bed.
–like the absence of something, a gap where something once lived but doesn’t anymore. Akira thinks it changes less than it should; she still feels cold, and she can still laugh. But now in her chest lives an absence that spools outwards and doesn’t ebb away.
The ringing stops, pauses, then starts again.
It might be Chinatsu, so Akira peers at the screen, but it isn’t Chinatsu and Akira picks up before the line drops again.
“Hello,” she says.
Resting on a single palm now, Akira’s heart beats on, oblivious to the existence of anything but itself.
//
The first time Chinatsu sleeps over, Akira asks, “We’re friends, right?”
“Well, duh,” Chinatsu says. “You’re my best friend.”
Akira’s heart is so, so loud in her chest. She turns so she’s facing Chinatsu, Chinatsu already turned to look at her. Their faces are close together on the same pillow, almost touching.
“My best friend,” Akira echoes.
“What? Who’s yours,” Chinatsu mutters, but her eyes are bright.
Akira pokes her nose. “Who else, dummy? You are.”
“Oh,” Chinatsu says. “Good. That’s–good.”
“Right,” Akira says, turning to lie on her back again. The ceiling is a blank shadow, untouched even by moonlight. She rests a hand on her heart, still beating furiously in her chest, asking to be heard. Chinatsu’s breaths are soft beside her, and Akira listens to them instead, waiting for her heart to steady, for the even rhythm of Chinatsu’s own to anchor her.