This one's written belatedly for the 2018 Secret Santa project initiated by ProfAllister. I’m not a good ‘fluff’ writer, so I apologise in advance. It's also rather fragmented, I'm afraid. Too much to write, too little time. 
Victim: Vekter
Prompt: I'd like some fluff/cute Hisao x Misha stuff, something after they leave school preferably.
Secrets
—a tale of hard lessons learnt softly
—warning: the word ‘learnt’ appears quite a bit
They’d graduated from Yamaku! Somehow, finals, and then a last great picture snapped by Yuuko, with all three of them in triumphant pose. Then came the problem of what to do after high school. And the years began to grind at them, as the years begin to grind at anyone who has lived past the age of 18 or so.
***
He’d been a great student, once. Then came winter, and discouragement, and near-death. He’d worked up to being a good student, he’d scraped into a good school somehow, despite his weakness, his despicable selfishness, his…
Hisao threw the compact little book across the room. Its pages fluttered briefly in the air, as if trying to avoid destruction. With a thud and a puff of white dust, the book hit the wall and dropped to the old carpeting. The flimsy green cover of the
Handbook of Poisoning creased sharply on impact, and then there was silence.
In days past, he would have hated himself for so much as folding a page. Now, he looked at the sprawled textbook and felt nothing but ugly happiness. “That is what you deserve,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket and keys and wallet, and making sure to slam the door shut on his way out.
***
It was never enough. Who knew that everything would be so expensive? Even with her extra sources of income, she felt stretched. She ought to have been slimmer, thin like her worn-out old stockings, but she was just out of shape. Well, like the same stockings. At the bar, some had learnt to leave her alone while she was working, but others still tried to touch her. She’d learnt some tricks from the girls, and others from some of Hisao’s textbooks. The regulars had figured out how to make it easier for her, and some had even contributed extra. Tokyo was a funny place, but Komaba was relatively pleasant.
Thank heaven for strange uncle-type characters with lots of money, she smiled. It was not the innocent smile of her youth.
***
They were hardly ever at home together, mused Hisao. She worked late hours, he worked until late. There was this badly defined hour of the day, ‘late’, and it normally was somewhere around 6-10 pm, depending on whether it was ‘early late’ or ‘late late’. But it was the time he got home, and she left for work. The only time they were ever together was the other badly defined hour of the day, ‘early’. This was somewhere around ‘breakfast’, the meal they most frequently shared. He had no idea when that was, except that it had mostly some morning sunlight in it.
Thank heaven that it would all soon be over. And thank heaven for parents who could help pay suburban apartment rent for a young cripple and his girlfriend. All that money. For what?
***
There was a man whom she’d come to know. Someone else’s husband. As always, he was trying, and sometimes succeeding, at being a sinister figure in the corner. She sat down in the shadows at a right angle to him, where she could keep an eye on the rest of the room while eking out the precious hours.
“Did you bring the book?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
She’d open the book, and money would change hands, and he’d grunt and slip out the side door. She’d follow, moments later. They would get into the car. He’d be a maniac. They’d sometimes be joined by someone else. It was a living, a weird kind of living in which good money came out of thin air and weariness, and put warm food on your plate.
In three years, she’d become familiar with Saitama somewhat, and developed terrible images of Santa Claus. Without her closest friend, she’d have been lost long ago. But she was good at compartmentalising, and it’d all be over soon, anyway. She hoped it would lead to better things.
***
It had been a shock to him, the letter from out of the blue.
Code: Select all
Esteemed friend:
Your health and prosperity.
You’ll remember me, your friend from Yamaku. I warned you long ago about the conspiracy of feminists. I feel that honour must be served, so I am warning you again. Trust nobody. The feminists are still at work, no matter how hard you think you are studying, they are studying harder. They will take you by surprise.
Beware the flash of steel. Beware the enemy who is your friend, and the friend who is your enemy. Remember that even when the drills are removed, the instrument has potential to sow chaos. Better you hold the instrument tightly, than the instrument enslave you.
From one who knows.
A letter, not even an email. Of course, Hisao knew exactly who ‘one who knows’ was. At the end of their time in Yamaku, Kenji had not even attended graduation. He had just disappeared. Then again, so had most of his friends, whether from Yokohama before Yamaku, or from Yamaku itself.
Hisao had been glad he’d kept one. Now, he was not so sure. But with finals only weeks away, he was trying to banish all personal doubts and fears, and aim like an arrow for nothing but the centre spot—graduation from Todai, the grand old University of Tokyo.
***
That Christmas night, they’d both been home for dinner.
“Hicchan~ it’s nice to be sharing some early time together!”
“Aw, Misha. I bought some wine home.”
“Can we afford that, Hicchan?” She’d laughed, but noticed the faint shadow stealing across the edges of his face, and cursed herself for the misplaced joke.
“Of course we can!”
He’d looked at her, the still-pinkish light-brown hair now growing out to shoulder length, her curves still tight and firm. He’d cursed himself for being so entranced by the physicality of it, but he’d given himself a pass for loving her for being herself. She always made him feel less tired after a long day in the labs.
She’d approached him for a kiss—years ago, she’d figured out that he felt uncomfortable about approaching her—and received one. Then, because it was her night off, she’d drawn him into a full embrace. He might’ve been tired, but he felt like a day’s hard knight.
“Hicchan~?”
His hand had crept around her waist, and was sneaking up her back.
“Misha,” he’d snuffled into her neck, tickling her with his warm breath, but not enough to be uncomfortable. He’d learnt how to do it just right. He’d even learnt how to remove her bra without tugging or snapping.
She’d learnt some tricks too. He’d gasped as she grasped him and began to wiggle. He hadn’t even felt his zipper move.
Moments that they’d both felt:
—the white rug was rough, and not even large enough
—it was warm between the coffee table and the sofa
—Hisao had gone lean, if a bit pale from too much time indoors
—Misha’d been off ice-cream for weeks, the skirt was a little loose
—his mouth was a little dry
—she moistened his lips for him with little flicks of her tongue
—and somehow he’d done the same for her with a gentle thumb
Memories they’d subsequently shared:
—well, only between the two of them and not with author-san
Nestled amongst the scattered clothing, they’d eventually finished the wine. It wasn’t very good, but she’d remembered the whisky. She’d almost forgotten protection, but would it really have mattered? It would be just a few weeks more.
Hisao had been all stubbly at that time of night. But when that oddly sandpapery feeling had run up her thigh, she couldn’t help but grab hold of him and squeeze. Fortunately, the bottles had been empty when they rolled across the floor.
“Hicchan! That’s very ~naughty…”
“Misha, your mmm is very mmm argh.”
“What was that, Hicchaaaaaaaaah…”
In the morning, it had been a new day. The weeks passed, and winter became spring.
***
“Sprout, where’s your sister?!”
[…]
“She’s right behind me, isn’t she?”
“Father, we’re waiting for you to drive.”
[Yes, and I’m not letting either my brother or my boyfriend drive.]
“What’d she say? What’d she say?”
“She said Father would be driving. But you knew that already.”
“I can’t always see her surreptitious and sneaky gestures.”
[He’s saying something bad about me again, isn’t he?]
Hideaki would have moaned with frustration had he been the type to be easily frustrated. But it was amusing to watch, so he did what he could do to lower the friction of miscommunication.
“Remind me why I’m driving all over Japan today?”
“Because of the feminist plot, sir,” said the crazy son-in-law.
“What feminist plot?”
“The one your daughter invited you to contribute to, and which I swore never to be part of, but which I have failed to abort. I have even joined in, to my great sorrow and regret.”
“Whose aborting what? Or who?!”
“Father, it is all settled. Don’t worry, I have annotated it in your chronicles.”
“Fine. I suppose it is all right then.”
[Sister, don’t worry, I have everything under control.]
***
They’d had the same conversation many times. Or lack of conversation.
“Hicchan?”
“Yeah?”
Her hair was scented like a mixture of strawberries and apple blossom. He had no idea how she did it, how she brought spring with her wherever she went, regardless of the time of year. She was nestled in the crook of his left arm, a warm and comfortable presence. When he wasn’t with her, he always felt the loss. When she was with him, when she was happy, he always felt the joy.
“Tell me again, how are we affording the rent on this place?”
“Wha-at?”
It was his guilty secret. He hadn’t actually got a full scholarship, and his parents had mortgaged the house. He’d thought that the full scholarship, and his parents’ temporary loans, would cover it. But they hadn’t, and he hadn’t told her.
“It’s okay, Hicchan, I know your parents are kind and generous people.”
“Why did you ask, then?”
“Sometimes I do wish I’d tried to qualify for a university nearby. Then I’d have been able to study with you.”
He felt guilty. And that made him feel uncomfortable. It seemed unfair for her to be bringing that up.
“I wish that too, Misha,” he replied, settling for hugging her a little bit more, enough to make unsettling thoughts go away. “I’m happy you found that job looking after Ritsu’s band.”
“It’s nothing, Hicchan!~”
He couldn’t help feel as if she too was hiding something.
She felt his muscles tense. She’d been thinking about how to break the news to him earlier. Somehow, when her contact had figured out how to make the financing work, she’d conveniently forgotten to tell Hisao. And now it just felt wrong. Especially the part about the band that didn’t exist except in Ritsu’s best dreams.
She had to think about something else. Fortunately, such things were at hand.
How did he manage to smell like sexy leather? Maybe it was the drugs he took. Or maybe, he just produced chemicals that signalled to her. Well, there was nothing for it, then. She giggled, trying hard to put her discomfort away, and took him in hand. He offered no resistance as she reached up for a kiss. Kissing was always much better than talking. And using one’s hands was much better than thinking.
And always, the time for conversation had passed.
***
Hisao twitched in his stiff, suddenly-too-tight, formal suit. This was the greatest day of his life, seated in the august Yasuda Auditorium with hundreds of other graduands. The auditorium was too small to seat all the guests that might want to watch, but the ceremony was being streamed live to other venues.
Misha had helped him adjust his suit. Then she’d smiled cryptically and flicked some lint off his lapel. “You’ll look great, Hicchan, see you outside later!” With little warning, she’d run off as if she was in a great hurry to be elsewhere. He found that odd. But he’d been finding things odder and odder for no particular reason, lately.
He settled back into his seat, surrounded by all the other dark-suited graduands. An irreverent thought crossed his mind: if they all put on dark glasses, they’d look like some sort of gangster consortium.
***
“Ha! How’re you going to repay me for all this? Gold? Services?”
Misha rolled her eyes at him. The man in the nondescript silver car was enjoying all this way too much. “Where did you get this car?”
“He didn’t. Father did. Even Father has to admit the physical impossibility of being in two places at a time. And he wanted to be at Sister’s graduation first.”
She turned her head to grin at the lanky youth in the rear seats. “I like your new hairstyle, Hidechan!”
“Yes, short green hair suits me better than long, I must say.”
“Never get embroiled in feminist conspiracies. It starts with your hairstyle, and before you know it, you’re driving a car in the suburbs of Tokyo doing something so stupid you just know everyone will be upset by the end of the day.”
There was indeed a knot in her guts. She wondered if Hisao would appreciate the situation. Surely it would not be so shocking as to… do something bad to his health? She forced her hands to lie still on her lap, her neatly manicured nails in bright contrast to the darkness of her midnight-blue formal outfit.
“I like your hair too, Misha. Long and straight is so not you, but it looks good. Smells good too.”
“Don’t flirt with them. Before you know it, you’ll end up married to one.”
***
After the ceremony, there were the usual photographs, and juniors who wanted to pose with their seniors. Hisao had to fend off a silver-haired acquaintance from Yamaku; he didn’t usually mind spending time with Rika—after all, they’d shared the same chemistry teacher, the same kind of medical problem, and ended up in the same area of interest—but he was busy looking for a flash of bright pink hair in a crowd of blue and black, and not finding it.
Then he felt something hard and thin prod him in the shoulder.
“Where were…” he began, turning around quickly.
[I’m sorry] signed the well-dressed woman with the sharp fingers.
His mouth stayed open. He’d not spoken to Shizune for ages, not since the terrible break-up at Yamaku.
“Where’s Misha?” he said, somewhat ungraciously even to his own ears, before remembering to sign it instead. [Misha?]
She flinched at what had been one of their private signs, from years past.
[Graduating across town. I graduated yesterday, so I’m here to support you.]
[What? Confused.]
[Your signing has not improved.]
[Sorry. Not doing much now.]
[It was meant to be a surprise. Misha managed to work her way through night school.]
[What? How? English language?]
[No. Business management. My fiancé runs a weird pizza and whisky pub, and Misha’s been working there.]
[Pizza? Whisky? Sounds like something that crazy neighbour would cook up.]
He saw the look on her face, and stopped.
[Yes. He did. My father helped him.]
[Your father?]
Hisao had memories of an equally crazy adult in a Hawaiian shirt. The thought
Hawaiian pizza ran through his head before he could stop it, and almost knocked him over. Instead, he laughed weakly.
[Stop it. Anyway, congratulations. Let’s go celebrate.]
[But, Misha?]
[Don’t worry.]
There was a big black SUV waiting for them. He stopped dead as he realised who the driver was, but Shizune’s forward momentum yanked him onward.
“Ha! Heart failure boy! You survived, hurry up, get into the car, we have more driving to do!”
[Father, do you want me to drive?]
Jigoro Hakamichi, Shizune’s father, looked a little put out. He clamped the wheel firmly in his large hands and gestured with his beard.
“Tell my daughter there is no way I would risk my life in such a manner!”
Hisao got in, still dazed.
***
It
was a nice pub, tastefully decorated with classical Japanese warrior motifs, mostly in black and red and white. Some gold trim. Lanterns and puppets, of all things. Strange English phrases masquerading as classical Japanese. Strange Hollywood superheroes made to look like mythical Japanese kami. Very loud music from some kind of electronic band.
There was a huge wagyu tomahawk steak in front of him, with grilled mushrooms and potato wedges. He’d managed a fair bit of it, with Kenji’s help—Kenji, who had somehow, unaccountably, amazingly, and weirdly, managed to get Shizune Hakamichi to agree to marry him.
“Yeah, I knew she was tainted goods, the way you were carrying on that year, but bygones, we all make mistakes, and I figured that since we were good friends, sharing is caring.”
Hisao knew he should probably show some anger, that it was expected of him, but the food was very good, and the whisky beyond comparison. Both sat gently in his guts and massaged his heart to the point where anger gave way to something more oesophageal. It wasn’t yet heartburn, and as long as he kept lubricating his innards with this excellent food, he’d be fine.
Besides, Kenji’s fianceé, Hisao’s ex-girlfriend (?) was having a fine time just a few centimetres away, catching up with Misha. The only thing that could possibly have been problematic was if Shizune’s father had been around. Fortunately, he was off talking to the chef about the best traditional way to cook a steak.
“Then, turns out she has a father who is the best manliness consultant in the world, and the deal didn’t seem so bad after all. People on the internet are envious that I have a deaf woman and a samurai father-in-law-to-be. That guy is the boss. He even staked your Pinko a free education if she’d help me manage this place.”
“Why would Shizune’s father do that?” said Hisao, even though he had at least seven other questions to ask.
“Because he was friends with my mother! Everyone in that part of Saitama knew each other, see, and they went to school together.”
Oh, one of those coincidences. It’s almost as if I was in one of those romance manga things. Some other unprintable thoughts flashed through Hisao’s brain as well, but he let none of them out through his mouth.
“So, we’re all good? You don’t resent me converting your feminist interrogator into a useful asset?”
“No, no, not at all!” Hisao sluiced whisky around the wagyu fat in his mouth and let the mellow mixture tickle his tongue.
“Wonderful!”
Misha was relieved that Hisao had taken it so well. As she relaxed, her conversation with Shizune became more fluid.
[Are you happy?]
[Hisao’s a good person. We get along well.]
[That’s good to know.]
Thin fingers, normally very active, now turning a sake cup slowly. Misha noticed, as she always did. It meant that Shizune wasn’t sure about what she was going to say, and this was uncommon.
[What’s on your mind, Shicchan?]
[I wanted to say… I’m sorry.]
[For what, Shicchan?]
[I drove you away, and Hisao away, and made things difficult for both of you.]
Misha put her cup down.
Wasn’t it the other way around? she wanted to say. Instead, she found herself signing: [We made it difficult for each other. But somehow, you’ve made it easier for everyone.]
[That was Kenji, and Father. And even Hideaki. For some reason, they all like Hisao.] A hint of a smile presented itself.
Misha took the hint and smiled back. [We haven’t really had time to talk, these last few years. It’s mostly your weird man’s clandestine meetings in parked cars. If my reputation wasn’t horrible already, it’d have disappeared by now.]
Shizune frowned, then grinned. [Kenji makes everyone’s reputation worse just by being with them. Since everyone already hated me, I decided it wouldn’t matter being with him. He thinks our relationship is a great victory for patriotic masculinity, whatever that means. Unfortunately, so does Father.]
***
At the bar, Jigoro Hakamichi patted himself on the back with a certain smugness. Nobody thought of him as the romantic type, but he’d seen a lot, done a lot. It was his task to set the youth of the nation on appropriate trajectories, and he had done it yet again. It was amazing what a little redirected funding could do over time: Yamaku, university scholarship funds, the F&B industry—it was a long list and he never got tired of thinking about it.
“Sprout?”
“Yes, Father?”
“So, what do you think of our five-year plan’s outcomes?”
“Making four unlikely people pair up?”
“Not quite.”
“Putting them on a path of usefulness to society?”
“That too.”
“What have I missed, Father?”
“I’ve also been training the next generation of ‘consultants’.”
“Really? I must have missed… oh, I see. You mean me.”
“Indeed!”
“That’s one hell of a Christmas package, Father.”
“And it isn’t even Christmas, you ungrateful underage whisky-drinking sprout!”
“Thank you, Father. Merry not-Christmas.”
END
=====
alt index
