Work Text:
In middle school, Arisugawa Juri is brilliant, shining out like a dagger in a set of dull kitchen knives in the sea of grey-blue-green uniforms and standard, formulaic answers. She fences, she runs track, she is class vice-president, and balances in the time to bowl regularly. She is tall and lovely, managing something resembling grace while everyone around them is tripping into lockers.
While everyone around them is falling all over themselves to make a reputation, she draws one around her effortlessly, like a cloak. It takes Shiori a little over a week after meeting her to despise her.
It isn't as though Arisugawa-san can play the piano (Shiori has been playing for five years and is being passed up for the winter recital by an elementary school kid) or write (Shiori has notebooks that are full and unread; her essays receive adequate marks in classes to continually pass her, but not assure her continuance into Othori's high school) or do anything really impressive (besides flip her perfect curls in front of a camera, and Shiori despairs every day of training bobbed frizz into something manageable). She doesn't understand why every girl in class talks about her with awe and why every boy would rather skip lunch than sit where Arisugawa-san wants to sit.
Shiori listens to her rattle off a sentence in perfect English and, without a conscious thought, decides that sooner or later, she will find a way to ruin Arisigawa Juri. She'll start this afternoon by asking for pointers on her English grammar.
At Shiori's request, they meet that afternoon in an empty classroom on the second floor. As they cover the lession from that day, Shiori studies Arisugawa, searching for flaws; she is not disappointed. Arisugawa chews on things. The marks on her pencils are ragged, and her lower lip catches often beneath even, sharp teeth. Even her nails are bitten to the quick, Shiori notes scornfully, and her notes are practically indecipherable. The grammar that provides such a stumbling block for Shiori seems simple when Arisugawa presents it, but her manner is (almost gratifyingly) abrupt, her descriptions stiff, if simpler and more interesting than the teacher's. As Arisugawa glances through their workbook for exercises that might help her, Shiori cautiously places a hand on Juri's scribbling one. Her cheeks are flushed in the evening sun.
"Juri-san --" such a liberty, but it will seem like an offering of friendship. Such a presumption, unless Shiori is underestimating Juri's willingness to help her study as a tentative movement towards trust, will be welcomed coming from her, but will never come from Arisugawa - from Juri - "Do you think that we could, perhaps, study again sometime soon?"
In the pause, Shiori uses every profanity she knows, silently, while the clock ticks the time. Should've stuck with the more respectful surname, shouldn't have touched her, should've waited and asked her again after class, after a few days had passed –
"I... would like that." Juri's voice is low and quiet, even in the silence, and Shiori's brain takes a moment to catch up to her ears. The smile starts across her downturned face before she can help herself.
"Day after tomorrow, then? After classes, around four would work for me." The burst of manic glee that fills her disguises itself by pushing her toward the coatroom; she calls out from the closet as she grabs her lunch pail with shaking hands, "If you have fencing practise, we can just meet up once a week or something."
Arisugawa -- she hasn't actually given permission to call her anything else, no matter the liberties taken -- chuffs out a breath that could be a quiet laugh, or a sigh, or anything in between. Shiori can't actually tell without facing her, so she grabs her jacket and turns. The sun is almost gone, outside, and the sky is purple and red and turning dark; it casts a reddish hue to Arisugawa's fair skin.