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Anon’s on vacation, so Nyamu calls her twice to voicemail, feeling like a scorned ex. On the third time, Anon finally picks up.
Half-muffled by a pillow: “Anon!”
“What was that?”
At first, Nyamu thinks Anon’s just being petulant, so she corrects herself: “ANONTOKYO.”
But then—scuffling on the other end—a bright flare of light. Nyamu winces, holding her phone away from her face, and slinks further back into her cocoon of blankets.
Anon’s camera flickers on, minimizing Nyamu’s icon into a tiny square in the corner. Nyamu dims the screen brightness, then turns it back up—no way she wants to look at herself right now. Though, this might be worse: Chihaya Anon, in full color, wearing a bikini with sun beaming down on her face.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you just now! What’s up?”
In the background, Nyamu spots no less than two seagulls flying by. She starts to feel a little silly, but doesn’t give up. If she quit every time she felt silly, she wouldn’t have a million subscribers. “You know, when was the last time we collabed, Anon-chan?”
Anon taps her chin. “I don’t know, when we—hey!” A beach ball hits the back of Anon’s head, and she raises her fist in mock indignation. “Soyorin, that’s cheating!”
Nyamu resists the urge to gag. How could she forget that Anon lives in a GL. It takes a few more minutes of Anon playfighting with her girlfriend before she returns her focus to Nyamu, in which Nyamu considers with increasing gravity whether she should just come out to her subscribers and join Anon in domestic lesbian bliss.
…Right, just tell all her fans she’s been dating women for as long as she’s been making videos, Nyamu thinks, closing the lid on that, and Anon’s peal of laughter breaks up her train of thought, anyway. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”
Nyamu sighs. “Anon, do you want to collab?”
“Umm… I mean, not that I don’t want to, but I’ve got a couple of vacation vlogs lined up, and then the Patreon subscribers voted on a girlfriend tag, and then I had a couple of guitar videos scheduled, plus the convention that—“
Nyamu’s begun to back up, Anon’s words crowding her space as if they were something physical, so she doesn’t realize when her XL cup of coffee tilts dangerously towards the floor. No, she mouths angrily. The contents scatter across the tile, anyway.
“Nevermind,” Nyamu interrupts. She knows when to throw in the towel. “Have a good vacation.”
“Wait, Nyamuuu—“
As she mops up the mess with a napkin pressed on the underside of her slipper, Nyamu dials Taki’s number. She’s more timely than Anon, picking up on the second ring, because while she might be an inconsistent friend, she’s a decent collaborator. “Hello. This is Shiina Taki?”
“Alright, Shiina Taki. Here’s the deal,” Nyamu announces. “I’m in a crisis.”
Taki heaves a sigh, the plaster of professionalism peeling with her patience. “What’s the crisis?”
“The crisis is that… my life is over.” Crackly silence. “Check the YouTube trending charts—I posted less than a day ago, and I’m not number one!”
“…You’re number two.”
“So?”
Taki hangs up. Nyamu calls back right away. “I’m being serious.”
“Are you trying to piss me off? Your channel’s doing fine.”
“No. You can’t ever get too comfortable about these things,” Nyamu insists. “First, your videos start slipping on the charts. Then, the views go down. Then, the sponsors start pulling their support. Then, the hate comments come in, and then—“
“Have you been outside yet today?”
Nyamu looks down at the floor, where she’s been scrubbing at the same squeaky clean spot for the past ten minutes. “Well,” she says.
“Go. Outside.”
“You’re one to speak!”
“Why the hell even call me, then? I’m not going to coach you through your feelings!”
Nyamu chews on her bottom lip and sits back on her mattress. “…Anon’s too busy for a collab, so…”
“What? Nyamuchi wants to collab with me or something?”
Taki sounds dubious. Nyamu barks out a laugh. “If the fans are sick of me playing the drums, then why would they want to watch you?”
They’ve known each other for too long, because the jab slides right off. “So?”
“I checked the socials, of the girl that’s at number one… You two follow each other on Instagram.”
Finally, Taki’s speechless. Nyamu’s about to check she hasn’t accidentally put her phone on mute when she responds. “We were classmates in college, that’s all.”
“Just classmates? I’m sure that’s why she only has three tagged posts and they’re all with you, then?”
“What’s your point?”
“Don’t you know her pretty well? Come on, hook your dear friend Nyamuchi here up with a collab!”
“Can’t you just wait until Anon’s back from vacation?”
“No! The YouTube ecosystem works fast! By the time Anon’s back, that girl might…”
“What, you wanted to force Anon to reach out to her, too?”
Nyamu winces. “Uh… She’s got that go-getter spirit…?”
Taki won’t even take the bait to hate on Anon! “Why don’t you just email her yourself?” Latching on: “Oh my god. Has hell frozen over? Have you just got a cr—“
Nyamu hangs up. Texts Taki, Will you do it or not?
Say please, Taki responds.
Nyamu rolls her eyes. Taki’s just messing with her. She sets her mind to cleaning up her room a bit, because she does have a livestream scheduled that weekend, and she doubts even her most dedicated fans would find her girl cave flattering.
She could just email this girl herself, Nyamu considers later that night, replaying the number one video. She’s watching on a burner account, so as to not contribute views. Or maybe that contributes more views? Whatever. This video is still leading over Nyamu’s by a good margin, so it won’t matter anyway.
And Nyamu can see why. She’s…
Nyamu groans, throws her phone, and pulls her pillow over her head. After a minute or so, she retrieves it. Opens her messages, and texts Taki one word: please.
Unlike Taki, who has a day job, or Anon, who lives with her rich girlfriend, or Sakiko, who is rich, Nyamu’s always had to rely on her videos as a sole stream of income.
She’s been vlogging ever since she moved to Tokyo for university as a scholarship student, so she’s had a longer time to build her fanbase, not to mention: she’s dedicated. That’s why she’s relatively more successful, and also how she noticed right away that an interesting video was shooting up the daily charts.
It was a bassist. Nyamu’d seen a couple of their covers before, flirting with the top ten. From the neck down, they seemed androgynous, even masculine. Slender arms, thin spokes of wrists, precise, powerful fingers. Their face was always covered by a mask. Nyamu considered it a bit too theatrical for her tastes. And the name, too; Timoris? So niche. And antique.
Still, Nyamu clicked, to keep a pulse on the charts. It was a typical cover video, just like all the rest. Except.
Except, at the end of this one, the camera panned upwards, and Timoris revealed her face.
From the video description, Nyamu would learn that the girl was Umiri, since all of her socials were linked for the first time. From the comments, she would learn that Umiri was an established bassist in a couple of big-name bands in the underground rock scene. On first impressions alone, though, there was only one thing that registered for Nyamu.
She clutched onto her phone tighter, feeling sick to her stomach. Umiri was hot.
A few days later, Nyamu receives one unceremonious text from an unknown number.
XXX-XXX-XXXX: Hello. Is this Yuutenji Nyamu?
Her full government name, huh. Nyamu stops editing her video and leans back in her chair to respond.
The one and only~
And you are?
The bubbles bob up and down for half a minute. Nyamu starts to get irritated. What if it’s actually just some stalker? She types back: Don’t make me guess.
XXX-XXX-XXXX: Timoris
What the…? Nyamu rolls her eyes. You're Yahata Umiri, then
Yahata Umiri: Yes
The bubbles keep dancing. Nyamu goes back to editing her video, and she's set it to render when she realizes that Umiri never responded.
Anyone there?
Yahata Umiri: I’m there
Nyamu glances up at her screen. That'll take a bit. She stands up and collapses onto her bed on her stomach.
So, I guess you got my number from Taki-chan
Yahata Umiri: Indeed
You two were college friends?
Yahata Umiri: We met in college, yes
How is Nyamu more bored by this conversation than watching a blue bar inch across her screen? She forces out a puff of air, so her bangs lift away from her eyes.
Aren’t you a little too dry?
Yahata Umiri: How would you like me to respond?
Ugh. Nyamu stabs out a response.
Don’t be so obedient either
Just
Be yourself?
Yahata Umiri: By all means, you first
Nyamu groans out loud. What a pain… She leaves her phone on her bed and returns to her computer, opening up Photoshop on her side monitor to tweak the cover image for her latest vlog. A little bit of blush… And enlarge the text…
Her phone dings from her bed. She glances over.
And back.
Again.
Nyamu growls and snatches her phone up, unlocking it to: two message notifs from Anon. What. She taps.
ANONTOKYO: Dinner~ With Soyorin~~~
ANONTOKYO: [Image description: The other side of a candlelit dinner table. Anon’s reflection warps fish-like in her distended wine glass. One disgruntled Nagasaki Soyo glares into the camera, but with undeniable fondness.]
Should Nyamu send a photo back? She looks mournfully over at her computer, a halo of light in her dark room... Yeah, no. She responds, Hurry back~~, and is about to close the app when her phone buzzes once again in her hands.
Yahata Umiri: [Image description: Umiri is in a train, her selfie arm hooked around a pole. The other hand holds onto the case for her bass guitar. From the upper angle, sweat beads on her collarbone, implying she’s fresh out of a practice or performance. Her face is expressionless. Or perhaps there’s a slight smile?]
Nyamu stares for a few moments. Well, it’s a good photo, but somehow she senses that Umiri’s not fishing for compliments.
?
What’s with you
Yahata Umiri: For my icon
Yahata Umiri: And as an apology
And why did you think that this would lift my mood at all?
Yahata Umiri: Is my face not to your liking?
…Well. Nyamu’s not a liar.
You’re pretty full of yourself
I hate that kind of person
Yahata Umiri: If that’s so, let’s go ahead and cancel the collab.
Nyamu hesitates. She types, retypes. Umiri, is surprisingly…
You’re messing with me
…Playful. Nyamu bites her nail and waits for a few moments, but this time Umiri doesn’t respond. Her computer chimes, signaling that her video’s finished rendering. She doesn’t move.
Nyamu sighs. She brushes her hair away from her neck, tilts her cheek at the angle that usually works, and snaps a pic of herself. She looks kind of rough; there’s trash in the background and the lighting could be much better, but she can’t even bring herself to care anymore.
[Image]
Here, for my icon
If you post this anywhere, I’ll blacklist you
That doesn’t even make sense, with the kind of jobs they have, but Umiri doesn’t call Nyamu out.
Yahata Umiri: Why?
Yahata Umiri: You look nice
Nyamu bumps her knee against the corner of her desk and swears under her breath. Through the radiating pain, types back:
If you don’t stop sending weird stuff, I’ll block you
Crap. Nyamu scrolls up. Isn’t that basically what she said before? And what, is Umiri going to… notice the repetitive sentence structure, or something? Nyamu shakes her head. She’s thinking too hard about this. Umiri’s probably not even going to respond—
Yahata Umiri: Sorry, Nyamuchi
Yahata Umiri: Yuutenji-san
…Taki should’ve told Nyamu this girl was going to be a handful. Nyamu turns her phone all the way off and begins to parse through the first pass of her rendered video.
It’s not until she wakes up late the next day, her alarms missing her, that she realizes she forgot to set a date for the collab.
Nyamu’s at a disadvantage. So, she fixes it. She goes on an Umiri deep dive.
Umiri’s pretty popular among lesbians—no duh. On Twitter, her hashtag is usually joined by the group tag of one of her bands, like #DISRUPTION, and is composed of blurry photos from frantic fangirls. The clearest one Nyamu can get is a selfie, though the fan’s face is stickered out, leaving a few strokes of her long hair floating frozen mid-air against Umiri’s cheek in the photo. Umiri’s doing a rock and roll sign with her visible hand and poking her tongue out a little bit, exposing a—flash of metal? Piercing?
…That’s all Nyamu figures she’s going to get out of Twitter. A simple search reveals to Nyamu a micro-community on a few forums, usually starting the thread with something among the lines of who’s that bassist I saw opening with X band with the beautiful eyes? Nyamu manages to wring a few old interviews out of that particular rabbit hole, including one from the old university newspaper, but it’s…
Q: Why do you like music, Yahata-san?
A: I’m good at it.
Nyamu starts to suspect that she’s not going to get anything out of this at all, when she stumbles across a few video interviews with Umiri. Granted, they’re all grainy as hell and mostly talk business about the releases of some of Umiri’s bands, but at least Nyamu’s able to hear Umiri’s actual voice.
It’s a little higher than she was expecting. Sort of monotonous. Seriously, was Nyamu expecting anything at all?
Nyamu clears her search history and turns off her phone. At least if Umiri tries to look into Nyamu's internet presence, she won’t find anything real, either. Usually, that’s reassuring.
Umiri, though… Nyamu can’t help but shake the feeling that the whiff of a personality she got a glimpse of, wasn’t just a one-off. It makes her want to learn more, but she’s wary of developing any kind of serious attraction.
Sure, she might’ve reached out to Umiri at first at least partially because of her face, but that’s because of the cardinal law: visuals equals views. Actual feelings are complicated, and tricky, especially as a semi-closet lesbian. Not the least because there are only so many eligible young women, so the dating pool is the worst kind of venn diagram. Nyamu even held off on asking Taki if she ever had a thing with Umiri because she’s way too scared to hear the answer. Nyamu’s not a lesbian stereotype. Sure, she’s still friends with Sakiko, but…
No. She’s not a lesbian stereotype. Yahata Umiri? Completely professional.
Not that Umiri makes it easy.
The collab, they decide, will be makeup-related. Nyamu considered something to do with music, but her fans have probably had enough of that for now, the views on her drum covers ticking down just barely, so she settled on some punk-ish makeup tutorial with Umiri as a model. Whatever that means. She almost expects Umiri to disagree, but she’s surprisingly pliable. Maybe she’s a famehound deep inside, too.
Then, Nyamu realizes it’s just because Umiri’s way too busy to be making any demands. They try to nail down a time, but Umiri keeps having to shift it around for various performances.
If you don’t want to do the collab just say so, Nyamu texts after the second time Umiri cancels on short notice. In response: a video of Umiri setting up backstage, bobbing her head to musicians doing soundcheck, bass strap clenching against her neck.
Yahata Umiri: I wouldn’t lie to you.
Sweet talker, Nyamu responds. She wonders for a moment the reactions she might get if she posted this video onto one of Umiri’s fan communities, then tries not to feel too gratified that she knows no one but her will ever see it.
Yahata Umiri: Bad thing?
Nyamu decides not to dignify that with a response. She does, however, start keeping track of Umiri’s hashtag on Twitter whenever she insists she has an event, even though Umiri’ll send her various selfies on and off-stage to confirm it, too. Nyamu’s dug far enough that she’s reached a small community of fansites for Disruption and Jasmine & Husky, which post more HQ photos and sell little fanmade trinkets for the members. Once, she fumbled her phone and almost liked something on her Nyamuchi account, and she was so embarrassed she left Umiri on read all evening.
At some point, they set a date in the middle distance for their collab that Umiri promises she can make. Still, they keep texting, mostly when Umiri’s backstage, which is usually in the evening, which means Nyamu’s home alone bored, which means she really can’t be blamed for what she does or doesn’t say.
Then, one day:
Yahata Umiri: You play drums.
Yeah, so?
You agreed our collab is going to be about makeup
Yahata Umiri: Our drummer wants to meet you.
Yahata Umiri: Jasmine & Husky.
What the heck
Why?
Yahata Umiri: She’s a Nyamuchi fan.
Surprised, Nyamu checks her channel. It’s been a second since she posted anything music-related, certainly earlier than she started talking to Umiri…
You’re kidding
Yahata Umiri: No, I’m not.
Yahata Umiri: She wants your signature and feedback on our score.
The most composing Nyamu’s done has been related to Taki, somehow. Which isn’t none, but it’s definitely not substantial. Not enough for her to feel comfortable accepting, anyway.
She jots a quick signature on her Notes app, takes a screenshot, and sends it to Umiri.
Umiri doesn’t entertain her. She replies with an e-Ticket for their next show, VIP. Nyamu hesitates for just a moment before saving it.
Taki keeps glancing around Nyamu’s apartment like something’s going to jump out at her. “This isn’t a prank show,” Nyamu tells her, annoyed.
Taki frowns and slowly lowers herself onto the desk chair Nyamu brought out for her. “Wouldn’t you be wary too? You’ve never shown interest in learning more about composing before.”
“And here I thought you’d be excited to have another pupil!”
“I do enough teaching in my day to day…” Taki rubs her eyes and scoots closer to the desk. “You’re lucky MyGO’s not super active right now, since Anon and Soyo are… vacationing… doing… whatever… so I have time for this.”
“It’s Anon’s fault in the first place.”
Taki narrows her eyes. “…How, exactly?”
Because, if Nyamu had just succeeded in getting Anon to set up a collab with her and Umiri, it probably would’ve been one and done. Anon would’ve strongarmed everyone into setting a date earlier on. They likely would’ve all been in a LINE group chat that fell into disuse, and Nyamu wouldn’t even be considering talking to Umiri’s bandmate. Not that, Taki knows any of that.
“Um,” Nyamu says. “I just like blaming things on other people?”
“…At least you’re self aware.” Taki rustles around in her bag and produces three big books. All the sticky notes and highlighter marks... Taki must be a danger to stationary stores globally. “Get started.”
Nyamu knows better than to complain, especially when Taki has that look in her eyes. Besides, it hasn’t been that long since she’s been a student, cramming for this or that test. She even used to do 24/7 study lives, though that’s a form of psychological torture she doesn’t ever want to put herself through again.
Still, Nyamu’s a human, and at some point, her stomach grumbles painfully. “Enough!” she moans. “I’m ordering us food.”
For a second, Nyamu’s scared Taki’ll protest—she’s seen the inside of her room when she doesn’t clean, and she still shudders to imagine all the discarded husks of protein bars—but Taki concedes. “You can be hardworking when you want,” she observes.
Nyamu frowns. “Well, duh. How do you think I got this far? It’s not all the pretty face~”
“I didn’t say that. Besides, we’re both…” Taki leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “We both aren’t the type of people that can rely on dumb luck, are we.”
“…Damn straight,” Nyamu mutters. Sakiko flashes briefly through her mind. How their relationship had been so shiny and new and nice, but Sakiko always kept her at a distance, even when it hurt the both of them. How Nyamu just ended up feeling like a plaything.
Taki’s not the type to pry into silence, so Nyamu knows there must be something seriously disconcerting about her countenance when they’re quietly eating noodles and Taki nudges her calf with a socked foot. “You’re being weird.”
“Mm~ Just absorbing the knowledge.”
“Then don’t tell me.”
Nyamu rolls her eyes and keeps eating. But then again, maybe Taki’s the only person who’d somewhat understand. “How long, exactly, have you known Umiri?”
Taki’s clearly reluctant to answer, but maybe she’s in a good mood from sitting down and composing for hours, the maniac. “Since the beginning of university. Do the math.”
“Has she always been like this?”
“Basically, yeah.”
…Nyamu’s not exactly surprised. But at least she can let that go, now. She smiles and straightens up a tiny bit. “Bet she was a real heartbreaker, huh.”
Taki frowns. “Actually, not so much.”
“But you just said she’s always been a flirt.”
“I said she’s always been ‘like this’…” Taki drops her chopsticks to make air quotes. “A quiet, reclusive weirdo. She’s never been promiscuous.”
Nyamu drops her utensils, too, and ticks off on her fingers. “She has groupies. She has fansites. She has a YouTube channel with half a million subscribers.”
“So? Are you entertaining all the middle aged men that beg for your hand in marriage in your Instagram comments?”
“Obviously not, but even so…”
Taki studies Nyamu for a moment. Then, she picks up Nyamu’s phone from the desktop and holds the lock screen up to Nyamu’s face. The Face ID icon forms a checkmark. “What are you—?”
Before Nyamu can register what Taki’s done, she’s darted off and locked herself in the bathroom. Nyamu chases after her, banging her fists on the door, but it’s too late. “I’m just checking your texts with Umiri,” Taki shouts through the door.
“Just?” Nyamu shrieks. Damn, she can’t even bring herself to be too mad—this is totally something she’d do. “Heard of asking first?”
“Like you’d have shown me!”
“If you post anything on my socials, I swear…”
“Why the hell would I have any interest in… posting, on… your…” Taki’s voice trails off. “…You guys text this often?”
Oh my god. Nyamu tries to remember where Taki might be in their chat history. Hopefully not the sleeveless pics… “So? We’re just friends—“
Taki opens the door again, and Nyamu immediately grabs her phone back. She quickly refreshes her Twitter, her YouTube, and her Instagram, before aiming a venomous glare at Taki. “That’s a serious violation of privacy, by the way!”
Taki shrugs past Nyamu back into her room. “Yeah? I learned it from you.”
Nyamu follows Taki back after a beat. She collapses into the opposite chair and crosses her arms. If Taki’s bothered by the icy atmosphere, she doesn’t say anything. “Make yourself useful and at least tell me, will you,” Nyamu mutters eventually.
“If she’s into you?” Taki’s shocked expression will live behind Nyamu’s eyelids until the day she dies. “This is your issue… You act like a straight girl for too long and you start becoming one…”
“I’m being serious.” Nyamu’s confused, and when she’s confused, she hates showing it, so she schools her face into something more neutral. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting insecure now?”
“Of course not? I know I’m a catch,” Nyamu replies. “It’s just.”
Well. It’s just that, she can’t imagine Umiri, anyone, wanting her for reasons that go beyond what she can offer them. Whether it’s her face, her fame… Because, there’s hardly anything there worth using.
But, Umiri, maybe on some level. She’s the same. If her mask hadn’t completely come off.
“Just what?” Taki repeats.
That’s beyond a quick chat with Taki. Nyamu stabs her chopsticks back into her noodles, closing the conversation. “Just a shame that she’s just a pretty face.”
If there’s one thing Nyamu hates more than feeling confused, it’s feeling like she’s been made a fool.
On the train over to Umiri’s show, the one she held Taki hostage to prepare for, Umiri texts her that she’s sick. Nyamu put in enough effort to dress up, remembered leather, boots, and parts of her wardrobe she doesn’t usually like. It’s a little hot for summer. Her hand white-knuckles against the pole and sweats. So yeah, she feels stupid.
She types and retypes multiple angry texts. Settles on: You might as well be a catfish at this point
She receives two photos with a slight lag between them.
Yahata Umiri: [Image description: A thermometer at a startling 38.9 degrees celsius. The backdrop is the tiled floor of a bathroom.]
Yahata Umiri: Not a catfish.
Yahata Umiri: [Image description: A mirror selfie of Umiri holding her forearm in front of her, reading, in blue pen ink, SORRY NYAMU. Her face is flushed.]
Despite it all, Nyamu’s sort of pleased to see her name on Umiri’s skin. She responds with a bit more patience.
I get it
You don’t have to send me urine samples next
Yahata Umiri: You’re mad at me
I’m really not
Yahata Umiri: Will you still go?
Why wouldn’t I?
The world doesn’t revolve around you
Umiri doesn’t respond after that, and Nyamu doesn’t check.
The band seems to have secured a replacement bassist on short notice, but the crowd is let down, too, especially the others in the VIP section. Nyamu notices a few of Umiri’s fansites looking forlorn and almost sends Umiri a sneaky picture of them before remembering that one, she’s supposed to be annoyed at her, two, that runs the risk of one of them realizing she’s Nyamuchi, and three, Umiri can never know that Nyamu has stalked her Twitter hashtag.
Nyamu likes live music, anyway, and she likes being treated like a VIP more, so she’s in a fairly decent mood to be social by the time she goes backstage. Even if she weren’t, she’d still be able to manage it, but things tend to go smoother when she can invest something real into the performance.
Still, she kind of wishes Umiri were there. Scratch that, she really wishes Umiri were there. They’d never actually met in person before, and seeing how different each of Umiri’s bandmates are on and off-stage, she can’t help but wonder if Umiri’s personality would have a drastic change, too. The worst part is, Nyamu doesn’t even think she’d mind. She’d just be glad she got to know her better. How fucked up is that?
The drummer praises Nyamu and looks starry-eyed at receiving her signature. “You’re really good,” she promises.
Nyamu can’t help but feel that it’s a somewhat hollow compliment—she’s been slacking on practice, and she knows she can work harder—but she smiles anyway. “Thank you so much!”
To her surprise, the drummer actually insists on Nyamu getting a copy of their score, just in case she wants to send it back with any revisions. Nyamu takes it; it could be a fun project on the side. Still, she hadn’t thought to bring a bag out to the concert, so she’s walking home like that, the sheets of paper fluttering in her hand, when her phone rings from her back pocket.
Nyamu fishes it out with one hand. Yahata Umiri, reads the screen. She hesitates for a moment, thinking it might be a butt dial, but it keeps ringing.
She picks up. Wait, isn’t this the first time they’re calling? She struggles for a second: Yahata-san? Umiri-chan? Umiri? What comes out is—
“Umiko?”
Everyone in the band called Umiri something different, and Nyamu’s the type to come up with cute nicknames, something to that effect, is what she’d say if she had any interest in explaining herself. But that’s beyond the point.
“Yuutenji-san,” Umiri responds. Nyamu frowns to herself a bit.
“Still with that -san?”
“…Yuutenji-san,” Umiri repeats, and that’s when Nyamu starts to think—is Umiri a little delirious? She certainly sounds slightly loopy, and her voice is deeper. “You picked up.”
“Well… I’m just walking home, so I’d be lying if I said I was busy…” Umiri’s labored breathing extends in the space between them. “Are you… okay?”
“Just fine, Yuutenji-san.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“…Don’t usually get the chance, over text.”
“You could’ve called before.”
“That isn’t what we do.”
“Is there a ‘we’?”
Umiri coughs. It’s a bit awkward. “Then, no.”
Nyamu stops walking at an intersection. She watches the mechanized movements of the street, the cars ticking by, stoplights flaring and blinking like they’re alive, too. Somehow, this strange, limp thing suspended between them on the line, feels like it holds some possibility, too.
So Nyamu clarifies: “If there isn’t… Doesn’t that just mean it’s up to us to put it together?”
“…Sometimes, Yuutenji-san, you talk about things like a musician." Nyamu's still puzzling out what that means, when: "Like you were born to play the drums.”
“I like the drums, yeah." Probably more than anyone has the right to know. "But no one’s born for anything.” Everything Nyamu ever got, she had to take.
“Is that so?”
“I don’t say what I don’t mean.”
“That’s like you.”
Nyamu collages an image of Umiri, right now, the faint curve of her mouth, red fever flush. Amused? Annoyed? “I’m being charitable with you right now, so I’ll take that as a compliment~”
“How generous.”
“I am, you know. Seriously, what kind of a person bails on a girl last minute?”
“Sorry about that.”
Why is it so hard to wring a real reaction out of this girl? Nyamu scoffs. “You know, Umiko… How is it that no matter what you say, I’m not entirely satisfied?”
“How… would you like me to respond?”
This again. “Don’t just tell me what I want to hear.”
“I don’t know what you want.”
Nyamu can’t help but laugh. “Look at the two of us, huh? I have no clue what you want, either. Why’d you even agree to collab?”
Beat. “Why did you have Taki ask me?”
“Hey, I’m asking the questions.”
Umiri gives in. She always does. Before, Nyamu’d thought it was a benefit on her part. Now, she’s not so sure. “I didn’t have much to do. And I was curious about you.”
“Liar. Look how busy you are.”
“I was curious,” Umiri repeats. “Wouldn’t that also be why you asked me?”
“What if I told you that it wasn’t? What if I said I was just doing it for fame, because you were the first person to outchart my 24 hour views in years,” Nyamu responds. She’s not certain why she’s being needlessly cruel. Mostly, she’s trying to gauge how Umiri’ll react, if she’ll see Nyamu eventually, and flinch. “To use you.”
“If you were really using me. Why haven’t we made that video yet?”
“…Because you’re busy.”
“I’m not that busy.”
“What are you saying? You were intentionally putting it off?”
“You let me.”
Nyamu lets the silence stretch for a bit. To make Umiri nervous. Though, she’s pretty sure it’s not working. “I’m going to remember this whole conversation tomorrow, you know.”
“Me too.”
Nyamu holds her phone at an arms length. “Go to sleep,” she says finally, into the waiting air, and hangs up.
A few moments later, Umiri sends a picture. Nyamu saves it, but she doesn’t respond.
After that, Nyamu and Umiri don’t text for a week.
Is Umiri feeling awkward, or is she testing Nyamu, or has she really forgotten? Maybe she’s still recovering from her illness. The only repreive Nyamu has is the certainty that Umiri is equally in the dark about her own motives.
The sheet music from Umiri’s band sits on her desk. For the first couple of days, Nyamu’s able to ignore it, but after a while, she can’t help but toy around with it a bit. She records herself playing it through and gets a few decent takes, then, stars aligning—she’s running behind on editing this week’s video, and she’d gotten prior approval from Jasmine & Husky to upload a cover—why the hell not.
When she wakes up after posting it, she’s surprised to notice it’s doing better than these types of videos usually do for her. It doesn’t take her long to realize that Umiri’s separately uploaded her own cover, barely half a day after.
…It’s good publicity, so Nyamu doesn’t complain. Their collab is approaching, seriously, now. She makes a vague tweet promoting Umiri’s video; figures if Umiri really cares either way she’ll text her about it.
She doesn’t. Nyamu doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind at all.
The next day, Nyamu posts a picture of a wine glass against the nighttime view from her apartment. If she attaches a slightly mopey song lyric, well—content creators are human, too. A few hours later, she receives a text:
Shiina Taki: Not that it’s my business at all
Shiina Taki: But you must know how this comes off
Shiina Taki: [Screenshot]
Umiri’s posted basically the same thing: herself in a bar with her bandmates, raising a glass. Complete with a different, but equally mopey, song.
Nyamu knows what this game is, because they’ve played it before. Just never quite so publicly. Maybe…
She waits a couple of days, and then posts a picture of herself in the mirror at a department store, out shopping with Anon. Only half of her body is in the shot, Nyamu’s hands attached to her forearm. Nyamu makes sure she looks good, too. Heels and everything.
This time, it takes a day or two. Umiri’s post isn’t a one to one creation, but a gym mirror selfie. The overhead lights, the pump… That’s a textbook thirst trap. Nyamu’s brainstorming how she’ll respond when an unknown number messages her.
XXX-XXX-XXXX: I got your number from Anon
XXX-XXX-XXXX: Stop
XXX-XXX-XXXX: Now
Nyamu wracks her brain. Anon…? So…
This must be Nagasaki Soyo
Nagasaki Soyo: Yes
Nagasaki Soyo: Her girlfriend
Nyamu remembers the mall photo she posted and winces.
Oops~
I get carried away sometimes
Soyo doesn’t respond, but that’s that. Even from secondhand information, Soyo’s a little scary, and it’s definitely not worth it to push it. Still, Nyamu’s a little disappointed. She hasn’t texted Umiri in a pretty long while now… Ugh…
She toggles over to Taki’s chat. Messages, Should I text Umiri again
Shiina Taki: I’m too involved in this as is
Well~?
Shiina Taki: How the hell is it possible that you’re acting like you’re already exes when you’ve never even dated
Shiina Taki: Figure it out between yourselves
Not
Helpful!
Nyamu returns to Umiri’s messages. She stares at the last photo Umiri sent, in bed, shrouded in a thin veil of darkness, the curve of her smile lost against her pillow. Just like Nyamu imagined.
Nyamu’s collaboration with Anon comes before her collaboration with Umiri, because, “Yes, you’ve been dragging things on for this long,” Anon informs Nyamu. She’s the only one who’s able to say it without sounding like she’s scolding Nyamu, though, probably because she gets some vicarious entertainment from it.
The collaboration is a tipsy live. Soyo’s featured, so they do it at their joint place. Nyamu’s hopeful that Soyo’s forgotten about the little whoops I used your girlfriend as a prop to make another girl jealous thing, but it’s not likely, even though she smiles at Nyamu. Especially because she smiles at Nyamu.
It’s airing on ANONTOKYO, so most of the people watching are asking questions for Anon and Soyo, especially about their relationship. Nyamu watches as their PDA becomes more public and more affectionate the drunker they get, and Nyamu feels… well. Nothing, really.
She used to be a bit more uptight about concealing her sexuality from her fanbase, but it was never because of any sort of internal angst that came from liking women. It was just a part of herself, a real part of herself, and something she didn’t want to share with the entire world. Nyamuchi the performer, and Nyamu the person. She wanted to make certain they didn’t mix. But at a certain level, that runs the risk of losing which one is the simulation.
Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe Nyamu’s had too much to drink, and that’s why she’s considering her entire existence as Anon sits by her right side, accepting Super Chats for three hundred dollars to kiss Soyo with tongue.
Nyamu scans the chat as Anon untangles herself. “Alright,” shouts Anon, overflowing with drunken affection, “Here’s a question for our, dearest, Nyamuchi!”
Anon pulls Nyamu into a sideways hug, and Nyamu leans gently towards the screen to not dislodge her. She squints: “‘How did I meet Timoris AKA Yahata Umiri’… We met through a mutual friend! One of these two’s mutual friends, actually.” Nyamu makes a rectangle with her fingers. “Shii~ Na~ Ta~ Ki! One of you will edit a link to MyGO’s band channel here later, right?”
The chat flashes by:
Oh she’ll answer questions about Umiri?
YESSSS UMINYAMU ^-^
Since when do those 2 know each other again
…Nyamu gets the feeling that she’s opened a can of worms, somehow. But, the SCs start coming in steadily, and she can’t argue with that.
“Yup, it is true that I’ve played with Jasmine & Husky,” and
“Our collab is coming soon, so please look forward to it!” and
“Fan… sites…? No, I don’t go on Twitter looking for that stuff.”
Thinking about Umiri when she’s already halfway drunk is a one-way ticket to a headache, though, so Nyamu eventually tries to put a gentle end to it. “Guys~ How come I don’t get any of the fun SCs? How about one of the dares?”
Goading the audience is another sure bet to get the money pumping; eventually, a SC for Nyamu floats to the top. The three of them read it out loud together, leaning in close to the screen: “Nyamuchi, prank call the first person that you see when you open your messages!”
“Hmm… For me, that’d be my mom,” Soyo considers out loud.
Anon pouts and shoves at Soyo’s shoulder. “Really? Not me?” Soyo takes out her phone and swipes up. Anon looks back towards the camera, comically dismayed. “Ah. It really is her mom. So, I’ll show you all this—“
Anon unlocks her phone, then turns her screen towards the lens and slowly swipes into the messages app, so everyone can see as Soyo’s latest messages populate the screen in real time. “Wow! And as expected, Soyorin is number one in my heart~” Anon clutches her chest.
Nyamu lets the play-fighting ensue for a few moments longer as she tries to make peace with what she’s about to do. Given that she’s pretty sure she knows whose picture she was staring at most recently.
“—Okay, Nyamuchi, go!” Anon shouts, thrusting her palm outwards. “Do it like I just did it, okay?”
…Anon’s trying to kill her. Nyamu pretends to be curious, too, but when she opens her message app, of course there’s Umiri’s face, laying in bed, the picture that Nyamu never wanted to share with anyone else.
And that’s not even the hard part. She still has to call. Umiri picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
So it would’ve been this easy the whole time to reach out. At least Nyamu’s got some sort of reason beyond the pathetically transparent rationale of missing her, though. Not that Umiri knows that. Or much of anything right now, probably. She sounds like she’s been asleep.
“Umiko~,” she shouts. “I need your help.”
“Mm,” Umiri responds. She’s definitely half asleep. “With what?”
“Don’t you know your way around a toolkit?” Nyamu hesitates. “Since you’re a bassist…?”
Beat. “You’re a drummer…”
“I know,” Nyamu whines, “But something’s wrong with my fridge!”
She hears the rustle of blankets sliding away. Umiri getting up, pulling on her clothes, and setting her phone down. What the hell. Does she actually mean to come to Nyamu’s place? She has her address for the collab, but she’s never been over there? Most importantly, Nyamu’s not home?
Nyamu interrupts quickly: “It’s running.” Beat. “My fridge? And I can’t catch it.”
All movement ceases.
“You’re on stream,” Nyamu explains weakly. “Anon’s tipsy live.”
“I understand,” Umiri responds. “Well, if that’s all?”
Umiri hangs up. “So cold,” Nyamu says, hugging her phone to her chest and pouting at the camera. The comments are pouring in faster than she can track them. She laughs. “No, we’re not dating.”
After the live ends, Nyamu stays at Soyo or Anon or Soyo and Anon’s guest bedroom because she’s too drunk to get home. The place is dizzyingly luxurious in a minimalist way; Nyamu runs into a couple of walls and finally gropes her way to a mattress.
She falls onto the bed. Her phone still has some charge left. She calls Umiri. Umiri doesn’t pick up.
She tries three times. On the third time, she leaves a voicemail, not thinking too hard about it. Then she falls into a dreamless sleep.
Umiri’s phone.
Missed calls (3) 2:13 AM
Voicemail (1) 2:30 AM
Transcription:
Umiko, sorry about earlier. I should have woken you up for a better joke. Actually, I won’t lie to you, I’m not that sorry. A fan put in a SC, so I obviously had to do it, you understand, right? It’s just that you sounded angry. Well, you never really do [unintelligible] blame me if [unintelligible] impossible to tell your moods. You can also be surprisingly needy sometimes, but you act like you aren’t. Also, you avoided my question about why you agreed to do a collab. That basically wasn’t an answer! You were curious about me, such [unintelligible], what does that even mean, when you say it? Girls generally like a little reciprocation, Umiko, but you probably know that. You know that you could [unintelligible]
and besides you could have anyone you want
not just me
Nyamu’s phone.
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The next morning, Nyamu gets a single text in response.
Yahata Umiri: Are we still on for the collab this weekend?
Umiri is shorter in person.
It’s the first thing Nyamu says to Umiri. That’s after the first thing Umiri says — “Thank you for welcoming me to your home” — which Nyamu finds objectively worse.
“Is that what you notice?” Umiri responds, setting her bass guitar case down at her feet. Coming from practice, probably.
The first thing Nyamu noticed is that it feels like she’s in a trance, and there’s a rubber band around both of their bodies that curves her into Umiri’s orbit. She doesn’t need to say that, so she replies, “Yup, but put some slippers on so I can ignore it for a while longer.”
Umiri follows Nyamu to her room. Nyamu’d spent three hours before she came over busting her ass cleaning, even though most of it would be off camera. But that wasn’t the point.
“So this is your room,” Umiri says, as if she’s thinking out loud. She forms a picture frame with her fingers and holds it up to the corner with the cameras, where Nyamu usually films, then drops it.
“A peek behind the curtain,” Nyamu responds. “Ready to get started?”
Clearly at a bit of a loss, Umiri nods. Nyamu has no idea what she’s doing, either.
At least while they’re recording, she’s able to stay professional and follow the script. Umiri’d clearly studied up, too. She’s pretty good at this stuff, actually; ad-libbing at all the natural parts, playing the straight man to Nyamu’s outlandish ideas and obediently letting Nyamu move her face around on a swivel from her head. Nyamu touches her very gently, with only the tips of her fingers or with a makeup product between them.
It helps that she’s frustratingly, frighteningly photogenic. The kind of face Nyamu’d be jealous of, if she was more insecure about her own.
They knock out most of the filming in one go. Nyamu figures they can take a break before they move onto the intro or outro. Umiri stands and scrubs the makeup off of her face with a couple of wipes.
“Don’t like how it turned out?”
“I never said that.” Umiri walks over to Nyamu slowly, and Nyamu pivots to the side when she realizes Umiri’s making a beeline to Nyamu’s drum set. She brushes her fingertips against a rubber hi-hat. “Do you ever play on real drums?”
“These are real drums.”
“I mean in an actual studio.”
“…I did that one time with your band.”
Umiri tugs at a strand of her hair, voice ultra-casual. “We should, some time.”
“No problem, if you can find some space in your busy, busy schedule,” Nyamu retorts. Umiri shakes her head. She picks up the sheet music on Nyamu’s music stand.
“Jasmine & Husky,” she reads out loud. “Will you play me this?”
“You know, Umiko, drums isn’t one of those instruments that you can really just play on its own.”
Umiri shrugs and sticks her hands in her pockets. “If that's the case, do you have an amp?”
Nyamu stands up and walks towards her drumset. She picks up her drumsticks and points them accusingly at Umiri. “I bet you didn’t even have practice before this. You just wanted to rope me into playing with you.”
“I thought you wanted me to take the lead.”
Well. The two of them were never exactly forthright. Umiri retrieves her bass, plugs it in, and tunes while Nyamu watches, leaning her elbows on her drum pads.
“Ready?” Umiri asks.
Nyamu nods towards the sheet music. “Just this, right?”
“Sure. But feel free to take it wherever you’d like.”
Nyamu counts off and starts to play. It’s not really her song, but… She’s feeling around for something she can’t exactly name. Like trying to splatter paint on an invisible object. Umiri’s there with her, too; she can tell because together they’re a little rushed, frantic. Like the faster they go, the more visible the outline becomes. That place they both went to, breathing in the same dead air on the phone, toying with one another with an equal sort of childish fascination. That it’s not just a fluke.
When Nyamu’s finished, she’s breathing hard. Umiri presses the back of her knuckles to her forehead mildly, then nods, once. “That was good. We should have recorded that.”
“No.” Nyamu stands, lets her drumsticks clatter to the floor. “We shouldn’t have.”
She walks up to Umiri and kisses her. Contact like a collision. Without a moment’s pause, Umiri gives, like it’s all part of a single, fluid movement.
Umiri pulls away. “Okay,” she says, like she’s confirming some suspicion. She leans back in but only for a few moments; this time, Nyamu’s the one to stop her.
“Do you do this a lot?”
Umiri’s eyebrows raise. “No.”
Nyamu punches Umiri’s chest half-heartedly. “Then why are you good at it?”
Umiri presses her face against the junction of Nyamu’s neck. She really is sort of short. “It comes easier if you don’t try so hard. I think that’s why we…” She rocks back on her heels and parts Nyamu’s hair.
Nyamu has a thought. “Are you trying to date me, Umiko?”
“Well… Are we dating?”
“Um… Going public is sort of…” Nyamu tries to consider it seriously. Her fans don’t even know that she likes girls, that she loves the drums, and that she’s falling in love with Umiri. At least for now, those traits all belong to the person. Which isn’t to say never, just that…
“—Why would we have to go public?”
“Huh?”
“It’s not any less real because other people can’t see it. We see… each other, so it’s…” Umiri looks to the side. “There’s not just one way to do things.”
Nyamu’s somewhat wrong-footed by this turn of conversation. “If you want to go public, say so. Don’t just follow my lead.”
Umiri shifts on her feet. “I chose this. When Taki asked the first time and now, so… Let me keep choosing it.”
“…You’re cheesy,” Nyamu responds, helplessly, “You’re so cheesy, Umiko,” takes her face, and kisses her again.
They don’t go to the beach, and they don’t do a girlfriend tag. They do upload the makeup collab video, though. It charts #1.
Nyamu’s getting brunch with Taki when she sees it. “Duh,” Nyamu says into her phone, satisfied.
Taki is still visibly psyched out by the fact that this is happening at all, but she has it in her to retort, “Or what, would you seduce whoever replaced you guys next?”
“Not looking for a third,” Nyamu replies dismissively.
By the evening, they’re trending on Twitter. When Nyamu locates Umiri backstage after her show, she has compiled a list of funny and/or slightly insane posts to show her.
“I thought there would be more asking if we’re in a relationship,” Umiri comments casually as she swipes.
“Oh, there’s a million of those. Just search up…” Nyamu takes Umiri’s phone, types in, Timoris, Nyamuchi, dating, and watches her eyebrows raise.
With her own phone, she snaps a picture, because Umiri's cute. Some part of her wants to pick an arbitrary post about their relationship status and reply with just that photo: Guess! But she doesn’t.
For the time being, this is sweeter, nearer, and more real. Umiri leaning against her elbows, her sleeves rolled all the way up her forearms, and the slant to her mouth that Nyamu likes to kiss off. It’s an image all for her.