Shinrabansho: Myriad Souls

I woke feeling at least physically warm, in contrast to how cold I felt on the inside.

Too warm, considering what happened.

For a second, I thought I’d rolled off my pillow and tangled myself in my blanket again. My face was pressed into something soft, smelling faintly floral, and my arm was trapped under that something soft.

…My pillow?

I shifted.

My eyes abruptly snapped open.

Yuna.

Her arm was draped over me, loose but around me, her face buried against my collarbone like she’d decided sometime in the night that this was the best way to sleep. I felt her breathing on my skin. One of her hands was tangled up in the fabric of one of my borrowed pajama shirts that she wore. The shirt was tugged down on one side and the front buttons had popped open, exposing too much of her breasts. Her hair was damp. The white foam made it clear that it was saliva, not sweat. Mine.

I froze, heat rushing to my face as the realization landed.

Without a doubt, I’d drooled on her in my sleep like I sometimes did to my pillow.

Oh no no no—

I stared at the ceiling, mortified, willing my soul to leave my body.

Before I could decide whether to scream internally or externally, something else registered.

There was someone else.

Behind me.

A breath, slow and uneven against the back of my neck and a pair of breasts pressed against my back.

I carefully turned my head.

Riko…

She was curled up against me from behind, her arms locked tight around my waist, her face buried between my shoulder blades. Her grip was desperate even in sleep, like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go.

“…oh,” I mumbled.

Then memories came back in fragments. We had cups of tea, my hands shaking, collapsing onto my bed after finishing the cup, Riko helping me lie down, Yuna’s calm voice offering what comfort she could, the futons that they’d set up on the floor lay hardly rumpled.

I must’ve moved sometime after that.

Or they moved me while asleep…

My door creaked open.

I stiffened.

Haru stood there, his hair practically sticking up, his eyes wide as he took in the scene, the sight of me tangled between two girls, one clinging, one draped over me like a human daikura.

We locked eyes.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

He stared for a long, silent second.

Then he raised his hand.

His fingers shifted as he gave me a solemn thumbs up as he quietly closed the door.

I wanted to bury my face, out of sheer embarrassment, my face flaming, but all there was to bury my face in was Yuna’s damp hair.

I was going to die.

Yuna stirred and she lifted her head slightly, blinked, then absently brushed at her hair where my drool had landed.

“…It’s wet,” she murmured. She paused and sniffed her fingers delicately. “Oh. That smells like tea.” Strangely she didn’t sound upset that I’d drooled all over her.

I shivered from head to toes.

“I think I need a bath,” she added, almost to herself. Her lips curved faintly. “Would your family mind if I borrowed it? In fact, I think it would be best that you did as well.”

Her tone was too clinical, considering that she’d decided to climb into my bed with me.

“…I guess so,” I said dully.

“You were too exhausted last night.” Yuna said, detaching herself from me and running her fingers through her hair to straighten it. Her lips twisted as she again encountered the wet spots.

Behind me, Riko shifted, still clinging to me.

“Kill you… kill you…” she muttered into my back.

I nodded faintly. “Yeah.... Get him.”

I imagined that she was street fighting some thug in her dream.

Nah… that’s more like Aoi-chan.

I bit my lip.

Yuna smiled, stretching. “It looks like Riko doesn’t want to let go. I’ll make sure the bathwater is ready for you when you get up… I’ll be back soon.”

That might have gotten a reaction if it had been Aoi-chan saying that and if she hadn’t just dumped me. It sounded almost like an invitation.

She got out of bed with quiet grace, pausing at the door. “Oh, and watch your step when you get up.”

She winked and left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I lay there, staring at the door.

Riko tightened her grip on me.

Finally I sighed and tried to sit up, but failed to budge.

“Riko,” I murmured. “Wake up.”

No response.

“…Riko.”

She groaned, her face pressing harder against my back.

“Mph…five more minutes.”

I sighed, carefully prying her arms loose. It took more effort than it should have in a few ways. I didn’t hate the comfort that her arms offered. I rose, wobbling.

“I’ll go make breakfast,” I said softly. “Just rest here.”

She mumbled something incoherent.

I stood up, yawned and stretched, feeling numb.

I was surprised to see the green dress that I’d been wearing last night on our date laying on my laundry hamper.

I couldn’t help blushing as I plucked at the pajama top that I’d been put into at some point. But then I sighed, shaking my head.

I didn’t even think about it as I tugged off my pajama top and stepped out of the bottoms. I had a new pair of panties on. I remembered how messy I’d gotten them last night and how I’d struggled to keep my skirt from flipping up as we rode back.

Lifting the dress, I spotted them, wadded up. They were kind of crusty and had a heavy scent.

I guess they saw… My ears felt like stovetops. I dropped them into the hamper and hid them with my dress again, doing my best not to look at Riko as I picked out the first blouse I could find in the drawer.

I’ll just have to take a bath later anyway…

I noticed faint motion in the corner of my eyes. Riko had frozen on my bed.

Her eyes were scanning my nude body, not that she hadn’t already seen it a bunch of times at Shirasuna and when they changed my clothes.

Pervert… don’t stare like that…

I took a deep breath, not saying anything. I wasn’t a virgin anymore, plus I was insulated by intense skinship training… so this shouldn’t be a big deal.

I pulled on a button up blouse that happened to have a pink ribbon tied across the front, but not bothering with a bra and tugged on a skirt. It went on backwards.

I didn’t care how I looked right then. The buttons were done up a little lopsided.

Riko grabbed my spare pillow, slammed it against her face, and made a strangled noise.

“…I’m awake,” she croaked.

I nodded absently and left the room, my hair a tangled mess.

The bathroom door was still closed, but steam leaked out beneath it. I could hear water splashing inside and the sound of Yuna humming softly to herself. I knew that I could join her, but I didn’t.

I went downstairs.

The kitchen felt too quiet without Mom.

I started cooking on autopilot.

I opened the rice bin and filled the rice cooker’s pot, taking more care with that than I had while dressing, even while going through the motions. I rinsed the rice, swirled it through my fingers, poured off the cloudy water, and did it again and again until the water ran almost clear. Then I leveled the rice, added water to the proper line for the amount of rice and dried the outside of the pot with a towel, and set it into the cooker. My thumb came down on the button. There was a typical click and a red light came on.

Next came the eggs.

I pulled the square tamagoyaki pan from the cupboard without thinking about what I was doing. The handle had gone smooth where Mom’s hand and mine had both held it over the years. I set a bowl on the counter and cracked eggs one after another against its rim, listening to the clean little noises it made.

Soy sauce, a little sugar, a splash of mirin. Just the right amount. I beat it together with chopsticks until the yolks and whites blended smoothly into each other and the color was even. Then I poured the egg through a strainer into another bowl because that was how Mom taught me.

Eggs are best when smooth.

Haru sat at the table, watching me cook.

I didn’t look at him.

I set a saucepan on the other burner and poured in water for the soup and added dashi powder. I grabbed the tofu and cut it into small cubes, wakame from its dish, sliced green onion into thin and even rounds. My hands kept moving while my head stayed somewhere else.

I folded a paper towel, poured a little oil over it, and used cooking chopsticks to rub the tamagoyaki pan down once it was hot. The first thin layer of egg hissed when it touched the metal. I tipped the pan to spread it into the corners, getting it square and neat. Tiny bubbles rose. I popped them with the chopsticks wherever they came up. When the surface was still a little wet, I rolled the egg toward me in a smooth motion, then pushed it back to the far side. I applied oil again and lifted the roll. More oil underneath. Another thin layer. Tilt the pan.

I let the uncooked egg run beneath the roll and waited half a breath before rolling again.

It went on like that, one layer after another.

Pour, set, roll, push it back, oil, pour again.

My body knew the process better than my thoughts did. The rectangular shape grew thicker with each turn, the layers folding into themselves. Steam caressed my face, soothing my burning eyes. The smell of egg and soy rose around me. When it was done, I let it rest on the cutting board for a moment before slicing it into even pieces, each one showing a neat spiral of gold inside.

The water for the soup had started to tremble. I added the tofu and wakame, waited until everything heated through, then turned off the flame. I scooped some of the hot dashi into a ladle, added the miso, and stirred it smooth with chopsticks before letting it slip back into the pot. The smell changed at once, smelling deeper and fuller. I scattered in the green onions last.

Haru still hadn’t said anything.

Neither had I.

I set out bowls of rice and soup, one set in front of Haru. Small plates for the tamagoyaki.

“Go ahead and eat, Haru.”

Three.

I stared at them, suddenly feeling exhausted.

Just three.

“…right,” I murmured, and sat down, laying my forehead on the table off to the side. I didn’t want to eat anything anyway.

My chest hurt. It was hard to not cry while cooking. My hands clasped in my lap.

Haru ate quietly next to me, but he kept looking at me.

“…what’s going on?” he asked finally.

I didn’t answer.

There were footsteps in the kitchen.

Riko hovered at the entrance of the kitchen, her eyes darting between the untouched plates and my slumped form.

“…um.”

“Please eat,” I said without lifting my head.

She hesitated, then sat down in front of one of the plates.

Yuna joined us a few minutes later, her hair a little damp, her expression soft. She sat, accepted her food without comment, and ate even though it was already cooling.

No one spoke.

The sound of chopsticks clicking against each other and on plates felt too loud.

Finally, Yuna inhaled slowly.

“…Okay,” she said. “I think the hands-off approach might be wrong.”

She stood and moved behind me, and gently pulled me upright into her arms.

I didn’t resist.

Didn’t react.

She held me tightly.

“Maybe Aoi-chan will change her mind,” Yuna said calmly. “Maybe she’ll show up at your door this morning or tomorrow. Or maybe she’ll sit with you at lunch on Monday like always.”

Her chin rested on my shoulder.

“Let’s not assume the worst yet.”

Riko stood abruptly.

“And if she doesn’t,” she said tightly, moving close. She cupped my face, forcing me to look at her. “I’ll make sure you feel loved, Sumire. Even if you never love me back.”

Yuna’s eyes sharpened. “That’s not fair. She’s vulnerable right now.”

“If that’s true,” Riko shot back, “why did you sleep with her?”

Haru turned red.

Yuna didn’t blink. “Therapy,” she said simply. “Sometimes closeness is the best medicine.” She didn’t mention Riko doing the same thing. She was just mature like that.

Silence fell again.

I stared at the table.

My chest ached as tears filled my eyes.

Baku adjusted the cuffs of his suit as he stepped beneath the overhang of an apartment complex.

It was not grand. Not even particularly pleasant. A low-rise concrete building, paint touched up with care, bicycles lined neatly along the railings, laundry fluttering on balconies like quiet flags of ordinary lives continuing on. The sort of place that blended into the background of a city so completely it became invisible.

“Perfect,”

He’d put on a human face for this visit, one that would not linger in memory. Plain, respectable, mid-thirties, perhaps. The sort of man people forgot moments after passing.

He paused at the stairwell, glancing down at his empty hands.

“…I really miss my cane at these times,” he muttered.

Apartment 304, on the third floor, the fourth door from the stairs.

He knocked.

Footsteps approached slowly.

The door clicked open.

His rogue dream figment, Aoi, stood there in front of him.

Her eyes were red and swollen. The sharp confidence she carried so naturally every time he peeked at the dream was completely dulled now, so wrapped in exhaustion and enormous restraint that it was visibly pulled too tight.

She bowed reflexively.

“Yes… who is it?”

Baku returned the bow politely.

“I’m the proprietor of the karaoke establishment you visited last night,” he said gently. “I hoped to speak with you briefly about your liaison on our premises. Such encounters are hardly unexpected in private rooms and very much against our terms of use… So I have questions.”

Aoi stiffened.

Her gaze sharpened instantly, suspicion snapping into place like a blade.

“…How do you know anything happened?” she demanded. “Do you film people in rooms? That’s sick! Is this some kind of attempt at blackmailing customers?”

“Absolutely not,” Baku said at once, his hands lifting in a placating gesture. “That would be… distasteful. I assure you, I have no such intentions.”

She didn’t relax.

“I was merely concerned,” he continued. “You and your companion appeared… distressed when you departed. I may be overstepping bounds, but I wondered if something had gone wrong between you. You don’t seem particularly well, even now.”

Her jaw tightened.

“You expect me to tell a stranger anything about what I’m thinking?” she snapped. “You’re mistaken. Nothing happened. We sang songs. We drank tea. That’s all.”

Baku inclined his head.

“I see,” he said softly. “Even so… distress often lingers after words spoken in pain. I hate seeing such bonds fray. Usually, there is a way back… if one is willing to take it.”

Her hand clenched on the doorframe.

“Get lost,” Aoi muttered.

The door slammed shut in his face with finality.

Baku stood there for a moment, listening to the quiet humming of the building’s air conditioning units and other assorted noises.

“…I see,” he murmured. “That did not go as well as I hoped.”

He leaned against the railing, gazing out over the small courtyard below, where a potted plant had been carefully trimmed into a cheerful shape.

“Perhaps subtlety will not suffice,” he admitted to himself. “Or perhaps it will… if applied correctly.”

He turned back toward her closed door.

His voice dropped, becoming less human.

Words slipped from him—not loud, nor forceful. They sank into the space like mist, threading through the seams of the dream itself.

“Forget this meeting,” he whispered. “Let it blur. Let it fade.”

The air wavered only slightly. Enough.

“Tomorrow,” he continued, thinking now, “their lunches will resume. No complete rupture. No sharp edges remaining. Continuity would be for the best.”

He frowned faintly.

“A nudge. Nothing more. Too much would feel wrong.”

Baku straightened, adjusting his jacket once more.

“Perhaps,” he mused, “they will rediscover what binds them without realizing it was ever lost.”

His gaze lifted, distant, searching.

“And in the meantime,” he added, his eyes narrowing, “that wretched nightmare still roams free.”

A faint scowl crossed his borrowed face.

“I will find it,” he said quietly. “And I will eat it before it destroys this beautiful dream.”

With that, he turned and walked away, already fading into the unnoticed flow of the city, leaving only a dream gently, carefully bent.