The lemon water got cold. Even the ants, climbing across the rim of the glass, gave the cloudy water a pass. It was three days, then four, then a week. He is not a messy person – the opposite, really – but this keeps happening. And he lets it – it sits in his peripheral vision and it's kind of gross but he lets the guilt accumulate anyway. Then Tsukimori picks up the glass and tips it into the sink. It is a quiet sound.

If anything it must be the weather. The autumn has gotten everywhere now, all this poetic gloom and yellow-bathed streets. He is the last to talk about anyone being gloomy (of course) but even he has to admit that this was getting kind of ridiculous. And Instagram didn't help: everyone started to pose in hauteur à la rotting autumn leaf – crumpled maroon scarves and soggy brown boots. It is a clumsy segue into winter, what with all the spiced drinks and Sinatra crooning in the background.

But all this was probably courtesy of the company he is living with. Damn Tsuchiura, damn the crackling radio, damn the scenic bookshelves, damn the cinnamon rolls.

"What is the point in being home," Tsuchiura asked then. "If all you're going to do is automaton work?"

Glass in hand, he paused against the kitchen counter.

"I wouldn't say it's all automaton work, I've also engaged in menial labor, thanks to you, and—"

"—And you can't do any brand of funny other than sarcastic." Tsuchiura cut in.

"At least I'm funny at all."

"You think? Who told you that, Hino?"

They are standing in Tsuchiura's kitchen, which is all narrow counters and metal aesthetics. Tsukimori has, strangely, been lent a room for his brief sojourn in Japan, for reasons he can't explain, since the hollow cave of a family house was completely empty for the season – okay, these are reasons he can explain. The shelter of a friend brought him company in bars, or jogging in the evening, and top-notch banter that nobody ever needed or wanted in their lives, as he is reminded now. There's not much he can say to deflect anything when Kahoko comes up.

(She does say he is funny, though. He thinks. Probably.)

"Oh, go to hell," he says instead. "You can't even get through one rehearsal without busting out the aloe vera."

"Hey, they're useful, all right? And this rehearsal was genuine hell. Like, it's the actual devil on earth."

"Tell me about it," he sighs. Impending Christmas season performances were especially bad, because it always became a mad dash towards the end, and everyone wanted to be home by the fire themselves. The orders Tsukimori himself has received may have been issued from a European mouth instead of a Japanese one, but orchestras didn't differ much when it comes to diehard conductors. Tis the season, the same overworked flutists, the mild obsession, the clashes in interpretations, someone complaining about how classical music was going to hell, and someone wanting to get on with things. There is no yelling, just professional exhaustion. Meaning: he buys in to this shit, it pays his bills. And on a good day he'll admit that he lives for it.

"…And the first oboists didn't match with the flutes very well. Execution was going of the rails and with the performance next week he was trying really hard not to devolve into a lecture on sloppiness. Percussionists got dramatic once their rows finally came - great comic relief. Can't say that same for my shoulders though. You aren't supposed to play-"

"I didn't mean for you to literally tell me," was the response. A pause. "Hino's played under Matsumoto-san before."

"Ooh, my apologies. Heard this spiel before, then. But I'm not that hard to comfort, you don't need to kiss – " It's a devilish smile, and the kick is entirely warranted, but there's something warm about this ritual that takes him by surprise. It's probably the sentimentality of the season, and the glow of warm hues, but it's good to know that there are such old friends to go to. It's nice to have places apart from an empty home to stay. Most of the time he's glad that he doesn't have anything to perform right now. Nine days of holiday out of the whole year is still nine days free, however he spends it.

And, well, he thinks this is spending it quite well, all things considered.

x

Later, reclining in a foreign chair, in a foreign room and a foreign land, he calls her. It's an inexplicable decision, so he chalks it up to a week of Tsuchiura's ballads and seasonal brandy. Her voice has become, by now, a staple, but they don't usually do 2AM. (Damn Tsuchiura's wall poetry, as well.) It happens, though, and she talks about the falling leaves and the hectic rehearsal schedules and the Christmas ornaments that are starting to appear on the sidewalk. She is in another place, and it's a similar experience every year, this crackling, quiet transatlantic conversation. This, too, is one of his longest relationships, and it ages like wine.

He wants lemon water. It will sit for another week, getting cold. It is a strange desire, so he does not tell anyone.