a sliver of change

"What are you writing?"

Ikuko barely restrains a yelp when that voice sounds at her shoulder. At the same time, she slams her journal shut and reassembles her face into a smile for the benefit of the curious Toya.

She had been cataloguing her observations of Toya—Ikuko hasn't been doing that very often, not since it became clear to her that there was an extremely solid wall between him and the world of his memories, but she supposes that she does need to keep in the habit of it. I never knew you could hold a field study inside of your own house. "Field study" is how Ikuko would like to refer to it, as opposed to anything else. "Observation of a lab rat" just doesn't have quite the same ring to it. Not nearly so elegant, not at all.

Toya had been playing with Bernkastel—or, more accurately, he was trying to play with Bernkastel. Both young man and cat were seated on the living room floor, between the coffee table and the couch directly opposite the one Ikuko sat on. Ikuko could barely make out Toya's white head over the stack of newspapers, but she could hear the jingle of the cat toy and the way Bernkastel's fluffy tail whacked the floor crossly.

"Come on, Bernkastel. I've got the fishing rod with the weird-looking bee on the end. It's even got a bell. Don't you want to play with it?"

Bernkastel's resounding silence, Ikuko could only assume, was definitive evidence of her disdain for any attempt of Toya's at familiarity.

Ikuko considered telling Toya that Bernkastel hasn't really been interested in playing since she was about two years old. She considered telling him that the cat, though not at all averse to being petted and scratched and allowed on the lap, only played with things she planned on killing and leaving disemboweled on the back porch later. Ikuko considered it, but didn't.

It's much more interesting to chronicle his attempts to make nice with Bern. It would be even more interesting if he went a little too far and Bern scratched him in retaliation.

She had pored so intently over her writing, in fact—'No matter how little response he got from Bernkastel, Toya still persisted in attempting to get the cat to play with him. His perseverance, though fruitless, could not be called anything but remarkable.'—that Ikuko hadn't even noticed when Toya tired of playing with the cat, put up the cat toy, noticed that she was writing, and decided to investigate.

Now, Ikuko rests her hand against the closed journal, a seemingly gentle hand, but pressed down firmly enough that the implication is clear: you will not see what's been written here. Ikuko doesn't know how much Toya saw before he made his presence known; given what her handwriting tends to look like, he might not have been able to decipher it anyways. However much Toya's seen of it, Ikuko only smiles her perfectly gracious, cast-in-marble smile.

May as well act all innocence, and behave as though it does not pertain to him at all.

"My diary," Ikuko explains succinctly.

At this, Toya's eyes light up, and Ikuko resists the urge to indulge in a silent little groan. "A diary?" His tone is something Ikuko would far rather hear out of her own mouth: teasing. "You've got a diary?"

In retrospect, Ikuko probably should have figured that the revelation that yes, she has a diary (even if that's not strictly the truth), was not going to be the sort of revelation that would leave her safe from ridicule. However, she did not figure, and that is precisely the point.

As it is, Toya apparently spies an opportunity to sharpen his own tongue on the whetstone of this new scrap of information.

"Ah-ah, could it be, that the seemingly dignified Hachijo Ikuko indulges in the habit of a schoolgirl?" His sea blue dance, a grin starting to tug none too gently at his lips. "Or perhaps you're starting to get forgetful, and you have to write everything down just to remember what you ate for breakfast?"

Ikuko isn't sure whether she deserves this or not. Toya probably thinks she does, as payment for all the teasing she's laid on him since they first met. He likely thinks of this as fair play, as him getting back at her. However, the second jibe and its implications can not be met with anything but indignation.

Her smile widens into a grin; under the circumstances, it seems more important for Toya to see her bared teeth than it is to maintain the modesty of a closed-mouth smile. "Toya, please do not make allusions to my age. My vanity can't take the assaults you make on it. And have no fear; my keeping a diary makes me neither a schoolgirl nor an old hag. Now away with you."

She reaches up and swats his arm. Toya just snorts and heads off in the direction of the library.

I'll have to be more discreet in future, she muses to herself, once Toya is out of sight and the slam of a door indicates that Ikuko has privacy once more. But despite all that, she smiles slightly, brushing a lock of hair back behind her shoulder.

The inclement weather—rain battering against the windows and the roof, the wind too great to allow the raindrops anything resembling a steady rhythm—bars both the humans and the cat living in this house from venturing outside. Indeed, this is a horrible day for all wild creatures and anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside on some errand. Anyone out on the water would be dragged under in a second. I must go outside tomorrow morning; maybe I'll find another body, a dead one this time.

Not six months ago, on a day like this, Ikuko would take a book from the library and retreat to her bedroom, draping quilts over her shoulders with Bern resting at her feet. Lightning tears apart the sky like some great, celestial child with an art project. I think that horror would probably suit the mood today. For whatever reason, Ikuko can never really concentrate on writing during days of squally weather. On any other day, Ikuko can concentrate on scenarios and characters without issue, but when the wind batters on her windowpanes and the rain breaks the silence, her focus wanes. It's easier to read.

Chances are, that's what she'll still do today, once she finishes up down here. But there's a difference.

When I go to pick out a book, there will be more than just my own mind pointing out recommendations. Toya's been running through the library with almost frightening speed. He'll be sure to supply his two cents when I go to get a book.

It's nice to have someone to discuss books with.

Ikuko has grown used, all too used, to being entirely alone here, apart from her cat. When the servants come to clean, they don't speak to her, doubtless out of the want to finish their cleaning quickly, and because they know that when Ikuko's working, she doesn't appreciate interruptions. The servants move through the house like ghosts; the only time Ikuko's truly aware of them is when Yoko or Harumi gets out the vacuum cleaner, and even then, only when the vacuum cleaner's being used on the second floor and close by.

She has lived in the quiet, the sanctity of silence broken only when she wants it to be broken. In such a world, Ikuko has grown used to solitude, to never hearing another human voice. The only time she hears voices spoken are the static-cracked voices over the radio or the television, or the grainy ones on the record player. Anything else—the occasional interruption by Harumi or Kaname or one of the others coming to tell her something's wrong—is far and few between, so rare that she forgets about it entirely.

Naturally, one who has grown so accustomed to silence is unfamiliar with the experience of constantly having one around who's willing to fill the empty spaces with sound.

If Ikuko adores silence, Toya flees from it. This wasn't so apparent at first, but soon, she started to notice how often he'll put a record on the record player, or even break out the cassette player, even though Ikuko's collection of cassette tapes can not compare to her store of records. He might even turn on the television set, though Ikuko's snuck downstairs and watched him from her hiding place often enough to know that he isn't actually watching whatever's on (usually the news); he has it on for background noise while he reads.

Interesting. Silence is considered by many to be the perfect venue for self-reflection. Perhaps the fact that Toya avoids silence so often is a metaphor for some sort of internal struggle. I must write this down; it could come in handy later.

Of course, there's always the possibility that maybe Toya just doesn't like the white noise from the light fixtures, but Ikuko doesn't really consider that. The mundane tends to be forgotten in place of the symbolic in her mind.

Anyway, back to the point.

Ikuko is startled, deeply startled, to discover that she actually looks forward to the moment when she goes perusing the shelves for a book, and Toya might say:

"Not that one, Ikuko. You've read that a dozen times."

Or…

"What, you're going for that? You could see the plot twists coming a mile away, even if it was your first time reading it!"

Or maybe even…

"Oh, that's a good one. I'd definitely go with that one."

No matter what Toya says, Ikuko gives some sort of rebuttal as to why his opinion is clearly wrong, and if they're not careful the whole thing spins out of control into a literary "debate" that might last as long as an hour before they finally lose interest and go their separate ways with separate books. Though it might have seemed a spirited debate, they go away only with smiles, not with frowns.

When she had first come to live here, Ikuko had had every intention of making an asylum for herself here, where she would never have to find herself in constant contact with the outside world again. To that end, she never made any effort to make connections with the locals here. She had no friends and could not have told you any of their names. Ikuko simply didn't see the point of getting to know anyone; she just didn't care. She still doesn't, not really.

If Toya had been someone who simply moved to town the normal way, Ikuko has no doubt that she never would have met him. Or that she would, but that she would have nodded her head, said vague things, and forgotten him the moment he was out of her line of sight, just as she did with everything that was not of importance to her world. All of it would have faded to gray mist, as he would have.

As it is, Toya has not become background noise or a wall fixture. Far from it—with each passing day he grows more noticeable. With every day that goes down, it seems more and more as though he's always lived here, as though he and Ikuko have always had there literary debates and their walks and their fussing over Toya's eating habits (He still insists on ingesting far more microwavable ramen than what's good for him).

Ikuko never thought that she would even remotely enjoy sharing her home with anyone other than her cat. She never thought she would grow accustomed to a constant undercurrent of sound. She'd had enough of living in a big city to last her ten lifetimes; its constant noises, the wails of sirens, the sounds of construction, the car passing by on the street at three in the morning, these things always irritated her so. Ikuko bought earplugs just to block out the ambient noise, and once she had moved here, she had been so utterly overjoyed by the silence that even if she had been permitted to move out, she wouldn't have.

If honesty is warranted in such a situation, Ikuko can only assume that she's grown to genuinely enjoy Toya's presence here. She doesn't know when it happened—maybe it's always been like this, and she's just now begun to notice.

Funny how these things tend to creep up on me; I never notice them until they've gotten a grip on my shoulders. My classmates always said I was very absent, that way.

But I guess I do enjoy having him around. Sometimes, even my writing grows too monotonous, and I need company that can actually talk to me. Bernkastel, though she is invaluable to me, can't talk. Obviously.

Ikuko clutches her book as she stands, and heads towards the kitchen.

Amazingly, I find I do like having someone to talk to on equal terms. It's… nice, I suppose.

She's recently discovered a brand of cinnamon plum tea that she likes very much. It has a strong, heady taste—good for stormy December days when no one in their right minds is outside. Maybe she'll see if Toya wants some.