Reclining Nude

by ijustwanttodestroy

In which Yuka is in love. In which Yuka is considering to quit her job. In which Yuka is going insane. In which Yuka admires one or two diamond necklaces and, coincidentally, runs into a familiar face. [ART THEFT AU]

A/N:

This fic is connected to my other BLP fic, Underpainting.

Warning: transphobia, fatphobia, gender identity issues, mental health issues, alcohol consumption, suicide mention, smoking, intrusive violent/self-harm thoughts

1. In the manga Yuka is seen working in a bar as a (implied) hostess, which is incorporated in this fic where she will be shown working in a hostess club. There will be suggestive scenes but none of which are explicit.

2. This fic explores gender & identity issues that might be triggering to read. Yuka's gender identity in this fic is my own personal take.

3. If you don't support the LGBTQA+ community, do both of us a favor and exit this page.

---

The stage lights wash over her like police siren and if she closes her eyes she could imagine herself a crime scene or, perhaps, a house on fire. The air beats, and Yuka beats with it—a heart in palpitation, chroma-gilded, blondie-haired. It's so good to be looked at.

She wears a sequined dress tonight; teetering on being tacky, but she knows full well she can get away with it. And she likes the way the sequins flash under the club lights like iridescent scales, the way that she invents a new array of colors with every single move. Hips cocked like a gun, and the music is at her mercy: chromatic notes her crown, saliva and spilled champagne her lipstick, haze and smoke her dress, her glitter, her..

Hers, hers, hers.

The song is changing, the mic is handed over, but the crowd adores her still. You could've been a singer. She murmurs thank yous like she's shy. Someone is giving her a flute of champagne, yet another one, yet another thank you. You look like a star. Another bottle is popped—a midnight gunshot. Someone has brought out a cake. Ever considered modeling? The latex of the couch clings onto her skin as she sits back down, inconsolable.

It's a full-house tonight. Glory is in the ballroom and the mass is but a pulse. Manic flashes of lights jolting in seizures and she is dizzy with photon. Men and women are draped over each other like cake, layered on top on top on top. Receipts flutter—pale butterflies riding on cheques. Credit cards are handed over in Rolex-cuffed hands, razor-sharp with ownership.

At moments like this, she feels pretty. Like a girl. Mean. Like a girl.

Sweat rolls down her neck, sweet with verdigris. The room gapes its mouth at her and she smiles back. Teeth and pearls and knives gleam all the same.

Ayukawa Ryuji is in the business of beauty.

"This one's for you, Yuka-chan."

Kenta-san. Mid-30s. Divorcee, accountant. Two kids—twins. And, of course, hopelessly in love with her. "Don't," she says. She takes the Dom Perignon gently away from his sweaty, feeble hands. "It's not worth it."

"It's your birthday," he insists. Slurs, really. The other hostesses laugh, shrill voices melting with the song billowing from the speaker. Let him, they say, somewhere beneath thrumming EDM. Let him!

Maybe next time, girls.

"Now, why don't we get you some water instead?" She loses the high voice she uses when she wants her customers drunk and uses the deeper one when she wants them sober. It does take more than that to get them sober, though. She glances at the nearest girl. "Some water please, Mima-chan?"

"But, Yuka-chan," Kenta-san says. He hadn't bothered to shave tonight, his shirt unbuttoned half-way up and his tie long gone. It's pathetic enough it's almost cute, but Yuka is not in the mood at the moment. She has not been in the mood for hours now. But alas, this is business. "You're so close to the number one spot this month.."

This month's billboard chart. Yuka is just a few thousand yen behind Tara, their club's powerhouse. Yuka smiles. Aw, how sweet that he cares for her financial well-being. "The ranking doesn't matter.." she coos, caressing stray strands of oily hair away from his blushing face. Yuka isn't usually a touchy hostess. She saves physical interactions for certain moments, doling them out like special gifts for special boys. Like now. "I just want to have fun with you, Kenta-san."

A lie, of course. But in this business, lies pay handsomely, and Yuka likes to think herself a professional.

"But.."

His breath is cloying thick with alcohol. Yuka takes the glass of water from Mima-chan, pushing it slowly to his mouth, half helping him to chug it down. "It's my birthday, remember? You have to do what I say, hm?"

And he will, because he is in love with her. Yuka can see it. Madly in love. Most of her customers are. One could call this adoration skin-deep, nothing but blind lust, but Yuka knows better—it's a leash, their love. A leash that she wears like a necklace. A halo cinched tight around the neck.

Kenta-san goes home half an hour later. Yuka called him a taxi and watched the bouncers carry him, weight heavy with inebriation as he was heaved onto the seats. In another two hours the rest of the customers have all gone home—to their wives, their children, their work.

Dawn is arriving soon, late as per usual. Yuka lights a cigarette—an after hours treat for herself. Nicotine tastes revolting but Yuka has found out, through experience, that it helps clear hangovers away. She breathes smoke, watching the clean up crew do their job.

It's always strange to see the club so empty. Without people it looks smaller, shrinking into itself. Deflated. What was a decadent spread an hour ago is now just an accumulation of trash: empty bottles and excess food all over the room, all glitter and grime—resplendence expiring overnight. The staff is hard at work, the scent of vodka mixing hard with disinfectant, alcohol fighting alcohol. The other hosts and hostesses have either gone home or are taking their makeup off in the backroom. Yuka pictures them plucking thick eyelashes off their eyelids like unwanted caterpillars, breathing in acetone, skin tone smeared on cotton pads. Unzipping their dresses. Inside-out skin. Unlike Yuka, some of them work day jobs—exchanging skirts for ironed suits and heels for cheap oxfords.

Yuka walks outside the club, leaning against the cold wall as she pulls up another cig. She watches as the sky crawls its way into sunrise, slug-slow. The air is blue, an ocean in suspension greased with leftover exploits of the night before. Shinjuku isn't nice to look at in the morning, if you ask her—not much is left when the neon lights and the music are taken away. Places like this, Yuka thinks, do not wear sobriety well.

"Yuka-senpai?"

Yuka flicks ashes off her smoke. "Mima-chan," Yuka says. Her voice sounds raspy. She might have overdone it tonight. "Not going home?"

"Um," the newbie fidgets under Yuka's stare. Mima is still wearing her dress from the night before, a fuchsia bodycon, but now with a jeans jacket layered on top. She hasn't taken her make-up off, her lipstick a soft cherry blossom hue. Yuka stares at it before looking back up to her eyes. "Soon."

Mima has been racking in customers pretty well considering it's only her third month yet. Yuka can see why. Yuka hums. "Anything I can help you with, love?"

A beat of hesitation. "Can I, um. Have one..?"

Ah. Yuka lifts the packet of cigarettes, the top opened with a flick of her thumb. Mima takes one. When Mima leans down as Yuka lights the end of her cigarette up, their eyes meet. And Yuka understands, then. The flush on Mima's cheeks is not from the morning cold.

Oh, Yuka thinks. I see.

She is in love with Yuka as well.

Yuka flicks her lighter off once the light catches—cherry flaring at the end of the Marlboro as Mima inhales, shaky. She takes a tentative step nearing to where Yuka is and, following her lead, leans back against the cold marmer wall. Several cars pass by. The shop across the street rolls their shutter down—a metallic shriek jolting the quiet street. Someone is throwing up in the alley just next to it. The air smells like vomit and disinfectant. "Yuka-senpai ... can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Yuka says. She steps on her cigarette with her heels and lights another one. "What's up."

"Why didn't you let Kenta-san order the champagne tower?"

Oh. That. "He can't afford it." His income is only 300k a month. Champagne towers might be cheaper at their club, but not so much that any average accountant can order one so willy nilly. She turns slightly to look at Mima, mouth lilting in a smile. "And I can't afford to lose a customer so loyal, can I?"

"Oh," Mima says, a stutter. She looks away from Yuka, as if Yuka's smile is too much to bear. "It's too bad. You could've—could've taken the first spot."

"I doubt it," Yuka says, honest. The ranking is based on the number of sales respective hostesses acquire within the month and Tara has been taking over the first spot for the past year consecutively. Yuka herself has only managed to get second place for only two months now.

"Why?"

She sounds so innocent that Yuka laughs. "Well, it's not exactly easy, is it?" It's hard work. Yuka is starting to consider another line of job, lately. Something less … everything that it is. Or something more. Or…

She doesn't really know. Not that she has any other prospect going for her.

"But," Mima says, soft and nervous and daring, "You're prettier than Tara-senpai."

That gives Yuka a pause. Mima isn't looking at her when she says that, staring at her shoes instead—she's changed into a pair of sneakers—like they're the most interesting thing in the world. Her face is even redder now.

Adorable. Yuka flicks the ashes off the end of her cig. "You're prettier than me," Yuka says. And as she watches as Mima's face blooms into disbelief and then into crushing hope and then into pure fucking adoration, Yuka knows immediately it's the right thing to say.

Yuka is good at saying the right things. She is a professional. And she likes saying the right things, because that—Yuka knows as she watches Mima looking at her like she put the moon up in the fucking sky—will keep the love alive.

And these little crushes that Yuka collects like cheap trinkets—they will keep her leash tight.

She takes the first train home after changing her clothes. The station is just within a walking distance from Ni-chome. It's empty at this hour, no one but people going to the airport and elderlies nodding off at the corner. Yuka waits for her train, hunched on a bench. Tiring night. Tiring week. Tiring month. Tiring…

She should quit her job.

And then what? What is she going to do?

She doesn't know. She doesn't know what she wants to do. She never really does. Yuka leans forward on her knees, one hand massaging her temple. She feels a little sick. She wonders if there is still enough alcohol in her to throw up when she gets home. She looks up, and stares.

Across the tunnel, something catches her eye. An advertisement banner. GREAT PICASSO EXHIBIT—The National Art Center. For the banner picture, they picked ... Yuka tilts her head. She doesn't remember the title of this painting, but she recognizes it. A blue room. A blond woman in nude, her form overlayed by the ad typography—a makeshift sensor of her nudity, Yuka suspects—bathing in a tub. Naked alone in a morning subway station.

Yuka looks away. Her train is coming.

When she gets to her apartment she is tempted to just fall into bed and sleep, but she resists only because she still has her makeup on. She turns on the water heater and then stares at the cake they gave her.

It's always a big production whenever it's a hostess' birthday. A good excuse to order a cake, Yuka supposes. Last month was Rena-chan's, and this month is Yuka's turn. Yuka's cake is strawberry—judging from the frosting, that is. Manager had packed a slice for her to take home in a tupperware, some leftovers from the party. Did Yuka eat some? She doesn't remember. Her mouth tastes like stale alcohol and ash and stomach acid.

"Happy birthday," Yuka tells herself. And then she tosses the cake into the bin.

---

There are only two things Yuka does on her off-days: going on dates or taking a walk in Ginza. Her sleep schedule is pretty much fucked due to her line of work, so even on her days off she would only go out at night. Sometimes she wonders if she still remembers what noons look like.

She grabs the keys off her nightstand and pulls her jacket closer around herself before she opens the front door. From her fourth floor balcony, she can already see the Shin-koiwa station just across the street. It's windy up here. The breeze brings about the scent of the city that Yuka has come to know so well—trash and piss and fried food with the lovely aftertaste of nicotine. Absolutely disgusting. She inhales, deep.

The lift is under repair—has been for the past two fucking months—so she uses the escape stairs. The lights weakly flicker; as shit as always. Despite copious complaints from the tenants the landlord still wouldn't change them. Yuka has nearly tripped herself to a broken neck multiple times on her heels going down these stairs and she is tempted to actually break her neck at least once. Maybe then they would finally change the fucking lights.

She crosses the street regardless of the green light, ignoring the protesting car horns she receives in turn. She glances at her watch—it's only eight. She just woke up, what, maybe half an hour ago. Hasn't eaten, her stomach reminds her. Whatever.

It's a twenty-minute ride to Ginza and the station is crowded at this hour. She squirms between the mass of bodies—the scent of perfume and sweat and shampoo hitting her nose, human and electric. It puts her on edge, the discomfort of solitude in reverse. The street allows her only a slight reprieve, filled with tourists and billboards and luminance as it is.

Ginza is the most upscale area of Tokyo, polished like a gun. Boutiques and cafes and diners as its modern colosseum. Yuka loves to take her strolls here just to blind herself with want.

This particular street is Yuka's favorite. Lined up with high-end stores, their glass windows and abstract mannequins on display—thin barbies in crooked angles, their skins dyed in chrome. Dyed in gold. Dyed in diamonds. Brand names with minimalist typography that screams soullessness and money.

She fucking loves it.

She loves how it hurts her eyes to look at this: this exhibition of wealth and opulence in spotless little glass boxes, so bright that they are lighting up the entire street like a trapped handful of suns. She is absolutely smitten by it, in fact. She loves how each merchandise has its own spotlight like a ballerina on a stage of velvet pillows. Watches, bags, heels, fur coats—all better polished and taken care of than she will ever be. All priced higher than she will ever be.

She loves how it hurts. How it hurts her eyes to look at this. It hurts her she wants it all so bad she loves it so much.

Her steps slow into a stop. She always stops in front of this particular shop—just for a moment, just to look beyond the window, staring eye to eye with a headless bust. And on its headless neck is a beautiful necklace Yuka has always come to see every week.

It's simple. Quiet in its beauty. The pendant is four marquise cuts of platinum diamond arranged in the shape of a flower. And hanging from it in a four claw setting is a round cut of blue sapphire.

There is something to be said about blue sapphires. That particular shade of dark, rich blue only sapphires have—royal in the most visual sense of the word. A drop of the night sky draped on a silicone neck. Yuka stares at it.

It's beautiful. It's beautiful. It's so beautiful Yuka wants it on her neck.

She can see her reflection on the glass window—a wispy figure cowering from the blinding light of the shop. If she shifts her position just right, the necklace looks as if it really is on her—a vision to another life, one where she has everything that she ever wants. One with all the glamor and glitter and grandeur she ever wants, the kind of resplendence that doesn't expire overnight. One with beaches, with high-rise penthouses, with a necklace around her neck out of sapphires instead of some shallow, fucked up adoration she calls love. One with blue like royalty and not blue like a hungover morning air.

One where she was born—perhaps—differently. With different circumstances. Different family. In a different time. In a different—

"May I help you … miss?"

Most high-end shop attendants are dressed smartly in suits, and this one is no different. He steps out of the glass door, takes one look at Yuka and momentarily pauses. She hadn't put lipstick on—a mistake; Yuka didn't miss that slight pause before miss. Yuka fixes her best smile nonetheless, because she has nothing else to offer. "Ah, no, just taking a look."

His eyes flick to Yuka's clothes—some off-brand jackets and short pants—and back to her bare face. "I see," he says with that cold, faux politeness employees have and with something else that said faux politeness can't cover up and Yuka's temper flares.

Like what, does she not look fucking good enough to be loitering in front of a jewellery store? "How much is that?" she says.

"Pardon?"

"That necklace," Yuka says, smiling sweetly. "How much is it?"

There is a beat of hesitant pause on the attendant's part and Yuka thinks, fucking tell me I look like I can't afford it, I dare you. But he does answer after all. "480 thousand yen, miss."

Nearly four months of her salary and four times her rent. Yuka nearly laughs at herself, but settles instead for a smile. "Really."

The attendant still looks hesitant, but then he opens the door a fraction wider, a gust of air-con hitting her in the face. "Would you like to come in—?"

Yuka's temper disappears as quickly as it comes. She doesn't care anymore. "No. Have a good night."

She finds the nearest bench afterwards, fumbling her bag for a mirror and a—there you go. The liptint makes her look less pale, marginally better. Can't hide her dark circles though. She'd look better if only she brought some mascara with her. What the hell was she thinking? Ridiculous of her. How could she go out without makeup? When was the last time she went out without makeup?

When was the last time she didn't look beautiful?

She stares at her reflection in the small compact mirror, and smiles. Hateful. She shuts it close so hard she hopes the glass cracks.

Yuka would like to have a house. Not a condo or an apartment, but a house. With picket fences and a nice little garden at the front like those out of picture books. Warm tones, she pictures it, with splashes of Eau de Nil green. There will be trinkets here and there all meticulously and artistically cluttered; maximalist in a way that shows she has taste and the money to back it up.

There has to be a room, Yuka decides, that functions as a wardrobe just because. An entire section just for shoes. An entire section just for belts. An entire section for pantyhoses. And one for dresses just because she can and she'll sort them out according to colors. Or brands. Or material. Leather satin silk and pvc. Or types. A-lines strapless ball-gown and empire. Or just all of it all at once.

And then there will be a kitchen. A good kitchen. Yuka is only a passable cook, but Mori-senpai has been crushing home economics since middle school. It would be nice if Mori-senpai can come to her house often. Yuka imagines when she's rich enough she can even have one room just for Mori-senpai to stay over.

She knows what Mori-senpai would like. Her room would have a big window, one that gets good lighting. She is a fussy sleeper so the bed should not be anything less than a queen size. And then there will be enough space, Yuka will make sure, for her to store her easels and canvases in.

Yuka imagines that. It's a good picture in her head. Good enough that she suspects she won't kill herself before this date ends.

"Very good sir. And for the lady?"

She smiles at that. Oh, for the lady. What would the lady like? Yuka glances at the menu, all unpronounceable names with ridiculous prices. "Oh, I don't know," Yuka muses. "I can't decide. What do you think, Taro-san?"

Taro-san thinks it would be grand if Yuka has herself a plate of escargot paired with white wine. "Not as good as the ones I had in Marseille," Taro-san says. "But it's the best you can get in Tokyo."

"You're so funny," Yuka says, chugging her wine.

Yuka used to love dates. And she still does, really. She likes how her dates fawn over her. She likes how she fawns over her dates. She likes how it gives her an excuse to dress pretty and look pretty and be pretty. She likes how it lets everybody know that she's pretty.

She admires her reflection on one of the many polished spoons on the table. "Exactly," she says at something political and economical and geographical that Taro-san is ever so patiently explaining to her. She blinks twice just to show off her new fake lashes. "Absolutely."

"I have a bird," Taro-san solemnly says once he decides that Yuka has heard enough about his coal mining business. He is a man in his forties who matched with Yuka on Bumble because he had put bisexual on his profile's sexuality option by accident and also because Yuka filtered her matches for men with the highest income. "A beautiful Cendrawasih flown over from Papua New Guinea. A beautiful bird."

They say people with piece of shit dads prefer older guys. Yuka calls that bullshit. She is sure that there is a market out there for folks who are into the three-times divorced look, but Taro-san isn't doing anything for her. But that's okay. Yuka is quick to fall in love. "Wow."

"I named her Keiko, after my mother."

"Uhuh," Yuka says, leaning forward carefully on her elbow. She must look so good from this angle, all doe-eyed and pouty-lipped or whatever it is the poets say. She is especially pleased with the eye makeup she pulled off today. It took her half an hour to do and another half an hour to take pictures of. "So true."

"Birds are beautiful creatures. It pains me to see them out in nature, unseen."

"Yes, totally," she says. She's getting hungry. She glances at other tables, and to her horror, the portions look absolutely horrid. A waiter passes bringing what looks like a smidgen of food on a plate akin to a lone diminishing island of pink slush amidst a sea of white porcelain.

Yuka realizes her mistake right away. She was wrong to filter her matches for conglomerates. This specific brand of rich people are rich enough to afford eating like they are poor.

"..Especially birds of paradise. They should be conserved in cages for their own good … ah, our food is here."

Her dish comes. She stares at it. Two pieces of what looks like snails and a dash of some sort of green sauce splattered artfully over the plate and, last but not least, a cherry tomato on top of the entire thing. Estimated calorie count: seventy-eight cal. "Of course, I absolutely agree," Yuka says, smoothing her skirt primly before standing up. "Excuse me while I use the ladies, 'kay?"

She smiles at a passing waiter as she walks around the brutalist, concrete furniture and low lantern lights. It's a nice restaurant, clearly, just nice and expensive enough to get away from serving its guests. A genius business model, she has to say. Yuka can respect that sort of hustle.

Yuka goes to the bathroom, takes a piss, climbs out through the window, orders a cheeseburger at the nearest McDonalds, and then takes the bus ride home.

Her apartment greets her, a sickeningly familiar sight. She has to go to work in several hours, but she supposes she can take a quick little nap. Her bed creaks under her as she opens her phone. After blocking Taro-san's number, her finger hovers above Mori-senpai's contact.

Should she or shouldn't she, that's the question. On one hand she misses her so badly Yuka can eat her hand. On the other hand…

On the other hand, she misses her so badly she can eat her other hand.

To Yuka's absolute delight, Mori-senpai replies not two minutes later. As Yuka expected, she is still doing her final project. It's due within a semester, and then Mori-senpai will be graduating. And then she'll…

Who knows. Maybe she'll leave Tokyo. Maybe she won't. Maybe she'll leave Japan. Yuka believes with all her heart that Mori-senpai's art is good enough to go international. Yes. Maybe she'll leave Japan and then they'll never meet ever again. Or maybe they will but only once a year. But then they'll slowly stop talking to each other and they'll stop seeing each other and then they'll never meet again.

The thought gives her so much terror that Yuka's fingers move before she knows it. Are you busy? Yuka types, sends, and regrets it instantly. How is she so fucking stupid. I mean. Ik you're busy but. Wanna meet? Emoji, emoji.

Sure, comes the reply, and Yuka kicks her pillow in victory. I've missed you, comes another reply, and Yuka kicks her pillow twice. This Friday?

This Friday. She's gonna see Mori-senpai this Friday. She assaults her pillow one more time. Ok!

Yuka smiles at her ceiling like a lunatic. She's got a date this Friday with Mori-senpai. She'll plan it all out. She'll make it the most perfect day. Maybe a cat cafe. Or maybe a cake shop. Maybe she can even scrap enough money for them to go to an amusement park. She can check if there is a discount. She can do that. It'll be the perfect day.

Yuka goes to sleep with a smile. She just has to stay alive till Friday.

---

The night has barely started and Yuka is going fucking insane. This happens sometimes.

It's difficult to explain. She would be doing stuff, you know, working or just chilling in general, and suddenly she is just insane. She is sitting on the job on the clock legs crossed slit of her skirt hiked up to show enough skin to be much but not too much chin poised lipstick on nails sharp freshly manicured on that salon across the street with the 30% discount and then she just goes completely bonkers.

She sits on her corner, waiting, waiting. Customers usually come in the later hours, so all Yuka's got is only time to kill. She used to spend this time drinking, but she's gotten sick of even that now, so Yuka just stares into nothing. The glass tables are scrubbed clean, glinting under the chandeliers. Just like Yuka, they are waiting patiently for the night to start and the men to come. They present ashtrays and bottles and glasses and packets of peanuts. There is a menu on each one, offering a variety of food and martinis and liquors and women and Yuka.

Yuka stares into nothing and has her crazy thoughts.

She has crazy thoughts like, what if I quit right now? What if I break that table right now? What if I break this bottle right now? What if I smash this glass to my head right now? What if I quit right now? What if I strip naked right now? What if I—

"Yuka-chan? Customer for you."

Finally, something to do. "Okie dokie."

They sit in one of the loveseats corner of the club for a one-on-one session. The timer is set for thirty-minutes of entertainment time, which usually consists of flirting and flirting and flirting and persuading the customer to buy and buy and buy. As Yuka does her standard get-to-know-each-other convo, another part of her mind is still droning on and on. What if she eats that entire plate of karaage right now? What if she makes out with this guy right now? What if she strips naked right now and breaks that table and this bottle and that glass and eats the karaage and makes out with this guy and then she quits, right now?

She is going insane. She is going insanely bored.

This guy doesn't even look like he wants to make out with her, which is a little offensive when Yuka thinks about it. After a full minute of trying to coax her customer out of his fumblingly shy demeanor, Yuka decides on going for the blunt angle lest she strips naked out of sheer fucking boredom. "Is this your first time, Kayo-kun?"

He flushes again. "Is that—is it that obvious?"

Not exactly Yuka's type, truthfully. She thinks the shy ones are cute enough, but she goes crazy over the classic, rakish, boyish types, tall and nicely dressed. These are usually right in Yuka's league. Either that or girls with nice smiles and soft round eyes and sweet, tenor voices. These are usually out of Yuka's league.

But then again, Yuka is quick to fall in love. Yuka goes crazy over people in general if they go crazy over her in return, so all she has to do is to make this one go crazy over her. That is, after all, her job description. "Well, you're young," Yuka says, even though he must be just around her age. "You ordered the karaage-Asahi-champagne set, which is our special uni student discount. You come here at eight-thirty, which is not exactly when the real fun starts," Yuka smiles at the growing blush on his face. "You're polite," meaning he hasn't tried to touch her even once in the past minute. "And I would remember a face like that if I've seen it before."

Tacky line. But always, always works on first-timers. She watches as Kayo-kun manages out a surprised laugh, a rigid line over his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. Her boredom diminishing a fraction, she leans back, tilting her head. "Let me guess," she says. "Middle son. You have an older sister."

Another flash of surprise flits through his face, and oh. Yuka loves moments like this. People look different when they are surprised. They open up when they are surprised, and Yuka adores that—the change in their entire body language, that something brightening up in their face that makes them look like a completely different person. Yuka likes it when people show her that. This, she thinks, is what she can fall in love with. "How'd you—?"

She leans forward, the heel of her hand supporting her chin. "University student, right?" He nods, mute. "Hm. You look like a compsci kid, but I think … you're a liberal arts person." Bingo, she thinks, watching his eyes widen once again in surprise. This is so easy. She squints her eyes for theatrical effect. "Foreign language. Literature. No. Music?"

"..I take contemporary music," he admits, laughing again, a soft huffed sound so different from his previous closed-off demeanor. Yuka can't help but smile. He looks so much cuter like this. She is close to being in love. "That's … How'd you do that?"

What can she say? "I am a person of many talents, Kayo-kun, one of which is fortune telling," she says, pouring the Asahi down his glass. His eyes follow her movement closely, something shining in them that Yuka goes crazy over. "And I foretell we'll have a lot of fun for the next half-an-hour. Unless you'd like to extend, of course."

He does not, but after she blows him a goodbye kiss as he walks out the door, Yuka knows he'll be back, because Yuka is a professional. He didn't touch her at all though, she notes. Most do, but some don't.

In the past years where Yuka has been in the business she has seen all kinds of customers. Closeted men and curious men and asshole men and lonely men. Not that many women, but some do show up once in a while—usually curious and occasionally giggly and, most of the time, are not actually that bad once you talk to them. Really, some people who come to places like this are just lonely. No, everyone who comes to places like this is lonely, but some just want company. And if you're a believer of sentimentality, they just want somewhere where they can be themselves. Somewhere where they feel understood and not judged for what they are.

Yuka doesn't believe in sentimentality. Yuka loves to judge people.

Slow night, slow night. Weekdays are always like this. Yuka is on her third packet of peanuts. She counts the peanuts on the table and arranges them in all sorts of positions before she eats them. Flower. House. I love you in hiragana. Bra. Gun. Panties. Bottle. Butterfly. She is currently arranging the peanuts in the shape of a knife when the manager calls for her again. "Yori-san's here. He wants Tara-chan."

"It's Tara's off day," Yuka says, chewing her knife-shaped peanuts one by one. Tara has to take care of her mom every third Thursday and everybody knows this.

"Yes, that's why you have to fill in for her."

Yuka sucks her teeth, looking for some mints in her purse. She plops one into her mouth. "He's not gonna like it." But she goes anyway because what else would she do, say no? That's not how this business works.

Yori-san is a bigwig politician something-or-other who gets a kick out of coming to their club because their club isn't a high-end club and therefore he is guaranteed to be the most expensive cash cow they have. Yori also can't afford to be seen in the high-end clubs because he can't afford the media to know that he comes to "this kind of place" because he is a bigwig politician something-or-other and bigwig politician something-or-other goes to "proper clubs" with "proper girls" instead of "this kind of place".

"A man like me can't afford to be seen in this kind of place," he says.

Yuka wants to kill him. "You're so funny," she says. "Another bottle?"

"Where is Tara-chan?"

She bats her lashes. "Aren't I good enough for you?"

He eyes her down critically. "I guess you'll do."

What if she breaks his head over this table or this bottle over his head or this glass over his head or his head over this table and then the glass over his head and then the bottle too, over his head and over this table. All at once. "You're so funny. Another bottle?"

Yuka isn't enough after all because he then calls another girl and then another girl. He puts his hand on her thigh and then has her sit in his lap which she doesn't mind because he did pay for this and touching, to a certain extent, is allowed in the club's policy. Better her than the other girls on the rota. Rosa-chan and Mima-chan have done well so far, though. Maybe they'll survive this shift after all.

"You're new. How old are you?" he asks Mima after he is bored of watching them sing and dance and giggle at every word he says.

"Nineteen," Mima answers softly.

"You'll look more like a girl if you lose some of that weight," he says.

Yuka spills Dom Perignon to his face.

"Fuck!"

"So sorry," Yuka says, spilling some more to make sure the alcohol gets into his eye. "Oh no. Sorry."

"Dumb bitch!"

"The dumbest," Yuka agrees, shifting in his lap and stepping on his foot with her four-inch faux-diamond studded stiletto as she does so. He screams. "Let me get that for you." She flings the napkin to his face until he roughly shoves her away from his lap and demands to call the fucking manager, now!

Yuka gets a strike for this. She has never gotten a strike before. "It was an accident."

"He's our highest paying client, do you understand that?"

"It was an accident. I think I have a fever," Yuka says. "I feel faint. Everything is spinning. I'm going to pass out."

They let her go home for her fever, because Yuka can't afford to spill more champagne into clients' eyes and because Yuka has had a clean track record until this little accident and because she is their number two host still and therefore she can probably be excused just this one time et cetera. Mima is walking her out in case Yuka really is going to pass out from her non-existent fever.

"Yuka-senpai, are you sure you can walk by yourself to the station?"

"Positive," Yuka says. Mima has so kindly gathered up Yuka's things in her bag. "Thanks, love."

"Okay," Mima says, softly. "Um. Yuka-senpai?"

"Yes, love?"

"Thank you."

Yuka looks at her. "It was an accident," Yuka says. "And I hope he dies."

Yuka walks far enough until she's out of Ni-chome, and then she finds the nearest trash can to smoke like a fucking train. Her head spins. The city noise goes in and out of her eardrums, drowned by the frantic thumps of her heart. Someone catcalls her and she ignores them.

The thought comes again: she should quit her job.

And then do what? No other prospects, remember? Only a high school diploma in her arsenal and absolutely nothing else, remember? No other professions available for people like her, remember?

She feels sick. Has she eaten anything other than that cheeseburger hours ago? She doesn't remember. She's sick with hunger, with Asahi, with her thoughts. She feels out of her skin. What if she runs into the street right now. What if she pushes this cigarette onto her skin right now. What if she quits, quits, quits.

She should've swiped a bottle when she walked out. Nicotine isn't nearly enough for this, and her pack is running out. Fuck.

It's not like she doesn't want this, she thinks.

It's not like she doesn't like being pretty. If anything it makes it all the more easier. If anything she fucking loves it. All she has to do is be pretty. This is why she's doing this in the first place, right? This is why she picked this, right? Because it's easier? Because it's fucking easier to just be pretty?

Because at least maybe when she is beautiful she deserves to exist. Because If she isn't beautiful, what else does she have to offer?

Isn't that what it means to be a girl?

Yuka smiles to herself, a horrible stretch of her lipsticked mouth. Holy shit. What a horrible, horrible thing to think. What a—what a—

She breathes, shaky.

It would be easy if she knows what she wants.

It would be easy if it was so simple and clear-cut. But she doesn't know what she wants. Not really. She just knows that she wants, and she wants badly. She wants everything so bad absolutely everything. She wants to be everything. Maybe that's it—it's not that she doesn't want this. It's that it's not enough.

It would be so easy. It would be so easy if she can just put herself into a little glass box a ballerina on top of velvet pillows a trapped sun with her own stage light priced and polished and wanted and loved. It would be easy if this is enough. Because like this, right here, she is meant to be one thing. Just one. But Yuka isn't just one thing. She doesn't want to be just one thing.

What Yuka wants is everything.

She is going fucking insane.

She pulls out another cig, but her hands are shaking so hard she can't get the damn thing to light. She flicks her lighter over and over, the flame won't catch, and curses furiously when her nail breaks. Fuck this. Fuck everything. Fuck—

"Need a hand with that?"

Yuka freezes. She turns, even though she doesn't need to—a lighter is already offered under her face, its flame a warm lick. Its holder is a man Yuka has never seen before, a tall figure standing on the pavement, gait confident and easy, a smile on his face.

There is a beat of silence where they stare at each other, a mute tableau. Yuka watches him, considering her options. No thank you leave me the fuck alone is one. Can't you see I'm in the middle of a meltdown here? is two. But she does need a light. And what's better to interrupt her mental breakdown session than a guy who is exactly her type?

A few beats pass. And then Yuka leans forward carefully, the end of her smoke catching fire to his lighter. "Thanks," she says coolly, her words stifled by the cigarette between her teeth.

"No problem," the man says, a rakish grin on his face, glinted off by the nearest street light. He's taller than Yuka, both broad and lean. He nods at the pack in Yuka's hand. "Can I get one, though?"

Yuka blows her smoke sideways. "I don't know," she says, internally impressed by how cool and coy she still manages to sound when her hands are shaking like it's the end of the fucking world. "It's my last one."

His brows rise, playful. "Guess I'll give you something in return, then," the man replies, his voice smooth and low and as easy as his smile. "Like my number, maybe?"

Hah. Yuka staves off a smile. She clocks his type immediately—the kind that likes to chase better than being chased. She plays it cool. "Sounds good to me," she says neutrally, handing him her last cig, and then he gives her his number.

Yuka watches him leave, finishing her smoke. He didn't give her his name, Yuka realizes, staring at her phone. He just punched in his number. Hadn't asked for hers either.

There is a charm in that, Yuka supposes. She saves the number under Guy on the Street #18. She smiles again.

Who is Yuka kidding? She loves being pretty. She loves being fucking beautiful. She loves being stopped in the street by a tall, handsome, well-dressed man who lights her cigarette and gives her his number just because she looks good enough to deserve that.

Sometimes Yuka thinks she needs professional help that she certainly can't afford.

Calmer now, she steps on her cigarette with the back of her stiletto. All right, breakdown over. It's nearing midnight, and if she hurries, she can catch the last train back home because getting a cab means wasting money she can't afford to waste, which is all the more pronounced now that she has shown signs of not being mentally stable enough to hold her current job. Whatever.

Yuka is a little ashamed of herself, though. She thought she was a professional but what she did back then at the club had officially disproved that. And if she was going to be unprofessional, she thinks, she really shouldn't have stopped at champagne-spilling and gone straight to battery and assault at the very least.

Maybe next time.

She has walked long enough to see the Shinjuku Station far ahead, so crowded at midnight. The street is even more alight with neon now that she enters Kabukicho area, music screaming from dozens of different night clubs. The air is saturated with electricity and laughter, humid with pleasure. People don't walk here, they sway. More catcalls that she ignores as she traverses the pavement, walking past the blitzing bars and shops, the coy calls of girls and boys alike. Boring. The thrill and novelty of the night life has worn out of her by the first three months, and now that she herself is in the business, it has even grown dull.

She is going to go home, and then she's going to sleep, and tomorrow she is going to meet Mori-senpai and everything will be fine. She just has to meet Mori-senpai. That's all she needs right now. That's all. That's—

And then that's when Yuka sees him.

Yuka isn't even sure what made her turn. A ghost at her periphery. She doesn't even see him first. She walks past an izakaya, one of many lining up the street of Kabukicho. And then right there sitting by the window facing the street, she sees, is the man who gave her his number. Guy on the Street #18. He is sitting with three other men, talking animatedly, laughing. Yuka sees him and she thinks, maybe I should call him later. And then Yuka's eyes land on the other man sitting next to him and she freezes.

People walk around her, river streaming round a boulder. For an empty moment, she doesn't know what to do. She watches them. She watches him. Stunned.

Maybe it's not him. Could be just someone who looks like him. The hair is a different color, that's one. He did wear glasses at times, though, didn't he? Her memory is sluggish whenever she thinks about high school, a dusty chest whose key she has long intentionally misplaced.

But she is sure. Dead sure. Something about the gait, she thinks, something about that contrived smile, that—

It's him. Yuka is sure.

And so what?

She stands there, dumb. She has to go. She'll miss the last train and then she'd have to waste money she can't afford for a cab home, so she has to go. She should go home. So what. She'll go to bed and then she'll meet Mori-senpai tomorrow and have a perfect day with her. So what if it's him? So what?

She doesn't know how long she stares, and finds herself to be surprised when the men stand up. Whatever business they're having, it seems to be done now. They shake hands before pulling their chairs, walking out of the izakaya—

Yuka's heels click on the gravel, a stuttering staccato. Midnight is when people are starting to trickle down the streets for a taste of Shinjuku's nightlife. No one pays attention to her, just another girl strutting in a red light district. Yuka stumbles, still dizzy with surprise, to the alley right next to the izakaya. Her heart hammers in her chest. She waits in silence, hearing the telltale jingle when the restaurant door opens, and then she hears their voices, still conversing. Their footsteps as they walk past the alley. Yuka swallows.

"Yatora?" she says.

He turns to look at her.

Following Yatora's lead, the rest of the men turn as well, and there is an immediate flicker of recognition in the eyes of the man who gave her his number. But Yuka doesn't care for that. She only has eyes for Yatora. For the way he's looking at her like she is a ghost.

Yuka understands the feeling. It's him, she thinks, it really is him. She opens her mouth again. "Ya—"

"Saki-chan!" Yatora says. "Gosh, I waited forever for you. What took you so long?"

Yuka stares. But Yatora is laughing, walking towards her genially, an arm slung easily around her shoulders. It's so shocking that she can't do anything but stand there like a fucking idiot. "Can you guys go first?" Yatora says to the rest of his group, his hand gripping her shoulder. With a conspiratorial wink, he says suggestively, "Let me catch up with my friend here for a bit, yeah?"

"..And while Yatora catches up with his friend," Guy on the Street #18 says, looking at Yuka with something like puzzled amusement, "Why don't we continue where we left off, gentlemen?"

The rest of the men leave with one last glance at them, but Yuka still finds herself to be speechless. Now that there are only the two of them in the alley, Yatora whips to look at her. "Ryuji," he says, and whoa. Hasn't heard that name in a while. Brings back lots of beautiful fucking memories. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Yuka stares at him. What the fuck? That's her line. She finds her voice. "What the hell are you doing here?" she says, incredulous. "Saki-chan? What even—" she doesn't even know how to describe whatever that was. That act. That familiar, irritating, fake smile he had on his face. "What the hell was that?"

Yatora's jaw clenches. The scant lighting of the alley allows Yuka to see his face, just barely, and it strikes her once again that it really is him. He still has those earrings, Yuka notices, glinting on his cartilage. But some things are different, even the hair color aside. He doesn't look exactly older, but there is a way in which he carries himself that Yuka never saw before. Something self-assured, and matured, that fucks with her head.

Two years. Two years since they last saw each other, since they last talked to each other. Since that phone call. Since is there anything I can do for you?

The memory brings something ugly to the surface. "Well?" Yuka says, finding it in her to taunt.

Yatora sighs, as if he's so pissed, and the gesture triggers something in Yuka's memory. This hasn't changed. "Look," he says, voice rigid. "Forget that you saw me. All right?"

Yuka laughs. "What?" What the fuck is he talking about?

"Ryuji, you—"

Yuka stops laughing. "You're still going to call me that?"

Pause. Yatora stares at her. Yuka stares back, unflinching. For a moment she's sure that he doesn't get it. That he forgot. But then he says, after a pause, "Yuka," and despite everything, something exhilarating undulates in her chest, so close to euphoria.

Yuka smiles. "Yes, Yatora?" she coos, taunting again. It's strange. This feels familiar. She did this, all those years ago. There had been some sort of rapport between the two of them, had there not? "Whatever can I do for you?"

Were they friends? The question comes to her mind suddenly. Is that what they had been? Friends?

She has no idea. She ... two years ago. That phone call. Is there anything I can do for you? Two years ago.

Why had they stopped talking, again?

Yatora's jaw clenches once more. That hasn't changed either. "I'm serious," he says, low and tense. "Forget you saw me. And don't—" he pauses. "If you see me in the street. Don't call me by that name. Or better yet, just don't call me at all."

What the shit. This is so fucking ridiculous. "Why?" Yuka says. "Are you a criminal or something?"

It's meant as a joke. But holy shit, the look on Yatora's face. Yuka stops laughing again. And then she takes a step forward, grabbing his arm.

Yatora flinches. "Hey," Yatora protests, "What are you—"

She ignores him, grabbing his sleeve—cotton, off-white—and pulls it up. She stares. She knew it. She saw it back in the window of the izakaya, but she wasn't sure.

She looks up at him. "Are you with the fucking yakuza?"

Yuka isn't stupid. This is Kabuki-cho. Yuka's workplace is located in Ni-chome—a fifteen minute walking distance from here—and it's arguably safer than Kabuki-cho, if for the lesser number of visitors it garners, but Shinjuku's whole area is still rife with organized crime even if they have been laying low in recent years. Protection money has been banned by the government for the past decade but that doesn't stop people from putting it into practice.

She saw the tattoos too, on those other men walking with him. The man who gave Yuka his number had one as well, visible on the dip of his collarbone.

Yatora stares back at her, his face suddenly an unfamiliar blank. "You should go," he says.

Yuka can't fucking believe this. She bursts out laughing. This is so fucking funny. "What the fuck, Yatora?" Yuka says. Laughs and laughs. "You're a fucking yakuza? You?" She hasn't seen him in two years. What the fuck happened in just two fucking years? "You. You. Fucking straight-A, Geidai graduate—"

"Drop out," Yatora says.

Well, that's another surprise on top of these other fucking surprises. She looks at him, searching, wondering. Yatora. The perfect guy. Perfect student perfect everything. He had everything he could, because he did everything he was supposed to, which is something Yuka can never do. Yatora was perfect. Someone who is the exact opposite of what Yuka is. "This is—" Yuka shakes her head. This is the crazy high school reunion beyond Yuka's wildest dream. "This is the funniest thing in the fucking world."

"I'm not yakuza."

Yuka laughs and laughs. "Oh, fuck off."

"Ryu—Yuka. You should go."

"I work here, asshole," she says, and she doesn't know why she said that. Maybe just to see surprise flashing through Yatora's face. To see the surprise turns into understanding. Just to see understanding turns into some kind of apprehension that lights Yuka's temper up like fireworks.

She lets go of his arm, harsh. Why is she saying this? She doesn't know why. "That's right, Yatora. Remember what you said to me back then?" Yuka still remembers this, this particular memory. You worry me, Ryuji. Monday morning. A crumpled pack of cigarettes, the scent of paint and wood and varnish in that art room. "I took up your advise. So," She tilts her head at him. She doesn't know why she's saying this. Absolutely no fucking idea why. "What d'you think?"

There is no future in art school anyway, Yatora had told her. So might as well take advantage of that pretty face and be a—

Yuka doesn't think he would remember this as well. But then his face blanches; and for a second, something close to satisfaction flares up in Yuka's chest. And then that something dies. She doesn't care anymore. "Sorry, forgot I'm not supposed to, like, talk to you or whatever," she says, circling him, walking out of the alley in nearly a skip. He watches her, wordless. "Next time we meet, we're complete strangers. That's what you want, right?"

Not waiting for an answer, she leaves the alley. And then she goes to the nearest Seven Eleven, gets a new pack, and smokes like a train in another alley. She misses her train so in the end she has to take a cab anyway.

She leans her face on the car window, watching lights pass as the car goes through a tunnel, and then watching the moon hang silent in the sky. Replaying the conversation in the alley over and over again in her head.

It doesn't even feel real that it had happened. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe it was just her imagination. Yuka closes her eyes.

There is another memory that she remembers from high school. Night time. A phone call. Is there anything I can do for you? Crackle over the line. Night air cold against her bare shoulders.

"Make a turn, right here," she says to the driver. "Just beyond that corner, please."

Anything you can do for me?

"Here, miss?"

Then come see me. Right now.

"Yes," Yuka says. "Thank you."

---

She didn't manage to scrape enough money for amusement park, but it's fine because Mori-senpai wants to check out some new exhibitions happening in the National Art Center.

"You want to see Picasso?"

"Mm, not really?" Mori says. "Wouldn't hurt to take a look, I guess. But there is an exhibition on Nicola Samori there. Wanna try mine? It's so good."

Yuka stares at Mori's mouth and then at the spoonful of red velvet Mori is holding out. "Yes, please."

Mori spoon feeds her. Yuka is in love. "Isn't it good?"

Yuka stares at Mori's mouth again. "So good," she says, chewing. "You wanna try mine?"

Yuka's choice of cake is strawberry cheesecake. She makes sure to get a slice of the strawberry and the cream and the crumbs inside her spoon before spoon-feeding it to Mori. Yuka is in love. Mori makes a delighted sound, her eyes wide and sparkling like, like the perfectest eyes in the world. Her cheeks look so cute as she chews, like the most beautiful chipmunk that has ever graced this stupid fucking earth. "So good!"

"It pairs so well with the parfait," Yuka says, eager to have another chance to spoon feed her again. "Wanna try?"

The cake shop is a fifteen minute train ride to the museum, which Yuka thinks is awesome because then she can stare at Mori-senpai for fifteen minutes more. Mori-senpai's hair has gotten longer since the last time Yuka saw her. She braves herself to take a few strands of it, circling it around her finger, soft and ink black. Yuka's heart shakes helplessly in its ribcage. "You haven't cut your hair," she says hoarsely.

Mori-senpai hums. She's standing next to Yuka near the door. It's four in the evening, and soft light is spilling from the window, bathing her in a golden, pink hue. Mori-senpai is wearing a baby blue blouse and a jeans skirt underneath, a Musahino University tote bag slung over her shoulder. She looks so cute. So effortlessly feminine. So effortlessly fucking pretty. "Haven't had the time," she sighs. "I'm gunning to finish my project draft by next week. This week was my deadline last week," she pauses. "And that week was my deadline last last week."

Yuka has noticed the circles under her eyes. She makes a note to herself to get Mori-senpai a care package, maybe eye-warmers and some of Mori-senpai's favorite snacks to bring home. "Thanks for making the time to meet me," Yuka says softly, "even though you're so busy right now..."

Mori-senpai laughs, bumping her shoulder to Yuka's. Her height isn't enough to aim that high, so she only manages to bump Yuka's sides. It's so fucking adorable that Yuka wants to scream and cry and throw up and fling herself out of this moving train. "Don't be silly," Mori-senpai says, warm and honest. "I'll always make time for you."

Yuka is in love.

The National Art Center is located in the Roppongi district and it's already dark out by the time they get there. It's the largest museum in Japan, designed idiosyncratically like a sea wave. It's covered entirely in windows, glass facades lined up on its surface like fins reflecting light like a giant lantern. The entrance is free for several exhibitions, including Masters of Europe where some of Nicola Samori's works are exhibited.

The exhibition is a little empty. Most of the museum's visitors, it seems, choose to gather at the second floor where Picasso has his own separate exhibition. While there are two exhibitions on the third floor—Masters of Europe and The Art of Bvlgari—Picasso has the whole second floor to himself. Yuka eyes the guards patrolling the floors down below as she and Mori ride the escalator. "There's a lot of them," Yuka notes. At least a dozen, in identical coral long-sleeves and dark service caps.

"I guess they're taking extra caution," Mori says. "There was an attempted theft before the Picasso exhibition got to Tokyo."

"Oh?"

"Mhm. Before Tokyo it was exhibited in … Taiwan? Yeah, it was Taiwan," Mori says. "They got caught though. It was on the news for a while."

The exhibition room is white with wooden flooring and square lamps cascading symmetrically on the ceiling. Yuka isn't sure if she's a fan of the minimalist, futuristic ambiance modern museums undertake nowadays. She prefers her museums more ornamentally extravagant rather than antiseptically sparse. Really, what's wrong with a little gold? People shy away from opulence these days for no goddamn reason. Yuka thinks indulgence should make a comeback in interior design.

Yuka doesn't believe in minimalism. Yuka loves excess.

Mori is immediately off, wandering in the white, silent room in search of her favorite painter. Yuka follows fondly behind, walking past maestros from Germany, France, and Italy. Their footsteps are dampened in the soundproof room.

Mori finally stops in front of a canvas, having apparently found what she was looking for. Yuka watches her looking at the painting with such intensity, as if the painting is going to run away at any second. She likes going to museums with Mori-senpai. She likes watching Mori-senpai in museums. Mori's entire posture is statue still, eyes gazed upward with that severe look that she always retains whenever she paints, or whenever she sees art. It changes her entire appearance, that look—it makes her look like an entirely different person. Like this, Mori doesn't look sweet or soft or warm. Like this, she looks like she can kill.

Yuka is in love.

I'm in love, Yuka thinks. And then Yuka turns to look at the painting.

She looks at it, silent for a few seconds. Il digiuno, 2014, oil on copper. And then she looks back at Mori. Mori-senpai is still staring at it with that … that consuming look. A stranger wouldn't be able to tell if she likes the painting from that look. She looks like she wants to commit every single detail of the painting to memory, but it's not a look that comes from adoration. Whatever it is, it's close to obsession, if only because obsession can mean love as much as it can mean hate. She looks, Yuka thinks, like she wants to burn the painting down.

And that's how you can tell if Mori-senpai likes a piece of art. If she looks like she wants to burn something down, that means she thinks that something is a masterpiece.

Yuka looks back at the painting again. Like the other pieces in this room, the painting is surrealist and abstract. Or more accurately, Yuka thinks, instead of an abstract painting, it's an abstraction of a painting. It's reminiscent of a Baroque piece—it even has that feel of molding, jaundice varnish that you only find in 17th century paintings. The dramatic shadows, the sombre, mournful tension—it's all there. The artist—who is clearly a master at oil painting and human anatomy—had painted so painstakingly a half-body of an emaciated, vaguely masculine figure. The figure is superimposed on black paint; black less like a night sky and more like rot.

And it does look, Yuka thinks, like it's rotting. Because the artist had destroyed the painting.

What Yuka looks at first is the skin of the figure, so pale and grotesquely stark against its black background. And then what she looks at next is the void where the figure's face must have been. The void is stretched down to the cavity of its chest, scraped rawly and violently until the excess of the paint is torn away, flapping at the edge of where the void ends and the painting begins. The excess dangles, curled and sodden, like sawn off skin, or scraped-off flesh. Yuka can see the marks where the artist has hacked the painting away—the void where the figure has been mutilated bears the harsh scratches of the assault it bore. The copper plate the artist had used his canvas peeks through after the abuse like a gaping hollow of molding, dark, rust red.

This sudden, abrupt, gaping hollow torn open on the figure results in an effect not unlike gore. Not unlike burnt off, maimed, butchered flesh. Not unlike disfiguration.

Yuka breathes, sharp. A reflex. It's—

"Amazing, isn't it?"

Yuka turns. Mori-senpai has walked up to her side when she wasn't paying attention. "He's one of my favorite contemporary artists," Mori-senpai says, with her sweet, tenor voice. That consuming look is gone from her face—she looks excited now, as if eager to see Yuka's reaction to her favorite painter. "I've been following his work for a while. What do you think?"

Yuka looks back at the painting. Amazing, huh? Amazing doesn't quite cut it. "It's insane," Yuka says. "It's violent."

It's a violent painting. Destructive, or maybe deconstructive through the act of destruction. It's physical. It's like seeing a painting turned into a desecrated corpse. But it's beautiful, Yuka thinks. There is an elegance there, even in this mangled form. It wouldn't be this beautiful if it wasn't massacred. It wouldn't be this beautiful if it was beautiful.

What makes it a beautiful piece of art, Yuka concludes, is its destruction.

Mori hums, a soft sound of agreement. "I'm paraphrasing here," Mori mulls. "But I remember an interview where Samori said that his art is a sort of exorcism. He said that what he shows in his work is something that he has escaped." Mori smiles. "I like that."

It shouldn't be unexpected that Mori would like something like this, now that Yuka thinks about it. Art as an exorcism. Art as a prayer. Art as an escape. Art as a wish. Art as a want. Very Mori-senpai. Yuka smiles. "I can see why."

They spend the next hour in that exhibition—longer than any of them thought they would—standing in front of paintings and sculptures and muttering their respective opinions of it and whether they would buy it or not, given the opportunity. At one point they talk a little too loud that someone shushes them up. "Sorry," Mori says apologetically while Yuka glares at the person behind her and flips them a finger when Mori isn't looking.

"I would buy this one," Yuka decides, pointing at an abstract expressionist painting of meshed, cool colors blended together in a vaguely oceanic pattern.

"Why?"

Yuka does have an interest in the fine arts, but whether an art is technically superb or thematically meaningful is not the metre with which Yuka would buy them. "It would look good hanging above a fireplace," Yuka says.

Mori wants to check out the museum shop but she needs to go to the bathroom first, so Yuka is now wandering aimlessly outside the exhibition room. The glass windows are open, sending a faint night breeze in. She can look at the city from here, the forests down below and the lights of Roppongi's nightlife. She finally leans over the railing, from which she can see the floors below. Picasso is still garnering visitors. She wonders how long his exhibition is gonna be here, since it's apparently a traveling exhibition. Maybe a month or two?

"Didn't peg you for a Picasso fan."

Yuka freezes. She looks to the side, and nearly laughs, but she doesn't. She looks away, returning her gaze to the crowd outside the Picasso exhibition room, cool and unaffected. "Didn't peg you for a stalker."

"Hey," Guy on the Street #18 mocks hurt at the accusation. "Not my fault that we're fated to meet again."

So tacky. But with a face like that, it works.

Following Yuka's example, he leans on the railings as well, all broad shoulders and long, jeans-clad legs. He's wearing a loose off shoulder shirt showing off that tattoo—she can see clearer now, a small, black swallow—long-sleeved, black. The color offsets his tan well. With this lighting, Yuka manages to see his face better and what do you know? He's even more attractive than Yuka had pegged him to be. Damn, Yuka thinks. Damn, damn, damn.

"I'm not a Picasso fan," she says then, because, really. What can a girl do? Tall handsome men might as well be unicorns these days, you know.

Even if this one might or might not be yakuza.

The Tall Handsome Man tilts his head, still adorned with that ever-present grin on his face, showing white canines. It's terrible, but Yuka might just fall in love. "Not big on cubism, I take it?"

Yuka shrugs, still faking disinterest because she knows that drives his type crazy. "Cubism is all right." Overrated, but she can still see the appeal in it. "But everything that can be said about Picasso has already been said."

"Can't argue with that," he assents. "Unless you want me to. Over dinner, preferably."

Smooth as a motherfucker. Don't smile, Yuka tells herself. And after all. "You sure your friend would like that?"

"My friend? Ah.." he says, something shining again in his eyes. Something childish, like mischief. "I think, with some effort, I can persuade my friend to join us. And to finally introduce you to me."

Yuka arches a brow. "Introduce me to you?"

He sighs mournfully. "I kept asking him your name but he wouldn't tell, that jerk."

Hah. Oops, she smiled. Yuka tamps it down. The jerk moniker, she notes internally, is said rather fondly. She pictures Yatora—the Yatora that she remembers. Perfect student—faking aloof but actually, surprisingly, and irritatingly serious. If Yuka is right about what kind of guy the Tall Handsome Man is, someone like Yatora would drive him crazy.

It makes sense. "Really."

"Really."

"I could actually be Saki-chan."

"Eh, I don't buy that. No offense to all Saki-chans in the world."

"So why don't you ask my name yourself, then?"

"The mystery is kind of a turn on," he admits without missing a beat, and god. Yuka has forgotten how much fun flirting is when she isn't paid to do it. "Anyway. I know this place that serves killer, killer Thai food—"

"I asked him if you were yakuza," Yuka says abruptly, "but he wouldn't tell."

Silence. Yuka watches his face closely. And she is impressed, admittedly, when she finds nothing in there—nothing but that shining amusement, that boyish mischief, and some kind of curiosity. "Really," he says again, light and shameless.

Yuka smiles back. "Really."

There have been yakuza, before, in the club. Not the one Yuka works in right now, but the one she worked in once—a straight club—for a short time. Yuka finds that they aren't that much different from other men—most men aren't that much different from most men—but their tattoos are distinct.

Yuka glances at his long-sleeves. Wonders if she pulls it up she'll find the same tattoos covering the entirety of Yatora's forearm like a second skin.

"Hmm," he says, still with that jovial playfulness. It's charming, Yuka thinks, if bordering on irritating. The way that he acts like everything is an inside joke for him and him alone. "If he wouldn't, maybe I would," he says, gaze moving to somewhere behind Yuka. "But it seems you'll be having your dinner with someone else."

Mori-senpai. She's walking from the other end of the hallway from the washroom, waving at her. "Cute date you got there, if I may say so," the man continues, sighing. "Too bad. Looks like I'm out of your league."

He's got it all wrong. You're in my league, Yuka thinks. She's out of mine. "Looks like we're fated to go our separate ways."

He laughs, that low, rakish sound. Damn, damn, damn. "Hey, you never know," he says, and then winks at her—another tacky move that works only if you are that good looking. And then he turns and leaves.

Yuka watches him go. Damn. That's a ten if she's ever seen one. Damn, damn, damn.

"I'm back! Who was that?"

Yuka turns. Mori is standing on her tippy-toes, as if she can then see over Yuka's shoulders better that way. It's insanely adorable. "Ooh, he's cute.."

Yuka slings her arm over Mori's shoulders as they walk towards the gift shop. "Isn't he," Yuka sighs.

There is a photobox in the gift shop, so they took several and made them into custom postcards that Yuka will make sure to frame on her nightstand. Yuka also prints a small one that she immediately keeps inside her phone case, and to her adoring delight, Mori-senpai does the same. They also bought a pair of matching Van Gogh keychains.

"Let me pay you back for the keychain," Yuka says, when they've sat down at a small ramen shop a few blocks away.

"Nope."

She always does this. "Mori-senpai.."

"It's your birthday gift."

Yuka pauses. She stares.

"..One of them, anyway," Mori says, and from inside her tote bag, she brings out a neatly wrapped present tied with a golden bow. "You don't think I'd forget, do you?"

Yuka's mouth twists. She swallows, her throat dry. "You really … didn't have to.."

Mori-senpai clicks her tongue, as if Yuka is being so silly. "Don't be silly," Mori says, handing Yuka her present. "I really wanted to give you your presents on your birthday but all sorts of things came up—"

"Seriously, you really didn't—"

"—so sorry I'm a few days late, but anyway, c'mon! Open it up."

She receives it carefully in her hands, and opens it up even more carefully. "Oh my god. You didn't."

"You were eyeing it when we were passing that store back in August and—"

"Mori-senpai.." It's a cashmere scarf, violet, embroidered with a rustic, floral design that yuka adores. It mustn't have been cheap. Yuka is about to cry. "Thank you so much."

"It matches your eyes," Mori says, and then Yuka actually cries. "There is one more gift.."

Inside the box is another smaller box, not any bigger than Yuka's palm. She opens it. "I wanted to give you something handmade too," something sheepish slips into Mori's voice. "I had to ask a friend in the 3D department to help … Um. What do you think?"

It's a simple bracelet. Braided rope in mauve, tied to an aluminium pendant carved and plated in the shape of a flower—marigold. The flower of Yuka's birth month.

I love you, she wants to say. "I love it," Yuka says instead. She sounds hoarse again. Mori-senpai always manages to take her voice away. "I love it so much." Yuka loves it so much she is going to fucking cry, and she's already fucking crying. She puts it around her wrist. "It's perfect."

"Here, let me help you," Mori-senpai says, moving to sit beside her. She takes Yuka's hand into hers, sending goosebumps to Yuka's skin. Her fingertips brush against Yuka's pulse point as she ties it carefully to Yuka's wrist, and Yuka is so, so glad she is alive to experience this very moment. And then Mori-senpai says, "Happy birthday, Yuka-chan," and leans to give Yuka a kiss on the cheek.

Yuka is so, so in love.

I love you, she wants to say. "Thank you," she says instead.

They'll separate in another three stops, so they lean on each other on the train home, full and half-asleep. "That was an insane portion," Yuka says. She's been belching for the past minute.

"But it was so good," Mori says, sounding sleepy. "So worth i—" Mori abruptly belches, and both of them laugh. Two stops left. "Thanks for today," Yuka says. It was perfect. She knew it would be perfect. Everything is perfect with Mori-senpai. "I had a lot of fun. I really needed that."

"Thank you," Mori says, bumping her shoulder, "for today. I needed this too. Now I'm..." she gestures vaguely at the world. "Invigorated to plunge into the hell of suffering that is my final art project."

Yuka laughs. And then she says, "Mori-senpai, do you remember Yatora?"

Mori-senpai turns to look up at her, seemingly puzzled by the drastic change of topic. "Yatora-kun? Yeah. Why?"

"Have you.." Yuka looks at her shoes. "Ever talked to him after high school?"

"Mm … not really," Mori frowns, her head still on Yuka's shoulder. "We kind of lost contact. The last time we met was … at the art club? I think?"

"Oh."

"Mm. Why?"

"Did you know he dropped out?" Yuka says. "Out of Geidai?"

The door dings open, and other passengers walk in. One more stop. "Yeah," Mori says softly. "Saeki-sensei mentioned something like that to me a long time ago."

"Oh."

"I never mentioned it to you."

"Yeah, no.." Yuka pauses. "I know why you didn't."

"Yeah," Mori says, softly.

Because she didn't think Yuka would care. Because why would Yuka care? Yatora and her … they weren't friends.

Were they?

Then come see me. Right now.

Maybe they were. But then they weren't. They just—

They just stopped talking.

There was no other reason. There was no big reason. They just stopped being—friends, and then that was it. And then they were out of each other's lives. Yuka never told that to Mori-senpai, or really anyone. And she didn't need to. It's normal. Sometimes you just stop being friends with people or talking to them and then you never bring them up again.

It's nothing special, or monumental, or anything at all. It's just what happens with people: you grow apart. And then that was it.

It's Mori's stop. They hug each other before she steps out of the car. "Call me when you get home."

"I will. You too, okay?" Mori-senpai lets her go, and Yuka already misses her warmth. "Love you," she says.

"Love you too," Yuka says hoarsely. And then she watches as Mori waves at her from outside the window until the train leaves.

---

Yuka has decided that she does not miss noons after all.

The sun is relentless. She holds a hair tie between her lips as she ties her hair into a braid—she's doing it without a mirror, but she suspects she's doing a good enough job. The back of her sundress is practically soaked through with sweat at this point, and she hopes to god it'll dry before her date arrives. Yuka fans herself, praying that her foundation doesn't cake under her sweat.

"Yuka-san?"

She fixes a smile on her face, turning around gracefully in a way that she knows will flare about her sundress like she just came out of a Disney movie. "Hello!"

"Ah, I hope you haven't been waiting too long.."

"No, I just got here," she says. She always makes sure to be fifteen minutes early because Yuka is not a believer of being fashionably late.

"Wow. Sorry, it's just—you look even better than your pictures."

She knows. "No way," she says shyly.

Yuka isn't a fan of movies on a first date, but she understands why people do it. You see a movie, you go have lunch together, and then you talk about the movie because there is nothing else to talk about because you are two boring strangers who just met. Standard procedure. Minato-kun gets a plus for not trying to touch her in the cinema, though, because the bar is on the floor. And he's sort of cute. Clean-shaven, well-dressed, smells okay.

The bar is on the floor.

Yuka doesn't know when she started going on dates. It's just something she does. She likes to think herself an expert at it, in fact. She can tell when a date is going good or bad or just eh. She can tell if her date thinks she's cute or sexy or not cute enough or not sexy enough. She can tell if they want a conversation partner or a silent doll or, in this case, someone to impress.

"It's a metaphor."

"It's a metaphor?"

"It's a metaphor," Minato-kun says. He's two years older than Yuka, a law student—but as he has reiterated in the past hour, he has a real passion for the arts. Yuka sort of had a suspicion, because the man had a Haruki Murakami quote on his Tinder profile. "When the protagonist went back to the past? That actually never happened."

"It never happened?"

"No. It's just a metaphor."

"Wow," Yuka says, slurping her mixed-berries banana frappe. Minato-kun might not have a good taste in films, but his choice of cafe is excellent. Yuka can appreciate that. "That's crazy. It really never happened?"

"No. It's actually a David Lynch reference, you see."

"David Lynch? Who's that?"

"You've never seen a David Lynch movie?" He looks excited by Yuka's show of ignorance, because clearly there is nothing more attractive than a girl who has never seen Mulholland Drive. "There is a niche cinema that streams retro films in Akihabara, I'll take you there some time—it'll blow your mind. Anyway, that zoom shot they did at the end, do you remember that? Now, that scene—"

"Actually never happened?"

"What? No, no. That scene was—"

"A metaphor?"

"What? No, no," he laughs. "That scene was a Stanley Kubrick reference."

"Stanley Kubrick?" Yuka says, slurping her frappe noisily. "Who's that?"

Yuka offers to split the bill but Minato-kun refuses, which is awesome. "You know, Yuka-chan, I'm not the kind of guy who moves fast, but I think we have something real going on here."

"Aw," Yuka says. "You really think so?"

"I mean, well, I'm not the kind of guy who moves fast, but…"

Minato-kun is not the kind of guy who moves fast, but he asks her if she wants to spend more time together today and if all goes well does she maybe want to spend the night in his condo?

Aw. He thinks she's cute and sexy enough. Yuka likes that in a man. She might just fall in love.

"If all goes well," Yuka agrees. She'll have dinner and then she'll break her neck and bail or something. "Where do you wanna go, Minato-kun?"

"Well, I have some thoughts," he says. "Do you know who Picasso is?"

Yuka has absolutely no idea, of course.

The National Art Center is the largest museum in Japan, he explains. An exceptional piece of architecture, he tells her, a giant structure standing in the middle of Roppongi curtained by glass fins reflecting the greenery surrounding it. Not that they can see it now, because it's already dark out. "The glass facade is designed to prevent direct sunlight from entering the building," Minato-kun says.

Not that there is any sunlight now, because it's six in the evening. "Really?"

"Yes, you see, and the center is not an archive but instead a space to exhibit public and traveling exhibitions—"

"Wow," Yuka says, playing with the bracelet Mori-senpai gave her. It doesn't match the sundress she is wearing, but she doesn't care. "Crazy."

The entrance fee for Piacsso is 900 yen, and Minato-kun is kind enough to buy one for Yuka because "it's such a sin that you never saw a Picasso," he says. "It'll blow your mind."

With a gun, she hopes. "Wow."

It's as crowded as it was the other day with Mori-senpai, with the same amount of security guards patrolling the area over and over. "Picasso has the most stolen artworks in the world. More than a thousand of his artworks have been reported missing, did you know that?"

"That's crazy."

"That's why they're having such tight security over his exhibition. Not to mention there was that attempted theft in Thailand—"

"Taiwan."

"Sorry?"

"Taiwan," Yuka says. "It was on the news for a while."

"Yeah, no, I'm sure it was Thailand," Minato-kun looks mildly miffed by the interruption. "Anyway. The—"

"Excuse me, sir?"

Both of them look up at the new voice. It's a petite, stylish young woman in a sleek suit and fitted high-waisted pants, smiling neutrally at them. She is wearing a nameplate on her breast pocket. "You have to take a queue," she says, her voice light with the formality of an attendant. "Due to security measures and ease of viewing, we only allow a certain number of people in the exhibition room at a time. We hope for your understanding."

They get a time slot for seven-fifteen, which is half an hour from now. Minato-kun isn't very pleased about it. "We can check out other exhibitions first," Yuka says, half-heartedly placating. She is getting a little bored. Maybe she should break her neck now. "There is an exhibition of European contemporary artists upstairs." She doesn't mind seeing that Samori one more time, though.

"I don't like contemporary art," Minato-kun tells her. "They aren't creating anything new. They just regurgitate works that have already been done and desecrate them in order to create something they think is original."

"So true," Yuka says.

Unlike the other exhibitions, the Art of Bvlgari: 130 Years of Italian Masterpieces exhibition room is dark-walled and even more intensely air-conditioned. Projections of film dazzle continuously in her periphery, flashing psychedelic pictures of gold and light and tidbits of, Yuka notes curiously, Elizabeth Taylor's 1963 Cleopatra in black and white.

Ah. Yuka stops, staring at a mannequin positioned mutely in front of a blown-up, monochromatic picture of Elizabeth Taylor's fifth wedding with—Yuka tilts her head, reading the exhibit label—Richard Burton. She is wearing one of her iconic wears—an italian-made babydoll dress which is now worn daintily by the blank-faced mannequin. The canary shade of the fabric clashes gorgeously with the black fiberglass. On top of the mannequin's head, and grasped in its lifeless hand, are blooming yellow hyacinths and lilies of the valley.

Babydolls aren't usually Yuka's go-to dresses. It doesn't compliment her figure and hides what little curves she already has. But this, she bets, would look fantastic on her. She eyes the no touching sign mournfully.

She glances at her phone—some text messages from Minato asking her where she is. They got separated in the dark earlier, or was it when Yuka sauntered off and left him on purpose?

A forever unsolved mystery.

Yuka walks slowly, savoring each exhibit with a genuine enjoyment that surprises herself. On top of a long mahogany table, there is a Tribute to Japan section with a stunning Mount Fuji brooch in platinum and gold and mother of pearls laid on velvet cloth. In another collection, there is a golden serpent bracelet-watch that catches her eye—its design curling and slithering, adorned with white enamel and a pair of emerald diamonds as its eyes.

But the star of the exhibition, Yuka finds, is something else. It's located at the center of the room with its own stage and its own limelight. Just like the wedding dress exhibit, there is a blown up picture of Elizabeth Taylor just behind the stage. The actress is sitting on a man's lap who is gazing up adoringly at her. In the picture, she is wearing a sleek black dress with a mesh cut at the bust, accentuating the diamond necklace she has around the neck.

The diamond necklace that is sitting on the silicon bust right in front of Yuka. She stares.

This necklace isn't quiet in its beauty. Oh, no. It's loud. It's boisterous. It doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it is: luxury incarnated in a piece of string. Yuka stares at it. It doesn't even look real. Like this, protruding against the black skin of the mannequin, the necklace looks like something out of a still life painting. A piece of jewellery so comically exaggerated, so sureally opulent that it doesn't even try to aim for elegance—it aims directly for the throat.

Yuka is in love.

The pendant is massive. An octagonal cut festooned with a—she reads the description—65-carat sugarloaf cabochon Burmese sapphire stone. It's an incredible blue; royal in the most visual sense of the word. That sapphire necklace Yuka has been watching so lovingly on the sidewalk of Ginza has nothing on this—if that one is a drop of the midnight sky, this one is an entire galaxy. An entire galaxy hanging on a string encrusted by smaller diamonds and calibrated sapphires, arranged intricately in rhomboid motifs. Under its sole spotlight, they don't just dazzle—they blind.

It's not the kind of necklace you wear to a date, or even to a wedding. It's the kind that you wear to an inauguration, Yuka thinks. Your own inauguration. You don't wear this kind of necklace—it wears you.

It's excessive. It's arrogant. It's bordering on too much. Except, Yuka thinks, if you've never had enough. If you've never had enough, this is exactly the kind of necklace that you would want.

Yuka has never had enough. And doesn't Yuka always, always want? Yuka breathes, sharp. A reflex.

It's beautiful. It's beautiful. It's so beautiful Yuka wants it on her neck.

Yuka likes retro movies. Elizabeth Taylor was an excellent actress. Yuka remembers Taylor's Cleopatra, though vaguely—Taylor playing a beautiful doomed queen in a culture she has no claim whatsoever on. It was rather underwhelming. Taylor herself was something, however: a sex symbol, as all 50s Hollywood starlets are, known for her violet eyes and for her scandalous weddings but rarely for her political activism. One of a kind, as they all say. But if Yuka should choose a 50s Hollywood starlet, it would be, of course, Monroe.

Yuka remembers the first time she saw a Marilyn film. It's men like you who have made me the way I am! Monroe had exclaimed indignantly in her trademark whisper, just moments before she stood on a blood red stage surrounded by men shooting themselves in the head before she trilled: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend!

Yuka remembers that. Yuka remembers googling how Marilyn Monroe died. And Yuka remembers immediately dyeing her hair blond the next day.

Yuka dares herself to take one step forward towards the glass box, blinding herself once again with want. In love. She is in love. She wonders how much this necklace would be auctioned for. USD 800,000? Maybe even one million or two. Or three. Much more than Yuka will ever be priced.

Yuka is in love.

Tiffany's! Monroe whispers her infamous musical number in Yuka's ears. Cartier! Black Starr, Frost Gorm…

How about Bvlgari, Marilyn?

"There you are—I've been texting you for hours."

"Minato-kun," Yuka says, turning. He looks annoyed. It makes him look marginally more attractive. "Sorry, my phone died."

It's hitting seven-thirty in five, so Yuka regretfully follows him to leave the jewellery room. She should come back later on her own, she thinks, just to stare at that necklace again. That could be her new pastime until the Bvlgari exhibition is over. And then she'll go back to dating men and staring at things she can't afford in the streets of Ginza. This, Yuka thinks, is getting rather boring.

Maybe she should break her neck.

"Hello," the young woman greets them warmly when they arrive at the 2nd floor. She's hot, Yuka thinks idly. Yuka has never seen anyone else pull off a wolf cut that well. Yuka's eyes land on her nameplate: KUWANA. Maybe Yuka should try to get Kuwana-san's number and then fall in love with her and then maybe she won't be so bored anymore. "Can I check your timeslots, please? Perfect. You have fifteen minutes in the room before it's closed for its scheduled cleaning," she waves them inside with an entry card. "Please enjoy your visit."

Minato-kun grumbles indignantly when the attendant is out of earshot. "We paid and queued for half an hour just to be here for fifteen minutes?"

The room is similar to the Masters of Europe exhibition: sterile white and minimalistically alien. Minato-kun seems to be invigorated once again now that he is faced with the works of his idol. "Wow," he says, shaking his head in intellectual awe. "Would you look at that? Incredible."

Yuka looks at it. Nu couche, 1932, oil on canvas. Garish colors, as is Picasso's trademark from his works in the 1920s and onwards. It's a painting of—surprise, surprise—a woman. Voluptuous, languid, absurd, bold, reposed—erotic in its primal, curvilinear strokes. Plump breasts and twisting limbs distorted into near unrecognition but you recognize it anyway because even something this inhumane, to anyone's eyes, still has the characteristics of the traditional female form. You will always recognize the traditional female form. Picasso tore a woman apart and made something out of it that he called woman.

It's an abstraction of a woman. No, it's a deconstruction of a woman.

A deconstruction of a woman out of her destruction.

Picasso and his muses: everything that can be said about it has already been said. Yuka can't, for the life of her, remember any of his lovers' names. She wonders which one this is out of his six muses. His third? Fourth?

Elizabeth Taylor's failing marriages turned her into a scandal. Picasso's string of young women turned him into a legend.

Yuka is not a fan. But she would buy a Picasso, she thinks, if the opportunity ever presents itself. Not this one, though. This one would look like shit above a fireplace.

"Picasso changed the game," Minato-kun's voice says somewhere next to her. "He changed how objects are represented in fine arts. He revolutionized the art world by freeing his subjects from traditional reality, and instead depicting them beyond the constraints of the traditional two-dimensional space.."

"Wow," Yuka says. She glances at her watch. They still have twelve minutes left. After that Yuka is going to pretend to have a fever, buy a cheeseburger, take the bus ride home, and block his number. Standard procedure. "Crazy."

"Isn't this incredible?" Minato says again when they reach another painting at the other side of the room. "Would you look at that. Simply stunning. Doesn't it blow your mind? This is why he's the father of modern art."

This one is even more riotous in colors. More defined, though, with distinct edges and geometrical shapes. A blonde woman standing in front of the mirror, her body precisely angled, abstracted, and symmetrically composed. Yuka looks at the plaque. A painting of Marie-Thérèse Walter, Picasso's muse, in one of the most significant years in Picasso's artistic career…

Ah. Yuka remembers one of their names, after all. Marie-Thérèse Walter. She is one of the two Picasso's muses who killed themselves.

Yuka thinks back to Monroe. How old was she, then? Mid-30s? So young, but too old for a starlet. Both Taylor and Monroe were famous, arguably the biggest stars in their era. But Monroe isn't just a star. She's a symbol. She's revolutionary. She's a legend. But not in the way Picasso is, because Picasso is an artist. Marilyn Monroe, however, is an art.

She wouldn't be this revolutionary, or this legendary, or this beautiful—if it weren't for her destruction.

"What Picasso did had never been seen before, at his time," Minato says. "It's revolutionary."

"It's not," Yuka says.

Minato pauses. Laughs, surprised, as if he thinks he's misheard. "Sorry?"

"The abstraction of the human form in art has been done way before Picasso was born," Yuka says, "by African art. Which Picasso is clearly influenced by and has also, on a noted occasion, denied to give credit where credit is due. The so-called Cubism is nothing original or revolutionary. He just repackaged native African art and reappropriated it for the western audience who then branded it as avantgarde."

Silence. Minato looks halfway between surprised and indignant. And then he laughs again. "I thought you don't know who Picasso is—?"

Yuka shrugs. "Oh, you know, I may have heard about him in a podcast or two," she says off-handedly. "Picasso wasn't creating anything new. He just regurgitated works that had already been done and desecrated them in order to create something he thought was original. Oh, and Picasso isn't the father of modern art—Cézanne is."

Minato stares at her. Yuka smiles sweetly. "Or at least that's what I heard in a podcast. Or two. Anyway," she says, smoothing her dress primly before she turns to leave, "Excuse me while I use the ladies, 'kay?"

He says something in reply, but she isn't even listening. She walks for the door, heels clacking on polished marble floors. On the way to the exit, something catches her eye—amidst the rest of Picasso's myriad of colorful works, there is one with only a single domineering color in its palette. A solemn blue. The nude woman in her solitary room, bent down to wash herself in mute. It's smaller than the one she saw in the subway station—much smaller, not even a metre in diameter.

Art as an exorcism. Art as a prayer. Art as a want. Art as a want. Art as a want. The blond woman isn't looking at the viewer, as she washes herself. As Yuka watches her washing herself. The woman has no wants. Or needs. She is just there to be looked at. These women, destroyed and deconstructed and rearranged beyond the constraints of space—all just to be scrutinised in all angles and all possible dimensions. Just to be there and be a woman. A female in repose, forever existing only for her voyeurs, and only for them.

Whether an art is technically superb or thematically meaningful doesn't matter. Art, to Yuka, is meant to be looked at. That is the purpose of art. These women never had a chance—they were made to be looked at. It's the only reason they even exist at all.

They never had a chance.

Yuka stops to stare at it for a beat, and then two. And then she exits the room.

She has no idea where she's going or why she's going. The second floor is still crowded even now, which she finds fucking awful. She walks quickly, aiming for the nook and cranny where she'll certainly find the washroom. And she does find it—chock full with people. Some of the women in the queue look at her as she approaches—nothing but an off-handed, sideway glance, but it makes Yuka stop. It makes her throat hurt and her hands shake.

She turns back and goes for the elevator.

She punches the elevator door shut, and the lift moves, slow and dragging. She breathes. What the fuck is wrong with her? She feels like she is going to die. The lift dings open, and Yuka walks, desperately, like it's the end of the fucking world. The third floor is empty, much emptier than the second, and when she gets to the washroom devoid of people the relief almost overwhelms her. She enters the empty women's bathroom, and then leans on the sink. And then she cries.

What the fuck is wrong with her? Her hands are shaking again, her knuckles white as she grips the marble sink like her life depends on it. She wants to go home, she thinks. She wants a smoke, she thinks. She wants a drink. She wants a—a—

What does she want? What the fuck does she want?

Her shoulders tremble as she lets out a sob. She doesn't even remember the last time she cried, she thinks distantly. Last year? Two years ago? Yuka hates crying. Yuka is not an elegant crier—her face turns red and her sobs are uncontrollable and her mascara—fuck, her mascara is getting into her fucking eyes. And the sounds she makes when she cries are just awful and gross. Yuka is ugly when she cries and she hates that.

She doesn't even know why she's crying. It had been an okay day. The date was—it was fine. Minato was just like any other men she'd dated, or even better. Everything is just like how it has always been. She breathes. Stifles the hiccups down. She breathes again. One, two. One, two. She glances at the mirror and immediately blanches at what she sees.

God, her hair is a mess, and her foundation is fucked. Had she walked around the whole day looking like that? Disgusting.

Disgusting.

She sobs again. And then she sobs so hard she wants to throw up.

She looks at her phone, struggling to see beyond blurry eyes. Sends some bullshit to Minato-kun about having a fever and going home. The moment she sees the telltale dots of Minato typing back, she blocks his number. Standard fucking procedure.

She should quit her job. And she should quit dating. And she should quit—everything. Period. She should just—just—

Then you should die naked.

Yuka breathes in. She breathes out.

Or do you still care about what people think when they look at you?

In. Out. Shaky. She looks at her wrist—the bracelet Mori-senpai gave her. Soft mauve. She reaches out her other hand to trace the curves of the marigold, the alloy cool and smooth to her fingertips. Breathes in. Out.

She takes out some paper towel and carefully rubs away her smudged mascara—barely salvageable, but at least she no longer looks like a hysterical raccoon. She fixes her eyeliner. She takes out her lipstick and dabs some on her mouth. She unties her hair, carefully combing them down with her fingers. She sniffs. Breathes. She looks into the mirror.

The fifteen minute slot will be up anytime soon, she thinks. Yuka should just stay here for some time more until she's sure Minato-kun is gone, because that is one more thing she has no interest in dealing with. Her hands are still shaking a little as she opens her purse to look for her compact powder, attempting to even out her complexion. She should at least go outside looking like a normal fucking person and not someone who just had a meltdown in a public bathroom.

She's okay, she decides.

She's fine. She's fucking fine. She'll stay here. And then she'll go outside. Get a cheeseburger. Take a bus ride home. Sleep. And then she'll go to work the next day. Or maybe she'll quit, she doesn't fucking know—she'll deal with that later. But for now, for now, she's fine.

Calmer, she stands there, alone in the bathroom. Breakdown over. She looks at her phone. Seven forty-four. Maybe Minato has already left, if she's lucky. Maybe she can just go outside n—

Everything goes black.

Yuka stills, surprised at the world going dark abruptly. For a second she instinctively panics, not understanding her surroundings—but then she realizes that the lights are off. And then Yuka realizes that the air con, too, has stopped working.

The power is out. The museum's power is out.

And then, abruptly, she hears a noise outside—a loud wailing sound. An alarm.

Yuka stands there in silence for a few seconds, unsure and confused. She takes her phone, turns on the flashlight, and then hesitantly walks out of the bathroom.

She cringes reflexively—the noise is even harsher outside, near deafening. The museum isn't completely dark, however. From the glass window the city lights filter in, though scant, and she can still see where she is going. Sort of. From over the railings she sees a ruckus going on the second floor, a big crowd of people shouting and pushing each other visible even in this darkness. Chaotic. Someone is blowing a whistle—several whistles. The security guards, she thinks, trying to calm everyone down and getting everything in order. And then understanding sinks in.

Someone had stolen a Picasso.

Or attempting to, perhaps. Maybe they haven't gotten away yet. They must've cut the power off to get away.

Despite everything, Yuka huffs an incredulous laugh. Hah. Isn't this pretty crazy? She wonders if she should instastory this. This is the least boring thing that has happened to her in … forever. This is turning out to a pretty fucking funny day after all.

A little exhausted from her meltdown, Yuka ponders her next course of action.

Someone must've called the police, or something. Maybe then they'd lock everyone in for investigation purposes. Those people on the second floor must all be suspects … Wait, is Yuka a suspect? She considers this. She isn't really interested in getting involved in something like this. Though it would probably be interesting…

Nah. She doesn't care about being interrogated by some cop just for the sake of a fucking Picasso. She wants that cheeseburger and her bed, and maybe she'll text Mori-senpai a good night text.

The power is out, so the elevator must be unusable. If she wants to get out—assuming they haven't locked the entrance yet—she has to use the escalator. Yuka sighs, lifting her phone up high so she can see better. This is starting to turn into a nuisance. She'd rather a hot guy interrupt her mental breakdown session that something like th—

Someone crashes into her at high speed.

Yuka swears, losing her grip on her phone as she hits the ground. Her elbow flares in pain. Fuck! "Fuck!" she curses. "What the fuck—"

The other person groans—a guy, she thinks, pretty fucking heavy as she pushes him off her. "Fucking hell—"

Yuka grabs around blindly before she finds her phone somewhere on the floor. "That fucking hurt, asshole," she seethes. Ugh, she's gonna have bruises tomorrow morning. She flashes her phone to her assaulter's face. "Why the fuck would you—Yatora?"

It's him. No mistake. She gapes. Yatora stares back at her, as shocked as she is. "Ryuji—?"

That name sobers her up. "What the fuck are you doing here? And why—" She stares at him. Coral blue button-up, long-sleeves. And somewhere on the floor is a service cap, discarded in their collision. The hell. "And why the fuck are you dressed like a security guard?"

They look at each other. Yuka's phone is still gripped in her hand, the flashlight shining directly to Yatora's face. It's surreal to see him like this, prominent against the darkness, like something out of a dream or a memory. Something flashes on that face, tense and pinched. "Fuck," he says then, throat bobbing as he scrambles to stand up. "Ryuji, I got no time for this. I have to—"

"Is anyone there?"

Yuka turns at the new voice. Security guards, two of them—they must've come up from the escalator, shining flashlights in their direction. "Is anyone there? There has been an incident, and we are gathering all museum visitors on the ground floor for your safety.."

Yuka opens her mouth to reply when, to her immense fucking shock, Yatora covers her mouth like a fucking kidnapper and pulls her away from the guards' sights. No, he isn't just pulling her—he's dragging her. She is being dragged like a barbarian. "Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?"

Yatora lets her go once they are inside the Bvlgari exhibition room, pulling her down with him underneath a table—she isn't sure, she can't see anything in this darkness other than the fact that he is fucking insane. Yuka is so mad she is astonished.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking maniac?" Yuka says, the moment he takes his hands off her. "What th—"

Yatora puts his hand over her mouth again, and holy shit, the fucking audacity! "Shh!" Yatora hisses at her. "Shut up."

Yuka roughly takes away Yatora's hand from her mouth and then slaps him.

Silence. She can't see him, but she can almost feel Yatora staring at her in shock. "You slapped me," Yatora says then, seemingly so surprised that he forgot to even whisper.

"Yes, I did!" she pauses, remembering their situation, and then pinces her voice low. "Yes, I did. Don't ever fucking put your hand on me like that again you assh—"

"I think I saw someone go inside," a faraway voice says. The security guard. "Let's split up and search. What's the police ETA?"

"They should be here in ten minutes.."

Both of them freeze. It's cramped under the table—Yatora's shoulders are pressed against hers, and if she focuses enough she can feel his breath fanning on her cheek. "Has the other team managed to open the Picasso room yet?"

"No, the electric lock won't budge due to the power failure. They're still trying, but there isn't much progress so far..."

What the hell is she even doing? What's stopping her to just—walk out? Like hello, officer? I think I'm lost?

Like, shit. Isn't she implicating herself by hiding?

Yuka swallows. She can barely see anything from down here—darkness aside, the velvet cloth covering the table is long enough that they shouldn't be visible for whoever is outside either. Blood pumping, she watches the light from the guards' flashlight moving in the shadow. The footsteps come nearer, and her heart jumps in her chest. She can feel Yatora's body going tense. "No one's here, let's go. Has the other team blockaded all exits and entrances?"

The voices and the footsteps recede, but none of them move still until it's completely silent. Yuka hears the door close and breathes, harshly. What the fuck. "What," Yuka says, not finding it in her to raise her voice above a whisper, "in the goddamn hell is going on?"

She can still feel Yatora's breath on her, warm and ticklish. She can't believe this situation. What is even this situation? She is impressed by the bravado in her voice when she says, "And can we fucking get out of here already? It's hot as hell."

"No," Yatora's voice finally comes, just as quiet. He doesn't sound different, Yuka thinks suddenly. Even like this, in this bizarre fucking situation, he still sounds exactly like how he did all those years ago. And Yuka is surprised that she even still remembers how he sounded all those years ago. "Let's lay low for a couple of minutes in case they come back."

"And why the fuck should I listen to you?" Yuka says, but she doesn't move. And then, "Yatora. Seriously. What the hell is going on? Why are we—" she laughs, she can't help it, it's so fucking absurd. "Why are you hiding from the fucking security guards?"

Yatora doesn't answer. And he doesn't need to, really. Fucking anybody can put two and two together. Why would Yatora hide? Why would he run? He wouldn't.

Not unless he is the one they're looking for.

"Are you the fucking thief?" Yuka says.

Yatora inhales, sharp. "Ryuji—"

"Don't call me that," Yuka cuts him. She doesn't fucking care if they are in the middle of a life or jail situation or if Yatora is a fucking yakuza or just a fucking honest-to-god art thief. He should stop calling her that. "Don't fucking call me that."

There is a hesitant beat. And then Yatora sighs, the gust of breath sending goosebumps on her skin. "Yuka. Sorry," he says. "Fuck." There is a shifting sound, and his voice sounds dampened, as if he's put his face into his hands. And then he laughs, a shaky, humorless sound. "Holy shit," he says, in the tone of someone who fucked up big time. "I fucked up."

All right. Okay. "All right, whatever," Yuka says. "Clearly you are doing some illegal yakuza shit—"

"I'm not yakuza."

"Okay, whatever the fuck you are, it is not fucking legal, so fuck labels, all right?" Yuka says, annoyed. "And whatever unlabeled illegal shit you are doing, you're clearly fucking it up. And see, the thing is, I'm an innocent fucking civilian. Okay? I'm a fucking bystander here, and I am not looking forward to spend the next three years of my life in jail over something I have nothing to do with whatsoever—"

"I know," Yatora says, his voice clear again, but pinched. "I know. I'm thinking."

Then he better do it fast, because Yuka is not liking her chances. Even if she pleads innocent in the worst case scenario, they're gonna find out that the two of them were classmates at some point and that would not look good on her. Please, your honor, I'm not an accomplice, I swear. We really haven't talked since high school, pinky promise. We just ran into each other! Coincidentally! And hid under a fucking table together! Coincidentally!

This really is turning into the funniest fucking day ever. Life really does come at you fast, Yuka thinks. One moment you are having a panic attack and the next you are going to jail because your old classmate turned out to be stealing a fucking Picasso. "Are you done thinking?" Yuka says. "Or do you need five more minutes to gather your goddamn thoughts?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck me? Fuck you! You brought me into this!"

"Well, if you had watched where you were going—"

"How was I supposed to do that in complete fucking darkness, genius? And you were the one who—"

"No, it was you who—" Yatora makes a frustrated sound, as if Yuka is the one being a fucking ass right now. "All right. Listen. The power is only out for twenty minutes. So we only have less than fifteen minutes left until the cameras turn back on, and when that happens, we are fucked—"

"—you mean, you are fucked—"

"Yes, I'm fucked, and if I fuck up some more, then you're fucked too, so fucking listen to me," Yatora says, and holy shit, has he always been this much of an asshole? "We have to get out before the fifteen minutes are up. You'll use the fire escape stairs to go down, and then you'll just join the other visitors like nothing happened. If no one sees us together, you're in the clear. That fucking simple. Got that?"

"What about you?"

"What?"

"What are you gonna do?"

A pause. "I'll exit the building."

"They're blocking the exits and entrances," Yuka points out.

Yatora sounds annoyed, which is just real annoying. "I have my own plan."

"Okay, and what is that, James Bond?" Yuka says. She can barely see it, but she knows Yatora is glaring at her. "What? If you fuck up and I get dragged to your shit again—"

"The glass facade," Yatora hisses. "I'll get out through the glass facade, okay? My partner is waiting for me outside and I fucking missed my time window because of this shit, so we need to move now."

Yuka frowns. "The glass facade?" The glass windows surrounding the entire building. It does make sense, she supposes; one of them is big enough for a grown man to go through. It's a long way down though. "You're going to scale the building to escape? Like fucking Mission Impossible?"

"Fuck you," Yatora says.

They get out of the table, and goddamn, it really was hot under there. Yuka is positively drenching through her sundress and she suspects her hair is beyond help. "Now what?"

"Shh!"

Asshole. But Yuka stays quiet, following closely behind him as they creep to the exhibition door like some bad rendition of Tom and fucking Jerry. The jewellery room is absolutely pitch black, none of its exhibitions visible in this darkness. Yatora carefully opens the door, checking for guards. The alarm is still wailing, now audible again once they are out of the exhibition room. She can still hear some sort of ruckus still going on—maybe on the lower floors, but she doesn't dare peek through the railing to take a look. "It's clear," Yatora tells her. "You can go to the fire stairs next to the toilets. Just act normal and you're good. If they ask, make up some reason to—"

"What are you doing?" The hallway is bright enough that she can see Yatora unbuttoning his shirt, revealing another shirt underneath with some sort of—harness … thing around his midriff. Holy shit, he really is going to scale down the building. "Shit, Yatora. How many times have you done this before?"

Yatora stops, and then looks up at her. "Listen R—Yuka. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"No shit."

"And this didn't happen."

Yuka stares at him. He stares back. She hasn't seen this face in so long. She hasn't heard this voice in so long. Yatora stares at her, in his unbuttoned security guard uniform, ready to escape the crime scene. She can't see his expression clearly, but his voice is flat. "You asked me if I was yakuza. I'm not. I just work for one. Do you understand what that means?"

Oh, she realizes.

He is threatening her.

Yuka is wordless for a second. It's surreal. It's hilarious. This is the funniest, least boring thing that has happened to her in years, and Yuka wants to laugh.

What the fuck happened to you? Yuka wants to say, but she doesn't. Because, really, she could say the same to herself. What the fuck happened to her? What the fuck happened to all of them?

"It's cute that you think you're so scary, Yatora," says Yuka finally. "But I guess I shouldn't call you by that name anymore. Or at all."

Yatora says nothing. And then she turns and leaves for the fire stairs.

It's empty and dark. The door closes behind her with a bang as she makes her descent. She gropes in the dark, barely seeing anything, careful as to not to trip on her heels and possibly break her neck. She wonders if that really just happened. She wonders if she can still get that cheeseburger. She wonders if that really just fucking happened.

Two years. A lot of things can change in two years. A lot of things can change, she has found, in fifteen fucking minutes.

The moment Yuka exits the fire stairs of the ground floor, the lights turn on, disorienting. She squints, holding a hand over her eyes. That alarm is still on, a loud grating sound. "You there! Excuse me, miss, are you a visitor?"

There are a lot of people on the ground floor—much more than Yuka thought they would be. Fourty, perhaps? They're standing together in one spot, with guards in between. One of them is approaching her. "Yes," she says. Her heart jumps. "Sorry, were we meant to gather here? I didn't know."

"Could you show me your ticket, please?"

Tic—? Oh shit. Her ticket is with Minato-kun. Yuka swallows and fixes an ingratiating smile on her face. "Um … give me a moment.." she opens up her purse, fumbling. Fuck, fuck. What does she do? Actually, what the fuck is she so nervous for? It's not like she did anything wrong. It's not like she—it's not like she fucking stole anything.

"Is there a problem?"

"Kuwana-san.."

Yuka looks up—it's the hot attendant with the wolf cut, approaching them with concern on her face. Great, now there are two of them. "I'm sorry," Yuka attempts to put on her guiltiest, sweetest, damsel-in-distress-est smile. "It seems I may have misplaced my ticket.."

"Happens to the best of us," Kuwana says sympathetically. She turns to the security guard. "I personally attended this lady half an hour ago—she exited the exhibition before the"—her face darkens—"the incident happened. She's fine."

"Understood, ma'am."

"Sorry about all this," Kuwana says, sighing apologetically. She looks a little tense now that Yuka has a closer look. "It's such a mess. There had been a break-in right after your time slot. Everyone is high-strung, and we can't let anyone out of the museum yet.."

"Oh," Yuka says. Her hands are sweaty with nerves. "Was anything stolen?"

"Well, we managed to get the door open now that the power is back on, and nothing seems to be missing. It could've been just a false alarm. A real mess," she says. "But we can't confirm anything yet until we've audited the paintings for fakes—"

"Kuwana-san," a different security guard comes up to them. She must be someone important for them to report to her like this, Yuka thinks. Even though she looks so young. "A suspicious figure has been spotted in the forest area. The police are currently in pursuit. The chief inspector would like to talk to you—"

"I see," Kuwana's face grows darker. She still manages to send a short smile Yuka's way before she leaves. "Please excuse me."

Yuka watches them leave. Another security guard asks her to join the other visitors. They are supposed to wait until the police get here to interrogate them as witnesses, he explains. We are very sorry about the inconvenience but please lend us your cooperation..

Et cetera et cetera.

Boring.

They're quite efficient. They lead the visitors to the cafeteria area where they can sit while waiting. They're even distributing a bottle of water for everyone. A few police officers have entered a building, conversing with the security guards. Kuwana is nowhere to be seen, though. It looks like they are going to take everyone's names and contact numbers.

Yuka sits down. Stares at her hands. The alarm stopped a while ago. She pulls up her mints from her purse, counts them on the table and arranges them in all sorts of positions. Flower. House.

A suspicious figure. Wonder who that could be?

She arranges the mints into I love you in hiragana and finds that she doesn't have enough mints to arrange them into I love you in hiragana.

I missed my time window—

If she does nothing now, Yuka thinks, she'll never see him again. No matter what the outcome of tonight is. They'll just never see each other again. And more than that, they'll never talk to each other again.

And so what? Yuka is gaining nothing out of this. And after all—that phone call. Night air biting against her bare shoulders. After then come see me. Right now.

He didn't. He hadn't come to see her that night. And then they had stopped talking.

There was no other reason. There was no big reason. They just stopped being—friends, and then that was it. And then they were out of each other's lives. It's nothing special, or monumental, or anything at all.

He had no obligation to meet her that night. She knows that. Because they weren't friends. And nobody, Yuka thinks, has had any obligation towards Yuka in a very long time. Just like how Yuka has no obligations towards anyone else.

Obligation and love are very different things. Love is easy. Love is in abundance. Love and beauty go hand in hand, and Yuka has been in the business of beauty for a long time. Yuka deserves love because—if—she is beautiful. It's very simple. Love is the leash that keeps her beautiful. She offers herself for love, and it's the perfect exchange. It has kept her alive till now.

But Yuka has nothing to offer in exchange of obligation, because there is nothing about Yuka that deserves even a little bit of it.

Yatora had no obligation towards her that night. Just like how she has no obligations towards Yatora now. Not even a little bit of it.

That's right. She should just get this over with. She'll make up some bullshit to get out of the interrogation. Yuka will order a cheeseburger, take a bus ride home, and then go to sleep. And then she'll go to work. And date men in her free time. Stare at jewelleries. And then maybe break her neck. Standard procedure.

That's what she should do.

"Excuse me," Yuka says, to the nearest security guard. "So sorry. But I really, really, really need to pee. May I use the ladies, please?"

Yuka goes to the bathroom, takes a piss, and climbs out through the window.

Yuka is glad she chose the sundress today—it makes moving way easier. She grunts, landing on the lush grass outside. She can immediately hear police sirens. She pats down her dress, and then looks up to the forest area outside the museum.

Okay. What now?

"Where is team A?"

"They're checking over the southwest area.."

Fuck, cops. Yuka ducks behind a ginkgo tree. She wonders why the hell she's doing this, and if she actually is insane. What's gonna happen if they catch her? Hello, officer, I think I'm lost. She wonders if that'll work out hypothetically twice. Maybe she should play damsel in distress, all old-fashioned Bond Girl-like, feminine wiles and all that. She should do that. Oh, officer. I feel faint. Everything is spinning. I'm—

"Heads up! Team A spotted the perp near the pavilion!"

The police move. She's about to follow when someone grabs her arm and pulls her down. "What the hell," Yatora says, once again dragging her to the bushes, "is fucking wrong with you."

That will remain a mystery, because Yuka can't afford therapy. Yuka looks at the way his arm circles around her waist. "You should buy me dinner first."

Yuka is almost offended by the speed in which Yatora lets her go. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" Yuka shoots back. "I thought you said you were gonna rendezvous with your criminal yakuza art thief partner or whatever."

"I thought you didn't want to get involved in my shit or whatever," Yatora shoots back. "So I guess both of us are getting fucking surprise presents right now."

The forest area, Yuka finds, is too clean to be an actual forest. The trees and grasses and bushes are real, but too meticulous to be grown organically—she bets they aren't even any critters here. The shrubberies are arranged neatly throughout the premises, every hedge and thicket strategically architectured. It's too sparse and too pretty to be a proper hiding place, which means it won't be long until the cops spot them for real. "Want a mint?" Yuka says, fumbling with her purse. "Oh, I ran out." She had left the unfinished I love you mints on the table back inside the museum.

Yatora says nothing. He just stares at her.

"Want a smoke?" Yuka says, pulling up a pack.

Yatora says nothing, still staring. And then he says, "You're insane."

Yuka says nothing. She pulls up her lighter, flicking it over and over in annoyance. Fuck, it's out of fluid of all fucking times—

A lighter is shoved under her cigarette. Yuka looks up. Yatora says nothing again, just stares back at her with his lighter in his fist. And then Yuka leans forward, the tip of her cigarette catching fire.

She breathes smoke. "Sure you don't want one?"

"You smoke now," Yatora says flatly. As if it's something that matters in this crazy situation they've found themselves in.

"Don't you?" Yuka says, drily. And then, remembering an old memory of a Monday morning and a crumpled pack of cigarettes, "Social smoking counts too, you know."

Yatora scowls. But then his face changes. "I never apologized for what I said back then," Yatora says. "I'm sorry."

You worry me, Ryuji. Yuka wants to laugh. Why the hell are they even talking about this? But then she says, a little cruelly, "It was good advice."

Yatora looks somewhere between exasperated and, oh, guilty. Which doesn't feel as satisfying as Yuka wanted it to be. "Yuka—"

"What are you apologizing for?" Yuka says flatly. "For calling my face pretty when we were, what, sixteen?"

"I just mean—"

"So you're saying my face isn't pretty?"

Those emotions again, flashing on his face. Yuka remembers this. She likes seeing him oh so fucking annoyed, because when he's like this, he no longer has that fake, perfect fucking smile on his face. She remembers that.

"Goddamn it, have you always been such an asshole?" he says finally. And then, "give me one."

She hands one over. "This counts as social smoking."

"Shut up."

He still holds his cigarette the same way, Yuka thinks. And she wonders again why she still remembers. "You should go," Yatora says, lighting his cigarette. The fire casts a light to his eyes, shining golden in the night. "There's still time, probably."

Yuka shrugs, an eh gesture. The both of them are sitting on the grass—it's itchy and uncomfortable against her thighs. She flicks ashes off her cigarette. "What about you?"

He looks at Yuka, a sideway glance. "Oh, what the hell," he says after a while, in the tone of someone who no longer gives a fuck. "Sure, I'll tell you, why the fuck not."

The streetlight casts a sharp shadow across his cheekbone, cutting. His features are still the same as she remembers them to be—the doe eyes, the angular face. But just like his gait, something is different now. Matured. "My partner was supposed to pick me up but I missed my window, so he changed location. I still have some grace time left, but.." he grins to himself, manic. "This place is crawling with cops. It's over for me."

"Oh," Yuka says. "Sorry, I guess."

He shrugs, like eh. "Can I have another one? Thanks." He lights another one. "You really should go if you—what'd you say—don't wanna spend the next three years in jail. Unless you got a good lawyer on your back."

"They're here," Yuka says.

"What?" Yatora pales immediately the moment he spots the police. There is only one of them, though it seems like he hasn't spotted them. Yet. "Fuck."

For all his bravado, Yatora doesn't seem to be pleased about the prospect of being over. That manic grin is still on his face, but there is something new—fear. For a moment Yuka thinks he's going to run. But then he says, "Go. Get back to the museum or make a run for it—whatever. I'll distract him."

"Button up your shirt," Yuka says.

Yatora's security uniform is still unbuttoned, showing the shirt underneath and the harness. "What?" Yuka clicks her tongue, pushing forward to button it up herself since this asshole is just standing there like a moron. "What—"

"Listen, stupid," she says. She takes a stray leaf in Yatora's hair and throws it away. Ugh, his uniform is so fucking rumpled—Yuka attempts to smooth it down in annoyance. "Just follow my lead, all right?"

"What the hell are you—Yuka—"

Yuka ignores him, too busy pinching her cheeks until they're red. "Shut up," Yuka curses the fact that she didn't bother to fix her mascara after her mental breakdown. "How do I look?"

"I—" Yatora looks so bewildered that the look of fear is completely gone from his face. "You're—okay?"

Yuka is offended. "That's it?"

"I mean—"

Yuka doesn't wait for him to finish. Ignoring his protests, she drags Yatora out of the woods, and then she throws herself into his arms.

Yatora is so surprised that he almost doesn't catch her. "What the hell are you—"

"If you drop me, I'll kill you," Yuka tells him. And then, louder, "Oh, officer, I feel faint."

Yatora looks like he is going to protest, but the police officer has taken notice of both of them. "What is going on here?" he demands. "Are you all right, miss?"

"Everything is spinning," Yuka slurs, weak in Yatora's arms. She tries to make herself look small and frail, which is difficult, because Yatora is shorter than her. She sniffs. "I'm going to pass out."

"You do look … a little red, miss," the officer says. To Yatora, he says, "Is she all right?"

"She needed some air, so I helped her outside. They've given her permission to go home earlier," to his credit, Yatora doesn't miss a beat. "The incident gave her a shock."

"I think I have a fever. I feel hot," Yuka says, pulling up her bangs so either men can check her temperature if they deem it necessary. "Do I feel hot?"

The police officer seems to deem it necessary. "You're—you're a little warm, miss—"

"Her boyfriend is picking her up," Yatora cuts. "There is a car waiting for her. Could you let us out of the premises?"

"You shouldn't have said boyfriend," Yuka says, once the both of them are out of earshot. The officer had sputtered and turned red at the mention of boyfriend that he didn't even ask for their names before he led them out. "You should've made him feel like he had a chance."

"Whatever," Yatora says. "I can't fucking believe that even worked."

Yuka shrugs. There are lots of things that you can get away with if you are a beautiful woman, just like there are lots of things that won't let you get away if you are a beautiful woman. And plus, they were really fucking lucky. "You're welcome."

With the officer accompanying them, they had exited the main entrance without a hitch. And to Yuka's mild surprise there is, in fact, a car waiting for them—a sleek, charcoal Audi that nearly blends with the night. It makes sense, somehow—you wouldn't be looking for thieves in luxury cars, Yuka supposes. Its window rolls down the moment Yatora and Yuka approaches, showing its driver.

Yuka stares. The driver grins at her, easy and rakish.

"What did I say?" Guy on the Street #18 says. "You never know, do you?"

Yuka can't help it. She doesn't bother hiding her smile. "Apparently not."

He moves his gaze to Yatora. "Looks like you brought back two pieces of art instead of one, Yatora."

"Save it, Murai," Yatora snaps at him. He enters the passenger seat, and Yuka gets in the back. And then Yatora frowns. "Wait a fucking minute. You two know each other?"

"He gave me his number," Yuka says.

Yatora whips to glare at Murai. "You gave her your number? While on the job?"

"Hey," Murai raises two hands in surrender. "I didn't know you two were exes at the time."

"We are not exes!" snap Yuka and Yatora at the same time.

Murai raises a genuinely surprised eyebrow through the rearview mirror. "You're not exes?"

"What?" Yuka and Yatora look at each other and then promptly look away. "No!"

"What?"

"What?"

"What?"

"Everybody shut up!" Yatora says. "Murai. Drive."

"Anything for you," Murai says, stepping on the gas. His eyes find Yuka's in the rearview. She can't see his mouth from this angle, but she can see the mirth shining in his eyes. "So? Won't you introduce me to your not-ex?"

"That's your priority?" Yatora says, sounding indignant. The line of his shoulders is visibly relaxed, though. "We almost fucked up the job."

"Technically, we did fuck it up," Murai says. He looks at Yuka again with some amusement. "Not that I don't enjoy your presence, Not-Yatora's-Ex-san, but Maki will flip the fuck out that we brought a stranger into the operation. Speaking of, you should call her," Murai tells Yatora. "She's losing her shit. She thought you wouldn't make it."

"She's gonna yell at me," Yatora says, putting up a phone to his ear.

"She's gonna yell at you," Murai agrees.

"You fucking dumbass!" Yells the voice from Yatora's speaker. "What the fuck were you thinking? You almost fucked up the job!"

"Sorry."

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you gave me?" The speaker sounds a tad calmer now, and to Yuka's surprise, the voice sounds somewhat familiar. "I have to lobby the media to not make a big deal out of this and you know how much I fucking hate that shit. What the fuck took you so long? It was supposed to be a simple extraction!"

Yuka can hear the cringe in Yatora's voice. "Sorry," he says again. "I owe you one, Kuwana-san."

Kuwa—? Oh. Yuka shakes her head to herself, laughing silently. Of fucking course. The fucking attendant.

There is a sigh through the speaker. "Just tell me you have the package with you."

"We do. We are on the way to the safe house," Yatora turns to Murai. "Is Hachiro-san still on schedule to pick up the package—?"

"He is," Murai confirms.

"Hachiro-san is on schedule to pick up the package," Yatora says to the phone. "Everything is fine.."

"Good," Kuwana sighs again. Her voice turns suspicious. "Why does it sound like there is a but in there?"

"Well, talk to you later," Yatora says. "Thanks for your work, Kuwana-san."

"Yatora, I swe—" Yatora ends the call.

"She's gonna yell at you later," Murai says.

"She's gonna yell at me later," Yatora agrees. And then he turns to look at Yuka in the backseat.

The both of them look at each other in silence. The car goes into a tunnel, lights flitting through the car in rhythmical beats. There is that look again in Yatora's eyes—flat and calculating. "You're now an accomplice in this theft," Yatora says. "You're aware if you report us to the authorities you will only be fucking yourself over?"

"It's cute that you think you're so scary, Yatora," says Yuka.

"This tension you two got going on is kinda hot," Murai says from the front. "But can you please introduce her to me already?"

---

Their "safe house" is a high-rise apartment in Ikebukuro, one that makes Yuka regret not wearing anything branded once she steps inside. She shifts self-consciously on the mirrored lift as they get to the 24th floor, Yatora and Murai standing on either side of her like bodyguards. The hallway is empty and clean and blandly elegant, like a hotel. There is a faint scent of jasmine in the air.

Yatora had changed into a casual sweater in the car, looking unbothered by the show of wealth around him. "Don't touch anything," Yatora tells her, before opening one of the doors with a card key.

"Except for me," Murai winks at her.

"You are disgusting," Yatora says, exiting the room to enter one of many littered in the hallway, leaving Yuka and Murai in what probably is the living room. It's a big space. Spotless, cream-colored with gold accents. Rococo furniture and ceiling-height windows. There is a huge mirror covering the entire wall behind a grand piano. Yuka did always have a suspicion that crime is much more profitable than its counterpart.

"Drinks?" Murai says, gesturing Yuka to sit as if this is a house visit. He goes to a cabinet at the other side of the room. "Water? Tea? Whiskey?"

"Water is fine."

"So," Murai says, handing her a glass of water. "Yuka-san, huh?"

She sits on the sofa, a spotless, cream colored chaise lounge whose dry-cleaning fee must be two times Yuka's salary. "So," she says, sipping her water. "Murai-san, huh?"

"Murai is fine."

"Then Yuka is fine."

"You are taking this pretty calmly, Yuka," Murai says, tilting his head at her. He sits down next to her—and, she notes, giving an unexpectedly wide berth between the two of them. Yuka appreciates that. "We are criminals, you know."

Even as he says that, that humor still stays in his face, like this is a little funny to him. It is a little funny to Yuka too. "I know," Yuka says. Yatora was probably right. Yuka is probably insane. "Can I smoke here?"

"Why, you can do anything you want here," Murai says. "Or anybody, as a matter of fact."

"Nobody is doing anybody," Yatora says, entering the room once again, carrying what looks like a jewellery box. "You are disgusting."

"You're welcome to join," Murai says cheerfully, and Yatora sends him a nasty sneer. "Over my dead—"

"I have some questions," Yuka says.

Yatora and Murai pause, turning to look at her. Yuka looks at them right back, crossing her legs daintily. She puts the glass on the coffee table before leaning back on the sofa. It's a very comfortable sofa. "I have two questions, to be precise."

Yatora and Murai look at each other. And then Yatora sits on the sofa across from her, mirroring Yuka as he leans back. "Shoot."

"First," Yuka says. "What's gonna happen to me?"

There are a few beats of silence before Yatora answers. "I don't know," he says, honest. That calculating look again. "We're gonna have to talk it out with Kuwana. And then she'll talk it out to the higher-ups," Yatora purses his mouth. "Maybe they'll fire me over this mishap. But you? I don't know."

"Okay," Yuka says. That's better than her getting shot in the head without preambles, or whatever it is yakuza do. "Second. Where's the painting?"

Yatora blinks at her. "Painting?"

"The painting that you stole," Yuka says. "You weren't carrying anything back in the forest. Or in the car." It didn't make sense. She thought he had failed to steal anything, but didn't he say he had secured the package? Yuka might not be well-versed in criminal lingo but that one seemed to be pretty obvious. "So where is it?"

Silence. And then Murai starts laughing.

Yuka stares at them, puzzled. Yatora is staring at her. "Who said we were stealing a painting?" Yatora says.

What. "But.." she blinks. "Didn't you steal a Picasso—?"

Yatora curls his nose. "Why would we steal a Picasso?" he scoffs. "It's a pain in the ass selling Picassos through proper channels. His shit is so oversaturated in the black market that you have to bend over backwards to convince anyone your Picasso is real."

But the alarm—and the exhibit room being locked—

Nothing seems to be missing. It could've been just a false alarm.

Oh.

Understanding sinks in. "It was a distraction," Yuka says, a realization. "The Picasso was a distraction. What you stole is something else."

That's it. All of the guards were too busy guarding the Picasso and trying to open the door while the other exhibitions were left perfectly empty. That's why there was nobody on the third floor. That's why the Bvlgari room was completely deserted. Of fucking course. So the question is—

"Then what exactly," Yuka says, "did you steal?"

Yatora says nothing, looking at her with that irritating blank face again. And then Murai says, amused, "You wanna see?"

"Murai," Yatora warns.

"Why not?" Murai says. "She did help you steal it, you know. If it weren't for her, this job would've been fucked. If it weren't for her, you wouldn't even be here. If it weren't for her—"

"Shut up," Yatora says. But then he stands up. "Fine. Just a look, got it? Don't fucking touch it."

When he returns to the room, he's carrying his security guard uniform in his hands. He's wearing gloves, Yuka notes, as he lays the shirt on the table. He unbuttons the right breast pocket, and from it, pulls out a small black pouch. Velvet, judging from the way the chandelier's light shines on it. Yatora pulls the strings and opens it up. Yuka stares.

Royal in the most visual sense of the word. An entire galaxy hanging on a string.

"We swapped the necklace with a fake one," Murai says cheerily. "They'll never notice anything is missing—unless they inspect the necklace for certification, of course. But why would they? The Picasso was the one compromised."

"Are you done explaining our MO to a fucking outsider?" Yatora says, annoyed. "All right, now that you're done looking—"

"Wanna wear it?" Murai says.

"Murai."

"Oh, relax, Yatora," Murai isn't looking at him, though; he is looking at Yuka, that easy grin on his face, teeth bared. His voice is low and tempting. "You wanna try it on?"

"No one is trying anything on!" Yatora snaps. "This necklace is worth six million US—"

"And we'll get that money, sweetheart," Murai says. Yatora sputters, momentarily speechless by the nickname. "But for now, let the necklace do what it was made to do, eh? Let it be worn by a beauty for one last time before it disappears into the depths of black market and money laundering."

"Murai—"

"Come on, Yatora," Murai says, still with that low, beguiling tone. "She did save your ass, y'know? Didn't you, Yuka?"

"I did," Yuka says, eyes unmoving on the necklace. "I very much did, yes."

"He owes you big time, doesn't he?"

"Fuck you," Yatora says, and Murai laughs. Yuka finally tears her eyes away from the necklace to look Yatora in the eye. "I want to wear it," Yuka says.

"No," Yatora says.

"You owe me," Yuka says.

Yatora stares at her, jaw clenching. And then he sighs. Still a pushover, Yuka realizes. Even after everything.

It's a little funny. It's a little adorable.

"Just for ten seconds," Yatora warns her. "Got it?"

"Thirty," Yuka says.

Yatora glares at her. "Five."

Yuka rolls her eyes, but her heart is jumping with excitement. "Fine, asshole."

She sits next on the sofa next to Yatora, turning her back on him. "Your hair." Yuka pulls her hair up obediently. And then Yatora puts the necklace around her.

The cold of the metal is startling, stinging against her collarbone—and slowly, the rest of the necklace is draped on her neck. Yuka breathes, sharp. She can feel Yatora's gloved fingers brushing her nape as he secures the clasp carefully, sending goosebumps on her skin. Yatora huffs, warm against her neck. "There."

Murai whistles from his seat. Yuka stands up, walking to the mirrored wall. It doesn't pair well with the color of her sundress, but that doesn't matter—the necklace overwhelms. It's the first thing she looks at in the mirror, and perhaps the first thing people look at if they look at her right now.

Elizabeth Taylor had exceptional violet eyes. Maybe that's why she had loved this necklace.

"Looks good on you," Murai says. "Brings out your eyes."

"That's enough," Yatora says pissily, walking to take the necklace off her. He stores it carefully inside the jewellery box he had brought, shutting it close with finality. "We don't play with assets like this."

"Spoilsport," Murai says affectionately. To Yuka, he says, "So. What d'you think?"

Heavy. That's Yuka's first thought. It was heavy around her neck, and cold where it touched her skin. The weight, Yuka thinks, of beauty. It strained her neck.

Like a leash.

Yuka looks down. On her right wrist is the bracelet Mori-senpai gave her—small, dainty, and modest. Light. It weighs like nothing compared to the necklace. She traces the marigold idly with a finger.

"It's overpriced," Yuka says.

---

"Kuwana-san's gonna be here in a few," Yatora says, entering the balcony behind her. "We'll decide what to do with you then."

Yuka hums. She can see half of Tokyo from here, the city lights glimmering like diamonds. It's windy up here. The breeze brings about the city scent—concrete and smoke—ever so faintly. The night air is cold against her bare shoulders. Yuka blows smoke, its tendrils dissipating into the sky. "Okay."

Yatora leans over the railing next to her. "You really don't care," Yatora observes. "We are criminals. Do you understand that?"

Yuka shrugs. She takes her cigarette off her mouth and offers it to Yatora. "Aren't I an accomplice now?"

Yatora stares at her, and then at the cigarette. The end of it is lipsticked from Yuka's mouth. "You are," he says, taking it from her.

Yuka watches as Yatora puts the cigarette in his mouth. "Then I think I do understand," she says.

Yatora inhales once, and then twice before handing the smoke back to her. He says, "Do you remember that phone call?"

"What phone call?" Yuka says, even though she does. Of course she does.

"That night. After the first day of the entrance exam. Or maybe the second, I don't remember," Yatora pauses. "The last time we talked. Do you remember that?"

Yuka never told anyone about that phone call. Not even Mori. There was nothing to tell, for one. It wasn't like they had a shouting match. It wasn't like they hurled insults to one another. It wasn't like they said I hate you.

It was just Yatora saying, is there anything I can do for you? It was just Yuka saying, then come see me right now.

And it was just Yatora not coming.

It's nothing special. Or monumental. "Oh. That."

"That night," Yatora begins. And then pauses. "I'm s—"

"Don't apologize," Yuka says. "That night. You had no obligation to come." Yuka pauses. "You didn't have to come. And you didn't. And that's it." She hands the cigarette to him.

He takes it, his movement slow. "That's it," he echoes, and it sounds nearly like a question.

"That's it," Yuka repeats. That's all there is. Because obligation, unlike love, is without want. Obligation wants nothing from Yuka. And that's why Yuka will never deserve obligation, because if Yuka can offer nothing, then why should she ever be deserving of anything at all?

And after all. Yatora wasn't—isn't even in love with her. So why would he be obligated to do anything for her?

"Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I did," Yatora says into their sudden silence. "If I had—if I had come."

Yuka does too. Maybe they would've still been friends. Maybe they would've still talked. Maybe—

"Maybe things would've been different." Yatora's voice is honest. Not sentimental, just honest. He sighs, smoke billowing in the dark. "Thanks," he says, offering her cigarette back. "For coming. Back there. You didn't have to."

"I know," Yuka says.

So why did she?

Yuka, after all, doesn't know what she wants. She never does. She doesn't even know what she wants to be. All she knows is that she wants, badly. She wants to be everything. She wants—she wants everything.

Yuka looks over the Tokyo skyline. The scattered lights, like jewels, like diamonds. Amethysts, sapphires, emeralds. Draped over the black velvet of the night sky. And then Yuka wonders.

Yuka doesn't know what she wants. But if Yuka wants everything—if she wants absolutely everything—

Then why not just take them all?

"Say … I think I've got a third question, after all." The cherry end of her smoke flares as she inhales, deep. "You know, Yatora," she says. "I've been thinking about quitting my job for a while."

Yatora looks at her. Yuka looks back. Smiles. She takes one last inhale before handing the cigarette to Yatora.

"So," she says. "Are you guys hiring?"