author's note: This wound up being a little rushed because I'm annoyed with myself for taking so long to finish it. Apologies for the potential dip in quality, but sometimes you just gotta get a thing out there.
Reminder that while the names and brands mentioned are loosely based on real life parallels, they are ultimately fictitious.
The St. Agnes hotel was a curious yet elegant bastardization of multiple architectural influences. Its high gables stretching across the front; its gothic tracery webbing over the buttresses; its Tudor windows lit up from within with golden light. At night, the pale brick flushed bright pink. Flags from different nations fluttered high above the silk parapets.
Outside the sky was a sullen, darkening gray color, but the weather had held so far. People in a wide variety and degree of clothes thronged around the hotel plaza. Rika caught Henry politely averting his gaze from the women wearing translucent tops or nothing at all and stifled a smile. He was cute—no, not cute. Just normal, just her friend, same as always.
"I feel both underdressed and overdressed, somehow." Henry tugged at the cufflinks of his suit.
"Nah, you're fine. Boring, but fine."
"Gee, thanks."
Rika smirked. She had worn a Tokyo Nation greaser jacket and low-rise leather jeans. Tailored into the back of the jacket were detailed yellow cherry blossom petals flowing from the right shoulder down to the left hip. Something Rika had learned over the years was that there was more to fashion than frilly dresses.
Her phone beeped. A text from Rumiko: all clear.
She grabbed Henry by the arm and tugged him through the crowd. "C'mon. There's something I want to show you."
"Ah! Okay, okay." Henry laughed but let her lead him forward without struggle. His skin felt warm and pliable beneath her fingers, the fine hairs dusting his arms downy-soft beneath her palm. Rika was glad Henry could not see her face, because it was fast turning cherry red.
They nipped into the hotel, Rika guiding them unerringly toward where the models prepped. The security guard recognized her and let them pass without comment, although he did smile indulgently at Rika. She smiled back, distracted, as they ducked into Rumiko's changing room.
"Goodness, Rika, there you are. And Henry, hello." Rumiko was having the finishing touches to her hair and makeup done by a stylist. She was already garbed in a beautiful cotton and chiffon dress decorated with vivid, intricate embroidery. The designer, from what Rika understood, had an obsession (a redundancy, perhaps) behind the process of gathering materials for his outfits. He would travel to distant parts of the world to find assorted fabrics and dyes specific to those regions.
"Hello, Mrs. Nonaka." Henry bowed.
Rika suddenly realized she was still holding Henry's arm. The dork had been too polite to say anything about it. She let go as though scalded, crossing her arms over her chest.
"So this is the Henry?" Rumiko's stylist, Monique, asked. Her voice carried that in-between pitch of someone transitioning, square jaw framed by long curls. Her silver eye shadow sparkled brightly under the room's lights. "It's nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too." Henry replied back with a respectful half-bow.
Rumiko clapped. "Oh, this is going to be fun! How wonderful. I won't be able to stay, but make sure you take lots of pictures for me, promise Rika?"
"Sure," Rika said.
"Pictures?" Henry asked.
"We knew you'd wear something boring, so we ordered a couple outfits for you to try out." Rika went deadpan.
"One man's boring is another man's comfort." Henry's tone remained unperturbed, but a hint of nervousness flashed across his face.
"Bah! It's fashion week!" Monique spoke rapidly in Portuguese for a moment. "You must, live a little! You have the rest of your life to be comfortable."
Rika smirked at Henry. He rubbed the back of his head, expression wry, then shrugged. "All right."
"You really are smart." Rumiko laughed. "No one tells Monique no and gets away with it."
There was a kerfuffle as Rumiko's prep work finished. She checked herself out in the vanity mirror, then beamed and blew Rika a kiss. Rika rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched with good humor. "Have fun, you two. Oh, but not too much fun! Wouldn't want you to miss my walk."
"Yes, ma'am," Henry said.
Rika shrugged.
With that, Rumiko flounced out of the room. Monique had already begun circling Henry. She squinted at him.
"Oh. My. God," Monique said in English before switching to Japanese again. "You have amazing skin. What's your routine?"
"Um… frequent bathing?" Henry offered.
Monique scoffed. "Youth is wasted on young men. Come, come."
She dragged him into the changing room. Rika occupied Rumiko's chair near the vanity. Unable to help it, Rika glanced at her reflection; her cheeks were a little flushed, but otherwise she looked normal. So why did her insides feel all squirmy? Rika grimaced. This was stupid. A weird, fleeting emotion that would soon pass.
Henry came out of the changing room a few minutes later. He wore a thick, flowing western-influenced kimono constructed from heavier material—probably wool—textured in woven brocade. His shoes were suede and his hair had been lightly styled, now having a calculated mussed look to it. The new clothes were tailored to his proportions, accentuating his broadening shoulders. Rika swallowed. She fought the sudden urge to trace her hands along the seams of the robe, following the flow of the material to cup his cheek.
"I'm surprised this fits so well." Henry adjusted the obi at his waist, gesture a mixture of rueful embarrassment and pleasant surprise.
"Thank Terriermon for that," Rika drawled, leaning back in the chair.
Henry's eyes brightened. "You know, that explains so much."
Rika decided she had no interest in learning the finer details.
"He came up with the idea, actually. Something about payback. I may have promised him pictures." Rika held up her cell phone and the camera flashed.
"That little rat." Henry laughed, sounding more impressed than anything. Monique clucked, eyeing him up and down.
"Never mind that. Do you like it?"
"It's nice," Henry said, which was the wrong thing to say.
"Nice? Nice?" Monique harrumphed. "Next one, then."
Half an hour passed with Henry going through a carousel of outfits. He was a good sport about it, voicing zero complaints. Rika's personal favorite was the suit with stuffed animals sewn into the side, mainly because she knew Terriermon would find it hilarious.
But if she was honest with herself, she liked every outfit Henry wore. Each highlighted a different quality about him in one way or another. The poise he carried over from martial arts, his solemn thoughtfulness, his self-assured reliability and confidence. Henry really was…
… beautiful.
Rika rubbed her sweaty palms against her jeans.
"We should wrap this up soon," she said. As enjoyable as this diversion was, Rumiko would be sad if Rika missed her portion of the event. Monique sighed loudly and dramatically but complied.
"I suppose. Which do you like?" she asked Henry, who looked relieved.
He wound up settling on the kimono he had first tried on. Monique would have the tuxedo delivered to their hotel. She then escorted them to the ball room, hovering and muttering over Henry's shoulder.
"How'd the wedding go, anyway?" Rika asked.
"Hmm?" Henry blinked. "Oh, that. It was good. Weird, too. Everyone but Suzie and I are married now in the family."
"The black sheep," Rika said, sardonic. Henry rubbed the back of his head.
"Don't touch your hair," Monique said, not for the first time. Henry apologetically dropped his hand while Rika had to bite down a smile.
The runway had been erected at the center of the ball room. It was surprisingly simple, a long strip of raised platform atop the thick gray carpet. Rows of people were already standing or sitting on either side, photographers in position at the end of the runway.
When the lights dimmed Rika nudged Henry, who glanced away from his phone. She quashed the abrupt, irrational jealousy, fighting the urge to ask who Henry had been texting. Then the models started their walks, and she became absorbed in the event.
There was something ethereal about all of them—they reminded Rika of Renamon, almost. Tall and elegant, their haircuts and features seemingly eschewing gender norms. Many of the outfits weren't designed with the intention of being wearable, but rather to display an abstract idea or concept that would trickle down into design elements within the rest of the fashion world. How some of the models could even move at all, Rika had no idea. They ghosted across the runway, bringing the clothes on their bodies alive with each subtle movement.
Henry seemed similarly spellbound. At one point, he murmured a question, and Rika had to ask him to repeat it. He said, softly, "It's like biomerge digivolution, isn't it? An expression of the self in physical form."
Rika had never quite thought about it that way before, but it rang with an element of truth for her. She nodded. Pride flickered to life when Rumiko appeared near the end of the first showcase, glowing as she strode down the runway. Maintaining a modelling career at her age wasn't easy, yet Rumiko glided forward with effortless confidence.
Once Rumiko went, however, Rika began to feel restless. She enjoyed fashion shows far more now than she ever had as a child, but still only in small doses. Plus, Rika was hungry. She nudged Henry again, brow raised, edging backward toward the exit. Henry stared at her, uncomprehending, before realization flickered to life in his warm gaze.
They crept out into the foyer.
"Wow," Henry said. "That was amazing. Thanks for bringing me."
"Whatever. I'm starving." But Rika was pleased. Henry chuckled, following her without protest or even comment.
It was raining outside. A thick curtain falling in gray sheets from the dark sky.
They watched the fat droplets dribble down the glass pane of the revolving door. Light from the hotel refracted through the water, casting miniature rainbows within the growing darkness beyond.
"Should we call a cab?" Henry asked.
Rika considered the possibility. But it wasn't like the hole-in-the-wall restaurant was far. "Nah."
She took off, sprinting through the door. Behind her, Henry yelped, but Rika didn't need to look back to know he would follow. Water from puddles splashed up as she pounded through them, drenching her expensive leather clothes. Her mother would be annoyed, but in the moment Rika could not care less.
Renamon touched base, briefly alarmed then amused, returning to her private vigil. Rika rounded the block, running off memory alone, and—there. The restaurant. It glowed effervescent in the night. She skidded to a halt underneath the overhang, doubled over, hands on knees, soaked through and incredibly happy. Henry wasn't far behind, expression both exasperated and fond.
"Monique'll kill me if she sees this, you know."
The folds of Henry's kimono clung to the lines of his wiry muscles. Water shone in his hair like crystalized diamonds. Rika straightened and smirked. "I'll pay for your dry cleaning. And funeral, if necessary."
Henry laughed and shook his head. On impulse, Rika stepped forward and kissed him, standing on tiptoe. His lips were cool, damp. Everything went blank. It was as if the universe fell into place, corrected its off-kilter axis, perfect at last.
Rika and Henry's D-Powers both started ringing, and she came back to her senses. Henry was just standing there, not reciprocating, rigid through and through. Oh, god.
Oh god. What the hell am I doing?
Rika stepped back, heart hammering. The burning heat of a violent blush radiated off her feverish skin. Henry gaped with wide eyes, stunned. The D-Powers continued going off. Henry awkwardly grabbed his and turned it on.
"It's a rogue Digimon," he said, tone stilted, stating the obvious.
Rika wanted to die.