Catnip(v.2) - 5

Sayuri and Asami are walking to the train station at an even later hour than their newly established standard. Though summer is just around the corner, twilight still has one foot firmly stuck in winter: the setting sun brings about a chill in the air made even sharper by the cutting breeze. She’ll remember to bring a jacket one of these days; if she forgets, the weather forecast for next week will definitely not forgive her. Storm season is all but upon them.

Beside her, Asami yawns, lolling tongue peeking out beneath her hand. It’s the third time in a row she’s kept training after practice ended, and Sayuri can’t help wondering if that’s starting taking a toll on her. Where she usually led the charge downhill, now she’s straggling behind Sayuri, barely keeping pace. Of course, that alone would be perfectly fine: with how hard she’s been pushing herself it’d actually be weirder if she weren’t a little tired. But no healthy amount of exercise should leave her so glum and logy.

“So,” Sayuri hesitantly starts, “how’s club been treating you lately?”

“Huh? Oh. Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“I guess regional qualifiers are coming up soon. Captain’s been running us pretty ragged.”

“Is that so,” Sayuri deadpans. It’s not like she doesn’t believe Asami because she does. But even that explanation sounds true, it’s also extremely convenient, almost as if it’s equal parts reasoning and an excuse. It’s enough to make that acid nausea well up in her throat again, that nasty feeling that’s been circling over her head, getting closer and closer to pecking out her heart. “Well, hope your schedule clears up soon.”

“Don’t think it will, honestly.”

“I see.”

Their footsteps drone muffled against the pavement. The once faraway noise of the city has now grown close enough to bleed into the silence.

“Y’know,” Asami mutters, “you don’t have to wait for me every day. I’m sure it gets boring in the library after a while.”

“Eh, it’s not that bad, really.”

“Really? You always complain about it. Saying the seats are too slippery, there’s always someone over-tapping their foot or blaring music through their headphones. You even said it smelled like mildew perfume.”

“I mean, I’m just moaning for the sake of moaning. Trust me, if I hated it that much, I wouldn’t keep going there.”

“Right,” Asami says on an inconclusive note. There’s no doubt in Sayuri’s mind that she wanted to add something else, but a moment’s pause forced her to reconsider. A light pout puffs up her cheek, quickly vanished with a breathless sigh.

Truthfully, she can admit she’s not all that happy with how things have been degenerating between the two of them. But at the same time, she’s not sure whether she prefers the band-aid be yanked off in one fell swoop, or that this ballet of half-measures and unspoken words continue forever. At the very least, she can keep finding some comfort in the confusion. If nothing’s ever made clear, that means there’s always a chance for improvement. Even if it seems to get slimmer and slimmer with every little talk they have.

Rush hour long past them, the train station looks like a shell of itself, the few lagging commuters scattered across the full length of the desolate platform. With no chatter to drown its arrival, the train pulls in like thunder and rolls to a stop with a squeal. For the first time, she can see all the way through to the window on the other side, Tokyo filtered through two layers of glass. The car is empty: no one to get off, no one to rush the two of them to get on.

Asami trips over the gap. Two steps of stumbling forward, she finally finds purchase, clinging to the bar skewering the ceiling. A grimace twists her lips; if Sayuri didn’t know any better, she’d swear that was a flash of pain. But even when she doesn’t, she’d rather not assume the worst. Not now.

The ride is short and mellow, the cadence of clattering tracks all but lulling Sayuri to sleep. One blink, she lets her eyes hang closed for a second. The next time, a second longer. Slowly, the world stretches to a formless blur, the train’s thrum fading away like a dying pulse: badump-badump, badump-badump.

A chime. Soft snoring by her side. The doors slide open. Sayuri squints against the light, then through it to read the sign on the station’s wall. Yuutenji, her stop; Asami dozed off past hers.

“Kitora-san!” she shouts. Asami’s ears perk up, but she doesn’t; slumber’s a thick coat she struggles to shed. But once it’s fully off, she jolts to her feet. One second to react. She all but leaps out the train.

And when she lands, she loses her footing and stumbles to the ground.

Sayuri recoils, awash with concern. “Are you okay? What happened?” No answer. With her help, Asami rolls on her back. The concrete floor has vandalised her knee. Raw, red flesh – bile coats Sayuri’s tongue. But once the shock elapses, her brow knots. She might’ve been jumpy at times, but Asami has never been clumsy, let alone this much.

Her gaze slides down her leg, settling on the bare skin at the rim of her rolled-down sock. Without even thinking to worry about the weirdness of it, Sayuri peels it all the way to the collar of her shoe. A swollen bruise throbs on Asami’s ankle.

“You’ve injured yourself.” Not a question, but a cold and disappointed scold.

Asami jerks her foot free, sets in on top of her other, then pulls them both beneath her skirt. Her eyes flee as far away from Sayuri’s as they can go.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

An exasperated scoff. “Why not?” Sayuri whisper-whines.

“Dunno.” Asami dips her chin. The messy strands falling down her cheek let through a deep, shameful blush. “Cats hide when they’re hurt, you know?”

You’re not a cat, Sayuri wants to shout, as much a reassurance for herself as it would be for Asami. But once that impulse mellows down to a simple, simmering musing, she realises that’s not exactly true. Sure, if she were to draw a line between cats and humans, without a doubt Asami would lie somewhere in the middle, but she doesn’t know where. She doesn’t know whether she’s a homogeneous blend of the two, whether she borrows traits from either, or whether they’re wholly separate sides, constantly fighting for dominion over her thoughts and feelings.

But maybe she doesn’t need to know. Maybe there’s no point in trying to categorise all of her little behaviours, because they don’t belong in any box. At the end of the day, before she is a girl or a cat, or a catgirl, Asami is just Asami. The only thing Sayuri needs to figure out is if she can accept her as she is, full of quirks and whimsy that both annoy and endear her – or if she’d rather stop trying altogether.

She shakes her head, a bittersweet chuckle filling the quiet.

“What’s so funny?” Asami asks.

“Nothing. I was just wondering if all the times you called me a dummy were just your way of projecting.”

A tiny laugh puffs from Asami’s nose. “I’m pretty sure I had my reasons.”

“Heh, in that case –”

Slowly, as if to make a point, Sayuri shimmies her schoolbag off her shoulder, letting it fall onto the ground. With a self-satisfied grin, she stands up, only to settle to seated crouch before Asami. Peeking over her shoulder, she tilts her head. Tosses her a smile. Even a little giggle.

Then she grabs her hand. “How about I give you another one?”