Apple of my Eye, part 2
Title: Apple of my Eye (2/6)
Author: stupeur
Editor: mtembo cranperryjuice
Rating: R
Pairing: Tatsurou (MUCC) x Shiina Ringo
Summary: Despite his fame as a visual artist in 1960s Tokyo, Tatsurou has a strong dislike of circles and events, but caves in to his friend Miya and follows him to a private party in a jazz lounge. There he meets the beautiful and elusive Ringo, a woman unlike any other.
Notes: Ringo's mark is actually a black cat, so it's not me being completely random (and yes, I'm aware that she mostly sings in Japanese IRL). This part caused me some sort of... "writing fright" (if it makes any sense) and I actually scrapped the chapter and reworked the whole story before writing it again. It's the calm before the storm, so enjoy it while it lasts!
Previous chapters: One
Ringo's memory had not ceased to haunt Tatsurou since that night in the cocktail lounge. He was reminded of her by the most trivial things, the tinkling of glass resurrecting her laughter, a drop of ink unexpectedly calling her beauty mark to mind, plum blossom petals on white snow posing as the red of her lips against her skin. However, now that Miya had left for the United States, Tatsurou found himself without so much as a means to reach her, and his hope to see her again had waned rapidly.
He was therefore surprised when, on an otherwise uneventful Thursday, the fragrance of spices and flowers suddenly hit his nose as he went through his mail. Heart racing, he carefully moved the card he held near his face, breathing in the aroma permeating the white piece of paper. Jasmine.
The following night, Tatsurou sat in an upscale club in Ginza, nibbling distractedly on the tip of a soybean pod while he watched Ringo sing. She had surrounded herself with an orchestra of accomplished musicians, but strings, winds and percussion instruments alike had been eclipsed by her talent and charisma. Her musical prowess was only rivaled by her grace and beauty - she looked stunning in her ivory silk gown, shoulders exposed, her hair tamed into a sophisticated chignon, her fingers and neck adorned with diamonds, and Tatsurou could not get his fill of her.
Afterwards, he felt light-headed and nearly euphoric, palms moist and stomach tight. He would have blamed the wine, had Ringo's hips not caused him to sorely neglect his glass. Now, if only for a little while, he needed out, and he escaped the club to replace the smoke in his lungs- and the haze in his head- by the fresh air of February. Electing a lonesome bench, he sat down, hands in his pockets, and leaned his head back.
"Mr. Iwakami."
Tatsurou opened his eyes. There she was, standing right before him, wrapped in that fur coat of hers and smiling exquisitely. The cold had started seeping through his jacket (he had lost track of how long he had been sitting outside), but warmth spread through his body at the sight of her.
"Thank you for the invitation," he said, standing up. "You were wonderful."
"My pleasure. I'm glad you came, especially on such short notice. It was really a spur-of-the-moment thing," she explained. "I just missed the stage too much to wait for Miya to come back." She had a falsely repentant smile.
"How fickle," Tatsurou teased.
Ringo returned his smirk, accepting his arm when he presented it to her. "But what he doesn't know can't hurt him, right?"
"True," Tatsurou agreed, laughing in disbelief. Never had he imagined that there could be a woman so capricious as to gather a whole orchestra on a whim. All those he had met so far only felt like carbon copies of each other; they were all so sweet and fragile and eager to please that the idea of afflicting himself with one of them seemed much too burdensome to be appealing. In the end, it was not that women did not like him or that he did not like women - he simply had not been able to like any in particular.
Ringo, however, was something else.
Arm-in-arm, they walked down the busy, brightly lit Harumi Avenue. Even in winter, evenings in Tokyo were always bustling, and their stroll was punctuated by the sight of inebriated businessmen, the aroma of coffee beans, the eye-catching displays of art galleries and the exotic sanshin music of an Okinawan restaurant. Tatsurou questioned her about her musicianship and learnt that she not only played the piano- as he had already seen earlier that night- but also several other instruments, in addition to writing her own music and lyrics, and collecting foreign languages in which she could sing ("Bits and pieces" was her answer to whether she could speak them, with the exception of English, which she spoke fluently). Miya and she had met in France, ironically enough, and she had joined his band upon discovering that his pragmatism was the perfect counterweight to her emotional and extravagant disposition, as she put it herself.
"It's a love-hate relationship. Music drives me nuts sometimes, but it's like air to me."
"And you're certainly like air to music," Tatsurou then remarked with a charming smile.
Ringo laughed. "What a smooth talker!" she exclaimed jokingly, giving a light slap to his shoulder, but Tatsurou could have sworn that her smile was one of genuine delight.
"I plead guilty," he joked, before inquiring again, "May I ask why you don't sing in Japanese?"
There was a pause. A small group escorted by two geisha exited the Kabuki-za theatre as they walked past it, and Tatsurou felt a silly flash of pride when several heads turned to watch the woman next to him.
"Out of nostalgia, I suppose," she finally answered.
"Nostalgia?"
Ringo let go of his arm and produced a lighter and cigarette holder from her coat. "I lived in London for a year to study music," she said after flicking her Zippo open, lighting one of the sticks and inhaling a long drag of smoke. "I did have the occasion to go back since, but I still miss it terribly."
"London, eh?" Tatsurou rummaged through his brain for what little English he knew. "Nice to meet you, mademoiselle," he finally managed with a ridiculously mangled accent, taking her hand in his before dropping a kiss on the palm of her black satin glove. Ringo stared at him, eyes wide and cheeks red, and broke into laughter.
"What? Isn't it what they do there?" Tatsurou asked defensively. He must have looked upset because she immediately regained her composure and apologized, although her eyes were still shining peculiarly.
"Here, let me show you," she said before flexing her knees in a graceful curtsy and continuing in English, "The pleasure is mine, Sir." Tatsurou felt the hair rise on his arms when she took his hand in hers, pulled it close to her mouth and gently pressed her lips to the back of it.
"Well, they never said where on the hand," he murmured, not allowing her to let go just yet. The two of them simply stood on the street corner, fingers still wrapped around each other's. Only the sound of her exhaling broke the silence and, looking at her mouth blowing out the smoke of her cigarette, Tatsurou knew he would not be able to resist kissing her right there and then if they remained still for even one more second.
"I'll be on my way. Everyone's probably looking for you anyway," he forced himself to say.
"You're right," she replied, and her hand slipped out of his. "Well, let's meet again soon."
"Absolutely."
She wished him a good night and, after a last smile, headed back to the club in which she had performed earlier.
Tatsurou waited until she was out of sight before slipping his hand in the chest pocket where he had kept the invitation she had sent him. The perfume had already evaporated, but Ringo's fragrance was so perfectly ingrained in his memory that he could summon it at will. One side of the card was adorned with the silhouette of a black cat, and in small print, an address in Ginza flanked by the date and hour of her performance. The other side was blank, save for a few delicate, cursive characters hand-written in lavender ink.
"Dear Mr. Iwakami,
Please give me the pleasure of your presence.
S.R."
Author: stupeur
Editor: mtembo cranperryjuice
Rating: R
Pairing: Tatsurou (MUCC) x Shiina Ringo
Summary: Despite his fame as a visual artist in 1960s Tokyo, Tatsurou has a strong dislike of circles and events, but caves in to his friend Miya and follows him to a private party in a jazz lounge. There he meets the beautiful and elusive Ringo, a woman unlike any other.
Notes: Ringo's mark is actually a black cat, so it's not me being completely random (and yes, I'm aware that she mostly sings in Japanese IRL). This part caused me some sort of... "writing fright" (if it makes any sense) and I actually scrapped the chapter and reworked the whole story before writing it again. It's the calm before the storm, so enjoy it while it lasts!
Previous chapters: One
Ringo's memory had not ceased to haunt Tatsurou since that night in the cocktail lounge. He was reminded of her by the most trivial things, the tinkling of glass resurrecting her laughter, a drop of ink unexpectedly calling her beauty mark to mind, plum blossom petals on white snow posing as the red of her lips against her skin. However, now that Miya had left for the United States, Tatsurou found himself without so much as a means to reach her, and his hope to see her again had waned rapidly.
He was therefore surprised when, on an otherwise uneventful Thursday, the fragrance of spices and flowers suddenly hit his nose as he went through his mail. Heart racing, he carefully moved the card he held near his face, breathing in the aroma permeating the white piece of paper. Jasmine.
The following night, Tatsurou sat in an upscale club in Ginza, nibbling distractedly on the tip of a soybean pod while he watched Ringo sing. She had surrounded herself with an orchestra of accomplished musicians, but strings, winds and percussion instruments alike had been eclipsed by her talent and charisma. Her musical prowess was only rivaled by her grace and beauty - she looked stunning in her ivory silk gown, shoulders exposed, her hair tamed into a sophisticated chignon, her fingers and neck adorned with diamonds, and Tatsurou could not get his fill of her.
Afterwards, he felt light-headed and nearly euphoric, palms moist and stomach tight. He would have blamed the wine, had Ringo's hips not caused him to sorely neglect his glass. Now, if only for a little while, he needed out, and he escaped the club to replace the smoke in his lungs- and the haze in his head- by the fresh air of February. Electing a lonesome bench, he sat down, hands in his pockets, and leaned his head back.
"Mr. Iwakami."
Tatsurou opened his eyes. There she was, standing right before him, wrapped in that fur coat of hers and smiling exquisitely. The cold had started seeping through his jacket (he had lost track of how long he had been sitting outside), but warmth spread through his body at the sight of her.
"Thank you for the invitation," he said, standing up. "You were wonderful."
"My pleasure. I'm glad you came, especially on such short notice. It was really a spur-of-the-moment thing," she explained. "I just missed the stage too much to wait for Miya to come back." She had a falsely repentant smile.
"How fickle," Tatsurou teased.
Ringo returned his smirk, accepting his arm when he presented it to her. "But what he doesn't know can't hurt him, right?"
"True," Tatsurou agreed, laughing in disbelief. Never had he imagined that there could be a woman so capricious as to gather a whole orchestra on a whim. All those he had met so far only felt like carbon copies of each other; they were all so sweet and fragile and eager to please that the idea of afflicting himself with one of them seemed much too burdensome to be appealing. In the end, it was not that women did not like him or that he did not like women - he simply had not been able to like any in particular.
Ringo, however, was something else.
Arm-in-arm, they walked down the busy, brightly lit Harumi Avenue. Even in winter, evenings in Tokyo were always bustling, and their stroll was punctuated by the sight of inebriated businessmen, the aroma of coffee beans, the eye-catching displays of art galleries and the exotic sanshin music of an Okinawan restaurant. Tatsurou questioned her about her musicianship and learnt that she not only played the piano- as he had already seen earlier that night- but also several other instruments, in addition to writing her own music and lyrics, and collecting foreign languages in which she could sing ("Bits and pieces" was her answer to whether she could speak them, with the exception of English, which she spoke fluently). Miya and she had met in France, ironically enough, and she had joined his band upon discovering that his pragmatism was the perfect counterweight to her emotional and extravagant disposition, as she put it herself.
"It's a love-hate relationship. Music drives me nuts sometimes, but it's like air to me."
"And you're certainly like air to music," Tatsurou then remarked with a charming smile.
Ringo laughed. "What a smooth talker!" she exclaimed jokingly, giving a light slap to his shoulder, but Tatsurou could have sworn that her smile was one of genuine delight.
"I plead guilty," he joked, before inquiring again, "May I ask why you don't sing in Japanese?"
There was a pause. A small group escorted by two geisha exited the Kabuki-za theatre as they walked past it, and Tatsurou felt a silly flash of pride when several heads turned to watch the woman next to him.
"Out of nostalgia, I suppose," she finally answered.
"Nostalgia?"
Ringo let go of his arm and produced a lighter and cigarette holder from her coat. "I lived in London for a year to study music," she said after flicking her Zippo open, lighting one of the sticks and inhaling a long drag of smoke. "I did have the occasion to go back since, but I still miss it terribly."
"London, eh?" Tatsurou rummaged through his brain for what little English he knew. "Nice to meet you, mademoiselle," he finally managed with a ridiculously mangled accent, taking her hand in his before dropping a kiss on the palm of her black satin glove. Ringo stared at him, eyes wide and cheeks red, and broke into laughter.
"What? Isn't it what they do there?" Tatsurou asked defensively. He must have looked upset because she immediately regained her composure and apologized, although her eyes were still shining peculiarly.
"Here, let me show you," she said before flexing her knees in a graceful curtsy and continuing in English, "The pleasure is mine, Sir." Tatsurou felt the hair rise on his arms when she took his hand in hers, pulled it close to her mouth and gently pressed her lips to the back of it.
"Well, they never said where on the hand," he murmured, not allowing her to let go just yet. The two of them simply stood on the street corner, fingers still wrapped around each other's. Only the sound of her exhaling broke the silence and, looking at her mouth blowing out the smoke of her cigarette, Tatsurou knew he would not be able to resist kissing her right there and then if they remained still for even one more second.
"I'll be on my way. Everyone's probably looking for you anyway," he forced himself to say.
"You're right," she replied, and her hand slipped out of his. "Well, let's meet again soon."
"Absolutely."
She wished him a good night and, after a last smile, headed back to the club in which she had performed earlier.
Tatsurou waited until she was out of sight before slipping his hand in the chest pocket where he had kept the invitation she had sent him. The perfume had already evaporated, but Ringo's fragrance was so perfectly ingrained in his memory that he could summon it at will. One side of the card was adorned with the silhouette of a black cat, and in small print, an address in Ginza flanked by the date and hour of her performance. The other side was blank, save for a few delicate, cursive characters hand-written in lavender ink.
"Dear Mr. Iwakami,
Please give me the pleasure of your presence.
S.R."