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At the ripe old age of 25, Nishikino Maki has it all, even if it comes at the expense of being chronically overworked and seriously underappreciated. She's got it made, her so-called friends tell her, with the looks of a goddess, a bank account with more zeroes than she can count on two hands, and a line of suitors that could make Black Friday shopping look tame. But that's only because they think she's some spoilt princess who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and they don't know how wrong they are. After all, she's had the weight of the world on her shoulders since the tender age of twelve, had to set aside her precious dreams for the monotony of medicine. But things are what they are. And at the end of the day, no amount of complaining is going to just magically get her out of covering for a pediatrician, just like it didn't get her out of performing eleven surgeries in the past 24 hours. Like it or not, this hospital is hers to run. Its patients are her responsibility, and she'll treat each of them with the respect they deserve. When they stop whirling around in her rolling chair like the human equivalent of a spinning top. But thankfully, she has plenty of experience working with children (courtesy of her staff, who think it's cute to act half their age). ❛ Yazawa Kokoro? I'm Dr. Nishikino, but you can call me Maki. I'd appreciate it if you could stay still for a couple minutes, kay? I'm just gonna ask a couple questions, and then you can play around as much as you want while I talk to your sister. ❜ She gets on her knees so they can see eye to eye, and it's the most calm and professional voice she can muster while as sleep-deprived as she is, but it sets the taller of the two into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. In the spirit of good sportsmanship, she does a double take, and stands, watches as the girl in question crosses her arms and looks away in a huff, tapping her foot as if she's waiting for an apology she's never going to receive. ❛ I told you she'd call you on it, ❜ the mature one says with a grin that gets her elbowed in three seconds flat. ❛ Sorry about my older sister. She's, ah, I believe the technical term for it is vertically challenged? ❜ Maki nods and thinks nothing of it. She asks the usual set of questions, pretends she doesn't notice the black aura emanating from her right, and refrains from commenting on those four-inch heels (though god knows she's compensating for something). ❛ You can't just act like a child and expect anyone to think differently. What are you, twelve? ❜ she asks when she’s done, more worked up than she'd like to admit. ❛ Yeah, on a scale of one to ten, ❜ Nico replies, without even missing a beat (though when this girl comes so close, Maki can't say the same of her heart). And for a second there, Maki thinks she's just cracking a joke (of course, she wouldn’t know: she had her sense of humor surgically removed seven years ago). But no, she's dead serious, and Maki can barely stifle a laugh as she completely ignores her, instead instructing her sister to have a short chat with the receptionist and check out (if the sugar rush from those lollipops can't shut her up, nothing will). Because it's not Maki's fault she doesn't know who Nico is, and no, she doesn't live under a rock, but after having a single conversation with this girl, she has half a mind to move. So as they part ways, Maki shakes her hand and smiles for the camera, which only prompts this girl, this miniaturized demon, to flip her off once they're halfway down the hall, and honestly? Losing a patient has never felt so good. ***** And that's supposed to be the end of that. Nico's not supposed to show up five weeks down the line, wearing a mockup of a Santa outfit that leaves little to the imagination, she's not supposed to be so offensively attractive, and she's definitely not supposed to make Maki lose her balance, pull her close enough that it looks like Maki, of all people, is pinning her to the wall, and in broad daylight, no less. And Maki isn't supposed to wonder whether she'd like to be naughty or nice this holiday season, definitely not supposed to be too busy gauging the length of that miniskirt to do anything but nod politely when Nico asks if they can have a look around. So that's the long and short, of how Maki ends up reading storybooks to two dozen children at the West Wing of Nishikino General Hospital, when really, she should be triple-checking her schedule, reviewing the accounts, and conserving what little sanity she has left. Because she's never been wrong before, and she's too old to still believe in Santa, but she has to admit that watching Nico hand out presents from a wagon styled as a sleigh is kind of touching, and who knows? Maybe they just got off on the wrong foot, and there's more to her than meets the eye. ❛ This one's for you, ❜ Nico fishes a small box out of the inside of her jacket. ❛ For putting up with me. I thought you were just some trust-fund snob out for blood. But maybe, Eli was right. And it was fun, you know. Maybe next year, I'll let you dress up as one of my elves. ❜ Maki catches the box in mid-air and honestly? She doesn't know what to think. But that's fine, because she doesn't get a chance to say anything, even a word of thanks. When she comes to her senses, Nico is long gone, and honestly, at this point, Maki has more questions than answers. So maybe, just maybe, Maki goes home that night and questions all of her life choices, but looks her up anyways, and for once, Maki agrees with her. She's a twelve, all right. On a scale of one to cringe. But nonetheless, she finds herself watching and even rewatching these trashy music videos. For reasons best left unsaid. ***** So she clears the air with Ayase Eli, who mentions that in a moment of weakness, she passed along Maki's business card. Which is fine, all things considered. And that doesn't change when a week passes, turns into two, because Maki doesn't give a second thought as to why Nico hasn't called or even texted her, despite having that 3.5"x 2" slip of paper, and by extension, her phone number. She's not interested. And when she receives a ' hey maki, it's nico (^_<)～☆ ' followed up by a ' miss me? ' and a selfie that Maki will charitably describe as risque, okay, it's not as if she's suddenly changed her mind or started to care, but maybe it reminds of their last meeting and how unnecessarily forward Nico was with her, and maybe she's inclined to let bygones be bygones. ' So what if I did?I'd miss you more if you went away. ' Maki types back, and just as she convinces herself she's not overthinking this, Nico responds with a 'love you too ♡ ', which is great, just great, if the goal is to lose her damn mind right before she sees her next patient. Who just so happens to be related to Yazawa Nico, because it's a small, small world they live in, and now, all she can think about is that smug look in her eyes when Maki walks into the room, as if they're keeping some sordid secret for two. So she goes through the motions, and then she politely tells Nico's brother that she has something to discuss with his sister, and apparently, this happens a lot, because he takes the hint, makes like a tree and leaves. And yeah, Maki is no fan of excess social interaction, but whatever comes of this has to be infinitely better than letting this gremlin live in her head rent free. ❛ Miss Yazawa, ❜ she sighs and puts on a smile that's roughly as fake as Nico's entire personality. ❛ A word? ❜ So she gets this girl exactly where she wants her, a touch off balance, pressed up against the wall, except nothing's changed. She still wants to leave marks all over this girl, especially where they can be seen, wants to wipe that stupid grin off her face if it's the last thing she ever does. And yeah, sure, Maki's reputation as a self-centered jerk who cares almost exclusively for her profit margins precedes her, but hey, at least she pretends to be nice. That's kind of how one thing leads to another, how Maki ends up holding her by that skimpy excuse of a leather jacket she's wearing, how she ends up making an unhealthy amount of eye contact, and then, god forbid, lip contact, but if there's one thing she's not expecting, it's for Nico to kiss her back. Not that it's unwanted, no, but this would be so much easier if she was all bark and no bite, if Nico wasn't following her lead and her hands weren't undoing the buttons of Maki's top. Instead, they're locking lips and ignoring practically every principle of conflict de-escalation (and for the record? Nico's perfume is as nauseating as the rest of her). Which is why Maki pulls away first, because it's surprisingly intimate, and if it goes on for much longer, she'll start to think this means something, which it can't, because she's kind of been flatly ignored for 14 days, 3 hours, and 42 seconds, not that she was counting. But deep down, a girl can hope, so that's what she does when Nico somehow manages to rock back and forth on those six-inch heels and gives her a peck on the cheek for good measure, just before they part ways understanding just a little bit more about each other and a little bit less about themselves. ***** Three days later, Maki finds herself playing chauffeur, a word she doubts Nico could spell correctly if her life depended on it, and then? She's in enemy territory, smack-dab in the middle of an apartment that she can only describe as frighteningly spotless. ❛ You're home, the seats of my Porsche are forever ruined, and I'll never be able to look at a caramel macchiato as long as I live. Happy? ❜ she gripes, eyes filled with nothing but the dark taint of regret. Because apparently, the universe is out to get her and nothing is sacred, but Nico offers her a cup of herbal tea, grabs a couple things off the shelves, and maybe unlike Santa, God is real and he's watching over her, because it's kind of hard to stay so mad at her when the interior of Maki's car looks as good as new. Which is how she ends up staying for dinner and making small talk with Nico and her three siblings as she devours a taco or two, and hell, she's even considering staying the night, but the last thing she wants is to wake up one morning with her face all over the tabloids, or worse, be asked at charity galas if she's really met the Yazawa Nico. Because it's kind of weird, family time or whatever it's called. Maki's always assumed that she'd be married off to someone she doesn't care for, maybe even someone she's never met. And that's preferable, right? Compared to ending up with a twintailed freak of nature? It's just that Nico is everything that's wrong with the world, and yet, there's never a dull moment, and for once, Maki doesn't feel like she's an outsider, not here, not now. So maybe there really are things that money can't buy. ***** And yeah, Maki is worried about what her parents would think if they found out she'd been canoodling with some clown who still can't distinguish Bach from Tchaikovsky despite four symphony dates and her best efforts. But she's already fallen from grace and set her ringtone from Liszt to Nico's latest single, let the chill of Winter get to her and wondered what it would be like, to come home to something, anything. So even if Nico's choice of clothing is a gossip journal in the making, what they don't know can't hurt them. When she shows up unannounced on a Monday evening, Maki wants to tell her no, she does. But they duck into an unused hospital room and it's been such a long, stressful week and maybe, maybe this is what it's going to take, to shut her up once and for all. ❛ Alright, Yazawa. What's your angle? ❜ Maki asks, done with playing games she can't seem to win. After all, she hasn't known peace since they've met, and it's weirdly hot in here, maybe because she's wearing a pantsuit, or because the AC unit is fried, but it sure as hell isn't because of Nico Yazawa and her bedroom eyes. ❛ It's not like that, ❜ she answers with a shrug and a hint of sincerity, which is the most Maki has gotten out of her all month. ❛ Why, do you like me? ❜ ❛ So what if I do? ❜ she nonchalantly returns, as any adult would, because it's a terrifying question, and Maki's kind of hoping that it meant something, when Nico introduced her to her mother. But Nico's got her by the necktie before Maki can clarify, batting those long eyelashes of hers as if it’s going to change anything. ❛ You're kind of cute when you're lying through your teeth, ❜ she remarks, and god, she's so full of herself, but in fairness, Maki definitely has a hand on her thigh. And they're back to where they left off with their friendly game of tonsil hockey, only now she's hiking that skirt up, inch-by-inch, as if she has razor-thin margins of self-control and no longer cares for these pretenses. When she traces over black lace trim with her fingers, it's slow and deliberate, and she doesn't stop until Nico tells her she wants something more, because she wouldn't be here if she didn't, and it's such a rush when she does. So her thumb hooks around elastic and separates Nico from her tasteful selection of lingerie, pulls it down and off of her and sets it aside, because it's well worth admiring, but Maki has her eyes set on the prize. And all she has to do is whisper a few choice phrases into her ear and press her fingertips up against where it aches to get exactly what she wants. When Nico looks at her like that, bites her bottom lip, Maki can't help herself. If curiosity killed the cat, then satisfaction brought it back, and nothing is more gratifying than watching Nico Yazawa fail to maintain her composure, than when she squeezes her thighs together and practically begs her to do her worst. And she notices, how Nico gasps when she kisses her neck, leans into her touch and arches her back when Maki finally gives her what she wants, a moderate and exacting pace that does her no favors. When her self-assured voice morphs into a series of gasps, of squeaks that underscore her impressive range, Maki's kind of smitten. But Nico has the gall to mutter something about a dry spell, and that's when she kicks it up a notch, curls her fingers in response, because Maki is damn good at what she does, and there's just a hint of malice in her eyes as she drags along the plush heat of her inner walls. And it's not her problem if Nico is whimpering into her neck after the first, or kinda, sorta violently shuddering after the second. They're done when Maki says they're done, and she only concedes after the third because her forearms have all but given out, but that's need-to-know information, and Nico really doesn't need to know, regardless of if there’s going to be a second time. ❛ Your personality is the metaphorical equivalent of a dumpster fire, ❜ Maki states as a matter of fact, waits until she's back on her feet to continue. ❛ So? ❜ she asks, because there has to be more to that. Her eyes glitter like she's the Devil made flesh, and Maki is already one of the damned. ❛ So go out with me, ❜ Maki looks annoyed as she awkwardly twirls a lock of hair around her finger and her voice goes soft when she has to ask, like she's never wanted anything more in her life. And honestly? It's a goddamn miracle that she doesn't spontaneously combust when Nico says yes.
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It’s a thin line to you, the one between inconvenience and hardship, and it’s a classification that makes all the difference, because you’re no stranger to adversity, even if you grew up with an allowance that closely matched the total household income of your peers. Okay, so you never had to worry about your next meal or college or any of those trivial things, but you’ve stomached professors who were incapable of grasping your true potential, tempered yourself through the insensitive trial-by-fire of residency, even endured an incalculable number of those mind-numbing conventions for a shot at presenting your ambitious work to someone who might actually care. The bottom line is that your nerves of steel aren’t to be trifled with, and when they are, it’s blissfully evident that you have backbone. Whereas your colleagues rely on their background and blood ties, you depend on an iron resolve and a mind unrivaled. But this? This isn’t so. . .straightforward. It’s because this is one of those nuisances that you’re unable to deal with it efficiently. It’s why, in the heat of the moment, you reveal you have a thing for older women, in a vain attempt to subtly spurn her: a nurse who can’t distinguish between a scalpel from a curette, much less ascertain the obvious—Hell would freeze over long before she’d catch your fancy. And you're fuming the second you're off the clock: the exalted Nishikino Maki shouldn’t have to endure such immaturity, such idiocy, and such blatant disregard for your own stance on those matters—you didn’t breeze through med school with flying colors to get hit on by an intern. It was an explicit part of your hiring process for a reason, and that's why it's so unpleasant when she confesses—you haven't had to reject anyone since you started here. But if you could have, you wish you had handled that ‘incident’ better, though it means you learn how quickly word gets around among your staff. Because within a week, you get five more declarations—each from girls who are progressively bustier than the last, and that—that’s not what you meant by older, not in the slightest. It's downright insulting, re: you’re not interested. And if you were, you have moxie. You’re not the type to shy away from your own feelings—or lack thereof. And why on Earth did they think you meant that, in the first place? You don't have a chest complex or anything. You really don't. It’s not at all part of the criteria you’ve developed to select the ideal partner. All you require is someone whose wealth rivals your own, someone who can be dealt with efficiently, who can follow orders and isn’t a complete numbskull. You don’t ask for much, but apparently, this means you have standards, and your parents, oddly enough, have the cheek to ask whether you care if they marry off to whosoever catches their eye. Maybe they do so to brush off the remnants of an untoward guilt, one that’s developed as they’ve forced expectation after expectation upon your head? It’s only by chance and providence that they haven’t made you shoulder the weight of the world. But quite frankly, you don’t care if you end up alone, even if recent studies denote that interpersonal relationships bring fulfillment. Your personal happiness means little to you—always has, always will. Why else would you torture yourself with the monotony of medicine? Thankfully, it stops after that. There's nothing out of the ordinary, no patterns, no twists of fate. The entire ordeal doesn't even cross your mind once, after the fact. Or at least, not until they make you fill in for a pediatrician. Now, truth be told, it's not like you’re forced to. It's just your responsibility to ensure there aren't any vacancies, but you could've just called in a favor or two. Is it because you're a hopeless workaholic? Or maybe, because it's your queendom? The Nishikino name has had a plethora of things attached to it since you last checked, back in high school, but this—the famed general hospital on the hill where it all started—is yours, all yours, and it's all you’ve ever wanted, the control, the power, the absolute influence. And when they talk, it's not about your parents, not anymore. It's about you. So taking up tasks which are vastly beneath her Majesty (all hail) isn't disconcerting; for you, it's just business as usual. You knock-and-enter the room briskly, with the necessary files in hand; you've already given the content a once-over, but you’re always too careful. To your displeasure, no amount of caution could’ve thwarted the child whirling around in your rolling chair, something that really isn't supposed to throw you off your game—not after what you've seen—but it does. It does, and you take a deep, compulsory breath. ❝ Kokoro? I'd appreciate it if you could give up the seat for a couple minutes, kay? I just have to sit down and type some things up, and then you can play around with it while I talk to your sister, ❞ you articulate in the nicest possible professional voice you can muster, given that you’ve slept for the bare minimum of 5 hours. The other woman—the legal guardian, you presume—is laughing uncontrollably, and you dismiss it as one of those. . .family quirks. They look familiar, you deliberate, while they sort out their issues. They’re both well-dressed. . .even if one has a severe deficiency of elegance. You wouldn’t put it past the older one to be a washed-up child actress, or something of the sort. It’s frivolous, but you reminisce: you yourself were bound for the stage, once upon a time. It’s how all fairy tales start; you’re just disappointed yours didn’t end like one. The girl in question is morbidly embarrassed, but it's her own fault, you muse, as you set the tablet computer on the desk. You call her name again, just slightly perplexed. The one in the chair has her arms crossed, chin tilted to the ground, eyebrows raised, and the mature one is patiently awaiting your instruction. ❝ Yes, ma'am? ❞ she responds promptly, a hint of a smile on her face, and you surmise that the quiet, pragmatic one's your patient, not the one who looks like she wants to murder you in cold blood. You've never suppressed a snicker so much in your life. And you know, she deserves it for throwing your world into momentary disarray, and you’ve been told you need to loosen up, besides—and by your own parents, of all people. A snide remark here and there isn’t going to do anyone any harm, you affirm. They're likely a full four inches apart in height, anyways, and probably a few decades apart in mental age. What were you supposed to think? So you proceed with the usual set of questions, and it goes smoothly, considering it's been a while since you've done this. In fact, it's flawless—you're flawless—, and it's only the incessant tapping of her four-inch heels (she’s definitely compensating for something) that’s infuriating. To her credit, she speaks fluently when you give her the side eye—you’ve been told you’re nothing short of breathtaking—, and you still find it difficult to believe they're siblings. Maybe, you think, this is why they told you to be glad you didn’t have any. But she has the gall to go and demand an apology and ask you if you live under a rock, because you don’t know just who she is, what with her being a huge celebrity, a future household name. As if. It’s her who should feel grateful to have met you, the ninth wonder of the world (eighth is tomatoes), and you do your best to ensure that gets through her dense skull. Honestly, the nerve. ❝ You can't act like that and expect a bystander to assume differently. What are you, twelve? ❞ you austerely chastise. Losing one patient won't put a dent in your profit margins, and if it's her, you're better off. You haven't had genuine enjoyment in a while, and you'll be damned if you can't throw your fair share of shade. ❝ Yeah, on a scale of one to ten, ❞ she ripostes without missing a beat (even though your heart may have), and for a second, you think she's trying to be funny (you wouldn’t know; you had your sense of humor surgically removed seven years ago). She's evidently not, so that's the second time she's been wrong in the span of a half-hour, but whatever. You finish up without another word to her, but instead, you instruct her sister to go chat with that one secretary, Honoka—you vaguely recollect; not that it matters—they're not coming back, but it’s a procedural thing. And you think the sugar rush from those lollipops might pacify that demon-child and her bizarre, capricious nature. As she leaves, her head is turned, her arms are crossed, and even without a clear view of her spine, you can tell she’s slouching. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she’s indignant. It elicits a wry laugh, which in turn simply prompts her to flip you off before she closes the door, and it’s sidesplitting. You’re compelled to comment, but you don’t want to spoil the fun. Your staff, on the other hand, looks alarmed. Have they really never seen you smile? You're never wrong. Wrong and you are, for all practical purposes, two words that haven’t yet been used concurrently. And you, you’d like to keep it that way. It's one of those things you bring up, when people lament your inability to wash dishes or cook a five-course meal, one of those things that shuts them right up and gets them all defensive and leaves you knowing you can't be beat. But you're not wrong, technically speaking. They don't come back. She does. With a news crew. She's in some obscene outfit, one that disgraces your venerated Santa Claus, all while leaving little to the imagination—not that you were looking—, and she’s authorized to be here, you suppose as you make a mental note to scrutinize exactly how this flew under your radar. In the meantime, you learn that that there’s more to her than just looking half her age; she has a personality, however lacking it might be, that she is camera-worthy—and there are, in fact, people with so little taste that the mere sight of this twin-tailed imp wouldn’t nauseate them in an instant. And it makes you scowl. Your management is immaculate, but even you had to accept that good publicity couldn’t hurt. Not to mention, she's legally allowed to go about spreading joy and cheer to those who don't have so long to live (even if it doesn’t change how miserable you are), and your ego (and skilled personal firm of lawyers) doesn’t have a say in the matter. So it's altogether touching, you'd say, if you didn’t have that feeling in your gut, the one that tells you she’s doing this simply out of spite. She’s got that look in her eyes, triumphant and smug. It’s instantly recognizable. Because it’s yours. They leave, and she’s about to follow, but you’ll be damned if you let her (not that you already aren’t). The two of you are going to have a chat—a civil discourse about the lingering in the back of your head at odd hours of the night, about the absurd amount of vodka you’ve downed only to learn that sorrows can swim, about the irrational amount of your thoughts that are about her, considering how little time you’ve spent together, if it can even be called that. What started off as a routine appointment to her was undeniably something more to you, to you, who’s went about her days avoiding unnecessary interaction, circumventing altercations with your clientele. To you, she’s a breath of fresh air, a poignant anomaly in a sea of normalcy. Perhaps, it’s not knowing if you mean anything to her that’s altogether unsettling. And paired with how this little game of chess isn’t going your way, how it’s hardly a game to begin with, how you have so few options, it makes for a dreadfully aggravating combination. You’re left with little choice in the matter. It’s your finishing move, the way in which you throw her off-balance. A last resort, one you’ve saved for the particularly troublesome. It’s supposed to make her heart lurch. But instead, yours does. When you stare her down, her grin only morphs into a sneer, as if she expected more from you. It’s reminiscent of what your parents used to do to you when you came home with anything less than perfection. You weren’t supposed to come home at all. You’re awfully reminded that you’re never good enough—never have been, never will be—, and mercy is thereby out of the question. In a few decades, you’ll inherit the bits and pieces of the world that aren’t yours yet. There won’t be any room left for insolence. Even now, your influence extends to all corners of the globe. You could end this girl’s career as a harlot (she’s definitely dressing the part) in the same amount of time it takes you to brew instant coffee. And she should be thankful that you haven’t already—but just to remind her that you can, you tug harshly on the collar of that skimpy excuse of a jacket she’s wearing. She’s vexing, a real piece of work, because she does this thing to you—this thing which makes you want to leave marks all over her, but you obviously don’t—can’t. You tune out that insipid, superfluous voice in your head and you check your FitBit (an unwanted gift from an equally-unwanted cousin). 108, a staunch deviation from your usual 88, and it’s perplexing, considering you’re not doing any form of cardio. She’s clearly messing with you. And until you show her up, nothing’s changing. You elect for a chaste yet dynamic kiss, one that lets her know exactly how much she’ll regret it if she ever crosses you again—though you’ll admit, you’d enjoy yourself if she does. It’s a first. You’re not expecting her to kiss you back. No one’s ever had the audacity (or utter lack of common sense) to resist, and she’s not even fighting you, per se. She’s just following your lead—or trying to take it from you, but her opposition isn’t enough to overwhelm, and you’d bet good money that’s intentional. It’s a welcome albeit unsolicited clemency, and you acknowledge that you don’t mind the hands on your neck pulling you closer as much as you should. And you do want to comment on the sickeningly-sweet fragrance permeating the air, but weirdly enough, you don’t feel like that’s a sufficient reason to interrupt a moment this indulgent. Nothing else quite compares, and though you’re still not interested, you’ll be damned if you let this go any further than it has. It’s intimate. And lethal. To your career, and moreover, to your sanity. You pull away first, and that’s the end of it. You say not a word further and part ways understanding just a little bit more about each other and a little bit less about yourselves, but that doesn’t matter, not to you. You don’t care. And you keep on not caring. But maybe, just maybe, you go home that night, plop down on the couch, switch on the TV, and flip through the channels to see if she shows up. For research purposes. You could write a thesis or two with what you’d learned about her—about the illustrious Yazawa Nico, so you’ve found, and what you’re doing to yourself isn’t healthy in the slightest, but that doesn’t exactly stop you from doing it. She’s a mildly-popular idol with a fanbase as trashy as she is, you discover, and the type of music involved is nothing short of blasphemous. Beethoven is rolling in his grave as your eardrums promptly burst, and the only salvation in all of it is h̶e̶r̶ ̶v̶o̶i̶c̶e̶ that it’s at max, two full minutes of tempestual, unadulterated suffering, no more. And even that’s too much for your fragile sanity. You’re eerily drawn to it, nonetheless. She has this vague, inexplicable charisma, but after your last engagement. . .honestly, you’re waiting for her to blackmail you, or act like she’s never seen you before in her life, and while the latter is preferable, someone of your stature expects the former, and you chide yourself. You’re not a kid, not anymore. What would your parents think, if they heard about you canoodling with some—some unwashed knave who can’t distinguish Bach from Tchaikovsky? You haven’t had your name associated with a single scandal since your career began, and even her poor choice of clothing is a gossip journal in the making. You’re not about to start now. So it’s only natural that you change your ringtone from Stravinsky’s Firebird, from a prized recording of the last time you tickled the ivories—when you, a mere child of seventeen years, trounced those experienced virtuosos to claim an evening with a symphony orchestra your associates would kill to hear in concert, when you had reached the pinnacle of perfection, and your parents, who had season tickets, saw you perform for the first (and last time) and afforded you mild praise—to her latest song, to remind yourself of just how far you've fallen from grace, just how god-awful her judgement is, so that when your persistently self-destructive mind brings her up, when the chill of Winter is starting to get to you, when you finally get to lie down and you realize your bed can fit two, you’ll truly fathom that you’re really better off without that devil-child. You’re starting to think that you’ve been set up, as if you had the required acumen to appear refined all your life, and just when you need it most, it’s vanished into thin air. It doesn’t help that her feet are dangling off the examination table, or that the length of her skirt is almost as short as she is. ❝ What do you want? ❞ you ask callously, not concerned with the answer so much as you are getting her to leave you in peace. It’s hot in here and you’re not positive whether it’s because you chose today, of all days, to wear a pantsuit, or if your air conditioning is broken, or if it’s because of her—and you’re quite sure why, actually, which is the reason you’d prefer it if this reunion was cut short, short like her, and that’s just peachy, because now she’s back on the mind. You wonder if it’s not a fluke, that she’s managed to schedule both appointments on the exact days that the routine doctor is off. You meant to look into it the first time, and you threw a note on your fridge after she dropped by for Christmas, but it’s slipped your mind since. There’s been a lot on your plate, and your personal life, if it even exists, is the last of your disorganized priorities. But she’s certainly not here because she needs medical assistance, you’re convinced of that much. And you don’t have to check her out or anything to know that, you don’t have to let your eyes follow the distinct curvature of her calves (because it’s nothing compared to the view you every time you look in the mirror); she just appears to be in peak physical condition, and you wouldn’t put it past her to be involved in some forbidden type of magic, either, because there isn’t a trace of stress underneath her eyes, even with (you assume) a complicated work-life balance, again, not that you care. ❝ Are you an option, doctor? ❞ she innocently inquires, batting those absurdly-long eyelashes of hers as if it’s going to change anything. God, she’s so full of herself. If you weren’t profusely appalled, you might have been in awe of just how much senselessness one human being can possess. And you won’t deny, if she can keep that mouth of hers shut, she might even be tolerable. It’s a crying shame she can’t. ❝ That isn’t covered by your insurance, ❞ you stress, hoping she’ll take the hint and make like a tree. But she doesn’t. You think she never will, and you can’t quite figure out whether she’s guided by tenacity or foolishness. It doesn’t matter. You want to be rid of her, and it can’t happen fast enough. But all it takes is one look at you with those captivating eyes of hers, and you’re smitten. Before you can stop yourself, your hand stumbles onto her thigh and she’s got you by the necktie. It’s not long until you find yourself hiking her skirt up, inch by inch, as if you want her to know exactly what she does to you—and unfortunately for your waning self-control, that isn’t a whole lot of inches. Before you can stop yourself, you’re tracing black lace trim, slowly, deliberately, for however long it takes for her to tell you she wants something more. You know she does, of course she does, otherwise she wouldn’t have come to you, but hearing it from her is a rush, and your thumb hooks around the elastic of well-designed lingerie, separating her from it, and though you don’t tell her, the pink bow is a nice touch. She might not have class, but she does have style. So do you, by the way she bites her bottom lip as your fingertips slip past thin cloth with ease and press against her, and then, into her as her breathing hitches. She doesn’t object, and that’s a first. It’s even curious—how she leans into your touch, arches her back, and you can’t help but want to give her due recompense. Curiosity killed the cat, so you’ve been told, but satisfaction brought it back, and nothing is more gratifying than watching her try in vain to maintain her composure, than feeling her tighten up around you, than listening to her cry your name, and you’ve never been fonder of a sound. It doesn’t bother you one bit that she’s relishing every minute of this, that she’s deriving some sick, twisted pleasure from watching you cast away the worries of the daily grind, from how you let loose with her and give in to those sinister inclinations, the ones you wouldn’t dare express with any of those cultured, uptight posers. And when her self-assured voice morphs into a series of gasps, of ragged, wanton breaths, of squeaks that underscore her impressive range, you can’t in good conscience withdraw. She’s slow on the uptake, but when it registers, the only thing that comes out of her mouth is a soft, frustrated whine. ❝ Maki-chan’s so cruel, ❞ she castigates, ❝ leading me on like that. How many years have you had a dry spell for, anyways? ❞ It’s uncalled for, and the look on your face is nothing if not unladylike. It’s a nasty glower and gritted teeth, and even if you’re a fiddle and she’s an experienced violinist, you’re going to come out on top. You don’t know who gave her permission to throw caution to the wind with these honorifics, either, but you’d like to keep the conversation to a minimum, so without so much as a warning, you curl your fingers and pick up where you left off, hastily, maliciously, dragging along the plush heat of her inner walls. You should make her beg for it, but that alone—that elicits everything you want out of her: eyes closed shut, bottom lip quivering, and the moment you think she’s close, you kick it up a notch. Or three. And when you go easy on her, she has the hardest time remaining irate, and maybe it’s because she fears a repeat of that, or maybe, it’s just because no one can stay mad at you for long, because you’re good at what you do, and you know it. So this time, you can’t exactly bring yourself to stop. It’s none of your concern, that she’s whimpering into your neck after the first one, or kinda, sorta violently shuddering after the second—you’re not content, not yet, and that’s what really matters, isn’t it? You only concede after the third because you lose feeling in your fingers but Nico really doesn’t need to know your limits, regardless of if there’s going to be a second time. You’re unsure of if she’d even care, because last you checked, her head’s gone slack on your shoulder, and it’s an uninvited but not quite undesirable warmth, per se: the same type of feeling you’ve been longing for on those cold winter nights. You have to remind yourself to breathe afterwards, and that’s never a good sign. You examine your pulse and this time, it’s nothing but erratically high, which—which is fine, you dismiss. You’ve been in dire need of a good workout, and so, having spent a full hour over what you’d allotted for said visit is but marginally distressing. So it’s a chore to refrain from pulling your hair out and agonizing over everything that could’ve possibly went awry in your absence, but you manage to wait until she’s fully regained consciousness and picked herself up. You even keep calm long enough for her to deliver a final quip, and you’re too generous, really—giving an inch to someone who’s going to take a mile, someone who already has. But you can handle your fair share of sarcasm. You invented sarcasm. What you can’t handle is her not opting for a witticism of any kind—and that’s the scary part, because as much as you could navigate the perilous waters before, you can’t just get a grip while that charming number glides past her knees, past her ankles, past the same pair of insufferable four-inch heels and is slingshotted into your pure, unsullied hands. There’s something etched into the waistband in clean, legible white, and you know exactly where this is going. She leaves, but not before tossing you a pair of finger guns and a telling wink to go with it, and you enter the ten digits into your phone on a whim, on a rash, inane whim, and it’s not even so you can block her number. You exhale sharply at the thought of it. You’re going to have a minor aneurysm if she’s not free Thursday night. And unfortunately for you, she is.