life and death and love and birth and [fuuyuko+tomie]

"There's no use going to the garden if you want to participate in hanami, Fuuyuko. But knowing you as well as I do, I figure you might be going there to initiate a ritual where something else than a cup of sake rests in your lap."

The voice softly purrs with svelte vocals from behind the frumpy girl heading towards the door leading to the gardens behind the establishment. A figure steps out from beneath a carpet of saccharine-scented smoke, hair-pieces shimmering in the artificial light while resting in an loose updo of cocoa. A hand flickers back and forth idly, parting the curtain to make better room to talk. As she cautiously steps forwards, the long robe trailing her flows, nearly hitting the floor.

An unimpressed side-glance follows, lips resting around an ornate pipe.

"I would rather keep such rituals strictly to my employees. You do have a shrine of your own where you can practice your prayers, no?"

The rattling of a fan follows, everything but Tomie's burrowing eyes is obscured by the folding fan's brown piece of fabric.

Just like her employee, the madam is not particularly surprised to find Fuuyuko wandering the establishment, basket in tow, heading out to partake in the pastimes of this particular holiday in the garden beneath the branches of the cherry trees.

Except there are no cherry trees in the garden; only plum trees. Although a fair few amount of people do enjoy their umemi, this is mostly an activity for elders, a category that so happens to encompass quite a few customers currently visiting the tea house.

To the best of her knowledge, Fuuyuko is certainly no elder. The girl hasn't even reached her hundreds if her memory doesn't betray her, so this certainly is no activity for her.

"I do not wish for you to disturb the clients enjoying a leisurely umemi in the garden," she says, placing a peculiar emphasis on "disturb", knowing full and well that the intruder could well either disturb them by interrupting their activities or disturbing them by causing serious distress. Or perhaps both, if she really went for the jugular.

Puffs of smoke from the red lips gradually cause the fog of sweet scent to grow steadily denser, the girl becoming less visible from where she is standing. "Mai is filling in for me today, thus I have the day off. I will be heading to a flower viewing party closer to the village. Join me."

And with that, she turns her back on the girl, knowing full and well that she will follow regardless of how many complaints she has. This girl's nose developed expressly for sniffing out luxuries and wherever the madam goes, such things crop up like weeds. After all, why would someone who has so little turn down free crumbs?

She knows the bread trail is not strictly a necessity to string Fuuyuko along, but doing so makes the girl easier to yield; she is not in the mood for mule handling right now.

Today is a festival and one Tomie rather likes at that. She would rather not bicker right now; she'd rather drink and idly play some music beneath a verdant, dying tree. Speaking of which.

"Fuuyuko, would you mind grabbing one of the shamisen in the room third room on the left side? I'm going to fetch the basket from my room and a parasol. Meet me at the entrance." With a simple glance over her shoulder, command having been spoken with minimal sugar, she departs, leaving the girl to do as she has been told.

Wooden heels clack as they traverse the serpentine pathway leading to the entry hall and then to her private quarters. Oh, would you look at that. It appears as if she has already placed the basket and the unusually thick-handled parasol next to the door. Practical as always.

Briefly, she examines the contents of the basket. Sake. Plenty of it. There are also a few snacks within, but bottles clinking as she picks the heavy vessel take up well over two thirds of the contents.

With both items in hand, Tomie makes her way to the entrance, staunchly waiting for her companion to arrive with the instrument.

For just a moment, there is a sense of demure gratitude resting upon Fuuyuko's face, a fleeting moment which briefly makes Tomie see what the men she drags into the various rooms explicitly not designed for courtship sees in her; it is an earthly approachability, one of a girl next-door. Even the head-scratching is vaguely endearing. If she keeps this up, then perhaps she can find a good hu-

Then she is promptly belched in the face and nearly hit in the face by a fist raised skywards.

Her face remains rigid marble, not moving an inch as the force of the foul odor causes her hair to shake the tiniest bit. She feels the gas sear her eyes, tasting whatever Fuuyuko has just consumed for breakfast with what she presumes to be immense voracity. At least the sake will sterilize that rancid breath. As a matter of fact, to forget this entire experience, the madam decides that perhaps she could use some liquid forgetfulness too, in order to obliterate the memory of Fuuyuko's breakfast.

With parasol in hand, basket resting in the crook of her arm, a single tokkuri of sake in the other, she strolls onwards, guest in tow. Swiftly, she downs a large gulp of alcohol in a single sip, eradicating any non-sterile scent that has been lingering within her body with a potent sinus blast.

"And what might you have had for breakfast? Fermented meat? Natto?" She refrains from looking at Fuuyuko as they stroll down the road, the floral canopy of the parasol unfolded, shielding her from the mild sun. Fingers wrap around the tokkuri's neck effortlessly, utilizing minimal force, as the arm swings leisurely along her side. "I know for certain your mother didn't cook whatever you ate this morning." Or noon. Who knows when she woke up.

Closing her eyes briefly while bringing the cup to her lips, Tomie feels the zephyr breeze tug at her long sleeves and flaxen robe. A chill runs up her left leg, having been partially exposed by the wind. Milk skin greets sunlight before a hand tugs the fabric back in place briskly. Should've anticipated this. The trees were rustling in the wind earlier, after all.

It is by no means a gust of any kind, merely a draft, but enough to disrupt the flowing kind of furisode Tomie wears just about every day. Perhaps she could have worn a proper obi instead of just a few sashes around her waist; it's not quite like these hold the fabric together that well. Sure, they work well inside, but when outside, draft tends to do her rather revealing outfit no favors.

"And please don't think I've gone all out. This," she gesticulates towards the basket by raising and lowering her arm, "wasn't particularly costly." Her eyes trail to the side, granting the tiny woman a disdainful glance, before resuming in engaging in the visual scenery.

Most of the trees in the distance, and the few along the path down the slope towards the village, contain sparse sprouts and leaves, heralding spring's arrival. Floral spots dot the landscape, blessing it with color.

But most magnificent are the cherry trees in the distance, just outside the boundaries of the village. Vibrant, yet tender, the transiently lived trees are splashes of blood on white: a statement with gory delicacy.

"I can't recall how many times I have seen the trees like this." The babble of an old soul stopped in her tracks fills the air until the words are dragged by wind, hair swirling and robes swept. Upon this nameless hill, she gazes into the distance, towards the grove of pink trees. "Yet, I never cease to be amazed by them."

The contour of a smile lights up her face, eyes sparkling, traces of the youth she once possessed wells up. With the faintest hint of joy, Tomie looks at Fuuyuko, lips pursed. "Do you see a particular spot you want to occupy over there? It doesn't look too crowded yet."

With a hand above her eyes, as to shield them from the sun that her parasol already covers, she tries to find a tree that strikes her particular fancy.

"Tell me, Fuuyuko," her words are frank and slightly exasperated, matching the weary look she is giving her partner. "How can a tree be friendly?" Cautiously, she eyes the tree and the leaved dyed pink above. Do trees even feel? Sometimes, the madam wonders. Perhaps they did feel on the same level that her skin does when touched.

Leaning her palm against the bark, Tomie briefly analyzes this ephemeral marvel of nature, pondering its age, before resuming the process that is chiding her companion. "Do not place the shamisen on the ground. That thing is likely both older and in better shape than you are."

The remark is spoken with sweet dulcet, slowly as well, but the very last syllable swishes like a kitchen knife through fabric, tearing while leaving stinging in its wake.

Knowing that the air-headed buffoon would only manage to muster up a half-hearted, clumsy apology, she takes the two arduous steps to be in the reach of the instrument. Her fingers wrap around the neck, hoisting it up from the ground and placing the basket where it had been standing.

From underneath the bottles, she retrieves a soft blanket, just enough to separate her expensive fabric from the repellent grass.

Just as she is about to sit down and start enjoying herself, Fuuyuko makes sure to shove a sticky, pungent object in between the crevices of her fingers before scooting off towards her own location. Her eyes trail down towards the onigiri resting in her hand. Is this what has caused her rancid breath? The nausea creeps up her esophagus, lumping as she even considers the prospect of her mouth smelling this awful.

"I appreciate the offer, but I ate just before we left." She puts the bun down on the blanket, knowing that Fuuyuko would still eat it; even if she had put it on the ground, she is positive the girl would've eaten it, soil and bugs included.

Where she sits with the shamisen in her lap, legs tucked neatly underneath, she still feels a faint hunger nag within. I hope they are selling some sort of pastries around here.

"I drink less sake than you do, thank you," she retorts with a mildly irritated tone, not bothering to even look at her as she suckles the bottle of alcohol aggressively. "I drink plenty of tea. I do work at a tea house, after all. And what I eat doesn't concern you or your esteemed mother."

While she speaks with little hostility, there is plenty of detachment until she mentions the mother in question, whom she does have a fair amount of fondness for. "Given the amount of delectable food your mother cooks, it seems like she's the one expanding every time I see her." With a short shrug and a cautious tug at the strings of the instrument, Tomie puts down the bottle, letting out a petite burp of satisfaction.

"There are few things more unsettling than a thin cook, after all."

Sharp tones hum from the strings as she plucks with her fingers, adjusting the knobs to her liking. The bottle she had started drinking from is nigh empty and resting near the tree's roots now, both hands occupied with the instrument and the bachi. "Are you going to join me with the shakuhachi when you are done eating like a child? There's quite literally bean paste on your neck." The wide bachi in her hand gesticulates towards an area beneath Fuuyuko's chin, an eye glancing from the side with the contour of amusement contained within.

So, instead of joining her in playing a particular song, as she has been implored to do, Fuuyuko wants to showboat with a song she has been practicing. God knows what that might mean. In all honesty, Tomie braces for a concert a la the one Fuuyuko 16 years of age put on in the hallway with a dozen customers present, which had netted her a solid hour in the cabinet until Ren had noticed she was missing.

"Knowing you, even if you did use your esteemed mother's recipe, you took some creative liberties. Just like that time you took 'creative liberties' by fishing in my koi pond and made--what did you call it again? 'Pai'?" The retort is dry, but not particularly bitter, marked with a slight sense of second-hand remorse.

Nonetheless, she puts her instrument down and prepares to listen to her companion's solo performance with the company of two bottles of alcohol.

Despite her expectations, the melody is not necessarily bad; what it is, is really strange, though, with it's odd crescendo of notes and repetition of particular parts. Tomie would be lying if she said that it doesn't bother her, because it does, but she listens patiently nonetheless. She doesn't catch a particular feeling from the piece, it seems all over the place, but that is just about a given, since this is Fuuyuko she's watching perform.

She takes another hearty swig from the bottle, before gently placing it against the tree, joining the first empty one.

"Oh."

'Oh' is all she manages to say as the flutist professes where it actually comes from; it's a sensation of dull surprise, having come to expect things like this to come from Fuuyuko. "So a Westerner, in other words," she remarks coldly, disdain seething for this foolish minority that seems incapable of assimilation.

"Whatever he sang, it must have been nonsense." The dismissal persists even as the bushy-haired girl nearly keels over while gushing over the appearance of this strange fellow.



The answer is curt, short and not particularly sweet in regards to Fuuyuko's inquiry of hiring men in the place of women, but it seems like this fantasy-fueled babble is unstoppable; even after being outright rejected by a sharp and unambiguous 'no', which Tomie all too seldom utilizes out of fear of seeming impolite, the girl even appears to try to come to a compromise.

She scoffs at the situation as she continues chugging down troves of rice wine.

"Really, now?" Chocolate eyes trail over to Fuuyuko, whose eyes she can hardly see under the shaggy bangs, while occasionally bobbing a bottle up and down in tandem with swallowing.

"Moyamoyasumi is a tea house. We primarily serve tea and offer high culture to the masses, something which they cannot usually partake in. We're not a brothel catering to girls who can't seem to control their underbelly urges. I'm not going to parade men only dressed in fundoshi in my estate in the foreseeable future."

But then she sighs, reminiscing of discovering the casualties in Fuuyuko's wake.

"Even though you bring those with you and forget them in various rooms just about every week."

The shamisen is back in her lap, plectrum idly strumming against the strings to accompany her humming. If Fuuyuko can get away with a shoddy solo, then she can surely get away with an excellent one. She closes her eyes, stretches her back against the bark, inhales deeply and the melody shifts, softer than before and with more melancholy.

"The waning moon lulled me to sleep." The contralto sweeps through the area, accompanying the falling petals of the cherry trees as the wind carries both. "One day, I'll understand what this means." You know this song, Fuuyuko.

"Into the blue, where the night is streaked with blood.

Traces of lost memories hardly left a scratch."

Desolation otherwise concealed beneath her stern tone peeks out, drawing forth the true properties of the lyrics. "I shut my eyes to what is so bright. For some reason, the enchanting light brings me to tears." Her eyes open and look up, towards the clear skies, following the pink dots dancing in the air as she continues playing. "As time goes by, I follow footprints. They look a little bit like yours."

For just a brief moment, Tomie looks over to Fuuyuko before once again closing her eyes, resuming concentration.

"Will these voices echoing in my head bring me good sleep?

The remnants of memories are but a dream.

I've forgotten what the view looks like.

The memory floats up and disappears into transience." Uninterrupted, she finishes the third verse, before taking a deep breath. Her favorite verse is coming up.

"'Sadness' is the thought of dying. It is a name that holds no color." She ensures to put extra emphasis on this one. "'Happiness' is something no one knows." The strumming grows stronger, lonelier, for a few seconds. "These thoughts are paradoxical."

It slows down. "The glitter of the stars will fade." Brief humming.

"I search for dawn with eyes wide open." Chocolate meets blue skies and pink again, before becoming isolated beneath the darkness again.

She restrains herself for a moment before proceeding, shoulders tensing as it is about to reach an uncomfortable climax. "You're out there somewhere, I can feel it even now." Her body sinks again, towards the ground, falling from the illustrious purgatory she briefly visited.

Well, then. It seems as if her song has fallen on deaf ears. At least Fuuyuko's. She sits there, more placid than Tomie is accustomed to, flute sloppily floating around her being. In the corner of her eye, she sees the onlookers, the listeners. They too, are either intoxicated or on the way there. Teenagers with lovers in the crook of their arms, couples, families, elders; variety is the spice of this village.

And they are all drinking sake and a majority looking at her.

They say nothing as she finishes, following the example set by her companion.

But she neither expects nor desires any sort of cheering; the song is both made and sung to touch, never to drive crowds wild. It is the epitome of personal expression, to her at least, showcasing emotions otherwise concealed with heavy deliberation.

Only Fuuyuko's loud, protesting growl from within her bowels applaud her song with a declaration of hunger. What else would it be? What else? She laments as her brows arch up, expression a faux sense of surprise at the antics even the broom-haired buffoon's subconscious seems to exercise at her expense.

"Best of luck, then," a callous remark is all the raven offers the girl as Tomie turns her head away from her departing companion, who seems to be intent on either going fishing without proper equipment or skinny dipping with her friends from the village; both seem equally plausible. Fingers resume the gentle caressing of strings, plucking a melody of a song yet to be transcribed.

At least she didn't snatch most of the bottles with her. It's the only leverage I have to keep her around. Peeking into the basket, she looks at the previously neatly stacked bottles which seem to have fallen into disarray as she slipped her fingers into it and hoisted vessel after vessel, emptying them at breakneck pace; there seem to be enough left for her to enjoy herself for perhaps a couple of more hours before going home to resume drinking in solitude.

As if triggered by Fuuyuko's body, her own stomach starts bubbling and yawning, nagging with a void waiting to be filled.

She peers over at the abandoned flute, to see if the girl left any of those repellent pieces of onigiri behind as she went fishing slash skinny dipping, perhaps both.

Only specks of sauce and individual grains of rice, snow in summer where it lies between the green tufts, remain after the feast.

No, wait. There she spots it, behind the flute stomped underfoot. A black piece of sloppy cooking. If there's one around, there could be more.

Since she has just seen the one, she could pretend she had seen none, right?

With this justification in mind, Tomie gently leans her instrument against the tree's trunk and heads off towards a stand in the distance.

Within a span of fifteen minutes, she has returned, two sticks of dango in either hand. She leans against the tree where she had previously been situated, next to the shamisen, as she maneuvers her hands around to prevent the delectable orbs from touching the wood.

Nibbling and cautiously chewing on the top of one, she savors the flavor as she crushes the dumplings underneath her teeth. It definitely isn't the best dango she's ever had, nor the most affordable, but it will do for now. The festive atmosphere puts her in a decent mood, so she doesn't really feel like complaining.

Not even the long line had bothered her that much.

As a matter of fact, the only thing that does, is her incapability to hold anything else while handling the snacks. She could really use a drink or two to wash away the dry sensation.

Nonetheless, she plugs away at the food, the first she has eaten today if her memory doesn't betray her, finishing one skewer relatively fast. Only three more to go.

Even though she's pretty sure she can see through some of Fuuyuko's clothing, it's that soaked, she doesn't even wince when the girl comes waddling towards her, fish still spasming in her grasp. She maintains her bovine side-ways chewing, dumbfounded and quiet, picking off the petite, doughy dumplings one by one, staring expressionlessly at her returning companion.

Precisely how long the girl had been gone is something that eludes her, but she wagers that it can't have been more than twenty minutes at most, if even that. She had barely managed to get back from her less than sneaky dango trip and eat a single skewer before she had been caught more or less red-handed. But to set matters straight, to undeniably be the terrible fiend she tends to be, Tomie maintains a steadfast gaze onto the dripping wet girl's face.

She would stare her right in the eye, but circumstances taken into account, this is simply not possible. The bushy hair usually covering her eyes is even heavier than it usually is, clinging the bridge of her nose and seems to be as far down as her cheeks.

Nonetheless, she maintains permanent contact with the girl to demonstrate her lack of hesitation to outright ignore her offers of nigiri and instead buy proper food on her own.

Only when the kappa speaks does she even show that she is not some cow with only capacity for chewing. "Definitely. The bigger ones are usually in the lakes. But I suppose it's only natural to see them in the river now, since they are spawning," she swallows, covering her mouth with her hand, looking down at the flopping scales and the vacant gazes of the salmon.

While distracted by the sight of the limp scales of the fish, glistening in the sun where they are lying, she feels the load in her left hand lessen as a single skewer is nabbed by nimble, but notably cautious hands. Only a brief side-eye glance acknowledges the action, in it a lioness observing a vulture snatching a strap of flesh from her prey. They then return to the fish, before turning towards the bottles in the basket next to her.

An empty skewer falls into the basket as she finishes the stick in her right, now biting at the pearls of the last stick. Her free hand descends to the basket, familiar fingers pop off the lid as bitter liquid flows freely down her throat.

"Why do you even insist on paying?" Tomie speaks between the gulps, nearly emptying the bottle with her greedy sips before she puts it back in the basket. Once more, she looks at Fuuyuko. With her drenched clothes, which are already quite short, mind you, she can't be particularly warm. If only she had the foresight to actually know she would be spending time in those very clothes even after her impromptu fishing trip, this wouldn't be an issue.

"You caught dinner. Consider that your payment," she huffs, grumpy sighs between the consumption of dango and aggressive emptying of bottles.

But it seems like this hooligan is just insistent on pestering her with her juvenile miscreant behavior. She has harmed some poor cherry blossom tree to gather firewood for a campfire so she won't freeze her butt off. On top of that, she expects her to use her magic in public, where witchcraft could easily be scrutinized; rumors come into being because of things like this.

"It's bad luck to harm a cherry blossom tree in hanami season. I thought you would know better than that," she makes a vague frowning grimace before finishing the very last piece of dango, putting the thin wooden pick on top of the pile of desecrated wood.

Grabbing the other stick she had thrown into alcohol nest, she subtly covers it with her hand, to prevent anyone but Fuuyuko from witnessing her subterfuge. As her palm hovers over the stick's top end, a spark flies from the center to the tip of the wood. It soon catches fire, looking eerily similar to a match.

Carelessly, she tosses it onto the pile, smoke starting to gradually rise from the dry wood.

She takes the very last swig of the bottle, then puts it down next to its brethren with a hearty burp accompanying it. "I'll add it to the tab." Maybe she is a bit drunk.

She could at least gut the fish if she wants to fry them like that. Innards taste disgusting and not even peasants eat those. They're exceptionally hard to remove post-cooking and there could even be excrement inside. Maybe Fuuyuko's head is frozen following the bathing trip.

In addition, she should remember that the parasol Tomie carries around is more than meets the eye, as its thick handle conceals a dagger, small but sharp. She has been handeched the tool on earlier occasions, albeit with great reluctance on the borrower's part, given the squicky nature of fileting.

Since the cook's daughter is not even intent on prepping the fish, the dark-haired woman ponders whether she should skip this meal or not as well. Well, 'pondering' might be too ambiguous a word in this case; she's leaning more towards finding a solid enough reason to excuse herself from participating in the travesty that is Fuuyuko's dinner.

Maybe she could just raise the intensity of the flames and fry the simmering salmon to black crisps in the blink of an eye, but that'd be rather rude towards her companion. God knows she has eaten things worse than fish feces.

Then the dumplings have made her feel full still. Yes, definitely, this sounds like a more than decent excuse. All the alcohol swirling in her system isn't making it any better either. For someone of her slender frame, there's only room for so much.

Nonetheless, this isn't the thought that's primarily taking up space in her mindsphere. For as long as Fuu has been going at it with the fish, she has attempted to stroke away the bangs otherwise obstructing her view, but to no apparent avail. Strands and lock still fall into her eyes, cling to her brows and stick to her forehead with a persistence akin to Tomie's own when she takes a bath in an onsen. Granted, her entire face disappears if her loose hair gets to maintain a grip like that, and Fuu does fortunately not have that long hair, but it still aggravates the woman to watch her struggle with this.

Lips wrap around the top of an umpteenth bottle of alcohol, trucking down liquid before parting with the mouth with a loud pop. She puts the lid back on it, resting it against the shamisen on the tree. The sound of fabric grazing grass and flowers resonates through their little camp as the woman slowly makes her way around the fire over to the fish-smelling girl.

She stands above her, casting a massive shadow upon her, eyes of a frosted heaven burrowing into the soggy creature below. A pair of gentle hands reach down, softened by continuous soaking in rice water, and drag the hair obstructing the grey doe eyes back. One hand lets go and rummages through her own raven hair, grabbing a golden comb, causing a section to fall out, billowing down her shoulder.

Red-tipped fingers caress the hair back and into a uniform shape, then places the comb neatly on top, rubbing it in place, tugging slightly at the roots. There.

All of the hair is out of the way now, leaving her face completely clear aside from some tufts framing her face. It does look a tad ridiculous, but not more than before. Hunched above the sitting figure, the two women are closer than they usually tend to be. "You have such pretty eyes," she murmurs, a faint blush stretching across her face, still pale in comparison to her red lips. "Don't hide them." She really is drunk.

Then she shuffles back to her spot, a single loose lock floating in the breeze.

She knows that Fuuyuko knows. This is a distraction from the question she had just been posed, there is no doubt in that. Even if Fuuyuko might be swallowed by the compliment at first, she is eventually going to repeat the question until she gets an answer. Tomie knows her companion that well. If not today, perhaps tomorrow; if not tomorrow, perhaps in a week. She's merely procrastinating with a definite answer.

Because in the depths of her thoughts, the crow woman is hesitant. Should she teach someone else? Would that make her responsible for someone else's actions? Could they learn from her? Judging by what the Shinigami girl said, her magic is nothing short of unique, so she is not sure if anyone else have the capacity to learn.

But most importantly: could she teach? Is she skilled enough to show off her own prowess with the elements? Surely, she is comfortable enough with all the elements... Sans one.

Earth still taunts and frustrates her to no end. The breakthrough she has been waiting for never truly comes. She doesn't want to be a teacher when she cannot call herself master.

"We'll speak of this later, Fuuyuko," she says, attempting to sound resolute, but is interrupted by hiccup, loud and sharp. She really is not only drunk, but really drunk. I brought enough bottles at least. "How about Thursday in two weeks?" She has never suggested something concrete before: it's new and hopefully will put an end to the questions for a while, even if she doesn't end up taking the girl as her fledgling magician.

It leaves room until then to think. And drink.

She silently toasts to her own genius as she empties this bottle, carelessly slinging it on the ground, leaving it rolling through the grass.

"Want isn't enough." This is the very first thought that pops into Tomie Magahara's mind as her soon-to-be student attempts to justify why she should be just that. What does Fuuyuko expect from the arts of magic? Glory? Conquest? Fun? Most things are pastel and confections for this bumbling, saccharine buffoon of a girl. While the magician herself takes great pleasure in performing these spells she has crafted from the bottom up, testing them, perfecting them and categorizing them neatly based on presentation, she does not consider her craft "fun". There is arduous effort behind even the most basic formula, created from scratch.

Nonetheless, the girl's slipping language upon her approach does amuse her, the stammering, the pursing of lips as the tell-tale sign of a lie; it's all part of her oh-so-clever plan to convince the strict woman to let her partake in what her heart currently desires. With the ocular perception of a raptor, the madam herself sees through this most infantile ruse, but does not acknowledge it. Instead she merely chooses to act upon her intentions and goes through with the bestowal of the comb.

There is a distinct look of pain upon the girl's face as her nimble digits dig through and grasp the hair, quite akin the sensitivity of a newly trained maiko, which causes the woman to chuckle internally.

This is a look she has become quite accustomed to seeing through the years after starting to teach the townswomen who applied for positions at her business how to properly style their hair. She knows there isn't exactly anything particularly pleasant about the produce, even if one's hair is brushed straight with no tangles, as opposed to looking like a tuft of grass from the swamp, but she has concluded that women are strong and should be able to endure it, unlike most men, who have proven themselves to be incompetent ruffians with few sensibilities.

For sometimes, pain is beauty and beauty is pain; for as long as neither is absent from the other, she supposes. There are some truly hideous women out there with no redeeming aesthetic qualities, but there are other jobs for them, outside of the industries that require finesse.

Fuuyuko is not one of these women.

She meant every word she said about the girl's eyes. She needs not hide them from the world, not when there is something truly pretty about them.

Beauty is something most people should be able to cherish, not just bedfellows. So denying other people the right to gaze into her eyes is a breech on this rule of eye candy.

If there's someone who should conceal their eyes, it's not Fuuyuko, but her.

Ever since the day where her senior oiran had instructed her to smile with her eyes shut to look as attractive as possible, she has been conscious of how vile they truly can be. They are serpentine and sharp most of the time, but seem to have a dim quality to them when she is disinterested; perhaps it's the heavy lids that make them seem less intense.

They have served her well in the art of intimidation, however, and there is no such thing as perfect beauty. She wouldn't have them replaced at the risk of seeming more placid than she truly is.

She takes another sip where she now sits, back resting against the trunk of the tree, the shamisen in turn resting against her side.

Tomie does not even bother answering the question the girl has posed for her to answer, only offering her a semi-lidded glance as a sign of hesitant approval. Knowing her fellow hanami-partaker, the question could just as well been the statement: "I'm going to use your knife." And she accepts this fact, somehow.

She chugs more alcohol, dropping a pale bottle to the ground with uncharacteristic carelessness. I guess I'm about to hit my limit. I should stop drinking until I come home and can pass out in bed with good conscience. A bombastic voice, more muted than usual, still sharp and too loud for her sensitive eardrums, carries words--a suggestion, it seems--that take a while for her fuzzy mind to decipher.

Once it does, she reaches for her own instrument with resolute hands, placing it gently in her lap as her left hand combs through the grass for the plectrum. Upon finding it, said hand places it into the most comfortable and familiar position to her, strumming once, twice, thrice, on the shamisen. "Yes. Let's."