Tea is Writing

For other characters I like I made a general tier list. Each tier arranged in approximate order:

Lower tiers don't mean "I hate this character" it just means my brain has not latched onto them with the urge to turn them over in my mind like a chip shop kebab.

After practice, while Niki heads straight to Cafe Cinnamon to cook his dinner and prepare for work, Mayoi returns to the Seisoukan Apartment, somehow without possessing the desire to perish immediately. Apart from Niki’s mid-morning crash, practice had progressed smoothly; Mayoi’s gloves and long sleeves kept him safe from Niki’s far too friendly touches, and miraculously Mayoi received no more threats of imminent consumption. 

Although Crazy:B usually displays a more laissez-faire approach to performances, Niki was adaptable and attentive, nailing every adjustment after only one or two attempts, taking each one with a smile. By the end of the day they synchronised together almost perfectly, leaving Mayoi searching only for subtle nuances to tweak.

As Mayoi approaches the Seisoukan Apartment entrance, a notification arrives via Hold Hands. It states that the first round’s activity segment involves the new units hosting a joint fan greet, with further details to be provided on the day. Mayoi tenses. A fan greet means people, noise, cameras, a thousand voices merging into an indecipherable mess while he’s supposed to be friendly and attentive, a functional human being who deserves to be seen by such sweet, adoring fans. He grips his phone.

But he’s done this before, with ALKALOID.

This shouldn’t be any different, should it?

Last time he was nervous, yes, but he simply sat quietly and signed while Hiiro, Aira, and Tatsumi handled the talking. Niki is good at talking. Niki is a good, charismatic, likable idol. This will be the same as before. The fans are there to look at everyone, not just him, and the crowd will probably be smaller than a mainline ALKALOID event, anyway. 

Yes, yes—he knows this, and he can do it again.

Mayoi breathes.

It’ll be fine. He can handle it…hopefully.

Despite the unwelcome news, Mayoi dredges up the will to walk to the kitchen via the corridor instead of the vents and, finding it thankfully deserted, cooks himself a simple rice dish with tea for dinner. He even remains in the kitchen after cooking, eating his meal at the large wooden table opposite the cooking area, although he first dims the lights, leaving the room cloaked in a twilight glow. His muscles ache, but pleasantly so, and the lingering haze of a hard day’s work takes the edge off his thoughts.

He’s tired, yes, but functional, far more so than he imagined he would be after a day around Niki.

As he eats, soft footfall approaches from down the corridor. Mayoi pauses mid-mouthful. Someone’s coming. He should leave; no one needs to be burdened with his presence. But then he catches the rhythm of that distinctive, slightly asymmetrical stride, and relaxes, resuming chewing. It’s just Tatsumi, and Tatsumi is the singular person he knows he won’t bother. At least he hopes he isn’t a bother. Tatsumi says he never is, and Tatsumi is an honest person, so it must be true, right?

A shadow appears in the doorway, haloed by the light from the corridor, and raises a hand in greeting.

“Good evening, Mayoi-san.” Tatsumi enters, leaving the lights dimmed as they are, and approaches to set down an assortment of conbini foods at the spot opposite Mayoi, paper bags crinkling against the tabletop. “It’s good to see you eating. I assume this means that your day with Shiina-san went well?”

Mayoi nods, swallowing his mouthful of rice before replying. “Right, it did… Niki-san worked really hard today…”

Tatsumi raises a brow as he slips into his chair. “It sounds as though the two of you may have become a little closer?”

“A little, maybe… Working with him wasn’t as scary as I thought.”

Although Mayoi took every precaution to avoid infecting Niki, all training necessitates a certain degree of tactile correction, but bizarrely, Niki had acted entirely unaffected by Mayoi’s gloom. He never once shrank from the corrupted touch that guided him, never gave a disgusted look at Mayoi’s audacity to make contact with such a pure person.

It’s no secret Niki is tactile, but how could Niki let someone like Mayoi so close so easily?

“I am glad to hear that,” says Tatsumi, twisting open a water bottle. Then he pauses, tapping his fingers against the plastic. “I must admit, I was surprised to see you take on the leadership role in your unit.”

Mayoi groans. Great. He’d almost forgotten about that. “It wasn’t my choice. Niki-san didn’t want to do it either, so he volunteered me…”

“And yet you accepted. I feel you do not see how you’ve grown, Mayoi-san.” Taking a sip from his drink, Tatsumi smiles at Mayoi, far more proudly than he deserves.

“Please don’t say that sort of thing!” Mayoi’s face burns, and he pokes at his rice, which seems suddenly more like a stodgy mass of gloop than a meal. Tatsumi shouldn’t be looking at him like that, not after Mayoi begged and pleaded with Niki to escape the fate Tatsumi is so proud of him for.

He deserves no credit for this.

“And you, Tatsumi-san?” he asks. “How are you finding working with HiMERU? I know things are a little difficult…”

Tatsumi chuckles, waving his hand absentmindedly. “There have been some minor…artistic differences. But on certain occasions, the Lord presents us with challenges designed to lead us to our own self-improvement. As such, I am maintaining faith that this is simply a chance provided to me to improve my own patience and grace, and remain grateful for such an opportunity.”

What a blessing, to have a mind so willing to move forward, rather than spinning upon the same patch of ground until all that’s left to dig up are long since putrefied bones.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Mayoi says.

Tatsumi hums softly. “Do what, precisely?”

“Everything.” Mayoi grips his chopsticks, turning his fingers—the haunted, skeletal things they are—white. “You’re always so calm, Tatsumi-san. No matter what, you always know the right thing to say or do, while all I can do is panic…”

Tatsumi smiles, but shakes his head. “I am glad that I’m able to instil that sort of impression, but still waters may yet conceal strong currents beneath their surface.”

If only Mayoi could be so lucky. His mind works more like a riptide. A strong current would be a welcome reprieve in comparison.

“There are many occasions on which I have felt far from calm,” Tatsumi continues, “but I believe that faith is what allows humans to continue placing one foot before the other, even when the path might not be visible to them.”

Of course. Tatsumi has his faith. Mayoi has never given it much thought, but he definitely doesn’t want a being such as Tatsumi’s god gazing upon a creature like himself; he would surely be purified instantaneously.

He sinks over his bowl, playing with an escaped chunk of egg yolk.

“Of course, I am aware not everyone will share my beliefs in this matter. But a person’s faith can take many forms; it is up to the individual as to what they place their faith in. Even if it is simply the faith they have in themselves.”

The top of Mayoi’s head prickles, and he looks up to Tatsumi’s kind, violet eyes watching him.

No, no, no, Tatsumi can’t look at him like that. There’s too much of that unrealistic hope there that maybe one day Mayoi won’t be a hopeless coward, forever relying on Tatsumi—and it’s always Tatsumi that he burdens—to give him these scraps of reassurance.

He needs to escape. Too much expectation. Too many ways he’ll disappoint.

Mayoi stares at his half-finished dinner, trying to formulate an escape plan. He can claim a sudden stomach-ache, or say that he forgot something in the practice room, or… No, no, no, they’re all too obvious; Tatsumi will see straight through him. What to do? What to do?

Tatsumi shifts in his seat, pulling his phone from his pocket suddenly. He holds it in front of him, his eyes remaining fixed on a single spot in the centre of the screen.

If Tatsumi is pretending to read, he’s doing a terrible job of it.

“Ah, it seems that I am being requested in my dormitory,” he says. “Apologies for leaving again so soon, Mayoi-san, but I shall leave you to enjoy your meal without my interruptions.” Tatsumi stands, slipping his phone into his pocket, not even pretending to type a reply.

Great. Now Tatsumi has to remove himself because Mayoi is too much of a coward to even run away on his own. How pathetic he is.

“Alright. I’ll see you later…” 

His untouched bags of food tucked under his arm, Tatsumi makes to leave, lingering briefly in the doorway. “And please, don’t mind my wandering thoughts. You are doing well as you are, Mayoi-san. I wish you a peaceful night and a productive rehearsal tomorrow.”

Then he is gone, those off-rhythm footsteps tapping down the corridor.

Once more in the sanctuary of solitude, Mayoi forces another mouthful of dinner past his lips. Lukewarm. Sticky and mushy. But when Mayoi skips his meals, Tatsumi makes that face that jams a burr of guilt in his chest, reminding him of how he inevitably causes nothing but concern to his friends.

Friends? Yes, friends—Niki made the same sort of face the other day, too.

Niki, who worked so hard for their unit today. 

On that thought, he should type up the notes he made during practice and send them over. That’s what he usually does for ALKALOID. Just for reference. In all honesty, Niki implemented everything Mayoi asked of him anyway, but there’s no harm in a recap.

Mayoi sips his tea, letting the earthy notes sit in his mouth before swallowing. Yes, rehearsal today was good. After the initial explosion of energy, Niki wasn’t too overwhelming, and even remained patient while Mayoi fumbled with the speaker system, helping him so kindly rather than scolding him.

It’s a strange thing to admit, but they looked good together. They’re of similar height, similar enough builds, and even their hairstyles mirror each other—it’s a cohesive image.

Niki is a much brighter idol than Mayoi, of course. If only Niki’s joyful expressions during performances came so easily to Mayoi; for him, every new performance means an hour—sometimes two—in front of a mirror, twisting his face with teeth too sharp into the emotions humanity calls joy and happiness, or whatever other expression would be appropriate.

But, like a child playing in the dirt, slapping together chunks of sticky, slimy mud, Mayoi is used to moulding himself into the shape expected of a human by now. It never holds up close, but for fans who are all too willing to see only what they want to see, it creates the idol Mayoi who sings and dances on stage from afar.

Yes, with their combined skills, their unit will do well‌.

Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today.

He’s ordered himself a cake—a single vanilla cupcake with spiral frosting and sprinkles. He does not deserve it, but he ordered it anyway, because eating cake is what people do on their birthday.

Now, he tracks his way up from the basement of ES’s main building, safe in the metallic embrace of the vents that seclude him from the eyes of those who live above. They don’t want to see a creature like him wandering about; they don’t deserve to be subjected to such a loathsome sight.

A notification on Mayoi’s phone pops up, saying that the delivery driver left his cake on the little patch of grass by the vent opening. When he arrives there, unfamiliar sunlight strikes him blind, a pure white glare reflecting up from the concrete pavement. He cups a hand over his eyes and finds his treasure as described. It sits tied in a little white cardboard box, his delivery receipt placed underneath. Mayoi tucks the receipt into his pocket and clasps the box with both hands before slipping back into the refuge of his vent.

He treats himself to a little wander around the building, peering through the slits in the vents to watch over the lives of the trainees he was supposed to be classmates with. In the hallway, one boy laughs over a joke his friend makes, arms curled around his middle, while in the practice room next door two friends stand beside each other, shaking their heads over a piece of complex sheet music. In a secluded storage room, a trainee sheds a secret tear, the email on his phone screen telling him that unfortunately, this time, he hasn’t been selected to join the unit he auditioned for.

Mayoi imagines himself beside them, sharing their laughter, their struggles, their tears. Then he imagines them turning to him, eyes narrowing, noses wrinkling, asking him what right he has to be standing among them, and that Mayoi slinks away, insults peppering his back.

He clutches his cake box closer to his chest, thankful that he decided against leaving the vents this time.

After all, Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today. It is a good day to be thankful.

As he continues his way through the building, a chorus of cheers and laughter echoes against the vents’ thin metal walls, and he heads towards the source to investigate. It’s not long before he’s sitting above a training room, a crowd of a dozen or so trainees gathered below him. They each wear a shiny paper hat, and the boy with the largest hat stands beside a table that spans the far wall of the room. On that table, handmade cookies and other homemade dishes compete for prime position, the scent of gingerbread and fresh ramen floating up through the vent opening.

Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today, but the numbers written on multicoloured balloons bobbing around the room say that this trainee is seventeen.

The trainee’s friends—his dear friends who love and cherish him—gather round, preparing to sing him his happy birthday song. Mayoi joins in—quietly enough that no one will notice the filth-stained being crawling in their ceiling—adding his own name to the lyrics, too, because Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today.

The song concludes, and it’s time for him to go, because ghosts do not belong at birthday parties.

Before he leaves, he sends a little slip of paper fluttering down to the ground, and the trainees crowd around excitedly, urging the birthday boy to pick it up.

A gift from the Phantom of Ensemble Square, because good children receive presents on their birthdays.

A joyful whoop echoes along the resonant metal. The boy has opened his note and read the words that wish him a happy birthday, that praise how he’s developed his skills over the past year. He sounds happy.

In a corner of the vents, Mayoi pauses, listening to the boy’s joy among his friends’ congratulations. The phantom has done his job.

Mayoi returns to his basement, the familiar company of its single flickering light and the combined aroma of dust and damp welcoming him home. There are no presents waiting here; Mayoi Ayase was never a good child. His feet click upon stone as he drops into his secret home, the echo visceral—skin connecting with skin, a sudden sting, a cry that was maybe his own, a secret never to spill. But he was a bad child whose traitorous mouth betrayed him, alien words—it hurt, it hurt, he didn’t just fall, please please believe him—dripping from an alien tongue. He was a bad child who made a fuss when he shouldn’t have, caused trouble when he should have simply moved on and let it be, let it be, let it be.

Mayoi has never received presents. But that’s okay; he still cradles his box to his chest, and it is time to eat cake, because Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today. 

He eats his cake in bed—the covers drawn over his head, the flickering light turned off. The after-ache of the glaring sun rests heavy behind his eyes, and the din of the party echoes in his ears, so he treats himself to the sensory joy of nothing except smooth sugar kissing his lips, the icing sliding soft across his tongue as he presses it to the roof of his mouth.

Once he has finished, he sits for a while, listening to the comforting soundtrack of the creaking of the building and the faint footfall in the corridor above.

But that cannot occupy him forever, so he gets up to partake in his favourite activity, because that is what people do on their birthday.

In the space next to his makeshift bedroom, there is a makeshift practice studio, featuring a mosaic of mirrors that were due to be thrown out, all patched together along the long wall at the back. He connects his phone to the similarly acquired sound system, and the tinkling of a lone piano fills the space.

His body takes over, his fingers reaching out towards no one, and then he folds forward, cradling himself, curled like a flower waiting to bloom. Then, as a melancholy scale reaches its peak, his calves tense, and the balls of his feet press against cracked wood, propelling him through the air, his arms arcing overhead, dislodging the filth from his skin. Although he performs to no one except the little mouse that pauses to watch on its way to the kitchen, the size of his audience doesn’t matter, because when Mayoi Ayase performs, his mind is silent and the world is no longer too bright, too loud, too beautiful. 

He is new and pure. He is clean and beautiful and—for a few brief minutes—deserves more than to rot in the darkness.

When the track concludes, he bows to no one.

Mayoi sits on the floor, avoiding meeting the eyes of the ghost in the mirror with the too-sharp teeth and eyes that died a decade prior.

He ponders ‌what to do next.

He could try calling, but it’s been years since he last tried. Besides, they’ve never been interested in hearing from the insect they spawned, the maggot that betrayed them. It’s better if he doesn’t. He is not welcome there. 

Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today.

In the past, he often wondered if this day would ever come, but Mayoi Ayase is eighteen today, and he ate cake and attended a birthday party and took part in his favourite hobby.

He supposes that is a good thing.

It should be a good thing.

Down in the basement, time passes on its own whim, but his phone tells him it is 5pm, so it must be true.

A training session for the trainees two years younger than him will be held in the main practice studio at 6pm, so he takes himself to bed, setting his alarm for a twenty-minute nap. When their rehearsal begins, the Phantom of Ensemble Square will be watching, waiting to slip them the appraisal notes that make them grin and gossip and compare what they have each received. Then they will head back to their dorms or another training room to implement the advice within, bringing themselves a little closer to dreams of sparkling lights and a sea of devoted fans.

Mayoi Ayase is a useless, worthless person, but the Phantom of Ensemble Square might bring this small value to the world.

He pulls the sheets over his head.