Chapter 2: a lovesick girl 002
The thumping bass vibrated up through the soles of Koyomi’s sneakers as she climbed the narrow staircase. It was a physical pressure, thick and relentless, shaking the framed photos on the wall – faded landscapes and a young Tamiko scowling beside a beaming Yuriko. The smell of cinnamon faded abruptly, replaced by something sharper, earthier: stale cigarette smoke, cheap incense, and underneath it all, the unmistakable skunky tang of weed. Koyomi’s nose wrinkled instinctively. Ash’s lighter clicked in her memory. Click. Click. Fwoosh.
The music grew louder with each step. Angry guitars snarled, drums hammered like fists on metal. It sounded like the inside of Tamiko’s head felt, Koyomi thought, her own heart starting to match the frantic rhythm. She reached the top landing, confronted by a single door at the end of a short hall. Graffiti covered it – jagged, swirling designs in black and silver spray paint, enigmatic symbols Koyomi couldn't decipher. The bass pulsed strongest here, radiating from behind the wood like a trapped beast.
Koyomi hesitated, clutching her tote bag like a shield. The warmth of Yuriko’s welcome downstairs felt worlds away. Hana’s warnings crashed back: ‘Human wrecking ball… staple your tongue…’ She took a deep breath, inhaling the acrid bedroom air. Crack the storm. Fifteen percent. Sunshine mission. She raised a slightly trembling hand and knocked.
Nothing. The music swallowed the sound whole.
She knocked again, harder, her knuckles stinging against the wood. "Tamiko? It's Koyomi!" she called, pitching her voice above the din. "About the project! You weren't answering texts!"
Silence, except for the relentless sonic assault. Koyomi chewed her lip. Operation Storm Chaser. She grasped the cold metal knob. It turned easily. Unlocked. Taking that as the barest sliver of an invitation, or perhaps just sheer, sunbeam-fueled audacity, she pushed the door open.
The wall of sound hit her first, a near-physical blow. Then the smell intensified – sweat layered over the weed and smoke, the cloying sweetness of spilled soda gone flat. The room was chaos made manifest. Clothes were strewn everywhere – band tees, ripped jeans, discarded socks. Empty energy drink cans and crumpled chip bags formed small drifts near the overflowing trash bin. Posters plastered the walls, torn and layered: obscure punk bands, vintage muscle cars, a snarling demonic figure. One wall was partially covered in more graffiti, matching the door, stark black lines against the faded paint.
And there, in the eye of this hurricane of disarray, lay the storm herself.
Tamiko Sato was sprawled diagonally across a surprisingly large, unmade bed. She wore nothing but a faded black band t-shirt, emblazoned with a screaming skull, and plain black cotton panties. The oversized shirt had ridden up slightly on one hip, revealing a smooth, deep brown curve of skin where it met the waistband. Her long, dark curls were a wild halo around her head on the pillow. One leg was bent, the other stretched out, the blanket tangled lazily around her ankles. She held her phone above her face, thumbs flying across the screen, the harsh blue light reflecting in her narrowed, dark eyes. The music – that furious, driving noise – blasted from large, battered speakers perched precariously on a graffiti-covered desk buried under textbooks, sketchpads, and mechanic’s tools.
Koyomi froze in the doorway, her breath catching. The sheer, unexpected casualness of Tamiko’s state of undress, the raw intimacy of seeing her like this – relaxed, vulnerable, yet radiating an innate, coiled power – was like a punch to the solar plexus. Her curvy figure, usually disguised beneath baggy shirts, was on full display: the generous swell of her breasts beneath the thin cotton, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the smooth expanse of her thighs. She looked… magnificent. And utterly terrifying.
Tamiko’s thumbs stopped moving. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the phone, turning her head towards the intrusion. Her dark eyes, glittering with annoyance, locked onto Koyomi standing dumbstruck in the doorway. The annoyance flared, hot and sudden, into open hostility. Her full lips, usually pressed in a scowl, actually parted slightly in genuine shock before snapping shut into a hard line.
"The fuck?" Tamiko’s voice cut through the music like a knife, low, dangerous, and dripping with disbelief. She didn't move from her sprawl, but her posture shifted, tension coiling through her bare limbs. "Tanaka? What the actual hell are you doing in my house? How did you even get in here?" Her gaze flickered past Koyomi towards the hall, suspicion hardening her features. "Did my grandma let you in?"
Koyomi forced herself to step fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind her. The music felt even louder now, vibrating in her teeth. "Yes! Hi! She did! She was lovely! She said you were upstairs, probably lost in your music!" Koyomi’s voice was too bright, too loud, betraying her nerves. She waved her tote bag like a white flag. "I texted you! Several times! About the project! For Economics? The fifteen percent one? You didn’t answer, and we were supposed to meet at my place at four, and you never showed, so I thought… I’d bring the project to you!" She gestured helplessly at the chaotic room. "Surprise?"
The word "surprise" hung in the smoke-thick air, brittle and absurd. Tamiko’s glare didn’t soften; it hardened into obsidian. "You tracked me down? To my fucking bedroom?" She slammed her phone face-down on the rumpled sheet beside her hip, the movement making the worn cotton of her shirt strain perilously across the full curve of her left breast. Koyomi’s eyes darted away, fixing desperately on a graffiti tag scrawled above the bed – a snarling wolf’s head. Don’t look. Don’t stare at that shadow of her nipple beneath the thin fabric. Focus on the project. The fifteen percent.
"Like I said, you didn't answer!" Koyomi’s voice climbed an octave, shaky but determined. She took another tentative step into the minefield of discarded clothes. "Professor Henderson said partners must coordinate! There's research!" She pulled a thick textbook from her tote bag, holding it up like a shield. The scent of weed was stronger here, cloying and illicit, mingling with the faint metallic tang of spray paint. "We need to pick a topic! Analyze data! I brought sources! And Oreos!" She brandished the cookie packet weakly. God, her thighs are so smooth where the blanket doesn't cover. Stop it.
The bass thumped against Koyomi’s ribs like a frantic heartbeat. Tamiko’s glare was pure venom, dark eyes narrowed, sharp cheekbones catching the dim light filtering through a neon beer sign propped crookedly on the cluttered desk. Koyomi swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry as dust. Focus on the project, not the way her breasts strain against that thin black cotton, the curve of her hip where the shirt rides up… Stop it!
“I-I brought the rubric!” Koyomi stammered, fumbling in her tote bag, fingers brushing the Oreos. She pulled out a crumpled sheet, holding it out like a shield. “Section five, subsection B! See? Off-campus coordination mandatory! And… and I have topic ideas!” Her voice sounded too loud, too bright against the snarling guitars. She couldn’t help it – another glance flickered down. The black panties hugged Tamiko’s ass perfectly, taut fabric emphasizing its generous curve against the rumpled sheets. Heat flooded Koyomi’s face.
Tamiko didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. Her gaze remained locked on Koyomi’s flushed face, a muscle ticking in her jaw. The silence stretched, thick with weed smoke and unspoken fury. “So,” Tamiko finally rasped, her voice dangerously low, cutting through the music. “What part of ‘fuck off’ sounded like ‘come on in’ to you, Sunshine? Huh?” She shifted slightly, the movement making the mattress springs groan. The hem of her shirt inched higher. Koyomi’s eyes darted again, helplessly drawn to the smooth brown skin of her lower stomach. God, stop looking!
“Grandma let you in,” Tamiko stated flatly, not a question. Her lip curled in disgust. “Of course she did. Meddling old…” She trailed off, pushing herself up onto one elbow. The motion pulled the thin shirt tight across her chest, outlining the full swell unmistakably. Koyomi’s breath hitched. “You think flashing those big, fucking Bambi eyes gets you whatever you want?” Tamiko sneered, her own dark eyes boring into Koyomi’s. “Think you’re cute? Special? That I give a single shit about Henderson’s bullshit project?”
Koyomi flinched. The words stung, sharp and cold. She clutched the rubric tighter, the paper crinkling in her trembling hand. “N-no! I just… we have to pass! Fifteen percent!” She forced herself to meet Tamiko’s furious gaze, trying to ignore the distracting lines of her body beneath the minimal clothing. The scent of weed was overpowering, mixing with Tamiko’s own warm, musky scent. “Please? Just… pick a time? Anywhere quiet?” Her plea sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
“No!” Koyomi squeaked, mortified. She stared fixedly at a graffiti tag of a snarling wolf above Tamiko’s head. “I… I brought Oreos?” She thrust the packet towards Tamiko like a peace offering. It felt absurd. Hopeless.
The Oreos hung suspended between them like a peace offering wrapped in crinkly plastic. Tamiko’s furious gaze stayed locked on Koyomi’s flushed face, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. That low growl rumbled again, deeper this time. "Get. Out." Each word was sharpened to a point.
Koyomi’s arm trembled, but she held the packet steady. The thumping bass vibrated the air, shaking loose a flake of paint from the graffiti-covered ceiling. "N-not until we schedule something," she insisted, her voice barely piercing the sonic assault. "Fifteen percent, Tamiko. Please?"
Tamiko’s eyes, dark and dangerous, flickered down. Just for a fraction of a second. To the blue package in Koyomi’s hand. Then back up, the scowl deepening as if caught betraying herself. "I don't want your damn cookies," she snarled, though the protest lacked its earlier venom. She shifted, the mattress groaning, her bare knee bumping against the tangled blanket. The movement made the thin fabric of her shirt pull distractingly across her chest again. Koyomi fixed her gaze resolutely on the snarling wolf poster.
"They're Double Stuf," Koyomi offered weakly, a desperate gambit. She gave the packet a tiny, enticing wiggle. The crinkle sounded absurdly loud. "Really... really good with milk. Your grandma might have some?"
Silence stretched. Thick. Heavy with the smell of weed and aggression and... something else. Tamiko glared. Her gaze darted down to the Oreos again, then snapped back to Koyomi’s overly earnest expression. A muscle jumped in her jaw. She looked like she was wrestling with something internal and profoundly irritating. That cute anger warred with a deeper temptation. Koyomi held her breath. Look at the cookies. Just look at them again.
"Ugh! FINE!" Tamiko exploded suddenly, shoving herself fully upright in a frustrated flurry of limbs. The sudden movement made Koyomi jump. "Fifteen minutes! That's it! And only because my grandma would give me that disappointed look if I threw you down the stairs!" She jabbed a finger, tipped with chipped black nail polish, towards the chaotic desk buried under sketchpads and wrenches. "Clear some space. And turn that crap off!" She gestured violently at the stereo.
Koyomi almost dropped the Oreos in relief. "Yes! Okay! Great!" She practically lunged for the stereo, fumbling with unfamiliar knobs until the grating guitars and hammering drums cut off mid-shriek. The sudden quiet was startling, ringing in her ears. She turned back, clutching the cookies like a talisman. Tamiko was still on the bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest, a picture of petulant fury. She refused to look at Koyomi, instead glaring fiercely at a patch of peeling paint on the wall. Her leg bounced with restless irritation.
"Space," Tamiko grunted, still not looking at her.
"Right! Space!" Koyomi hurried to the desk. It was a landslide of chaos – greasy engine parts, charcoal pencils, crumpled chip bags, textbooks with cracked spines. Gingerly, she pushed aside a heavy wrench and a half-finished sketch of a demonic-looking hot rod. She unearthed a relatively clear corner, setting down her textbook, her notebook, and the precious Oreos with deliberate care. The packet landed with a soft thump.
Tamiko finally swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet hit the worn rug with a soft thud. She stood, stretching with a feline grace that made Koyomi’s throat go dry. That black t-shirt barely skimmed the tops of her panties, revealing the smooth, powerful lines of her back and the deep curve where it met her waist before flaring into her hips. Koyomi quickly busied herself with arranging her pens. Don't stare. Don't stare. Project. Fifteen percent.
She heard the soft pad of footsteps. Tamiko stopped beside the desk, radiating heat and irritation like a malfunctioning radiator. She still wouldn’t look directly at Koyomi, focusing instead on the textbook Koyomi had placed on the cleared patch. Her arms were still crossed, defensive. The scent of her – that musky, warm scent underlined faintly with cigarettes – was stronger up close. Koyomi could see the individual dark lashes framing her downcast eyes.
"So?" Tamiko demanded, her voice rough. "The topic. Spit it out." She shifted her weight, her hip accidentally brushing against Koyomi’s arm where she leaned on the desk.
Koyomi froze. The fleeting contact, warm and electric through her thin sleeve, sent a jolt up her spine. She snatched her arm back as if scalded, nearly knocking over her water bottle. "S-sorry!" she stammered, her face burning. "I... um... I was thinking... market failures? Externalities? Like... pollution?" She fumbled for her notes, her fingers suddenly clumsy. "Or... or government subsidies? For, like... renewable energy?"
Tamiko didn't react to the collision, but Koyomi saw the way her shoulders tensed fractionally. A beat passed. Then, with a movement almost too fast to follow, Tamiko’s hand darted out. Not towards the notes. Towards the Oreos. She snatched the packet, ripped it open with a violent crinkle, and stuffed a whole cookie into her mouth. Crumbs scattered on the cluttered desktop as she chewed with aggressive finality, still refusing to make eye contact, her cheeks bulging adorably despite the ferocious scowl plastered on her face.
"Pollution's boring," she mumbled around the mouthful of cookie, dark crumbs clinging to her lower lip. She swallowed thickly. "Everybody does that crap." She grabbed another Oreo, twisting it apart with rough fingers, licking the white filling with a swift, dismissive flick of her tongue. Her gaze finally lifted, meeting Koyomi’s wide-eyed stare. The anger was still there, banked but hot, yet underneath it, Koyomi caught something else – a flicker of reluctant engagement, a spark ignited by either the sugar or the sheer absurd persistence of the situation. "Subsidies for what?" Tamiko asked, her voice slightly less gravelly. "Specifically." She popped half the cookie into her mouth, her dark eyes challenging, waiting. The storm had quieted, just for now, pulled into an uneasy truce by Double Stuf and sheer, stubborn sunshine. Koyomi took a shaky breath and dived in.
The fluorescent bulb overhead buzzed like a trapped fly, casting harsh light on the graffiti-scarred desk. Koyomi spread her notes, fingers trembling slightly. "So, subsidies! For alternative energy start-ups, maybe? Like… solar panel companies getting tax breaks? We could compare it to fossil fuel subsidies? See who gets more government love?" She risked a glance up.
Tamiko leaned against the desk edge, hip jutting out, arms still crossed. She stared at the textbook diagram of supply curves like it had personally offended her. "Government love," she repeated, voice dripping with contempt. She popped another Oreo half into her mouth, licking cream from her thumb. The movement was strangely hypnotic. "Pointless. Those subsidies just vanish into CEO bonuses. Like tossing cash into a black hole wearing a suit."
Koyomi blinked. That was… unexpectedly cynical and specific. "Well… but it could incentivize innovation, right? If structured right?" She pointed at a bullet point. "See? Job creation potential?"
Tamiko snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Potential. Like the 'potential' not to get shivved in prison." She finally dragged her gaze from the textbook, those dark eyes locking onto Koyomi. They weren't just angry now; they were weary. Deeply, bone-achingly weary. "Look, Sunshine. Pick the most boring-ass topic on that list. Pollution. Whatever. I don't care. Just tell me what to write." She shoved another whole Oreo in her mouth, chewing with grim determination. Crumbs dusted the front of her black shirt.
Koyomi swallowed. The defiance had bled out of Tamiko, replaced by a heavy apathy that felt worse than the anger. The room smelled of weed, old pizza, and Tamiko – that warm, musky scent mixed with faint cigarette smoke and laundry detergent. The earlier thrumming energy was gone, leaving only the oppressive quiet and the buzz of the light. "Okay," Koyomi said softly, setting aside her grand plans about transformative energy policy. "Pollution it is. Air quality regulations in urban centers versus economic growth. Sound… manageable?"
"Whatever," Tamiko muttered, pushing off the desk. She grabbed the thick textbook with surprising ease, her bare arm flexing. She pulled out the rickety chair buried under a leather jacket and slumped into it, textbook hitting the desk with a thud. "Just point me to the pages. I'll copy the damn bullet points."
An hour later, the air felt thick with the scent of erasers, cheap paper, and the lingering sweetness of consumed Oreos. Koyomi’s neat notes sprawled across the cleared section of desk, covered in her precise handwriting and colorful highlights. Tamiko’s contributions were sparse – a few grudging sentences scrawled in sharp, angular script on loose-leaf paper, punctuated by the occasional derisive snort. Her head was propped heavily on one hand, elbow digging into the graffiti-covered wood. The dark circles under her eyes looked like bruises in the harsh light.
"Okay," Koyomi whispered, trying not to disturb the fragile quiet. "So, the key arguments against stricter regulations… they usually cite job losses in manufacturing, right? But the counter-study from Stanford suggests… Tamiko?"
Silence. Followed by a soft, rhythmic puff of air through slightly parted lips. Tamiko’s head had dipped lower, her cheek now pressed against the cool surface of the textbook. Her breathing was deep and even, the fierce line of her brow finally smoothed out in sleep. One hand rested near her notes, fingers slack around a chewed pencil. She looked younger like this, the harsh edges softened. Vulnerable. Exhaustion had finally won, dragging her under despite the uncomfortable chair, the messy room, and the presence of the perpetual sunshine girl she clearly despised.
Koyomi froze. The frantic energy of her project-chasing mission evaporated, leaving her stranded in the sudden stillness. The only sounds were Tamiko’s slow breaths, the distant drumming of rain on the roof, and Koyomi’s own heartbeat thudding in her ears. She watched the slow rise and fall of Tamiko’s shoulders beneath the thin black cotton shirt, the way a stray dark curl had fallen across her cheekbone. She looked… peaceful. A stark, jarring contrast to the snarling storm of earlier. Carefully, silently, Koyomi stood. Her legs felt stiff. Moving with the exaggerated care of someone defusing a bomb, she gently closed the textbook Tamiko was using as a pillow. Tamiko didn’t stir, only releasing a soft sigh that ghosted across the pages. Now what? Leave her sleeping upright? That couldn’t be comfortable. Koyomi’s gaze drifted to the large, unmade bed only a few feet away, a fortress of rumpled blankets and pillows. Grandma Yuriko’s cinnamon-scented kindness warred with Hana’s shrieking internal alarm about proximity to a live explosive device. The exhaustion etched into Tamiko’s sleeping face tipped the scales.
Holding her breath, Koyomi stepped closer. She placed her hands lightly, tentatively, on Tamiko’s shoulders. Warmth seeped through the cotton. "Tamiko?" she whispered, barely audible. "Hey… let’s… move to the bed? Just for a bit?" No response. Just deep, even breathing. Gathering every ounce of her courage, Koyomi slid one arm gingerly behind Tamiko’s back, the other under her knees. Tamiko was solid, warm, and surprisingly heavy with dead weight. Koyomi strained, heart hammering against her ribs, half-expecting those dark eyes to snap open filled with murderous rage. She managed to lift her just enough to awkwardly shuffle the few feet to the bed, the scent of weed and Tamiko’s skin filling her senses. With a final heave, she deposited Tamiko onto the messy blankets. Tamiko mumbled something unintelligible, a frown flickering across her face as she instinctively curled onto her side, turning away from Koyomi, burying her face into a pillow.
Koyomi stood by the bed, trembling slightly from the effort and the sheer terror of touching her. Tamiko’s breathing settled again, deeper now. The room felt colder away from her warmth. The desk lamp cast long, distorted shadows. Koyomi looked from the uncomfortable chair to the vast expanse of empty bed beside the sleeping storm. The idea was insane. Reckless. Possibly suicidal. Hana would have an aneurysm. But leaving felt… wrong. And she was bone-tired too. The adrenaline crash hit her like a wave. Before rational thought could fully reassert itself, Koyomi toed off her sneakers. Moving with painstaking slowness, she lifted the edge of the heavy, slightly scratchy blanket. She slid in beside Tamiko, keeping a careful foot of space between them, pulling the blanket up over them both. The mattress dipped. She lay rigidly on her back, staring up at the graffiti-covered ceiling – a snarling wolf, a stylized flame, indecipherable tags. Tamiko’s warmth radiated across the small space, a solid, breathing presence. The rain drummed a steady rhythm. Koyomi’s muscles began to unclench, inch by inch, lulled by the warmth and the profound quiet. This was okay. She was okay. Tamiko was asleep. Deep, deep asleep.
Then, just as Koyomi’s own eyelids grew heavy, Tamiko stirred. Not much. A small, restless shift. A minute later, another. A soft, discontented sigh escaped her. She turned slightly, then back, her movements agitated even in sleep, the blankets tangling around her legs. The peaceful stillness shattered. Koyomi held her breath. The tossing continued, Tamiko’s brow furrowing as if battling unseen demons. The foot of space between them felt vast and charged. Every instinct screamed don't touch her. But seeing her restless like that, caught in some internal struggle, tugged at something deep in Koyomi’s chest, overriding the fear. Sunshine mission. Crack the storm. Even in sleep?
Hesitation warred with a fierce, protective urge she didn't fully understand. Slowly, giving Tamiko every chance to wake and react, Koyomi shifted onto her side, facing Tamiko’s back. The dark curls spilled across the pillow. She could see the tense line of Tamiko’s shoulders beneath the thin shirt. Taking a silent, shaky breath that felt like the last before jumping off a cliff, Koyomi inched closer. Carefully, slowly, she lifted her arm. She slid it over Tamiko’s waist. Her palm settled lightly on Tamiko’s stomach, just below her ribs, feeling the warmth of her skin through the worn cotton, the slight rise and fall of her breath. She gently pulled Tamiko back against her, fitting her own body against the curve of Tamiko’s back and hips, spooning her. Koyomi’s heart pounded so hard she was sure it would wake the entire street.
Tamiko stiffened. Instantly. Every muscle locked tight. Koyomi froze, bracing for the explosion, the shove, the fist, the yelled obscenity. Time stretched, thin and brittle. The rain hammered the roof. Koyomi could feel the rapid flutter of Tamiko’s heartbeat where her hand rested.
Then, impossibly, Tamiko let out a slow, shuddering breath. The rigid tension in her back… melted. Not all at once, but gradually, like ice thawing under unexpected sun. She didn't pull away. Instead, she seemed to sink back slightly into Koyomi’s tentative embrace. The restless shifting stopped completely. Her breathing deepened again, evening out into a slow, steady rhythm. Within moments, it was the deep, even cadence of profound sleep. Koyomi remained perfectly still, her arm draped loosely over Tamiko’s waist, her body molded to the curve of Tamiko’s back, her nose almost buried in the unruly dark curls that smelled like smoke and something uniquely, unexpectedly sweet. The storm, for now, was utterly, impossibly calm in her arms. The only sound was the rain, and the shared, quiet rhythm of their breathing in the dim, chaotic room.