Yuri Worlds
[63] Split
Before leaving Miss Okura’s suite, the two of them did receive some tea and some small biscuits. Once they were outside, Yuka couldn’t resist grumbling over that last warning. She didn’t point to any specific word that bothered her but still gave a rough repetition of what the old woman said, like she was trying to call the inverse of a curse. Misaki ran her hands along her shoulder softly, and the irritation slowly ebbed away.
Little fragments of fears flaked off with uncertainty from Yuka. She didn’t understand most of the cosmic stuff, but she desperately hoped that what Misaki said might contain the truth. Misaki hoped so too.
They slowly made their way towards the steps to return to their suite. The prospect of putting on another episode and escaping into its fictional world felt like a loose bandage, barely more than a blindfold to cover up the sight of oozing blood before it dripped underneath. But Misaki still had a list of people she really wanted to talk to. Ayame was the next priority, even though she didn’t have much success pressing about the odd moon comment last time. She wanted to know about her spirit, even if the news was bad. Even if believing that someone could read her soul still felt absurd, despite all that she’d gone through.
Before they reached the steps, the door they just left through loudly but carefully slid open again. Both looking back, they saw that Grandma Okura had made her way over to the threshold. She locked eyes with Misaki and quickly and unambiguously motioned toward her. Yuka stretched protectively, but Misaki assured her it was fine and urged her to go on ahead without her. Miss Okura wanted a moment of privacy so they could chat. Misaki lingered in the hallway with respectable closeness. The old lady didn’t require her to go back inside. They just talked in this cozy but strikingly open space. Misaki suspected that Yuka, even though she was out of sight past the hallway steps, lingered to surreptitiously catch some words.
What they wound up discussing felt like a perfunctory addition to the preceding discussion without any of the confrontational elements. Miss Okura made sure that she knew there was no ill will intended on her part towards the new couple or their hopes and dreams. She dodged around specifics about Mari and only added that she trusted the general and precise information that her friend provided. The rest disclosed and reiterated the upcoming itinerary for the weekend with their early departure next morning from the inn to set up for the festival. She casually and earnestly emphasized her hopes that Misaki and the others would kindly take the opportunity to witness her granddaughter’s devoted efforts to practice and memorize her performance. Misaki assured her that none of them intended to miss it.
A weary resignation that looked far heavier than the visible weight of her years settled around Miss Okura’s eyes more prominently than even the coded feathering. She truly appeared old, not simply wrinkled but burdened by so many years and memories. She breathed softly and spoke, "Do be careful out there. There are forces, so dark and powerful, that you can’t even begin to imagine. And they would gobble you up on a whim without a second thought."
Misaki found that phrasing to be peculiar. It seemed more like a religious or spiritual warning that one of her older relatives might offer. She motioned towards a polite affirmation when something fluttered before her eyes. At first, it seemed vaguely like the filter glitch a few days ago and then around Maharu, but the presence of reality and all its visual details neither ebbed nor clicked off. Instead, it was more like a blurry, double vision vaguely overlaid on her sight. Really taking her back, she thought of the old View-Master toy she enjoyed when she was young and how sometimes the stereoscopic effect wouldn’t quite work, or the slide was misaligned. A flurry of blinking, to the point of a self-created strobe effect, did absolutely nothing to resolve it. It didn’t take the old woman long to notice and inquire what was the matter.
Misaki quickly apologized and remarked, "For some reason, I’m almost seeing double, and it looks like you have horns on your head. So strange." The vast size and unusual nature of her anime eyes felt like a reality she never quite reconciled. They provided strikingly little benefit in low light, although the early morning, several hours ago, was pleasant. The raspberry tone sometimes distracted her when she caught it in the mirror.
She expected something akin to a calm, restricted chuckle of amusement from the old woman. Instead, she heard the faintest traces of a sharp intake of air, bordering very nearly on a gasp. This was balanced by a clearing of the throat and a soft noise before Miss Okura responded, "My goodness. What do you think of me?" Misaki soon apologized, making it clear that she meant no offense. The old lady, in turn, clarified that she was pulling her leg.
Miss Okura gestured lightly with her hands and arms, drawing Misaki to a position directly in front of her. Her arms framed the space between them, and her hands traced it. The way she assessed her literally felt like a sizing up by extended family. She expected the old lady to offer to cook her something filling that would put some real meat on her bones. Instead, Miss Okura leveled her eyes carefully, unblinking, and declared, "You’re quite an interesting young lady, Mr. Fowler…"
She left those words to hang in the air without clarification or addition as she finally let her go and returned to her suite. Unusual but, at least, relatively cordial. Not wanting to dwell on the matter further, although diligently preserving the unexplained qualities of the moment, Misaki hustled to the steps. She indeed discovered Yuka camped out about halfway down, stretching to see and hear beyond. They embraced with relief.
Misaki went over everything, blunting any concerns about her eyes by just saying that it was probably simple tiredness. Besides, she could see all of Yuka just fine, and that was all that mattered. Yuka pressed out her bright red tongue but followed it up with sparkling giggles. Misaki also told her there was something very important she needed to say. Yuka straightened and prepared herself.
“You’re cute. You’re so very cute and wonderful. And I’m so happy that you can hear my words about this truth.”
Yuka made a shy sound like a muffled squeak as she scrunched down smaller and closer, like an unsuccessful turtle. Her thighs pressed together as her legs pretzeled and twisted. It was Misaki‘s turn to fawn over her and lead her in the most uncomfortable little dip and dance in a tight space. Somehow, neither of them stumbled or got their legs caught up.
Misaki didn’t relent with her affectionate bombardment. She echoed the sentiment from earlier, lamenting that she couldn’t occupy multiple places, as she was and as a deep-dwelling inhabitant of Yuka's body and soul, which relentlessly shelled her with joy and buried all sad thoughts in warm love. As an example, she celebrated the silvery, precious beauty of Yuka’s hair. She dispelled any notions that it looked plain, faded, muddy, or unnatural. Graying hair didn’t exist in this world, but she gave her a hint of that notion and immediately squashed it for her lady love.
She imagined Yuka adorned with bright flowers in her hair, like resting butterflies. She highlighted Yuka’s demure cuteness while raising her stature with each word. Yuka barely had any idea what to do but grin madly. She motioned for a kiss and received it, plus so much more. Misaki provided a celebration of the shape of her cheeks as they became so bright and hot. Followed by an intimate understanding of her tentative steps that pranced and danced.
After a plethora of physical delights, she lavished cheer on the cleverness of her mind. The organization of her lawyerly focus. The way she assisted Misaki in digging far more out of Miss Okura than she ever could’ve imagined getting. And so many other details from this morning crossing into noon time and the few but beautiful days they’d known each other.
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Misaki reflected on a vast array of intellectual traits until Yuka stopped her and sheepishly asked if she could go back to physical things. She worried if that was too vain, but Misaki gladly pivoted to talking up her butt. Giggles spread around.
In addition to feminine physical traits, Misaki envisioned the boy that Yuka could and would be with her own biological spacesuit, making the mirror trek to the other side. A different sort of butt. The inside-out bolstered. How he would loom over her and practically lift her off her feet. Yuka attempted it, but it only worked for a split second. The possibilities were empowering, but the quiet lauding of all her current, understated aspects hit deep and lingered long. Her figure was beautiful. Her shape wasn’t meager or insubstantial. And what was small was wonderful.
As much as it was a delight to be surrounded by this wonderful sentiment, they both realized that communicating the good news to her moms was long delayed and necessary. The key problem was that their most recent interaction of any depth was the mournful aftermath of the cruel spirit host who stole Misaki‘s body. Neither said anything too definitive about the change in attitude. No pronouncements that Misaki was a bad egg or chewing her out. But the swift inversion of tears and sentiments was sure to raise concerns about whether they were behaving like feathers whipped in a shifting gale. They weren’t going to know without talking though.
Misaki had a clear notion and expectation of what was coming. No matter how electric and wobbly their nerves felt, she had a hunch that both moms would err on the side of love and romance because of how happy Yuka was and their own swift romantic connection. They would see it. Surely, they would understand. At the same time, Misaki also recognized that it sounded like she was setting herself up for a jinx. She hoped that recognizing it would also prevent the possibility. And she crossed her fingers as much as she could.
Of course, the Sasakis were rooming together. Their suite was in a different part of the inn, what seemed to be the honeymoon section, with more separation between the rooms and themes. That activated a memory for Misaki of the old Madonna Inn in the north of the state, which took the concept to its hokey conclusion. This place did a better job, homing in on Zen focuses, Buddhist themes, pop cultural concepts, and abstract flavor. The Sasakis had one with a bright hodgepodge of artistic, painterly style splattered across the floorspace. It resembled an old television show that Misaki vaguely recalled from her youth with Pee-wee Herman.
The lamps looked like squat cows with tails you had to tug to turn on. Pink swarms clustered in one side corner with glittering sparkles. Stain-glass triangles flanked the windows, with a hand-drawn forested cityscape filling out the rest. Despite the bed looking positively splattered in pastels, it sprawled out with ornate comfort and fluffy blankets. The moms greeted them both warmly, without any obvious suspicion weighted towards Misaki.
During breakfast, the two of them first received news that something had happened with their daughter’s girlfriend. They had gone to bed early after their luxurious soak and only vaguely noticed the frantic footsteps beyond their door. Both of them were horrified when receiving the piecemeal details and still wanted to desperately apologize for a dozen secret curses they may have hidden toward the girl who briefly broke their daughter’s heart. Kei gave her an even more earnest, insistent hug than she or Yuka had for their welcome to this world. Fuyuki was just as affectionate, like the mom Franklin imagined he might have in another life. Now, she didn’t need to be imaginary.
Yuka traded cheerful but perfunctory greetings with her moms as she reassured them that she wasn’t hungry, she was feeling loads better, there was a lot to explain, and she loved them. Misaki imagined that if she were put in the same situation, she would begin to gradually work towards the huge, important point. Ask her mothers how they were feeling. Preemptively assure them that she was fine. Maybe have a little something to eat just to show that she wasn’t going to die in the next few minutes. And explain that, even though a lot of crazy things had happened recently, it was going to be fine, with some specifics, before gently proposing the proposal.
“I asked Misaki to marry me.” Misaki really felt like she had become more forthright, confident, and open with her expression in the last day. Good thing she had Yuka to make up for moments where that wasn’t totally the case.
That declaration was abundantly clear in its meaning, but her mothers still absorbed it with a numb, uncertain curiosity. Their eyes eventually met Misaki‘s. This was her part, and she wasn’t going to fumble it.
“I said yes. We’re getting married. With your approval. Which I hope we have.”
And that was when it hit. The two of them had very distinct reactions to that revelation. Fuyuki mom immediately ran through an entire production staff’s tableau of expressions, ranging from subtle shock to quizzical twists of her eyebrows and mouth, and several that Misaki just didn’t have names for. None of them appeared angry, disappointed, or upset, which she took as a positive sign. Kei mama resolved into one expression of dumbstruck concern and scrutiny with a subtle range of precise hues and flavors. She seemed to be waiting for some addition that would decode the mystery for her or reveal the entire matter to be a playful practical joke.
Yuka nervously sank into careful words to drive home the fact that she was serious. Misaki again echoed that, which seemed to do the trick. Whatever spell of uncertainty they were under was cast aside. Fuyuki mom squeezed her palms together almost prayerfully and gave a delighted clap, while Kei mama squeezed her chest just below her neck as though carefully cupping an upwelling of love.
They rushed toward and comforted both girls with flowing questions and urgent optimism. Yuka took charge of the response, and Misaki took the opportunity to breathe and present herself as pleasantly as possible. These women were going to be her mother-in-laws.
Family. She was going to have actual family again, not just bitter extended relatives complaining about how much Jesus she got in her diet. She wasn’t the only one who needed a pair like them. They oughta adopt Chika as well and then get Namiko as a bonus. It wouldn’t be an undue burden because her friends were diligent in taking care of everything. Could it please be that way?
She felt a peculiar sensation when reflecting on her dead and distant family back home. The presence of her mothers remained from earlier. They weren’t bad. But the strange change in reality and physicality just made minor improvements to memories of their mood. They were definitely nicer and more affectionate in so many ways, but they also had the same tempers and controlling dispositions. Not as improved as she thought at first fantasy. And they were still gone from her life at the same times. The solid sensation of a female self separate from Misaki returned, but not in the form that the wristband tried to twist her mind with.
Carrie Francesca Fowler. Just because the wristband pushed that name on her didn’t mean it was false. What if it was lurking beneath the surface? She needed to get to Ayame, talk to her about all these strange spiritual questions, and arrive at a greater personal truth… If that was possible. A woozy and weird feeling clung to her as she reflected on her parents and all the strange things she still had to reconcile. She was suddenly uncertain what a man’s genitalia were supposed to be like.
This dizzying quandary deeply concerned her. Could something else be interacting with her consciousness and causing these blurrings of understanding? How could she forget what man parts were supposed to look and feel like? Phallic. That was one of the words associated with it. A stalk like a bulging, wrinkly asparagus and a skin sac like sagging walnuts. The notions felt so abstract though. Like alien anatomy free-floating in her thoughts. Like she’d never actually been a man at all.