Don’t Match Them (Don’t Match Me)
“I can’t attract people with my playing like you can. But I seem to be pretty good at matching everyone, so…”
“Hitori-chan?”
Hitori jumps at the mention of her name, Kita’s voice sending her heart in her ears— as it often does these days. Or, well— no, that is not really accurate. Because Kita’s voice always sends her heart in her ears, then out through her mouth and into Kita’s unsuspecting hands, where it melts into a puddle from her warmth, killing Hitori in the process and sending her to heaven’s gates. Only then for the same voice to call her back to the land of the living, like it was not the reason she was knocking on the golden gilded gate in the first place. But of course, like a sailor drawn to a siren’s song, Hitori finds her soul diving back into her dead body and reviving it and—
Wait, what was she on about again?
“Hitori-chaaaan—?”
Ah, right. Kita is calling her by name— first name— and Hitori is trying not to have an out-of-body experience.
“Ah— eh— uh— y-ye—” Kita shifts, knees pressing harder against hers as she leans forward to hear her mumbling, “Yes?!”
Ah, that was too loud, why’re you like this girl? What if she moves away because she thinks you don’t like her being close— you do BUT not that much of course because you’re— I’M not a touch-starved abnormal creep, I’m Gotoh Hitori, normal introvert with a bad case of social anxiety and normies like being touched every now and then and this is definitely a case of that and not—
“... Hitori-chan?”
Kill me now.
“A-ah— eh, c-can you repeat that?” Hitori croaks out, hanging her head in shame and guilt and defeat at repeatedly getting lost in her own head and ignoring whatever it is that Kita is asking her. Which must be important if Kita is this close to her— not that she is not this close to her usually, because something— Hitori still has no idea what it is— shifted during the cultural festival and now Kita is not just on a one-sided first name basis with her, she had also gotten closer to her. Physically.
The admittedly touch-starved side of her rejoices at that. The small part of her that still clings stubbornly to the shadows hisses and wants to run away. Hitori ignores both and tries to be a normal, functioning human being.
“I was just curious about what you were thinking about earlier.” Kita— thank her boundless patience when it comes to Hitori— only smiles warmly as she repeats what she had just asked. “Oh, not to intrude or anything of course, just that you looked pretty serious about it. Usually you’re more…” She waves her hands this way and that, as if that would give the complete picture.
“You know…” And Hitori tries to tamp down the smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she watches the way Kita’s brows furrow and green eyes shine with focus as she tries to find the right words to explain how Hitori looks during most of her episodes.
Cute. Wait no—
“Ah I— s-sorry—” The apology tumbles out of her lips like a well-trained reflex and Hitori mentally winces at her clumsiness that is apparently a hundred times worse today. “I was just thinking about—”
“I seem to be pretty good at matching everyone so…” Kita mutters, but Hitori hears nonetheless. And like the sensation of jumping and landing face-first on the cold and hard gymnasium floor earlier, Hitori feels her stomach sink at the potential meaning of that realization.
Ah, that won’t do. Don’t do that. I don’t like that.
“Ah, K-Kita-san…?”
“Yes, Hitori-chan?” Kita smiles at her, bright and warm and patient, and the words get stuck in Hitori’s throat. Because this Kita and the Kita back at the cultural festival look the same. Like she had made up her mind— like she had found a clear goal to work towards. And to tell her that she does not like that, that Hitori does not want Kita to be like that, would be… be…
Kita dragging all of them with her to the Enoshima shrine, extroverted and full of energy and not holding back. Kita smiling at her, not blinding nor dim, but just bright and warm— like a star.
“R-Ryo-san.” Hitori blurts out as she looks down, because looking at Kita would definitely break the paper-thin resolve she has right now. “Ah, R-Ryo-san said, back when I wrote our first s-song… that… that the color Kessoku band s-should have should— should— it should be different individuals together. In one sound.”
“S-so—!” Hitori resists the urge to wince. Too loud, why are you always too loud? “B-back then, at the cultural f-festival. When you said you were— were good at matching people. I— Ryo-san.” She swallows, willing the tremor in her voice to disappear. It does not. “Ryo-san and Nijika-san, they might… might not like it if you— if you do. That.”
The pick she was absentmindedly tracing with her calloused fingers becomes her lifeline as she waits for Kita’s response, action, words— anything.
But Kita remains silent, her knees that were pressed against hers remain unmoving, and Hitori feels the fear and something else she could not quite describe just yet wrap around her too-fast beating heart.
Then it tugs, and Hitori fights.
“And I,” Hate it. It feels wrong. “Think that you shi— that you shouldn’t—” Match them, shouldn’t match me, because you shine the brightest when you’re yourself and I like that. I like you— that you. “That you don’t need to match anyone because you’re already great like this, Kita-san. So don’t try to match anyone,”
“Please.”
And it is clumsy, Hitori knows. She was speaking too fast at some parts and mixing words together at others and the right words would not come out. Her throat was dry and her voice raspy and eyes stuck on her pick rather than the person she wanted the words to reach. She keeps going in circles and not just straight to the point and—
A sniffle.
Hitori blinks. Processes. Then another sniffle breaks the silence and Hitori’s panic hits with all the force of the meteor that extinguished the dinosaurs. She is on her feet, her chair falling back with a clang and her guitar hitting her back over and over as she tugs on the strap to secure it and hovers over Kita.
“Ah— K-Kita-san! I didn’t— I mean— I—” The words keep cutting each other as Hitori’s hands flail uselessly around her, not knowing where to place themselves or what to do because Kita is crying. Kita is crying and her head is bowed and her tears are staining her skirt and she is crying because of Hitori and why did she even think saying anything when she sucks at speaking is a good idea anyways? Now Kita definitely hates her and will avoid her like the plague and Nijika and Ryo will notice then ask then they would know how much of a dumbass jerk she is and kick her out of the band and—
“T-thank you, Hitori-chan.”
“Ah, I’m really sorry, I just—!”
Eh— wait— huh…?
“T-thank you…?” Hitori echoes dumbly, the words sending all her flight-or-fight responses to a halt. “K-Kita-san what do you…”
And the rest of the words vanish, because Kita is looking up at her with a wobbly smile and eyes shining with so much warmth and gratitude that Hitori has only ever seen back at the izakaya with Nijika—and that is not even half of this, her brain supplies automatedly. Then she is reaching for her, fingers wrapping tightly at the material of her pink tracksuit and tugging, and Hitori lets herself get pulled down like a ragdoll. Until Kita’s arms are wrapped tightly around her, until Kita’s face is buried on her chest.
It scares Hitori, not because of the high chance that Kita would be able to hear how fast her heart is beating, but because she finds herself wanting more.
She pushes the thought aside. Later, that comes later. First, Kita.
“When I said I’m good at matching others,” Kita starts, voice muffled from burying her face on her tracksuit. “I meant it, but I wasn’t planning— I wasn’t planning on doing that.”
“Ah— eh— h-huh? S-so you weren’t gonna…” Something loosens in her heart, then in her lungs— like a tight band getting snipped.
“I resolved myself to— to get better at the guitar so I could…” Kita trails off, and Hitori finds herself lightly running her fingers through red locks, as if that would help. She wants to help. “Be… as capable. As you guys. I… wanted to catch up, I guess.”
“Ah, I…” Another band snipped. And another and another, until Hitori could finally breathe.
“I see… I—” Hitori takes a deep breath in. Then out. “I’m glad…”
And relief fills her in waves, like a floodgate being opened. The tension in her shoulders fades and her body relaxes, and she finds herself burying her face on top of Kita’s head, suddenly so so tired.
Thank you, Kita-chan.