Masako’s not expecting Alex to come by, and she’s certainly not looking for her. She’s just doing her job; it’s a slow day and she’s looking around for potential customers—not any potential customer in particular, so really Himuro should stop giving her that look.
“You can take a break if that’s what you’re getting at,” she says, rolling up her sleeves again.
Himuro shrugs, way too graceful for the inside of the cramped front half of the already-small ice cream stand. “I’m fine. Besides, Fukui-san’s already taking his.”
“We can handle anything ourselves,” says Masako.
She knows how these days go; she’s learned their patterns—cloudy mornings in the spring are too much of a risk; most people don’t want to go to the beach and shiver under a blanket while getting sandblasted by the wind, and they certainly don’t want an ice cream cone when they do come. Cheap, out-of-season tourists dragging along their whiny kids might show up but even they’re few and far-between when the sky looks like it’s about to crack and let loose an epic flood that turns the beach into a swamp.
At least it’s better than Akita would be this time of year.
“Hey!”
Alex’s voice is unmistakable, cutting across the empty beach; she’s unmistakable even from this distance, inappropriately dressed (at least she’s wearing clothes) in tiny shorts and an oversize tank top and she’s forgotten her glasses again. Masako very pointedly does not look at Himuro, but leans on the counter and when Alex is a few meters out (close enough to see her) Masako waves.
“Slow day?”
“You could say that,” says Masako.
Alex squints at her.
“Looking for these?” Himuro’s holding out a pair of glasses.
“Yes,” says Alex, taking them and pushing them up on her nose. “Thanks for holding onto them.”
“Of course,” says Himuro.
As far as Masako knows, Alex keeps very little on land, a few clothes, several pairs of glasses (which either don’t work underwater or are a different prescription or maybe Alex doesn’t need them, and this is one of the many things Masako can’t just ask about but makes her wish she’d grown up around merpeople so maybe she’d just know from the start) and some money—not that Masako’s ever tried asking if she has an apartment or pays taxes or anything (and not that it’s really any of her business). As far as she knows, Alex is here to make sure Himuro’s not getting himself into too much trouble (and the exact nature of her concern and even their relationship and why Himuro never goes back with her is also none of Masako’s business). And if keeping tabs on Himuro involves buying ice cream and sitting at the counter in freezing weather while looking unfairly gorgeous, Masako’s not complaining.
Alex orders her standby rum raisin cone and begins to coax Himuro into a conversation; how she has the patience and tenacity to make him give up more facts than he’d like to is still somewhat of a marvel to Masako; it must come at least partially from knowing him so well for so long but that doesn’t make it any less impressive. Several times, Alex catches Masako looking over and grins through the ice cream and then takes a big lick and there’s no way she’s not doing it on purpose (but then again it could just be wishful thinking and do they even have erotic eating underwater?) and Masako has to look away but she can feel the heat rising on her face against the bite of the wind.
Himuro’s in the back working on the next batch of chocolate when Alex finally decides to leave. She stretches her arms above her head and then hops off the stool—and then she winces and almost falls to the ground.
“Ow.”
She gets back onto the stool and grabs her foot, peering at the bottom. It’s covered in sand and there doesn’t appear to be anything off from Masako’s vantage point.
“I got a piece of wood stuck in my foot.”
“A splinter?”
Alex nods. She pokes at it.
“Don’t do that; it’ll only go in further.” (That might not be true but it’s what Masako’s parents always told her.)
“Should I go at it from the other side?”
“No,” says Masako. “You can let it be or—actually, I have tweezers. You can pluck it out.”
“Are you sure?” says Alex.
“I can do it,” says Masako. “If you want.”
She feels like actually cringing; this is pathetic and Alex doesn’t need her help with this and probably thinks she’s being condescending because of course she’s used tweezers before or maybe it comes off as a pathetic excuse for physical closeness.
“Actually, would you?” says Alex.
“I’m going on break,” Masako says (not that it makes a difference).
She fetches the first-aid kit from the back and lets herself out. Alex is still peering at the bottom of her foot, but she’s not poking at the splinter. Masako sits down on the adjacent stool; she’s close enough to see the goosebumps on Alex’s skin and every strand of hair falling in front of Alex’s shoulders and hanging down in waves prettier than they have any right to be (shouldn’t her hair still be wet and stuck to her skin at this point?) and how crooked her glasses are perched on her nose and how damn cute it is and all of that’s beside the point. Alex glances up to look at her and Masako’s face heats up faster than a dropped ice cream scoop on the sand on an August afternoon.
“Give me your foot,” she says, a little too roughly.
Alex complies—her skin is soft, clearly unused to anything rougher than saltwater and deep ocean sand underneath it. (How can she even walk on any land, let alone the weather-worn unfinished floorboards of the boardwalk?) Masako clears away the sand and wipes the area with a sanitizing towel; Alex flinches but stays put.
“This is going to hurt,” says Masako—she’d never say anything like that normally, just pull the damn splinter out because people should know by now but Alex might not (she’s an adult and she can deal with it anyway, the voice in Masako’s head whispers ever-so-helpfully after she’s said it).
“Okay,” says Alex.
The tweezers are sanitized and Masako plunges them into the hole in Alex’s foot. Alex sucks on her teeth but says nothing; her toes curl against the heel of Masako’s hand. She’s got the splinter in the tweezers’ grip; she pulls slowly—the head of the splinter, the tips of the tweezers, are out from under the skin and so Masako yanks them. Alex yelps.
“Sorry,” Alex says. “That was…different.”
She moves to scramble off the seat.
“Let me put a bandage on it.”
Alex waits. She flexes her toes; for a second Masako wants to tell her they’re very pretty toes and God, she is pathetic. She presses her lips closed and pats the bandage down against the bottom of Alex’s foot, and lets go. Alex moves to get down, putting cautious weight on the bandaged foot, as if she’s afraid her leg will crumple under her like a broken chain.
From behind the counter, Himuro laughs. “You’ll be fine.”
Alex sticks her tongue out at him and adjusts her posture. “I want another cone.”
“Same as usual?”
“Yeah.”
Masako’s back at the register by the time Alex is starting to pay, but she holds up her hand.
“Keep the money; use it to buy yourself a pair of shoes.”
Alex looks at her—yeah, she probably has more money than that but maybe not on her (and even if she does, Masako can’t keep a good conscience without trying to stop her from running around barefoot on unfinished wood all the time).
Alex smiles. “Okay.”
She heads off in the direction of the nearest cheesy beachwear shop.
“Undercutting your own business?” says Himuro.
“Shut up,” says Masako. “You use your employee discount pretty damn freely.”
She almost adds a go bother Fukui or Murasakibara, since they’re just flirting with their significant others who are probably shirking their duties right now but she’s glad she doesn’t and did she really just equate her embarrassing pining with that kind of stuff? Did she just equate Alex to a significant other in her mind? (Yes, she did, even though that’s just a faint hope and yeah, she’s pretty pathetic.)
“Take your break or something,” she mutters, busying herself with washing off the dirty scoops, and when she looks up several minutes later Himuro’s gone.
It’s starting to rain, drizzling on the beach like fuzzy lines on the picture of an old TV that’s slightly out of range. It’s getting colder; perhaps now would be the time to pour herself a cup of hot water from the machine. At the far end of the counter, Fukui is talking to his girlfriend in undertones that sound more like the inside of a shell than words, and every so often stealing a bite of her peanut-butter cone.
“Hi,” says Alex.
She’d reappeared so quietly Masako hadn’t even noticed; she’s still holding the remains of her cone but the ice cream’s melted all over her hand.
“You wearing shoes?”
Alex nods, licking a stray raisin from her finger. “Come look.”
Masako peers over the counter. A pair of cheap red rubber flip-flops aren’t ideal, but at least it’s a layer between Alex’s feet and the ground. When she lifts her head, it seems as if Alex’s face has gotten closer; she can see every one of Alex’s eyelashes from behind the lenses, the shape of her eyebrow, the ice cream stuck to her lips. Masako’s not really aware of how long she stays there, staring at Alex’s face, before Alex crosses the remaining distance and touches her lips to Masako’s.
They taste sweet and spicy (but why wouldn’t they?) and they’re so soft and Masako doesn’t breathe until Alex pulls away.
“Thanks for fixing my foot, and for the ice cream,” she says, flashing a smile.
Masako nods dumbly, and then she’s off, trotting away to who-knows-where, the raindrop-dented sand giving way to the smash of her shoes. She tries to kiss Himuro all the time; this is nothing more than that; maybe Masako had just imagined it. This wasn’t anything like that.
Himuro catches her eye and fucking smirks at her.
“Don’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to.”