A/N: All fully italicized dialogue is spoken in Japanese, fyi.

♡

The ceramic of the mug with the cartoon ostrich chicks playing along the savannah nearly scalds her as she wraps her fingers around its base. Still, she chooses to hold the cup with both hands as if it’s the most precious thing to her as she brings the brim of it to her chapped lips, freshly mixed instant coffee running down , searing it like molten lava.


Quite hastily, she sets the mug back onto the conference table, drops of the tad-too-bitter liquid splashing over the rim, marking the polished lustre of the table with dark brown dots. Bringing a quivering hand up to shield , Sana coughs into it rather violently, her ears barely registering the obtrusive creak of the lemon yellow door as it’s opened, and the thunderous slam as it’s shut.


Slowly, as her sharp flurry of coughs start to die down, she opens her eyes to meet those of one Japanese volunteer crouching by her side, that unmistakable dialect, that low and distressed tone evident in her whispers as she asks “S-chan are you alright?”, “S-chan, what happened?”.


All Sana wanted was some semblance of heat in this frigid room, in this frigid seat, as she rests her elbows atop this frigid table, and all she received is a singeing scorch at the back of and trembling, pinkish hands.


Well, that, and a separate kind of warmth - one which she feels as she senses the downy cotton of sweater-hidden fingers clasped tightly around her exposed upper arms. And another - another as she loosens her grip around and lets her hand fall into her lap to join the other, twiddling nervous thumbs while she meets Momo’s bright eyes in a silent gaze.


And the fluorescence of the strip lighting above them casts two bluish rectangles upon her eyes, a stark contrast to the deep umber of her irises. And Sana entertains the idea that, perhaps, Taejoon had been right in saying that Momo offers care and attention to everyone she speaks to, as those are the only words her mind is capable of conjuring up when losing herself in those emotive eyes.

Momo is care and Momo is attention. Nothing more, nothing less.


“Was the coffee too hot?” Momo questions softly as she lifts herself off her haunches to peer over on the table, pouting, eyebrows pulled together as she notices the tiny pools of coffee on its surface. Evidently in the process, those plush cotton sleeves brush against her skin as Momo releases her hold on Sana, and she finds that whilst the scorch of hot liquids lingers well, warmth disappears as quickly as it settles.


Propping herself up, the volunteer cautiously lays the pads of her index and middle fingers on the side of the mug for the briefest of seconds, almost as a timid toddler would approach an animal at a petting zoo, and accordingly, swiftly retracts her hand. With a mumbled “Aw, her mug gets hot so easily,” barely audible under her breath, Momo shakes her head and prods it towards the centre of the table.


Even as it’s faintly discernible, there’s something about the concern and worry in her voice that drives Sana’s eyebrows to knit together and compels her to adjust herself in her seat, if even for a fleeting moment. Her. Her mug. There’s a certain evocation of domesticity brought by that tone and a specific flow in the way she says it that irks Sana.
 

No, that shouldn’t irk her. So why did it?

No, no, that’s a stupid thought - the kind that would inspire ceaseless teasing from Jeongyeon for weeks (if she were bold enough to mention such a thought to her), the kind that would spur her mother to make more comparisons between her and her father (if she were careless enough to mention such a thought to her), the kind that would necessitate more poignant one-liners from Momo (if she were foolish enough to mention such a thought to her).
 

There’s the hum of the vibration of a phone against the floorboards which is promptly hushed by the girl who pulls a drooping sweater sleeve up to end whatever call was made to her by whomever.

Hesitantly bringing a different mug off the floor and onto the table beside Sana’s awkwardly interlocked fingers, the words “Sorry for this, you should take mine, I think it’s less hot and much cooler to the touch,” runs off of Momo’s tongue as she apologises with a noticeable crack in her voice and lowered eyes. Eyes that focus on the blurs of browns and ochres of the floor instead of Sana’s bewildered ones.

There’s a painful beat of silence in the room, and then, just as bitterly, another, before Sana can grab the chance to greet the warm umber and the cool blue reflections and the care of the other Japanese girl’s eyes once again. “Thank you,” she begins, snaking her fingers around the bright pink of the mug and bringing it closer to her chest. Although, she doesn’t finish the sentence - what with intentions of speech escaping her as she’s drawn to the illustration on the slightly discolored, slightly chipped cup.
 

It’s Barbie. And Barbie doesn’t look too hot with the tiny time-worn damages in the form of scrapes across her printed face, but it’s weirdly comforting. Especially after the mess that’s been this day.

Comforting in that she hasn’t seen a Barbie movie in ages, but the American character always reminded her of time spent sitting in front of the old Panasonic television watching dubbed reruns with her grandmother by her side, conversing, laughing, snacking on broad beans together.


It’s been, how long, three years? Three years since she’s had the chance to step in that little garden, of moss-coated stepstones, of gradated varieties of cherry tomatoes, of morning glories barely awake to greet the day?


Just like that, just reminiscing on days past at her grandmother’s two-storey house in Osaka, causes the remnants of her anxiety from the room with the purple door to float away. To a place far from awareness. Float like looming cumulonimbus clouds hurriedly, steadily, out of the frame of her bedroom window to reveal an azure similar to what she’d seen from a Miyazaki movie.


Lifting the rim of the Barbie mug to her lips, this time with much more assurance than before, she takes a sip of a warmish matcha latté. Sana senses the heaviness of a guilt increasingly weighing down on her, though not too harshly this time, as she regards the bubbles gathering around the perimeter of the cup, and wishes for a second that she too can recede.

Because she knows that Momo’s observing her take small mouthfuls of the sugary sweet beverage with the most tender of gazes. Because she knows Momo’s berry red lips are pulled up at their corners, content with Sana’s gradual dispositional shift from agitated wreck to…a much calmer wreck.

Because Sana’s aware of all of this but Momo’s not aware of Sana’s less-than-amazing perceptions of Momo. Momo, whose presence, whose actions, whose words, whose treatment of Sana simply commands love from her.

But it’s that initial impression, that gut feeling she got as the clumsy helpline volunteer stumbled into the room, that there’s an air of detachment about her.

But.

But Momo must be care, must be attention. Nothing less, nothing more.
 

After all, Minari’s told her time and time again to never judge a book by its cover. And Mina’s literally the only one in their squad who actually cares for literature outside the compulsory curriculum, so she must be right. And so she decides to disregard any less-than-favorable impressions of Momo.
 

Such as of the Momo who first looked and acted little like she’d expected her to be. The Momo who spilled nearly half of the jug of green tea over the tabletop and onto the floor, who made that questionable strangled wail as she bombarded the spill with as many paper napkins as she could grab. The Momo who Sana swears clean the chip dust off her fingers as she attempted a basketball-style dunk of the crumpled packaging into the garbage, only to miss by a few (many) inches.


And keep, store, safely within that lovely box, the Momo who’d managed to keep her composure through hours of her bull and still manage to impart some weighty knowledge with utmost empathy. The Momo who has a voice like that song in English she’d heard aeons ago and could never find the name of, but which had nestled its wistful bass riffs, sanguine vocals and striving drum beats deep within only to pop up whenever the sky looked particularly beautiful.


The Momo who had delicately taken Sana’s quivering hands in hers, and emphasized in the gentlest of tones, with a smile that looked as if it had been used in a thousand promises, that she’s “so proud of S-chan for taking a step in becoming more comfortable with being a part of this community. ”


The Momo who had unknowingly introduced Sakura to Sana for the second time that day as “the center’s favorite Japanese panual”, and had shyly suggested for them to sit together during the meeting “because she’s nice company”, and had mumbled pleas behind a cupped hand to the lady in charge to “let the new girl not speak if she’s too afraid to”.

The Momo who looked like she couldn’t bear to tear her gaze away from Sana’s direction while the head for the meeting went on about starting it off with introductions and icebreakers, and had tilted her head to the side almost as a question when the woman asked for those in the room to “share fears they had about coming out”.


The Momo who noticed the uneasiness in Sana’s posture or facial expressions or body language or muteness, and had whispered a few more words to the woman to her right before timidly getting off her seat and approaching Sana’s, placing, ever so carefully, a near-weightless hand on her tense shoulder.


And she blinked as she lifted her chin to motion towards that violet door, her then bare hand ghosting down the schoolgirl’s arm so subtly it sent shivers like a feather along her spine, till it landed somewhere around the middle of her forearm.


And the part of Sana’s mind spared worry assumed that Momo’s jacket had been doing her wonders as she so fleetingly, so briefly appreciated the heat of Momo’s skin on hers, coupled with the solace in her sure grip, as she pulled her up and out to flee the terrifying space.


And after checking a dark room for any occupants, Momo did switch on the lights to reveal a room devoid of personality, of a room with nothing but a whiteboard, a conference table and over a dozen chairs, and proceeded to draw one back for Sana to sit on.


And Momo did disappear a while after crouching by Sana’s side, hand rested flush against Sana’s back, to ask demurely if she did “prefer coffee over tea”, only to return a little under a handful of minutes later with a mug of the stuff, the liquid nearly splashing over the brim as she set it down with a wobbly hold.


And Momo is now dragging the once-abandoned ostrich mug to herself, a pinky around the handle, with pursed lips, and is now beginning to blow air around the surface of the coffee in circles. And the sight brings as much of a flutter about Sana’s heart as the appearance of the Barbie mug.


Because this is Momo. Momo who, over the span of three weeks, had presented her with an ever-expanding safe of memories of honeyed, mellow coos and dreamy giggles. Momo who she’d been dying to meet ever since. So forget Sakura (even if she may be down right gorgeous and have a really pretty smile and is totally girlfriend-worthy). Forget whatever stupid “gut feeling” she had about her.

Momo’s soft, Momo’s warm, Momo’s caring and Momo gives you attention.
 

Interrupted by the noise of an ungraceful slurp, Sana rests her forearms on the table and leans to Momo, eager to have another glance into the girl’s eyes. However, the latter doesn’t grant her the opportunity; simply places her mug down and stares blankly into the coffee, as if she’s found everything and nothing in it at once.

Perplexed at Momo’s changed mood, the schoolgirl’s lips part, a question readily materializing at the tip of her tongue, but, just as readily, she chooses to purse them as she spots the other’s chest expand upwards and subsequently contract along with the sound of a hushed exhale.

“Sorry. I’m truly sorry if the invitation made you feel forced to come here,” Momo begins, and already, Sana wants her to stop.

But she continues: “-it’s understandable, some of my other callers are shy too, I should’ve known, I’m so sorry. What’s important is that you feel comfortable-”

Boy does Sana want Momo to just stop, want Momo to end talk about the others, want Momo to cease the apologies because it’s enough as it is through her efforts.

She wants to tell Momo that she doesn’t need to apologize, that Momo’s caring enough, that she’s attentive enough to her comfort with things. She wants to tell her all of this, and almost does.

Almost, as Momo rushes in another line before Sana can utter a word, a “So if you’d be more comfortable speaking over the phone-”

Sana scans Momo’s expression as the girl unwraps her fingers around the handle of the ostrich mug and shoves them into her front pocket, and it’s an enigma. Yes, an enigma. Sana’d learnt the word from Jeongyeon a couple weeks ago over a heated dispute about the protagonist of a novel they’d been forced to read, and in spite of previous affirmations that she’ll never use the word, she uses it now.

Because Sana can’t describe the girl’s face as she unhurriedly presents her with a folded piece of paper otherwise.

She diverts her attention, drops all thoughts of anything else, to regard the neatly creased square and inspects it, turning it and rubbing her thumb across it as she clears . She feels the raised bumps where pen marks were made. “This…” she mutters, her tongue still pressed against her teeth as grows increasingly drier, and she can’t quite pinpoint whether it’s the scald from before or not.

“You can call the number anytime and talk to me,” Momo continues, her voice becoming more cracked, breathier with each subsequent syllable. And a part of Sana urges her to analyze this, urges her to determine if this step’ll make Sana seem more like a burden in Momo’s everyday routine than anything.

But another part, a much more imposing, much more authoritative part of her stands its ground to force her eyes to widen and her breath to hitch at the thought of being able to converse with Momo whenever, for as long as she wants. It’s reassurance.

Plus it’s much more personal, isn’t it? To not be limited by the obligation, the compulsion to stick to talking about her issues with her uality or about her. To not be bound by the titles of “LGBTQ helpline volunteer” and “LGBTQ helpline caller”. To simply be Momo and Sana.

Or Momo and S-chan.

“Except for Sundays, u-umm…” the volunteer interrupts, her articulation now impaired by mumbling, breaking Sana’s train of thought. “Sundays… I have work on Sundays,” she murmurs, lips still parted as she looks to Sana for her reaction.

She’s caught off guard when the girl gives an immediate expression of incredulity, lacing her fingers together as she scrunches her face while studying Momo. “Wait...don’t you have like two part time jobs?” she asks, though it’s beginning to sound like an interrogation as well as look like one when Momo lowers her gaze, this time to her sneakers.

The latter first responds with a series of incomprehensible stammers, accompanied by a statement vocalized full of creaks that Sana is just hesitant to believe: “I-I do, it’s just… My Sunday job requires a lot more...uh, concentration than my other one. The other one is also more like a volunteering thing with the-uh-the… um...yeah.”

Sana can sense the unease in Momo’s tone and quickly brushes the possibility of asking any further questions away, opting instead to let her explanation slide. Occam’s Razor and all that. Why would she lie about this when she could’ve just said she’s generally busier and occupied on Sundays? So an understanding smile creeps up Sana’s lips as she gives the girl sat opposite her a drawn-out nod.

Momo lets her shoulders fall, all traces of what once was an enigma disappearing from her face as she lifts her chin high enough to let the only light of the room bounce off her eyes. She smiles, not enough to show all her teeth, but just enough to prompt the corners of Sana’s lips to rise further as well.

Much to the brunette’s surprise, she lets out a little laugh. In it is evidently a mixture of relief, nervousness, disbelief, and everything, both in between and not. It’s in this moment where it seems as if the both of them get lost in a state of not caring, not understanding, not realizing, not thinking, not comprehending, when they fall into a fit of giggles.

Sana doesn’t know what’s gotten over her. She’s confused as to how Momo’s brought her on this rollercoaster of an amalgamation of so many emotions and opinions, how she should freaking feel about this Momo girl and especially what she’s doing laughing like this. Only knows that the volunteer’s laugh is like velvet and cotton and she just wants to keep Momo like this.

But like all things in life, you can’t always get what you want. Sana recognizes this now, for the girl with those too-long sweater sleeves cupping her own face opts to abruptly let her howls simmer into softer chuckles. It’s still velvet though, still cotton.

“How did you even know I-” is what the other Japanese girl blurts out before being punctuated by a hard cough, her shoulders still bouncing up and down, cheeks still flushed as a result of their unexplained hysterics.

Though the tiniest trace of disappointment dawdles around in her, Sana decides to save Momo the trouble of speaking by first calming herself with an exaggerated exhale, then explains, “-found out you had t