2025-08-29: Unique. Singular. Beautiful
- Log: Unique. Singular. Beautiful
- Cast: Tsubasa Seki, Tsumugi Kujaku
- Where: Peacock Silk
- OOC Date: 2025-08-29
- IC Date: Tuesday, July 03 2012
- Summary: Tsubasa finally musters the bravery to go to Peacock Silk, and finds ceaseless wisdom at the end of Tsumugi's measuring tape. Tsumugi earns a new fan -- and embraces a new client, despite Tsubasa's lack of a Persona. But if all they need to do is embody their mask...
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
Tsubasa left Lance with Ren, this afternoon. They headed to Shimokitazawa, and...
...
They were bumming around the streets for a good few hours, working up the courage to even open the door.
... but... they can't leave it too late, or the shop'll close. Y'know?
So...
Even when they get the courage to approach the store, it's not that easy. "That way... huh?" Tsubasa frowns, as they're directed away from what really ought to be the door. Heart in their throat, they creep around, to find the side-door. Their hand rests on the handle; they take a deep breath.
And step through.
They're not supposed to be here, of course. They know that at once, even without a peacock to say so, though they think it's because the store is so up-scale and modern; wood flooring, white walls, fancy paintings. They've obviously worked on their own outfit, which they changed into from their uniform before they left -- boardshorts stitched out of a pleated skirt, a tank-top cut along its bottom half to expose their belly.
The bandages they keep wrapped around their chest can be glimpsed underneath them, now and then.
"Y--yo!" They call out, trying to keep their nerves from their voice. (And failing.) "It's Seki -- Tsubasa Seki? Yeo-sama sent me out here? They said..." Tsubasa grasps their opposite arm with their hand, suddenly feeling far, far too self-conscious. "... you could... help?"
This place is really way too fancy for them...
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Y-yo!
Silence is the ambivalent answer to Tsubasa Seki's nervous greeting.
The volume of Peacock Silk depends entirely on the traffic but - more importantly - who is manning the shop today. Sometimes everyone is here - even the particularly picky peacock. One can expect noise and madness abound in those situations; it's just the nature of the beast, really.
When it's only a couple, or even just one, well... the amount of noise, and the amount of clientele, tend to vary dramatically, to the degree that a regular might have some idea who they're dealing with just by atmosphere.
Right now, the emptiness of this place, the tranquil, yet somehow imposing silence that sends the luxury of all this into so much sharper relief?
"Ah. It's you. Myunghon's friend."
It's an atmosphere that could really only belong to one person.
The voice comes, smooth and dispassionate, from the far back of the boutique's store floor. If Tsubasa feels like they simply don't belong, the person that emerges to greet them might not help much: from the white button up and the sleek black slacks, y-back suspenders and freshly-polished oxfords they wear, 'crisp' and 'professional' - maybe even 'masculine' - might be the way to describe the look at a glance.
But then there's the way the first few buttons of that button up is undone; or the way a vividly green bowtie remains untied and purposefully dangling off their collar that both challenge the first two ideas.
And then the black lipstick and classic catseye eyeliner they wear to draw the eye to those extremely green eyes of theirs that dash the third conceit on the rocks.
There's also the glasses, which are decidedly neutral on either front. They're just nice glasses. They think they're neat.
Regardless; in those few moments where Peacock Silk's proprietor considers Tsubasa in complete silence after their greeting, regardless of how self-conscious Tsubasa -feels-, the person standing across from them doesn't seem to look particularly judgmental, even as they take in the stitch job of those shorts, the cut of that tank top. No -- as their head tilts, and their brows lift, mostly, they look...
"Welcome to Peacock Silk, Tsubasa Seki."
Curious.
Tsumugi Kujaku turns after that off-handed greeting. They gesture for their new client to follow them deeper inside as they walk.
"I was wondering how long you'd take to come."
-- Do they mean generally, or are they saying they are explicitly aware of exactly how long Tsubasa was hemming and hawing outside their store--
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
Tsubasa's eyes are blue, like their mother's; Etsuko Seki isn't noticeably foreign, but it's not impossible one of her grandparents was white, in the way those little embarassments tend to happen. And these things pass through the generations, and...
Well, at some point, you get a Japanese person with striking blue eyes. Y'know. It happens.
Those eyes are fixed on Tsumugi, as they step out from the back; there's someone who knows how circle the slash in the M-slash-F gender indicator. It's quiet enough in here that they swear they can hear their own heartbeat, hammering against their constricted chest; they hope it's not obvious how tense they are, as they recognise them.
(It's pretty obvious.)
"T-thanks," they stammer out, only to feel even more stupider as they hear themself stammering. They gesture them on, and Tsubasa takes step after hesitant step, deeper into the lion's den.
They of course assume Tsumugi is talking about how long it took them to even get here, when Myunghon gave them the invitation almost a week ago, and they kind of look aside to examine those very cool paintings, which is really kind of dangerous when they're moving. "Oh, uh, just, y'know... I was, uh..." scared of coming here only for Tsumugi to declare that they were clearly not X enough for anything which would actually help, "... jus'... playin' it cool..."
Phew! Thank god they came up with a totally plausible explanation. Thanks, Tsubasa's brain, you're a genius.
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
The little joys of genetics.
Green and blue eyes are recessive traits. It makes them shockingly rare colors to find out in the wider world, not even considering the vanishing rarity of them on Japanese soil. Of course, that doesn't mean -impossible-, as Tsubasa Seki's pale blues demonstrate to all the world. A little, ticking time bomb of far away exoticism set up potentially generations in advance. There's nuance in everything.
Looking at those striking blues, Tsumugi can't help but wonder:
How many people actually appreciate that nuance?
It's just one curiosity of many about Tsubasa's appearance, for them. The clothing, the tan -- the scars that tan tries - but does not entirely succeed in - hiding. Their entire appearance tells a long and painful story.
Like Myunghon before them. It's fascinating.
Those thoughts don't bubble up to the surface; not yet. Tsumugi is sublime silence in the face of Tsubasa's stammered explanations. One might wonder if they're even paying attention, as utterly fixed-forward their stare is, how unchanging their expression is. Of course, Tsubasa's own attention is elsewhere.
Which means they might not notice the perfectly manicured hand in their personal space, until it settles firmly on their shoulder, bringing a sudden halt to their forward momentum.
Right before they were about to walk right into the fitting room's threshold.
Green eyes look down towards the smooth wooden transition strip.
"A week, three hours and twenty three minutes of playing it cool," they note suddenly, idly.
"Do you believe in delayed gratification?"
Their lack of commitment in an answer to this potentially rhetorical question is revealed in the way their hand falls away shortly thereafter so that they can make their way into the fitting room. It's also demonstrated in how swiftly they move on, that piercing stare cast over their shoulder once they are comfortably settled within their place of (fashion) power.
"Myunghon tells me you've been binding with bandages?"
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
... perhaps there are just more little embarrassments in the world than anyone's willing to admit.
Tsubasa doesn't seem like someone who appreciates nuance. Their colours are bold and bright but not particularly harmonious, as if they heard about frogs displaying bright neons to advertise how deadly they were and didn't get far past that stage of development. They could have cooled it on the tan several stages of darkness ago, and now they're practically orange. Their hair -- their wig, Tsumugi might note, with their discerning eye -- is no less loud, purple and blue on white, shaggy and mid-length more like a Visual Kei guy than a woman.
Their nails are short, chipped, and undecorated; more to the point, they look bitten. What a terrible habit.
They don't notice the much nicer nails crossing over, until --
"Huh?!" Tsubasa yelps, as they pull up short; as, Tsumugi might notice, they lock into place, something between a brace and a flinch. They can't help it; they've been touched in anger too many times not to expect a blow's coming.
Luckily, with all those layers of artifice on their face, it's impossible to tell how the blood drains from it. Unluckily, their expression is just as alarmed, so they're not nearly as cleverly-hidden as they think they are.
"Y-you were... keepin' track...?" Tsubasa squeaks out. Luckily, Tsumugi backs off, and Tsubasa hesitates for a moment before they follow them into their throne room.
Their hand crosses their chest, again, to grasp at their opposite arm. "Y--yeah," they say, glancing down at those nice wooden floors. "For the past year or so... w-when I figured it out, a girl in another gang told me 'bout it." The sukebans do have a terrible habit of tying bandages around their chests, though they at least generally aren't trying to totally flatten themselves out. "My, uh, my doctor doesn't... wanna even diagnose me 'til I'm twenty, so... I just... been gettin' by on my own."
They bite their blue-painted lip, as they add: "... you're only the third person like me I even ever met... 'fore I met Yeo-sama, I'd just seen posts online and shit."
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Bright and bold. Like an inversion of the funerary monochromes of Myunghon Yeo.
One came into their parlor contemplating splashes of color -- the other came drenched in them. Neither are things Tsumugi is unfamiliar with (they've known Saika for years now, after all). But it's intriguing in its own way.
Colors like that are usually worn proudly like a favorite armor...
or like a mask.
Y-you were... keepin' track...?
Finally, the placidity of Tsumugi's expression is compromised with the slightest suggestion of a black-lipped smile.
"Why not?" they ask, voice so casual as if it were the most mundane thing in the world.
"I was curious. 'How long will it take them to cross the threshold?'"
It's with that, that they turn to face Tsubasa. Hands tucked into their pockets, their head cants owlishly to the right as their fellow gender nonconformist explains just why they've been using bandages. Green eyes hood in quiet thought as Tsubasa talks about their doctor. About how adrift and alone they had been, in terms of people like them, until they met Myunghon. It paints a vivid part of a portrait, like the start of a mosaic that is Tsubasa Seki, made of smaller pictures of their life.
"Mm."
They turn then, pulling free the long line of their measurement tape with a soft, soothing 'swsshh' of material on wood as they speak.
"Sarashi," the note over their shoulder. "It used to be worn by samurai for practical purposes. Now it's just a symbol of a person's power. As far as fashion goes, there's worse reasons to wear something."
With a half-turn, that green gaze is fully on Tsubasa again. Alarmed, uncertain. In unknown territory, in every single way. So Tsumugi offers a simple thought:
"But it isn't the way for you to embrace your power."
It's subtle, the way they emphasize those two words: 'you,' 'your'. As if, if one were looking for them, they were the only words that matter.
The steps of those polished shoes on hardwood echo in the relative emptiness of Peacock Silk as Tsumugi approaches Tsubasa, like an underscore of Tsubasa's final admission on how few like them they know. Oxfords fill their field of vision -- before slipping away from it, as Tsumugi quietly circles around.
"Relax," is their simple command from behind Tsubasa, voice deep yet calm. "Tension will compromise the measurements."
*shhhwwwp*; the measurement tape drapes along Tsubasa's back.
"Do you feel isolated?"
they wonder, in that empty boutique.
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
They were... curious?
Tsubasa's taken aback, hearing that. They'd expected them to be -- angry. Like putting it off was an expression of how ungrateful they were.
(Of course they'd expect a reaction like that; it has little to do with what they're moving towards, and everything to do with what they're walking from.)
Tsumugi names the style, and Tsubasa supposes that of course they'd know the proper terminology and history; they're probably, like, some kind of clothing super-genius, right? (Maybe it's the glasses that make them think that. They ARE nice glasses.) "Uh, yeah, like... they're tough," Tsubasa agrees --
But Tsumugi supposes, quite simply, that it's not their route to power. Tsubasa hates staring, but they really can't help but stare at Tsumugi, singularly intent, much like if they'd uttered the word 'walkies' to Lance. They realise they're staring, a moment later, and their face flushes -- again, mercifully obscured -- as they drop their gaze back down.
"Y'reckon?" They ask, their voice dragged through gravel as if they'd been smoking for years. They've never picked one up in their life, of course... but smoke inhalation is smoke inhalation.
Tsumugi tells them to relax, and it feels like an impossible request... but Tsubasa wants better tools to manage their damnable body, so they'll just have to make themself release all that tension in their shoulders, with a very deliberate breath in and out. (It's not as deep as it could be; well, obviously.)
"... yeah," they say, and releasing that tension means releasing their toughness, just the same, as if they're still green enough that they brace before taking a swing. (It seems as if it's like that because it obviously is, in fact, literally like that.) "I mean, I got the Boss... and the gang. But they're... prettier than me... an' more normal... like, when we graduate, they're gonna figure out normal lives somehow, right? It's usually like that... but it wasn't 'til I met folks like big sis Shimizu," 'ane-san,' that's clear gang lingo, "or Yeo-sama, that I thought... I might be able to get by without gettin' caught and thrown in the clank the minute I turned twenty. Like... it'd be like that, right? Like, the Boss's family are really nice, Princess has cool folks, even Shuyo-kun's are just mad he's not only seein' girls... but my father don't want me, so no one in my family does. So... I can't go back there, not unless I eat shit and pretend I'm a girl, but... ain't like I can get married with this face, neither. And if someone made me be a wife I'd fuckin'... someone would regret it, anyway, so..."
Hey, how about that! They actually can say more than two sentences at a stretch. ... maybe they're nervous about that measuring tape, and rambling on is their best effort to try to stay still and relaxed.
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Y'reckon?
Maybe Tsubasa will see Tsumugi's only response to that question in the form of that second, brief smile in the seconds before their stare drops to regard the floor once more.
A breath, deep as Tsubasa can make it. An exhale. They'll feel measuring tape press to their spine by the brief application of Tsumugi's thumbpad before it releases.
The measurements continue just like that - brief and efficient and done in silence - as Tsumugi lets Tsubasa take center stage to let all those words just plunge out from their lips like a dam in desperate need of a release valve. From back to waist to shoulders, that measurement tape glides like it was recording the essence of Tsubasa Seki with every perfunctory, wordless measurement.
The only words from Tsumugi, for the longest time, come in the form of simple instructions: "Lift your right arm, Tsubasa-kun. Index finger extended," as a guiding hand helps lift their arm, bent at the elbow, to allow that tape travels the orange, scarred length of their shoulder all the way to their finger.
They take no notes during the entire process; and there's clearly no one else there to jot them down for them. Are they just committing the measurements to memory...?
No -- there's nothing from Tsumugi on the full width and breadth of Tsubasa's comprehensive answer...
"Normalcy is a cage."
... until they've circled back around to Tsubasa's front once more, measuring tape slipping 'round their back towards their front in a smooth loop.
"Arms up," they instruct, "... and down." Those bright greens remain wholly focused on their work, even as they continue on:
"'Tradition,' 'culture,' 'family'... the 'right' way to do things. They make a prison of what you're expected to be. Do you know why?"
An inward pinch of measuring tape; Tsumugi takes in the circumference without so much of a blink:
"Because they're terrified of what you could be."
It's strange, maybe uplifting, how they say those words like there was no higher realm to reach.
The measuring tape slips away, as Tsumugi steps aside once more.
"Your problem is the bandages."
... Obviously. It's why Tsubasa is here, isn't it--
"You think you're isolated. So you replicate the things others have done. But it won't work. Conforming lessens you. Once you truly understand that, you'll embrace your real power:"
Behind those nice glasses, Tsumugi's gaze lifts, finally contemplating Tsubasa directly.
"That you've found so few people like you doesn't make you isolated.
"It makes you unique.
"Singular.
"Beautiful."
And once more, their gaze drops down to focus on their work, measuring tape stretching like the graceful glide of a dancer's ribbon across their stage.
"Did you customize these clothes yourself?"
And just like that, they smoothly pivot to their next point of interest on the mosaic of Tsubasa Seki.
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
Tsubasa is, if nothing else, good at following instruction; they've always operated under a Boss rather than leading their own gang, after all. Some of the instructions don't make much sense -- why would extending their finger matter??? -- but they follow them carefully, anyway.
It's hard not to feel self-conscious, but -- there's something about the few words Tsumugi does speak that distract them entirely. Their brow knits, for a moment, before they remember they can't be tense right now. "A cage...?"
All those things. The idea of going from being your father's responsibility to your husband's, and then of course on in years to your son; the structure of the patriarch, of a path through life designed for men and pretended at by women until such time as they get married and drop from it. Tsubasa's always thought of themself as a punk, so it's confronting to realise just how much tradition they're citing, when Tsumugi names it a jailor.
(Their father was always very conservative. It's not that easy to dig out your roots.)
There's something equal parts frightening and tantalising to the idea that they could be so much more than that, hunger and hesitation warring on their face. And their fingertips; they curl, just so, as if grasping at something unseen.
Still -- the bandages --
Someone else told them how to do it, though -- Tsubasa supposes, now -- she didn't share their feelings on her chest at all. They find themself meeting Tsumugi's eyes, and realising at once that being seen could be validating instead of terrifying.
"I'm..." Tsubasa starts, dumbfounded. Is that... what the Boss meant, when she said they had so much freedom, and they shouldn't give up before they'd even tried? They swallow, and nod. "I-- I never thought of it like that."
Unique...
"Yeah," they say, glancing down to their outfit. "I, uh... before I opted out, I played bass for a Visual Kei setup... since I was the only one there that weren't a boy, it just kinda fell on me to do up all our costumes and shit. So I learned how to stitch shit together, chop it up... then when I did opt out, I just kinda did that for all my clothes. Y'know? Like... I'd got burned to shit, so I was tryin' to figure out how to even show my face outside again, and... I thought somethin' out there like yamanba shit or sentaa guy shit would distract people. But I ain't either, so it's 'yamanto'... y'know?"
That is, a mountain child rather than a mountain hag; whether they're children or raucous relatives, they're much less frequently gendered than the old men and old women of the mountains.
"I don't mind gettin' read as a guy," Tsubasa adds, "'cause, like, I mean, I'm not, but... if people figure me that way, it means I'm at least convincin' them I ain't a girl, and that's what really matters to me. But just wearin' dude's clothes all the time ain't my look, neither, so... like, I leave the boy's shirt unbuttoned and tie it over my waist and shit like that. And sometimes it's like... I gotta start from chick clothes to get to a point where it's hard to tell. Plus, uh... I just had more of those lyin' around."
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Bewilderment is writ large on Tsubasa's heavily faux-tanned features. It makes Tsumugi's nonchalance that much starker in contrast.
But Peacock Silk's placid purveyor sees the other little notes, as they work. The twitch of Tsubasa's fingers. The excitement that wars with their indecision.
Like someone on a precipice. Or standing before a threshold.
Tsumugi, if no one else, appreciates the nuance.
And yet all the same, they abandon that subject -- like, perhaps, it no longer interested them... or it simply worked better as a seed dangled tantalizingly before fertile soil. Regardless, for now? For now their interest is on the subject of Tsubasa's clothes as they make their final measurements. It's comprehensive; Tsubasa might note it's probably more than they need just for a chest binding which - while monumental in importance for Tsubasa - is not an especially complex article to weave.
Like they were taking more complete measurements, for a repeat client.
Or...
"You took what you were stuck with and made it your own," they say simply at the end of Tsubasa's explanation.
"Clever."
Tsubasa invokes the burns, their way of dealing with them. Like Myunghon before them, Tsumugi is fascinated about the story behind them. For now they don't try to leverage towards learning. They're content to take their time with it. So, instead:
"You've done well for someone without training," they note as the measurement tape finally falls away from Tsubasa completely; Tsumugi rolls it up slowly as they speak, black bangs spilling over one eye as they tilt their head to regard Tsubasa.
"What matters most is that you have a clear vision of what you want to show the world. You have a mask. Now you need to embody it."
With that, they set the tape aside once again. It's a fluid and calm sort of grace, the way they bend at the waist to pick up something else on the lower shelf of their work station: a notepad, and a pencil.
Without a word, they start to scribble things down on a fresh page. That silence continues from them once more until:
"The chest binders should be done within the week. They'll be a cotton blend." Better for sensitive skin. "If you have any stylistic notes... anything you really want out of them..." They look up pointedly here. "... tell me."
And with that --
*schrrrrrp*
They tear that paper off the notepad, dangling it just in front of Tsubasa. In offering. On it?
"This should make any further alterations easier to manage."
Their measurements.
"You have fascinating potential, Tsubasa-kun. You just need the opportunity and means to embrace it."
They mean their fashion sense, ostensibly. Their sewing skills, maybe.
Yet they seem to have a special gift for making such a calm and casual statement layered with meaning all the same.
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
Is there something Tsubasa's almost grasped? A fall they're not quite yet committing to?
... they do have a fear of the unknown, but they keep ending up right back there.
(Right back here.)
Still... they know enough about making clothes that they recognise some of these measurements aren't relevant at all. Not that they make all that many themself -- they do alterations on vibes, man -- but they're at least familiar with grabbing a ruler and making some educated guesses to avoid fucking a piece of clothing up too much.
"Yeah, like... it's my shit anyway, so why not, right?" Tsubasa confirms, and confirms it with a question at the end; they're learning, so they can't ever be too sure of their answers. Still -- being called clever by someone like this, being told they've done well for where they are, it's -- it's validating.
"I have a mask, huh..." Tsubasa wonders, turning it around in their head. "... I got a friend with a cool one. Wonder if... that's how it is. Like, embodyin' it, or... whatever."
Scribble, scribble, and Tsubasa watches Tsumugi write their notes curiously but without interruption; they've got to get the numbers out of their head and onto the page. They understand that urge. Except --
The notes aren't for Tsumugi.
Tsubasa blinks, as they offer them -- a precious gift from a more accomplished tailor. There's that moment of shock, as if they can't believe it's being offered -- before they take the paper, eagerly, bringing it back to their chest. "Thank you," they say, and if their throat is a little choked, no it isn't.
The opportunity and the means...
"... hey, make it bright, wouldja? Like, people should know I'm dangerous... and I don't wanna be ashamed of changin' my body." Perhaps they thought, first, of nice neutral colours it would be easy to overlook; and on thinking that, then realised they viewed it as cowardice.
And lured out of their dour pessimism, they voice: "What I can do... I wanna pull it off. I wanna be..." Somebody? "More of myself," they settle on, instead.
If they're unique, just 'being somebody' won't cut it, right?
... man, they're gonna have so much to talk about, when they get back to the third X they've met.
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
I have a mask, huh... I got a friend with a cool one.
"Is that right?"
It's a question, in the technical sense of the word. There's enough of a lilt to an otherwise even tone to make it so, yet in the way of all rhetoric before it, it's not a question in and of itself.
It's an expression of curiosity.
A friend with a cool mask. Could it be? Based on how Myunghon phrased the request, Tsubasa likely doesn't have that gift the two of them have, themself. Yet... between this friend and Myunghon - and now Tsumugi...
For someone without a Persona, Tsubasa certainly finds themself falling into the circles of so many who do.
And that -- that is interesting.
Personal curiosities. Things to explore. Their interest properly piqued, they pass that list off to Tsubasa who cradles it like a treasure. Their arms folding beneath their chest, notepad tucked against the crook of their elbow, pincered between index and middle fingers, they take that - certainly not choked, absolutely not - gratitude with the simple dip of their head. They'll take the appreciation because it's given freely and, in their mind, unnecessarily. After all...
It's a gift given because it interests them.
The notepad is shut. Tsumugi turns to return it to its proper station...
... and then pauses at that request.
I wanna be...
More of myself.
For the third time today, that smile drifts across their lips, profound in its understatement.
"Good."
In its approval.
The notepad is put away. And Tsumugi smoothly moves to their counter, hopping onto the edge. They lean back in their new perch, their left knee raised and arm draped over it, sprawled ever much like the royal on their throne.
It's not intentional, Tsumugi's body language is just naturally outlandish.
"Bold colors," they confirm. "Everyone will see you for what you are."
Someone becoming more of themself.
Someone unique.
Their free hand lifts, drawing deep black locks of hair behind an ear as that green gaze rolls Tsubasa's way. Silence settles comfortably, but only for a short time, before they offer one final thought for their fledgling noncomformist.
"Myunghon has vouched for you," they say, "and you interest me."
They say it so casually too. Just as much as the conclusion they offer: "... so consider yourself a client of Peacock Silk now."
Black brows lift, just so.
"Come by again if you need something. We can talk."
'Opportunity and means.'
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
"Yeah," Tsubasa says. "She's, like... way tougher than me, so she's helped me outta some binds." That might still be ambiguous enough to be something else, particularly given how Tsubasa's mentioned being part of the gang life, but -- "Like... y'know, when the Joker Killer attacked at school? They said it was a gang, but it was the Joker Killer, man... if she hadn't been there, I woulda been, like, literally toast, fucker was throwin' Molotovs and everythin'."
... and that's not ambiguous in the slightest, even if Tsubasa's clearly logiced the Agi like they were seeing into something which their mind can presently comprehend.
(It also handily informs Tsumugi where they go to school, if the context clues weren't enough; Kasugayama's the only school with a publically accepted assault on record. ... what, Seven Sisters? Nothing's wrong at Seven Sisters.)
Tsubasa wouldn't begrudge Tsumugi their selfish motivations for bestowing that gift; they'd still offer the proper respect at receiving it. They're not unfamiliar with the space; they frequently think about how they care for selfish reasons, and how people ought to know more about why they're doing something and who they're looking to benefit. The thought, unvoiced, becomes a ship passing in the night... but there's surely a reason why Tsubasa listens so easily to Tsumugi's insights.
Or why they're so happy to hear Tsumugi's approval.
Tsubasa follows them, noting the way they effortlessly fill their space with quiet admiration. "Yeah!" They actually smile, when Tsumugi confirms their desires. Their face so naturally takes to a scowl, one might have wondered if it were possible for them to show joy -- but as it happens, it's not as hard as it looks.
And... they interest them, and the people in their community support them being here, and --
"Cool," Tsubasa says, and they try so hard to be cool about it, but tragically they're still smiling. "Thanks again, Kujaku-hakase," they address them like a doctor, or at least someone with a doctorate, "I learned a lot."
They look around, and back to Tsumugi, who so effortlessly understands so much.
"I'll totally be back," they decide, before they make their exit. They lean on the door. They take a breath, as well as they can, right now.
"ohmigodthey'resocool," Tsubasa says, all in one breath, and ENTIRELY uncool about it.
Don't worry, they'll make sure to put the notes of their measurements carefully away and plaster their scowl on their face before they go lurching back out there, though.
C'mon. Their rep.