//------------------------------//
// Octavia, on Making Amends 
// Story: Dream On: Vinyl and Tavi's Private Weblog 
// by Koiyuki 
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Pardon my bluntness, Vi, but when you first spoke of Ms. Takamine, I didn't know what to think of her. In my view, it seems illogical that a friend would call you Ms. Crapstep over a month after you first met, not to mention how she took every opportunity to point out how little non-textbook Japonican you knew while she helped you better understand it. Seems to be more on the bell-end side things than the friendship one, if you ask me. Really, why would she be that much of a troll towards someone she openly acknowledged as a friend? I remember well how you inched closer and closer to wanting to scrap with her each time the words or sentiments behind "Ms.Crapstep"came out of her mouth. 

When you went with Neon to the hardware store, for instance, she waved some sheet metal, and said, "Look, honey, I'm making Dubstep!" If that wasn't enough, while he was editing your newest mix, you mentioned her saying, "I bet if I sat at your computer blindfolded, I could make a hit dubstep track in 30 minutes" Couple days later, apparently, while you two were running on the treadmill, she turned to you, and brought up a 3 car pileup on the freeway that morning, adding that "They say it sounded like Dubstep" At that point, you said you had enough of her 'taking dumps' on the music you work with, and challenged her to one round of boxing in the ring that instant, a smile crossing her face as she answered, "Why I'd love to have a go. Come at me however you want, Ms. Crapstep"

I know you wanted to pound her face in for all the times she called you Ms. Crapstep. I know you wanted to get her back for all the insults she made about EDM. I know you wanted to force an apology from her for how much crap she gave you for the kind of music you spin and make. I know you wanted to, but if memory serves, she didn't let you land one punch that whole 3 minutes. Her hands were at her sides, her head moved around like it was on a swivel, and the only thing your punches ever caught was air. I was astounded that you were sweating bullets, cursing under your breath, and felt like absolute garbage because you couldn't do a bloody thing against that loud mouthed braggart. Neither of us are trained combatants, granted, but really, not one blow? Highly odd that a singer songwriter would have sort of combat aptitude, so after some arrangements, I sought to see her skill for myself at Wild Card.

I'll never forget the first time I saw her the ring. She had the perfect stance as she floated about in her white tank top and pink and white trim boxing trunks,   Effortlessly was she going through her drills, her pink gloves flying into a blur as I stepped closer to the ropes. Her arms were slender, yes, but with distinct definition, as was her waist. The way she was put together made me wonder how she could pack one punch power into such a svelte frame. She certainly proved how much verbal punch she has when, after I asked "Anata wa Takamine-san desu ka?" she smiled at me, and answered, "Has anyone ever told you that you sound just like a cartoon copying yutz?" before putting 'em up. The second she saw me do the same, I swear her stare grew as intense as a laser. 

Every jab came out crisp and clean, her movements matching, if not predicting  my own step for step and blow for blow. To this day, I question how she could brush off hooks I landed plush on her chin, behind the ear and right on the liver. For that matter, how did I stay upright against that torrent of hooks like camouflaged bricks and uppers like rockets? By the time the bell was rung, I, like you, was gassed and utterly dumbfounded at what just happened-although afterwards she praised my performance, saying, "You got some pretty solid fundamentals, Octi. Your friend could learn a thing or two from on establishing a solid D," as she unlaced her gloves. Not a second later, I caught a red aura surrounding her bottle, raising it up to her mouth to squirt some water in. As those of Magica descent are supposed to be as brittle as glass, this raised further questions on the way to the locker room, one which she posed herself

"You wanna guess what my Cutie Mark is?" She asked before stepping out of her trunks. Right when I was ready to say, "A music note?" I saw, high on her upper left thigh, a pair of boxing gloves staring back at me. While I changed into my street clothes, I asked why she became a singer songwriter if her special talent was in the sweet science, to which she replied, "It's a long, long story. Maybe one you'd like to hear over brunch at my place next week? Neon'll be out of town on tour, so it'd be nice to have some girl time with one as peaceful, gentle and refined yourself. Can't always be punching people in the face and pounding 'em down, you know?" The next week, we sat on the couch, and traded stories from the grapevine, later trying out different styles she had in her closet, and discussing the little things the people we cherish do that absolutely grinds our gears- like how Neon tends to get handsy when he's asleep, and how you like to wake up bright and early and shower with dubstep played at full blast at your place(I've had more than one rude awakening, thanks to that). It had been quite awhile since I had such fun, and she proved to be a highly layered kind of personality the more we spoke. 

While we watched a RomCom from the corner video store, she mentioned how much she loved boxing as a youth, tearing through the ranks like wet paper, and gaining more attention from potential sponsors. "I was entranced by the thrill of pushing my skills to their absolute limit. Still am,"she said between bites of her popcorn. "As I got closer to breaking into the pros, though, the sweet science grew into a super gross part of my life as more money and the pressure it brings entered the picture." 

"Is that what made you stop?"

"Nah, man, that started with learning 'bout the long brain damage many of the greats suffered through. Really made me question what path I was lookin' to walk, and that was around the time I picked up a guitar for a night school class a friend took me to."

"Your first time, I trust? When I played the cello my first time, I could sense that, even through the scratchy, highly raw strokes, the voice within was finally coming through. Fantastic, it was. How was your first?"

"Same, absolutely fan-freaking-tastic. The first time I played a chord on it, I felt something special well up in me, a feeling that lead me to pick up one of my own, and start my journey into who I am now" It was during our discussion of musical performance, that we approached that moment you and I shared after our own at Shelter. After mentioning that text she wrote for you, she asked "Now that you know all that, what are you gonna do to be worthy of friendship and forgiveness?" When I told her I thought it most appreciate to admit to all the times I hurt her and apologize for them, I sensed a change in the air. She was visibly shaking, taking a few cleansing breaths before she started to pace about the living room, her eyes locked on me as she said, "You and I know well that "Words are just words" is complete and total hogwash made to put it all on the victim, and absolve the one who hurt them, don't we? We know that words have meaning and impact. That's the entire point of language and communication, after all. It is with that understanding, along with warning you that what I'm gonna say next is coming from a place of deep hurt, that I say this:

"You don't really think that remorseful words are enough to make up for your idiocy, do you? Because the people who think that are people who made my life suck for years and years. You think that owning up to your nonsense is some bucking free pass to redemption? Buck that, and buck you, if you think that. You can't write a bucking apology on a paper you crumpled up, and expect it to just magically go back to being perfect. People like that make me bucking sick. If you really want to make up for your buck ups, owning up is not enough. You must also work actively to make the world you two share a safer, trusting and more positive environment, and show them that you understand what you did, and that you learned something good from it. I don't wanna see you just talk about it, I wanna see you be about it. Anything else is a bucking insult to what you two just went through, understand?" It's likely she interpreted my body language as communicating deep apprehension, because she patted me firm on the shoulder as she chuckled out, "Don't be so shook, Octi! I don't deck everyone who gets me riled up, especially people still trying to better themselves by learning from their buck ups" About then, a Veggie Supreme pizza she ordered had arrived at the door, with her adding an autograph and a peck on the cheek to the delivery boy's tip before bringing the treat to the living room. As the savoury scent of freshly baked cheese, marinara sauce, and peppers filled the air, Takamine asked, "You're probably wondering why I did that if I have a boyfriend, right?"

"I am, actually."

" Well, the short version is that when we were becoming a thing, we thought it'd be better if we had an open relationship, one where we're free to share our bodies with whoever we please, but our hearts are only to be shared with each other."

"You share your bodies...but not your hearts? How does that even work?"

"It's a bit tough to explain with words, alone. Perhaps you would like a hands on demonstration?" I remember leaning in close, her face inching closer and closer to mine, and the blood rushing to my cheeks as our noses touched. Her eyes were closed, mine were wide open, when suddenly, out of the blue, she flicked me on my forehead,  letting out a belly laugh before taking a bite of her slice. "Always fun to watch you prim and proper types squirm."

"Fun for you, you mean?"

"Immensely." She took a deep swig of her imported hard soda pop, offering me some before continuing. "Anyways, no matter what kind of relationship it is, there's something crucial that's gotta be there, or else it can't grow. I can tell you wanna dig into this pie, so I'll just give you this clue to chew on while you do: it rhymes with dust" That entire evening-as well as several nights after, two things ran through my mind: that intoxicating plum scent when she was so close and just what that one thing was. To this day, I'm not sure how she's able to be such an ardent flirt, nor how she continues to send me into such a fluster every time we meet (certainly doesn't help when Neon says things like "You two making out would be so hot"). What I am sure of, however, is that upon reflecting on her words, I realized that the thing every thriving relationship has to have is not must, rust nor lust (necessarily), but trust. There must be a trust that they'll keep the precious things we offer them safe and sound; a trust that their word is their bonds; a trust that even if we gave them the power to end us where we stand, that they would have enough in them not to. That's the sort of trust I realize I threw away that night in the park, and that's the sort of trust I knew I had to earn back, however it had to be done. How it could be done, however, eluded me, until I got a text from saying you were spinning at a warehouse rave somewhere in Manehatten. 

As before, I was accompanied by Midnight Blaze, and dressed according to the skimpily vintage dress code the party called for, fully expecting to deal with door security as obnoxious as what I encountered at Shelter. As we stood there in the freezing twilight air, I saw person after person not to the bouncer's taste, nor on The List get turned away, each throwing the kind of hissy fit the media expects of my age and social status-the same kind I threw when I was refused entry to Shelter, admittedly. When the guard saw me, a smile grew on his face as he said, "You're that violin lady that played with Vinyl, ain'cha? Anyone who can throw down like that is more than welcome here!" Guess being a fish out of water pays off sometimes, doesn't it? Certainly helped me and my company get through the velvet ropes and onto what I thought was going to be a fun night observing the dance floor from the bar. The smile you shot me when our eyes met, however, told me that this night was not the night for me to be wallflower, with further encouragement coming from a fishnet top wearing young man who decided that I had no personal space to respect when Midnight Blaze went off to use the loo. His slurred speech told me that whatever courage he displayed came straight from the lukewarm brews going around, likely telling him to treat each "No, thank you" as a "No, you must further convince me to hop on your wild ride, you sexy beast" Soon, I saw him starting to make some rather unwelcome advances when Midnight Blaze asked "Yo buddy, is there a problem, here?"and draped his arm across my shoulders. I was hoping that the both of us leaning into each other would be a clear cut sign for him to cease his pursuit, but he did not relent, yelling, “Hey jackhole, I saw her first!”

“No, I saw her first about a decade ago, and if you keep on being this bucking dense, you’re fixin’ on scrapping with both her and me, got it?” With that simple statement of aggression, the young man finally said, “Whatever, man,” and walked away, my guess being to tend to his ego, and try again with another young woman at the rave. Until that moment, I never noticed how fetching Midnight Blaze was in his plaid green button up, stonewashed jeans and and black and white slip ons- then again, he wasn’t mere inches away before, either. When he tilted his head towards the dance floor, and asked, “Well? How about it, Tavi?” I hadn’t a clue on how to react until you played that song in your set. After you did, though, my only choice was to hit the dance floor, and show off the practice I put in to learn those dance moves. 

With him at my side, everything I learned about Liquid Dancing, from basic isolation techniques, to letting the flow move from my hands, to my arms and all through my body, because like second nature. The deeper we got into our dance, the more it felt like people were giving us both space and their attention, more so during the down beat portion, when we started dancing as one. In that moment, I felt like we returned to our school days, when we practiced Swing, Tango and other styles of ballroom dancing in nervous anticipation of the school socials. He held me close, dipped me deep, and threw me into a double spin like we were long time ice skaters, in turn demonstrating a kind of bond I never even knew we shared. I can’t remember any other time when spending the night with someone didn’t feel long enough (although I also can’t remember any other time when staying up all night felt like a good idea)

I was thankful that after your set, you offered to give us a lift home, because, in all honesty, I was absolutely smashed, as was he, so anything to reduce the chance of us doing something foolish is always a good thing. It didn't hurt that waiting by your white convertible gave us time to be alone, because in that moment, I felt something for him that I never knew I had in all the years I knew him. Was it love? Was it lust? Was it something deeper? That much I’ll never know, because when I leaned in closer, he held me in his embrace, and, through his own drunken slurring, said, “Thanks for being such a great friend to me all these years, Octavia. Tonight reminded me just how much it means to have someone as great as you as my pal.” My heart wanted to ask if it were possible for us to be more than friends, but I knew deep down that I was not the one he saw as his lover. I was the one he saw as a second sister, perhaps even as the elder sister he never had to turn to when times were tough, as they were before, during, and possibly after our time together at school. When you came and asked if you were interrupting anything, part of me so badly wanted to say yes, but on the ride home, I realized that the connections that I shared with both you and him were rooted in and strengthened by the trust we shared, that we would do what we could to be there for each other, no matter how far we had to go to make it happen. It brought a smile to face, and still does...although it did demand I schedule some time with my vibrosword to work out what the party brought out in me. Such is the life of a musician, I suppose.