Chapter 23 — The Red Negroni and a Toast of Mockery

"Don't worry. I don't write down who drank what, or where—or even what anyone talked about."

I picked up the brown ledger that had been sitting in the corner of the counter. Haru's shoulders jumped, and she started to lean back. But when I opened it and set it quietly on the bar, curiosity seemed to get the better of her, and she tipped forward just a little.

There were no flashy epithets in it, no magical-girl ranks, and no record of the humiliating histories or secret conversations they had spilled in this place.

The entries were plain to the point of being dull. Like the checkout log of a small neighborhood library, they noted nothing more than who had opened the door and stepped inside, and when. Haru's gaze paused for a moment over two familiar names: Hiyori and Yui.

"Huh. For real... You write it like this, and that counts as a report?"

She let out a disbelieving little laugh and looked away from the ledger. Even so, the sharp, bristling wariness that had wrapped around her until a moment ago had visibly eased. She fiddled with her empty Black Russian glass and, for the first time, looked me straight in the eye.

"Hey. You've got more guts than you look. Get caught by that old cat Shinano and your head comes clean off—and you're still faking the ledger like this?"

Her tone was still rough, but the fingers worrying the cuff of her cheerleader uniform had grown a good deal more at ease than before.

"Of course. Don't worry, Haru. Would you like another?"

I didn't put her magical-girl alias in my mouth, and I didn't string together any itchy compliments about her looks. I simply stayed a bartender—checking a guest's empty glass, asking about the next one. But that very ordinariness was probably the consideration she needed most just then. Tap, tap. Haru knocked the rim of the empty glass with a fingertip.

"Ah... uh... ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠y-yeah. Sure. Being called that... isn't so bad."

She forced the answer out as if she had to wring it from her throat. Then she fanned her face a few times, trying to cool the heat climbing her cheeks, seemed to make up her mind, and pushed the empty glass toward me.

"If you're pouring, I'm not turning it down. But... make it strong again, like before. Anything half-assed and sweet makes me sick."

"All right. I was in the mood for a drink myself."

Clinking glasses in broad daylight with a girl carrying that much old resentment didn't seem like such a bad idea. I took a mixing glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice. The harsh vodka had already passed through; now it was time to fill the space with something a little more complex, a little sharper. Clear gin slid between the cubes, and after it came the deep brown of sweet vermouth and the bewitching red of Campari, all running together.

Clink, clink. The bar spoon turned smoothly along the wall of the glass. The scarlet liquid took the ice's chill into itself and slowly deepened into a richer, more voluptuous color. I dropped a large cube into each of two rocks glasses I had chilled ahead of time and poured the finished cocktail in a slow stream. When I twisted a strip of orange peel and expressed the oils, a bright citrus scent burst through the air all at once.

Gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth: two Negronis. I set one in front of the girl who wanted to keep living, and one in front of myself—the one still heavy with old grief. Haru narrowed her eyes at the jewel-like red light wavering in the glass. The fingers that had been fidgeting with the cuff of her cheerleader uniform went still.

"It looks as flashy as the magical girls, but it's a Negroni—a strong cocktail with gin in it. Shall we drink to laughing at them?"

I lifted my glass and held it out lightly. For a moment Haru only stared at me, blank. Her eyes caught the red in the glass and flickered. A brief silence passed. Then she let out a rough breath and carefully raised her own.

"Ha... you're a real piece of work."

With that short line, she tapped her glass lightly against the one I had offered.

Ching. The clear ring of glass spread pleasantly through the quiet bar.

"Fine. Magical girls, symbols of hope, all that bullshit... let's drink every last bit of it away, right here."

She brought the glass to her lips without hesitation. The moment the first sip went down, the Negroni's signature bitter bite and herbal perfume stabbed the tip of her tongue, and her face tightened just a little. A breath later she let out a low exhalation, as if satisfied. I took a sip myself, and the harsh kick of the drink I had made already left my face feeling faintly warm. The cold of the glass against my hand might as well not have been there; heat was rising slowly from inside. Haru kept the rim at her lips and stared openly at the flush spreading over my face. I hid the embarrassment behind a small cough and went on.

"Well... looks like a bartender who also pulls espresso is about to get drunk on his own drink. Last time, the rosé beer I had with Sister Clara and Yui left me suffering through a hangover."

Haru smiled with her eyes, as if the confession were ridiculous.

"Pathetic. Seriously... You can't even hold your liquor, and you put something this strong in front of me? And you got ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠outdrunk on beer by a nun and that little squirt, and walked away with a hangover? That's a complete embarrassment."

She said it like that, but there was unmistakable amusement in her eyes. The hand fidgeting with the sleeve of her cheerleader uniform had grown more leisurely, and the way she tapped the toe of her shoe against the floor, keeping a light rhythm, looked quite languid. Haru glanced down at her emptying glass and muttered.

"Well... still. Listening to your pathetic hangover story in here beats fake-smiling in front of those stupid cameras by a hundred times. At least this... isn't fake."

"Fake smiles... I hear idol singers worry about that a lot, too. Last time Hina and Hiyori made me promise I'd watch them in action. I suppose I'll think about that after I turn on tomorrow's broadcast."

At that, the muscles of Haru's mouth twitched into a crooked smile. She brought the glass to her lips, held a sip of Negroni, and closed her eyes as if savoring the bitter taste rolling over her tongue.

"Idols... ha. You're not wrong. Us or those guys—in the end we're all in the business of selling fantasies to the bastards on the other side of the screen. The second that lens starts turning, you have to smile even if you want to die, and act lovable even when your guts are turning inside out."

She shrugged one shoulder and sank deep into the back ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the chair. The white line of her collarbone, bared by the off-shoulder outfit, rose and fell thinly with her heavy sigh.

"Wait... Hina and Hiyori. Those two actually said that to you? Unbelievable. One's a possessive freak who sucks the life out of people, the other's a shut-in game junkie... and out there they work themselves half to death pretending to be the greatest heroes in the world."

Grumbling, she knocked back the rest of the red drink. She set the empty glass on the bar with a sharp clack and looked straight at me.

"Hey. Seriously... don't bother watching that stuff. Seeing Hina and Hiyori do their thing just gives you uselessly high standards. If you really want to see the Exchange Tournament..."

Haru, who had been speaking so boldly, suddenly froze. Whether it was the alcohol or the embarrassment, she whipped her reddening face aside and hurriedly shoved a biscuit from the plate into her mouth.

"No... forget it. Just give me another drink. Not a Negroni. This time something stronger... something that shuts my brain off completely."

I brushed my slightly flushed cheek with the back of my hand and looked down at the empty glass.

"All right. One Negroni is already plenty of heat for me. This round I'll only make yours, Haru."

From beneath the bar I took out a heavy bottle of Scotch whisky and a bottle of amaretto. It was a long way from the sweet, flashy cocktails magical girls usually asked for—a blunt, intense combination. But it was the choice that suited, better than anything, the rough and stubborn temperament hidden under the cheerleader uniform.

Clink. I filled a mixing glass with large ice and poured in the whisky and the amaretto. The two liquids tangled as they ran down the cold glass, spinning a deep golden vortex. A hard-alcohol combination meant to erase both thought and lingering attachment. Haru kept her eyes on the bar and quietly watched my hands work. Perhaps she had caught the intention behind that rough, unpolished drink; her lips trembled faintly, then pressed shut.

I poured the finished cocktail slowly into a rocks glass and carefully slid it toward her.

"Here you are. A classic—the Godfather. A drink made with that movie in mind, the one that left us the line about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer."

The dull sound of the glass meeting the table rang through the quiet sanctuary. The whisky's rough smoke and the amaretto's sweet almond mingled and spread thickly around the counter. For a long while Haru simply looked down at the glass. Then her slender fingers slowly traced the rim of the cold glass.

"Godfather...?"

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠name slipped low from between her lips. As if turning over that line—friends close, enemies closer—her eyes wavered, fixed on the golden liquid rippling in the glass.