Chapter Text
CHAPTER 4 - Vivienne Westwood
Nanami could swear even with amnesia that he had never stepped foot here before. But both Gojo and Hachi seemed right at home. Vivienne Westwood smelled faintly of vanilla, tobacco and rose. Racks of rebellious punk and historical Victorian clothing style as Gojo called it were there. The store attendant had appeared with champagne far too quickly, as if his supposed best friend's presence alone justified it.
“Drinking game time!” Gojo clapped his hands then sat down and accepted a flute. “Name things you love about Satoru Gojo!”
Nanami did not look up from his newspaper. He adjusted it slightly, as if shielding himself from the champagne.
“Everything,” Gojo answered himself anyway, clapping with the flute.
“Please keep that attitude going,” Nanami said flatly. “Hachi needs that level of idiocy right now. Minus the drinking.”
Hachi was already twirling between racks with a pink sundress, a white corseted dress swinging from her hands. “I loveee that you let me shop with an unlimited budget, Gojo-kun!” she said, stopping just long enough to smile at them. “Nanamin always has budgets. And reasons.”
Nanami folded his paper. Unlimited budgets, he thought, were how people ended up asking for loans. That was probably why Nanami made a generous investment in Satoru Gojo’s company. It was in a way, a loan. Maybe. Just a wild guess, since amnesia took the ability for him to be assured in this analysis. He knew nothing of the man other than he owned a capital firm and a building in the middle of Ginza.
“Hachi, please,” Gojo laughed and started day-drinking, “This is nothing! We have all day. This is just the beginning of our shopping day~”
Nanami was sure that he did not share the same mindset as Gojo but he trusted the man, even dared to say… have faith in the man. But respect? Well, maybe not.
“Look at this one!” Hachi squealed as grabbed another dress, “Don’t you think it’s maternity friendly?”
That woman looked… happier. If shopping was indeed her hobby, Nanami might have to partake in this scenario often. He took a sip of his water instead and returned to the news, deciding that this was, at the very least, a form of therapy. He had sessions, it helped him with the amnesia. Hachi on the other hand had downright refused therapy. She said she didn’t need one.
Nanami noticed that his fiancé’s hand lingered longer than she meant to on a particular dress, her pink diamond engagement ring even brushed over it as she hummed. It was a cream-colored dress, a little oversized, a little too long. Maybe made for a person as tall as Gojo, not her.
She sighed, half to herself. “Should I get a wedding dress from Vivienne Westwood?”
His best friend, who had been attempting to balance two champagne flutes on his fingers, nearly dropped both as he jumped.
“Wait. That’s it! Look, I know you postponed the wedding, but we can all fly to London. We’ll go to the Vivienne Westwood atelier. Get your sketches there, your measurements. The whole thing.”
Nanami lowered his newspaper. This sounded expensive. Dangerously expensive.
“Really?!” Hachi’s eyes widened instantly. “Not this dress but a custom made one? In a one-and-only wedding dress Vivienne Westwood made for me?!”
Gojo grinned, already nodding as he took another sip of his champagne. “What do you mean, Hachi? The dresses here are all ready-to-wear.” He waved a glass vaguely toward the racks. “Brides always get custom-made. Or couture. That’s just common sense.”
Hachi blinked, then laughed, “You say that like everyone does that.”
Gojo tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Don’t they?”
“They… They do!” His fiancé suddenly nodded as if she thought Nanami would believe that.
“Right?” Another champagne sip.
“So, I will also get one! Right Nanamin?” Hachi grinned like she was planning something mischievous.
Nanami sighed. He could already see the invoices. If he was truly a conglomerate heir, he wondered why he did think about such things. But numbers kept popping up in his brain. He counted. But then stopped as he heard Hachi squealing and jumping on her heels. Yeah. Supposedly some things were worth the inevitable.
“Let’s consult with your doctor first,” Nanami said finally.
Somehow he knew he could afford it, he just needed to budget everything properly. The wedding has vaguely been planned, although their planner still had to wait for them to actually decide a couple of things. Not to mention the Komatsus. Her parents hadn’t even met his parents. Hell, he hadn’t even met his. If his parents were so busy to a point they didn’t return home after knowing their own son had amnesia, he didn’t even know what his relationship was like with them. They seemed nice though over the phone, and called him every one or two days from LA.
Hachi hummed again, her eyes drifting to a glass display near the counter. “A lighter for Nana! I was thinking of getting her one, she’ll definitely be my maid of honor.”
Gojo, lit up immediately. “Sure! Great choice!”
“A lighter?” Nanami repeated, mostly to confirm he’d heard correctly.
“For candles,” Hachi said quickly. “And… cigarettes.”
“Obviously,” Gojo nodded, “Not for arson!”
By the time she finished picking everything out, the counter looked less like a register and more like a Christmas tree—boxes stacked neatly, paper bags, greeting cards. Well, it was a lot.
The attendant smiled at her. “May I have the name for the order, ma’am? You’ll be added to our VIP list.”
“Nanami,” she said brightly. “I’ll be a Nanami soon.”
The attendant nodded, already typing. “I understand. Nanami’s Vivienne Westwood account, yes?”
“Yes!”
"London?” Utahime repeated, still trying to process the phone call as she sat perfectly straight with a formal red kimono across from her parents. She lowered her voice, turning slightly away from the table. “What do you mean London, Gojo?”
The kaiseki lunch had to be disturbed by her childhood friend. Of course. Even the seasonal otoro sashimi was distributed under the soft light. Her mother paused mid-lift with her chopsticks. Her father cleared his throat, clearly pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
They couldn’t hear him though. Gojo’s voice crackled through the receiver.
“No,” she hissed, gripping the phone tighter. “I’m not going.”
She could feel her parents gasping.
“I have a calling now,” she continued under her breath. “Responsibilities Gojo. Look—I have to go.”
She bowed her head slightly toward her parents. “Sorry about that.”
The line went dead before Gojo could respond.
Her mother finally set her chopsticks down. “Was that… Satoru Gojo again?”
Utahime exhaled slowly, smoothing her red sleeves. “Yes.”
Her father nodded, as if that explained everything.
“You know, both our families had arranged your marriage at some point,” Her mother sighed, “It was a pity you refused, our companies would benefit greatly.”
The soup was excellent. Sophisticated, red miso paste, well-balanced—much like this conversation was not.
“Look, he’s not even a good heir,” Utahime sipped her miso soup and continued, “He was so adamant on not being a tool for his family that he started his own business without their help.”
“But dear—” her mother began.
“I know,” Utahime cut in, already nodding. “I know his parents backed him up anyway. They always do. That’s the point.” She set the bowl down gently. “He’s never going to mature enough to realize that nepotism is the foundation of families like ours.”
Her father sighed, folding his napkin. “Is that why you chose to be a priest? To prove to yourself you’re not a tool in this family too? You thought shrines had no nepotism?”
Utahime’s smile sharpened. “Father, I had a spiritual calling. You didn’t need to undermine it like that.”
“Iori,” her mother said softly, “your father and I want you to take your role in this family seriously. The Utahime name is yours. You should accept it—and marry well for us.”
“I’m a priest,” Iori replied, for what felt like the thousandth time.
“Priests marry all the time,” her father said mildly.
She stared at him. “Why do you sound exactly like Gojo?”
Utahime closed her eyes for a second. Just one second of calm until her mother shattered it for her.
“We can arrange more omiai,” her mother said. “Or we can simply accept that Satoru Gojo is the most likely candidate. Our families already get along, and surely you’re comfortable with him.”
“We don’t love each other.”
Her mother smiled patiently. “Marriage doesn’t require love, dear. It requires agreement between both parties. Your father and I agreed on convenience. Perhaps you and Gojo could agree on something too.”
“I don’t—”
“Iori,” her father interrupted firmly, “you’re thirty. We’ve waited long enough.”
Utahime looked down at the untouched next course being placed before her—something creamy, it had sea urchin in it… something chosen for her without asking.
“Go to London with him,” Her mother added, “I’m telling the shrine you’re taking a leave.”
Dr. Nakazato's office smelled like wet wipes and vomit, which Hachi’s brain had recently decided probably came from her pink dress. The walls were a calming beige that did absolutely nothing to calm her down. Hachi’s Manolo Blahnik kept tapping non-stop on the cold hospital floor.
Seven weeks and flying to London for a dress—the dress. Would the doctor say yes? Maybe. Hachi had never been pregnant before.
Then her throat felt bitter.
Oh. That again.
She swallowed and stayed still.
Nanami stood near the wall, reading a book about prenatal exercises with the same expression he used when reviewing charts for his stocks. Seriously. He looked genuinely offended by something on the list. She couldn’t even tell which one set him off. Especially since the last one he’d complained about was, honestly, understandable. Hachi also didn’t want to tie a red string around her wrist or avoid making changes to her hair for months. First of all the red string would clash with her Vivienne Westwood bracelet and her brown—almost pink—hair needed constant care and coloring.
Being pregnant did not mean she had to look ugly.
Nana Komatsu stood by that. A future Nana Nanami or not, some things were non-negotiable.
Before long, the nurse had already weighed her, taken her blood pressure and all.
“So,” Dr. Nakazato said, correcting her glasses. “Seven weeks along. How are you feeling? Any complaints?”
“Many,” Hachi said immediately. “Constant. Especially in the mornings. And when I smell something musky or… strong.”
Nanami nodded behind his book. “Should I change my cologne?”
“No,” Hachi answered immediately. “I like your cologne.”
The elderly doctor smiled at them. “That’s very sweet. Any other complaints?”
Hachi hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “I cried yesterday because I remembered my ex.”
Nanami glanced at her this time and put down his book. “She clarified afterward that it wasn’t sadness, just confusion.”
“Was that normal doctor? I just think about them,” she said. “Randomly. Then I hated them, then I hated myself, then I cried because I wanted to call them at 3 AM!”
“That’s also normal,” Dr. Nakazato said, still smiling. “Fatigue?”
Right. Pregnancy fatigue, Nana Komatsu had learned, was not just nausea and tiredness. It was a specific kind of exhaustion.
“I feel like I might fall,” she said.
She had secretly hoped it would be falling in love with Nanami because it would solve all of her problems. But instead it was the floor. Luckily her fiancè always caught her just in time.
The doctor looked up. “Dizziness?”
“Yes,” Hachi said. “But only a little.”
“Any ringing in your ears?”
“A little.”
“Black spots?”
“Nope.”
Suddenly, Nanami’s hand was already at Nana’s elbow. He was already sitting beside her and kept her stable, as if she was swinging again and he had to keep her safe in his arms.
The doctor nodded. “That’s common at seven weeks. Blood pressure drops. But your heart rate looks good.”
“Really?” Hachi laughed. “Because my heart feels like it’s been running a marathon… emotionally.”
Nanami handed her a bottle of water. As usual, it was already open. Straw already in. It was room temperature. If there was a glass, he would already prepare warm water.
Dr. Nakazato typed and said out loud. “Everything looks normal at this stage.”
Normal.
She perked up immediately. “Can I fly to London? We’re also thinking of flying to LA to meet his parents at the end of this week. My parents are coming too."
Nanami added. “But they could also meet in Tokyo if it's not possible."
“Yes,” she said. “But LA and London is better for an emergency. Possibly several emergencies.”
And an unnecessary number of fittings. Because the emergencies were made out of silk and THE Vivienne Westwood’s magic.
The doctor considered this. “Flying at seven or eight weeks is generally fine, assuming no complications. Stay hydrated, use compression socks—”
“I already bought three pairs,” Nanami said.
Hachi stared at him. “When?”
“When you were busy asking Gojo which Chanel bags matched your outfit.”
“Right, I was very confused and distracted there.” She protested. “I much preferred how calm I was when we finally reached Dior.”
The doctor finished typing and turned to them. “If you’re travelling, I’m reachable by phone. Also, we’ll schedule your next appointment when you return.”
Dr. Nakazato paused, then glanced between us. “Any questions?”
“So,” she eyed her doctor again. “London and LA are okay?”
The doctor nodded.
Hachi swallowed another wave of nausea, but she was already grinning. “That’s the best thing out of this pregnancy. Because I really want that dress and I didn’t even know about it at six weeks.”
“I know,” Nanami said dryly. “Because the child does not care.”
“I care,” Hachi smiled anyway.
“That’s good,” her fiancè almost smiled back, “At least you’re smiling again.”