~✩

     Chiaki wasn’t exactly a clumsy person, if anything she was actually pretty careful. (Much to the surprise of anyone who didn’t know her.)  But like all people, sometimes she slipped up. For example, today she had been playing an intense round of a rhythm game on her phone while walking after school through the halls.  She was about to beat her high score on the game…

    Her shoulders drooped slightly as she thought about this. Just a few seconds longer and she would’ve beat her personal record. Her phone had survived her tripping over a bag on her way out, thankfully. She’d just try again later. Maybe while waiting for dinner to get delivered.

   Although… She examined the scrape on her arm from the fall. It probably required some attention. Mostly getting it cleaned up, which is why she now found herself in front of the infirmary.  

   “… … … Excuse me,” Chiaki said, poking her head through the doorway curiously. “… … I fell and scraped my arm on my way out…”  

      There’s always tomorrow, he supposes.

      When a voice softly calls from the entrance, he’s almost surprised. It wasn’t that he minded a guest; it was the fact she was a familiar-- but unusual-- classmate around these parts that provided a blessed change of pace.

      “Chiaki! You’re so wounded you can’t make it home? Shall I carry you personally?”

      He smiles, demeanor light and amiable despite his tiredness. Exaggerations aside, he moves closer to see the injury in question and gently examines her arm, releasing his hold soon after determining the necessary care.

“It’s all right,” he responds, as despite the impact he wasn’t really harmed in any way–there was no need for grudges or the like. Besides what made the boy more curious than anything was the reason a bin was being rummaged through in the first place. He’s caught off-guard by the spontaneous question and flusters a little as he fumbles with words. “E-Er, yes, yes it is.”

      “I’m touched by your offer! Stumbling upon a kind soul at this hour is rare indeed!” His smile, at least, is the genuine article. “Not to worry though, I’ve already done all the searching I can. Besides that, you’re right! There are far better things to do.” 

      He leans over to grab the previous offending apple on the ground (littering is no good!) and throws it casually into the trash, stepping forward. There-- it’s all behind them.

Although the afternoon was but a mere few hours into its warm descent, the quaint tea room still had grown ever so bustling in the short hours the warm day had since provided. Tourists, locals and daily commuters passed the expanse of glass which kept the cool air apart from the shoulders of the indoor consumers, those being mostly the brunching types who found comfort in an afternoon fruit tea and a French pastry. 

Aside from the socialite who sat at his lonely table with nought but a book propped upon the cloth and a porcelain cup emitting a seductive, delicious waft of strawberry, the tea room also played host to a group of high-schoolers, a cluster of girls whose purses were ripe with fresh pocket money and their admirers who would club together in order to afford just one drink each. 

Persistence amused Shuu at least, thus he set down the book to observe as one lad more confident than the rest began trying his hand at some charismatic wooing. It had been something of a surprise when that roll of François had parted his lips, and even more of a shock when the object of such magnifique flirtation merely giggled and moved to sit with the rest of her friends. 

      What a shame! His hand floats to lay against his chest for a disheartened, theatrical touch, knowing well enough that he was still being watched through the corner of their eyes, most likely spoken of in the hush of their whispers. Though not entirely used to a subtle rejection, he’s at least acted on par with the reputation that tends to precede him, and so finds that nothing is truly wrong.

      It’s the voice calling in a tongue all too recognizable that strikes him, attention turning instantly to a male of borderline arrogant confidence. There’s a pause; a transition from bouncing enthusiasm to quiet observation. French, presumably well off-- it’s a familiar story, one that hits a little close, and he notes it with a minor dose of doubt. Should he know of this person? He might be overestimating this coincidence, or perhaps it’s merely a question he should save for Sakuya; regardless, he decides to aim for a name.

      “You wound me, monsieur!” A kind, careless nature returns as he steps toward the table, not yet inviting himself to sit. A little socializing never hurt anyone, and he thinks himself well-practiced, if nothing else.

Can you hear the song of the stars above?