CHESTNUT .ᐟ

― HELLO!

☁︎⋅ hi i'm chestnut! i go by they/them and if you happen to know me, no you don't! I post about original characters art/stories that are either by me or my friends~

☁︎⋅ this blog is for 18+ folks only, mdni please. otherwise you're automatically blocked!

☁︎⋅ I am no writer, so don't expect quality content. all posts are for me and my friend's personal viewing & enjoyment~

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― MASTERLIST

☁︎⋅ ZAROTH/SELKIE fics

the auction - one, two, three, four, five, six , seven, eight , nine, ten, bonus, extra the shadow curve (moto racer au) - one,

oneshots

brief encounter mouse in the closet w/ PYnCA pages of little things w/ the gang you were always in it continuation of "pages of little things" scrap book deluxe bonus of "paged of little things"

drabbles

helmet customization - w/ PYnCA

☁︎⋅ TOUMA/MONO school drabbles

the one time mole count overheard sick day the unlabelled song hands crush library window excuses caught staring the other tutor

fics

notes: hi its me again... Ren and Mono are the same person, yes.

It was way past bedtime, the clock on the wall read 2:03AM. Touma's room was dim except for the soft glow of a lamp sitting on the low table where their notebooks were spread out. Empty mugs of instant coffee crowded by the floor, the air smelled faintly of rain and cheap ramen.

Ren sat cross-legged across from him, a neat stack of reference sheets balanced on his knees. Touma was hunched over the table, cheek pressed against his arm, pen moving lazily across the same paragraph for the past ten minutes.

"You're not absorbing anything," Ren muttered, watching him underline the same sentence three times, over and over again.

"I'm absorbing despair," Touma said, voice muffled by his sleeve which followed up with a yawn.

Ren flipped a page. "What's the capital of France?"

"Sleep."

"Incorrect."

"Welp, I tried."

Ren sighed, scooting closer. He set the book down in front of Touma. "Focus. Just ten more minutes."

Touma groaned dramatically but sat up. HIs hair stuck out at odd angles. "If I die from exhaustion... tell mama I fought bravely."

"I'll tell her you refused to memorize basic geography."

"That's cruel..."

Ren leaned down a little, tone softening. "You'll be fine. You've been trying and that's enough."

Touma blinked up at him, a little dazed from the sudden tenderness. "You actually think I'll pass?"

Ren hesitated. Then, quietly, "Somewhat."

Touma's grin returned, sleepy but warm. "Careful, Ren. That almost sounded like affection."

"Go back to studying," Ren said, but his voice lacked bite.

By the time the clock hit 2:55, Touma's head had dropped onto his folded arms. Ren looked over, ready to scold him but stopped when he saw Touma fast asleep, pen still between his fingers.

He reached out, hesitated, then gently pushed Touma's hair out of his face. "Dumbass," he murmured, "you'll drool on your notes."

He closed the textbook quietly, turned off the lamp. Pulling a blanket over his shoulders as he whispered, "Goodnight, Touma."

note: guess whose back, back again with new brainrot and a pair.....

Lucas was hunched over his notebook, half-listening to the professor lecturing about case studies, when his phone buzzer. He snuck a glance under the desk.

Tsuna mi amor💕 [7:12PM]: got new socks! ( ≧∀≦)ノ 🖤🖤

Attached was a picture. Not just any socks. Thigh highs, black, hugging just enough skin to make Lucas' brain to stop working for a full five seconds.

He choked on his breath, nearly snapping his pencil in half, except his spidey strength decided to go the extra mile and snap. Well, there goes the pencil splitting cleanly into two with a sharp crack.

Every head in his row turned. "Uh..." Lucas sat straight, broken pencil halves hidden in his fist. "Dropped it... haha..."

The professor kept talking, thankfully uninterested. But Lucas' pulse was in his ears, he risked another glance at his phone.

Asuna hadn't even typed anything flirty. No smug emojis, no teasing captions. Just, got new socks. Like it was a normal update.

Lucas buried his face in his hand. He could see Asuna's deadpan expression behind the text, completely unaware of the chaos he'd just unleashed in his partner's pants.

Lucas typed back furiously under the desk:

💀💀💀 [7:30PM]: DID YOU FORGET IM IN CLASS?????????

💀💀💀 [7:30PM]: YOU CAN'T JUST DROP THAT ON ME!!!

💀💀💀 [7:31PM]: I BROKE A PENCILLLLL 😭😭😭😭

Three dots appeared, and then:

Tsuna mi amor💕 [7:38PM]: ????

Tsuna mi amor💕 [7:38PM]: oh lol. gomenasorry. forgot. but over socks?? wwww (-ω- ?)

Lucas pouted and groaned quietly, thunking his forehead against his desk. His classmates giving him a weird look. Meanwhile, Asuna, curled up in his floral sheets with Kuromi at his side, scrolled absently through his phone entirely unbothered.

Lucien had learned to recognize regulars.

The ones who came with purpose. The ones who came out of habit. The ones who didn’t know why they kept showing up—only that it felt better than being somewhere else.

He didn't mind it. Not really.

But this one… Seth. He was different.

He always came in like the shop had challenged him to a fistfight. Always loud in the doorway, shoving his helmet under one arm, kicking off his boots like the floor offended him. Always too much for a place so quiet.

And yet, Lucien noticed—he always left gentler.

A little quieter around the eyes.

So when he walked in again today—fifth time in eight days—Lucien was already brewing a second cup of tea behind the counter. Jasmine, this time. Calming. Clear-headed.

"Back for another spiritual cleansing?" Lucien asked without looking up.

"Hey, last time your sage bouquet totally worked," came the answer. "No unexplained engine stalling all week."

Lucien glanced over. Seth looked as chaotic as usual—loose black hoodie, grease-smeared jeans, and something smudged across his cheekbone that looked suspiciously like charcoal.

"Wow," Lucien said. "You've reversed physics."

"No, I reversed my karma. There’s a difference."

He placed a crumpled credit chit on the counter with exaggerated flourish, like he was buying contraband in some spy film. Lucien didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth might have twitched.

Just then, the shop door jingled again.

"Heeeeey," came a familiar voice. Cosmostella stepped inside, twirling a candy stick between her fingers. "You didn’t wait for me, grease boy."

"I got excited," Seth replied. "There were discounts."

"That's not an excuse, that’s a you problem."

She shoved him with her elbow, and he nearly crashed into the marigold display. Lucien watched the whole exchange with a slight shift in his posture, something unreadable sharpening behind his eyes.

They looked... easy together.

Cosmostella laughed loudly. Seth laughed louder. He let her steal his lollipop. She swatted at his arm.

Lucien's hand paused on the tea tray. He lowered it slowly. Unspoken thoughts crowded behind his ribs like too many petals in too small a vase.

"I'll be in the back," he said, too smoothly. "You can pick what you want."

He didn’t wait for a reply.

S blinked as Lucien disappeared behind a curtain of hanging sweetgrass. "...Did I do something?"

"Mm?" Cosmostella said, distracted by a shelf of thornless roses.

“He looked… weird. Like I said something wrong.”

Cosmostella glanced up. Stared at him for a long second. Then her expression flattened.

"Selkie. Babe. You've been here every day this week.” "For flower vibes," Seth said, defensively.

"You sure it’s not for tall, quiet, emotionally devastating tea men?"

Seth turned red instantly. "He’s married," he muttered.

"You asked?" "No, he wears a ring," he said. "Left hand. Silver band."

"You noticed," she said.

"Shut up," he mumbled, grabbing a cluster of dusty purple tulips and pretending they were the most fascinating thing in the galaxy.

"He's like… a polite ghost. Who judges you with his eyes," Seth added, quieter.

"You’re obsessed." "I'm not—!" "You noticed the ring."

He shoved the bouquet at her and mumbled something about checking the weather before she could say another word.

In the backroom, Lucien moved slower than usual.

He arranged tea cups he didn't need. Moved pots from one shelf to another, then back again. He told himself it was just the humidity weighing him down.

But really… it was the way Seth had smiled at her. The way Cosmostella had leaned in, comfortable and close.

They looked good together.

Lucien turned his hand subtly. Studied the ring on his finger. It slid too easily now. He pressed it down tighter.

Later that night, after the lights were off and the city outside buzzed with hovercars and distant laughter, Lucien swept the counter.

He found a small square of yellow paper, wedged under the cash tray. It was messy handwriting—sharp, uneven strokes.

Seth’s handwriting.

"I know these aren’t spicy, but they reminded me of you anyway."

Lucien stared at the note for a long time. Longer than he meant to.

Then folded it once, carefully. Slipped it into the bottom drawer, beneath the ledger. Somewhere soft.

He didn’t throw it away.

———————————

The next day, Seth showed up again.

He claimed he was "just passing by," but he was wearing the same jacket as yesterday and had clearly jogged three blocks in the heat. Lucien offered him chilled oolong without a word.

"...Thanks," Seth mumbled, panting. "Didn't think you were open this early."

"You're here before the incense stalls," Lucien said. "That's impressive."

"I'm spiritually ambitious."

Lucien quirked an eyebrow. He was about to say something—anything, maybe this time—but a blur of white and pink burst from the back room.

"LUUUU!!" chirped a small voice. "I finished watering your sad plant!"

Seth turned just in time to see a girl—small, mouse-like, dressed in an oversized sweater and holding a miniature spray bottle—skid into view and dramatically present a very damp bonsai.

Lucien sighed quietly.

"That's not sad. It’s just slow."

"Slow is sad," Pynca declared.

Seth blinked.

He swore she had almost similar features to Lucien.

She clung to his pant leg like a vine.

And when he reached down to ruffle her hair, she beamed like it was the best part of her entire day.

Seth's mouth opened. Then closed.

"...She's yours?" he asked quietly.

Lucien blinked.

Pynca had already spun off toward the back room again, dragging a watering can half her size and singing a song about "hydration justice."

"She's…" Lucien paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "She's a disaster."

Which, to Seth, sounded like the kind of thing only a very tired parent would say.

"She's cute," Seth mumbled, cheeks pink. "Didn't know you had a kid."

Lucien didn’t correct him.

———————————

Later that evening, Seth would tell Cosmostella everything.

"It all makes sense now," he groaned. "The wedding ring. The way he never flirts back. The kid."

Cosmostella stared at him like he'd dropped a wrench on his foot.

"...You thought Pynca was his kid?"

"She calls him ‘Lu.’ She waters his plants. She lives there!"

"She also lives in a drawer at Quark's lab and once tried to heal a toaster with a band-aid."

"...So not his kid?"

"Selkie, babe, she barely knows how to spell."

"Oh," Seth said, voice faint.

Then...

The first time Seth walked into the flower shop, it was raining.

Not the clean kind—the kind that slicked neon signs into streaks and stung your knuckles if you didn't move fast enough. He didn't know what possessed him to stop. His hoodie was soaked through, the bottom of his pants stained with oil and gutter water. And yet—there he stood, at the entrance of a quiet shop wedged between a closed fish market and an antique repair joint.

The bell above the door jingled when he pushed in. He didn't expect the warmth. Not just from the heater tucked beneath the front counter—but from the way the whole shop smelled like safety. Osmanthus, a hint of chrysanthemum, maybe even... mint?

A man looked up from behind a row of pale pink lilies.

Tall. Hair parted nicely, sleeves rolled. His movements were slow, deliberate. As if rushing didn’t exist in his world.

Seth's brain short-circuited. "...Uh. Got anything that screams 'I’m not emotionally repressed, I just like flowers'?"

A beat. The man blinked once. Then said, voice steady:

"Peonies. They're loud and need attention."

Seth grinned. He didn't know why.

"Perfect."

———————————

That was how it started.

He came back the next day. Said he needed "protection" for his workshop from bad bike luck.

"You believe in that kind of thing?" "I believe in flowers that punch bad vibes in the face."

The day after that? He came for a "gift" for Cosmostella.

Which turned out to be a single marigold.

"For friendship," he claimed. Lucien just nodded. "Right."

What Seth didn't know was that Lucien had already noticed two things:

The ring on his own finger made the boy glance away the moment their eyes met.

And Seth... always left without telling who the flowers were really for.

———————————

The next time Seth came in, it wasn't raining.

It was just humid as hell, like the city itself was sweating neon. His hair stuck to his temple under the hoodie, and he had black smudges on his jaw from working under the hoverbike lift.

Lucien didn't comment on it.

He simply asked, in that slow, unreadable voice, "Another gift today?"

Seth leaned against the counter, trying not to look like he was catching his breath just from seeing the guy.

"Yeah. For, uh…" "For Cosmostella," Lucien finished for him. "Riiight." Seth scratched his nose. "Y'know. She likes… spicy-looking flowers."

Lucien raised a brow. Then turned to the wall of hanging bundles. His fingers moved like a prayer through the dried options.

"She must have very complex taste," Lucien said eventually. "Huh?" "Third time you’ve come in for her. Third time you've chosen something entirely different."

Seth opened his mouth. Closed it. Smiled crookedly.

"She's unpredictable," he said.

Lucien didn't reply. He just wrapped the bouquet—one hand moving to secure the string with an unnecessary tenderness.

When he passed it over the counter, their fingers brushed. Seth swallowed. Pretended he didn't flinch. Lucien didn't react at all.

"This one's on the house," Lucien murmured. "Huh?" "It was a leftover bundle. Wilting soon."

Seth looked down. The paper wrap was soft brown. Inside, it was a modest cluster of honeysuckle and faded lavender, tied with a thread of gold.

Not showy. Not meant to last. But it felt personal.

"Thanks," he said, softer than he intended.

Lucien just nodded. Already moving to his next task.

Outside, Seth lingered by the door before stepping into the humidity again. He looked down at the bundle in his hands.

There was a note tucked in between the stems. Barely noticeable. No signature. It was just...

"honey for the bitter days. rest well."

Seth stood there for a long time, forgetting he had grease in his hair and a cracked rear axle waiting back in the shop.

He turned back once. Lucien was facing away—watering something pale and fragile on the top shelf.

Seth told himself he was just tired. That it didn't mean anything.

Zaroth was elbow-deep in engine grease when the garage door creaked open. Figured it was the delivery drone, or the cat, or Selkie coming back from another late-night joyride with new scratches and a dumber story. The same pattern, different evening.

Then the footsteps came. Familiar rhythm. Lighter than usual. He glanced up—and froze.

Selkie was framed in the doorway, hair cropped shorter than ever—not even grazing his shoulders. A soft mess of uneven strands, windswept and reckless. One side curled a little more. The back was jagged. The fringe still framed his face.

He looked five seconds from a "Well?" and Zaroth looked five seconds from a full system reboot.

"... You cut your hair," Zaroth said, voice flat.

Selkie dropped his gloves on the table. "Yeah. Someone said it was aerodynamic drag. And a hazard. And flirting with my ass. I figured I’d rather live than get throttled by my own hair at 120kph."

Z blinked once. Slowly.

Selkie raised a brow. "Bad?"

"... No."

"Ugly?"

"No."

"Say something besides 'no.'"

Zaroth hesitated. Then looked away.

"It suits you."

Selkie tilted his head. "That sounded dangerously close to a compliment."

Zaroth didn't answer. Just picked up a tool and started tightening a bolt that didn’t need tightening.

"You're not allowed to be fast and cute, you know."

Zaroth mumbled as the wrench slipped. But his shadow twitched. Selkie grinned, leaning on the table like he’d won.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm not."

"You're sulking."

Zaroth dropped the wrench. Turned. Walked right up to him. Dead serious. Close enough to feel the engine heat still clinging to Selkie's jacket.

"Next time," Zaroth said lowly, "let me fix the back. It’s uneven."

S blinked.

"... You offering to cut my hair?"

"No. I'm telling you to stop using boxcutter scissors in the mirror."

Selkie grinned. "What if I like it uneven?"

"Then you like living wrong."

———————————

Later that night, Zaroth stood behind him in the mirror. Quietly. Carefully. Combing through the ragged ends with gloved fingers.

Selkie sat still, a towel draped around his shoulders like a cape. Trying very hard not to laugh.

"You've killed people before, right?"

"Many."

"Why do you look more stressed cutting hair?"

Selkie's bike sputtered out mid-turn. Again. The sound was almost comical—phhhhpft-khkkhkkhh!—before the engine gave one last wheeze and died.

He hit the dirt in a flailing arc, limbs flying, hair whipping—

WHAP!

Right into his own face. He groaned. Smoke curled from the core housing behind him as he flopped dramatically onto the track like a wounded drama major.

"I think I tasted gravity."

Zaroth’s shadow loomed over him, the desert sun casting him like some pissed-off deity of mechanical precision.

"You took that curve like it insulted your mother."

Selkie didn't even lift his head. Just rolled onto his back, hair now fully spread like a tragic cape in the dust.

"It did! It whispered 'sloppy posture' and then physics punched me."

Zaroth didn't laugh. Didn't even smirk. He just sighed and tossed Selkie a bottle of water like it was a holy relic. Then crouched beside the bike and pointed at the rear tire with a grimace.

"Your grip's wrong. Your lean's off. And your rear suspension is a joke."

"It's a custom joke, thank you."

"It's an obituary waiting to happen."

They argued like that for the next half-hour—Zaroth pointing like he was ready to fight God with a tire gauge, Selkie defending his janky deathtrap with increasingly theatrical logic. At some point, Selkie's hair got stuck in the visor straps again.

Zaroth stopped mid-lecture. Just stared.

Then pointed at the cascade of white luscious strands trailing halfway to the ground.

"Your bike isn’t the only thing with aerodynamic drag."

Selkie looked up, "Huh?"

"Your mop. Cut it. Braid it. I don't care. If it's long enough to flirt with your ass and strangle you mid-drift, it's a problem."

"You noticed it touches my ass?"

Zaroth stood. Immediately. Turned. Walked five steps away like it would help.

"I notice hazards. That's all."

Selkie, still on the ground, grinned dangerously.

"Hazard? Babe, I'm a feature."

Zaroth threw the tire gauge at him. He dodged.

Mostly.

When Selkie got back on the track—bruised, dusty, and still with a mouthful of hair—he took that curve again.

But this time? He leaned deeper. Let the bike skim the edge. Let the roar of the engine answer instead of the panic.

He nailed it.

Zaroth didn't say anything. But across the training field, his shadow flinched toward the corner—like it wanted to follow.

Just once.

Just enough.

"You're chasing a myth," the clerk warned.

Selkie smirked, visor pulled halfway up, chewing on a dried energy bar. "Then why'd you flinch when I said his name?"

The mechanic behind the counter scowled, muttering something about damn kids with death wishes, but Selkie just grinned like a man sprinting toward a cliff because he liked the fall.

Eventually, the clerk gave up trying to scare him off and finally gave him the lead. A location. Coordinates scrawled on oil-smudged paper.

"Off-grid. No active track. No sponsors. Just a garage and a ghost. Don't say I didn't warn ya."

Selkie took it with a mock salute, "I live off bad decisions."

———————————

It was sunset when he finally rolled up. Dust caked his boots. His hoverbike purred beneath him like a creature just barely tamed. The horizon bled orange into the dunes, nestled between two fractured ridged stood the place.

A half-sunken garage swallowed by sand and time. Rust on every bolt. Silence in every crevice.

But etched into the gate in barely-legible weld-scars was a single initial,

"V."

He stepped inside. It was dark and humming, low and alive. Under the dust, sleek black bikes under tarps. Trophy cases cracked with age. Rows of helmets like ancient relics. And there—lit only by flickering arc sparks—stood a figure bent over a custom engine.

Longer hair now. Rough. Burned at the ends. His silhouette cut from obsidian and lighting.

Zaroth turned. His eyes still burned. "... You're not lost."

Selkie grinned, all teeth and adrenaline. Like he already knew the outcome. "Nope. I found you on purpose."

Zaroth's grp didn't loosen on the wrench. He sighed, "Go away."

"I need a mentor."

"Not interested."

"I'll crash without one."

"Good."

Selkie didn't back down. He never did.

"I know who you are. What you were. I watched every race. Built my rig from your specs. I know your cornering angle better than I know my own pulse."

Zaroth paused, just for a second. "... And?"

"Teach me."

Silence.

The kind that threatened to echo. Then Zaroth turned back to his work.

"You'll crash anyway."

Selkie tilted his head, grin crooked. "Then teach me how to crash better."

Zaroth didn’t smile. But something in his stance shifted. The smallest twitch at the edge of his mouth.

———————————

The first time Zaroth said no, it was a stare that could've silenced thunder.

"I don't race anymore."

The second time, he hurled a rag at a pile of parts without even looking up.

"I don't teach."

The third time, it was 3am, and Selkie had alphabetized every bolt, wrench, and coil on the man's worktable. By type. With labels.

"You have three seconds before I staple your kneecaps."

And yet. Selkie came back.

Every. Single. Day.

Sometimes he just sat on an overturned crate, tossing tools in the air like a bored street rat, narrating every illegal circuit he'd run that month. Sometimes he watched Zaroth work without saying a word. Once, he brought a cat. Just left it there like an offering.

Zaroth pretended not to notice. But the cat stayed. And so did Selkie.

———————————

One night, after a storm cracked across the dunes and blacked out the local grid, Zaroth returned to the garage, soaked to the bone—only to find Selkie already inside.

Mud on his boots. Blood on his knuckles. A cracked helmet in his lap and a look in his eyes that said he hadn’t blinked in hours.

"They said no one could drift the glass-edge turn," Selkie said quietly. "But I almost had it. Almost."

Zaroth didn't move. He stood in the doorway, shadow curling at his feet like a dog raised for war.

Selkie didn’t look up. "You gonna keep saying no?" he asked, voice thinner now. "Or are you just scared I’ll be better?"

That did it.

Zaroth moved. Three strides and he was in front of him, grabbing the collar of Selkie's jacket and yanking him up to eye level. Sparks jumped from the live core behind them. Every hair on Selkie’s arms stood up.

"You think racing is just going fast until the wind likes you back? You think I disappeared because I got bored?"

Selkie held his gaze. Wild-eyed. Stupid. Stubborn.

"No. I think you disappeared because you're scared of what happens when someone actually sees you."

That silence? It was volcanic.

Then Zaroth dropped him. Turned away.

"Fix your helmet. And your posture. Your spine's pathetic."

Selkie blinked. Still breathless. "Wait—was that... a critique?"

Zaroth didn't answer.

Just tossed a small data-chip over his shoulder. Selkie caught it. The casing shimmered—encrypted maps, tuning logs, telemetry from long-lost races. Private data.

Stuff no one had seen in years.

"... So that's a yes??"

"That’s a conditional if you stop talking for the next hour."

———————————

That night, Selkie didn’t stop smiling. Not even once.

Even when he curled up on the garage cot, helmet still cracked beside him, engine parts humming in the next room, and a shadow leaning over a desk just past the light—

Working.

Tuning.

Pynca had declared it before breakfast.

"Today is scrapbook day. No one escapes. I have goals."

She stood in the middle of the penthouse in a frilly apron, tiny paper crown on her head, wielding a glitter glue stick like a royal decree.

Cosmostella was already on the floor, surrounded by gel pens and sticker sheets labeled "emotional variety pack."

Selkie sat reluctantly at the table, sleeves rolled up, a stack of printed photos in front of him. "Do I have to cut them out myself?"

"Yes!" Pynca chirped. "We are a handmade family."

Zaroth stood nearby in casualwear. Regular black tee and sweatpants, arms crossed. He had regret in his eyes and a sealed velvet pouch in his pocket. Quark had noped out two hours ago.

———————————

Midway through the chaos, Pynca sat crisscrossed on the carpet, flipping through "Vol. 1" for reference. She paused, holding up the original with pride.

"It needs sparkles! It needs drama!"

"You are drama," Cosmostella muttered, placing a rhinestone on Selkie's forehead.

"Flattery accepted," Pynca nodded, then turned to Zaroth. "Do we have any shiny shiny?"

Zaroth hesitated. Then silently reached into his pocket. He placed the small velvet pouch onto the table with a heavy, reluctant thump.

Pynca blinked. Untied it.

Inside, tiny cut gemstones. Actual sapphires. Small emeralds. Crystals, polished and clear. A few shimmered faintly in the light, like they had residual energy humming inside them.

"These aren't rhinestones," Selkie muttered.

"They’re not." Zaroth said simply.

"Did you just... donate actual valuables to a scrapbook?"

Zaroth shrugged one shoulder, eyes flicking to Pynca. "She said it was important."

Pynca gasped like he'd just handed her the moon. "These are the best sparkles I've ever received. Ever. In all my cycles!"

She immediately began gluing sapphires to the "Zaroth" tab in Volume 2.

Cosmostella wheezed. "You just became the most emotionally supported war crime."

Zaroth grunted. "I don't know what that means."

———————————

Hours passed. Glitter dusted every surface. Selkie had three bandaids on his fingers. Cosmostella was now in charge of captions. Zaroth was pretending he wasn't triple-checking the alignment of every gemstone.

At one point, Pynca declared, "This one will be called Zaroth Sparkles Sometimes, And That’s Okay!"

The hotel room was quiet—just the hum of the aircon and citylights bleeding through the curtains.

Mono sat on the floor, back to the bed, hair damp from the shower. His hoodie sleeves covered his hands, and his good eye flicked between the glowing numbers on the clock and the faint reflection of himself in the darkened glass.

Touma joined him without a word, sliding down beside him with two cups of warm tea. Mono didn’t reach for his.

Touma watched him for a while. The soft curve of his shoulders. The silence he wrapped himself in.

"...You okay?" he asked quietly.

Mono shrugged.

Long pause.

Then Touma said it—gently, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right:

"Ren."

Mono stilled. Completely.

Touma didn’t push. He just let the name hang there, warm and real between them. Not for the fans. Not for the stage. Just for him.

Mono looked down, hoodie sleeves twitching.

"... Haven't heard that in a while," he mumbled.

Touma's voice was soft. "Do you want me to stop?"

Mono shook his head. "No. It's … okay. You can."

A beat.

"It sounds different when you say it."

Touma smiled, just a little. "It's you. All of you. Before everything else."

Mono exhaled, long and slow, like the weight of his own name had just been given back to him. And when he finally leaned his head on Touma's shoulder, the tea between them went untouched.

[GROUP CHAT] AFAMACWIAK (A fashionista, a mouse and a cat walked into a Konbini)

Mono: Have I told you guys that there's this kid. Loud. Clumsy. Keeps stealing my snacks. Probably gonna give me a migraine. Saeki: Sounds like a walking hazard. Are u sure u want him around...? (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

Mikan: If he can survive your glare, maybe he's worthy. What's his deal? Mono: Uh. I don't know. Golden retriever, terrible taste in music, and zero fear of pigeons? Somehow, he's the only one who can get me to smile these days...

Saeki: Cute. But can he handle ur mood swings? Asking for a friend (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵) Mikan: And your black cat energy? That's like kryptonite.

Mono: He's not scared. Which is probably why I can't seem to get rid of him.

The courtyard buzzed with secondhand gossip, like always. Girls leaned against lockers, passed notes behind textbooks, and whispered behind hands like it was sport.

Mikan sat cross-legged on the grass, biting into a perfectly cut apple slice. "You hear the latest from Shirozaki High?"

Saeki looked up from her sketchpad, eyes flicking curiously, "Another fight?"

Mikan grinned. "Worse. Apparently, someone threw a vending machine."

Saeki paused. "…Was it him again?"

"Golden retriever boy?" Mikan tilted her head thoughtfully. "Apparently. Touma Something. You know, Mono's guy."

Saeki tapped her pencil to her lip, "So he's real."

"Oh, he's real." Mikan rolled her eyes. "Mono drags that boy like a storm cloud. They're always together. Black hair, thick glasses, quiet. And him—loud, bruised knuckles, yelling at pigeons."

"I thought Mono didn't like people," Saeki mumured.

"He doesn't. That's what makes it weird," Mikan said, flipping through her phone. "Look—someone posted a blurry pic. That's him, right?"

Saeki squinted. A grainy, zoomed-in shot of Touma with his sleeves rolled up, hair ruffled, apparently arguing with a traffic cone.

"Oh dear."

"Oh yes."

They looked at each other, then back at the photo.

"You think Mono likes him?" Saeki asked.

Mikan popped another apple slice into her mouth, nonchalant. "I think Mono lets him sit within arm's reach without hissing. That's basically marriage."

Saeki nodded thoughtfully. "We should keep an eye on this."

Later, after tea and soft conversation, Mono wandered toward the corner of the house.

The piano was still there.

Old. Faded. The wood had dulled over the years, and a leg was propped up with a stack of folded newspapers. A few keys looked yellowed, like teeth from a story too old to tell.

He ran his fingers along the lid.

Gramps turned his head toward the sound. "Still plays. Mostly."

Mono gave a soft hum. "Probably out of tune."

"Like me," the old man replied. "But still got a song left, I think."

Touma sat just nearby, arms draped loosely around his knees. Mono hesitated for a moment. Then sat.

The bench creaked beneath him.

He placed his hands on the keys—his right steady, his left hesitating as the pads of his fingers brushed old dust. The moment his fingertips pressed down, a brittle, soft note bloomed into the room. A little flat. A little cracked. But alive.

He played something simple. A lullaby, maybe. A melody from childhood that no longer had a name.

Gramps smiled. "Still remember it."

Mono didn't look away from the keys, his fingertips dancing on top of them gracefully. "I never forgot."

Another chord. Warmer now. The piano groaned like it was waking from sleep.

And for the first time in a long time, Mono didn't feel like he had to run from his own sound.

Touma watched in silence, chest aching gently. Outside, the wind moved through the persimmon leaves.

The house smelled like soil and wind and tea that had steeped too long.

They had taken the early morning train, luggage still dusty with city grime. Now, Mono sat on the tatami floor beside the old hearth, legs folded with a strange stiffness. Touma sat just behind him, quiet, sensing the distance.

The old man turned slightly at the sound of their footsteps. His eyes were clouded, filmed over with years, but still held a quiet sharpness. His head tilted.

"…Is that you?"

Mono swallowed. "It's me, Grandpa."

A pause.

"Come here," the old man said, hand raised gently. "Let me feel."

Mono leaned in, the tatami creaking softly beneath him. There was no hesitation in the old man's touch—just slow, searching fingers brushing over cheeks, brow, nose, jaw.

He paused. A breath caught in his chest.

"Mm," he murmured, smiling faintly. "I know this face."

His hand lingered. "You've grown. Taller… and sadder, too."

Mono said nothing. But his eyes dropped.

The old man didn’t press. Just rested his palm briefly against Mono's cheek before letting go.

"…And this?" he asked, turning toward the second pair of footsteps. "You’ve brought someone."

Touma glanced at Mono, who gave him a small nod. The old man reached again.

Touma moved closer, kneeling, letting the rough hands explore his face—softer now, with a familiarity that was new but welcoming.

"A kind face," the old man said, satisfied.

Touma managed a small laugh. “Hello, sir. I'm—uh, I'm Touma.”

Mono's voice followed—quiet but certain. "He's my partner."

There was a pause—brief, quiet, but filled with weight. Then, the old man's hands stilled over Touma's cheeks.

"Mm. I can hear it," he said. "The way your voice settles near him. The way his breath softens when you speak."

Touma's breath hitched. "You really can tell?"

"Of course," he whispered. "We learn to see what eyes can't."

Mono's hand found Touma's again, and squeezed.

The old man let his hands drop, nodding slowly, peaceful. "You’re good to him."

"I'm trying," Touma whispered.

"Good. Keep trying. It matters."

And just like that—acceptance bloomed in silence. Not loud. Not flashy.

But real.

Outside, wind rustled the trees. Inside, Touma pressed his forehead lightly to Mono's shoulder—just for a second.

He was a transfer student. Smart, polite, wore cardigans. Mono had gotten paired with him for test prep.

"Just for one week," the teacher said. "Ravenwood's grades are higher in this subject."

Touma didn't care. Except he did.

Because now Mono was sitting beside someone else in the library. Desk pushed together, heads leaning close.

And Mono was smiling. A soft, half-smile—the kind he never showed during regular class. Touma stood behind a shelf and watched, jaw clenched.

Later, Mono caught up with him in the hallway. "Why didn't you come to the library?"

Touma shrugged. "Didn't want to get in the way of you and Ravenclaw."

Mono raised an eyebrow, "That's not his name."

"Whatever," Touma muttered. "He gets you to smile more than I do anyway."

Mono blinked.

Then said, quietly, "You notice when I smile?"

Touma frozed.

Class was quiet that morning. The kind of quiet where time dripped like syrup and the second hand ticked too loud. Mono sat by the window, face half-lit by the sun, pen hovering over his notebook.

He wasn't writing.

He was watching.

Across the room, Touma leaned back in his chair, yawning, still half asleep from the late night cram session. His uniform was wrinkled, collar forever loose. His pencil was stuck behind his ear again.

Mono's gaze lingered.

On the curve of Touma's jaw. On the way he rubbed at his eye like a kid. On the tiny scar just under his lip, from a fight he had days ago.

So much so that he didn't notice the girl beside him glance over and catch him staring.

Her eyes flicked between them, amused.

Mono had gotten bruised again. Touma saw it during PE—just below the collar, peeking through his shirt. Blue-purple, messy, not from sports.

He didn't ask.

But when they were alone, Touma placed a warm canned drink beside Mono's hand. "For the bruises," he said.

Mono didn't look up. "This won't fix anything."

"No. But it's warm."

A silence stretched. Then Mono said, "You're not dumb, you know."

Touma scoffed, "Could've fooled my math grades."

Mono's voice softened. "I mean, you notice things. Even when you pretend not to."