Miffy

Most American boys seem to regard you with a mixture of curiosity and fascination as an exchange student from Japan. The kinder ones try not to treat you any differently than they would from your other classmates, but the worse ones will make constant jokes about hentai and mock your faint accent. 

By this point, though, you’ve learned to tune out the insults and the passive aggressive comments. You’ve always been good at dealing with other people, knowing how to read the mood and adjusting your behavior accordingly. Your teachers often praised you for being so well-behaved and conscientious. 

The meaner boys treat you like a zoo animal precisely because they want to see your reaction, so it’s better not to give them the reaction that they want. Otherwise, the second they sense hurt, they’ll sink their teeth in and never let go. Of course, they don’t seem to realize that in the same way they observe you, you can observe them right back. 

As for your boyfriend, Thomas? Well. He does his best. Or at least you think he does his best. No one mocks you to his face when he’s around, and he valiantly tells people to “knock it off” whenever he thinks you feel uncomfortable. He’s sweet, if a little obtuse, and you like him well enough. You wouldn’t date him if you didn’t. But his confession had been so out of the blue, and you had no real reason to accept him– just like you didn’t have any real reason to reject him. 

In short, your relationship started on an ambivalent whim. He’s not the sort of person you can share your thoughts with, but it’s not as if you’re looking for a lifelong companionship. He’s mild, and nice to be around, which is just what you need after everything that happened to you in Japan. He’s just like the whipped cream slowly disappearing into your milkshake in that aspect.

Your boyfriend calls your name. “Hey, are you okay? Do you want me… to explain?” Thomas says softly. 

You’ve been staring into space for too long, and your milkshake is half-empty. You smile at him. “No, it’s fine. A break, right? I understand.”

“I don’t want this to be permanent. It doesn’t have to be,” Thomas says, running a hand through his shorn blond hair. “It’s just soccer season is kicking up again, and I won’t have a lot of time to spend with you. I didn’t want you to feel abandoned, or anything. And I want to focus on practice. So…” He looks at you like a kicked puppy, as if you’re the one breaking up with him, and not the other way around. “We can date again once the season is over.”

“Okay,” you say, dragging your straw through your softening milkshake. “Let’s see what happens at the end of the season.”

Thomas perks up. “Great! Do you want anything else to eat? It’s my treat.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas says.

Milkshakes are no remedies for break-ups, but you bite your tongue. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Thomas flags down the waitress, a freckled and red-haired girl who lets her stare linger a little too long. Not that you can blame her; he is cute. But Thomas, good old oblivious Thomas, only smiles innocently in return. 

Maybe you should get jealous. Pull some American teen movie line and say that “he’s your man” and put her in her place, or something equally dramatic like that. But he’s not really “your man” anymore, is he? Besides, staring is free, and, as you often hear, this is a free country. 

By the time the two of you are out of the diner, Thomas is pulling you into a hug. You limply wrap one arm around his back. “See you later,” he whispers. “You can still call me if anything happens, okay?”

Should you remind him of the international fees that it would take for him to call you Japan? “Okay.” 

You’re still standing outside the diner when Thomas waves at you through the windows of his car and pulls away from the curb. Maybe you should have asked for a ride, but getting a ride with your now-ex is a little weird. The weather is clear and the sunshine warm, so it’s a mild enough spring day for you to walk back. You’d prefer the walk, anyways, compared to the awkward silence in Thomas’s stifling truck.

Halfway down the pavement, your phone starts buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out: it’s your mom. There’s a seventeen hour time difference between California and Japan, and the international fees of a phone call are exorbitant, but your mom has never cared much about finances. “Money is there for you to spend it,” she always claims. Easy enough for her to say when she runs an investment firm that rakes in enough yen for her to send you abroad.

“Hello, Okaa-san,” you say when you open your phone. 

“Hello,” she coos. “Good morning! Ah, wait. It’s afternoon for you, right?”

“It’s afternoon, and you’re a day ahead of me,” you confirm.

“Oho! I forgot! So you’re talking to a time traveler right now,” she says.

“Seems so. Have any news from the future?”

“You’re going on spring break next week, right?” She doesn’t wait for you to respond before barreling on. “Why don’t you fly home to Japan for the holidays?” your mom says. “I’m already booking the tickets.”

“Why’d you even ask if you were going to do it for me?” 

“Just because you always tell me you hate it when I do things without telling you. So I’m alerting you in advance,” she chirps.

You sigh. “Okay. Send me the ticket details when you’re done.”

You can imagine your mom’s grin over the phone. “Perfect! By the way, I ran into Yu-san a little while ago. We talked about how much you used to love her art lessons! Do you remember how you used to beg to spend extra time at Yu-san’s studio?”

You stop in the middle of the sidewalk, the sunshine suddenly searing your neck. You fight to keep your voice steady. “Yeah. I do. Why?”

“Well, then we started talking about Meguru-kun. You always bugged me about when he could come over and play. You were such a mild-mannered child, but as soon as you saw Meguru-kun, you would just get so wild. I’d never seen you have so much fun. I swear, it was so cute.”

“Okaa-san,” you say faintly, but she continues on.

“Since it’s been so long since you were back in Japan, Yu-san and I thought it would be nice if the two of you could see each other again, so we arranged a little meeting for the four of us. Won’t it be nice to catch up with your childhood friend over dinner? There’s no need to thank me.”

There really isn’t. You gape like an open-mouthed fish after your mom’s triumphant little speech, thoughts scattering like bubbles on the surface of a pond.

“Does Meguru know that you’ve done this?” you say. It’s the only question that manages to escape. His first name feels like ash in your mouth. When did you last use it? 

“Yu-san told him right away. I think she said he was excited to see you!”

“That’s… great,” you say. “I have to go now, Okaa-san. I have something to do. I’ll see you when I fly back.”

“Okay. Love you!”

With a cheerful blip, your mom ends the call and you sink to your knees, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes. Shit. This is going to be the worst possible way to spend your spring break. Thomas is one thing, but Bachira? No way. There is absolutely no way in hell you can face him again.

You might have gotten along back in Japan, running around Chiba together as children, but it’s been years since then. Maybe if you were two regular childhood friends, you would jump with joy at the opportunity to see him. If you didn’t have the particular history you did, this would have been a pleasant surprise. But you two don’t have that sort of relationship anymore, and the thought of Bachira makes old wounds flare to life.

You can’t blame your mom for not knowing, not really. You’ve mentioned your American boyfriends here and there, but you tend to keep a tight lid on your love life, as you’ve always been her pristine, studious child. You try not to make it a habit to keep secrets from your mom.

In fact, the only secret you’ve ever kept from her is that Bachira Meguru broke your heart when you were fourteen years old. 

–

You have always wanted to be the perfect child for your mom.

Ever since you could remember, your afternoons and weekends were full of different lessons, from piano to dance, and English to math tutoring. Your mom cooed with excitement at all your new hobbies, demanding you show her every time you learned a new musical piece or math equation. You charged headfirst into whatever skill you could learn to mold yourself into a well-rounded adult, so no one could find a way to look down on your mom. All of her business associates patted you on the head and spoke indulgently at you. As if you couldn’t sense the way they viewed you as an extension of your mom, and a way to judge her.

Art lessons, however, were when your life took a sudden, unexpected turn.

You remembered this: you were eight, and it was a cool spring day during your very first lesson, and Bachira-san had given you free reign of the canvas, handing you a palette and a brush. Her lessons always took place in her studio, the door open to let in the breeze, sunlight sinking into stacks of piled canvas and painting supplies placed haphazardly on every free surface.

You stared up at Bachira-san with a frown, looking uncertainly in her smiling face. “What am I supposed to do with this?” you asked.

“Whatever you want,” she replied, ruffling the top of your head. You gave a squeak of protest. 

“But what do you want?” you persisted. 

“I want you to do whatever you want,” Bachira-san said with a grin. “Why don’t I give you some space to paint? I’ll come back in a little bit, ‘kay?”

And so Bachira-san had left you in front of a canvas, your frown growing as you dipped a brush into the green paint. Incomprehensible. The adults in your life always had such clear expectations for you, and Bachira-san’s instructions feel like she just handed you a blank map and told you to chart unexplored territory. 

You dragged a tentative, watery streak of green on the bright white canvas, but it looked ugly and intrusive. You’d marred the pristine surface already.

Something brushed your foot. You looked down to see a football rolling across the wooden floor of the studio, and not a second later, the small head of a child peeking around the corner of the door. 

“Kaa-san! I’m back– eh? Who are you?”

The boy approached you curiously. There was a bandage on his face, and streaks of dirt running down his legs and striping his cheeks.

“Who are you?” you demanded, brandishing your brush like a sword. “I’m having an art lesson right now.”

Undeterred, the boy tilted his head like a giant chipmunk. “Art lesson? This is where Kaa-san works.”

“Huh…” Your teacher must be his mom, and he must be her son, you deduced. 

Seemingly losing interest, the boy ran after the football, which had lodged in the corner. With a few swift kicks, the boy skilfully bounced it up on his knee, his elbow, and his head. It was just like the seals you saw once at the aquarium, who could perform the same tricks for a few fish as incentive.

“Hey! Can you play football?” the boy said suddenly, turning back to you with the ball balanced precariously on his head.

“Football? I can’t play. I have to study art.”

“But that’s boring… Wait!” The boy brightened as he lurched towards you, wrestling the brush from your grasp. You watched in horror as the boy slashed the brush across the canvas, dipping randomly into the paint, creating an incomprehensible mess of lines and paint splatters. “Done! Now you can play with me.”

You shoved him, as hard as you could, and the boy toppled to the floor, his football bouncing sadly into a pile of canvas. “What are you doing? You– you ruined it!”

“I helped you,” the boy protested. He leaped up into the air, regarding you quizzically. “Kaa-san paints like that all the time.”

“Bachira-san– Bachira-san is a real artist! You can’t just– argh!” You stumbled at him, annoyed, tiny fists swinging, but the boy only dodged out of the way.

A grin splitted his face. “Are we playing now? Yay!”

You don’t know how long this chase lasted. All you knew was that you wanted to wipe that unbearably happy look from his face after he ruined your lesson, because how on earth could you explain this to Bachira-san? But the boy only danced around, laughing as you tried to lunge at him, always just one step away from you.

You weren’t unathletic, but the boy had stamina on another level, because while you sweated and panted, hands on your knees, he only skipped in circles around you. “Hey,” the boy said. “Are you done already? Come on. Let’s play some more.”

How annoying! How super, super annoying! You gave a great yell as you jumped at him, and, startled, the boy couldn’t move away fast in enough time. The two of you crashed onto the floor, rolling and tumbling. You pulled at his hair and the boy grabbed at your cheeks.

“I’m back! Are you done with– Meguru? Kiddo?”

The two of you froze as Bachira-san stepped into the studio, a plate of cookies in her hand. The two of you watched her with big silent eyes as she surveyed the room. And, for the first time, you realized that you had knocked over some of her paint tubes and canvas, and the two of you were covered in streaks of paint and dust from the floor.

You sprang up as Bachira-san moved closer to the canvas you were supposed to paint on– the one her son had ruined. Your hands were clammy as you lowered your head, like a criminal readying for their punishment.

“Hey, nice artwork, kiddo,” Bachira-san said, breaking into a smile. “Very avante-garde.”

“He… he was the one who did it,” you mumbled, face heating up with shame, pointing at the boy– Meuguru– who was still on the floor. 

He stuck out his tongue. “I only helped!”

“Well, the both of you did a great job,” Bachira-san said. 

“Really…?” you mumbled, looking down at your black shoes, now scraped and scuffed from your scuffle across the floor. 

“Yes, really! Why don’t the two of you have some snacks?”

The three of you munched on cookies for the rest of the lesson as Bachira-san explained the color palette and different forms of art to you. Meguru gifted you the very last cookie with a beaming expression on his face as if you hadn’t tried to tear his hair out, and you thanked him quietly. 

During your next lesson, Meguru was waiting by the entrance of the studio. When he saw you, a goofy smile stole across his face, and he bounded towards you like a puppy.

“Here!” He thrust some flowers into your face. They were small and white, with five different petals. You took them gingerly. 

“What are these for?” you asked.

“For you! So we can be friends! I had a lot of fun with you last time, but you didn’t look really happy. Kaa-san said I have to be aware of other people’s feelings, so this is a ‘let’s be friends’ flower!” 

“You want to be friends with me?” you mumbled.

“Yup! No take backs,” Meguru added. “We’re friends for life now, okay?”

 “Are you sure?” you said. “Yesterday I was rude to you.”

“Were you?” Meguru tilted his head. “Does that matter?”

“I was. I’m sorry,” you said.

“We’re friends! So it’s okay. Hey, this time, you’ll play football with me, right?”

He grabbed your hand, and you carefully wrapped your fingers around his. For some reason, there was a strange fluttering in your chest. Why did holding Meguru’s hand feel a little different from holding your mom’s, or your friend’s hand at school? 

But all you know is this: ever since you took Meguru’s hand that day, you don’t think you’ve ever really let go.

–

You haven’t stepped foot in Japan for three years.

There’s always been an excuse not to: you were busy with studying. You had clubs and other activities. It would be too much of a hassle, and really, you wanted to enjoy every minute abroad you could get.

Your mom bought your excuses easily, so you never had to tell her the real reason you stayed away, the same reason you even bothered to study abroad in the first place: you didn’t want to be in the same country as Bachira Meguru.

But when your plane descends and jolts to a stop, when you pass through customs and scramble to find your luggage at the baggage claim, when you take that first wobbly step into the spring sunshine, squinting into the sky as you raise your hand to shield your eyes, you have no more excuses left. It’s like the universe won’t let you run away, because why the hell does Golden Week fall during the same week during your American spring break? Bachira is on break, same as you, so you can’t even use the excuse that he’s in school to avoid him. It’s a coincidence, or the universe is laughing at you for thinking you could get away so easily.

You pause to scroll through your phone; there’s a few messages from your mom, and an email from Thomas. You hover over the message with your thumb, before swiping away. You told him to email you if he needed you, since it’s not like he had Line or Whatsapp, but you didn’t think he’d actually go through with it.

Everyone is speaking in rushed Japanese around you. It’s a sea of people with black hair and black eyes and luggage and appointments and harried expressions, hurrying in every direction. This is home. America has never felt more far away.

You wander to the edge of the curb, phone still held loosely to your ear as a car pulls up. Your mom rolls down the side window, scarf around her throat and a grin wide on her face. “Hello, hello. Look who’s decided to show up on our side of the globe again.”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” you acknowledge. 

The driver steps out to put your luggage in the trunk, and your mom rests her arm against the window. “How was your flight?”

“It was fine,” you say. “It’s not that far from California to Japan.”

“Perfect! So I assume you’ll be ready for dinner in a few hours?”

“Dinner?”

“Well, there’s this wonderful seafood restaurant I wanted to take Yu-san to, and Meguru-kun is free, so we planned our little get-together for today.” Your mom winks, but you feel as if someone pushed you off the airplane without a parachute. Actually, you’d have preferred that to whatever torture this is.

“Okaa-san, I can’t,” you protest, taking a step back. “I just got back. I’m tired. I–”

“Nonsense! It’s just some dinner. Aren’t you excited to see Meguru-kun?”

You force a queasy smile. “But I need to get ready. I want to shower and–”

“Then we can stop by home before we go to dinner. It’s not as if we’re going right now. Come, come. Hop in the car. The sooner we get back, the more time you’ll have to freshen up.”

The next few hours pass by in a weightless blur. You turn the water as hot as it can go and stand under the thundering steam until your fingers turn pruny. You pick out a tasteful outfit, decide you’re trying too hard, and settle for something casual, but then it feels like you’re not trying hard enough. This goes back and forth for half an hour until you throw on the first thing you picked out of your closet.

It almost feels like you’re getting ready for a date, and the thought makes you want to laugh hysterically.

When you’re done, you flop onto your bed and stare up at the ceiling. You haven’t been in this room for years, and there’s no dust, but it feels like a graveyard, a testament to a different time. There are faded patches of discolored paint on the wall where you once hung up photos of you and Bachira, and empty spots on your shelves where the plastic toys he won for you at summer fairs had once stood. You forgot where you put those old trinkets. They’re either shoved in a box in the back of your closet, or buried in a garbage heap.

Your mom calls your name. “Time to go! Are you ready?”

You’re not. You never will be, but you descend down the stairs and get into the car. You still feel weightless. Dread is the only thing propelling you forward, and it grows heavier with each passing step, weighing you down with its leaden mass.

The restaurant is all polished glass and cool blue tones, so you feel like you’re standing underwater when you step inside. The tablecloths are pressed, the menus so new and shiny you think you could cut yourself on their edges. You’re scurried off to a corner table, next to a painting of the ocean, layered with many painful shades of blue, the frothy white waves so textured you could lick it off like cream.

You order something. You’re not sure what, but the waiter is smiling at your choice.

“Yu-san is running a bit late,” your mom says, with her bright red lipstick which always looks elegant on her and never tacky. You feel childish, all of a sudden, trying to play at being a composed adult, next to her and her genuine enthusiasm for old family friends.

You hope Bachira and his mom never get here. Because of a traffic jam, perhaps. Or a sudden freak accident that cuts off their path, so they have to stay home. Or maybe they’ll just forget, and you can call the whole thing a wash.

“Ah, there she is! Yu-san! Meguru-kun!” Your mom waves wildly, her arm springing back and forth.

Against your will, you turn, biting the inside of your cheek hard. They’re both in street clothes, which sends a dull jolt of surprise through you, but then again, your old teacher has never been one for formalities. You focus hard on her instead of the boy next to her, never taking your eyes off her once as they both settle at the table. Your mom hugs Bachira-san, and they both giggle like schoolgirls. There’s paint on Bachira-san’s sleeves, faint splatters of red and blue and purple. Her hair is in a bun, pulled low.

She reaches out for you, and you melt into her embrace. She smells like paint, like salt water, with an artificial floral scent from her shampoo. “It’s been so long! You’ve gotten so much bigger. Have you been keeping up with your art?”

“I still sketch sometimes,” you say. “But I’ve been busy.”

Bachira-san laughs, a charming sound like windchimes. “Ah, so my lessons weren’t totally wasted! I’d love to see what you’ve been sketching. America has been nice to you, I see.”

You’ve chewed your cheek for too long. The sharp copper of blood fills your mouth like new pennies, and you manage to work your lips into the shape of a smile. “It’s been fun studying abroad.”

And then Bachira calls your name, and you feel like you’re fourteen again, getting your heart broken for the first time. “Hey, hey!” he says cheerfully. “Long time no see!”

You fight to maintain your smile. You can’t look him directly in the eye, so you look somewhere over his shoulder. Has his hair gotten longer? It looks like his mom had tried to tame his bangs with clips. “Hi. It has been a long time.” There. You even sound like you’re happy to see him.

Bachira and his mom order. She and your mom are drinking glasses of red wine, absorbed in their own world, so it’s just you and Bachira. He’s tearing his napkin into little pieces, a miniature blizzard that only grows in intensity with each ticking second. You’re both silent. Is he feeling just as nervous as you? Or are you the only one idiotically aware of the tension? Maybe he doesn’t even notice at all.

“Meguru-kun is on his school’s soccer team?” your mom asks suddenly, forcing the two of you to look at her. “That’s amazing! I heard you want to go to nationals.”

“Yup yup!” Bachira says. “It’s fun to play with everyone.”

“That’s great!” Your mom nudges you with her elbow. “This one over here is juggling a ton of different clubs in America, too. A math team, and a science one, and an art club on top of it, I think.”

Bachira is looking at you now. You stare hard at your glass of water, avoiding his eyes. The silence grows, stretching between the two of you, taut as a wire. Your mom looks back and forth between the two of you, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows.

You stand. “Okaa-san, I think I need a bit of a break. I’m still dizzy from my flight,” you say politely, flawlessly. You smile at Bachira-san and your mom, and throw a fuzzy look in Bachira’s direction.

“Are you? I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. Do you–”

“I just need some air,” you say, still smiling as you back away from the table. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

You flee before anyone can respond, pushing through the doors and into the dizzying sunlight. It’s a coward’s move, but so what? You’ve never pretended to be strong. Your go-to is to put on a smile and smooth over any situation. It’s better not to rock the boat. It’s better to just keep everyone happy– but you can’t do that now. You can’t do this, not now, not in front of Bachira Meguru. 

You look up and down the streets, disoriented as you stumble to a stop. Where are you? The restaurant is at the end of the block, and you’ve somehow paced down the entire length of the street in your desire to escape. This is a high-end area with exclusive fashion stores and exorbitant restaurants, and their polished facades only make you feel smaller and uglier.

You sigh. Maybe it would be better to go home, to leave now before you worry anyone further. You would just ascribe all blame to your plane flight, and no one would be any wiser.

Just as you make up your mind, you see a figure blurring down the street, dashing at an impossibly high speed– a blur of yellow, no, a boy, running straight towards you– alarmed, you try to move to the side, but then he screeches to a stop right in front of you.

It’s Bachira. Shit shit shit— But then he abruptly spins around until all you can see is his back and the way his hair sticks up at the ends, perpetually untamable.

“What are you doing?” you say, irritated. Is this another one of his childish pranks?

“You don’t want to see me, right?” he says, more quietly than you thought he was capable of. 

“I–”

“This way, you won’t have to look at me. Is that okay?”

“So?” you say. “What you do has nothing to do with me.”

“Let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to,” you say petulantly. You flush; why does Bachira bring out your inner child? “There’s nothing for us to say,” you add more coldly.

“I miss you.” The world, in its perpetual motion, freezes for just an instant at his words. Planets stop their revolutions. The tectonic plates pause. Everything slows down, to this single moment in time and space.

You can only manage to faintly say, “So what?” The world resumes spinning again.

“I want to talk to you again,” he says. 

“I don’t care,” you say again.

“I’ll bug you if you don’t come see me again,” he says. “I’ll blow up your phone. I’m gonna send you a ton of mail. I’ll even go to your house and–”

“Stop!” you snap. “You sound like a stalker. Bachira, you know things can’t move backwards, right? We can only go forward. And I don’t want to act buddy buddy with you again.”

“One chance. Pleaseeee. Come on. If you talk with me just once, I won’t bother you again! I promise! Otherwise I’m going to call you! Every! Single! Day!”

You sigh. With the way Bachira is, you have no doubt that he would make good on his threat, no matter how childish or ridiculous he sounds right now. Just once. You could talk to him just once. Besides, this way, you could get rid of all your lingering feelings, and it’d be the same relief of a loose, bothersome baby tooth finally falling out of your mouth.

“Fine. I’ll see you just once. But!” you add, raising your voice before he can throw his hands up in the air in joy. “I decide when and where we will meet.”

“Yay!” Bachira whoops, waving his arms. “Let’s go back, then!”

“Go back where?”

“To the restaurant, duh. The food arrived. I was supposed to tell you that, actually. Oops!”

It would be so easy to just go home right now. But… you glance at the back of Bachira’s hair again. He’s grown taller. And despite his antsy movements, shifting back and forth on his feet, he still hasn’t turned back to look at you once, keeping his ridiculous promise.

“Fine. Lead the way,” you say grudgingly. Your steps feel light as you stare at Bachira, following him all the while, but he still doesn’t look back at you.

At the table, your mom smiles at you. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” you respond. The next time you look at Bachira, you finally meet him in the eye, and his smile lights up his face, just like it did when you were little, the sun rising to sweep the world in light and color.

–

Art lessons with Bachira-san quickly became your favorite thing in the world.

Maybe it was because she never demanded unerring perfection from you, nor did she treat you like a little doll. She delighted in every advancement you made with art, no matter how messy or imperfect. She treated you like you already had things worth saying, and listened to you babble about anything on your mind.

But as much as you loved those things, what you most loved about art lessons with Bachira-san was her son, Meguru.

At some point in the afternoon, he would inadvertently drag you away from your canvas for an adventure through the neighborhood. Bachira-san never seemed to care, and would even encourage you to leave your pastels behind and pick up a stick to be a sword, as long as you had finished drawing at least one thing that you liked.

So, in those perfect sunny afternoons, you would poke at bugs, digging worms out of the dirt and following ants back to their nest and lifting up rocks to watch rollie pollies curl up. You would climb trees, always trying to outrace each other and get to the tallest branch. You would pretend to be pirates and adventurers, clamoring up and down the slides on the park, searching for treasure.

Mostly, though, Bachira wanted to play football.

“You gotta kick it like this! And that!” he cheered, dribbling the ball back and forth between his feet in lithe, swift steps.

“Huh?” you said, trying to keep up with his movements. You always did well during your elementary school’s sports meet, but Meguru was on another level. 

“No, no! More like this!” Meguru said, and kicked the ball high in the air, only to catch it with his knee. 

“I’ll try,” you said. 

“Yay! Then let’s play a few games, okay?”

And you played, not because you particularly loved football, like Meguru did, but because you liked it when he smiled. You and Meguru. Meguru and you. Why would you need anything else? The boundaries of your world began and ended with his hand in yours.

Bachira-san would let him sit in on your lessons on slow days, too, even though he would invariably end up doodling on your canvas instead of his.

“Use your own paper, Meguru!” you retorted as Meguru scribbled a lumpy shadow onto the corner of your sketchpad. “This one is mine!”

“Eh? But we’re friends! So I can draw on yours!”

And then the two of you bickered playfully until you ended up doodling all over each other’s works, which Bachira-san then dubbed a “collaborative masterpiece,” and hung up the pictures side by side on a corkboard in her studio. It made your heart flutter to see the papers fluttering like friends.

Other times, Meguru would wander off in the middle of your lesson after drawing to his heart’s content, grabbing the football that was perpetually by his side.

“I’m done,” Meguru said, throwing down his colored pencil. There was a strange red creation on his page, some machine with a thousand different blue and green buttons and square windows. It had dragon wings and a boat’s rudder, and soared through scribbled stars and over choppy turquoise waves.

“What is that?” you asked him.

“A car that can fly across the ocean,” Meguru explained. “I’m gonna drive it up to pick up all my favorite football players, and there’s gonna be a stadium in it, and we’re all gonna play football together!”

“Can I come, too?”

“Duh! You can sit in the pilot seat with me. That’s why I made it so big,” he said, before dribbling his football out the studio door.

Even if he wandered off, Meguru would always rejoin the two of you on time for lunch. He had some sort of sixth sense for the moment Bachira-san started passing out snacks, peeking his head (sometimes with twigs or dirt scattered in his hair) around the studio door, cheerfully announcing, “I’m home!”

“Welcome back, Meguru! You’re just in time for a snack,” Bachira-san said, sweeping her hands at the row of pudding cups on the table. You were sitting quietly in a chair, posture straight, methodically scooping out every last bit of pudding with your spoon.

“Pudding! It’s pudding time,” Meguru exclaimed cheerfully at the sight of the snacks, running up to the table to snatch up several cups and a spoon in his chubby hands. 

“Meguru! Leave some for your friend!” Bachira-san scolded lightly, and Meguru would come running right back to you. 

“Here,” he said, dropping a cup in front of you.

Meguru could never sit still, so your eyes were inevitably drawn to him as he danced around the room, running from corner to corner and shoving pudding into his mouth so fast his cheeks puffed out like a small animal’s. Whenever he caught your eye he would stick out his tongue, and you would stick out your tongue in return. When there was only one pudding cup left on the table, you reached for it, before turning to Meguru. 

“Have this,” you said, handing him the pudding cup, which Meguru had been eying with a wide open mouth and sparkling eyes.

“Yay! Thanks!” he said. “Let’s share it!”

“I saved it for you, though.”

Meguru shook his head as he unpeeled the cap, revealing inch by tantalizing inch of the shiny, golden treat. “Well, I want you to have some, too.”

There was no better pudding in the world than the spoonfuls you had that day, Meguru graciously proffering the very last bite for you to eat. The memory of that sweetness resounded through your dreams. 

Even your mom had gotten used to your chattering about Meguru. He was your favorite topic, and nothing was ever quite as important or interesting as him. As soon as your mom’s car pulled up to the curb at the end of your lessons, you would clamber inside, your artwork for the day clutched tightly in your hands, and a new story about Meguru on your lips.

“Okaa-san, Okaa-san,” you said brightly. “Guess what Meguru did today?”

“Let me guess,” your mom said playfully as the driver pulled away from the curb. “The two of you played together?”

“Yup! This time, we pretended to be monkeys living in the trees! And then we got into a monkey war! And we threw a bunch of sticks at each other, and Bachira-san let us eat bananas for a snack! And we kept trying to peel them like monkeys, too.”

“How exciting! I didn’t realize I was taking a monkey home with me today,” your mom replied. “Are you having fun with your art lessons?”

“I’m having a lot of fun, Okaa-san. I’m learning a lot!” You squirmed in your seat. “Oh! But you have to hear about what Meguru did!”

You didn’t know if your mom ever got tired of you chattering on and on about Meguru. If she did, she never let it show, and she watched you with gentle eyes the whole time you talked. 

“You act differently around Meguru-kun,” she said.

“Is that bad?” you asked anxiously, suddenly alert.

She smiled. “No, not at all. Everyone has different sides to them. But I’m glad you’re good friends with him. You talk about him all the time.”

You fiddled with your fingers, feeling strangely pleased and shy all at once. Meguru always stirred unknown emotions in you. “I just like him a lot!”

“Enough to marry him?” your mom teased.

Your face brightened at her words; you hadn’t even realized that was an option. But it was such a great idea. If you married Meguru, then the two of you could be together forever. It just made a lot of sense; who else in the world would you rather spend your entire life with? No one else could compare to your best friend. If you lived in the same house, then you could have sleepovers everyday, and never be separated. “I do!”

Your mom laughed. “Does he want to marry you, though? You can’t decide that on your own!”

“He will if I ask him,” you explained. “He doesn’t say no to me.”

Your mom laughed even harder at that, tears springing to the corner of her eyes. “So he’ll do whatever you say? That sounds very sweet of him.” 

However, one memory from this period of time stood out to you, clearer than the rest. You would dream about it, taking it down from a shelf to blow off the dust and stare into its depths.

It was a hot spring day, about a year after you had started art lessons, and Meguru stumbled into the studio with bruises on his face and scrapes on his knees. He had been gone for most of the afternoon, which had disappointed you slightly, but you knew you would see him again. However, you never imagined it would be like this.

“Meguru!” You ran to him, watercolor brush dropping to the paint splattered floor, stopping to grab his shoulders in concern. “Are you okay? Do I need to get Bachira-san?”

Meguru shook his head, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “No.” 

“What happened?” you asked urgently. “You’re hurt!” 

Ushering him to a seat, you ran to the sink and grabbed a towel, running it under a gush of cold water, before returning and dabbing at Meguru’s wounds as gently as you could. Blood came away in thin streaks like paint. 

“Hey…” Meguru began quietly, in a small voice. He didn’t sound like the cheerful boy you knew, the one who was never phased and bounced off from every mistake and accident with a bright smile. It reminded you a little of how, when you were driving home after lessons, you would peek back at Meguru. His figure looked a little lonely outlined against the sunset, as he bounced a soccer ball quietly to himself. 

“What is it?” You ran back to the sink, where you opened the cabinet underneath it to fish out some bandaids. 

“We’re friends, right?” Meguru asked. 

“Huh? Where’s this coming from? Of course we are. What else would I be?” 

Meguru looked down at his knees as you slapped a bandaid on his skinned knees without a complaint. 

“So you don’t think I’m weird, right?” he said, and his lips quivered with each word. “You’re not gonna leave me?” 

“You’re not weird,” you said firmly. It occurred to you, then, that Meguru never talked about anyone in his life outside of you and Bachira-san. You hadn’t seen him with any other kids your age, either. Maybe you were his whole world, in the same way he was yours. “You’re my best friend, and I would never leave you. If you’re worried about it, then we could get married.” 

“Married?” Meguru peeked at you from under the fringe of his bangs. 

“So we can be together forever,” you explained. 

Meguru smiled, just a little, a wobbly uplifting of his mouth. “Okay! Pinky-promise me, then! We’re gonna get married.”

You lifted up your hand and, with all the clumsy reverence of a child, locked pinkies with Meguru. You shook once, twice, and then let go, as if this was a ceremony as solemn as a real wedding. 

“What happened, though, Meguru? Are you sure it’s okay if I don’t get Bachira-san?” 

Meguru shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Because we have each other, right?” 

You beamed at him, sunshine spilling in your chest, a golden glow. “Right. We’ll always have each other!”

–

Over the next few days, Bachira’s promise hangs over you like a darkening cloud, slowly threatening rain. 

It’s not like you forgot what you told him. You would contact him, eventually. But there was a time and place for everything, and this required more delicate care than anything you’ve undertaken so far. Besides, when you look at your phone screen, you feel a flush of embarrassment. You’ve never been able to bring yourself to block Bachira’s contact, and you still know his number by heart. 

When you first moved to America, a small, foolish part of you thought that he would contact you eventually. He would come running back to you, unable to stand the distance any longer. In your most unbearable, romantic daydreams, he would fly over to California and beg you to go home to Japan with him. But the weeks passed, and you entertained desperate thoughts each time you saw the lack of notifications on your phone screen.

You should message him first. No, you should call him. Or call Bachira-san instead, and learn more about Bachira through her. Or you could show up at one of his football games, and Bachira would be overcome by emotion and throw his arms around you and everything would be repaired, as easy as that. 

But your dreams were nothing compared to the overwhelming silence of reality. No, it was better to find a way to bury the memory of Bachira, and find someone else. There were so many people in the world, and maybe you had been too distracted to realize that, out there, there was someone more perfect and wonderful for you. That’s how you found yourself dating Thomas, accepting his confession without a second thought.

You’re reminded of that time as your fingers hover over Bachira’s icon now, sitting cross-legged on your bed. Keep it simple. A short message. 

Are you free to meet up today? I think we should go to the park near your house.

Not even a few seconds later, your phone dings.

yes!!!!!!! heading over now :3

Now? You aren’t even ready! Is your outfit good? What about your appearance? Your hands flutter nervously. You could be over at the park in a matter of minutes if you took the car, but… Wait. Why are you worrying over this sort of thing again? Why do you still care so much about his opinion? Knowing Bachira, it’d all be the same to him whenever you showed up in a trash bag or a thousand dollar suit. He’s never been one to care much for appearances. 

Your phone buzzes again, and you whip it up to your face. It’s not a message from Bachira, but an email from Thomas. Your heart lunches as you open it to read a simple message asking about your trip, and if you’ve been well. 

You’ve forgotten entirely about him. Instead, you’ve been thinking only of Bachira. Sure, you’re technically not dating Thomas right now, but why does it still make you feel so guilty?

You made a note to yourself to message Thomas back later. You can only handle one thing at a time right now, and Bachira is the major agenda on your list. It only takes a few minutes for you to make your way to the park, agonizingly short and slow at the same time, as if time is warping around you.

Bachira is sitting on one of the swings, twisting the metal chains in spirals and letting go slowly, so he twists in dizzying loops. The air is soft, perfumed with the scent of newly flowering trees, white petals falling like pale rain.

You pause just outside the entrance. He hasn’t noticed you yet. When did Bachira grow taller? He’s always had a round face, but puberty has melted the last of his baby fat away. His hair, at least, is as messy as ever, strands curling in every direction away from his face, his wild bangs held in check by a few clips clinging to remain on. 

The worst part is that you know him still, that you will always know him. That you would recognize him even under a different name or if you had been struck blind and deaf. You would know him by your touch alone, by scent, by taste. The very space Bachira occupies is left changed by his presence, and you could chase his lingering trails for the rest of your life. 

“Bachira,” you greet, walking slowly to where he’s still twisting in circles. You grab the chains, jerking him to a sudden stop, and he tilts his head up to look at you as he sways back and forth on the swings, your shadow falling across his face. 

“Hey, hey, hey! You’re here!” 

You nod. Your voice has fled in Bachira’s presence, and all you can do is drink him in.

“I missed you,” Bachira says.

“We met a few days ago.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I meant I missed you the whole time you were gone from Japan! I thought of you the whole time.”

You finally manage to unstick your voice. “Why didn’t you text me?”

“Because you told me not to. You were so mad at me. I didn’t want to make you madder.”

“Did you think I hated you?” you say. 

“You didn’t?” he says quietly.

“I…” you begin, then clear your throat. “I could never hate you.”

Bachira kicks at the ground. “Then why didn’t you text me?” he says, echoing your question.

“I was mad, Bachira. I…”

“You said we were best friends.”

You blink. Once, twice. “I did. I didn’t lie to you.”

“Then are we still best friends?”

“I…” You duck your head so he can’t see your face. “It’s been so long. And…” You can’t forget what happened in middle school. You can’t return to the way your relationship used to be, when you were children, and the world was simple, and uncomplicated. Why did he look at you like the two of you could? “It’s different now.” 

“I always thought you were my best friend,” he says plaintively. “That’s never changed.” 

“Then in middle school, why did you…” You chew the tender flesh of your cheek. 

When you were in America, you had fantasized about what you would say to him, how you would redo your argument and say the right words to strike home. You had thought about running into him again, and how the perfect speech would flow from your mouth, conveying all your feelings, mending whatever had broken all those years ago. In angrier times, you thought about hitting right where it hurt, your words like a sword, and you, the perfect, righteous victim. Now, though? Now your sentences come in bits and pieces, awkward and stilted, breaking under his gaze. 

“Why did you do that to me, Bachira?” you continue quietly. “Do you think we can go back to the way we were before, just like that?”

A buzz emanates from your pocket. Grateful for the distraction, you drop your grip from the swings. There are imprints of the chain links on your palm as you swipe open your new notification.

“Is it your mom?” Bachira asks.

You squint at the bright email on your phone. “No. It’s from my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” There’s a strange quaver in Bachira’s voice.

“My boyfriend. In America,” you add. “He plays football, too, and he drives me to places.” You feel mean then, your heart shriveling into something small and petty. You hadn’t intended to lie about Thomas, who was just your ex, but the lie feels good as you drink in Bachira’s lost gaze, eyes wide and shimmering with unspoken emotions. 

“I’m qualified to make nationals for football,” Bachira says, that odd tone still in his voice. 

“So is my boyfriend,” you add. The football season in America had just started, but Bachira didn’t need to know that. 

“Cars are overrated. I just walk everywhere. It helps me become a better player,” Bachira adds. 

“I should probably go so I can respond to him,” you say, waving your phone, ambling slowly towards the park entrance. Bachira’s gaze never leaves your phone.

Bachira kicks hard at the ground, shoes digging into the angry dirt. “So you like him, then? You like him a lot?” 

“Bachira.” Your gaze bores into him. A breeze, sweet with the scent of flowers, ruffles his hair. “The way we are now, I don’t think you have the right to question me.” 

He flinches, spinning the swing into motion, as if he can fly far from your words. But he’s only going back and forth in one direction, legs kicking at the sky. 

You watch him for a while longer. All the anger drains out of you then. What is it that you came back here for, anyways? What are you looking for? What do you want? If growing up is going to be so painful, then maybe Bachira is right. You should have remained the way you once were, just the two of you. 

–

By pulling some strings and begging your mom, you were able to get into the same public middle school as Meguru. The plan initially had been to send you to a fancy prep school overseas for both middle and high school, but you rebelled and pleaded, threatening to run away and to ruin the family reputation. 

“I’ve never seen you cry so hard,” your mom teased. “From the way you were acting, I might as well have been torturing you. I didn’t realize you hated the idea of studying abroad so much.” 

Your face burned at her words. “I’m sorry, Okaa-san.”

“Don’t be. It was cute. You hardly ever act like that, so it was nice to see.” She slid a sly smile at you. “But I wonder… is there a particular reason you wanted to go to this middle school?” 

You shook your head vehemently. “No! Not at all!” 

“Really? Not even for a certain little cute friend of yours?” your mom continues. 

“Okaa-san!” you protested, and she threw up her hands in surrender. 

When you started middle school with Meguru in the spring, though, it hadn’t been like what you expected. For starters, there was always a sea of people around you, pushing Meguru away like he was a piece of kelp set adrift on the tide. You knew how to make friends; how to smile just so, or to reply in the right lulls in the conversation to keep it going. But Meguru was always in a corner by himself. Even when you invited him over, your classmates would smile awkwardly at his nonchalant comments, or find reasons to drift away.

“He’s weird,” one of your classmates confided in you, one hand cupped around her mouth. “He talks to himself sometimes, and he never pays attention in class. He’s not a bad guy, but… he should try to fit in more.”

She looked expectantly at you, as if offering you a gift. You backed away from her instead, your own smile strained. “I see. But I like Meguru the way he is. He’s not doing anything wrong, and I don’t see why he has to change.” 

Regardless of how the other students treated Meguru, though, you were determined not to let it affect you.

You were the only one to greet him in the hallways, and to sit by him during lunch. In the warm weather, the two of you would sit side by side in a secluded corner of the classroom, or try to find a place to sit outside under the shade of some trees. You walked home with him (because he preferred to dribble his football on the way, instead of taking a ride in your car), and walked to school with him, asking the driver to drop you off in front of his house. You dragged Meguru to study with you, somehow pulling him through each exam by the skin of his teeth, because you refused to imagine a situation in which the two of you wouldn’t be in a class together. Your classmates started joking that if they wanted to find you, all they had to do was call Meguru’s name, and you would pop up expectantly. 

It was shaping up to be a good three years of middle school. You would graduate on time at this rate, and go to high school together. The only issue, though, was something that took place during the start of your third year of middle school. A classmate of yours had asked you to meet him after school, surrounded by two of his friends who grinned and elbowed him as he rubbed his neck, refusing to look you in the eye. 

You didn’t think much of it at the time. When you showed up at the classroom, he turned to you with a sudden desperation, face red, and bowed. 

“Please go out with me!” he said. “I’ve had a crush on you for the past two years!” 

“Huh?” You gripped the straps of your bag tighter. “You… you like me?”

He bowed even more deeply at your confused tone. “Is it no good? Do you not feel anything for me?”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t like you in that way. I’m sorry,” you said gently. 

The boy groaned. “I knew it. It’s because of Bachira, right? The two of you are always together. I don’t stand a chance against him.” 

“Because of Meguru?” you repeated. 

The boy nodded. “You like each other, right? It’s obvious. Man, I shouldn’t have tried to get in between that.”

You couldn’t find the words to deny him or to fix the misunderstanding, even after the two of you parted. You and Meguru? Of course you liked him. He was your best friend. 

But you couldn’t let go of that boy’s words. You mulled over them, again and again. Like clothes that no longer fit quite right, your relationship with Meguru had changed shape before you had noticed. Somehow, that boy was the first to notice.

You always waited for Meguru to finish soccer practice, no matter how late it ran. Sometimes you had student council duties, or you would just sit cross-legged and work on your homework as he ran around the field. You’d done this for all three years of middle school, and the entire team knew you by name. The coach would jokingly ask if you were okay if you ever missed a day of practice, calling you an honorary member of the team. 

Today was no different, and you made your way to the soccer field to wait for him. Without fail, when Meguru finished, the first thing he did was whip his head around, looking for you. As soon as he did, he made a beeline straight to you, without a care in the world. 

He threw his arms around you from behind, causing the two of you to tumble into the grass. You shrieked, and he laughed, and you were a tangled pile of clinging limbs and grass stains.

It’s what he did. It’s what he was like. So why did your heart burst like a thousand butterflies into flight, reacting to his touch? He’s always been touchy. Your classmate was getting in your head. 

“There you are!” Meguru said, looping his arms around your neck, heedless of who was watching, even if the team was used to his antics. “Let’s go home now!”

When he nuzzled his head into your shoulder, you couldn’t move, skin hot wherever he touched you. 

“Okay, let’s go home, Meguru,” you said softly.

As soon as you went home, you sprinted past your mom to leap onto your bed and hug your pillow. You liked Meguru. You liked him so much, and it was so obvious now. It was the most natural stage for your relationship to progress to. Maybe you had always liked him, and you just didn’t have the words for it until now. Meguru had always been the most special person in the world to you, and that idea had simply taken on a new shade of meaning.

He had promised to be with you forever, hadn’t he? And Meguru would never break a promise to you.

You were careful not to let Meguru know your feelings over the following months. It would be embarrassing if he discovered them so soon, especially when it had taken you so long to realize them. But everyday after you went home, you would list all the things he had done that day, like touching your hand and hugging you, and calling your name three different times during history class. Everything about him felt so much more special now. 

You liked him. You liked him so much. And you had to do something about it before graduation. As the months dripped by like water falling from a melting icicle, you planned when to make your move: on the most romantic day of the year. 

During Valentine’s Day, you splayed your bandaged fingers across your desk in anticipation, your gift wrapped neatly in your backpack.

It had taken you all week to make the chocolates, which you had painstakingly molded into chocolate hearts. Since it was the first Valentine’s in which you were giving someone chocolate, you had delicately filled each heart with different fruit flavored jams– strawberry, orange, and even pineapple, Meguru’s favorite. The chocolates were nestled in a bag of pink cellophane and white tissue paper, with a red ribbon neatly tied in a bow on top. You had refused help from everyone, even the chef and your mom, because it was more special if you did it by yourself. 

You hadn’t been able to stop bouncing in your seat all morning, nervous energy thrumming through you as the teacher’s history lecture went in one ear and out the other. The chocolates burned like a secret in your school bag, and you couldn’t resist fiddling with the zipper, constantly sliding it down to make sure the gift was still there.

When lunch finally rolled around, like an anxious puppy, you jumped out of your seat and headed straight to Meguru, who was sleeping, his head buried in his arms and doodles scattered across his notebooks like stars.

“Meguru,” you said, shaking his shoulder. “Meguru, wake up. Class is over.”

“Uh?” Meguru blinked one slow, sleepy eye at you, before stretching. “It is?”

“Yes. I have something to show you,” you emphasized. “It’s a surprise.”

“What is it?” He sat up, staring at you expectantly. 

You glanced around the classroom; only a few people were still in their seats, eating homemade lunches and chatting with their friends, heads bent over magazines or phones. Reaching in your bag, you fumbled for the chocolates, hands trembling as you presented them to Meguru.

“Chocolate? Wow, thanks!” His eyes lit up as he reached for the bag, untying it and shaking a few of the hearts into his hand. He popped them in his mouth, his lips curling up in bliss. “These are so good!”

“I made them myself,” you explained shyly. “It took a while, but… I wanted to do something special for you, Meguru.”

He stuffed another chocolate into his mouth. “Thanks! You’re the best friend ever!”

Your face twitched at his choice of words, but you still plowed on. “Well… These aren’t just any chocolates, you know? Do you remember what day it is?”

“Uh…”

“It’s Valentine’s,” you supplied impatiently. “So, um…”

“These are friendship chocolates?” Meguru asked, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.

“No.” Your hands were clammy now. It was just Meguru. Meguru, who you’ve known forever. Meguru, who promised to be by your side. Meguru, who understood you more than anyone else in the world. Why were you so afraid? He’d never hurt you.

“Can I share these with my mom?” Meguru continued innocently. “I think she’d love ‘em, too.”

“No!” Meguru stared at you, and your cheeks burned. “Sorry. I can make some for Bachira-san later. But these are special, Meguru. They’re… they’re not friendship chocolates.”

A sudden hush descended over the classroom. You were on a stage, a bright, hot spotlight beaming down on you and making your neck sweat. This wasn’t anything like what you read about how confessions went in shoujo manga. Meguru’s clueless eyes burned into you, and it was like he didn’t understand the script you were trying to read for him.

Meguru ate another heart, gnashing it beneath his teeth. “Eh? What other kind of chocolate can they be?”

You forced the words out. “They’re… they’re romantic.  I’m confessing to you. I like you, Meguru.”

Your breathing was shallow, and your heart beat like a frightened animal. You couldn’t look at him anymore, and the heaviness of your words dropped like stones onto the floor. 

“Oh. Um… I’m sorry.” The awkwardness in Meguru’s voice was too much. You backed away from his desk, tears burning at the corner of your eyes. When you looked up, you could see your classmates, feigning disinterest as they purposefully avoided your gaze. 

You burst out of the classroom, ignoring the sound of Meguru’s chair screeching back as he yelled after you, “Wait!”

You were fast, but Meguru was faster. You skidded down the steps wildly, taking several at a time, and you were half down the landing when Meguru caught up to you. He called your name at the top of the stairs, but you refused to look back– and then, he landed in front of you, breathing heavily, shirt sleeves rolled up. He had jumped down an entire flight of stairs to catch up to you. 

Meguru called your name. “Wait! Wait, wait.”

You turned your head away, but you could still sense Meguru in front of you. Your childhood friend. Your best friend. You had drawn hearts around his name in the back of your notebook this morning.

“What is it?” you said softly. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe Meguru had just been surprised, and now he would confess his feelings.

 It was a joke, right?” he said uncertainly. “You were joking. It was a weird joke, but–”

“I wasn’t joking!” you yelled, shoving him backwards with a wild strength that surprised you. You haven’t been this mad at him since you first met. 

Meguru stumbled back a few steps, watching you with wide eyes. It was an expression you hadn’t seen on him before: confused, lost, and afraid. Shouldn’t you be the one making that face?

“Okay. Um. It’s just weird if our relationship changes like that. You and me? That’s kinda weird,” he said again. “We’re friends! I don’t want to be anything else.”

You dug your nails into the meat of your palm until the pain was all you could think about. “I don’t want to be friends.”

“Huh?” Now Meguru looked even more afraid.

“I like you, Meguru,” you said, a broken sob in your voice. “I can’t just be friends with you. I…”

Meguru stepped closer to you. There was a starburst of hope in your chest, before it was dashed by Meguru dropping your Valentine’s Day chocolate in your hands. You curled your fingers over the hearts, crushing them in your palm.

“I don’t want to do this,” Meguru mumbled. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear anything, okay?”

“You’re a coward,” you said furiously, pushing all your hurt into your voice. You weren’t sad. You weren’t going to cry. Not especially in front of him. “I– I don’t want to see you again. Don’t talk to me. You liar! You said you would always be by my side!”

When you looked down the stairs, you could see a few of your fellow students, awkwardly hovering near the bottom of the landing. They averted their gazes when they met your eyes, but your whole body felt hot with rage and embarrassment. How many people had seen and heard the two of you? By tomorrow, everyone in school would probably be gossiping about how you were rejected by Meguru.

You ran. You ran, and this time, Meguru didn’t stop you as you jumped down the stairs. Somehow, you made your way home. You started listlessly at your phone, but there was no message from Meguru. You had been the one to tell him not to contact you, but… you threw your phone onto your bed.

Stupid Meguru. Stupid you. It had never occurred to you that Meguru might not feel the same way as you. You had been so arrogant, so certain that he liked you, and now you had embarrassed yourself in front of the whole school. 

Did he forget? He promised to marry you. But that had been on a childish whim of his, no doubt, something he had long forgotten. You buried your head in your arms, and cried until you could drown the entirety of Chiba in your tears.

When your mom came home that night, a frown was brewing on her face, but the sight of your puffy eyes and hoarse voice stopped her lecture.

“What happened?” she asked you. “The school called me. You skipped classes.” 

You shook your head. “I want to study abroad for high school.”

“What? Are you sure? You were so excited to go to school with Meguru-kun. The process would be–”

“I don’t care,” you said. His name stung your heart. “I want to go to America, Okaa-san. Please.”

She peered at you closely, then sighed. “Okay. Okay, let’s talk about this later. But if you really want to, then it’s not too late to make it happen.” 

For the rest of your time until graduation, you avoided Meguru. You didn’t text him. When you saw him in the halls, you turned around and went a different way. You stuck closely to your other friends, and went home right away whenever you didn’t have any extracurriculars. You no longer visited the football field after school. 

No one was cruel enough to talk about your confession to your face, but you could feel the glances, hear the whispers, until everyone lost interest and moved on to the next piece of gossip.

A part of you expected Meguru to come running to you, but he quietly kept out of your way. Maybe he was avoiding you, just as much as you were avoiding him. What an odd thought; Meguru had always been the first to whine when you had to leave to visit your grandparents for the summer. He was the one who always threw his arms around you. Maybe your relationship hadn’t meant that much to him after all.

When it came time for you to move to America, you and Meguru graduated middle school without talking to each other at all. 

–

For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to talk to Thomas about Bachira.

In fact, you haven’t told any of your American friends about Bachira. You spent the first year in California trying to forget him, blindly agreeing to go on dates with any boys who showed interest in you. But their love for you was never greater than your own lack of it. Thomas is only the most recent one and you follow his lead, not out of loyalty, but convenience. 

You keep your thoughts held tight to your chest, precious secrets that you refuse to let spill out of your grasp. With everyone in your life, sometimes even your mom, you have always put up a front. The only person you didn’t do that with was with Bachira. 

Bachira is an open wound, one that grows bigger with every year, overwhelming you with its enormity and the way pressing on it still makes you ache. Your friends would laugh if you told them you were hanging on to a boy for so long, nursing this pain like your own child. They wouldn’t understand, and you would look pathetic in their eyes. There are no words in English or Japanese to describe what he means to you. His hold on you is as eternal as the way the flowers bloom during the spring, and the world revolves on its axis. 

The rest of spring break passes in a flash. You hardly run into Bachira anymore, and your mom doesn’t force any more meetings. You email Thomas, who responds with boyish enthusiasm even at your dry answers. 

The night before your morning flight, you rush up and down the stairs, sorting your various toiletries and stuffing clothes into your suitcase. 

“All ready?” your mom asks you, nursing a mug of tea at the counter, watching you bustle.

“Yes, Okaa-san,” you say obediently. She holds open her arms, and you stop by for a hug, her arms enveloping you. She runs a hand in circles along your back, humming to herself.

“You’re such a good child,” she says affectionately. “Come visit me again soon. I’ll be lonely without you.”

“Okay.”

“And…” She pulls back to peer into your eyes. “You’re a little too good to me. You should try to be more wild. Rebel, so I can throw up my hands in exasperation at you and complain to all my friends.” 

“I’ll try, so you have something to talk about with your coworkers,” you say, and she pinches your nose. 

“Don’t try. Just do it,” she scolds. “I’ll always forgive you for any silly mistakes you make.”

“Okay, Okaa-san,” you say. “If I break a law, I’ll let you know in advance to prepare my bail.” 

She smiles sadly. “You’re so old now. I wish you wouldn’t get hurt in life, but I can’t fix everything for you.” 

“The world isn’t that nice,” you agree. 

“You haven’t talked to Meguru-kun recently,” she says gently. “Did something happen?” 

You stiffen, your face shuttering closed. “We’re okay. We’re just busy.” 

She stirs the tea in her mug. “Okay. I won’t push you any further. Your life is yours to live. But I’ll always be here for you, if you need me.” 

She leans in to kiss you on the forehead, and you want to cry. From the way she hesitates, you know she wants to say something else, but she simply lets you go.

How long has your mom suspected that your relationship with Bachira isn’t as pleasant as you pretend it is? You rub your forehead as you rush upstairs, dumping the last of your items into your suitcase. You sit on top of it to force it closed as you start zipping up the side, when your phone buzzes.

Bachira? No, it’s Thomas. The header of the email causes you to drop your phone in surprise.

About our relationship…

You pick up your phone, skimming the email.

Can we get back together? You read. I miss you.

How fickle. He was the one who broke up with you, and now he wants to get back together right away as soon as it’s convenient. That might not be a bad idea, though. A relationship where you knew what was expected from you, a simple transaction, would be easy. 

Your phone buzzes again; it’s an incoming call. You stare at the caller ID for a few seconds, your surprised face reflected in the screen, before you answer, pressing the phone close to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Bachira says. “I’m outside.”

“What?”

“I’m outside your door,” he repeats. “Can you come outside? If not, I’ll come in.”

“Why are you here?” You stand, heart pounding. 

“Kaa-san told me you were leaving tomorrow,” Bachira says. “So I wanted to stop by.”

“Bachira…”

“Just for a little bit,” he persists. “That’s all you need to do.”

You sigh. “All right, fine. But only for a few minutes, okay?”

You hang up, pulling on a light jacket before you’re flying down the stairs, trading your house slippers for flip flops, and burst into the cool night air. The sun is setting, painting the sky in vibrant swatches of peaches and reds. There’s a cool breeze, sweet with the scent of new growth.

Bachira is leaning outside your family gate, a football tucked under his arm.

“What is it?” you ask him tersely, shoving your hands in your jacket pockets.

“You’re going back to America?” he says.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“When will you come back?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to university there,” you reply. You had planned to come back for summer break to see your mom, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Okay.” Bachira looks at the ground. “What about your boyfriend?”

“Why do you want to know about him?”

“Do you like him?”

“I… Sure,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. “We’re on break right now because he’s busy with football season, but we’re thinking about getting back together,” you add more strongly, and Bachira kicks at the ground.

“He sounds like a jerk. Why’d he break up with you if he just wants to get back together whenever he wants?”

“At least he’s clear with his intentions,” you say sharply. “And he doesn’t run away.” 

Bachira flinches, but it doesn’t make you feel as good as it should have. “... Shouldn’t…” he mumbles. 

“What?” You tilt your head to catch his words.

“You shouldn’t get with him again,” Bachira says, still kicking at the ground like he would dribble his football. 

“Why not?” You laugh, short and bitter. “How is that your business, Bachira? It’s not like you’re my boyfriend. We’re not even— we’re not even friends anymore.” 

No response. What did you expect? 

“I’m tired of this, okay?” you say softly. “All this stupid back and forth. We keep going in circles. If all we’re going to do is hurt each other, then let’s just end this here.”

Bachirs looks up at you finally, his gaze full of so much desperation and uncertainty. His chin trembles as he says, “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, more serious than you’ve ever heard him. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I rejected your confession. I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

Bachira might as well have stabbed you. “Do you think that’s going to fix things? You’re sorry? Now? After all this time? What’s that going to fucking fix?” you say, your voice rising with each word you spit out. 

“You didn’t call me, either,” Bachira says quietly. You flinch at the raw hurt in his voice, his overwhelming sadness. “You’re the one who just left without a word. You’re the one who ignored me. You were my only friend. You were my best friend.”

You chew your lip hard. Were. Not are. “I couldn’t face you anymore,” you say. 

“I thought our friendship was stronger than that,” he says.

“I guess it wasn’t.” 

“Do you really not want to be friends anymore?” 

“What do you think? You want us to go back to how we were before and pretend nothing happened? It’s too late. Everything has changed. There’s no going back,” you spit. “You broke my heart. I… I loved you.”

“Then why did you just leave so easily? If you loved me?” Bachira asks. “You ran away and didn’t even try.” 

“I could ask you the same,” you snap. “Just tell me it’s over. Okay? Reject me for good.”

“I can’t.” 

“Why not? It was so easy for you before.”

“Because I love you,” Bachira says desperately.

It’s the world’s cruelest joke. Bachira reaches an uncertain hand towards you, and you jerk back, tears rolling down your face and blurring your vision. He can’t touch you. If he does, you’ll break apart. “Don’t lie,” you say. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m not lying. I didn’t want to admit it before,” he says. “When you told me you liked me, I was scared by how I felt.” 

“Stop it.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says. “Things were changing so fast. You were my only friend, and if you liked me, then we couldn’t ever go back to being just friends.” 

“So you’re doing this to me now?” you say. The tears are still falling, and you hug yourself. You feel so weak and so young, all your surety stripped away. “You think you can do this to me?” 

I’m sorry,” he says. 

“You lost me either way,” you snap, “when you broke my heart like that.” 

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt, and I’m sorry I pushed you away.” 

You give a strangled laugh. “Really?”

“You don’t have to like me,” he says. “You can be as mad as you want. If you gotta go to America, that’s fine. If you– wanna be with someone else, too, if you don’t love me, that’s okay. We don’t even have to be friends, if you hate me. Just– can I please– can I love you? Is that okay? I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You’re so mean, Meguru,” you whisper. You can’t go forward until you confront him. You can’t go back because it’s impossible. Your fate has always been twisted by the boy in front of you.

You grab the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in your hands savagely, as you press your lips against his. It’s a short kiss, salty with the taste of your tears, and Bachira is too surprised to kiss you back. 

“Eh?” Bachira asks dazedly.

“You piss me off,” you say. 

“Uh?”

You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Meguru. I’m sorry I left you alone and that I ran away from you and that I gave up so easily. I was scared, okay? But… I never hated you. Ever.”

“You called me Meguru,” Meguru breathes. And then he throws his arms around your neck. 

“You’re so clingy,” you complain, hesitantly wrapping your arms around his back. You’ve missed his warmth, familiar and pleasant and gentle. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” 

“Sort of!”

“Pay attention!” 

“Okay. Well, let’s start over from the beginning, then,” he says. “We can do it again this time, and do it better.” He pulls back from you, clearing his throat. “Hi, I’m Bachira Meguru! It’s nice to meet you,” he says goofily, sticking out his hand.

“Hi.” You take his hand, giving it one shake, introducing your name. “Let’s… let’s be friends.”

“We can’t date?” Meguru asks, pouting, and you frown at him. 

“No. Not now,” you acknowledge. “I have to talk to Thomas properly about how I feel. And I’m going back to America tomorrow. And there’s so much that I have to sort through—”

Meguru leans in and kisses you mid-sentence, a quick, butterfly of a kiss that steals all the words from you. “We’ll be friends for now. And if you want, then we can try dating. And even marriage.”

“Married?” you sputter. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“You did,” he says nonchalantly. 

“From when we were kids,” you point out. 

“Eh? Does that matter? We promised, so we have to follow through on it.”

“Don’t tell me you were going to propose to me.”

“In the future,” he says. “We can’t get married before we’re adults.”

“Meguru,” you say slowly. “Were you seriously planning on proposing to me? Before even asking my opinion?” 

“What’s wrong with that? I thought you liked romantic stuff. Isn’t that romantic?” 

You grit your teeth. You move to grab his shoulders, but Meguru dodges your grasp and slides backwards. You lunge at him again, but he dances out of your way.

“Come back here, Bachira Meguru,” you yell. “Do you have any common sense?”

“Who needs that?” he says cheerfully.

It feels like your first meeting as kids, so long ago. No one else in the world can quite make you feel this way, for better or for worse. Frustrated, you chase after Meguru as he weaves out of your grasp and hops down the length of the sidewalk. This goes on for a little bit, and just when you’ve run out of steam, Meguru spins around. Before you can move, he leaps at you and gathers you into a hug, his arms around your waist.

“Meguru, cut it out,” you say, annoyed, but you don’t move out of his grasp.

“Hmm…” he says. “I’ve decided! I’ll come visit you in America!”

“What?”

Meguru nods to himself, satisfied. “It’ll be fun! I’ve never been out of the country before! Hey, do you think I could fit in your suitcase?”

“Obviously not!”

You take a deep gulp of the spring air, sweet in your mouth, the flowering trees sending a blessing of pink petals over you. You and Meguru. Meguru and you. It’s just like when the two of you were little, only you’re starting over this time. Nothing would ever be the same again, but what new things could you build instead? What sort of people would you be now? 

Let’s just say that it’ll be weird for you to wake up without a ‘good morning, did you eat yet?’ text from a certain billionaire’s son.

Backstory aside, Nagi’s not lounging around for once. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a freshly brewed cup of coffee in his hands from a brand you’re not familiar with. Judging by its fine print font and pastel color scheme, you assumed that Nana stopped by not too long ago. And his gaze isn’t leaving your sweater. Whatever, you’re probably not wearing it correctly anyway. Stupid rich people problems.

“It’s Reo’s,” you say, lightly, and scoot by him to place down the baked goods. “He accidentally gave me his sweater when he returned my things, that’s all.” 

It wasn’t an accident. Reo had made sure to spray that sweater with all the cologne he had. The sweater is warm, comfortable, and smells just like him. It’s nice.

Nagi gives you a look. It’s not a strong look, but it’s obvious enough to make your cheeks heat up. “Uh huh,” he deadpans before giving you a full up-down. “You’re wearing it, though.”

“Yeah, I am,” you shrug it off, trying to pretend that you don’t understand what the big deal was. 

Okay, yeah, your best friend suddenly kisses you and now you’re rethinking about your life choices since high school because you were so sure that you liked his other friend. And the fact that you kissed back? Was that supposed to happen? And you didn’t wear this sweater today in hopes of Reo seeing you, nope that’s not it. Reo doesn’t make you feel warm and fuzzy because this sweater does all of that. It’s a comfort thing and Reo doesn’t bring you comfort… right?

You apparently have some cheesy expression written all over your face, though, and that causes Nagi to pinch your cheek to snap you back to reality. “Suits you,” Nagi decides to end the topic before shifting to the main subject. “Reo’s out this morning.”

“I wasn’t trying to see him,” you grumble out, eyes narrowing as you fix yourself a latte and adding way too many shots of espresso to fight off your internal turmoil. You add a large serving of caramel syrup to balance out the bitterness and then top it off with a heavy serving of whipped cream, sighing happily as you get a mouthful of the sugary concoction within the first sip.

Nagi simply shakes his head and drains the rest of his drink in one go. “Well, he’s been talking about you nonstop, if that makes—” Nagi stops in his tracks when he watches your ears perk up. “—you happy…”

At this point, Nagi probably thinks everyone is in on a poorly executed inside joke, except for him. He doesn’t like it, but what can he do? His two best friends are now awkwardly pinning each other and neither of them are sparing him any details. Then again, he’s not sure if he wants all the details. So, instead of poking a dead fish around, he exits to the living room and throws on a weekly series that he’s been meaning to catch up on. These past two months have been quite tiring.

You eventually join him on the couch, body now running on full blast of caffeine and loads of caramel. “Sei, tell me everything that he’s said, please?” and you throw out your best attempt at puppy eyes because you know that Nagi has always been horrible at saying no to these kinds of things.

But maybe getting a girlfriend has changed him, somewhat.

“You’ll hear it from him, eventually,” Nagi simply answers, smiling.

Of course, regardless of how many times you repeat yourself, Nagi would spit back the same response. Since when did he start caring for Reo’s secrecy all of a sudden? Pretty lame. You zone out when an action sequence comes on the screen and begin texting Reo.

‘where are you’ You text over a character monologue in the background.

‘At some stores, picking up last minute gifts for later.’ Reo replies back with a series of emojis.

By ‘stores’, you would only guess it’s nothing but high-end designer stuff. ‘Gifts’ implying that he’s buying multiple for your family and relatives. ‘Later’ is when the two of you will depart on visiting your hometown for the weekend because it turns out Reo was actually serious about taking up your off-handed comment.

‘i told you not to get anything!!’ You send an angry emoji right after. 

Nagi is absolutely reading over your shoulder, too, and if looks could kill, you’re pretty sure you’d be in a million pieces, burning to bits on the floor. “Got a hot date with Reo, huh?”

“Well, you didn’t want to come and we’re not dating…” you huff before pushing him away. “And stop reading my texts!”

“Don’t text while I’m watching my show, it’s distracting.” Nagi shoots back, and you don’t really have an argument for that.

Though, you just glare at him until he eventually backs off and you go back to texting Reo, a bit more subtly, talking about various expensive gifts that he can get instead of showing up to your family doorsteps with diamonds and silk robes. You haven’t had anyone from the city come visit your hometown, so you’re a little nervous to say the least. Especially since someone accompanying you is several tax brackets ahead…though Reo wouldn’t judge you differently. Because he likes you, in more ways than one. Fuck.

You’re ignoring a lot of things happening right now, and bringing him over to meet your family is making you feel weird. Ugh, whatever.

In the end, Reo ends up returning half of his purchases because apparently designer bags and jewelry won't serve your grandparents that well in their everyday lives. So he opts to buy them expensive fruits instead. Fruits are already expensive in the country, so when Reo showed up with boxed grapes that costed more than your current outfit, you could've sworn your eyes were about to pop out of your sockets.

Reo should’ve known better than to wear anything remotely formal when he agreed to come visit your hometown. Tailored suits are expensive and difficult to replace and, from what he’s experienced within the past hour, the mud that’s been splattered all over his dress shoes and pants haven’t gone away no matter how much cleaning reagent he’s used so far. But complaints are off the table, no matter how much he absolutely wants to point out the sweltering heat and the lack of air conditioning in your home. 

The plane ride over wasn’t any better. You blatantly refused to use his credit card for first-class seating upgrades regardless how many times he’d begged you.

“It’ll only be a two hour flight, Reo. Plus, economy isn’t that bad.” You reasoned. 

Oh, but it was.

He’s a gentleman and gentlemen should always let others pick which seat they want first. Window seat was a non negotiable for you, and he didn’t really mind. What he did mind was the random stranger seated to his right.

Screen brightness — max.

Volume settings — max.

Chewing noises — sadly, also max.

It’s a miracle that he didn’t flag down an attendant and leave you for first class. Well, flight aside, landing happens and, inevitably, comes the next part.

“Are you enjoying your stay so far?”

Your grandmother comes into view, coming to Reo’s rescue with a sunhat and a bottle of water, and the basket next to her was already filled to the brim with all types of vegetable assortments from the garden. Reo graciously takes the hat and sips of the water before glancing down at his own basket, which is very much barren. He thought offering to help with harvesting will win him some brownie points, but he should’ve known how dirty it would get.

“It’s definitely different from what I’m used to, but it’s nice here.” He’s honest about the last part. 

The city doesn’t offer much in terms of parks and recreational activities and, despite the fact he’s pretty sure his button up is practically attached to his skin and that there’s probably a centipede (or two) crawling in his shoes, the whole nature thing is pretty serene. Your parents’ old home is a cozy cottage right off the side of the country road, surrounded by rice paddy fields with a wide range of mountains in the backdrop. Occasionally, Reo would see truck drivers making pit stops out in the front to either pick up a small shipment or make small talk with your grandfather — it’s completely foreign to him given that he’s so used to the stuffy business world. Seeing all of this makes Reo understand why some would enjoy a life of simple living and solitude. 

Your grandmother laughs. “We were afraid that you wouldn’t like it here.”

To this, Reo digs his hands back into the soil and pulls out a set of carrots in hands. “Sorry, did I give off that impression?” Says the boy who’s currently dressed head to toe in formal wear. Idiot. 

“Our granddaughter has been…” she trails off for a moment, finger pursed to her lips and head tilted, before finishing. “She’s been blowing up the family group chat about this trip for a while now. Safe to say she’s been worried.” 

Oh. That’s news.

Reo wipes off the puddle of sweat from his face and straightens his back. “It’s beautiful and peaceful here, you wouldn’t be able to get this back in the city. Everyone’s been really nice and the food,” he points down to the field. “You wouldn’t be able to get these without them costing an arm and a leg for the sake of being ‘organic’.”

“Sounds like you want to move here.”

And for the sake of earning those brownie points, “Yeah, I can see myself doing that one day.”

“Imagine that. Can’t stay away from our granddaughter, right?” she teases, and it causes him to do a double take.

“W-What?”

She ignores Reo’s stammering and hands him a pair of gloves and a metal bucket. “Once you finish picking the rest, come meet me by the farmhouse, the cows need some attention.”

Reo might have to rethink his career path after this trip.

“Can you tell your cousins to knock it off, please?” Your best friend is grumbling and hiding behind you for all things safety related.

One thing you forgot to mention, outside of the laborious work, is that your little cousins are an absolute menace to outsiders. The youngest one has been non stop terrorizing Reo around the house with a live grasshopper while the older one keeps throwing him glares and middle fingers. This has been going on right after dinner and Reo’s getting really sick of them and their chattering about how they hate seeing you with someone that needs ‘pampering’.

You huff and roll your eyes playfully. “You think I haven’t tried shutting them up?”

“Good point,” Reo groans from behind. He’s gripping your shoulders as if he’s on life support, shaking every time the youngest one raises the grasshopper closer. “Can’t you just give them an iPad or anything?”

“And what? So they can turn into those kids who stare at a screen all day? No thank you.” You tease, but you give your cousins a final stern look before getting to their eye level. 

Reo watches, silent but amused, as you pluck the insect out of the boy’s grasp and pinch his cheek with a light tug, not enough to shed tears but enough to cause him to yelp. You motion the older one over, who just grumbles under his breath but obeys anyway.

“Big sis, we swear we’re just playing together—” the older one starts, and you simply respond with a hard head shake.

“That’s not how we treat guests in our home. Last time I checked, you guys didn’t like it when I made you clean out the pig pen for fun,” you retort with a casual grin. “Time to head back to auntie’s place anyway, it’s way past your bedtimes.”

Both of them sigh in defeat, but that doesn’t stop them from throwing up a pair of middle fingers at Reo. Hey, down with the rich — they’re on the right track in life. And you know deep down they’re just looking out for you ever since your experience in high school, even if the hatred towards city folks is on the extreme side.

You’re stifling a laugh as the pair leave the house. Reo loosens his grip on your shoulders when they are out of ear shot and nudges your sides because you still have that damn grasshopper in your hands.

“Puke or cry in my house and I’m making you sleep with the cows tonight.” The threat is spoken casually, with a bit of affection to it, but Reo knows damn well it’s a valid threat.

“I’m not going to puke or cry,” he replies, haughtily. “And, for the record, I helped the cows earlier today so I’m practically their mother.”

“Oh yeah, thanks for that, you didn’t have to.” You gently toss the grasshopper out the kitchen window, making sure it landed on a patch of soft grass. “Grandma was constantly raving about you after you finished. Saying something about planning the next weekend trip together.”

“Yeah, might as well help around, you know?” Reo weakly chuckles and briefly looks down at his hands. What he doesn’t add is that his hands are going to be sore for the next few days and that maybe your grandparents think he’s going to move in with them in the future. Something of that sort.

“It’s not the worst idea,” You grin. The sun is down, and the stars in the sky are starting to poke through. You catch Reo trying to get a good look before an idea pops up. “My room has a pretty good view of everything, if you want to head up?” You would offer to lay outside but, considering that the ecosystem here offers much bigger bugs, you decided against it.

Unsurprisingly, Reo takes up on the suggestion.

Your old bedroom is sparsely furnished, and that’s intentional. Most of your personal belongings are currently at your college apartment. All that’s left is a full sized bed, an old boxy television with an equally old boxy stand, a couple of bookshelves stuffed full of children's books, and one of those large colorful beanbags by the window sill. 

It’s a nice bedroom, for all things considered. A lot more vibrant and has more character than Reo’s old bedroom growing up. From what he’s shown you before, his bedroom was almost a black and white minimalist’s wet dream. 

“It’s a bit dusty, hope you don’t mind.”

Your bedroom window has a nice view of the mountain side, and Reo’s quickly distracted by the swarm of fireflies and night stars as he quickly shoves his suitcase into the corner and settles on your bed without a second thought. 

“I like it,” He replies, in a careful, casual voice. And maybe it’s just your imagination, but you swear, your best friend sounds both anxious and excited, and maybe there’s a hint of nerves in there, too. Whatever it is, your stomach is back to doing those weird flips.

You try to think. You’re aware of several things right now. First, your best friend is making himself very comfortable in your bed. Second, he’s giving you a look, one that just screams some sort of smug superiority. Third, despite it being humid and warm in your room, you really just want to bury your face into his shoulder. Maybe you should climb in with him, look at the stars together, curled up and snuggling, maybe even run your fingers through his hair, and—

“So,” Reo interrupts and snaps you out of your strange reverie. “You’re sleeping on the floor, right?”

“Huh?” your voice is bleary, and your thoughts are kinda far off. Reo shuffles his way under your sheets and suddenly you put two and two together. “I saved you from those little demons and this is the thanks I get?” 

“I deserve it since I worked,” Reo sighs, dramatically, when you finally find the courage to sit down on the ends of the mattress. “Or did you want to share it together?” Tease oozes into his tone.

That last bit makes your heart skip a couple of beats. Alcohol wasn’t in the dinner mix and, even if it was, Reo would never be this bold in front of you. Perhaps there’s something floating in the summer air.

“Stop pretending that you live here,” but you eventually settle yourself underneath the blankets too, just on the other side to put some good inches in between.

Reo’s smiling, and that’s all that matters. It doesn’t bother you when he manages to hog all the blankets and the limited amount of pillows. He’s a gentleman, but also has his needy side that he’s not afraid of showing. Not to mention that he looks good in the dim lighting, even though he’s only been wearing one of your grandpa’s old t-shirts after working in the field. It finally makes the strange fluttering in your stomach calm into a steady, present warmth, and that’s maybe more problematic, but you don’t give it any real thought.

Reo speaks up after a few passing heartbeats. “Can I… say something?” 

You swallow thickly. “Go for it.”

It can’t be just your imagination, the way Reo’s mouth parts, just a little, the way his tongue is dating out to wet his lips. You’re leaning forward, hand reaching down between. You can’t stop looking at him. 

“I want…” Reo tries to say, but his throat is a giant lump.

“Reo,” You breathe out in response, head tipping, “If you keep looking at me like that, then…”

It comes in swift moments, with Reo pressed close, with both of your hips bumping together, with arms slung over the other’s shoulder. There’s been those moments of laughter, where it feels as if the whole world has faded away in a blur beyond the gaze of your best friend. It’s cliche and dumb, but you feel, in a way, that you’ve been looking at Reo for your life. And you have, really, because he’s always been there for you.

There’s a lot of things that Reo could say. They’re burning on his tongue, building in his throat, getting stuck there. He should just push them out, just say it. Or, maybe, he should say nothing at all, because that wonder and those answers are all reflected in your gaze.

Both of you are so close that he can make out every strand of your lashes. He can see the subtle shift of color in your eyes, the dark band increasing around your pupils, that slight nervous glimmer there. It’s got Reo’s heart pounding in his chest, hammering to be freed. He’s got one hand pressed into the small of your back, stroking there, slow and affectionate. His other hand is trembling, just a little, and he steadies himself bracing it against your cheek.

It’s got you shivering, and Reo realizes that you’re both a bit terrified.

“I want to be yours,” Reo might be nervous as hell, but he steels his voice, and brushes your lips together, he’s so close, when he talks. “I can’t think about anything else when I’m with you. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but—”

“Reo,” you take the initiative here, shifting closer, and settling your lips close to his neck. “It’s okay. I want you too.”

You take another inch forward and Reo allows it. Maybe you’re both getting more comfortable with each other. Maybe getting brave and feeling more grown up. Likely, it’s a combination of everything, and a good dose of ‘fuck it’s, from being young, and dumb, despite it all.

You’re not sure who leans in first but, before it even fully registers, his lips glide over yours. There’s some awkward teeth clacking involved, probably from the fact both of you are way too full of nerves over this, but Reo fixes it and begins to trace his tongue over the small opening of your lips. You move your hands straight to his locks, still damp from the earlier shower he took and the scent of lemongrass and citrus invades your nostrils.

Reo's kissing you as if he wants to swallow you whole. It's hungry, desperate, and intimate in a way that made your heart swell triple in size. The sounds of your beating chest floods your ears as he's pouring his emotions into the kiss, making sure that he's leaving behind evidence that his soul is yours to claim. The heat radiating off his body pulls you in, like an invitation, and you sink further into his touch.

After a moment, you pull back, hands still entangled in his hair.

“Your parents, aren’t you worried about—”

“I don’t pay mind to that type of stuff,” he presses a firm kiss on your forehead. “And you shouldn't have to either. That’s a future thing to worry about.”

That sounds good, you agree, but you’re growing too sleepy to voice it. Instead, you shut your eyes, reaching over blindly to find the edges of the blankets, tugging it up over you two. There’s really no way to move, without cramming at the edge of the mattress. You don’t care, and Reo doesn’t seem to, either.

“Hey, Reo?” You mumble as you both slip into silence.

“Yeah?” He’s tried, but awake enough to shake past the exhaustion, enough to form vague words. “What is it?”

You sit up, just a little, and it’s enough to inspire Reo to force his eyes open. You’re watching him, eyes intent, shining bright with emotion. It’s almost — just almost — enough to have Reo saying those three special little words. They’re right there, on the tip of his tongue, and only then he realizes that he’s terribly in love with you. He’s hopelessly in love. It’s way too early to say it, but he is.

You laugh, burying your face in Reo’s neck again, pressing a kiss there. “I’m glad that you’re here with me.”

Reo has hesitated a lot, during the past months. It’s taken him a while to get here. For once, though, awake or dreaming, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t hesitate. 

“I’m glad too,” he mumbles, and then, he’s dreaming, of endless what if’s and possibilities with you now in his life.

© 2023 DOOBEA. do not copy any of my writing and translate/repost.

additional note: idk why it took me over a month to pump this out LMAO but i hope you guys like the ending bc i was mulling over this chapter so many times before deciding to end it as such... anyways, I WILL BE BACK INTO MY BLLK FIC GROOVE HEHE gotta focus on my milestone fics + that ice skating rin series next :3 i love you guys and thanks again for being patient with me ;3

TAGLIST -CLOSED

"and since when did the nagi seishiro care about looks?" you stated, at least trying to lighten up the mode.

"I don't, i care what you think." he explained.

you were taken off by his words that causes the sleep to flow away. you never thought that the day will come and nagi ask you a question like that, you didn't remember saying anything about his looks specifically about him being dreary looking, his eyes remained dry and drained, like something was eating him alive that it didn't allow him to close his eyes. you were never hesitant to tell him he looked handsome showering him with compliments. so whats that about?

he still refuses to meet you eyes, was he afraid to see the look at your face? or hear the words that will come out next? even someone that lacked emotions like nagi could be sorrowful sometimes.

"well, if you asked me." you moved your body closer to him until you felt your shoulder touching his, you cupped his ear and whispered gently. "i think you're the only one ever."

nagi finally turned to lock his eyes with yours, his resting eyes were now slightly wider and his mouth as well, "really?" he blurted when his ears felt heart hot.the sudden change almost made you laugh, he looked so elated like a puppy that just got his treat.

you two were close, almost nose touching each other's. the closeness never bothered you neither will it now, you nodded with smile that made his heart flutter. he felt warm again.

"even if a if i wore that ugly sweater you hate with passion?" he asked playfully.

"I'd still think you're the only guy ever." you admitted.

"even with that hideous cowboy hat?"

"yes sei, even with that hideous cowboy hat."

"wow, you must reallly love me." he said mischievously and you roll your eyes playfully. "shut up, and i also love you for what you have in here." you patted him on his left chest, pointing to his heart.

"....my chest?"

"your heart, dumbass!"

"ooohh." he shook his understandment. you couldn't help but chuckle a bit, seriously how is this guy considered a genius?

your laughter made his black and white world into something colourful, melting his iced heart and colouring his unoccupied soul. he never thought having someone to think of him more than a genius soccer player would make him feel this alive.

damn, he was absolute smitten wasn't he?

"did that satisfy you? can we go back to sleep now?" he turned to you now sluggish figure, barely able to keeo one eye opened.

"i wanna hold you." he said as you turned around giving him you back, he took your silence as an approval to warp his arms around stomach holding you as close as possible, his massive body taking over yours. it didn't hurt to give you a couple of kisses before sleeping, right?

"quite the kisses..i wanna sleep sei." you mumbled while his lips kept smashing against every inch of your face.

"just one more."

he didn't stop at one, or two, or three..

"i only have eyes for you too.." he doubted you heard that.

Honestly, you wouldn’t normally have been allowed into a place like this; the security guards would have taken one look at your sneakers and chain store jeans and told you to go home. But you’re not here as a guest. No, your sister has hooked you up with a gig as a caterer, so you’re actually one of the invisible waitstaff in a stiff black vest and white collared shirt, drifting amongst the crowd, serving rich people their fancy little foods.

“It pays well,” your sister had pronounced, batting her eyelashes at you. “Come on. You’re always strapped for cash. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

“And if it’s so good, why aren’t you going?” you had asked her dryly. 

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t have the time. Otherwise I’d be hustling with you. Come on, do it for me! It’ll be fun! The place will be nice, promise!” 

Nice is an understatement for how decadent the place is. If you were to break something here, you think your family would be in debt for the next seven generations over. But since you’re captive to your need for money, you try to skirt past the pricer decorations. 

Still. Your sister is right in that this is a simple, and more importantly, well-paying, gig. Get in, walk around aimlessly with a platter in your hand, and get out. That’s all you were looking forward to, really: the paycheck at the end of this. You vaguely recognize some of the guests– probably from the news or on social media, A-list celebrities and trust fund babies– but you don’t care enough to take a closer look.

It’s been a few hours into your shift, and your arm is starting to cramp from carrying around a silver plate for most of the evening. The little shrimp on your plate are dwindling, and you rotate around the room slowly one last time to tempt people to grab your food. Then, you can take a break and put up your feet, and maybe sneak a little bit of the fancy food to try yourself; after all, you heard that some of the ingredients were imported straight from Europe.

You pass by a pack of guests knotted together near a table, and one of them bumps into you with enough force to make you stumble, some youngish looking man in a white suit and slicked-back bleached hair. He barely spares you a glance. 

“Watch where you’re going or I’ll get you kicked out,” he snarls.

“Right. Sorry, sir,” you say blandly, fighting back the urge to strangle him and ask “who the hell do you think you are?” Your sister has warned you to stay out of trouble, after all.

“Don’t bother the waitstaff, Takei-san,” someone says just as Takei sneers, opening his mouth to berate you some more, probably. He looks the type. But Takei’s head swivels back around so fast it makes you dizzy. You crane your head, just in time to catch the owner of the voice: a boy with a flute of fizzy water in his hand. He’s cute, with uneven bangs and a dove gray suit, and probably around your age, if not a little older.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mikage-san,” Takei simpers. “Ah, but we have more important matters to discuss, don’t we? What do you think about meeting my sister? She’s lovely, and she’s around your age. Just say the word, and I can arrange a meeting!” 

Mikage? Is that the boy’s name? It’s familiar. You’ve seen it on social media a few times; maybe this boy is a lot more famous than you thought. He’s a corporate heir, if you remember correctly. Mikage catches your eye and inclines his head, as if to say you were free to go. 

“I would have to think about it, Takei-san,” Mikage replies, turning back to Takei. If there’s one thing you can pride yourself on, it’s how to read people, and there’s plenty to dissect from Mikage’s tense body posture. There’s a smile on his face, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. In fact, he looks a little bored, underneath that veneer of politeness. Bored, and strangely vacant, as if the uppercrust of Japan’s society weren’t more interesting than the blades of grass outside of his window.

Normally, you would shrug, go “that sucks for him,” and run back to the break room as soon as you could. The problems of fancy rich boys aren’t really your business. But it’s been a long night, and you’re a little antsy (your troublemaking instinct, as your sister calls it). That, and maybe you’ve watched too many romcoms and dramas with your sister recently, too, because he’s cute. And, well, you should at least try to help out the guy who helped you, right? Tic for tat, and all that, even if it was a small thing on his part.

But none of your justifications to yourself really matter, because you’re already sliding your way into the crowd until you’re at Mikage’s elbow, saying, “sir?”

He inclines his head at you without really looking at you. “Yes?”

“There’s someone looking for you,” you say blandly. “They were impatient. It seemed important.”

“Hm? Did they tell you their name?” Mikage asks.

“Didn’t quite catch it, but it’s urgent,” you stress.

Mikage’s eyes widen, just slightly, and you can see the puzzle pieces coming together in his head. He must have picked up on what you were doing, because he nods gravely, and says, “I should head over, then. It’s probably Yasuhiro-san. Can’t keep a board member waiting.”

“Ah, but Mikage-san–” Takei’s mouth is slightly slack, and he glares at you when you catch his eye. What did you even do to him? Is he mad that you’re taking Mikage’s attention off of him?

“I should go.” Mikage extracts himself from the crowd, who all groan in disappointment. As the two of you leave, you make sure to subtly dig the heel of your shoe onto Takei’s foot, who yelps.

“What the– Did you just step on– Hey! Stop!” 

But you’re speeding off with Mikage at your side, and you try not to grin when you imagine Takei’s red, angry face. 

Mikage snorts, but when you glance at him, he’s passed it off as a cough, turning his face into the crook of his elbow. “You’re a bit clumsy, aren’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say primly, and this time, Mikage doesn’t hide his laugh. To keep up your ruse, you lead Mikage into a hallway, where rows of imported European impressionist art stretch along the walls, your footsteps sinking into the plush burgundy carpet.

“So… I have to be honest,” you say. “There isn’t someone asking for your presence. I made it up to get you out of there. Surprise!” You wave your hands.

Mikage crosses his arms. “So why did you do that, then?”

“You helped me, so I helped you,” you say simply. “Besides, you looked bored.”

In the darkness, Mikage is reduced to shadowy shapes, but you can still feel the force of his gaze, like a lighthouse cutting through the darkness. He’s appraising you, and it sends tingles down your spine.

“Huh.” That’s all Mikage says, and you wonder if you passed whatever mental evaluation he was doing.

 The platter is still in your hands, and there’s still a few shrimp left, so you grab one and shove it into your mouth. You chew, savoring the freshness, and the tangy sauce it’s coated in.

Wait. It’d be rude to just eat in front of someone, without even asking if they’re hungry. You offer Mikage the plate. “Want one?”

“S… sure,” he says, carefully plucking a shrimp between his thumb and forefinger, before placing it on his tongue. The two of you pass the platter back and forth between each other until it’s empty.

“That was good!” You stretch your arms over your head. “I wanted to try at least some of the food at this party before I went home. There’s nothing else really going for this place. No offense,” you add. 

“None taken. You’re… huh.”

“Weird? Bold?” you supplement. “I’ve heard it all.”

“No, I was going to say you’re interesting,” Mikage says quickly.

You roll your eyes. “Interesting? Like a dog?”

“I would say you remind me more of a hamster,” Mikage says. 

“A hamster? Really? What if I bit you right now?”

“I’m not sure you could do much to me.”

“I wouldn’t want to damage my teeth, anyways,” you quip. The noise of the party leaks into the hallway, and you glance back through the door. “I should get back. I don’t want to give anyone an excuse to dock my pay.”

Before you can move a step, Mikage holds out a hand. He takes a breath, as if coming to some sort of internal decision. “Wait. What if… I hired you for something else?”

“For… what?”

“What if I hired you to stand around and talk to me?” 

You take a step back. “Um… I’m a first year in high school, just so you know. I don’t want to do anything weird.”

“Wh– No!” Mikage says, his veneer of poise sliding right off and shattering onto the floor. “I didn’t mean it like that! I’m not asking you to– I just– I’m only a second year!” he adds.

“Takei did offer to introduce you to his sister back there,” you say wryly, jerking your thumb towards the party. “And, like, I don’t know much about your life, but if you’re desperate enough for company, there’s dating apps. Just… uh… hang in there.”

Mikage runs a hand along his face. “I’m not desperate. I’m the most popular guy in my class, just so you know.”

“Okay…”

“I wanted to ask if you would date me,” he says, “Fake date me. Because people like Takei keep trying to jump down my back and draw me into political marriages. We can draw up a contract to make it official,” he adds hastily. “I just need someone to come with me to parties like this as my partner.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’re interesting,” he says simply. “Besides… you would get to eat as much shrimp as you want. Without having to sneak them off of plates.” 

“I don’t know,” you say coyly, looking down at your fingers. “I don’t really like doing boring things.”

“It won’t be boring.” Mikage takes a step towards you, confidence in his face, a hand on his chest. “I’ll ensure everyday is fun for you.” 

You can already imagine what your sister will say when you tell her what happened today. No doubt she and your older brother would both groan at your carelessness. What if this is some sort of prank, or fancy trick? Oh well! You’ll just have to take your chances. 

You stick out your hand. Mikage takes it without hesitation. “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal. But if it’s boring, then I’m going to leave you, Mikage,” you warn. 

“Hah. You’ll never have a reason to,” Mikage says confidently. “But call me Reo.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We just met, and you want me to call you by your first name? Moving fast, are we?”

“I’m going to be your fake boyfriend,” Mikage says. “Don’t tell me you’re already getting cold feet.” 

“Not at all. You can call me by my first name too, Reo,” you emphasize. “I’m looking forward to working with you.” 

Reo smiles, squeezing your hand once before firmly shaking it. “Likewise, partner.” 

Well. This certainly isn’t what you expected to get up to when your sister offered you the job, and there are a thousand ways this could blow up in your face. What if Reo is actually a bad person, and tried to sell your organs? Or his mother threw money at you and told you to leave her son because you aren’t good enough for him, just like in every drama you’ve seen?  

But this is the most exhilarating opportunity you’ve been offered in a long while. Exciting experiences, and fun opportunities: you’ve always been the first to jump onto those. Besides, Reo is cute, and this deal will definitely be a good story to tell your friends about later. There’s no way this could go wrong.

—

You’re usually never up before 10am, but somehow, at 8am a few days after the party you worked at, you find yourself at a little cafe in Shibuya, blinking blearily in the pale light. Reo, sitting across from you, has a cup of coffee steaming at his elbow, and you privately curse his poise and his nice polo and slacks. How dare he look so put together, especially when you just threw on some clothes from your floor.

“So,” you say, propping your elbows on the table, your cheek pressed against your hand, “What was so urgent that you couldn’t wait for a more decent hour to call me?”

Reo raises an eyebrow. “This is a decent hour. But I wanted to discuss the terms of our contract.” 

You stare at him blankly. He snaps his fingers. “Remember? Our deal?”

“Right.” You yawn, and Reo pushes his cup of coffee towards you.

“I haven’t drank any of it yet,” he says. “Have some.”

“So no indirect kiss for me?” you tease, but take a tentative sip of the brew. You wrinkle your nose; it’s bitter and dark, and it stings your mouth as it goes down. “You didn’t put cream in this.”

“I like the way coffee tastes naturally. Besides, the coffee they brew here is through a special drip pour method, to allow the beans to retain maximum flavor…” You take another sip as Reo rambles, and shudder. Well, you were definitely more awake now.

“So, what is this about a contract?” you say. 

“I want us to establish some ground rules for our deal, just so we’re both clear on the expectations and procedures for what we’re about to undertake,” Reo begins. He slides a packet of paper across the table, the kind that’s made with cardstock, thick and creamy. It’s neatly formatted, but your eyes glaze at the professional tone and the dry language of the text.

“All right, hit me with it, rich boy,” you say, slouching back in your chair.

“Well, I wanted to establish a basic time frame for our operation, as well as some ground rules, and cover some of the various scenarios you might encounter–” You put up a hand, and Reo pauses. 

“Do you have a pen?” you say bluntly. 

Reo fishes out a fountain pen from his bag. “I do, but why do you–”

You flip over the packet to the blank backside, and write down a number one. “So! I think it’s really nice of you to get this entire thing prepared for us, but this is too much. We’re high schoolers, and your rules are 15 pages long. Why don’t we make this easier on ourselves?”

Reo purses his lips. “I guess. For the sake of fairness, it’s probably better if we come up with rules together.”

“Great! So, rule number one. We’re going to be fake dating until you stop needing a date to your parties. That’s probably going to be when summer ends, so that’s when our contract ends. Rule number two. I’ll go with you to all your fancy parties, but you have to help me with, like, etiquette and clothes and what to say. I’ll just be your eye candy. Which I absolutely excel at, by the way. Rule number three. I’ll go to as many parties as you want, but you need to give me at least two days’ warning in advance. I have my own life, you know.” You scribble as you talk, and Reo nods at each of your rules. When you pause, you look up to see Reo with furrowed eyebrows.

“Add another rule,” Reo says seriously. “No falling for each other.”

You burst out laughing, dropping the pen in surprise. A few early morning workers stare at you as they walk past, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. “Seriously? Do you think this is a drama?”

“It’s a necessary precaution,” he insists, but his ears are red. “I just want to make it absolutely clear: this is all for show.”

You snort, but move to jot down the rule anyways. “No offense, but you’re not my type at all. That’s not going to be an issue. You’re kinda full of yourself, huh?”

“I’m not! I’m just saying with my specs, it wouldn’t be weird if you–” Reo falters at your pointed stare. “Listen. I’m used to all sorts of people coming up to me. It doesn’t hurt to be careful, okay?”

“Maybe you’re scared of falling for me, Reo,” you say, leaning forward and batting your eyelashes at him. “I understand, though. I’m pretty cute.”

Reo purses his lips. “And no offense to you, but you’re also not my type at all. I prefer people who are more mature.”

You throw your hands up in mock offense. “Wow! Only five minutes since our fake relationship began, and you’re already hurting my feelings.”

“My apology, baby,” Reo says in a cloying tone. “How on earth shall I make it up to you?”

You shudder. “For starters, don’t call me baby ever again. Ick.”

“I don’t–” Reo begins indignantly, but you quickly scribble your signature under your list of rules, before thrusting the paper at him. “What?”

“Sign your name,” you say, “So it’s official. Isn’t that how you business types like to do things?”

“We’re minors. Our signatures don’t count. But if you insist,” Reo says, signing his name with an elegant scrawl.

“Perfect! Now that we’re officially dating, what do we do?” you say.

“What about a date? A practice one,” Reo says hastily. A pity, because now you can’t tease him about how enamored he is with you. “It’ll be easier to act like a couple at parties if we’re more familiar with each other.”

“All right. Come pick me up in two days, then. And at noon,” you add, “Because I don’t want to do an early morning date.”

“What about right now?” Reo protests.

You throw him a withering stare. “First, I’m not dressed for the part. Second, neither of us are prepared. And third, what did I just say about early morning dates? We need a bit of planning time, rich boy, because dates are serious business.”

Reo holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. I got it. I’ll run our plans with you by tomorrow, at the latest. Sounds good?”

You smile. “Great! Sounds like you’ve already got being a good boyfriend down pat. See you in two days, boyfriend.”

—

If there’s one thing Reo is, he’s meticulous. After you part ways, you exchange phone numbers, and true to his word, he blows up your phone with a detailed plan of your first date. He’s so overzealous in planning that you remind him it’s just a practice date, and that it’s better to keep things casual, rather than the boating-fancy restaurant-live musicians extravaganza he has planned.

Two days later, when you ascend from the subway steps into the sticky summer heat and walk a few blocks until the concrete turns to greenery, you find Reo waiting at a nearby park, sunglasses on his face and a wicker basket under his arm.

“Welcome,” Reo says, making a half-bow. “I hope you’re ready for the date of a lifetime.”

“I’m giving you three stars of five,” you say.

“Wh– We haven’t gone on it yet! How can you rate me that low?”

“Two out of five,” you say. “Just for talking back to me and questioning my review.”

“Let’s just hurry up and go,” Reo grumbles. 

The two of you glide alongside blossoming trees, white flowers perfuming the air, and cross a stone bridge stretched invitingly along a river. The water rushes cold and clear across gray stones, a weeping willow trailing its graceful limbs on the opposite bank.

When you reach a narrow glade, Reo gallantly unfurls a blanket and spreads it along the grass. From the wicker basket emerges a rainbow of sandwiches, freshly cut fruit slices, and a thermos of tea.

He pours you a cup, and you take a sip as Reo settles down with a sandwich.

“You went through a lot of trouble to set up this contractual date,” you say, picking up a slice of skewered mango. “What’s the point? Couldn’t you just hire someone else?”

“Do you think I could set up an ad, announcing to the world that the Mikage heir is looking for a partner?” he says dryly. “Any of the other people I could have asked run in my parents’ business circle, too, so it wouldn’t have been convenient for me. And I’m not risking my own social standing at school by asking a girl from there. That leaves you.”

You twirl the mango around. “What if I was, like, a bad person, though? And I leaked your personal information or something?”

“I ran a background check on you. You came up clean.”

“What? Hey! That’s not fair. I didn’t get to run one on you,” you protest.

“I’m someone in the public eye,” he says. “Anything you want to know about me, you can look up online.” 

To be fair, you had googled his name when you got home after your morning meeting, and scrolled through his various public social media accounts. Not that he needed to know that. Wait, maybe he already did, if he ran a background check on you. Did he have access to your internet history? Okay. Maybe it’s better to stop thinking about that before you drive yourself insane.

“But that’s not the same as getting to know you. The person Mikage Reo is in public, and the person he is in private are two different people. Tell me something juicy. Like, why don’t you just reject any proposals thrown your way instead of getting a fake partner?” you say.

Reo spreads his hands. “Social maneuvering. It’s better to ward off people from sending proposals to me in the first place than it is to reject each and every person who approaches me.”

“Sure. That makes sense. So… then… Haven’t you ever been in love before?”

“What sort of question is that?” he says.

“I’m trying to get to know you,” you declare, “And I’m curious. You can ask me a question like that, too, if you want.”

“I can answer your question. It’s fine.” Reo pours himself a cup of tea. “Being in love… I haven’t. Not yet. I’ve never been interested in romance. Why, have you?”

“I wouldn’t call it love, but I did date a boy back in middle school. Not because I really liked him, but because he thought I was cute, and I liked him well enough as a friend. Didn’t last too long, though. Your turn for a question,” you add.

Reo takes a sip. “Well, I was wondering… do you have any hobbies?”

“That’s a pretty simple question. But I like scrapbooking and volleyball. I like making memories, and I like sports.”

Reo leans forward, a keen interest in his eyes. “Do you like football, then? I run the school’s football club.”

“I’ve only ever played a little with my older brother. He’s the bigger fan,” you admit. “Do you want to play a game one day? I bet I could demolish you.”

“Hah. As if. I’d like to see you try.”

“Don’t regret it later,” you warn, and he laughs. “What do you even like about football?”

“I want to win the world cup,” he says simply. “It’s my dream.” His eyes are reflective, and there’s an edge of seriousness to his tone, an intensity he’s never had before.

You pick up a cucumber sandwich, taking an experimental bite. “When you do, give me an autograph. I can sell it for a million yen.”

“No jokes? I thought you would tell me it’s silly.”

“Well, it sounds like it’s important to you. I’m not going to make fun of something you care about,” you say, amused, shoving the rest of the sandwich into your mouth.

Reo scratches the back of his neck, though there’s a pleased, cat-like smile curling on his face. “Thanks. Do you have a dream?”

“I don’t know if it counts, but I just want to have fun. I want to see new places, and to meet new people, and to experience all sorts of fun things. Isn’t that enough?”

Reo picks up another sandwich, handing it to you, which you demolish in one bite. “I think it is,” he says. “It sounds like you.”

You lick the crumbs off your lips. Reo is a lot more… different, than you thought a corporate heir would be. But it’s nice that it’s easy being with him. Easy, and fun. “I should thank you, actually. This contract is pretty exciting. I’ve never done anything like it before. Thank you, Reo.”

“I don’t know if this is something you should thank me for. But you’re welcome. Thanks for agreeing to go along with me,” he says.

You smile at him, sunshine warm on your shoulders. “So, when’s the first party, boyfriend? I’m pretty excited for it already.”

“Straight to business, huh? Well, it’s in a few days. I’ll text you more details later, and I’ll come pick you up. But hey, before that…” Reo offers you his hand. “Do you want to take a walk? Weather’s nice.”

“Oh! Make sure the car you come in to pick me up is real fancy, okay? My family’s going to be home, and I want to rub it in my brother’s face,” you muse.

“That’s easy. Who do you think I am?”

You don’t hesitate as you slip your hand into his. His grip is soft but strong, and when he pulls you up, for a second, all you can see is Reo, outlined by the glow of the sun.

—

When the sleek black car pulls up to the entrance of your house a few days later, your older siblings are crowded around the window, peeking through the curtains to catch the first glimpse of your date. Your sister whistles, while your brother’s jaw drops.

“What is this?” he says. “What–”

“It’s my date,” you say smugly.

“Your date? Someone wants to go out with you?”

You smack him on the shoulder. “Yeah, unlike you!”

“Does he have money?” your sister asks. “Because good going. Make sure you milk him for what he’s worth.”

“I just– what the hell? No way you got a date before me. And not in that– that car!” your brother complains, rubbing his shoulder, but you’re already skipping out the door.

“Great work, boyfriend,” you say to Reo, blowing him a faux kiss. He’s waiting for you outside the car, already dressed in a navy blue suit.

Reo has an irritating little smirk on his face. “What can I say? My wonderful partner told me to bring a fancy car, and I just had a hard time choosing which one.”

He pulls open the side door for you with an exaggerated flourish, and you slide in. The seats are smooth leather, and the AC is cranked to a cool temperature. There’s more than enough room for a dozen other people, and there’s a mini fridge in the corner that, when you open, is stuffed full of drinks. The windows are tinted, but that doesn’t stop you from rolling it down to wave at your flabbergasted brother before you go, your sister the only one to wave back.

“What do you want me to do at the party?” you say, settling into the supple leather. 

“Just stick by my side,” Reo says. “And try not to offend anyone.”

“Done, and done,” you say, throwing him finger guns.

After half an hour, you and Reo chatting to pass the time, the limo pulls to a smooth stop at the end of a gravel-lined driveway. It’s lucky that Reo is the one who helped to choose and sent an outfit to you prior to the party, because all the other guests lounging in the gardens or spilling out the wide open doors are dressed to the nines. You don’t even want to think about the costs of some of those clothes. The inside of the venue is sparkling so brightly that you almost can’t make out any of the decorations; it’s just gold on top of gold on top of gold, but there is, luckily for you, a buffet table in the corner.

As soon as the two of you step foot through the door, you’re swarmed by a pack of guests with glittery smiles. Reo swiftly takes your elbow, pulling you closer to him, and you discretely loop your arm around his.

“Who is this, Mikage-san?” someone says. An actress, you’re sure. Is she eying you with… envy? Okay, that is weird. Wow. You’re pretty sure she’s been nominated for several different awards.

“They’re my date for the night,” he says smoothly.

“How sweet!” the actress says, and after giving you one more side-eye, turns her attention back to Reo.

The rest of the night goes mostly like that, actually. People are curious about you– watching you with a mix of jealousy, judgment and disdain in their eyes– before marking you off as a non-threat and turning back to Reo. It’s exhausting, frankly. How does he deal with it? You’re no chump when it comes to social situations, but this is on a different level. All the fake smiles, the pointed lines, the constant appraising. It’s like being under an endless spotlight; everyone is waiting for you to slip up, just once, to tear you down.

When you glance at Reo, his eyes are distant again, just like they were at that first party. It’s not the Reo you’ve come to know, the Reo who teased you at the picnic and talked about his dreams.

“Cheer up, boyfriend,” you whisper in his ear, resting your hands on his shoulder to speak solely to him. “I think they’re serving shrimp tonight.”

“Oh, your favorite. This time, you don’t need to hide in a hallway to eat them,” Reo whispers back, the ice in his face cracking to reveal a genuine smile. “Let’s go get some.”

After waving off his admirers, the two of you head to the buffet, where you immediately pick up a plate and begin piling up food. Reo wanders off to grab the two of you some drinks.

“Hah? It’s you. They really just let anyone in,” you hear a sneer when you’re halfway through picking up a little chocolate pastry. You glance up, to see a man with slicked back, bleached hair glowering at you, disturbing your little food paradise. Hm? He looks somewhat familiar.

“Who’re you?” you ask, plopping the first pastry on your plate, and grabbing a second pastry just to be safe. Maybe Reo will want one.

“You really don’t remember?” he hisses.

“Huh?”

“You stepped on my foot at a party!” he whispers furiously. 

“You were being rude,” you say tartly. That’s enough food. You try to step past him, but Takei jostles you with his shoulder, forcing you back in front of him. 

“You were just a server. How the hell did you get in here?”

What the hell? Did Takei think he’s all that, with his self-satisfied smirk and crossed arms?

“I’m on a date, actually,” you say pleasantly. “I was invited here.”

“Hah? Who would be crazy enough to invite you? If you’re lying, then I’m going to get you kicked out of here, just you–”

“Hi, Reo!” you say loudly, cutting Takei off, waving at Reo, who, with perfect timing, has shown up with two sparkling peach-colored drinks in hand.

“Hm? Takei-san, when did you get here?” Reo says.

“Ah– Mikage-san–” Takei’s face pales as he looks from you to Reo, and back to you. “Is… is this person… your date…?”

“Yes,” Reo says, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. 

You bat your eyelashes at Takei, who looks like he wants to melt into the floor. For good measure, you turn to Reo with a fake little pout. “Reo, I think Takei-san was just saying something about only someone crazy would invite me here. How funny, don’t you think?”

“Very funny,” Reo says coolly. “But I think it’d be best not to make jokes like that about my date, don’t you think, Takei-san?”

“Right– of course– my apologies, Mikage-san,” Takei stammers. “I, ah, I would never think of… I won’t do it again.”

You pluck one of the pastries off your plate and offer it to Takei, who takes it with a twitching eye. “Enjoy the party, Takei-san,” you say in a syrupy sweet voice, watching as Takei stumbles off.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, you elbow Reo. “Nicely done, boyfriend,” you say.

“Takei has always been like that, but you shouldn’t have to put up with it,” Reo says. “Did he bother you?”

“Not too much!”

“I see.” Reo hands you a drink, but there’s a tiny frown twisting at the corners of his mouth as he watches Takei go.

There’s no more incidents after that, thankfully, but there’s a pensive look on Reo’s face that he can’t quite wipe off. What is he thinking? Should you ask? It’s not until the limo pulls up that Reo finally speaks to you.

“I’m sorry Takei was rude to you,” he says.

“It’s okay! It’s not your fault. Unless… you hired him to get on my nerves?” you tease, gravel crunching underfoot.

Reo looks uncharacteristically chagrined as he helps you into the car. “Why would I do that? Still, I put you in that situation, so… what can I do for you as an apology?”

You pretend to purse your lips in thought, tapping your finger against your chin. It’s cute how seriously he takes everything. “Well, Reo, have you ever heard of a little thing called grocery shopping?”

His eyebrows float upwards. “I’m not that out of touch. I do know what grocery shopping is. Do you think I was raised in an ivory tower?”

You grin. “Oh, we’ll see about that, Reo. Come pick me up on Saturday. 9am. Be sure to dress casually.”

—

Just as promised, Reo shows up outside your house at 9am sharp, dressed in a casual button up rolled up to his elbows and pressed slacks. He’s even smart enough to replace the usual limo with a more middle-class car, though it’s as sleek and polished as if it was bought fresh off the lot… which, now that you’re thinking about it, maybe it was. 

You snort as you size Reo up, flicking a glance up and down. You’re dressed much more casually, in shorts and flip-flops, and the tote bag you always bring to hold your groceries. “Slacks, Reo? Really?”

He holds up his hands in defense, a golden watch gleaming on his wrist. “What? You said dress casual. So I did.”

You roll your eyes, and when Reo opens the car door for you, you shut it. “That’s like business casual at best. You don’t have jeans? Sweats? You look like you’re taking a break from an office job.”

“Hey. I can’t help it if my standards are higher than other people.” Reo puts his hands in his pockets as you stride confidently down the pavement, and he falls into step beside you. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you grocery shopping,” you say expertly.

“... And you don’t want to drive there?”

“Most people do not drive the car to get groceries, rich boy. There’s a little thing called public transportation, you know. You’re going to learn to do it the old-fashioned pedestrian way.”

“Rich boy…” he mutters. “Can’t you just call me by my name? We are technically dating, you know?”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Exactly. We’re technically dating, so I’m just giving you an affectionate nickname.”

At this, he laughs ruefully. “Affectionate, huh?”

Maybe you’ve been a little too mean to him. You are fond of Reo, even if he makes it a little too easy to tease him. At the next opportunity, you casually loop your arm around his. Reo falters, but doesn’t break step, before pulling you closer. He smells pleasant, a warm citrusy scent, and he’s careful to match his pace to yours so neither of you pull too far ahead or behind. 

Without turning to him, you say, “I am affectionate, you know. I know how to spoil my boyfriend.”

“Really, now? Looks like I lucked out by asking you out.” There’s a genuine warmth in Reo’s voice that spills a sunset in your chest. It’s almost like he really likes you, and you’re really dating— but the contract. Don’t forget. You can’t let yourself get too carried away. This is a business deal, nothing more. Also, he would be so obnoxious if he knew how much his words affected you, considering all the crap you said about him not being your type. Still, the traitorous glow in your heart doesn’t go away, no matter how much you try to clamp down and extinguish it.

The market is surprisingly crowded when the two of you arrive. You pick up a basket as Reo stands at the entrance, drinking in the rows of cardboard boxes and tin containers and fresh produce, the housewives strolling down the aisles with children in their carts, the scuffed floor and the gleaming lights.

“We don’t have all day,” you tease. “Come on, Reo. Are you scared?”

“I’m not. It’s just… different,” he says. His eyes are still roaming the store, and you loop your arm around his again. Reo lets you pull him along without stumbling a step.

“It’s better to experience it in person,” you affirm, dragging him to the vegetables. “Help me pick some out.”

Reo’s hands hover a row of brown yams, dirt still clinging to their fuzzy roots. He picks one up for you, and you place a hand on his wrist. “What? Is it not good enough?” he asks.

“You need to put them in a plastic bag first,” you say, pointing to a dispenser roll at the end of the aisle. “You can’t just put the vegetables in the basket!”

Reo sighs in a long suffering way, but leaves and returns with a plastic bag, which you shake open and he drops several yams in, after careful consideration of their size and form.

“Good job, Reo,” you cheer. 

“What can I say? I’m a natural,” he says smugly, and you bump him with your hip.

Reo follows you around the grocery store, shadowing your steps like a baby chick. You choose several more vegetables, before moving to the meat aisle and examining the frozen, plastic wrapped cuts. Reo peers over your shoulder as you point at the different cuts of meat, so close that you can feel his warmth despite the chill of the coolers, his breath brushing your cheek every time he talks.

“Which one do you want?” you ask. Normally, you wouldn’t find his closeness a big deal. You’re used to skinship with your friends and family, and Reo is your boyfriend, albeit in name only. But something about his presence makes you feel hyper-aware of his every move. Not that you could ever let him know that.

“What do you think is best?” he muses.

“You can choose,” you say.

“What about that one?” Reo points to a hunk of pork, and you drop it into your basket. 

“Sounds good,” you say, quickly moving away from the frozen meat, but the memory of Reo’s warmth isn’t as easy to shake off.

You skim through the aisles of dry goods, picking up items that you remember were running low in your kitchen pantry. Reo follows, and he pauses in front of a row of glass bottles.

“There are so many different brands of soy sauce,” he says. “The chef usually just gets the highest quality brand.”

“Show-off,” you say. 

“Hey! I’ll send you some, too!”

It’s not until you’re in front of the snacks that you stop, and spread your arms, as if presenting the rarest of delicacies. “All right, Reo. In exchange for your cooperation for today, you can choose one snack.”

“One snack,” he repeats.

“Yup! That’s what my mom used to say when we went grocery shopping. So I’m extending the honor to you. I’ll pay for anything you choose,” you emphasize. “So choose wisely!”

Reo’s hand skims over the row of snack boxes. “Which one would you recommend?”

“The chocolate mushrooms,” you say immediately. “I got them all the time as a kid, and my sister and I used to fight over who got to eat them, since our mom wouldn’t buy more than one box.”

Reo neatly slides out a yellow box with dancing chocolate mushrooms. “Then this is the one I want.”

“Are you sure?”

“My partner recommended them,” he says primly. “Why not?”

It’s only until you’ve paid for everything, stringing plastic bags alongside your arms (Reo valiantly offers to take a few after failing to persuade you to let him pay for the groceries with his card), that you can slide out Reo’s snack and proffer it to him.

“Thank you, my lovely assistant,” you say, “For braving the perils of the grocery store for me.”

“It was fun. I’ll come with you again, if you want.” He rips open the box, then offers it to you.

“What are you doing?”

“Take some.”

“But it’s your reward,” you protest.

Reo snorts, then shakes out a single chocolate mushroom onto his palm, pinching the biscuit stem between his forefinger and thumb, holding it in front of your mouth. “It’s my reward, so I can do whatever I want with it. And I want to give some to you.”

Without hesitation, you open your mouth, and Reo throws the mushroom in. A familiar chocolatey flavor spreads inside your mouth. Somehow, it tastes sweeter than it usually does.

—

Over the next few weeks, you and Reo settle into a comfortable rhythm. He comes to pick you up every evening, though your brother still has a habit of pressing his face to the living room window to ogle Reo’s various cars. Most of the time, your job at parties is just standing by Reo’s side, occasionally intercepting when someone asks him an uncomfortable question and pulling him away. People tend to ignore you, too, treating you as Reo’s tagalong– which, to be fair, you are. Still, any insults are soothed over by the delicious food you pile up high on your plate, though Reo will steal a bite or two if you’re not careful, despite you pestering him to grab his own plate.

Sometimes, you and Reo exchange glances out of the corner of your eye when someone says something particularly weird. It’s startling how fast you’ve learned to read him and pick up on every little change in his expression. He’s emotional and expressive, and though he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, his moods are still easy to read. He’s a little petty, sometimes, and he holds an assured view of his own success. But he’s easy to tease. You like him, a lot more than you want to admit.

However, one particular party in August shatters the routine you and Reo have set.

For one, this party is held in a mansion, a multitiered decadent cake of a building, with famous paintings and expensive statues dripping from every corner. Hell, the guest list is more famous than you’re used to: celebrity actors and prestigious families from old money, and bodyguards hovering at every angle. Even you can feel the oppressive atmosphere, as much as you try to joke it away.

“Be right back,” Reo says, sighing. He flicks his head at an old man trying to catch his gaze. “One of my father’s board associates.”

“Make sure to bring me a plate of food,” you tease.

“Right. Otherwise, you might go so hungry you’ll start nibbling on me.”

You glower at him, and Reo sticks out his tongue at you, before a professional expression rolls down his face, like a shutter slamming closed.

You don’t have much time to spend alone, though. Because just as Reo steps away, a couple draws closer to you, clad with matching crimson jewelry, and with a posture so uptight and rigid you wonder if they would topple to the floor if someone were to bump into them. It’s uncanny timing, as if they were waiting for Reo to leave, but you smile politely.

Neither attempt to smile back at you. The couple’s eyes gleam like the sheen of a shark’s. Ah. They’re looking for trouble. There’s nothing to protect you from their sharp toothed smiles and narrowed gazes. Reo has vanished out of sight, and no one else seems particularly interested in your predicament. 

“So, you’re Mikage-san’s date?” the woman asks politely. “How… quaint.”

“Yes,” the man butts in. “He rarely brings anyone to dinner with him, in all the time we’ve known him, and his parents.”

“My endless charm must have captivated him,” you joke, but the couple only raises their eyebrows.

“Hm. Well, it’s just strange that he would take a liking to… you,” the woman sniffs. “What family are you from?”

“I… My family? Well, I don’t think you would have heard of them.”

“I see,” the man says, with enough disdain that it shreds your bravado to pieces. “I’m not surprised you approached Mikage-san, then. Flies are always attracted to honey, eh? What I’m curious about is how on earth you managed to sink your hooks into him.”

“My hooks?” you say. “Well, no hooks were involved. We just hit it off, and–”

“No need to lie,” the woman intones. “It’s quite unbecoming, though I understand that people of your class can’t help themselves. No manners. No grace. To think Mikage-san would pass up an engagement with our child to chase after… you.”

“Ma’am, I think there must be some kind of mistake,” you begin, but then falter. They were still watching you with keen interest, and your chest tightens. They want you to slip up so they could twist whatever you say and humiliate you, like cats toying with a mouse. 

More than that, whatever you say could be used against Reo. What was their relationship with him? It sounds like they’ve known him for a long time. Were they people he couldn’t risk offending? These people aren’t like Takei, a bumbling man trying to suck up to people wealthier than him. You could snark back, consequences be damned, but what if that hurt Reo somehow?

“What mistake are we making?” the woman prompts. “Do tell me.”

You select your words delicately, like you’re stringing pearls along a necklace. “Mikage Reo is a wonderful person. He’s a partner far better than I deserve, and I know this. And he’s cleverer than you give him credit for. I don’t think he would fall for cheap tricks or flirtations. No matter who I am, or what you think of me, I would like it if you didn’t imply that Mikage Reo is any less than what he is.”

The couple pales suddenly. Did your speech have such an effect on them? But a hand lands on your shoulder, and Reo’s voice echoes from behind you. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I need to discuss something with my date.”

“Of course, Mikage-san,” the man stammers, all of his previous aggression gone. “By all means.”

There’s an uncharacteristically tight set to Reo’s jaw as he guides you to a balcony, arm pressed protectively around your waist. It’s not until there’s a layer of glass doors and gauzy curtains between you two and the rest of the party that he whirls around, eyes turbulent. His arm hasn’t moved an inch from your side.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he grits out. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrug your shoulders. “Oh, you know. I love when people are rude to me.”

“Stop joking around,” Reo says softly. “I’m serious, okay? You just– You could have said something! You’re my date. No one would… I could have said something. If you wanted me to.”

You let out a long sigh. Reo’s arm is still wrapped around your waist, and you impatiently shrug it off. Reo stares at the spot where his arm had once rested, as if not being able to touch you is the worst thing in the world. The fact that he’s sad for your sake– for you, his partner, his fake partner– makes you upset in ways you can’t begin to articulate. It was fine before. It was fun before, to mess around, to play in a world that isn’t really yours. Whatever you have isn’t real, so why does he act like it is? You even promised not to fall for each other. He was the one who suggested that clause.

“Are they people I can afford to offend?” you say tartly. “What sort of relationship do you have with them?”

“I would have covered anything you did–” Reo begins, but you shake your head.

“That isn’t the question. Are they people I could offend to afford? Are they people you need a good relationship with?”

Reo turns his head, and you have your answer. 

“I’m not playing the same game as you, Reo,” you say. “This is your world. I’m just a regular person, and I don’t have family or connections or wealth to protect me. All I have is you, and conversely, anything I do can be reflected back on you. If I act out, then they would use me as an excuse to talk badly about you. I didn’t… want that.”

“So it was because of me?” Reo whispers. “ That you had put up with all of that?”

“I didn’t do it just for you,” you say hastily, “So don’t feel bad, okay? I was also looking out for myself, too. Come on, Reo, don’t make that face–” But before you can crack a joke to lighten the atmosphere, Reo pulls you into his arms.

For a few seconds, all you’re aware of is his cologne, some sort of calm, gentle fragrance, and his arms pressed tightly around you, as if he could shelter you from the world by pulling you as close to his body as he could. His hands, resting assuredly on your back. His chin, dipping into the crook of your shoulder. “Wh– What are you trying to pull, Reo?” you squeak, all witty comebacks and jokes fleeing from your head at his touch.

Reo pulls back, just enough so you can see his face, but his hands are still on your shoulders. And– Reo, confident, clever, level-headed Reo– doesn’t look like a self-assured CEO heir or your usual partner in crime. He looks exhausted. Sad. In a way that someone as beautiful as Reo should never look. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“Don’t apologize,” you say gently. You lightly tap his chest with your fist. “Come on. You didn’t do anything wrong. You weren’t the one who insulted me, right?”

“No, I am in the wrong,” Reo says, and before you can move your hand away, Reo cups his hand over your fist, keeping it trapped against his chest. “I thought I could protect you, but that wasn’t what happened. You were the one protecting me.”

“Don’t be so self-deprecating. You’ve helped me a lot,” you scold. “Mikage Reo, we’re partners.”

“Right. Right, partners. We’re partners.” His lips curve into a smile, like the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon. Reo is so unfairly beautiful, and why does he look especially beautiful when he’s looking at you? 

This is dangerous territory. The world is shifting beneath your feet, and you don’t know if you’ll like where you’ll end up when it stops moving. You open your mouth and hastily add, “Because of the contract, you know? We made a promise.” 

“The contract. Off course. We did make an agreement,” Reo says, but the warmth in his smile has burnt out, and no longer reaches his eyes.

“Right.” You shiver, and without a word, Reo shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it across your shoulders. “Reo, you don’t have to…”

“It’s chilly during the summer,” Reo says simply. “I can’t have my… partner getting a cold. Let’s just call it a night.”

You crumple the silky fabric of his suit. It’s still warm from Reo’s body heat. “But the party–”

“Forget about it. You’ve already done your part. Just get some rest, okay? I’ll send you home.”

Reo ushers you through the party, warding off guests with a perfectly placed “my partner isn’t feeling well” and a pleasant smile– his business smile, nothing like the ones he shows you– and then you’re in Reo’s limousine. The two of you are silent on the way back. The streetlight flashes stripes of golden light across his face, but you still can’t tell what he’s thinking. For your part, outside of these quick glances at Reo, you stare out the window, at the lights of the city smearing across the glass.

When you stop by your house, it’s Reo who runs over to hold open your door and to offer you his hand as you step out. His hand lingers for a second longer than it has to before he pulls away.

“Have a good night,” Reo says.

“You, too. Wait, don’t you need your jacket back?” you ask, as Reo turns to go.

“No. You look nice in it. Just give it back to me next time.”

You open your mouth to make a joke about footing the bill, and how you don’t think you could afford the cleaning fees for his name brand clothing– but something in Reo’s gaze makes you bite your tongue. Instead, you wave. The last glance you have of Reo is of his silhouette, leaning against the car door, carefully watching you enter your house before he gets into his car and drives away.

—

For the next week, you keep staring at your phone, waiting for it to buzz. But there’s nothing but radio silence from Reo.

You’ve never felt more restless. Why hasn’t he called you? What do you do? Should you contact him first? Was he mad at you? He was definitely mad at you. You hurt him somehow, with your big mouth. But what were you to each other, really? Strangers? Not really. Friends, maybe. A couple? Definitely not. Somehow, your relationship has slipped out of the neat boundaries you’ve set at the beginning of the summer. It’s uncontainable, something formless and vague, neat labels sliding neatly off of it. 

This was supposed to be a relationship of convenience, just a summer fling at most. Two strangers, helping each other out. There was a clear expiration date. Did you have any right to push him? To call him? To mend this? 

You just wanted to have fun. Fun wasn’t supposed to come back and bite you in the ass like this. Fun wasn’t supposed to lead to either of you getting hurt. Fun wasn’t supposed to be Reo looking at you like that, like he… cared about you, more than he had to. It was supposed to be easy. Why wasn’t it easy?

He was the one who said that you weren’t his type. To be fair, he wasn’t really your type either. He wasn’t, but… his smile. His teasing words. His hug, tight and desperate, as if he never wanted to let you go. You said you weren’t going to fall for each other. You weren’t supposed to. You aren’t supposed to like him, not in this way. It was even in the stupid contract.

You pace around the living room, thoughts spiraling unendingly in your head, wearing a hole in the carpet as your siblings stare at you, unimpressed. 

“Can you stop? I’m getting dizzy,” your brother complains.

Your sister slaps him on the arm. “Stop it. Their boy toy ghosted them, so now they’re sad. Let them mourn.”

“Eh? How’s that my business? Just call him, dork,” your brother commands. “Or show up at his house with flowers or something. Just stop moping.”

“You are so tactless. What the hell is–”

You skirt out of the living room, your siblings’ voices trailing behind you as they bicker. It’s not as if Reo needs to text you. It’s not a big deal. He could just be busy. It’s not as if you’re really his partner or something. You’re just– some person he hired for the summer. That’s all your relationship is. You can’t get disappointed now, not when you drew the line in the sand first.

You sigh, falling into a crouch, staring morosely at your phone screen– before it lights up with an incoming call, and you press answer so fast there’s no time for the ringtone to go off.

“Reo?” you breathe. 

“Hi.”

“I thought you were dead! Why didn’t you call me? Or text? I mean, I know you’re busy as a corporate heir, but–”

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Are you free right now?”

“Yes? Why?”

“Can you come outside?”

“Uh, yeah. But why didn’t you just text me if you were coming to visit?”

“I wanted to hear your voice.” A pause. “Just forget I said that, okay? See you soon.”

Your heart pounds as you stare at the disconnected call, before you dash up the stairs to check your appearance in the mirror and maybe change to a cuter outfit. A few seconds later, you’re out the door, shoes still half on, and sprinting right into Reo, his car pulled right up to the curb.

“What’s up? Is there a party you want to talk about?” you say, breathless.

Reo opens his mouth, closes it, and then fumbles for the handle of the car door. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” he says, avoiding your eyes.

“Sure,” you say easily. You can sense more than see your brother and sister pressing nosily against the window. No doubt they’d pester you about what was going on when you got home.

The car ride is tense. Reo doesn’t talk to you, and instead stares outside the window the whole time. Is he steeling himself up for something? He glances at you occasionally, then glances away. You circle the same block twice before you impatiently ask the driver to simply drop you off at a random street. 

The heat is like a heavy blanket over the city, the perfect embodiment of summer. Somehow, you end up in a nice little plaza. There’s a fountain gurgling behind you, and children playing in the shade under the trees. People stream by, and it’s only you and Reo who are frozen in place.

“What is it that you called me for?” you say. 

“What?”

“You have something to say, right?”

Reo looks uneasily out at the sea of people under the blistering sun. “Let’s end our contract,” he says quietly.

You must have misheard. The heat is warping the air in front of your eyes. “Why? There’s still a few weeks left, right?”

“I’m terminating it early.”

“You can’t decide that on your own,” you say indignantly, but your hands are clammy. Your voice comes out reedy and thin, even to your own ears. 

“It was going to end eventually. Ending it a few weeks early is no big deal,” he says curtly.

“Why now, though? Is it because of what happened at the last party?” you break in. “That’s no big deal. I can handle people like that.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he snaps.

“Huh?”

Reo runs a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have to put up with people like that.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says. “I don’t like– I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“But–!”

“And you’re just doing this for fun, right? It’s not like you have to go with me. If it stops being fun… if it starts making more trouble for you than what it’s worth… you should just leave. It’s like you said,” he says. “This is a contractual relationship.”

What can you say? You and Reo are just… what, exactly? Strangers in a business relationship? Friends, who only came together out of a twisted coincidence? He wasn’t your real boyfriend. You were just acting in a play, and at some point, the curtains had to fall.

“I won’t bother you with something like this again. Just… consider our agreement over, okay? You don’t have to pretend to be my partner anymore.”

He turns, and overwhelming desperation seizes you. If you let him go now, something will change forever, and you’ll never see him again. You’re certain of it. Reo is doing this out of consideration for you. It’s a kindness on his part, but you hate it. You hate it so much you can barely breathe. 

“Wait!” He stops. All you can see is his back. What can you say? What sort of joke, or clever remark? What easy thing can repair your relationship? Nothing comes to mind. There’s nothing left, nothing but the truth.  “I… I like being with you, Reo. I know I said I want to do whatever is fun, but… the most fun I’ve ever had is by your side. So don’t just… don’t just say it’s over. Was it not fun for you?”

You take a step closer towards him. He doesn’t back away. Another step. All you can hear is the gurgling of the fountain now, and all you can see is Reo. Reo, as beautiful as the sun.

His ears are red. Reo finally turns towards you, averting his gaze from yours, his hand covering his mouth.  “Of course I like being with you. I just can’t be your fake boyfriend. I can’t do that anymore. I’ve already broken the contract. I… About you, I…”

Call it fate, or a coincidence. But at that moment, a passerby bumps into you, causing you to stumble. You yelp, your knees hitting the edge of the fountain, and Reo, alarmed, tries to grab you– you only manage to grasp his arm before you tumble over. Reo goes down with you. A wave of water splashes over the fountain as you flail, you and Reo fumbling for purchase. The two of you end up more soaked with every attempt to straighten yourselves, and it’s all just so ridiculous. 

Laughter bubbles up out of you, and you can’t stop, even though everyone is staring at the two of you. You’re drenched, water streaming down your face, dripping from your clothes. Maybe this is what your hoodie feels like when you run it through the washing machine.

Reo lies beneath you in a pool of fountain water, your arms on either side of his torso. You’re sheltered in the circle of his open legs. His hair is plastered to his face, his expensive cotton shirt clinging to his body, and you carefully tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, but it’s all in vain.

“I can’t believe this,” you snicker. “Imagine the headlines. Mikage heir, found diving in a Tokyo fountain!”

“Oh, shut it,” he mutters, but you only laugh harder.

Suddenly, his hand cups your face, a tentative gesture. His thumb is so close to your lips. If he moves an inch, he’d brush them. Your laugh quiets. “What’s wrong, Reo?” you say, but your heart is pounding like a flock of birds lifting up in flight.

“You’re beautiful,” he says simply, as if it’s the only truth in the world. “Tell me if you don’t want this.” He’s face to face with you now, and you’re acutely aware of the way his gaze lingers on your lips. “Tell me if you don’t want me. Push me away right now.”

Oh, to hell with it. You lean forward and crash your lips onto his, urgently gripping his face with both your hands. It’s a terrible first kiss. There’s the taste of rusty water, and he’s slack at first, awkward, as you try to move against his lips. But then Reo circles his arms around your waist and pulls you closer, and now he’s kissing you back. He breaks apart only to connect again, desperate as if this is his one and only chance. Like stars colliding, all you can think of is this. Of him. Of the summer heat, lingering even when you part.

“Reo. I like you,” you say, simply. “I want to date you. For real, this time. No contracts, or anything. Even though I’m not your type, apparently.”

He rests his forehead against yours. “Forget about my type, or the contract. I don’t care anymore. I like you, too. I’ve liked you for a while now.”

“If you liked me, then why did you ignore me for a week?” you say indignantly.

“I was… I was nervous, okay? I mean, you shouldn’t have said our relationship was just a contract! I thought you didn’t like me!”

“Sorry, sorry. Both of us messed up, huh?” you ask. “Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

“Yeah, I can think of a few ways,” Reo mumbles.

He leans forward to kiss you again, and– “Hey! What are you kids doing in that fountain?! That’s public property!” A policeman yells.