give these trailblazers your blessing

Only then does he move his head from out of his arms and turn to face you. His lashes flutter, tremble like leaves in the wind as he looks up at you, squinting at the yellow-tinted overhead lights that sway with the ruckus from the rest of the crowd. The crew has been celebrating something-or-other, and you and Kazuha joined in, but at some point you’d separated into your own conversations. By the time you came back to look for him, he was two pitchers deep in some syrupy sweet mixed drink and drooling on the table while he slept. 

“I’m so tired,” he rasps out, “I don’t want… to move,” and oh god, the sound of his voice—endearing is an understatement, charming isn’t quite the right word, there’s no word to describe how it makes you feel. The syllables of his words sound like they’re strung together by a fraying string. His usual eloquence is missing, and you’d be lying if you said you wanted it back. 

“If you’re tired, that’s all the more reason to get you to bed,” you chastise, letting out a half-joking sigh of exhaustion. Your arm wraps around him, hand tucked into the crease of his underarm as you pull him up from his chair, the awful grating noise it makes as it scrapes against the hardwood floor lost to the chatter of everyone else in the room. “You’re really going to regret this in the morning. I don't think I’ve ever seen you drink like that.” 

“I thought it’d be fun to try,” Kazuha says, head lolling from side to side as he reluctantly stands with you. He leans into your hold after a moment, head resting on your shoulder, feet already tripping over themselves as he makes his first steps through the busy room—not without a lot of your help, of course. 

“Trying is one thing… it’s more like you were drowning in it. Even I didn't drink that much.” 

“You should’ve,” he jokes, then he honest-to-god giggles, and you feel it reverberate through your shoulder and echo in your ears and you’re intensely hoping that he can’t hear your heartbeat pick up, or feel your skin get hotter. “It was very fun. I’d go back if you didn't have me in your grasp.”

Have me in your grasp, you hear, and it plays in your head a million times over. Now hyperaware of how you’re positioned, the hand you have wrapped around his side squeezes him, almost like a warning, and you hold back a laugh at the startled noise he lets out and the way he waves his hand at you in a poorly-aimed whack. 

“As if. You were already asleep when I found you. There was no way you could keep going for the night.” 

“I was taking a very quick break,” he corrects, though you can hear the smile in his voice, and feel the way he slinks even closer to you than he was before. “Two minutes is all I needed and I would’ve been… rearing to go again.” 

“Yeah, sure. You’re going to be sick tomorrow,” you mumble, making a mediocre effort to hold back your endeared smile. You’ve led Kazuha out of the busy main room already, now guiding him through the hallways towards your shared sleeping quarters. “You drank all those sweet drinks, too. Your headache will be awful.”

He hums in your ear, a content and sleepy little tone, and you can feel the strands of his hair fluttering and swaying against your skin. His eyes must be closed, he’s not even looking where he’s going, just holding onto you and trusting that you’ll take him where he needs to go. “That means you can take care of me t’morrow morning.” His smile grows—you can feel it, his mouth pressed against your shoulder, hidden from everyone except you, the feeling of his lips stretching into a giddy grin that you rarely get to see. 

“Already assigning me a job. So inconsiderate!” You’ve reached the door to your room now, adjusting your grip on your stumbling friend in order to reach out and twist the knob open. Kicking the door open gently with your foot, you silently nudge Kazuha into taking on more of his own weight—you’ve been carrying him more than he’s actually been walking, and you’re starting to get tired.

Kazuha falls silent. He does that often, in the middle of conversations, when he thinks there’s nothing important for him to say. You wonder if he senses are dulled now that he’s inebriated—can he hear the croud of the crew, three hallways down, still cheering and dancing and drinking? Or the thud of your heartbeat as you lay him down on his own bed, or the way your breath catches in your diaphragm when he blinks up at you again, white eyelashes fluttering while he laughs under his breath. 

“This is so unbecoming of me,” he whispers, turning his head into the pillow and hiding the deep red flush of his cheeks as much as he can. “I don’t think I can face Beidou in the morning. Do you think she saw me?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” and your hand moves without thinking, it’s mindless, the way it comes up to trace against his hairline, feel the heat of his skin, “I convinced her not to laugh in your face, but I can’t promise that you’ll be safe from her jokes tomorrow.” 

Kazuha lets out a resigned sigh, close to a childish whine, sinking deeper into his bedsheets and into the feeling of your hand against his face. His own hand— comes up, grabs your wrist, presses your palm right against his cheek and keeps it there, and you force back the shocked twitch of your fingers when his eyes flit up to look right into you. 

“I missed you, tonight,” he tells you, so honest it hurts, and he’s always honest but it’s different when he’s like this. It feels like—almost like taking advantage, when you’re both half-gone and tired and he starts letting out little truths like this that he wouldn’t really tell you under normal circumstances. “I always miss you,” and isn’t that so terrible? Isn’t it the worst?” 

“I’m—” there’s a lump in your throat that you clear with a cough. “I missed you too. I— you know how I feel.” 

He does. It’s terrible, it’s the worst. He’s smiling up at you and it’s the worst thing ever and the best thing that’s happened to you all week and of course you smile back. It’s Kazuha—how could you not? 

“Remind me tomorrow,” he starts, holding your gaze with such an urgency that it almost makes you worry for him, “that I have to tell you something. Don’t let me forget.” 

“You—” and now you’re stumbling, caught off guard by how serious his tone is. “Agh, Kazuha! Don’t say it like that! You make it sound like you’re dying!” 

“I’m not!” He turns his head further into your palm, like a cat prodding needily into the ankles of its owner. “I’m not. I just need to say something. But I’m so tired now… so sleepy.” 

“Ah,” you vocalize, dumb and awkward as always, “got it. Yeah. Okay, I’ll remind you. Go to bed now, okay?” 

“Mmm,” he hums in assent, “you too. On the floor.” 

“You want me sleeping on the floor?!” You let out a scoff, playing up the dramatics with your last bit of energy. “So rude! Four drinks and now all you do is make demands and requests of me. Won’t even offer me a blanket. Horrible.” 

“I’m not horrible,” and his voice is trailing off, words barely strung together, and that stupid smile is still on his face even when he’s falling asleep, “I’m great. You can make a million requests of me tomorrow… hold me to it.” 

Luckily for him, though, fifth time’s the charm, and on his (miserable, lonely) walk home, he bumps into you as he rounds the corner to his block. Like, really bumps into you.

He hears a semi-familiar shout of horror as he stumbles back, the sudden slam of pressure on his nose making his eyes water, and he clasps his hands over his nose (it doesn’t hurt that bad, he swears), and then your hands are grabbing his shoulder and giving him a firm shake before he can even process that it’s you he’s just stumbled into. 

“Oh!” You shout, and he registers the tilt of your head through his watery, cloudy vision, “It’s you! I was looking for you.”

Dan Heng feels like— laughing, dryly, or maybe grabbing your shoulders back and shaking you until you reflect on how ridiculous you sound—as if he wasn’t the one wandering school grounds for an hour each day for the last week in search of you, like a lost dog, and god he really hopes no one caught him doing that, but at the very least March 7th definitely saw him, which means it’s going to hit the rest of his social circle eventually and he’ll have to hang his head in shame and stay silent when all his friends ask him why he was moping for five days straight. 

“Looking for me?” he mumbles, repeating your words instead of coming up with a thought of his own because he’s still sort of reeling from the sudden sight of you and the buzzing ache in his nose. “Am I bleeding?” 

“Oh,” you say, yet again, and he feels your hands take his wrists and pull them away from his face so that you can get a good glimpse of him. “Nope, no blood. Thank god. I’d feel really bad if I had to return you to Himeko with your face mangled.” 

“Return me,” he echoes again, and in two seconds flat he sobers up and straightens his posture and finally gets a good look at your face. “What? Where have you been?” 

“Around,” you answer vaguely, like you always do, and Dan Heng is now half a step closer to actually shaking you by your shoulders and turning you upside down until the truth falls out of your pockets like cartoon coins. “I’m back now, though! I wasn’t going to get a perfect attendance award anyways, so it’s kind of whatever.” Your lips quirk up into a stupid smile, and your eyes are scanning his face and his potentially bruised nose bridge. “Did you miss me?” 

“Yeah,” he admits, like an idiot, and he unfortunately doesn’t miss the sudden stalling of your expression, the way your smile freezes for half a second and the twitch in your brow. “No,” he quickly rights, but it’s a moot point by now, “whatever. What do you mean, around? Have you been at school at all this week?” He finally looks down at your clothes, which are very much not any kind of school-uniform-adjacent garb, but rather a collared shirt with some kind of logo on the top left. 

“I’ve been working,” you say, and it’s maybe the most honest and straightforward answer that Dan Heng will ever get from you, so he relishes in it for a moment. “You know, a job. Have you heard of that before? Jobs? Employment?” 

“That’s allowed? Are we allowed to work?” 

“Well,” and you do it again, glance off to the side before coming back to him, “I hope so. I’m not looking to quit this job so soon. They hired me, so it’s all good. I just had to miss school this week so they could train me, but I’ll be back on Monday. You’ll get your daily dose of me again soon, don’t worry!” 

Working. Dan Heng doesn’t know much about your schedule, what you do after school besides annoy him and walk him home and get into fights with seemingly invisible and untraceable and unnameable people, but this feels like one more piece in a thousand-piece puzzle where half the pieces have been drenched in water and bent. He feels two steps away from knowing more about you at the same time that he feels miles away. 

“I’m at the movie theatre,” you tell him, “so you should come visit with your friends some day. Four to ten P.M. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. You can introduce me to your friends properly, you know,” and you have that nearly-tense, nearly-dishonest quirk of your lips, and you’re looking right at him like you’re trying to tell him something without saying it, “unless you’re too embarrassed to let them meet me.” 

This is not the first time you’ve said things like this, not by a long shot. Dan Heng thinks back, and is sure that you say something along the lines of aren’t you embarrassed at least once for every two times that he talks to you. Scared you’ll get caught with me? you asked him just last week, like being with you was a surefire way to get cursed or shunned or ostracized. Dan Heng doesn't get it, and it doesn't sound like you want him to. 

“No,” he says, steadfast, realizing belatedly that your hands are still around his wrists from when you’d tugged them down off his face, and his skin beneath your fingers is heating up rapidly, but so are the tips of his ears. “That’s not it,” and he really doesn’t have the strength to say anything deeper than that, so he dodges, “what were you doing on my street? Did you go to my house?” 

You’ve been caught. Sheepishly, you let go of his wrists, one hand going up to scratch the back of your neck instead, looking at his neighbor’s dead half-dead rose bush next to the sidewalk. “I kind of figured maybe I’d check in on you, or something. Ask to hang out. But when I came at three, you weren’t home yet, so I just kind of hung out with your mom. I was leaving just now. Figured you were busy, or something?” 

It’s an open-ended question, one that Dan Heng is very unwilling to honestly answer—if he did, he’d have to admit that the task that was oh-so-arduously occupying his time after school was sitting in the courtyard like a grieving wife waiting for her spouse to come home from war. He shakes his head instead of explaining anything—that should be enough of an answer. 

“She gave me cookies,” you continue in lieu of a real response from Dan Heng. “Seriously, am I the only one that eats them, or am I, like, stealing your only source of food every time I come over?” 

“The first one. I hate those things. They’re dry. I don’t understand how you eat them like that.” 

“Woah! Rude! Whatever, more for me. Hey, you’ll help me with all that schoolwork I missed, right?” You punch him in the shoulder playfully, which might’ve knocked the wind out of him had it been aimed any closer at his sternum. “I think we have almost all the same teachers. And I'm a quick learner, so it won't be so bad for you."

“Fine,” he says with a faux reluctance that would really only be convincing to a child, “I can walk you home.” 

“Haha,” and you punch his shoulder again, soothing it this time with a pat before you trail your hand up to the side of his neck, clasping the side of it with your warm palm, like you’re holding his pulse in your hand, and Dan Heng holds his breath so you won’t easily feel the rapid thump of blood underneath his skin, “maybe next time, champ.” 

You’re smiling again, laughing when you look at the paling expression on his face, like you know something he doesn’t, and he barely has time to feel disappointed at your easy rejection before you laugh, breathy, one more time, and say goodbye. 

“Why you or anyone else would want to date Little Miss Pink is beyond me, but you’re encroaching on a taken lady, twerp. For your own benefit, you should back off.”

You knew something was off when the aloof academic genius herself dragged you away from your lunch to walk with her. But you didn’t expect this. March, your bestest friend in the whole wide world, suddenly off the market? And the news is being broken to you on the day of your planned confession? 

This can’t be right, your gut urges, she would’ve told me.

Why wouldn’t she? March 7th tells you everything! She even confided in you about accidentally pushing that TA into the courtyard fountain that one time. Hell, the pink-haired girl even triple texts you about the drama she overhears (eavesdrops on) in the library, excessive emojis included.

You text her during calculus when you should be working, and she responds immediately, both of your souls almost intertwined in some type of procrastination symbiosis. When you’re riding the bus together, she’ll rest her head on your shoulder and doze for twenty minutes while you watch the rise and fall of her chest.

And on days like these, Valentine’s, you hold apprehensive hope in your heart that today may be the day I tell her how I feel.

Your chest tightens painfully. What if that day will never come? 

“How do you know that?” you rasp, throat now dry, “And more importantly, why do you care? You didn’t even come to my party last week! You’re a geek, not a gossip—”

Herta whirls around to face you, amethyst eyes narrowed. “I’m not stupid. If you require anecdotal evidence, fine: I saw her canoodling with her presumed lover this morning. I can’t remember his name, and frankly, he was repulsive - but he was holding a bouquet, she was giving him googoo eyes, et cetera.”

You are going to die. 

If it were not for your stubborn brain, you’d buckle to your knees and beat on the linoleum floor while lamenting how every single divine being out there must be praying on your downfall. But you stay as still as a statue, probably burning holes into this egghead’s face.

It makes a little sense, you suppose. March 7th is fun, hilarious, thoughtful, beautiful, and full of joy; she’s a total catch, so it’s not as surprising as you’d like that others would be vying for her attention. She’s already befriended just about everyone in this school, including all of the teachers and the stray dogs near the gate. Who wouldn’t try to confess to her?

You blanch. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’!” Herta stomps her foot, pulling you from your impending breakdown. “I’m never wrong, by the way. Everyone and their mother sees how you look at her. But,” she rocks up on her tiptoes to flick your forehead, “you’re too late. Pity.”

“There’s gotta be more to it than that,” you reason, huffing and rubbing the wounded spot. “Even if this did happen, she would’ve told me, like, right after! Her suddenly acquiring a boyfriend is kind of a big deal.”

“Maybe she forgot. Young love is inebriating.”

No, she wouldn’t forget. You know March like the back of your hand, and though important stuff can slip her mind, it’s moreso… assignment deadlines, instead of interpersonal drama. She’s a pro at cataloguing the latter.

“You’re overthinking it!” Herta crosses her arms over her chest. “Consider your options carefully. If I were you - which would be a travesty - I’d tell her how I feel, and before the end of the day, too.”

“That doesn’t sound like something you’d say. You were just telling me to back o—”

…then she stalks down the hallway with purpose, shockingly fast on her short legs.

Something is very wrong in the world today. You can’t even go back to lunch, your appetite lost among a whirlwind of thoughts. It’s disconcerting; you’ve, admittedly, not seen March since morning, and she was absent from the cafeteria too. 

She could be off somewhere with this… this guy. Solidifying the thought in your mind is devastating. 

One time - both of you were about thirteen, the subject of romance (what you knew about it against your will) was breached over a mess of glittery pens and scented stationery. All day, instead of working on a dreaded animal cell diagram, you’d been indulging in the sacred, prophetic game of M.A.S.H. and the crafting of paper fortune tellers. 

“I don’t see what you find fun about this,” you’d grumbled. 

“Well, that’s ‘cause you’re weird,” she’d responded matter-of-factly, scribbling numbers on sectioned folds of loose leaf. “Don’t you wanna know who you’ll marry?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s too-bad-so-sad. Now, pick a color!”

Minutes earlier, you’d been slyly watching out of the corner of your eye when she’d decided which person to put under which flap of the fortune teller (her big, looping handwriting can be discerned from a mile away), and you’d taken great care to remember which numbers and colors to pick to land on her name. 

Notably, March had put her name and yours into the craft - forever cementing the possibility that both of you could end up together, if someone just picked the right combination. 

Perhaps, back then, you were trying to puppeteer fate. It seemed to work, because when you picked 3 and pink, March 7th was revealed to you after some mere hand-shuffling and genius scheming. Back then, you’d felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to tell her that you were probably going to get struck down for blasphemy or hubris or something. You’d just internalized that part.

…but most clearly, you remember the giant, blinding smile on her face.

“Oh my gosh!” she’d exclaimed, cheering like she was competing with the shot heard ‘round the world, “Me! You’re gonna marry me! This is awesome news. We already know everything about each other; we both like puppies and kittens, and we both suck at science!”

March was, and still is, the most beautiful person alive.

You remember your heart pounding traitorously. “...yeah. This is awesome news.”

“I want red velvet for our wedding cake!”

Of course, as you’ve grown older, you recognize that it was just a silly game. But the memories you’ve made with her between then and now, were not. If anything, they’ve only made you realize how much - how badly - you do want to marry her, one day in the future. There’s no one else for you. 

But is there someone else for her? Like this mysterious guy giving her flowers that may or may not exist? You need to talk to March or else you’re going to explode. If that happens, then the already underpaid janitors are going to have to scrape your remains off the floor. Ugh.

However, the feat of communicating with your best friend today is starting to seem impossible. 

“Now, not to call anybody out,” a warm but monotone voice interrupts your spiraling, “but please try to pay attention. This will be on your exam.”

Mr. Yang is clearly talking about you, but you cannot bring yourself to tear your gaze away from March 7th’s empty seat. This isn’t funny anymore, where is she? Out of the four classes you have today, you share three of them with her. Though sometimes she skips to nap in the abandoned bio lab, she always texts, and she always invites you.

Is she with her new boyfriend? The one she didn’t care to tell you about? You hope not. Whoever this guy is, he’s definitely not good enough for he—

A hand is placed on your shoulder. You jump. 

“Mr. Yang! Sorry!” you blurt, looking up at your history teacher with a visceral type of embarrassment. He’s assessing you with an arched eyebrow and a frown, even as his hand reels back and he formulates a response.

Your cheeks feel hot, especially because, surely, everyone is watching - judging - and you’re just floundering with your mouth hanging open like an idiot. 

…wait, where is everyone?

“Are you alright? The bell rang two minutes ago,” he informs you, gesturing to the very empty classroom. Everyone’s already filed out, and it dawns on you that you’re going to be late for your next class if you keep this up.

You swiftly counter, standing rigid in your seat while beginning to gather your things, “Yes! Again, I’m sorry, I’ve just been skimping on sleep. I’ll get the notes from someone, I promise!”

Your explanation sounds unconvincing even to you, but you’d rather die before bringing up your dilemma to someone so kind like Mr. Yang. He’s so chill that lets everyone eat in class, allows cheat sheets on midterms, and lets you sit next to your friends.

Your friends. You stop cramming papers into your backpack, bottom lip trembling.

“Sit down. I’ll write you a note, so don’t worry about being tardy.”

Slumping back down, you give up on lying, the despair clear as day on your face and in the tears clumping in shimmering globs on your lashes. “Okay.”

A pregnant pause settles over the classroom, making the cooler side of you inwardly cringe. The other side wants to rant and rave to Mr. Yang until your tongue falls off. You do neither, waiting for him to speak first. He brushes past you and drags a chair over from an adjacent desk, the metal scraping against the floor like a death knell. When he levels with you, index finger drumming against the wooden surface below, he sighs.

“I couldn’t help but notice someone isn’t here today,” he retrieves a patterned handkerchief from his jacket pocket, paternally offering it to you. “I can’t say your reaction is abnormal. March 7th usually shows up, what with you two being the best of friends. Did something happen between you guys?”

You sniffle pathetically, wiping your tears and snot on the cloth, making a mental note to wash and return it later. Y’know, if you make it through today. Exploding is still a viable option.

“Um, not really. I just think she’s avoiding me? It’s not like her at all, and now, out of nowhere, people are saying that she’s dating this mysterious guy, and—”

The look Welt Yang gives you is still one of concern, but there’s a knowing spark in his eyes that makes you pause. God, how mortifying. Have you made it that obvious that you’re jealous? Seething in envy? Ready to burn down this school and raze the fields in her honor? You bite your tongue, muttering to yourself in embarrassment.

“I’d be remiss not to tell you that rumors can be just that - rumors,” he adjusts his glasses. “I’m sure you understand; you’re a smart kid, I’ve graded your quizzes myself. Once you determine the truth, things will get easier. I’m quite familiar with you and March 7th. She’ll turn up.”

“I know, I-I just…” you swallow. “I really like her. And I guess I underestimated how much until I heard she was with someone else.” 

“I figured,” Mr. Yang smiles at you, eyes crinkling and crow’s feet elongating with the shift of his facial muscles. “It is Valentine’s Day, after all. It makes sense you’re troubled about love - the atmosphere really amps up the pressure.”

Love. He used the L word. Spontaneous human combustion therefore must commence.

Without a doubt, you know you love March. But have you ever said it? Have you ever taken the initiative to make something more out of your friendship with her? No. You’ve been… waiting, and because you’ve been waiting, you’ve missed your shot with her. Someone more candid, more confident, has wooed her first.

You can’t stew in your inaction any longer! Something must be done… maybe Herta was right. Maybe you need to confess, get this all out of your system, even if she’s taken now. There’s no other prime time for it - you feel a burn in your calves that urges you to get the hell up right now, get moving, and go tell her. 

You want to tell your best friend that you love and cherish her company more than anything in the world, even if she knows. Even if she doesn’t love you back with that knowledge. 

“I guess it does.” Sneaking another glance at March’s empty desk, you breathe out hot air and stand up again to continue gathering your belongings, stuffing Mr. Yang’s handkerchief in your pocket. “Um, I think I know what to do now. If I could get that note…”

He nods sagely. “Of course,” the brown-haired gentleman eyes the clock, “if you ever want to talk about anything else, my door is always open. Well, except for when it’s not, I suppose.”

You don’t see it as you get ready to leave, your resolve strengthened and obscuring the big picture, but Welt Yang puffs his chest out in pride for a fleeting second as you go, note in hand.

You decide to head to the last period of the day, but not quite. What you mean by that is…

“Dan Heng! Psst, Dan Heng!”

You knock on the window perhaps a little too harshly, but you have to be at least a little loud so he can hear you, right? 

The repetitive racket eventually penetrates the walls of the science building, finally earning the attention of Dan Heng. If March 7th is your bestest friend (and hopefully more soon), Dan Heng would be your number two - your sidechick. Wait, actually, not sidechick, ‘cause you don’t like him that way.

He’s the guy you drag along to the mall or to the skating rink so he can actually get out of the house a little. Smart, bit of a nerd, but he’s a stand-up dude. 

His eyes are widened marginally, and he sits up straight in his seat at your display. You can see most of him, but your fellow classmates are littered about, his desk smack dab in the middle of them and the room itself. It’s a miracle the teacher hasn’t noticed you, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you’re caught and promptly sent to detention (again).

And this guy doesn’t answer his phone in the middle of classes, either. In fact, he turns the device off completely, something you can’t fathom doing. So simply texting him and demanding that he rendezvous with you right now for an emergency meeting is out of the question.

You must look a little… unkempt. Oh well. You seek the counsel of Dan Heng the Wise.

“Meet me in the bio lab,” you painstakingly enunciate your syllables, mouthing the words as clear as you can. To drive your point home, you jut out your arm and gesture to the left, where the abandoned room lies. You’ll have to go back in the building to meet him once he understands. 

Dan Heng’s eye twitches. He glimpses back and forth between the teacher and you.

“Please! E-mer-gen-cy!!!” you frantically wave. 

You spot your dark-haired friend sigh; victory is yours. He raises his hand and rattles off some convincing excuse, throwing one last look over his shoulder before exiting the classroom when granted permission. 

Quickly, and with an exhilarated smile, you rush around the corner and push open the metal swinging doors, heading inside.

You’re sufficiently sweaty by now, faced with Dan Heng’s crossed arms and ever-present judgment. The lab, room 104 to be specific, is cluttered with all sorts of crap.

Spare desks are stacked high in all corners, spillage giving way to boxes of used equipment containing microscopes and bunsen burners - or just everything you’d expect. Large tables meant for conducting experiments are riddled with wear and tear. 

But there’s a reason a lot of people ditch to come here. Under one of the tables rests a communal snack box that every burnout, delinquent, and tired student contributes to - always leaving something in return for seeking respite from classes and the like. 

You’ve sure taken your fair share of stale pretzels and fruit bars. Lastly, the lights always stay off, giving way to the natural light seeping through the windows, illuminating floating dust particles that tie everything together. 

Wow, you should come here more often. Grades be damned. 

“What could possibly be so important as to—what’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”

Oh, right.

Dan Heng looks frazzled by your unresponsiveness, and you can’t blame him. Steeling yourself, you bring up what’s been on your mind. 

“I’m gonna confess to her,” you breathe, “March, I mean.”

It feels so good to say it to him. But if you were in his average-sized tennis shoes, you’d be miffed to be called out of class for something as frivolous as this too - a crush, one so life-altering that it’s holding your sensibility hostage and making you act like you’ve lost all your marbles.

“Has the day gotten to you too, then?” your friend actually facepalms. The hand splayed over his visage eventually cracks open so he can peer through the gaps of his fingers at you, no doubt in contemplation. “But I can tell you find this important. Is that all this is about?”

“Um… if you know where she is, do you mind telling me?”

He shakes his head, sarcastic. “I don’t happen to track her hyperactivity all day long.”

“Right, right,” you fiddle with your hands and pick at your nails. You want to specifically ask for advice, because if there’s another thing to note about Dan Heng, it’s his levelheaded nature; this cornerstone of his personality has gotten you out of trouble in the past, and though he isn’t exactly a romance guru, there’s no one else you can think of turning to. 

“What?” he sighs.

“I’m gonna tell her no matter what, I swear, but… do you think that’s the right thing to do?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Well, because Herta told me she was sucking face with some dude this morning—”

Dan Heng coughs abruptly, “Actually, save it. I don’t want to know. Regardless of any external circumstances, you’re still partial to her. That’s love, and it will only hurt you later if you bottle it up inside. Plus… if you ask me, you two work well together. I’ve never seen March happier than when she’s with you.”

You think of cute plushies and pillow forts. You think of snacks and dual-toned eyes that are always crinkling in a jubilant, idealistic kind of hope. You think of funny faces and bunny ears, of candids and camera lenses. 

“Thank you,” you smile. “You’re always the guy I can call on, huh?”

“Not in the middle of class, at least,” he sternly reminds you, though the fond pinch of his brows gives him away. “Please.”

“Understood!”

By the time the bell rings, signifying the end of the school day, you have somewhat of a plan. 

There are a bunch of weeds gathered up in your arms - dandelions, daisies, onion blooms, just a myriad of general wildflowers you’d picked from the campus’s track field. They itch at your exposed arms, bared from the feat of your rolled up sleeves, but it’s better than nothing. You’ve even shorn some of the stems and arranged them just so to give off the illusion of propriety.

They probably won’t hold a candle to whatever roses or carnations March 7th was given earlier. But that’s okay! You’ve tried your best, even pilfering a lavender ribbon from the art room to tie around the makeshift bouquet, sufficiently beautifying their otherwise lackluster appeal.

Now comes the issue of finding her. Just as you pull out your phone to send another text (the past few hours have filled her contact with unanswered messages), the device pings in your hand. Startled and hopeful, you shiftily survey the area before reading the notification.

April 8th: Omg!!! I’m sooo sorry for not responding all day (╥﹏╥)!!!

Phew, she’s alright! The animated typing indicator pops up again, so you wait.

April 8th: I promise I have a really good reason! You’re probably at the bus stop right now, so why don’t you take it to Purrfect Pastries? I’m there rn

April 8th: With a surprise for you, of course :3 and the kitties are waiting~

She’s of course referring to the cat cafe you’re both prone to frequenting. It has a cozy atmosphere, serves sweet things, and isn’t far off the normal commute to school… so it’s been purrfect, the past few years, for unproductive study sessions and shared laughter. 

Oh. She’s probably going to gush to you about her new lover. That makes sense - she was so caught up all day having fun and basking in the warmth of her new fling. 

But now is your time to shine. You’ll show up with your shitty flowers and you’ll win her over! Or maybe not that. Ideally that, yes, but March deserves to be happy; she’ll pick whoever she wants, even if that person is not you.

You: Okay haha glad you’re safe ^^

You: I’m omw On my way!

Damn autocorrect. 

“Hey, you finally made it!”

Even after a day like today, where nothing and everything made sense, one word comes to mind: Lovely. March is lovely.

As if your life depends on it, you shove the wildflowers behind your back. The stakes certainly feel that high when your eyes land on your friend. She’s at the table in the corner - the one you both always sit at, so much so that you’re told some of the feline residents curl up under the chairs, waiting for either one of you to walk through the door.

You make a beeline for the table. Normally, you’d at least greet Mittens, the host cat who lounges on the order counter, but you’re itching to deal with your pounding heart and sweaty palms right now.

However, when you wave at March and begin making your way over, you almost trip. Walking fluffballs swarm your legs, mewling up a storm and demanding your utmost attention.

“Oof! Hey, I’m here, calm down,” you laugh, kneeling briefly to scratch some bellies and chins. You beckon the pink-haired girl over to lend you a hand, too nervous to look at her, but you hear a giggle and the scraping of a chair as she presumably comes to your rescue. “They’re so clingy today!”

“Well, we haven’t been here in forever,” she hums, kneeling down with you to say hi to everyone. She coos and simpers, and while she’s distracted, then you ogle all you want. 

March is positively beaming, radiant as ever in the midst of dim lamplight and dark wood. For some reason, a hidden, sardonic part of you thought she’d look different after entering a relationship. More affected, maybe, like she’s getting used to the company of a person that hasn’t been there since the beginning. Like she’s getting used to the company of a person that isn’t you.

Selfishly, maybe you’d hoped she’d look a little dissatisfied with the affections of someone else. 

No time for that now, you remind yourself. Stay grounded.

You watch as she works her magic; the uppity cats disperse after being fussed over a little. “I guess it has been a while. I’m a bit jealous - Mittens and the others prefer you over me any day.”

“Nah, they just missed us is all,” she grins. “Actually, mostly me, ‘cause I’m an animal whisperer and probably the reincarnation of Snow White. But you’re pretty awesome too.”

I missed you more than they did, you agonize.

March 7th grabs your hand. “Now come on, we have a lot to talk about!”

Dread courses through your veins as you take your rightful seat across from her. All of a sudden the gingham tablecloth looks very interesting. You decide to stuff your weed bouquet into your pocket, too ruffled to present it to her now. 

After March tells you all about her new sweetheart, you’ll come clean - if you don’t chicken out, that is. You’ll come clean about the explosion of wonderful and awful feelings in your chest, about the years of wanting. 

How could that admission change things? Ideally, she dumps this guy and threads her fingers through yours, giving you a shot at her heart and actualizing your idea of paradise.

Unfortunately, that fantasy is just a fantasy - realistically, she’ll react with sympathy, but tell you she doesn’t feel the same. That’s what you expect; friendly touches will cease, there’ll be a foreign, awkward lull in the air, and she’ll excessively tiptoe around anything that could upset you. 

March is considerate like that. God, why does this have to be so difficult? You want to back out, but Dan Heng will forever see you as a chicken (his eyes will say it for him), and you’ll be stuck yearning until the heat death of the universe.

“Again, I’m really sorry for being kinda AWOL all day, but I was planni—”

You don’t even think about what you do next. You just blurt,

“I cheated when we were making fortune tellers.”

You don’t register the bewildered look on her face, you just keep going. It’s a bit crazy how your hesitance just vanished - leaving your true feelings to lead the situation, for better or for worse. 

“W-When, uh, we were in eighth grade. You asked me to come over to your house so we could work on science, or fucking—whatever it was—and we never ending up working. You showed me how to make those paper fortune tellers and I thought it was really stupid. I thought it was stupid until you… until you put our names in it.” 

March’s lips are parted in surprise. You want to kiss them. Also, you want to projectile vomit. The Exorcist style.

“So I totally tuned you out while you talked so I could spy. I remembered where you put your name specifically,” you stutter, “I also r-remember how many jumbles it would take, so your section would—yeah. I picked you. I chose to marry you, and I cheated.”

You choke out the last word, tears rolling down your cheeks. You’re crying, and you haven’t even made a lick of sense so far - this the second time today you’ve had a breakdown and have gotten nothing out of it! Watching as the droplets land on the tablecloth, you don’t dare look up. 

At least you still have Mr. Yang’s handkerchief.

“I cheated because you’re the best, and I wouldn’t wanna be with anyone else, ever,” your vision blurs, thankfully giving you some courage. “But I know you’re dating someone else now, and I’m happy for you. I know that’s like… a cliche thing to say, b-but it’s true.”

March’s first reaction is not what you expect.

“Huh?! What on Earth are you talking about?! I’m not dating anyone! Dummy, where did you even hear that? I… oh you’re crying, I’m so sorry!” she panics, grabbing your hand once more. “Please don’t cry, it’ll make me cry.”

You’ve closed your eyes, but her sobering words make them shoot right back open.

“What?” you manage dumbly (hopefully).

“Is that why you think…? Oh my god, no! I wasn’t avoiding you all day because I was out tying the knot or something. I was avoiding you because I was busy planning this.”

March 7th stretches her arms out, concerned. She gestures to the cafe interior, and when you gather the strength to determine what she means, you notice something you hadn’t before.

Purrfect Pastries is empty, save for the two of you and the cats. Other tables normally teeming with couples and introverts alike are barren - there aren’t even menus set out. There are no empty coffee cups or muffin wrappers to be cleaned up by staff.

Speaking of, where are the staff? Sushang and Guinaifen are usually clamoring about, even on the clock. 

…other stuff, too. Besides the banker’s lamps tinged emerald and gold, there are flowers - they look to be paper - scattered over the whole expanse of the floor. Some of the waxy petals seem to have been shredded by the claws of none other than Mittens and his gang, while others remain intact, distinctly imitating a trail of roses. 

“I wanted candles, but Little Gui said they’d be a safety hazard. Honestly, I’m surprised she can talk, considering she swallows swords and fireballs as a side hustle,” she laughs, though it’s strained and unnatural. “You were really making a girl wait to be asked out, so I decided to take the initiative. Pretty smart, huh?”

You gawk. 

“This… this is a date?” Oh my god. Oh my god. “And you’re not seeing anyone?!”

“Yeah, duh,” her tone softens. “You’re so silly. Um, I skipped school to work a daytime shift here as payment, that way we could have the place to ourselves tonight. Turns out it’s a lot of work to secure Purrfect Pastries… I begged and bothered Ms. Siobhan until she said yes. Turns out my charm is, in fact, irresistible!”

“But—huh?”

She wipes your tears, all the while chattering like you’re not gonna have a heart attack. “And I was so, so nervous that I’d ruin the surprise! Sushang made me turn off my phone so I wouldn’t spoil anything - she almost threw it into the deep fryer too - but it was all worth it.”

“What I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark, ‘cause it seems like I’ve missed a lot. I hope you’re okay… and, also, Happy Valentine’s.”

You bite back a hiccup and shakily retrieve your real - but undeniably pathetic - bouquet from your pocket. It’s completely squashed, the ribbon is almost unraveled, and the flowers have lost most of their color, already colored a soft brown.

Speaking is out of the question, because if you attempt it, you’re convinced that you will vomit The Exorcist style. So you just press the bundle into her hand, hoping it will say what you can’t.

“Are these for me?” March asks, breathy and on the verge of squealy. 

Don’t vomit. “Y-Yeah. Can you believe it? I was gonna try and win you back with them.”

Under regular circumstances, you wholeheartedly believe she would’ve poked harmless fun at this sad attempt at a romantic gift. She’d probably say something charming like “It looks like Bigfoot stepped on them,” or “Did you get this bouquet from the time of consumption?”

But the girl you love does not do that. Everything is too much, what with the realization that today was just some hellish misunderstanding, and you’re so… so happy. You don’t think you deserve to feel such joy after coming to believe untrue rumors about March 7th, but you’ll deal with that later.

“That’s so romantic!” she swoons, “Like in the movies where the noblemen are fighting over the hand of the princess, trying to win her over…”

“You’re the one who rented out a whole cafe for me, March.”

“Huh… I guess I did! When you put it like that, maybe you should bake me scones.”

“What?”

She fluffs the proffered weeds, making them look a bit livelier (despite most of the petals being lost to time), before setting them down on the table. It makes for a shitty centerpiece, but she seems more than content, a rosy color adorning her cheeks and allowing her to glow.

“Well, we can’t have a date without food, can we? Before clocking out, everyone helped me bake scones for us to eat. I’ll go get them, okay? I’m starving!”

Getting up and looking just as she always does, you speak up, somewhat coherent now.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Shit, it seems silly to ask now, but… will you be my girlfriend?”

The pink-haired girl, your best friend, stops and turns. With a giggle and a wink, she once again, turns your world upside down.

“I already am! Heh. Also, I definitely knew you cheated back in eighth grade - with the fortune teller. I’m not so ditzy that I didn’t notice your staring, y’know.”

She disappears behind the counter and into the kitchen, petting Mittens on the way, but you still hear her - muffled, but still quite audible - squealing from here. What a delightful sound.

Just as you begin to decompress and recover, a burning question flares at the forefront of your mind.

Just what was Herta talking about, then? What about the dude March was supposedly ‘canoodling’ with? 

Almost prophetically, your phone pings several times. You dare to check it after a brief panic attack.

Herta: Well, it’s about time I tell you, I suppose

Herta: Ruan Mei and I made a little wager yesterday. She bet, in the interest of human compatibility, that you wouldn’t make a good pair with Little Miss Pink, and that you’d wuss out and spend Valentine’s Day alone

Herta: You should know by now that I don’t lose. Simply put, I lied to your face - there was never a John Doe trying to steal her from you. However, if my deductions are correct…

Herta: You and Little Miss Pink are now an item. I expect many thanks and perhaps your unwavering monetary support on my next project. You’re welcome 💜

…

You: Fguck Duck you

Herta: lol duck

Damn autocorrect! 

…you’ll just have to kill her tomorrow. 

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