#2.5 probably

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.