But Ebizawa’s nicer than him. Shoulders past like it’s fucking Tuesday or something and puts those soccer team reflexes to good use, snatching that kid mid-tumble before hauling him right back to his feet. It’d be impressive, if Kamitani hadn’t been hoping for a more concussive solution to crowd control.

“Walk much?” Ebizawa lifts his hand, ready to give this stiff breeze passing for a third year a real clap on the back, the way the team captain used to when Kamitani was an underclassman— and then clearly thinks better of it. Good idea; there’s paper that crumples under less pressure than Usokawa. “You gotta look where you’re going, or else we’re all going to find out what sort of band-aids this place has in their first aid kit.”

“Ranger Five ones, for sure.” Kamitani stifles a groan. Saginuma couldn’t pick a rhetorical out of a line up even if it stole his lunch money. “They’ve got the new movie playing on three screens, so I bet they have a bunch of tie-in—”

“I was!” Funny hill for Usokawa to try and die on when thirty seconds ago he was one missed connection away from being able to give a full report on the gum situation beneath all these seats. “It’s the low light in here. They’ve done studies on it, you know, about how it messes up depth perception for people who—”

“Can’t see already?” Ebizawa offers, so easy it takes a minute for Usokawa to parse.

“Hey! I can see perfectly fine!”

It’s not that Kamitani’s trying to pay attention to Inomata— she’s behind him, for one, and these idiots in front of him are making a big enough scene to win awards, for the other— but she keeps bobbing in and out of his peripheral, radiating anxiety, distracting, and—

“—it’s a real, observable, scientifically significant fact—”

—this is taking too long. “Yeah, yeah.” Kamitani plants an encouraging elbow in his spine and shoves. “Whatever. Just sit already.”

“Hey!” Usokawa squeaks, tugging at the collar of his too-nice polo. “Don’t rush me, I’m visualizing.”

It’s so stupid even Inomata stands still, probably calculating the amount of brain cells she’s lost just listening to this idiot. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Choosing a seat is an art, okay?” The kid takes in one of those deep, meditative breaths— like they aren’t in the middle of a movie theater, making people skirt around a clump of third years hogging the stairs— and squeezes his eyes shut. Yeah, that seems like it’ll really help with this whole visualizing thing. Big step forward in sitting their asses down for sure. “We have to be close enough to see the movie, but far enough that we’re not craning our necks to see the screen. And most importantly, we want to be central to the—”

“Cool story,” Saginuma says as he shoulders his way between them, like there isn’t a perfectly good set of stairs right next to them. “But we picked out our seats at the kiosk, dummy. The same ones we always do, because you can’t see even with medical assistance.”

“Can too!” Usokawa adjusts his glasses, trying to look intelligent or some shit, rather than the kind of idiot whose head rattles when he shakes it too hard. “I just prefer to sit at the optimum distance. Because I have discerning tastes! Not because I can’t, er…”

“See for shit?” Ebizawa sneaks in so mildly that Usokawa nods before his brain catches up to him.

“Hey! I already said that I—”

It’s not that he feels anything— Inomata can’t even bear to say people’s names, let alone touch them to get attention— but there’s a potential of something, a breeze that ruffles the hair on the back of his arm, right where his sleeve sits. Electrons tickling each other, the old hag told him once, when he’d been dragged along to one of his great-grandma’s acupuncture appointments. You’re a science teacher, he’d said, bored out of his skull, you can’t believe in all this bullshit. And she’d said, don’t be rude, and then, there’s a lot we don’t understand about the human body. Maybe this is one of them.

Maybe if she’d sounded more curious, he could have believed it. But it came out exhausted instead, the hag at the end of her rope and willing to say whatever she needed to keep the peace— and he’d been twelve. If tossing his teeth on the roof wasn’t going to keep him from getting cavities, putting needles into magical energy meridians wasn’t going to help great-grandma’s back pains either.

It’s not so fantastic, you know. She’d looked down at him, all slouched in the molded plastic they were trying to pass for a chair, and lifted her eyebrows, like she was going to tell him a secret. The human body has an electrical field all around it. Free floating electrons that we put off just by living. And when we touch— she’d reached out, hovering her finger just above his arm, hair standing on end from anticipation— they tickle each other first.

So maybe that’s what he’s feeling when Inomata steps up, crowding  so close her breath bleeds through the cotton of his shirt, still warm: all her electrons just fouling his up.

“Are they always like this?” she mutters, so soft he hears it more through bone conduction than his ears.

“What?” His teeth catch a shiver between them and clench. “Loud?”

“No, I just mean…” The rubber on her shoes catches on his, a hot burst of air scuttling across his shoulders before she rears back, putting something like normal space between them. “Ah, well…yes. I suppose that.”

 “They’re worse.” His mouth twitches, threatening to sink his whole scowl. “Must be trying to impress you or something.”

The congestion on the stairs finally clears now that Usokawa’s figured out how to put one foot in front of the other, hurrying up to the where Ebizawa and Saginuma are already loitering, phones out and screens at their brightest setting. There’s enough debate going on that it’s got to be about what order they’re parking their asses in; one that’s solved by Usokawa bowling right through them, hurtling midway down the row before he drops, no ceremony at all, into one of the seats. Saginuma sighs, one big slump of his already slouched shoulders, but traipses after him, and—

And Inomata isn’t behind him. No, instead she’s three stairs back where he left her, more skittish horse than girl, all of her too-long limbs ready to bolt back to the safety of the herd. But she doesn’t— she’s all eyes instead, the weird glare of the lights making her eyes more shine than pupil.

“Really?” He barely catches the way her mouth wraps around the word, too busy being pinned to the spot by her eyes. “You think they’re trying to impress…me?”

It’s a stupid fucking question, but his stomach fizzes when she asks, twists— he hadn’t even had any soda today, but hell if his gust are acting like it— and he nearly blurts out something even worse, like, well, yeah, you know girls or whatever—

Only to run right into Kashima. Not his back, which would at least make sense, but straight into his whole shoulder-elbow complex. Because that idiot isn’t ambling down the aisle, like any normal person would be, but just standing there. Hands in his pockets, sneakers snuffling, but there, instead of in a seat.

“What, you need an invitation or something?” he grunts. Glares too, using all the authority the few centimeters his one-eighty plus give him over this human-sized thorn in his side. “Move it.”

He expects the kid’s eyes to be darting around, looking for an exit in this weird confrontation, but instead he just stares at him, all steady as he says, “Did you want to trade seats with me?”

“What, you somehow get stuck next to Usokawa?”

Not possible; he’d been watching the kid like a hawk when they’d been buying tickets. Hadn’t planned to— not his business which of their idiot friends Kashima rubs elbows with— but Inomata’s hands shook as they stood in line, breaking out into a full-body tremble the closer they got to the kiosk, and he could just tell every bit of her was primed to fuck up a single button press. And sure, it would have been funny to watch her twist in the wind if she had, no recourse for shit luck, but Kamitani stood there anyway, watching Kashima poke at some squares on a screen, and picked the empty one next to Ebizawa's. Her fault if she couldn't manage to pick a seat that would let her share that kid's air with only right answers left.

And if she fucked it up, well— it's not like he gave a shit about who he parked his ass next to for the next ninety minutes. Might even be a relief to be seated in movie theater Siberia, not having to put up with any of this nonsense.

“No, I just thought…” He glances over Kamitani’s shoulder, weird flush breaking out over his face, and shakes his head. “I mean, have you checked your…? Er, never mind.”

Last time he checked, people were supposed to finish the sentences they started, but he’d learned long ago that Kashima didn’t so much speak but loop together a bunch of questions he’d hope would answer themselves. Helped him lay flatter when he did his impression of a doormat, and all.

Doesn’t mean it’s not annoying. “What, you think I have a fucking opinion about where you fart for—?”

He doesn’t even know Inomata’s behind him until she pinches him. Not all cutesy the way other girls do, eyelashes fluttering as they tugged at his sleeve soft enough a stiff breeze could blow them away. No, she digs in with those talons of hers, aiming for flesh instead of cotton and twists.

“Are you gonna move or not?” The back of his arm burns where she pinched; his fists clench to keep from rubbing at it. “We don’t have all fucking day.”

Kashima just stands there for a minute, staring at him with his too-big eyes, and— and he’d be ready for it if they were all pleading and puppyish, or hell, even just confused. But they’re not; no, they’re steady instead, thoughtful. Unnerving.

“All right,” he says, stepping aside. “Just thought I’d offer.”

*

If there’s one good thing about this stupid seating scheme, it’s that his part of it is over.

Kamitani drops down into the seat next to Ebizawa, ignoring the slack-jawed stare he skirts down the aisle behind him. There’s probably some slapstick routine going on down there, both Inomata and Kashima struggling to be the most polite, ‘after-you’-ing each other until the lights go down. But that’s not his problem, not anymore— Kamitani can take a girl to hang out, but he can’t make her act right.

That’d been the whole point of this movie thing anyway: putting these two idiots into close quarters without some cockamamie scheme to do it. A pretty foolproof one too, since Inomata can’t even ruin it by doing something stupid, like opening her mouth. And yet here he is, forced to not only participate in another one of her overly complicated setups, but direct the damn thing, just so that she could brush elbows over an armrest.

At least he won’t have to deal with her for the next ninety minutes. Kashima’s going to sit next to him, and then he’ll get a full armrest to himself. That kid’s phobia of taking up space pissed him off, typically, but this— this pays for all those other ‘he said no pickles’ moments in full. All that’s left is to get real comfortable and—

“Do you plan to hog the entire armrest for the whole movie?” There’s not enough light for Inomata to loom, but her glower more than makes up the difference. “You have two, you know.”

Kamitani snorts. Like he’s going to risk bumping elbows with Ebizawa. That kid’s so used to pushy girlfriends he might hold his hand on reflex.

“You do too,” he reminds her, and ha, if she aimed that look at Usokawa, he’d be dead and cremated before the previews were over. But Kamitani’s not about to be intimidated by someone who handed him an open answer essay question about optimum sock height. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Inomata hauls up mid-sit, palms pressed against the pleats at her knees, ass literal inches from the seat, and honestly— it’s impressive. There’s guys in the club who couldn’t hold a squat like that without shaking. And she just does, swiveling that slack jaw over at him like he’s the problem. “You’re the one who told me I could wear anything. You said I could even wear my uniform and it’d be fine.”

“Well, yeah.” Girls might obsess about whether slouched socks were in this year, or whether shorts were appropriate for a group date, but he’s not fucking Usokawa. Kamitani doesn’t give a single shit about they what wear. Usually. “That’s before I know you’d actually wear one.”

“What?” The weight of her glare’s enough to pitch her down into the seat, and for once, Kamitani knows what it feels like to be an English exam. “This isn’t— I’m not— this blouse has a cowl neck!”

His finger flicks out. “Pleated skirt.” It ticks down. “Tennis shoes.” His thumb jerks behind her. “Jacket. All you’re missing is the stupid tie.”

“It’s a cardigan,” she hisses, gripping the sleeve between them. “It’s knitted.”

“It’s June.”

“Movie theaters are still cold!” She folds her arms over her non-existent chest, like somehow that’ll make her less of a grandma. “They try to compensate for the number of people they think will be in the theater, which makes it even worse this time of year, and—”

“Isn’t that what you want?” he grunts, chucking her elbow off the rest. “Some stupid excuse to cozy up to Kashima?”

He’s seen tomatoes less red than the color Inomata turns, every inch between her hairline and that cowl-neck so ripe to burst it nearly makes his skin ache. “A-as if I would stoop to deception just to, t-to receive attention from some, s-some—”

“Ah, Inomata-san…” 

She wrenches around so fast that she nearly spears him with one of those deadly weapons she passes for an elbow. “What is it?”

Kashima’s been all smiles since he caught on that the plus-one to this little shindig was the school’s winner of Worst Personality for three years running, playing polite and attentive host so hard his personality’s practically leaking out of his ears to keep it up. But even his sunny disposition gets a little dinged bearing the brunt of Inomata’s attitude, sunny smile flirting with a grimace before he says, “It seems we have a few minutes before the movie starts, did you want me to get something for you from the concession stand?”

Her back may be to him, but even still, he can tell: she frowns. Scowls, probably, because there’s no way she can’t look constipated with that stick so far up her ass. “Why would you do that?”

Kashima blinks. “Oh, well, I mean, I am on the end, so—?”

This is the sort of train wreck Kamitani would usually be happy to watch in slow motion, savoring the crash, but instead he slouches into seat, low enough that his sneakers brush the back of the one in front of him.

“Popcorn,” he grunts, eyes fixed to the ad on the screen. “And a coke. Biggest they have.”

The thing is: Kashima’s got everyone convinced he’s some mild-mannered doormat, ready and willing to flatten himself for their convenience. And he is— hard to deny it when he lets that hag of a headmistress order him around like he’s Saikawa Part 2, only without the eight-digit paycheck— but the second his brain parses just how many calories Kamitani’s about to shove into ninety minutes, the mask cracks, a furrow burying itself right between his eyebrows. “Kamitani!”

“What?” His shoulders hike high enough to bump his jaw. “You asked.”

The kid’s got himself all wound up, ready to lob a slow ball right down the pitch, the sort of dressing down Kamitani could knock right over the bleachers before it passed the plate, but—

“What do they…I mean, are there…?” Her neck tenses, trembles, chin half-turned like she’s going to look at him, like somehow he’s going to tell her something besides, don’t admit you’re too much of a loser to know what they sell at movie theaters. “I’ll come with you.”

“Oh.” Kashima’s eyebrows bounce against his hairline before they settle for a more confused slope. “You don’t have to! I’m sure I could carry anything you two might—”

“Hey, are you getting snacks?” The theater’s dead silent, but shame’s never stopped Usokawa from shouting before, and it sure won’t now. “Hold up, I’ll come with you.”

Kashima grimaces. “Oh, that’s really not—”

“Too late,” Kamitani snorts, watching Usokawa nearly trip into the seats in front of them. “Enjoy babysitting.”

*

Usokawa’s mouth is moving a mile a minute when they disappear behind the entryway, grilling Inomata before they’re even in sight of an exit. Hell knows what they’re talking about— probably her taste in movie snacks (non-existent), or if she’s ever had soda (doubtful), or whether sock length was a good measure of a girl’s personality (hell no), or whatever else boneheads like him talk about when their single brain cell is bumping around, making enough static to mimic a whole thought. Kamitani stopped paying attention fifteen minutes ago, after that idiot took one look at the movie posters lining the wall outside and asked if they thought a girl climbing out of a TV was a deal breaker or not.

At least he doesn’t have to deal with that sort of shit right now. Sure, Saginuma might swing out of left field with some stupid question, but without Usokawa egging him on, he’ll be happy just reading the vintage trivia on the screen until the lights drop. And Ebizawa— well, he’s a guy who knows how to keep his mouth shut. The kind of kid who stays in his own lane, who wouldn’t just turn around and ask—

“Not to make too much of a point out of it,” Ebizawa mutters, shifting in his seat. “But what the hell were you thinking?”

It takes Kamitani a whole minute to realize this kid is talking to him. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’” Ebizawa fixes him with a look so flat even Usokawa would have trouble tripping over it. “Bringing Inomata-san!”

“What?” His shoulders dig into the padding behind him, braced. “You got some problem with her or something?”

“I-I didn’t say that,” the kid sputters, hands already up and waving, too obvious. The kind of not-subtle that was already drawing Saginuma’s attention. “It’s just…well, you know…”

“You didn’t say you were bringing a girl!” Saginuma drops his voice on that last bit, so quiet Kamitani has to strain to hear it— and instantly regrets he even tried.

“I didn’t bring a girl,” he grunts, glowering at the screen. “I brought Inomata.”

Ebizawa stares at him like he’s the one being ridiculous. “Inomata-san is a girl, Kamitani-kun.”

He snorts. “Barely.”

“I mean, she’s got all the parts for it.” There’s not much Saginuma applies himself to outside of fucking around, but here he is, looking thoughtful about all this. “Soft skin, long hair—”

“Some girls have short hair, you know,” Ebizawa says, like he’s some sort of expert on girls, and not just the kind of guy who falls face-first into having a girlfriend every few weeks. “I think they’re cute.”

“—nice hair,” Saginuma amends, like he never said anything else. “And of course, a rack—”

“Like I said— barely.” Nothing to write home about, at least, and the damn cardigan wasn’t helping. “What’s the big deal anyway? Her and Ushimaru are always hanging around anyway.”

“Come on, man. You gotta know how this looks right?” Ebizawa’s got a face made for looking like he’d rather be having any other conversation, sweat practically pouring off of him as he mutters, “I mean, it’s not like you’re actually…? Like, you can’t really…?”

Kamitani could die happy not knowing how Ebizawa wants to finish that sentence. “I’m just doing her a favor.”

“What? Hanging out with us?” These idiots only have one brain cell between the two of them, but by the way his brow knits, Ebizawa’s putting it through its paces. “That’s your favor?”

His jaw grits so hard he can hear his teeth grinding. “It’s not like this was my first choice either.”

“Huh, yeah. I guess if it’s a favor, Inomata-san must have asked to tag along.” Saginuma leans his chin on his hand, too thoughtful. “Maybe she wanted to see this movie real bad, or something.”

“Bro, be serious.” Ebizawa's eyebrows bounce right up against his hairline. “You think she wants to see Onibaba’s Curse 2?”

“I dunno, it’s not like I know what Inomata-san is into.” There’s not a hint of shame in Saginuma’s shrug, just a curiosity that sets Kamitani’s skin crawling. The last thing he needs is these idiots asking too many questions, especially ones like— “How’d you end up owing her a favor anyway? She helping you study this semester or something?”

Like that. “None of your—”

“No way,” Ebizawa snorts, settling back into his seat, all confident, like he knows what he’s talking about. “Inomata-san has never let anyone borrow her notes, not even Ushimaru, and they’re friends or whatever. Why would she just hand them over to Kamitani? It’s not like they’re—”

His mouth hauls up to a complete stop, forehead furrowing as he overworks that single brain cell he’s got bouncing around. “Wait…you didn’t bring us on some date, did you?”

“It’s not a date!” Not with him, at least, but he needs their help with Kashima like he needs a hole in the head. “She just—”

“You’re supposed to be on a date?” Saginuma’s mouth could catch flies, even if he couldn’t catch a hint. “And you’re making her hang out with Usokawa?”

Ebizawa casts him a conspiratorial look. “We’re going to be on her shit list forever. For being accessories or whatever.”

“I already said, it’s not a date,” he grits out. “She just wanted to come. Hell if I know why. I wouldn’t hang out with you idiots if I didn’t have to.”

“You don’t,” Ebizawa reminds him, though it’s lost beneath Saginuma’s blaring, “Maybe she likes one of us, then?”

Fuck. Leave it to that moron to trip into the right answer by accident. People really are right about monkeys and typewriters.

“Who?” he huffs, arms folded over his chest. “Usokawa?”

“What? Of course not,” Saginuma snorts, shaking his head. “But girls do like Ebizawa” —ha, like to push him around, maybe— “and Kashima’s popular too.”

It’s an effort not to choke up, not to let any part of him give away just how close that bonehead has gotten to the truth—

But it’s all ruined when Ebizawa snorts, “What if it is Kamitani, though?”

There’s no reason for Saginuma to brighten up the way he does, laughing, like this is funny or whatever. “Oh, you mean since he never knows when girls like him?”

“What?” he blurts out. “I do so.”

Saginuma passes him the kind of look Kashima is always giving the brats in the daycare when they’re explaining some adult thing their baby brains can’t comprehend. “You super don’t.”

“I do.” It’s not like he’s blind or something. There’s a reason the stands are never empty during practice, and it’s not because they care about how Midoriyama’s fast ball is coming along. “I just don’t care.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Whatever you say, man.” Ebizawa hooks his hands behind his head, the barest hint of a grin haunting a corner of his mouth. “But if it is you, then we’re all really on her shit list, and—”

There’s a whole stadium’s worth of words trying to elbow their way out of his mouth, practically climbing over each other just to get crushed between his teeth as he grunts, “Shut up.”

Saginuma’s slack jaw is the only warning he gets before an all-too familiar voice from behind him snaps, “What did you say to me?”

Kamitani rolls his head along his shoulders, the sharp edge of his flat look catching Inomata just as she perches at the edge of her seat. Not dainty, like a girl, but wary, like a bird on the wire, ready to take off at the slightest breeze. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Could have fooled me,” she sniffs, settling a snack tray across her knees, one shiver away from shedding soda onto the theater floor.

His soda, to be exact. “You gonna eat all that yourself?”

“What are you—?” He jerks his chin toward the tub on her lap; Kashima must have taken point on order-placing, since it’s almost over-full, kernels generously peeking out of the top. “Oh! N-no! Of course not!”

It’s impressive how much she manages to fumble the hand-off. He reaches out and she shoves, unstoppable force meeting unmovable object, popcorn rustling in the tub, threatening to spill over one rounded side. The butteriest bits too; the kind that gets all that movie theater butter first, soaked right down to the shell and salted to within an inch of its life, and well— Kamitani just bends down. Sticks his tongue out and collects them right off the top of the tub before they can tumble off. Waste not, want not, and all that.

Inomata snatches back her hands like it burns, and he gets to take a whole ass minute to savor the exquisite flavor of her outrage right before she squawks out, “You’re meant to use your hands!”

The kernels crunch between his teeth loud enough to get a flinch out of her. “It’s my popcorn.”

There’s not much Inomata’s good at doing— well, not much that isn’t on an exam— but sneering, that’s one of them. Really gets a good condescending curl going on at one corner of her mouth, the kind she usually saves for gum found under desks, or that kid from the Advance Class that gets nosebleeds every time Kotaro so much as breathes. “I don’t even know how you can eat that much.”

“Talent.” And the three hours of ball practice daily followed by the old hag’s poor excuse for cooking helps keep him in a calorie deficit it’d take five of these to make a dent in. “Kashima usually takes his share too.”

Only after he practically shoves it in his lap, grunting out, are you going to let all this go to waste or what? But it’s funnier to watch this neat freak sit here, torn between abject disgust and the statistical likelihood of her and Kashima casually colliding if they reach into the same bag.

“Well, I suppose I could keep it at my seat. If it would keep you two from reaching over me during the movie,” she says, all reasonable, like somehow she’s the one doing him a favor, and not the other way around. Wrinkles her nose for good measure, too, before adding, “As long as neither of you do…whatever that was.”

Ha, like Kashima putting his mouth that close to her wouldn’t make her full-body vibrate with excitement. But there’s no use in arguing that— not when they both know that kid is more likely to apologize to the theater employees for dropping a single kernel than lick one right off the top of the tub. So Kamitani cedes the high ground and shoves her arm right off the rest instead.

“Hey!” He doesn’t know how she’s allowed to walk around like this, with literal weapons for bones. There’s going to be bruises on him his uniform won’t cover. “This is supposed to be a shared—”

He snorts. “Don’t you have better options?”

That draws her up short, sputtering and stammering, pink from her hairline to that damn cardigan. It’s the sort of overreaction that should annoy him, eyes rolling hard enough to rattle in their sockets, but instead he bites back a grin, wondering just how red she could get if he muttered, nice way to be obvious. Or how much her cheeks would puff out if he grunted, holding his hand would be less desperate. But—

“Excuse me, I think you’re sitting in the wrong seat.”

— Kamitani doesn’t get his chance.

Kashima’s already half out of his seat, fishing his phone from his pocket, frantically flipping through screens. “Am I? I thought— ah, yes, I see, my seat’s actually a couple over. But I’m not sure”—his eyes dart toward Kamitani before fixing back to his screen— “we’re actually not sitting in order, so I don’t know if one of my friends might actually, er…?”

Inomata’s shoulders square as she flashes her phone’s screen, so quick it’s practiced, like she’d been ready for someone to tell her she didn’t belong. “I’m in the correct seat. Have you checked your ticket?”

“It’s not really mine. We got a reservation for our friend, but um” — she fumbles with her phone, flinching under the pressure of Inomata’s stare— “here! E05?”

There’s no arguing with the characters on her screen, but Kashima still stares at it for a minute, like if he does it long enough, the bits might flip to something he likes better. “Haah, right…I think”— Kashima glances back at him again, eyes all wide like he’s some mutt caught on the carpet mid-stream— “I think my seat is actually where you are, Kamitani.”

“Mine’s next to yours.” He’d made sure of that, at least.

“I just followed Usokawa,” Saginuma admits, followed by Ebizawa’s shrugged, “And I just followed Saginuma.”

“Well, I’m sitting where I’m supposed to,” Usokawa insists, phone in hand. “Look, it says right here, seat E10.”

E11, it reads on the screen.

Saginuma coughs on his laugh. “Hey not to make a big thing out of it, man, but uhh, when was the last time you got your eyes checked?”

He blinks, eyes impossibly big behind his lenses. “What are you talking about? You can see it here. One, and then a zero—”

“Bro.” Ebizawa’s too much of a pushover to get angry, but he does get tired. “Are you serious right now?”

“Ah, sorry about this.” Kashima doles out his best bashful smile, the kind that gets even the most level-headed girls in their class to shuffle their school shoes. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us a minute, I’m sure we can get this all sorted out.”

“Oh, um, it’s no problem, really!” Her hands wave between them, cheeks suspiciously pink, and, yeah, looks like this girl isn’t immune either. “Suki’s running late, we just wanted to make sure she’d have a seat when she gets here. Sorry to make you, um…?”

“Oh no, we’re the ones in the wrong seat,” he assures her, all gracious and shit, and the girl just up and giggles, hiding it behind her hand and everything, really getting into this cutesy act, and—

And Inomata pinches him. Right under his elbow, where the skin’s weirdly tender and painful, like it’s his fault that some girl is out here doing a better job flirting with Kashima in three minutes than she’s managed in three years.

“What the hell is your—?” Problem, that’s what he means to say. But he suddenly doesn’t need to, since Kashima gets up. “What are you doing?”

Kashima blinks down at him, like somehow he’s the slow one. “I’m in the wrong seat?”

“Yeah, because Usokawa’s an idiot." Kamitani sinks far enough into his seat that he can put his leg across the aisle, blocking Kashima’s exit. “What’s that got to do with you?”

“Well…isn’t it easier if only one of us moves?” Kashima’s head tilts, and ugh, of course he’s got to be reasonable about this. “Otherwise, everyone has to get up and shift over a seat, and, er…”

Usokawa nearly tripped into row D just getting snacks, and that was without the audience. Now that there’s cute girls to act like an idiot in front of— well, Kashima’s got a point. And it’s not like Kamitani’s in any rush to get up, either, not when he’s just got the seat the way he likes, and—

And Inomata sinks her talons into him.

“I’ll go or whatever.” Even if it means sitting next to freaking Usokawa. A sacrifice this girl won’t even recognize, let alone appreciate. “You can just take my—”

“No!” Kashima’s not a loud kid, most of the time; he’s got his moments— mostly when the daycare brats get some fool idea into their head about just how high they need to climb for their flying super powers to kick in, or when Kamitani so much as breathes in the direction of that old hag headmistress— but this time, the whole theater goes quiet in his wake, a half dozen curious eyes aiming themselves in their direction. “No, that’s all right. You’re the one who brought…I mean, you should, ah”— his eyes dart to where Inomata sits, boring holes into Kamitani like it might make good ideas leak out if she does it hard enough— “I’m fine, really. You should enjoy yourself.”

“But—” Kamitani routinely hits balls that barrel down the pitch at over a hundred kilometers per hour, and yet somehow he misses snagging Kashima’s sleeve as he skirts past. “Wait!”

It’s no use— by the time he’s managed to stumble the word out, Kashima’s already crab walking around Saginuma’s bag, too far away to hear anything over Usokawa’s yammering. Great. He can’t wait for this to be his fault somehow.

Good thing he doesn’t need to; the minute he sinks back into his seat, heat still radiating from where he was sitting before, he’s right in the range of her glare. “What are you doing? Tell him to stay here!”

“What do you think I was doing?” he grumbles, slouched so far down his shoulders practically bump his jaw. “Hes the one who—”

The lights flicker, three times before dim becomes dark, the only light coming from the screen. “We’ll talk about this later.”

She bits off every word, more threat than promise. “What? Like I control what Kashima—?”

“Shh!” Her finger presses to her lips, a poor impression of every stern 2D librarian Usokawa’s ever panted over. “You’re not supposed to talk during the movie!”

“But—”

“Shh!!”

He slouches back down into his seat. “It’s just the fucking previews.”

*

There’s a movie’s worth of trailers before the curtains start to widen, but finally the screen goes black. Not a real darkness, the way rooms get with all the lights out, but projected shadow, bathing everyone in an eerie blue backwash. It’s the kind of trick that might spook a kid, but Kamitani’s skin is too busy burning to crawl. Where the hell does that girl get off telling him they’d talk later? Going around, shushing him like he’s Taka at one of those lame ranger live shows, jawing off about what his stupid zord would look like. He’s doing her a fucking favor, and—

A spur of a shoulder digs into his armpit, practically shoving his arm off the rest. “Is this a horror movie?”

For a minute he just stares at the screen, watching as the stick-thin strokes of Onibaba’s Curse wash away into a doll’s dead eyes. “I thought you weren’t supposed to talk during the movie.”

A huff skitters across his skin, catching at his collar. “I’m just asking a question.”

Sounds a lot like talking to him. “Why? You get scared easy or something?”

Every inch of her stiffens into a full-body scowl, spine so straight his own back hurts looking at it. “Of course not.”

“Good.” His elbow clips her off the rest as he settles back in his seat. “Then we don’t got to talk about it. Unless, you know, you do…”

“I don’t,” she informs him, prim as the perfect pleats in her skirt. “It’s just a movie. Only children would let themselves be scared by this sort of garbage.”

He shrugs. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

He believes her, for a minute. Until the doll blinks, big blue eyes taking up the entire screen.

His ears are still ringing when he leans over, mouth twitching, to ask, “You good?”

She turns to him, all wild eyes and chest heaving, and tells him with feeling, “Shut up.”

*

The plot’s as thin as the screen it’s projected on; after forty minutes of building up this stupid cursed doll, cutting back to her creepy glass eyes every time something even slightly unfortunate happened, some killer guy shows up out of nowhere, playing dark voyeur as Little Miss Honor Roll trips around a conveniently abandoned storehouse. Usokawa might be into this crap: ghost grudges and haunted dolls and the sort of camera tricks that would have that idiot avoiding the mirror for a week; but as far as Kamitani’s concerned, this is ninety minutes of stupid problems being solved by even stupider people— and if he was into that sort of shit, he didn’t need to pay 1500 yen to get his fill of it. He’s got it for free just being friends with these idiots.

It’s not a surprise when Miss Honor Roll catches a knife through the ribs, fear leaching out of her eyes along with her life, but—

But her death rattle is all the warning he gets before a lapful of girl nearly launches herself right over the arm rest.

“Hey!” Inomata’s nails dig into him like a cat caught on a curtain, clawing deeper when he reaches over to pry her off his sleeve. “Watch it!”

Everyone’s pale in the backwash of the screen, but she’s white as a sheet, eyes so dark he could trip into them and never find the bottom.

“What? O-oh!” Her talons retract with a blink, popping off like pins from a corkboard— and with almost as many holes. He’ll be looking like a pin cushion for a week, if he’s lucky. “S-sorry. I didn’t…um…”

Her hand hovers between them, knuckles stark in the blue light, knobby even, the bones along its back and wrist suddenly delicate in comparison. They tremble, trapped between flight and fight, so frail that they must be freezing. Not just the regular kind, ready to warm up with a few good rubs, but ice cold, leaching heat out of him the longer he holds on. “I thought only kids got scared by shit like this.”

Her jaw sets, turning shiver into scowl. “I’m not scared. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

His mouth twitches. “Right.”

“I mean it.”

Probably does too; this girl couldn’t pick any emotion out of a line up, let alone her own. “Uh-huh.”

“Don’t—” A door slams, the killer right behind it, knife already raised, and Kamitani doesn’t even get to learn what he ‘don’t’— not when his ears are too busy ringing from her shriek.

He leans in as the klaxon fades to a buzz, mouth tugging toward a grin. “You were saying…?”

A glare is his only answer.

*

This movie might be a total waste of time, just a cobbled together mess of curses and creepy dolls and a killer that is someone’s second cousin’s roommate or something that gets fed into some thresher thing just in time for this brain dead group of kids to realize the old lady’s in on all of it, but Kamitani’s got to admit: it’s worth it to watch Inomata white-knuckle her way through ninety minutes.

Her heels have been hovering for the last five minutes, tapping down timidly before some door slam or dark shadow has her jerking them back up again, digging hard into faux leather. Like there’s some ghostly hand that’s gonna reach out with each jump scare and drag her under the seat. He’s tempted to lean over, mutter something about how it’s not even that kind of movie—

But then some monstrous hand does reach out— the killer, suddenly not dead— yanking the bad boy back into paddies. The kid fights it the entire time, fingers dragging runnels into the mud—

And Inomata’s got her feet on the seat, shoving herself so far up and back she has to grab at him to stay upright.

“It’s just a movie,” he grunts, trying to pry her off him, but her fingers clench so hard she practically tears off his sleeve. “Sit down, already, you’re gonna hurt yourself or something.”

“I’m not!” she snaps, and hah, it’d be more convincing if she didn’t nearly vault the armrest as the killer’s knife slashed down, narrowly missing Bad Boy’s vitals. His arm snakes out around her shoulder, shoving down until skinny girl connects with seat, no feet mediating contact. “Hey—!”

“Stop squirming around.” That stupid cardigan is softer than he expects, the difference between sweater and skin prickling where his bare arm slumped against her. “You’re going to crack your head or something, and I’m not walking you home.”

“Like I would—” the doll leaps off a shelf, tangling itself in the hot girl’s hair, and Inomata muffles her shriek into his shirt, eyes screwed shut against his shoulder.

It’s not until she hears porcelain shattering that she dares to crack an eye open, still half hidden behind his shirt and her hands. She’s trembling hard enough to rattle his teeth, but she’s not squirming anymore, and—

Well, not until the door groans open, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. Kamitani bites a grin back to a lifted eyebrow. “What was that?”

Her head lifts, both eyes needed for the glower she graces him with. “Oh, shut up.”

It’d be easy to clap back, to really dig under the nail on this, but—

But Inomata sets her head back on his shoulder and just breathes, her whole body relaxing into his, and—

But that’s not what she’s going to do. Oh no, that’s for someone who can use the wrong kanji and still expect everyone to laugh it off. Someone who can forget to bring their textbook to class and have a seatmate offer to share. Someone like Yuki, maybe, who might blush and stammer at the board, but still takes one more stab at solving for x. But Maria—

Maria’s brain takes one glance at the glacial pace Kamitani’s taking to express anything— honestly, tectonic plates subduct and transform faster than his eyebrows furrow— and decides with all the gravitas of a doctor giving a terminal diagnosis that now would be an excellent time to panic. Anything to keep him from saying—

“What?” There’s not much table for him to squint across, and sitting catty-corner like they are, there’s even less, but Kamitani clearly has experience at summoning up long distance derision with a short runway. “What are you talking about? Right now?”

“No! Why would I—? I meant to the movies.” She hadn’t thought it was possible, but leave it to this stupid man-child to come up with a question even more inane than her own. “Obviously.”

His eyebrows twitch, matching the tic at his temple. “’Obviously?’ I was asking you whether this would be ‘hanged’ or ‘hung.’”

“Oh.” She leans over, making a valiant effort to decipher what he’s scrawled across his notebook— somehow his handwriting is worse in English than kanji; a feat that seemed impossible until she startled rifling through his past exams. “Hung. ‘Hanged’ is only for when, er…it is a person in a deceased state. Or I suppose, sentenced to be in a deceased state too.”

“Really?” He tugs the notebook back in front of him with a snort. “They’ve got a whole tense for that?”

And lack a sufficiently polite form of address, but Maria diplomatically replies, “Languages mold themselves around what matters most to the people who speak them.”

He grunts— hardly a polite sound, but it’s as close as Kamitani can bring himself to one; somehow both approving and curious, even if he goes straight back to ignoring her the minute he’s done making it. It’s probably better that way anyway; she’s supposed to be here as a tutor, not a fellow student, and the last thing she needs is him remember just how they got on this whole topic any—

“You can wear whatever you want.” Her eyes jerk over to where he sits, pen tapping absently against the paper. He clears his throat, glare fixed to the page, like it’s personally wronged him. “To the movies. They let you do that now, you know.”

“I know they’ll let you wear anything to a movie.” She may not have partaken in many social outings since middle school, but she’s been to the theater. Her parents have taken her, at least. “I mean…should I wear a dress? Or maybe a skirt? Or I guess it could be warm enough for shorts, but that might be a little too casual, and—”

“I wear what’s clean,” he says, as helpful as always. “Or what smells clean, at least.”

Maria was never much for rolling her eyes— rudeness, her father would always huff, is the crutch of a lesser mind— but her few forays into typical teenage rebellion have not sufficiently prepared her for how much it could ache if she did it hard enough. “I should have known better than to ask a boy.”

“What do you want me to say?” One side of his mouth rucks up into a sneer, like somehow she’s the obnoxious one here. “What you’ve got on is fine.”

She glances down— pressed white button-down, perfectly tied striped bow, charcoal pleats cutting across above her knees with ruthless efficiency— and informs him, “This is my uniform.”

“Yeah.” He jerks a shoulder up in what she assumes is supposed to be a shrug as half-assed as all the rest of his work. “And it’s fine. It’s not like guys care about that sort of stuff.”

“Guys don’t care…?”

He says it so casually, so confidently, as if Kawata and Yamane didn’t have a stack of magazines as tall as her arm to drag out at the merest mention of a crush. As if they hadn’t pored over every page, shoving entire articles about ‘female desirability,’ and ‘the discerning male eye’ in front of her, covers boasting ‘this one little trick’ to get a man to notice you.

“You really are the most useless person on the planet,” she informs him with a chill that could frost glass— if it wasn’t nearly summer, that is. “Everyone knows that men are the most visual creatures on earth! That’s why all those girls in video games are half naked, and why shonen manga practically advertises fanservice as a feature, and why”—the words stick to her throat, refusing to be anything but spat between them— “all men watch porn.”

She expects sneering, a cluck of his tongue, a token denial, yelling even— but not the lift of his eyebrows, nor the bald way he says, “Yeah, but all those girls are naked.”

Maria stares. “There is something uniquely wrong with you, and its origin is somewhere between your ears.”

His eyes narrow, annoyed. “Now you sound like the old hag.”

“Unbelievable,” she mutters, glancing down at his paper. “Also, your answer to number three is wrong.”

“Well, isn’t that what you’re here for, sensei?” His mouth twitches, and— and it’s stupid for her heart to pound so loud in her ears, like they actually had some sort of argument, instead of him just saying…just calling her— “So tell me the answer.”

The pounding abruptly ceases.

“I’m not going to tell you the answers! Recitation is hardly mastery.” A lesson she’d learned the hard way, more than once. Not that he needed to know about any of that.

Now there is the derisive cluck of the tongue she’s been waiting for, the sneer of disdain she knew was lingering in the wings, waiting for its moment beneath the lights. “What’s the point of this whole studying thing if you’re not going to help me?”

“I am helping you,” she snaps, her spine pulling achingly straight. “I could give you the answer right now, but that would only help you with this question. If you don’t learn to solve it yourself, well—it’s not like you’ll have me next to you during the exam, whispering the right choices. And then we’ll be right back where we started next time, only with more information to cover.”

He glares at her, forehead furrowed and frown rumpled, two storm fronts converging right over his nose, destined to leave only devastation in their wake— but instead he grunts, “Fine.”

Maria blinks. “Excuse me?”

The notebook slides across the table, spanning the space between them. “If you’re not going to tell me the answer, then at least show me what I got wrong.”

It’s safer to look down than up, isn’t it? To find problems rather than a solution. That’s how it’s always been for her, at least. But now Maria’s eyes drop, seeking some safe harbor pages in front of her, some sturdy ground to plant herself on, and— and it practically glares back at her, his hasty haystack handwriting blown across every line. Legible, though only just. Manageable.

“Well,” she says, summoning her most insufferably superior tones. There’s no point in being friendly, after all. Not when this is a business arrangement. “If you’re looking for somewhere to start, maybe you should make sure your p’s all face the same direction…”

*

Maria squints down at the screen, hand cupped around her phone case as if that might help with the glare. It doesn’t, of course— not with the recessed lighting hung directly overhead; her favorite feature of this kitchen until just ten minutes ago, when Tanaka-san sent her this video— the same tutorial she’d used to learn to roll an omelet two years ago, before her then-boyfriend became now-persona non grata. But now perfectly julienned carrots and geometrically pleasing onigiri can't make up for the fact that no matter how she tries to shift around the counters— even going so far as to lean over the sink in her desperation— she cannot view more than three-quarters of her screen at once.

“Maria?” The lights flicker over the rest of the kitchen, a quick off-on-off before settling into a bright blaze over the breakfast table. Her mother shuffles another step over the jamb, rubbing at her eyes. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Ah! Oh, um…” Two containers sit open on the table, the biggest compartments already filled with still-steaming rice, and for the life of her, Maria can’t think of how to explain both besides fumbling out, “Making my lunch?”

It’s a slow shift from bleary eyes to narrow ones, mother’s mouth bowing just enough to wrinkle at the corners. Skepticism clings to every fold, doubt deepening in their shadows, and alarms blare in Maria’s ears— CAUGHT, they shout, YOU’VE BEEN CAUGHT—

But then Mother’s nose scrunches too. Not suspicion, then, but distaste. Disgust. “You don’t need to do that. I’m perfectly capable of making your lunch.”

And perfectly incapable of enjoying the process. The boys at school loved to make a fuss about “obligation chocolate,” complaining about how true feelings make candy sweeter; as if it’s not a ridiculous demand for their female classmates to manufacture something like attraction when the boys in question still find bathroom humor the pinnacle of comedy, but…

But Maria can’t argue that duty does have a taste. And it’s hardly a sweet one.

“Well, yes, I know that.” I’m not saying you couldn’t, she nearly argues, but this is hardly the time to get defensive. Not when she’s trying to be as unassuming as possible; making lunch from utterly pure and reasonable motives, and not because she’s interested in the metrics of boy-mediated approval. “But, um…when I’m at university, I’ll be presumably living on my own, won’t I?”

Mother blinks at that, as if it had never occurred to her that if her daughter was actually going to attend one of those choice Tokyo institutions they had been aiming for, they might actually have to send her there. “Y-yes. That would be a…reasonable assumption, considering the commute.”

“And if I’m living on my own, then I’ll have to be able to provide meals for myself, won’t I?” Maria fits her hands on her hips, letting this sudden burst of unearned confidence lift her chin. “I thought it would be good to get used to making them now, rather than waiting until I’m by myself. Learning a new habit is harder when you’re under stress, they say.”

She could not, if pressed, say who ‘they’ might be, but Mother seems to find it convincing enough, nodding along as if she’d thought of the idea herself.

“That’s very mature of you, Maria.” It is, given more than a moment to think it over instead of desperately spinning it out. The sort of thing she should have been thinking of, if she hadn’t already been caught up in this whole…drinking the nectar of her youth situation. She’s almost proud of herself for stumbling into it, even backwards, letting herself take a moment to preen in her mother’s praise before— “I just didn’t realize university students made bento now.”

Maria blinks, a deer noticing the first paired pinpricks of headlights. “H-huh?”

“When me and your father were in school, we just bought everything in the cafeteria.” Her head tilts, thoughtful. “Or I suppose from one of the places around campus. There was a nice little conbini right around the corner, and I think your father must have subsisted off of their fried chicken for the two years until we met—”

“It’s a good way to save money,” she blurts out, nerves practically spilling all over the counter. “And, ah, healthier than eating conbini chicken every meal.”

It’s the exact sort of explanation that should satisfy her mother; she’s the one who always spearheads their vegetable-heavy menu, even if her father’s the one that ultimately cooks them. But instead that nostalgic smile falls to a frustrated frown, mouth pursing as she approaches the counter.

“I appreciate the initiative, dear, but you should know you won’t need to worry about that sort of thing. Your father and I are quite serious about supporting you during your studies.” Her brows knit as she surveys the counter between them. “Is there a reason you’re packing two bentos?”

“It’s easier to make two instead of one!” Her mother lifts an inquisitive brow, and ah— this might not have been the best tack to take with a woman who has been making them every day for nearly fifteen years. “I-I mean, that’s what I read, at least.”

“Hm.” An entirely too thoughtful sound, when she really would prefer her mother not have any opinion. “But bento are supposed to be made fresh. They’re better that way.”

“I-I know that,” Maria blusters, head giving a proud toss. “It’s just, um…Y-yuki-chan’s parents are out of town. So I thought I’d give the spare one to her.”

“Oh, Yuki-chan.” Mother’s posture visibly eases. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Maria.”

It would be, if it was true. But it isn’t— unless, by coincidence, Yuki’s parents are somehow out of town, and then—

“It’s good to think of other people, but make sure it’s not too much,” Mother warns, turning away to where the coffee maker sits, cold. “You wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of how kind you are.”

Maria coughs around the bile building in her throat. “I don’t think I have to worry about that.”

Not when all this kindness is fictional, just part of the part she’s playing; a ruse to fool her mother into thinking she cares about her future and her friends rather than just impressing some boy who—

“I don’t think so either.” Mother smiles, slipping her coffee cup under the spout. “Yuki-chan is a nice girl, I’m sure she’ll appreciate the effort you put into your friendship.”

“Yeah,” Maria squeaks faintly. “I hope so…”

“You should go out with them more often.”

She blinks, swallowing past the burning in her throat. “What?”

“Your friends! Yuki-chan and those other girls. What were their names? Kawasaki…?” Mother shakes her head. “Anyway, I know it’s almost time for exams, but surely they don’t spend all their time studying.”

Unlike you, Mother doesn’t say, but she hardly needs to, not when Maria’s typical weekend plans involved making flashcards and studying exam booklets, and—

The siren breeze of opportunity wafts through the window her mother’s thrown open.

“Oh!” Her hands tremble as she grips the counter, willing herself to sound calm. Composed. Like a girl that has friends that go places with her. “T-that reminds me. I was invited to a movie this weekend…”

This can’t possibly work. She’s too nervous— even if Mother can’t hear her heart pounding, shouting LIAR with every beat, she’ll know by the way her knees knock, or the guilty flush on her cheeks, or— or something. Something that makes every bit of her breathe, I’m going out with boys, and then she’ll be grounded until she’s thirty.

“Oh, doesn’t that sound nice?” Mother settles onto one of the kitchen chairs, the gurgle of percolating coffee bright in the air. “Do you need any pocket money for the trip? I’ve heard snacks are expensive nowadays.”

“I…” Maria stares. This woman raised her. Surely she would know when her own daughter was lying to her face. About boys. “N-no. I think I still have money from my last exams. T-that should be more than enough.”

“As long as you’re sure.” Mother squints over at the stove, and oh, here it comes— “Do you need any help?”

Maria’s jaw closes with a snick.

“No,” she manages, after a moment. “I think I’ve got it handled.”

*

Were there ever a circumstance wherein Maria was forced— under extreme duress— to invent a positive trait for Yagi, she could at least say this: he doesn’t drop his bag with all the subtlety of an earthquake, like the rest of the boys in their class do. No, he delicately drapes the strap over the back of his chair, arranging the bag so that it sits neatly between their desks, not interfering with his ability to rummage through its contents, or knocking into her knees. It’s almost…polite.

And yet it still doesn’t keep her from flinching when he spins around, all princely smile, and hums, “Good morning, Inomata-san.”

It would be easy to glare, to answer with her customary, don’t you have someone else you can bother? Or even a very evocative, what?

But it’s Yagi who had given her the comprehensive primer on just what sort of dishes made for a good bento— for a boy, at least. For someone who rarely made a production of eating the ones he received, he had some firm opinions about what kind of grilled fish kept well until lunch time, or what pickled vegetables wilted too quickly to make a good accompaniment to rice. A better help than Nezu, at least; he might be used to taking Yagi’s cast-offs, eating all the finest bento 3-A can offer, but in terms of taste— well, she’d known garbage compactors with more discernment.

Maria grits her teeth and manages a mostly civil, “Good morning.”

Yagi’s eyebrows disappear beneath the fashionable fall of his bangs. “You’re in a good mood.”

For once, he’s too polite to say, but his tone does more than enough to imply.

“I’m in the same mood I am every morning,” she snaps, regretting every word before it even leaves her mouth. But it’s too late— rudeness spills out on reflex, a force of habit it’s impossible to stop. “Don’t try to read into it or anything!”

A prince’s mouth has to be made for smiles, but Yagi’s strains at the corners, creasing with the effort to hold it. “If you say so, Inomata-san.”

He starts to turn around, leaving her sitting there like a grilled tomato; flushed and tender and skin waiting to split at the slightest touch, and—

And it’s stupid how hard it is to just be nice. “Thank you, though. For the, er…advice. With the bento.”

His head snaps back over his shoulder so fast her own aches in sympathy. “So it went well? Your…hmm…experiment?”

“It’s ongoing,” she informs him loftily, “and the president of the Home Ec Club also gave me a few pointers too. So don’t think you’re the only one that—”

“But he liked it, didn’t he?” It’s subtle, the way Yagi leans toward her, but the searching look in his eyes is anything but. “He said it tasted good?”

Not in so many words. But, well, she wasn’t trying to impress Kamitani. “It was edible.”

She expects a grimace, a wince, a look of pity at least, but instead— instead Yagi grins. “So he ate all of it?”

“I…” A gout of their classmates flood through the door, mouths squealing as much as their school shoes do when they realize Yagi is already there, looking princely perfect in his seat. It’s only a hop, skip and a jump for their eyes to follow his, to see that she is the one he’s deigned to bestow his good favor. Maria straightens her shoulders, refusing to be cowed by their stares. “T-that’s not the point.”

The conversation should end there; other classmates have begun to filter in, ones beside Yagi’s fluttering fan club. People that must be more pleasant to talk to than a girl who can’t even seem to be grateful without snapping someone’s head off—

“It sounds like it’s going well,” he says with the unrelenting optimism of a boy who has never had to pack a lunch in six years. Or had his outdoor shoes thrown in the trash for taking the top spot two exams in a row. “Do let me know if you need any more advice, all right, Inomata-san?”

He turns the full force of that princely smile on her, sincerity shining out of him with all the blinding light of the morning sun, and— and she can’t help it, it just slips out—

“What do you think about clothes?”

*

The trouble with this whole bento plan has always been in the delivery; there’s a certain implication that comes with a young woman giving an equally young man a well-made lunch. One Maria’s eager to avoid considering that the one she’s giving it to isn’t even who it’s for. Or, well, it is, but not metatexually. He’s not the one meant to reap the rewards, or however the saying goes. Not for anything but the short term.

She might have had to chase him down that first day, coming into the classroom and hauling him through the hallways until he learned to behave, for once, but now that she’s established a routine, well—

Kamitani’s already lingering outside when lunch rolls around, his stupidly long legs stretched out, making it awkward for her to make this exchange in any sort of civil fashion. No, there’s nothing for it to but shove, forcing the box into his folded arms with all the grace of a bulldozer.

“Here,” she says, impatient, waiting for him to untangle enough to hold it on his own. “The rubric is already inside. Make sure you fill it out properly this time. And actually try the omelet!”

It’s the least he can do, now that she knows she’s made it right— she must have; she followed Tanaka-san’s tutorial down to the second. But instead of looking grateful, the way anyone else would when they’re handed a properly nutritious meal, he just stares at her, forehead already halfway to a furrow. “What, that’s it?”

“Well, eat the rest of it too!” It’s not like he needs her to explain lunch to him as a concept. For all his complaining, he’s been polishing off both tiers in twenty minutes. “It’s not like you don’t know how.”

It’s a feat to skirt around him— she doesn’t remember him having nearly this much leg in first year— but Maria is an expert in avoiding unpleasant realities. She cuts a neat path from one side of him to the other, shoes barely squeaking as she executes the hurried turn into 3-C—

Only for his hand to hook around the cuff of her short sleeves, holding her hostage. “That’s not what I meant.”

His palm burns where it sits against her skin— or, well, half against it, the other half pressing cotton flat like an iron. “W-what?”

He hasn’t budged an inch from where she found him, holding her just with the casual strength of one hand— it’s infuriating, now that she thinks about it. She runs the mile in physical education just like everyone else, and climbs the stupid rope, even if it takes her a few more minutes to huff and puff to the top. There’s no reason he should be able to just hold her like this, like she’s just some delicate little waif, and he’s—

He’s staring at her now, head turned so he can really get some good momentum down that nose of his. “You want me to eat this on my own?”

“J-just for today!” She shrugs out of his grip, annoyed and oddly breathless. “It's not like you don't have friends! I’m sure you’d rather eat with them anyway.”

His eyes narrow, a breath hissing out from his nose. “What's that supposed to mean?”

There's no reason for him to make this so difficult, not when he already spends most of their time complaining about how he'd rather be doing anything else. "I said exactly what I meant. Now if you'll excuse me"-- her chin lifts with a pointed sniff-- "I need to consult with the girls in your class."

His brows furrow sharply, matching the flex of his hand. "What? Why?"

“Because...”

Clothes? Yagi hums, thoughtful. I can't say I've ever thought much about it. Anything cute is always a pleasant surprise. Those animal pajamas-- the ones that are all one suit, you know-- or maybe even pumpkin pants--

She means on girls, Nezu informs him, resignation thick in his voice. The ones our age.

Oh. He offers her an apologetic smile. I can't say I have much of an opinion on that.

Her breath hisses out between her teeth, weary. “It turns out all boys are useless.”

*

“Mari-chi!” Kawata’s eyes widen as Maria hovers just beyond where they sit, trying to calculate the proper angle of approach. It would have been one thing in the classroom— she could have simply pulled up a desk, or quietly approached Yuki as she set out her own bento. But they’re outside today, the weather too nice to squander before it folds under summer’s coming heat, and there’s no natural way to ask— “You’re gonna eat with us today?”

Ah. Besides that.

“Yes.” She sets her bento on the table beside Yamane, already taking note of the number of inches available on the bench, and how much she might be able to squeeze into, so long as she was allowed. “If that’s all right.”

“Of course it is!” Yuki scoots over to make room, Yamane scurrying to follow suit. “Let’s just—”

“Let her sit on this side, with me?” Kawata deadpans, shifting her lunch over a few inches. “Come on, I don’t bite.”

“I-I wouldn’t assume you did,” Maria stammers, practically tripping to take her seat. “I just thought, um…”

Yuki and Yamane were more likely to accommodate her. Or at least do it without the sort of questions she knows are already buoying Kawata’s smirk.

“You’re always welcome to join us,” Yuki’s quick to assure her, smile blinding when she turns it her way. “You don’t need to ask.”

“Yeah, especially if you’re going to tell us what’s happening with all that boy research you’re doing,” Kawata hums, earning a shocked, ‘Rena-chan!’ from Yuki. “Oh come on, like you aren’t curious.”

“I know I am!” Yamane chirps, popping an octopus-shaped hot dog into her mouth. “Have you tried the neck thing yet? I think that’s a good—”

“I have not!” Maria refuses to clap her hands to her cheeks, no matter how much they burn, but it’s an effort, to be sure. “And I won’t. I was only…gathering information for future use.”

“And?” Kawata laughs, tilting her a sly smile. “Come on, Mari-chi. Yuki’s right, you’re welcome to sit with us any time, but I know you only got up the gumption to do it because you have something on your mind.”

“No, I…!” Under Kawata’s withering eyebrow, Maria folds like a paper crane. “I was just wondering if, er…there were specific types of clothes that are more appealing to boys than others.”

“What?” Yamane roots around for another slice of sausage. “You mean like lingerie?”

“Saki-chan!” Yuki’s palms clap to her own face. “Of course Maria didn’t mean that!” Her gaze slips toward her, curious. “Did you?”

“W-what? Of course not!” The news might say that high school girls are starting that sort of exploration younger and younger these days— prompting several awkward mother-daughter talks; or really not-talks, the way both of them dance around the topic— but Maria can’t even imagine kissing until after college. “I meant in a more rhetorical sense. Like for the movies.”

Yamane’s eyes blow wide. “Mari-chi, has someone asked you out?”

“W-what?” She might have expected that sort of shrewdness from Kawata, or maybe even Yuki, but Yamane? Another ice age seemed more likely. “No. I mean, as I said, rhetorically—”

“I didn’t realize that the movies was a common rhetorical device.” Kawata slides a too-knowing look across the table, one side of her smile twitching toward a smirk. “Maybe you only cover that sort of stuff in the Advanced Class.”

Heat prickles just under her cheeks, her last warning before it begins to show on her skin. “W-well, if you think about it—”

“Oh, did your club friends ask you to go?” Yuki bounces in her seat,  eyes practically bursting with pride. “Oh, Maria-chan, how exciting! They seem like such nice girls!”

It’s a convenient excuse, one that would certainly keep Kawata and Yamane from prying— or getting the wrong idea— but—

“No, no. That doesn’t make sense.” Kawata stares over at her, entirely too shrewd for Maria to do anything besides break out into a cold sweat. “Mari-chi asked about what to wear in front of boys, which means…?”

Yamane’s whole body stretches with the force of her gasp. “A boy asked you out!”

Wide eyes pass around the table, and at this crucial juncture, it seems prudent to inform them, “It’s not a date.”

This, of course, is a tactical error on her part.

“Date?” Yamane sighs dreamily. “Mari-chi is going on a—?”

“Who is it?” Yuki-chan nearly leaps across the table to grab her, palms pressing tight around Maria’s suddenly clasped hands. “Is it…? I mean, do we know him?”

“I knew it,” Kawata crows, fists sitting so high on her waist her elbows jut into Maria’s side. “People can balk at neck kissing all they like, but it never fails to get a girl what she—”

“Have you kissed?” Yamane practically vibrates in her seat, the deep blue of her eyes suddenly sparkling and bright. “Or maybe even…held hands?”

“I think you’ve got the order wrong on that one,” Kawata snorts. “And usually all that happens after the d—”

“It’s not a date,” Maria repeats wearily, temples pounding. “It’s a…a group thing.”

“A group date?” Yamane gasps, and ugh, that’s worse.

“N-no! Nothing like that! I just…” Her mouth works, waiting for the words to come to her, to try to smooth over this whole misunderstanding, but all she manages is, “They were already going, and I was invited to join them.”

Yamane frowns. “And you’re the only girl going? With a bunch of guys.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Even numbers might imply a pairing off, but there's no romance in the way she's outnumbered four-to-one. Especially when the only thing interesting about her is her test scores. “And I wasn’t sure if I should wear what I normally would, or…something different.”

“Something different, huh?” Kawata’s mouth hooks into a smirk, and there’s no time to stop her before she says, “So what you’re saying is that you got invited, and there’s someone you like going.”

There’s a pause, a small lacuna of conversation where she could protest, where she could play utterly innocent— but she’s too slow to take it. Too surprised at being caught to invent something more benign, and now—

Now her ears ache from all the squealing.

“Who is it? No”— Yamane holds up a hand, pressing the other to her temple— “wait, let me see if I can guess. No, wait, actually, give me a hint first—”

“Really?” There’s a small wrinkle between Yuki-chan’s eyebrows, the tiniest hint of concern. “But I thought...?”

It’s Kawata who seizes the initiative. “Are you seeing a scary movie?”

“Er.” A good question; being invited had been such a novelty, Maria hadn’t actually bothered to ask about the title, let alone the content. “I’m not…sure?”

“If you are, pretend to get scared.” She says it so breezily, like it’s a foregone conclusion that Maria couldn’t actually be scared of anything that wasn’t covered in red pen. “Then you can get him to put his arm around you.”

“Oooh, yes!” Yamane claps her hands together, far too eager. “You can do that no matter what kind of movie it is, can’t you? There’s always something surprising going on. You just have to grab him and then—”

“I— I’m not going to do that.” The spectral weight of Kashima’s arm settles over her shoulders, hypothetically warm even through two layers of fabric, and oh, it says something about her that it’s so tempting. Just what she can’t begin to speculate, but something. “Resort to…to deception.”

“It’s not deception,” Yamane insists, wide-eyed. “It’s just tricking him into comforting you!”

“That,” Maria informs her, “is exactly the same thing.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Kawata says, waving Yamane off with a sigh. “Boys like it when girls act vulnerable. It makes them feel important or something. That’s why they all like Yuki-chan so much.”

“I’m not vulnerable!” Yuki’s cheeks puff out petulantly, only deepening her pout. “I’m just…indecisive.”

“Same difference,” Kawata deadpans. “That’s your problem, though, Mari-chi. You don’t seem like you need anyone.”

If that were true, she’d hardly be here, asking about boys and clothes and the hundred other things girls her age were born knowing. Or begging scraps off anyone that seems to have a halfway decent idea of how to interact with someone outside of a group project. But--

“I don’t,” she lies, fists trembling in her lap. “If some boy can’t handle that I’m a…er…strong, independent woman, then there’s no reason to get into a relationship in the first place!”

But it's better, isn't it, if everyone thinks it's on purpose? If it isn't just her fumbling through the dark, failing to find even one friend she can make stick. If boys don't like her because they're weak, instead of--

“But everyone needs someone sometimes, don’t they?” Yuki-chan frowns, that concerned little wrinkle deepening. “Not just a boyfriend, but— you can’t be strong all the time, you know? It’s not good for you.”

“I’ve been doing fine this far.” Friends didn't earn a top spot in the most prestigious Tokyo universities, and, if the girls in the academy were any indication, having a boyfriend seemed to preclude them. Or the ambition to try for one, at least. “I don’t see why I need to change just because a boy needs to feel useful, or whatever.”

It's terrible the way Yuki-chan looks at her, sweet sincerity making her eyes water so much they shine. "But, Maria--"

“You may not wanna change for a guy," Kawata continues, utterly undaunted. "But I'm sure we can figure out a way to make you look cute." She flicks her hand. "Come on, what do you have in your closet?"

Maria hesitates. “Well, I would say most of my wardrobe is skirts, but…”

*

Maria has never been personally complimented on her ability to read any given room, but Yuki lingers behind pointedly enough that even she realizes that she should slow down, letting her pace match the snail-speed one Yuki’s decided to take on. By the bright smile Yuki turns on her, thrilled with every foot they put between them and Kawata and Yamane’s backs, it’s the right thing to do.

At least, that’s how it feels until it’s just the two of them, standing in an empty courtyard, only the birdsong for conversation. This is where she’s probably supposed to say something, explain why she decided to keep after Kashima when even Yuki called it a lost cause, and—

“You know…” Yuki rocks onto her toes before settling back back on her heels, and ah— she’s nervous, just the way Maria is. “I didn’t really expect you to move on from Kashima-kun.”

“You didn’t?” Between the two of them, she’s always been the one to give up easier; the one who runs into one speed bump and needs to regroup. The one who's discouraged by a stray breeze and needs to be built back up. You don’t seem like you need anyone, that’s what Kawata had said— funny, since it’s only because of Yuki’s constant encouragement that she didn’t let this silly crush on Kashima go the way of the piano way back in first year.

“Of course not! That’s the way you’ve always been, Maria-chan. Determined.” It’s a nice way to say stubborn, at least. Just like she’d expect from Yuki, even if the heartfelt handclasp is…a lot, as usual. “I’m proud of you for taking control of your own destiny! Drinking the nectar of our youth. It’s just…”

Maria blinks. “Just…?”

Yuki’s smile stretches thin, a grimace rather than a grin. “Don’t you think you might be coming on a little strong?”

“Strong?” Between school and studying, she’d hardly had more than a few minutes to speak to Kashima the past few weeks, and though she’d maybe sent him some lingering looks through the daycare’s windows, she can hardly count that as interacting, not when she’s reasonably sure he hadn’t seen her. “I don’t think I’m doing anything different than I normally do.”

Besides her research, but well, Yuki doesn’t need to know about that.

“Ah, really? But…” Yuki glances at her, concerned. “You do come to the classroom every day.”

For Kamitani, she nearly says, but that’s the last sort of misunderstanding she needs to stumble into. “I don’t think he notices.”

Not to say more than a friendly hello, at least. He always seems much more invested in whatever strange shenanigans his friends seem to be up to.

“He doesn’t?” Yuki stares at her for a long moment, then sighs. “Maria-chan, leave it to you to pick a harder challenge than Kashima-kun.”

"I'm not! It's..." The same it's always been. "I'm better prepared."

“Can you just tell me if he’s…he’s nice to you at least?” she asks, strangely desperate. “Not, er…?”

Maria blinks. Kashima has trouble killing fruit flies, let alone being anything but unfailingly polite to anything with a pulse. “I don’t think there’s a mean bone in his body. Not ones he knows about, anyway.”

“Really? But…” Her delicate brow furrows. “Well, I suppose they do say love changes a person…”

“Yuki?”

“Ah! Never mind me.” Her hands squeeze tight around Maria’s. “As long as you’re sure, I’m here to support you. No matter what!”

A weight lifts from Maria’s shoulders; one she hadn’t even realized she was carrying. Yuki isn’t mad that she’s still stuck on Kashima. She isn’t disappointed she won’t move on. She isn’t jealous that she—

Maria hesitates. Why would she be? For all her research, it’s not like she has much to show for it. Not yet, at least.

“Thank you,” she says, her own fingers tightening around Yuki’s. “That really…means a lot to me.”

Yuki’s nose wrinkles, playful. “Of course. It’s going to take more than a boy to come between us!”

*

“I thought boys your age were supposed to be as picky about food as a trash compactor.” Maria may not be the arbiter of taste when it comes the preferences of her classmates, but even she can tell: this is distinctly uncool behavior. “Are you really going to pick out every single bit of carrot you can find?”

“Yes.” A well-pickled matchstick rotates between his chopsticks before he sets it aside, joining the pile of rejected root vegetables. “They’re gross.”

“They’re good for you,” she reminds him, since clearly the Morinomiya’s most talented captain has forgotten the whole second tier of the food pyramid. “I even cut them smaller this time.”

He spares her a single, flat stare. “They’re still carrots.”

“Honestly.” Maria digs heartily into her own well of pickled vegetables. “I bet you still leave bell peppers on your plate.”

That gets her a snort this time— not amused but affronted, like a cat pet the wrong way— and a much more measured glare. “I’m not a kid.”

“You could have fooled me,” she sniffs, peeling back the seaweed on her noriben. “Now do you have any other complaints? Besides the fact that I’m making you eat like a grown adult.”

“Even adults have stuff they don’t eat.” His chopsticks pick at a shred of slaw, tugging out a long, orange strand. Well-seasoned, she thinks, but the meaningful look he tosses her way suggests he has no intention of finding out. “You’re lucky I don’t dock your score for this shit.”

“You should.”

There’s no reason for the Great Athlete to fumble his utensils, and yet somehow they scurry out from his grip, only reflex catching them before they plummet to the pavement. Maria frowns, clenching her own chopsticks between her fingers. “I’m not asking for flattery, I’m asking for improvement. If you don’t like what I make, your assessment should reflect that.”

There’s a funny sort of pause, a lacuna of conversation as Kamitani considers yet another strip of carrot, the already unfriendly angle of his eyebrows furrowing deeper.

“Well, yeah,” he finally snorts, dropping it into the pile. “But it’s not like you’re making these for me. Kashima probably loves shit like this. Vegetables or whatever.”

“That’s—” a good point, little as she likes to admit it. “That doesn’t matter. Boys our age are all the same anyway.”

It’s a struggle not to squirm when one of those stern brows angles toward his hairline. “You think Kashima is like everyone else?”

“W-well…” Half the reason he caught her eye is because he isn’t; all the other boys talk about bust-to-waist ratios or burp the boss music to their latest video game, but Kashima— Kashima might be able sing the entirety of the Petit Pois opener, or name every one of the Ranger Five and their signature moves, but he can’t name two idols in the same girl group, let alone notice they have the sort of features that could be measured and marked down in magazines. “He can’t be that different. Everyone has to eat, don’t they? You’re friends, after all.”

There’s no reason for his brows to furrow so deeply, for him to sit there and glare at her as if she’s the problem. Like there’s something wrong with her. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I-I don’t know,” she mutters, plucking up a savory square of omelet. It may not be as technically perfect as the one Tanaka-san made when she demonstrated how to roll one up without burning the whole pan, or as delectable as the slice Yagi let her try from his own bento, but it’s good. More than edible, at least. And yet, Kamitani hasn’t touched it. “You eat together, don’t you? So you must like the same things…?”

“He doesn’t go around eating off my plate or whatever,” Kamitani sneers, pushing his vegetable off the side of the bento and into an empty well. There’s enough to be a side dish all on its own. “That kid gets plenty of food all on his own.”

“Right, but you must, you know…go out?” That’s what she’d always thought friends did— go out after school, stopping by some local spot for a pick-me-up after a long day of class. Split one of those limited-time appetizers that would probably leave her stomach queasy from all the grease, if anyone ever bothered to invite her. “Don’t you share food then?”

“Not really.” His mouth hooks into something like a smirk. “Maybe those idiots do, but I like my shit spicier than those losers can handle.”

Maria stares at him, stymied. It’s a wonder he even has friends, honestly. “Well, in any case, you’re the one eating my bento right now—”

“Not like I’ve got much of a choice.”

“—as a favor to me,” she grits out, words just squeaking through her teeth. “So it should at least be something you want to eat.”

It’s never occurred to her how much of Kamitani is perpetual motion— huffing and sighing and scowling and just generally being a pain to deal with— until he stops, chopsticks hanging over his rice. Hovering there, just for a moment, before digging in. Like a hiccup in one of those old film reels, or a video paused to buffer.

“Sure,” he mutters through a mouthful. Much more than, considering the way his cheeks bulge around it; a poor attempt at trying to control the massive mound he shoveled past his teeth. “Whatever.”

Maria sighs. Restrained, of course; so soft he probably doesn’t notice over all his meal mismanagement. “If you have any requests—”

They can probably hear him swallow from the classrooms. “No carrots.”

“—Reasonable requests,” she amends. “I’ll be happy to hear them.”

“I am being reasonable,” he says, even though he couldn’t locate the definition of the word on a multiple choice test. “Get rid of the vegetables. They’re gross.”

Her knuckle bones blanch where they knit over her lap, threatening to creak under the pressure. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

He nods— just a little chuck of his chin, like it’s too much effort to bother with doing the full movement. For her, at least. “You should.”

A shrill sigh rattles out from her nose; a warning, like a kettle that’s finally come to a boil, but— but Maria tamps down on the impulse to let off the steam. Oh, it’s tempting to raise her voice, to turn all of this frustration in his direction and really boil over, but it won’t get her anything. Not unless she wants to sit through another fight, or worse, one of his smirks.

She clears her throat, chin lifted, confident, and attempts a different tack. “Midterms are coming up.”

“Don’t remind me,” Kamitani grunts around his rice, shoulders hunched to his ears. “The hag’s been eyeing my DVDs for weeks.”

What that has to do with anything, Maria can’t possibly say, but she’s come too far to turn around now. “If that’s the case, I suppose I should be making good on my half of our bargain, shouldn’t I?”

Fish drops from the pinched points of his chopsticks, abandoned in the messy, half-eaten bed of rice still in his bento, and he just stares at her— gapes, like there’s something wrong with her.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he growls, ingracious as always, like she’s not doing him a favor, offering her time and— “I haven’t done your dumb packet thing. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Oh.” Her mouth clicks shut, tongue all tangled up behind her teeth. “I guess that’s true.”

“You guess so?” The corners of his glower bite into his cheeks, forehead furrowed so deep it’s giving her a headache. “You think I want to be in your debt or whatever?”

“N-no! I just thought it would be like…making a down payment. Since you already agreed to help.” Negotiation is supposed to be a game of give-and-take, an offer met with a haggle and brought to a compromise— that’s what Mother had always said at least, right before her yearly review. But dealing with Kamitani is like running across quicksand, racing to get to her point while every word only drags her further down. “I didn’t realize you’d get caught up on the fairness of the situation.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?” His head swivels, aiming that unrelenting glare on her, and ugh, this is what makes him so impossible to deal with— he never looks away. “You think I’m just going to get what I want and screw the rest? Like I wasn’t raised right or something?”

Maria’s no stranger to Kamitani’s growls and grunts, to the way his voice pitches louder and deeper the shorter his fuse burns, but there’s something different in the way the words break off his tongue now. It’s more raw, sharp; a ragged edge that cuts both ways.

It certainly gets under her skin, at least; leaving a strange, sticky sensation down by her bones she can’t scrape off. Like dried glue sitting between skin and muscle, crackling with every stretch and twist of her limbs. Like guilt, almost. Not that she’s done anything wrong, but still…

“T-that’s not it at all!” Her neck nearly snaps from how hard she whips it around, heat clawing up to her cheeks as she meets the muddled color of his eyes— not quite brown, not quite gray, not quite green or gold or any of the flowery tones she’s heard the girls around school pull from thin air to describe them. Just…unexpected, is all. “You’re already keeping up your end of the bargain by evaluating these bento.”

“Really?” he snorts. “You think making me food means you owe me something? Not even you cook that bad.”

That’d almost be a compliment, if it wasn’t, well, not.

“You also invited me to that, um, movie as well, don’t forget.” If life was interested in being fair, her face wouldn’t look half as hot as it feels, but by the way Kamitani arches his brow, incredulous— well, Maria’s quite aware that her toast always lands butter-side down. She clears her throat, letting her voice lift to its loftiest, most imperious tones. “It may not have earned you my notes, but it’s certainly worth a few study sessions.”

“Together?”

His derision alone is enough to send her thoughts scampering, slipping from her fingers like marbles across a slanted floor. She tries to summon up enough presence of mind to take it all back before another word gets out of him, but—

“Sure.” His shoulders drop, one half of a lazy shrug, and instantly he’s turned from sharp edges to lanky limbs. “The hag’s working late tonight. Meet me after practice.”

It comes out of him so easy, like it’s normal. Like she’s the sort of person who gets asked over after club all the time, like she just goes over someone’s house to hang out. Like it was stupid to believe she could be anyone else.

It…doesn’t feel terrible, she has to admit.

“Sure,” she says with the sort of confidence a serial hanger-outer might have. Even tosses her hair for good measure, like none of this even matters. Like her palms aren’t sweating enough to leave streaks on her skirt. “I’ll see if I can make myself available.”

*

In the year and change since she showed up to her first club meeting, Tanaka-san has always maintained a respectful distance; the sort expected between a president and a club member, or a kouhai with her esteemed senpai. But as Maria frowns down at the chocolate refusing to melt in her bowl— she knows that cream was scalded when she poured it, no matter how stubbornly the shavings clump— the girl tucks herself right up under her side, voice dropped to a dire whisper as she murmurs, “In—Inomata-senpai. Could I, er…could I have a word?”

Maria’s gaze skips, unbidden, over to where Inui stands, frowning over her own bowl of— presumably— failed ganache. It takes a stepping stool for her to be tall enough, the first year’s small bun trembling with disappointment as she peers over the metal rim, but there’s no daggers pointed Maria’s way, no blame being flung inexplicably in her corner. She’s not in trouble, most importantly. “Of course, Kaichou.”

“You can keep working,” Tanaka-san says quickly, her gaze flicking up over the counter to meet Suzuki-san’s three stations away. “I just wanted to ask if you…ah… had any luck with your”— her voice drops, so soft and low Maria strains to hear it—  “bento?”

“Oh.” Maria blinks, stepping back from the half-melted mess on the counter. “Well, I don’t know if I’d call it luck, but they at least came out edible.”

“You can just heat that over simmering water,” Tanaka advises absently, waving a hand toward the stove top. “Just make sure to be gentle, or it will split. And don’t mix too much, or you’ll get streaks. But it was, ah, accepted?”

“Accepted? What—?” The bento, she realizes, belatedly. They’re still talking about the bento. “Oh, yes. Both of them.”

“B-both?” Tanaka gapes, mouth hanging open for a long moment before she manages, “You mean more than one? I mean— did he like them?”

“For the most part, it seems.” Kamitani’s assessments might have assigned her some middling scores— for all his carrying on over it, he did dock her for the carrots, after all was said and done— but aside from a pile of vegetables and an untouched omelet, he had polished off both meals with only minor hemming and hawing. Perhaps not an unmitigated win, but it’s hardly a shabby first try. “He did pick out his vegetables.”

“The vegetables?” Tanaka’s hands hook over her hips, her scowl nearly motherly. “But they’re part of a balanced meal!”

“That is what I said,” Maria hums, vindicated. “But if you don’t mind my asking, Kaichou—?”

“Anything.” Tanaka hands fly up between them, clenched into eager fists. “I’m happy to help however you need, senpai.”

She leans in, close enough that Maria can see her shoulders quiver, suffused with keen determination, and it’s— it’s unexpected. Strange, if she’s being honest. People don’t usually get excited like this, not around her. Not for her.

“Er, well, it’s just…” She tugs at the end of her hair, trying to collect her thoughts. “The omelet you showed me— I made it just the same way, and I’ll admit, it didn’t taste quite as good, but still well within acceptable bounds.”

“He didn’t like it?” Tanaka-san rocks back on her heels, thoughtful. “You can take that off of the heat now. Do you think it might be the seasoning?”

It was a little bland— she’s had a sparing hand with the salt, more afraid of too much than too little— but still. “He didn’t even touch it.”

“Really?” A line furrows itself right between her eyebrows, deepening as she watches Maria set the ganache on the counter. “But almost everyone likes omelets.”

“Maybe he likes sweet ones,” Suzuki-san offers, suddenly no longer three stations away but underfoot, her ponytail bobbling as she hops on top of a cabinet. “Some people have pretty firm preferences for them. My dad swears he can tell by the smell— he likes the savory ones, won’t even touch the other ones.”

Maria snorts. “I don’t think that’s it.”

Not with how quick he likes to snap, I don’t like sweet shit, at least.

“You could always ask,” Tanaka-san offers, though even she seems to shy from the idea. “Maybe one of his friends? Or, um, a sibling…?”

Charming as the idea is, the only thing Taka bothers to remember is the special moves of the Ranger Five. She’d have more luck asking Kamitani-sensei, and that— that is a nuclear option; cheating almost. The sort of thing that would almost certainly work its way back to Kamitani himself, and the last thing she needs is him thinking she cares about impressing him. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“But he’s taking the bento, at least.” Suzuki-san blows out a sigh, the swoop of her bangs eddying in its wake. “Has he, you know, said anything? Done something to, mm, show his gratitude?”

Gratitude might as well be a foreign country for as much as Kamitani seems to be acquainted with its customs. “I did get invited to a movie.”

“A movie?” They squeal, so perfectly pitched that they might as well be one voice. Suzuki’s the one to shake off her shock first, leaning in to whisper, “Are you going?”

“Oh…yes.” When their eyes widen, excitement drawing them open to the whites, Maria quickly adds, “It’s not a big deal— it’s just a group thing.”

“Group thing?” Suzuki-san murmurs, her buzzing energy banking. “Hm.”

“Well, that’s not bad.” Tanaka-san’s smile takes a bent toward encouraging, eye crinkling not with mischief, but at least a close cousin. “It might not be as nice as one-on-one, but it can be a little thrilling to try to find an excuse to sit next to a boy you like. Letting your shoulders brush or having your knees knock against each other. Almost like a secret, you know.”

Maria tries to think of it— walking close to Kashima, letting the natural swing of their hands guide them to brush past each other and—

And her mind goes utterly blank. “Oh.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Suzuki scoffs with a wave of her hand. “Yuna-chan’s too pretty. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have to compete with other girls.”

“I do so!” She’s seen Tanaka-san blush before— a bloom of rosy pink as she humbly tucked her chin, thanking the club for taking her on as president; or the barest flush as some of the other second years teased her about a boy in her class— but when the president snaps to face her now, there’s no delicacy in the color, no subtle hint— she’s red from collar to hairline, heated. “Don’t listen to her, senpai, I’ve had plenty of trouble with boys!”

“Yeah,” Suzuki snickers behind a hand. “Like which one to pick.”

“That’s not—”

“Hey!” Inui’s shoes don’t squeak, but they certainly stomp, pulling up right in front of her station, her hands fisted on her hips. “What are you three giggling about?”

“Nothing!” Suzuki spits out, more reflex than reaction. It’s not very convincing, even by Maria’s standards, and Inui’s eyes narrow, frown furrowing deeper into her cheeks.

“Mika-chan.” It’s impressive how quickly Tanaka-san turns from silly to serious, buttoning up her presidential mantle with the same ease most people do a coat. “Did you need help with something?”

“No.” Her petulant mouth puffs into a pout. “Just keep it down.”

*

It’s still strange to toe off her tennis shoes in the genkan, leaving them in a little tray right next to Kamitani’s high-tops and what she assumes must be Taka’s light-up Ranger Red sneakers. They don’t look right sitting there, like a pig trying to pass as a puppy, thinking that as long as it wriggles its way into the pile and wags its tail, no one will be the wiser. But it’s impossible, the white sticking out like a sore thumb, making it clear that someone is here that shouldn’t be, that an interloper has elbowed their way into this home, and—

“Are you just gonna stare at your shoes all day?” Kamitani grunts from the edge of the genkan, glaring back at her. “Or are you gonna get out here already?”

“Oh!” She scrambles for a pair of guest slippers, gracelessly shoving them on her feet as she takes the last step up into the hallway. “Ah…coming!”

He sighs, shaking his head— rolling his eyes, too, if her own aren’t playing tricks on her— and pads out toward the stairway, navy blue flashing out from the bottom of his pant legs.

That’s another thing she can’t quite get used to— Kamitani’s socks. Or well, not the socks really, but the way he wears them, just strolling out across the floor without even a pause to consider slippers. She’s witnessed Kamitani at his most casual— not just two buttons popped on his uniform or pants rolled up to the knee, but slouchy sweats for some outing Kashima’s clearly dragged him fresh from bed to attend, almost certainly against his will— but this, this feels vulnerable. The fabric’s so thin she can see how his toes articulate beneath it, joints flexing and gripping as he walks—

“Do you need a map?”

Her gaze jolts up, no longer fixed on where cotton-nylon blend presses against pine, but to the tilt of his head, impatience implied with every degree it’s dropped. “A map?”

A sigh saws out the long slope of his nose. “Or maybe I just need a leash. Are you coming or not?”

“O-of course I am!” she snaps, heat flaring over her cheeks. It’s ridiculous— staring at his feet, as if that had anything to do with anything. Worse, he could have seen her do it. “I was just…thinking!”

He snorts, and she can see it, the way he’s winding up, ready to sling his next barb right off his tongue, and—

And, there’s no sign of Taka in the hall, none but the sneakers sitting in the genkan, but the pitch of his voice cuts straight through the walls. “Is that Inomata-nee-chan?”

Kamitani’s eyes widen, every clever little nastygram he’d been ready to hurl her way eliding into one very eloquent, “Shit.”

“Oh.” Maria turns, confused at whether the call’s coming from the kitchen or the den, especially since the thump of his small steps seems to be everywhere. “I guess we should say hello before—”

“No way.” It’s all the warning she gets before his fingers band around her wrist, tugging hard enough for every thought to stumble out her head alongside her feet. “We don’t have time for his crap.”

“What do you—?”

“Nii-chan!” Taka’s head pokes out from the den, hair as tidy as a haystack. “Didn’t Mom say that if you’ve got guests, you gotta—?”

“Shut up,” Kamitani grates out over the thud of his footsteps, not quite dragging her up the stairs but only just. “We’re gonna study, so mind your own business.”

“But—!”

Whatever formal protest Taka wished to lodge is lost over the slam of the door behind them, the wood hitting the jamb so hard the walls shiver in sympathy. Her teeth do too, rattling in the back of her mouth until the house settles, leaving her and Kamitani alone in the National Disaster Area that is his room.

“I’m not sure,” she says, delicately sidestepping what she refuses to recognize as a pair of boxers, “that all that was entirely necessary.”

He huffs, the palm wrapped around her wrist falling away to bury itself in a mess of black bristle. “Say what you want, but you’d have a hard time teaching me English when you can’t get a word in around his stupid Ranger Five stuff.”

She’d rather die than admit he has a point, but he saves her from having to choose by jutting out a hand and grunting, “Sit.”

There’s a half dozen things wrong with how he put that— she’s not a dog, for one— but the one she settles on is, “Where?”

It’s barely been a week since the last time she exposed herself to whatever environmental hazards pervade Kamitani’s room, but somehow this time is worse. What few glimpses of floor she’d managed to garner are completely obscured now, lost beneath dirty clothes and sports paraphernalia, glossy magazine covers shining out from beneath balled up socks like a drowning passenger waving their arms in a last ditch effort for rescue.

“There.” He points now, treading through the treacherous terrain with the same ease as mountain goats do sheer cliff faces to show her the singular ten-by-ten square untouched by the roiling miasma of gross boy stuff. “It’s clean.”

Only by the barest definition of the word. “It’s dirty by association.”

He’s crouched down, not even touching the floor himself, but he glares like she’s the ridiculous one. “You’ll live.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” she sniffs, edging a stray pair of pants with the toe of her slipper. “I won’t even fit there, look—”

Maria twists herself into half a knot, arms thrown out toward this singular, miraculous zone of inhibition in his room, trying to illustrate just how inadequate it would be on a physical level and— and she catches it. Just a glance up, a glare really, at the same moment his drops. Drops down, raking over her shoulders, her belly, her waist— until it lingers, entirely too speculative, on her, er…seating apparatus.

“You’ll fit,” he says. Declares, really, with a confidence that makes it easy to drop to her knees, since they certainly aren’t interested in holding her anymore.

“I don’t see why I have to sit here,” she mutters, arranging herself so that she’s not possibly touching any of the boy explosion around her, and oh, it’s terrible that he’s right. Or at least he would be if she sat cross-legged, bottom on the floor, the way he does, but she neatly folds her knees under her instead, nudging detritus out of the way with as little exposed skin as possible. "It’s not as if there’s any reason it’s any better than—”

His eyebrows furrow— not angry, for once, just annoyed. “It’s where the table is.”

“The what?” she manages to ask, just before he drops his arm down and sweeps it across the mound of mess in front of her, video games and magazine giving way to wood grain before being unceremoniously deposited on the floor.

“The table,” he repeats, dropping his books onto it for good measure. “Where we’ll study.”

“Oh.” It’s more gasp than word, just air that leaves her chest unbidden with just enough heft to have a shape. “Right. Then, um…where would you like to start?”

*

This is hardly the first time Maria’s been asked to study; after the first time she ended up at the top of the class list, she’d had plenty of classmates who had never said so much as a ‘good morning’ suddenly wanting her to join their after-school sessions in the library— some even trying to bribe her with the promise of homemade snacks. Not that it was necessary; back then, she would have been happy to just settle for whatever crumb of friendship they’d been willing to give her. But then she had pictured telling Mother and Father about it— trying to explain that she’d be spending some of her dedicated study time helping other people understand what she’d already wrangled through weeks ago in preparation and—

And she’d just said, “I don’t think I need that.” Stuck up Inomata-san hadn’t followed too long after that. There had been other invitations as she got older, as her classes changed between years and she’d been put up into the Advanced Course; people trying to see if they could eke out a few more points on their exams by stealing a few from her, but she’d been wiser then, harder. She knew there wouldn’t be any cute weekend shopping excursions or silly stay-up-all-night slumber parties for her no matter how many hours she put in, helping so-called friends get their grade up enough to stay in clubs or get into the university of their choice, or have their parents let them stay up late talking to their boyfriends. So they’d dropped off over time, only the most desperate daring to approach her, and now—

Now she’s realizing how much of this whole studying thing is sitting around, waiting for Kamitani to give her something to work with.

“Just staring at me isn’t going to make this go any faster,” he grunts, forming English letters with a shakier hand than the daycare kids manage kanji. “You know that, right?”

“I’m looking to see if you’re making any mistakes.” Besides which way the ‘p’ goes; she can tell by the way it flip flops on the page that it’s the sort of long-standing mistake that is far past the purview of her position as study buddy. “That way you won’t reinforce bad habits.”

His narrowed eyes hone his glare to a point. “Look less.”

“Fine,” she sighs, folding her hands across her lap. “Have it your way.”

Without something to hold her focus, it wanders. She first lets it trace over the shelves in the room— manga, magazines, and too many trophies for someone who typically couldn’t be bothered to traipse down to the daycare room to check on his own brother. Not that it matters anymore now; Taka’s in yochien now, just like Kirin and the twins. It’s Midori and Kotaro that are left behind now, the oldest of a whole new group of faculty babies. And Kashima—

Her brain grinds to a halt. Kashima is going to be at the movie. No, Kashima was the point of going to this movie; an extra reason to see him outside the hours they’re at school, to see him without the ubiquitous queue of children at his heels. A chance to talk with him without having to worry about class bells or curious eyes, where she could sit next to him as the theater lights dimmed, their arms brushing over their shared armrest, hands gently bumping as they reach for the same bag of popcorn. Where their knees might accidentally touch, the fabric of his pants rubbing up against her…skirt? Skin?

Maria hesitates. It is perilously close to the summer holidays, every day warmer than the last. She could conceivably have a hemline above her knee, so long as the weather called for it. He could even be wearing shorts, and when their knees knocked together, it would be skin-to-skin, that strange electric frisson running through her— and maybe even into him. Maybe their eyes would meet as it happens, both feeling the zip of lightning now that there’s no barrier between them.

Or they would, so long as it isn’t weird for her to wear something like that. She’s gone to the movie with Yuki’s friends before, and they’d worn skirts with hemlines hiked up further than Maria would dare. But that’s just among the four of them, girls to a one, and if there were boys, well— who's to say there aren’t other rules? There probably is some complex social formula for it, a subtle function of interest and inches, only no one’s ever told her, because—

“Hey,” Kamitani grunts, arms folded over his notebook. “Did you hear me?”

Maria blinks. “H-huh?”

“I was asking if you—”

He might as well be speaking Chinese for all that she’s paying attention; she just watches his mouth move up and down, eyebrows furrowing deeper into the space above his nose, and for one, desperate moment she loses all reason, and what falls out of her isn’t an answer, isn’t an excuse, but something far, far worse.