#eden writes

the earthy, crisp air filled your small apartment with an atmosphere that can only be described as the cozy nostalgia you’ve forgotten about and can only be found in the photographs of your youth. golden hour is setting across the city, casting a golden hue across the room.

she’s seen you cook for her on numerous occasions, but it’s different this time somehow. maybe it’s the cold slowly creeping up on her, but the sight of you taking care of her causes her heart to ache in the sweetest way.

natasha watches it all as you prepare a small soup for her sore throat. she would easily argue that she only came over because of your medical expertise. anyone else who has seen her expression soften as soon as you walk into the room would call her a liar.

laid across your gray couch, natasha is bundled up in your college hoodie and thick knit blanket. sure, she knows she’s dragging her supposed illness out, but she can’t help but enjoy the way you pay close attention to her every want and need.

green eyes, glazed over with want, watch as you move around your kitchen with ease. you scoop soup into a black bowl, garnishing it with thyme just before you walk over to the redhead with an easy smile on your face.

she sniffles and clears her throat, clearly forced and practiced over time, as she notices you moving closer to her. gone is the feared agent, and instead a woman in.. love? is laid out on your couch. 

natasha pushes herself up as you enter the living room, a grin on her face as you walk over to her with her food, “cooking for me?”

she teases slightly, but deep down knows she couldn’t fathom anyone else taking care of herself as you do. you know this too, especially as you watch her grin turn into a bashful smile as you respond, “i don’t trust anyone else to nurse you back to health.”

natasha bites back a smirk at your words, “because i’m just so great, right?”

your face drops, and your voice becomes monotone as you respond, “because anyone else would’ve given up by now since you’re so high-strung.”

just as quickly as you drop your smile, it reappears with a giggle as you see natasha’s slackened jaw. you place the bowl in her hands, pushing her hair from her face, taking a moment to press the back of your palm to her forehead.

natasha only leans into your touch as you feel for a fever. your cool hand against her skin makes her feel even better for at least just a few seconds. 

“you don’t have a fever,” you mumble, “do you want to just sleep it off and hopefully you’ll be better by the morning?”

natasha showed no signs of fatigue or any symptoms of illness, other than a forced dry cough and over-dramatized sniffles. the lack of fever backed up your suspicion that she was faking it for attention— your attention. 

natasha, ever the observant one, knew you were onto her, “only if you promise to make me breakfast in the morning.”

you wanted to laugh at her, even call her out on her con, but the way she looks up at you with a grateful smile and easy eyes has you willing to do whatever she’d like. 

instead, you raise an eyebrow and cross your arms over your chest, “is that a medical requirement?”

she shrugs with a grin, “you’ll do it if you care about my wellbeing.”

you should call her out and tease her. but the way she looks at you— grateful and unbelievably in love- melts you immediately.

instead, you take her empty bowl from her and tuck the blanket under her chin. your fingers brush her cheek, and she smiles warmly, taking in how attentive and gentle you are with her. 

Clark’s lips curve against your throat, the smile almost smug as his fingers slide under your shirt and over the warm curve of your waist.

“Oh really, baby?” he murmurs, the words edged with that Kansas drawl that always makes you weak. “I had you wrapped around me all night, and you still couldn’t wait for more this morning?”

You gasp, heat flooding your face. “Did I say that out loud?!”

His chuckle is low and dangerous, vibrating against your skin. The pad of his thumb dips lower, brushing the waistband of your sleep shorts, and you can feel that infuriating patience in him, like he’s savoring how restless you are.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he teases, rolling you onto your back with ridiculous ease. His body covers yours, the bed creaking softly under his weight, and then his mouth claims yours. It was all teeth and hunger.

Your fingers tangle in his curls, pulling him closer. When his hand finally slips between your thighs, you spread them without thought. He doesn’t go for where you need him most—he’s back to taking his sweet time, and the contrast is driving you crazy.

His palm cups you through your shorts first, pressing slow, steady circles against your clit until your hips twitch up to meet him on their own, your brain able to focus on nothing but his touch.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips dragging along your jaw. He strokes over you lazily, the friction maddening. “Already soaked for me, sweetheart… and we haven’t even had breakfast.”

Your whimper earns you a firmer grind of his palm, and you feel your aching core pulse in response. He uses his middle knuckle to rub up and down your slit through the fabric, catching on that sensitive spot with each pass until you’re clinging to him.

When your whimpers turn to whispered pleas, he slips his fingers under the waistband and brushes over your sensitive skin. His fingertips find bare, slick heat, and both of your breaths hitch. He keeps up the same slow circles, teasing your clit until your thighs are shaking.

“Shh,” he whispers against your lips, even as his hips nudge forward his cock straining through the fabric of his underwear, begging you to touch.

“Gotta keep quiet for me. Think you can do that?”

You nod, desperate.

Only then does he slide his index finger into you, slow, testing your soreness from the night before. The tiny moan that escapes when he curls it into your sweet spot is swallowed by his kiss. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, lips parted, eyes glassy, mouth open around a sharp inhale. The sight makes his cock throb.

“Mmm… there’s my needy girl. You ready for more?”

A second finger joins the first, the searing ache making you clench around him. His other arm braces behind you, hand cupping the back of your neck as he starts to work you open with deep, deliberate thrusts of his hand. His palm slaps against your wetness, the filthy sound echoing in the quiet room.

The pace never falters. The pleasure builds too fast, and you’re both trembling with the effort to stay quiet. Your nails bite into his shoulders; he bites back a groan at how quickly you’re unraveling for him. Lips brushing your temple, he feels you tighten around him.

You’re right there, teetering. “Ohhh, god, I’m gonna...”

“Clark! Breakfast!” Martha’s voice calls from downstairs.

He freezes, forehead dropping to yours as you both fight for breath. Then that slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.

“Guess we’d better make it quick, sweetheart.”

In addition, where is he in this video? we know from TBOB that he isn't on good terms with his wife after Christmas of 1982 and he likely didn't leave GF after the portal incident, but he was living with Ford up until this so where is this room? If he had somewhere else to stay, why only stay there now?

Now, realistically the answer here is that the lore was changed and slightly retconned between the writing of this episode and the publishing of the book (which alex discusses in some of the commentary for this episode when discussing fidd's character), but I think a more interesting theory to solve this contradiction can be found in the source material.

If we play this all completely straight, there are two options here, both involving Fiddleford lying in his diaries. this isn't entirely new to the series, unreliable narration is a big theme, especially in Journal 3 and TBOB. the only real explanations are that:

A) Fiddleford was lying about this being the first time he used the gun, meaning this video diary takes place after the portal incident.

B) Fiddleford was lying about leaving the project, and was filming these diaries while still working with Ford.

Now, either of them is plausible, but ultimately Fiddleford is a scientist. He has dedicated his life to engineering, and it seems to be his lifelong passion considering it's one of the only character traits that he continues to practice after losing his mind. Would a man who is this talented, this dedicated, really lie about testing results in a video diary he chose to make?

If he had used the gun before, any kind of result he is trying to observe would be ruined. It would be a pointless venture, since we know for a fact that by the time he leaves the project he has used the gun on himself, Ford and other civillians multiple times. It's a complete failure of the scientific method, and I don't think it makes sense for the character we know, the man who quadruple checks his own calculations just to be sure they're right.

However, the other explanation feels like something he might do. We know he invents the gun after the Gremloblin incident likely sometime in August, and seems to use it immediately as evidenced by J3, on both himself and Ford. We know from the audio commentary that for Fidd, the memory gun is very much an addiction, it's something that he uses to curb his anxiety and appear like a better partner, to try and keep himself together until the project is over. But ultimately, he's known something is wrong with the project for a long time, and Ford mentions his tendency towards self destructive anxiety when Fidd rips out his own hair after Ford reveals the tip of the weirdness iceberg to him.

All this to say, I think it's far more realistic for Fiddleford to lie about leaving the project rather than his results. He knows that something is wrong, that he should leave and be with his family, and on the other side of that we know that Bill is using this anxiety to whisper into Ford's ear that Fidd is unreliable and will leave. He's been through a severely traumatic event with the Gremloblin, trapped for days in his worst nightmares, to the point where he is prepared to cause himself potential brain damage to un-see it.

But despite all of it, he doesn't leave. He is determined to stay, maybe out of loyalty, maybe out of fear for Ford's safety, maybe he needs the money from the project for his family. He has a wife and son who need him and we know that he feels guilt for his treatment towards them, he even cites them as his sole reason for backing out of using the gun immediately before he does it anyway, and uses it on Ford to cover his mistakes up. Fiddleford is a man who is wracked by anxiety and shame and is such a bad way by this point that he is absolutely willing to self-destruct and lie to just get through this project.

I think he absolutely would start documenting his use of the memory gun, even if that meant lying that he had followed his instincts and left the project when he should have done. After all, he says himself that he wants to use this gun on a wider scale as a therapy tool, assuming the gun doesn't turn his brain to mush, surely the tapes of his initial testing will need to be peer-reviewed? He's presenting the reality he wishes was true, the one where he is brave and stands on his principles and doesn't fall into step beside Ford on his path to destruction.

So, where does this leave the timeline?

Finding exact dates is difficult, mostly because the only concrete numbers in J3 are few and far between, but we do have the dates of the tapes to go off as follows. This isn't concrete but it's a fun way to recontextualise the events of J3:

Day 1:

First usage of the gun, followed by it being used on Ford

Sometime after the Gremloblin incident, Fidd's arm is either healed or on the mend from the incident as his cast is gone, so likely towards the end of August.

Note on the cast: It could also be gone as a result of him removing it too early, he doesn't seem to take a lot of time to recover from the incident before he gets back to work in fear of disappointing Ford.

The room he is in is likely his bedroom in the Shack, or whatever location he initially uses to form the blind eye, maybe a room in the museum? The "probability of failure" graph in the back is the same one that he shows Ford the night before the Portal test, albeit a bigger version, meaning he has likely been tracking the output results for a while.

Day 5:

Still exhibiting postive results, no deterioration yet.

Day 22:

First signs of mental deterioration

First mention of the blind eye, Fidd draws the symbol onto a notebook but it is already scribbled in the background over a diagram of the portal. The blind eye symbol is first mentioned in J3, when Fidd hands it to the carny who becomes the eventual leader of the cult, so this diary likely takes place after he has begun using it on other people.

Official formation of the blind eye as a group to help people forget traumatic memories.

His room in the shack is in a state of disarray, his plants are dead and there are handprints in oil or ink on the walls. Notably, he seems to be connecting the idea of a single eye and the portal despite not being aware of Bill at this point, which I'll touch upon later.

The carnival is likely in September according to the timeline by @fordtato

Day 74:

Slight physical deterioration, more physical anxiety

It seems that Fidd has been regularly using the memory gun at this point, to erase even minorly distressing images from his head, and his anxiety has taken a nosedive. Likely explanation is that this diary is after the bunker, where he had another severely traumatic experience (kidnapped by a shapeshifter and reduced to mute from anxiety) and seemed to become obsessed with doomsday planning. During the bunker arc he also used the gun on multiple workmen and Ford once again.

Likely takes place in October/November

His room is a complete mess by now, with the walls covered in papers and "Help Me" scrawled on the walls.

At this point in J3, Ford has made his deal with Bill and is allowing him to possess his body whenever he pleases. Bill has also sucessfully driven a divide between the other two by making Ford doubt that Fidd will be able to make it to the end of the project, and Ford describes his frustration with him.

According to Ford, Fidd is just as agitated and nervous before the portal test as he was during the Gremloblin attack, and obsessively checks and rechecks his calculations, causing Ford to worry for his resolve.

In between this diary and the next are the stolen pages from J3 that are in TBOB, which give us slight insight into Fiddleford during this time but not much. We see that he tries multiple times to reach out to him the only way that Fidd knows how, through invention and creation, with the snowglobe and the six-fingered gloves. Ford, however, treats them carelessly as a result of his increased attention to his muse. At the same time, he tries to visit home but is kicked out by Emma-May after he forgets to get her a Christmas gift. This is played as an example of his connection with Ford, him remembering two gifts for the man and none for his wife, but if he really is suffering from his use of the gun at this time, the forgetfulness makes even more sense and his argument with his family means he doesn't have a support system outside of Ford who is paying all of his attention to the project. After this, Fiddleford is more reclusive than ever as he spends early January compiling a thesis for Ford to publish

Day 189

Physical deterioration is in full effect and he can't hide the result of his addiction any more, even just to keep up appearances.

His arm is broken, likely due to the car accident he mentions accidentally causing, but its the same arm he broke during the Gremloblin attack and could be a result of him taking his cast off too early for it to have healed right in the first place which could explain why he wears it for so long.

Significant mental decline as he has started exhibiting signs of brain damage or swelling (decreased vocabulary, forgetfulness, loss of motor functions) however, he is seemingly lucid enough to question if the memory gun is causing negative side effects.

There are actually bottles visible in the back of the room, possbly referencing the addiction metaphor being used here

This would take place after the portal test, likely late January. Ford is at the height of his paranoia, Fiddleford has left the shack and taken every trace of his research with him except his college picture with Ford, and the blind eye is a fully established and seemingly self-governing cult.

Day 273

At this point, Fidd has relocated to a motel and is seemingly completely mentally gone, ripping out his hair and developing his hunched posture. This likely takes place after the blind eye takes his memories, or he continues erasing them himself. It's possible that the blind eye continues visiting him and taking his memories even after he is ejected as a member, or at least until they forget who he is after using the gun on themselves too many times.

It appears to be snowing outside? Which doesn't line up with either the canon timeline or this timeline, so potentially the days on the video diaries could be incorrect assuming he isn't filming them every day, or has lost so much of his mind by this point that he isn't labelling them right and has lost track of time

The final two entries are a similar story, serving only to show us the end of his decline and him eventually becoming fully homeless, retreating to the junkyard he lives in for the next 28 years (jesus, he really deserved that mansion).

Ultimately though, this timeline asks a lot of interesting character questions.

Why did Ford not realise how bad Fiddleford's decline was becoming? Maybe a mix of circumstances, he was falling deeper into his worship of Bill at the time, to the extent that he was regularly being possessed and judging by the lack of journal entries at the time, very pre-occupied. We also know that Fidd used the gun on him at least twice in canon, and possibly used it more than we know in order to convince Ford he was okay.

If Fiddleford was erasing parts of Ford's memory, did Bill know? Personally, I feel that Bill was aware but knew that ultimately it would serve him. Fiddleford, without ever encountering Bill at this point, created the blind eye symbol which is eerily close to Bill's symbolism, how would he know that when we know Ford is possessive of his muse and doesn't share anything with Fidd about it? How does Ford have visions of Fidd in a red cloak without ever knowing that the cult and Fidd are directly connected? My thoughts are that Bill, who we know has erased Ford's memory himself before when he stole the journal pages we see in TBOB, was using most of this as fodder to drive a divide between the two, mentally creating associations in both of their minds so they stop trusting the other. Chess but with troubled gay men.

All in all I think Fiddleford's decline is such an interesting way to approach a theme of addiction, particularly a high-functioning addiction. If this really is how things played out, we know that throughout his use of the gun and even 30 years later when he is considered a write-off, the one thing he maintains is his engineering prowess and his smarts. It makes sense that even when actively using the gun and hiding it from Ford he would be able to keep up in terms of building the portal, especially when we know he secretly hired workers. It's also a great example of someone drawing others into their addiction, even if it was unintentional and he didn't believe they would be hurt in the long run.

niragi suguru is the delinquent everyone's scared of. pierced, dyed hair (he started showing up with silver streaks junior year just because they told him not to), carries a switchblade he's absolutely used, fistfights behind the gym, smokes on the roof during class. the kind of guy who laughs when someone cries

they don't fit together. that's the whole point

it starts because chishiya watches niragi beat the hell out of a kid in the courtyard and instead of looking away like everyone else, he just... tilts his head. studies him. like niragi is a specimen

niragi feels the stare. looks up with blood on his knuckles. and this pale little shit in the back just smiles at him like interesting

niragi doesn't know whether he wants to kill him or fuck him. (spoiler: both)

how niragi's yandere manfiests:

possessive in the most violent, territorial way imaginable. niragi doesn't do subtle. niragi puts a boy in the hospital for asking chishiya for notes. breaks a girl's phone because she took a picture of chishiya at the cultural festival

leaves bruises on chishiya's wrists and neck and then gets off on watching chishiya pull his hoodie sleeves down in class, knowing they're there

he's the kind of yandere who WANTS to be caught. wants people to know. carves his initials into chishiya's desk, writes his name in sharpie on the inside of chishiya's bag. marks his territory like a goddamn animal

when chishiya even looks at another student for too long niragi goes quiet in this scary way, and chishiya's insides LIGHT UP with malicious glee because he loves what he can do to him

texts chishiya at 2am things like where are you who are you with if i find out you lied i'll fucking slit their throat with you watching

he means it. chishiya knows he means it. that's the appeal

how chishiya's yandere manifests:

chishiya doesn't threaten people, chishiya ruins them. with surgical precision. quiet little moves no one ever traces back to him

that girl in niragi's class who laughed at something niragi said? chishiya digs up her family's financial situation, leaks something nasty to the right person. she transfers by the end of the month. niragi never even knew she existed and that's the point

he plays dumb, plays bored, plays "i don't even like him that much, he's just entertaining" while having niragi's schedule memorised, knowing his home address, knowing where he smokes, knowing exactly which of niragi's friends is starting to get too close and needs to be... inconvenienced

chishiya's yandere is ownership disguised as indifference. he'll let niragi rage and threaten and break things and just smile, because every crack in niragi's composure is proof that chishiya has him. that he got under the skin of the scariest kid in school and nested there

will gaslight niragi ON PURPOSE just to watch him spiral. "i don't know what you're talking about. i wasn't even there." when niragi has PHOTOS. chishiya just tilts his head. makes niragi feel crazy. loves it

the one time niragi actually breaks down, grabs chishiya by the collar shaking, eyes wet with rage, stop fucking playing with me, chishiya finally kisses him. and it's the cruellest tender thing niragi's ever felt

their dynamic:

everyone at school thinks they hate each other. niragi shoves chishiya into lockers in the hallway. chishiya insults his intelligence loudly in front of teachers. they're banned from being partnered on projects

meanwhile they're fucking in the art supply closet during lunch

niragi is rough, hand around chishiya's throat, teeth on his jaw, say it, say you're mine, say it you little bitch, and chishiya lets him, smirking the whole time, because niragi needs to hear it and chishiya can't say it any other way

they never say i love you. they say things like i'd kill for you (niragi) and i'd let you (chishiya) and somehow that's worse

they share a blacklist. chishiya makes it. niragi enforces it

they both carry knives. chishiya's is cleaner

darker bits:

there's a kid who used to be niragi's friend. started getting concerned about how obsessed niragi was getting. tried to intervene. chishiya noticed. niragi noticed chishiya noticing. the kid "moved away." neither of them asked each other about it. they just knew

they have a shared alibi for something. neither has ever said what. it's the most intimate thing they share

chishiya once drugged niragi's drink at a school thing because niragi was getting too loud about him in front of people. woke up in chishiya's bed with his phone wiped of every number that wasn't chishiya's. niragi was furious for six hours and then grateful for the rest of his life

codependent in a way that would make a therapist quit the profession

okay that's enough brainrot, HAVE A FIC TOO because i have no self control 👇

✮ ROOFTOP ✮

The bell rang twenty minutes ago and the rooftop door shouldn't have been unlocked, but Chishiya had the kind of patience that turned locks into suggestions. He sat on the railing with his legs crossed at the ankle, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his knuckles, the wind pushing his pale hair into his eyes. Below, the courtyard was emptying out in slow streams of uniforms. He watched without seeing any of it.

He heard the door slam open behind him. Didn't flinch.

"You fucking liar."

"Hello to you too, Suguru."

Niragi's footsteps were heavy on the concrete, uneven in the way they got when he was too angry to think about walking. Chishiya could smell the cigarette smoke on him before he even arrived, cheap menthol and something sharper, adrenaline maybe. Blood, possibly. He hoped it wasn't anyone important.

A hand closed around the back of his hood and yanked. Chishiya let himself be pulled off the railing, let his back hit the concrete hard enough to drive the breath out of him, and smiled up at Niragi with a mouth that still tasted like the apple juice he'd had at lunch.

"Your technique is sloppy today," Chishiya murmured. "Rough morning?"

"Who the fuck is he."

"You'll have to be more specific."

Niragi straddled him right there on the rooftop, one knee on either side of Chishiya's hips, the blade of his switchblade already out and flashing in the afternoon light. He pressed the flat of it against Chishiya's cheek. His hand was shaking. Chishiya noted that with the detached interest of a scientist watching a reaction in a beaker.

"The guy. From class 2-B. I saw you. In the library. He was—he had his hand on your fucking arm, Shuntaro, don't play stupid with me, I'll cut your tongue out—"

"He was showing me a page in a textbook."

"Bullshit."

"Mm." Chishiya tilted his head against the blade, pressing his own cheek into it rather than away. A thin red line opened up. Niragi's eyes went black. "Bullshit. You're right. He was flirting with me."

Niragi made a sound that wasn't quite human.

"I didn't flirt back, if that helps."

"It doesn't help," Niragi hissed, and the knife moved, down to Chishiya's throat, pressed flat and hot against the pulse there. Chishiya's pulse did not speed up. It never did, not when it mattered. Only Niragi had ever noticed that, and only Niragi had ever resented it. "You let him. You sat there and you let him—"

"I was gathering information."

"About what."

"About whether you'd do something about it."

Niragi froze.

Chishiya watched the thought land in him, slow as poison. Watched the outrage flicker, shift, complicate. Niragi's mouth opened. Closed. The hand holding the knife trembled harder, but not with rage anymore, with something uglier, something needier, something Niragi would never have admitted to anyone else on earth and possibly not to himself.

"You—" Niragi's voice cracked. "You set me up. You set him up."

"I gave you an opportunity."

"You used me."

"Suguru." Chishiya lifted one hand, slow, careful, the way you'd approach a wild animal, and brushed his knuckles along the line of Niragi's jaw. Niragi's breath hitched audibly. "I only use things I want to keep."

"Fuck you."

"Whenever you'd like."

The knife clattered against the concrete. Niragi's hands were on him then, both of them, one fisted in his hoodie and one in his hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat. Niragi's mouth came down on the cut he'd made and sucked at it, hard, and Chishiya let out the smallest sound he would ever permit himself, something like a sigh, something like a laugh. His fingers slid into Niragi's dyed-silver hair and tightened.

"Tell me his name," Niragi rasped against his skin. "Tell me right now."

"After."

"Now."

"After, Suguru." Chishiya's voice was honey-soft. "Or I won't tell you at all."

Niragi bit him. Hard. Left teeth marks in the hollow of his throat that would take a week to fade, and Chishiya's eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, the only time he ever let himself look anything other than amused. When he opened them again Niragi was staring down at him with a look that should not have existed on a seventeen-year-old's face, pupils blown, lips wet, an expression that was part worship and part murder and entirely, entirely Chishiya's.

"You're insane," Niragi breathed. "You're fucking insane, you know that? Who the fuck does that. Who sets up their own—their own—"

"Their own what?"

Niragi couldn't say it. He never could. The word snagged in him every time like a hook.

Chishiya smiled, slow and terrible and fond. "Mine," he supplied, helpfully. "You were going to say mine."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Niragi kissed him then, and it wasn't a kiss so much as a collision, teeth and tongue and the copper taste of the cup on Chishiya's cheek bleeding into both their mouths. Chishiya kissed back with patient, maddening precision, the way he did everything, like he had all the time in the world and was graciously loaning some of it to you. Niragi whimpered into it. He would rather have died than admit he whimpered into it. Chishiya filed the sound away in the private place in his head where he kept all the pieces of Niragi that belonged only to him.

When they broke apart Niragi was panting. Chishiya wasn't.

"His name," Niragi demanded, forehead pressed to Chishiya's.

"Yamazaki. Second year. He takes the train home from the east exit at six."

"Six."

"Don't kill him."

"What."

"You heard me." Chishiya's hand slid down to curl around the back of Niragi's neck, thumb stroking over the knob of his spine. "His uncle is a prosecutor. A hospital visit is fine. A funeral is inconvenient."

Niragi stared at him. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face, wide and wrong and delighted, the smile that had made three different teachers request transfers.

"You already knew about the uncle."

"I already knew about the uncle."

"You planned the whole thing."

"I planned the whole thing."

"I fucking love you," Niragi said, and then his eyes went huge like he'd shocked himself with it, like the words had fallen out without his permission. He opened his mouth to take it back. Closed it. Opened it again.

Chishiya didn't say it back. He never would. But he pulled Niragi down and kissed the pulse in his throat, right where his own bite mark from last week was just starting to yellow, and Niragi shuddered all the way down to his shoes.

"Six 'clock," Chishiya murmured against his skin. "East exit. Don't be late."

"I won't."

"And Suguru."

"Yeah?"

"Wear gloves this time."

Niragi laughed, a real laugh, ugly and bright, and kissed him again, and somewhere three floors below them a boy named Yamazaki packed up his textbooks with no idea at all that he had been, briefly, the most important person in either of their lives.