“You really can’t cook, can you?” Hot neighbor asks, arms crossed as they stand next to each other in their parking lot.

“Nothing I say right now will change your mind considering the number of times we’ve done this in the last month and the smoke that was coming out of my window so, you know, whatever.  Sure.  Fine.  I can’t cook to save my life.”

Hot neighbor raises his eyebrows at Stiles’ tone but not even that is enough to make Stiles do more than shrug in his general direction despite the fact that normally Stiles would be flailing a little at the attention.  Because he doesn’t really preen or anything like that.  He flails.  It’s not a pretty reaction but it’s the only one he’s ever had so he’s learned to live with it.

“It’s not much but when they let us back in if you want you can come over and have some of my leftovers.  My sister was supposed to visit last night but had to cancel so I have a lot of food.”

“Deal,” Stiles says.  He doesn’t even care what the leftovers are.  It could be raw onions and overcooked steak for all he cares so long as he doesn’t have to cook it himself.

Stiles waves sheepishly at Danny when he walks out of the apartment building and shakes his head at Stiles.  Honestly Stiles blames the overly sensitive smoke detectors more than anything.  Those coupled with the fact that by the time he gets home he’s ready to fall asleep on his feet make for a lot of Danny shaking his head at Stiles.

“All clear,” Danny calls out.

Fifteen minutes later Stiles is sitting in his hot neighbor’s apartment staring down at a plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes and trying to understand how the man standing on the other side of the kitchen is real.  Because he can’t be hot and sweet and a volunteer firefighter and be able to cook this well and be real.  He’s got to be some sort of figment of Stiles’ overworked imagination.  Or something.

Hot neighbor — Derek, he finds out a few awkward minutes later — just stares at him when he says as much out loud.  Then again he might be staring because Stiles hasn’t stopped eating, or talking, since that first bite where he was speechless for a good forty-some seconds.  Because damn Derek can cook.

“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in weeks,” Stiles groans as he takes his last bite.  “Seriously, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek grumbles and even that almost seems right out of his dreams.

“Should I call you sir instead?”

Derek blushes and Stiles slouches down in his chair with a grin.  Okay so maybe this whole almost setting his kitchen on fire thing might not be the worst thing to happen in the world.  Nice.

—

Erica pokes her head into the diner’s kitchen.

“Someone at the counter wants to talk to you.”

“If it’s another mom that’s angry and claiming I’m being racist for not having a kid’s menu again I swear to everything holy I quit.”

“Still not sure how that was racist,” Boyd says from the prep area.

“Me either!”

“No,” Erica interrupts before he can rile himself up.  “Just a couple of guys who said they wanted to compliment you in person.”

Oh.  Well.  That wasn’t so bad.

He asks Boyd to take over the last couple things on the grill as he follows Erica through the door.

And almost turns right back around when he sees Danny sitting at the counter with a grin on his face.

“There he is,” Danny says loudly before Stiles can turn and run.  “The best chef I know.  As long as he’s cooking anywhere but his own apartment.”

Derek looks up from his phone and nearly drops it on the counter when he spots Stiles.

“How, exactly, are you such a disaster that you nearly set your apartment on fire while cooking a dozen times in the last month yet you apparently are a cook at one of the most popular diners in town?”  Derek raises his eyebrows and Stiles flails a little, nearly smacking Erica.  She deftly avoids him, used to him by now, and leans on the counter to watch.

“Oh he’s not just a cook,” Erica practically purrs.  Derek looks at her expectantly.  “He’s the head cook and he owns this place.  Over ninety percent of the menu items are his recipes and he cooks the lunch and dinner rushes almost every day.”

“And yet,” Danny says.

“Shut up, Danny.”

“Nope.”

“Can’t cook to save your life, huh?”

“Just… shut up, dude.”

“I told you.  Don’t call me dude.”

“And you never answered last time: should I call you sir?”

Normally he’d just leave Jackson over by the snack table to fend off the lady batting her eyes at him like some sort of cartoon character.  But Jackson’s already had a shitty week and Stiles hasn’t been able to help with much of it at all and he’s really feeling like playing the knight in shining armor.  Or, rather, knight in button-up shirt with the sleeves carefully rolled up tucked into a pair of fitted slacks because Jackson dressed him for this almost semi-professional event.  But whatever.  He can wield his wicked sharp tongue in this as easily as a flannel and jeans.

“I thought you were everyone’s type,” Jackson’s admirer damn near coos at him as Stiles sidles up to the other side of the table and glances over the choices.  Peter may have spent plenty of money on fancy shit for this little holiday party of his but he also made sure to include Stiles’ favorite sugar cookies and the chocolate toffee that Jackson loves and he can almost guarantee that the sugar cookies are his mom’s recipe and the toffee is the Hale family secret recipe.

“Just because he’s everyone’s type doesn’t mean he wants just anyone’s tongue down his throat,” Stiles says as he reaches for a cookie and, yep, definitely his mom’s recipe.  He doesn’t even want to know what Peter did to convince his dad to make them.

“Um.  Private conversation.”

Stiles snorts.  “Um.  No.  Not when you’re having it in a public setting and speaking loud enough I could hear it from five feet away even with the general chatter of the party going on around us.”

The lady huffs and reaches out to tap Jackson’s forearm a couple times before resting her hand on it.

“Jackson.  Do you want to get rid of this guy so we can continue our private discussion?”

Stiles blinks in surprise.  He would have assumed that anyone who had an invitation to Peter’s party would know, or know of, Stiles.

“Hey, Jax?”

“Yes, Stiles?”

“I’m gonna tell her.”

“You’re not going to tell her.”

“Why not?”

Jackson nods past Stiles.  “Because I think Peter is going to tell her.”

“Peter Hale,” Stiles says with a grin as Peter steps up beside him.  “The man who is not my step-dad only because polyamorous marriages are not legal in our state. How’s it going?”

“Well,” Peter drawls.  “It’s come to my attention that I haven’t been by to see how Jackson is doing tonight.  It would be rather uncouth of me to let my favorite work associate go the entire night without my presence.”

“I’m your only work associate,” Jackson replies.  “You literally have zero other people working for or with you.”

“That’s because most people are drab and mediocre at best.”  Peter smiles.  “Also your husband refused to work for me.”

“I am an independent man who does not need his husband’s boss who is also his dad and step-dad’s boyfriend to give him a job thank you very much.”

“Are you implying I need my father-in-law and step-father-in-law’s boyfriend to give me a job?”

“No, babe.  I would never imply that.”  Stiles winks at him.  “I’d say it straight to your face.”

“Peter.  I think I want a divorce.”

“We can work on that when you’re on company time.”  Peter’s amused gaze flickers between them and then returns to the lady.  “Remind me who you are again?  Were you on the guest list?”

The lady swallows a few times and slowly drops her hand from Jackson’s arm.

“I think I should be going,” she mutters as she turns on her heel and hurries away.

“Next time I’m hiring out the department as security.”

Stiles snorts.  “Good luck getting Dad to agree to letting his men play security guard.”

“Oh don’t you worry, Sweetheart.  I have my ways of getting your father to do things for me.”

“Yep.  Nope.  You talking about doing things with my dad is where I draw the line.”  He steps around the table and kisses Jackson’s cheek.  “Will you punch me if I ask to meet you under the mistletoe,” he murmurs against Jackson’s skin.

“I haven’t decided yet.”  Jackson turns and presses a quick kiss to Stiles’ lips.  “I guess you’ll have to take a chance on it.  See how lucky you are later.”

“Oh I think I’m gonna be pretty lucky tonight.”

“Me too,” Peter drawls.  Stiles looks at him in confusion and sees his gaze on something behind him and Jackson.  “My boyfriends look good enough to eat.  Noah’s wearing a vest and Chris is in a jacket.”  He growls lowly in his throat and Stiles shudders in disgust.  “I am the luckiest man here.”  He winks at them.  “Maybe they’ll let me unwrap them later.  In the spirit of the holidays and all that.”

“Nope.  No thank you.  Goodbye, Peter.  I’ll talk to you later.”

Jackson is almost shaking with laughter as Stiles hurries away to go talk to Erica and Boyd.  He glances over his shoulder and sees the smile on Jackson’s face as he watches Stiles.

Peter was wrong.

He can’t remember doing anything that would warrant a visit from all three of them and he raises his eyebrows in question.

“Mister Weasley,” Professor McGonagall bites out.

Ron straightens his shoulders and lets out a long breath.

“Miss McGonagall,” he bites back.

Hermione buries her face in her hands with a groan and Draco covers his eyes as he lets out a pained laugh.

—

“I still just can’t believe that this is the same person I shared a Potions class with for multiple years.  The same person who once made himself throw up slugs,” Draco says as he follows Harry through the doorway.

“To be fair he was using a busted wand,” Harry retorts.  “I still vote you’re lucky it backfired.  Merlin only knows what would have happened had it hit you properly.”

“And the spell isn’t actually ‘Eat Slugs’ so, you know he was basically casting it non-verbally,” Hermione states as she slips inside and closes the door behind them, blocking out what little noise there was coming in from the library.  She narrows her eyes and tilts her head as she thinks about it.  “He actually does that rather a lot now that I think about it.”

“I’ve always told you,” Harry grins.  “Ron’s an amazing wizard.”

Ron looks up at the sound of his name and Draco snorts.

“This.”  Draco gestures towards Ron.  “Amazing wizard?”

Ron scratches at his cheek with the tip of his wand and then sticks it into the messy bun he has his hair pulled into.  There’s a smudge of ink on his cheek and more smudges on his arms where he has his robe sleeves pushed up to his elbows.  A stack of teacups are balanced on the corner of his desk and a teapot leaking purple steam is holding down a stack of papers near the other corner.

“What’s going on?”

Hermione shakes her head and settles into the one empty chair in Ron’s office.  Once upon a time she used to try to clean up before she sat down, tried to tidy his papers and neatly stack his books and get rid of his dirty teacups.  But that was a few years ago.  She’s come to accept, begrudgingly, that doing so it a wasted effort.

“We were talking about your appearance in the works cited of one of my third years’ essays,” Harry answers as he hops onto the low cabinet against the wall beside Ron’s desk.  The books and papers and quills littering the top of the cabinet sweep out of his way, landing in messy piles on either side of him.

“My what?”

“’When questioned about the the counter-spell the Professor stated whoever wrote this passage of our textbook is an incompetent git the likes of which make Professor Lockhart look like a genius.  I am unsure exactly what this means but the Professor was adamant about it and as such I have decided it is true,’” Harry recites from memory.  “Cited as being a quote from Professor Ronald B. Weasley, Hogwarts Librarian.”

“Oh.”  Ron thinks about it a moment and then nods.  “Well I did call Professor Lockhart a miserable twat.  I probably shouldn’t have said that in front of a student, huh?”

“Really, Ron?  Really?”

“Oh, come on, Granger,” Draco drawls.  “You really should have expected that out of him by now.  The man is uncouth and boorish at best.”

“Draco!” Hermione scolds.  “You’re not much better some days.”

Draco gasps.  “Listen here, Granger.”

Ron props his chin in his hand and watches them bicker.

He never does find out what they came into his office for.

—

“I didn’t actually expect you to call her that,” Draco says, passing over Ron’s teacup before fixing himself one.

“Call who what?” Ron asks distractedly as he takes the teacup.  He’s got three books open on the table.  Along with two scrolls and a pile of notes that Draco can’t even begin to understand.  Mostly because Ron’s handwriting has not gotten better with age.

“Professor McGonagall.”  Draco sits down and huffs.  “And I thought we agreed no work at the kitchen table.”

“One: it just kinda slipped out when I was talking to her.  Two: I just like proving you wrong.  Three: I kinda ran out of room in my office?”

“Ronald,” Draco sighs.  “If I can’t bring my Potions research to the kitchen table you can’t bring whatever obscure thing you’re researching to the kitchen table either.  We have rules for a reason.  That reason mostly being if we don’t do this we wind up mixing all our notes together on accident and almost explode our kitchen sink when something goes sideways.”

“Sorry, mate.”  Ron grins at him as he grabs his wand and flicks his wrist, sending everything out of the kitchen and down the hall towards his office.

“Mate?”  Draco scoffs.  “You cannot call me that ever again.  Not if you’re going to call Professor McGonagall ‘mate’ too.  It’s just wrong.”

“Me calling her mate?”

“Because I like shiny things and Derek made a constipated face when he saw it last week.  Now.  Answer the question, Kira.  Fuck, Marry, Kill: Erica, Jordan, and Peter.”

Kira rolls her eyes.

“Fuck: Peter.  Marry: Erica.  Kill: Jordan.  Sorry, Jordan!”

Jordan waves his hand at her while the rest of the group erupts in noise.

“Fuck Peter?”  Erica is staring at her like she’s never seen her before.  “Really, babe?  You feeling okay?”

“Thank you, darling,” Peter drawls.  “I would be honored to fuck you too.”

Kira can’t help but laugh at the way he winks at her while Stiles chokes on his own breath.  She gets up from where she’s been squished between Erica and Lydia on the loveseat, ignoring everyone’s questions and outbursts, and crosses the living room so she can plop herself into Peter’s lap.  He wraps his arm around her as she leans in an kisses his cheek.  Peter tugs her close and kisses her cheek in return, rubbing his nose against it a few times to make her giggle.

“Is, uh.  Is this a mass hallucination?” Stiles asks from his spot next to Peter.  “’Again?  ‘Cause I did that once and I am not okay with that.”

Isaac was sitting with his back leaning against Peter’s legs.  Now he’s curled on the floor with tears in his eyes laughing so hard he can only gesture towards Stiles when Kira looks at him curiously.

“I just.  His face,” he manages to gasp out.

Jackson snickers from his place next to Isaac, turning to prop his elbow on Stiles’ knee as he says, “Kira's honing in on your wolf, Stilinski.”

That gets Stiles to stop doing an impression of a fish so he can glare down at Jackson.

“You're just jealous you’re not my wolf, Whittemore.”

“In your dreams, Stilinski.”

“Well according to the last round we played...”

“Hey.  My other options were Greenburg and McCall.  What the hell was I supposed to say?”

“I'm still not sure how Greenburg beat me when it comes to marriage.”

“You want me to marry you?”

“I'd have to ask Peter first.”

“Don't involve me,” Peter interrupts, chin on Kira’s shoulder as he watches the rest of the Hale Pack lounging around the living room.  “I paid for most of you to go to college.  I do not have the funds to start paying for weddings.”

Erica gasps.  “Hey.  You said you’d pay for me and Kira to get married!”

“That’s because the two of you simply want to go down to the courthouse and then come party in the Preserve.  I can handle that fee.  Stiles and Jackson getting married?  That would be an Event the likes of which not even my pockets can afford.”

Kira settles back against Peter’s chest and listens as the entire living room erupts into arguments about whose wedding would cost the most and why Stiles refuses to wear a tux and Boyd questions why Stiles seems to think he can talk Boyd into wearing a dress and the whole living room is just noise and color and laughter and she lets it wash over her.  Erica catches her eye and grins at her and Kira’s heart skips a couple beats at how radiant Erica looks.

They’re all glowing right now.  Coming down from the full moon.  A little giddy.  Kinda punch drunk (and maybe a little alcohol drunk from the shots Jackson had insisted they all take when they got back) and Kira is content.  They all are.

They’re happy and safe and surrounded by the people who know them best and it doesn't matter what's happening outside the windows because nothing can touch them here.

The screen door opens and Sheriff Stilinski walks in with Danny behind him, both of them carrying bags of snacks and pizza boxes.

“Do I even want to know?” Sheriff Stilinski asks.

“Probably not,” Danny mutters.  “You know them.”

“Kira’s fucking Peter,” Stiles says.  “And he won’t pay for Jackson and I to get married which is bullshit in my opinion.  Because he’ll pay for Kira and Erica to go down to the courthouse.  Clearly he’s playing favorites.”

“Why would you want to marry Jackson,” Derek asks as he drags himself up from behind the couch where he had been napping until the food arrived.  “He snores and he never remembers to put his sweaty socks in the laundry basket.”

“I do not snore!”

“The sock thing is totally accurate though,” Isaac says.  Jackson growls and throws himself at Isaac and the two of them go sprawling across the floor, rolling until they hit Erica’s legs and she throws herself into the pile of limbs with a cackle.

“Congratulations,” Peter murmurs in Kira’s ear.  “You’ve caused absolute chaos.”

“You love it when we’re all like this,” she whispers back.  “Because we’re only like this when we feel safe.  You did this, Peter.  You gave us this place to come together, to be silly and strange and a little unhinged sometimes.  To be ourselves.  To simply exist without judgment.”

Peter sighs and squeezes her gently.  “Thank you, Kira.  Sometimes I don’t even realize I need to hear that sort of thing.”

“I’ll tell you any time you need.”  She watches Lydia gesture for Boyd to help her stand on the loveseat and climb over the back of it to avoid the tangle of limbs on the floor so she can head for the kitchen and have first dibs on the food that the others have somehow forgot about.  Boyd looks over and gestures in question and she shakes her head; she’ll make her way there eventually.

“I’ll be right there,” he calls softly, knowing his voice will carry up to the desk.

“No rush,” a familiar voice calls back.  

He can’t keep the smile off his face as he rounds the last aisle and spots the man leaning against his desk.

“Hello, Sousuke.”

“Hey, Asahi.”  Thunder crashes again and Sousuke frowns.  “Sure is a heck of a storm going on out there.”

The lights flicker and something deep in the library grumbles and growls.  Asahi smiles when Sousuke looks towards the aisles.

“Some of the old vents and air circulation units get a bit tetchy during storms,” he explains as he leans against the desk beside Sousuke.  “So what brings you here tonight?  No Rin or Momo to keep you company?”

“Nah.  They’re busy with some project.  I was running some errands and thought I’d take shelter here for a few minutes.”

“Well I’m always happy to have some company.”

They make small talk, Sousuke trailing after him as he reshelves the rest of the books, and before he knows it he only has one book left and the deep floor shaking chime signaling the building is closed and locked for the night almost startles him when it goes off.

“Did you need me to leave while you finish up?”

“Always asking me such silly questions.”  Asahi shakes his head with a smile.  “No I only have this last book and then I’ll be done.”  He leads Sousuke deeper into the library, passing aisle after aisle after aisle.

“I didn’t realize the library was this big.”  Sousuke is looking over his shoulder towards the front of the library, Asahi’s desk barely even visible in the distance.

“Oh there’s a lot about this library that people don’t know.”

The bookshelves are larger in this part of the library.  Older.  Made of rough hewn wood with wicked looking splinters jutting out at every angle and filled with leather bound tomes.

Sousuke gulps as he tilts his head back to try and see the top of the shelves.  The shadows grow deeper and deeper the longer they walk and this time when he looks over his shoulder he can’t even see the bright lights of the main part of the library.  The floors seem to vibrate under his feet, a deep almost subsonic rumble that he feels in his bones more than anything else.

“Asahi?”

“We’ll be there in a jiffy,” Asahi murmurs.  Something high over their heads shifts and a stale breeze ruffles their hair.  “Did you know that I’ve been the librarian here since I was seventeen?”

Sousuke shakes his head.  “Uh.  No.  Do you like being the librarian?”

Asahi lets out a little laugh.  “I never really wanted to be the librarian,” he admits.  “It’s a lonely job.  Taking care of this old place.  But the benefits start to make up for it.  For the most part.”  He looks over his shoulder and grins.  “Still gets pretty lonely.”

“Good thing you have someone like me to come keep you company then, huh?”

Asahi’s grin grows.  “Oh very much so.”

The shadows are so deep now they almost seem to pulse at the edge of his vision.  Chittering comes from their left and a shiver runs down Sousuke’s spine.  He walks just a little closer to Asahi.

“Asahi,” he asks again.

Light in the distance flickers as the sound of their footsteps seems to be swallowed by darkness around them.

“Almost there,” Asahi’s voice is so soft Sousuke has to strain to hear it.

Suddenly they’re stepping out of the darkness and into a long room.  Instead of the impossibly high shelves they had been walking past the room is filled with waist high podiums.  Each as empty as the next.  Asahi walks over to one a few feet from the door and carefully sets the book he’s been carrying on the top of it.  The entire rooms seems to shiver and shudder, the walls shifting and stretching, and Sousuke stares as the book… dissolves?  After a minute the room stills and he watches a gold plate appear on the podium, words scratched onto it in a language he’s never seen before.

“What?”

“Humans,” Asahi says, fingers running along the top of the podium.  “Are fascinating.  The stories they tell.  The worlds they create.  The knowledge they carry with them from birth to death.  Absolutely fascinating.”  Asahi’s eyes meet his and Sousuke shivers.  “Libraries are fascinating too, if you stop and think about it.  All that knowledge, all those stories, all those worlds.  Collected and categorized and catalogued.  Knowledge is power,” he says softly.  “And librarians, well.”

He chuckles in a way that makes Sousuke’s stomach drop as he remembers something Asahi said.

“You said you’ve been the librarian since you were seventeen.”

Asahi’s eyes light up.  “I did.  You were listening!”

“I was.  So.  Um.”

“Ask.”

“How old are you?”

“Very old.”

“What… what is this place?”

“The library.”

“Is it… alive?”

He had heard it from his teachers, their voices neutral and bland and like he was just one in a long line of kids they’ll have forgotten by the time the sun sets tonight.  Like there was nothing memorable about him at all.

He had heard it from his coaches, their voices choppy and unsure and like they were just happy that he was going to go be someone else’s problem soon.  Like they couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

He had heard it from his classmates, their voices distant and distracted and like they were saying it just because they knew they had to and it was the polite thing to do.  Like they didn’t care if he even heard them or responded to them.

He had heard it from his teammates, their voices mocking and harsh and like they were glad to be rid of him once and for all.  Like they wouldn’t be all that upset if they found out he moved across the world or quit playing for good.

He might have heard the words from a hundred people today but none of them mattered.  None of them cared.

He might have spent the day surrounded by people but really he feels like he spent his last day of middle school completely and utterly alone.

—

Tobio sits against the wall outside the gym, head tilted back and fingers idly tapping the volleyball resting in his lap, as he stares up at the clouds drifting by high in the sky.  His parents are still talking to Coach Ukai and Miwa has been cornered by Kei’s older brother — or maybe it’s the other way around he’s not entirely sure he knows or wants to know — and he’s not sure if he’s ready to go home quite yet.

“Happy graduation, Tobio,” a voice says and he blinks a few times as he drags his mind from the clouds.  Hitoka smiles down at him and he does his best to smile back.  He’s still not the greatest at it, even after three years of practicing nearly every day thanks to the team, but it does the trick because she giggles and sits down next to him without even needing to ask.

“Happy graduation, Hitoka,” he finally manages to reply when he remembers he’s supposed to.

He’s heard the phrase so many times today that he’s lost count of them all.  From teachers, from classmates, from teammates, from his coach.  So many people and each one had genuinely seemed to mean it.

He’s said the phrase himself, mostly in reply when he’s heard it directed at him, and has been surprised that he’s meant it too.  He’s happy that his fellow third years are graduating, that he’s graduating with them.  He’s happy to be here, to be surrounded by so many people.

“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Takeda had said that morning when he spotted Tobio.  It was a little premature, he explained, but he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to see Tobio that day and he wanted to make sure to tell him.

“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Tadashi had said when he spotted Kageyama on his way to his first class that morning.  He had wound up saying it three other times to Tobio because he was just that happy they were all graduating.  Tobio had said it back every time.

“Happy graduation, Tobio,” his parents had said when they saw him before the mini-celebration the team had decided to throw after school in the gym.  His mother had almost seemed surprised when he pulled her into a hug but his father had smiled at the sight of them.

“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Coach Ukai had said when Tobio had stopped in to return the spare set of gym keys he had found in the bottom of his gym bag when he cleaned it out the night before.  Coach had thanked him for the keys and reminded him he was welcome to stop back any time he wanted, but not too often he had added with a laugh.

“Happy graduation, Tobio,” various classmates had said when they passed him in the hallways and sat next to him in class.  He made sure to reply to every one of them and was happy when he realized he remembered the name of every person he said it to.

“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Kei had said after the ceremony.  “Happy graduation, Kei,” Tobio had replied.  “Thank you.  For everything.”  Kei had given him a long look that once upon a time would have pissed him off to no end before he huffed quietly, almost a laugh, and said, “You too,” so softly Tobio almost hadn’t heard him.

“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Shouyou had shouted the moment he stepped into the gym after the ceremony, just before the mini-celebration started.  Not to be outdone Tobio had shouted it too and then they kept shouting it back and forth until Tadashi broke them up with a laugh.

Tobio sits against the wall outside the gym, Hitoka’s small frame warm against his side, volleyball in his lap, and watches Kei argue with Shouyou while Tadashi grins at them and shakes his head, his eyes darting to Hitoka and Tobio every now and then.  He spent his last day of high school surrounded by people he was going to miss, people who would miss him.  He’s barely had a moment of peace today and it’s been amazing perfect.

And now he’s ending his last day of high school surrounded by some of his favorite people.