#liya.writes

It’s the only step to take in your relationship that makes the most sense, according to your childish logic. Your grandmothers have been friends since they met in high school, inseparable old women with an unchanging weekly appointment to drink tea in your grandmother’s kitchen.

Even your parents are close; your fathers were childhood friends and grew up splashing by the riverbank and racing alongside empty stretches of open fields. Family holidays are often spent together, so it was an inevitability that you and Kita would end up being friends.

The two of you were born in the same hospital, and as your mother likes to joke, “When we put you two down on the same mat to play, you started reachin’ for Shin-kun instead of the toys! Ya even tried to bite him, and he didn’t cry a bit, just blinked real slow and let you nibble on his arm.”

And so the two of you are close, too. In cool, misty mornings, Kita waits outside your door so the two of you can walk to school together; he has an umbrella that he shares when it rains and a hat when it’s too sunny, and never misses a day to see you. During summers, you’re both sent up north to his grandmother’s home in the country, nothing to do but spend lazy days in the rice fields and taking Kita’s hand in your own as you come up with your own elaborate fantastical games.

A lot of times it feels like your relationship is the same as when you were babies: you drag Kita around and he follows willingly, the voice of reason to every impulsive plot you come up with. If Kita is popular with the neighborhood grannies for his manners and mature demeanor, then you’re popular with the other kids for your cheer and athletic prowess at every neighborhood game.

“What do I gotta do to keep Shin-kun with me?” you asked Kaasan once, as she trimmed edamame in the kitchen with a pair of scissors. “Why’s he gotta go home everyday? I wish he was around forever.”

“Why don’t ya marry him?” she said mischievously, tapping her chin with her free hand. “That made sure yer Tousan would come home to me every night.”

Her words lit a spark in your brain. You can’t imagine a life without Kita; he’s been by your side since you were born. To lose him would be like losing a limb, unimaginable and devastating. And since Kaasan is one of the smartest adults you know, this must be the best way to keep him with you.

This is how you find yourself, on a routine weekend playdate exploring the nearby park, with flushed cheeks and clammy hands, stems wilting from the strength of your grip. Kita is sitting crosslegged in the field, flowers in hand, considering your words with the same gravity he considers everything in life, from the instructions of his teachers to laminated menus at the local diner.

“I’m sorry,” Kita says seriously. His eyes are wide and piercing, and you can see the world reflected in them. “But we can’t get married. You gotta be an adult to get married. And Obaasan always says when you want ta do something, you gotta take yer time with it, especially if it’s something ya care about.”

“Oh. But I like ya, Shin-kun,” you add helplessly. But you already know that Kita makes decisions carefully, and once he makes up his mind on something, he rarely changes it.

“And I like ya, too,” Kita says. 

“But we can’t get married?”

“We can’t get married now,” he says. “Because marriage’s a big decision. Ya can’t rush into it.”

“Okay, but do you still want my flowers? They’re the best ones I found. The biggest and prettiest,” you add hopefully. The fat white petals of the daisies droop in your hands, as if they, too, are dejected by Kita’s rejection.

“Yeah,” Kita says. He takes your flowers with a solemn reverence.

“Let’s make flower crowns,” you say. “I wanna make one for Kaasan.”

“Okay,” Kita says. 

The sting of his rejection passes like a summer rainstorm, brief and temporary. Kita is still your friend, the one nearest and dearest to your heart, even if he doesn’t want to marry you. There are other things to worry about, anyways, like your homework and what sort of bento Kaasan is going to pack for lunch tomorrow.

(You don’t notice the way Kita glances carefully at you through his eyelashes, gaze thoughtful as he considers your question). 

Kita’s hands are deft as he weaves your flowers together into a crown, braiding stems together with a careful, slow ease. The flowers are spaced evenly apart, bright heads facing outwards. In contrast, your work is swift but a tad more clumsy, and you rip more than one petal in your haste to complete your work. 

“This is for you,” Kita says, placing it gently on your head. He adjusts the band so it no longer rests so lopsidedly.

“Thank you, Shin-kun!” you say. “Does it look good?”

He nods seriously. “Real good.” 

“I made ya one, too!” You hold up your flower crown. The flowers are spaced unevenly and your weaving is loose in sections, but Kita regards it as if you’ve presented him with a priceless treasure.

“Thank you,” Kita says. “Will you put it on me?”

In response, you plop it on his head, where it tilts sideways, one end closer to his ear.

“We’re matching,” you say, smiling.

You spend another half hour in the fields before you tire of your work, eager to present the fruits of your labor to your parents, as you’ve made flower crowns for both of them. Kita’s crown is still placed on your head when you turn to head inside, waving vigorously at Kita as he waves back before turning and walking down the sidewalk towards his own home. He only lives a few minutes away, but still, you stand in the doorway until you can’t see him, not even blinking, eyes burning, trying to preserve the memory of his dear back.

(For the next few days after that, Kita painstakingly presses and preserves the flowers you’ve given him. The dried flowers sit on a shelf in his room, and whenever he passes them by, he considers them carefully. Marriage, after all, is a big decision).

—

“Shin-kun doesn’t want to marry me. I asked,” you tell Kaasan the next day, sitting at the dining table with your reading homework spread around you, your collection of colorful pencils rolling across the surface. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Kaasan says. She’s across from you, marking her own documents, laptop and manila files organized in a neat square on the table. “Are you sad about it?”

“I was but, but I’m not anymore.”

“What if Shin-kun marries someone else?” she teases. “Would ya be sad then?”

“Why would he?” you ask. “If he doesn’t wanna marry me, then he definitely doesn’t wanna marry anyone else. There’s no one he likes more than me.”

Kaasan bursts into laughter, shoulders shaking as she tries to cover her mouth, documents forgotten. “Oh, I see,” she says in-between a gasp.

You make a doodle of a flower on your homework. Really, you can’t understand what Kaasan finds so funny, when all you did was tell her the truth.

—

If there’s one thing you know about your childhood friend, it’s that Kita Shinsuke is a creature of habit. Everything he does, he does with the same precision and meticulous care: his chores, his studies, and even the way he organizes his playdates with the air of an office worker planning meetings.

It’s one of the things you like about him, how dedicated he is to everything. Even if the same can’t be said for yourself, as you love spontaneity too much to deny yourself the pleasure of a sudden impulse, you try your best to respect Kita’s routine.

“I’m going to play with Shiori-chan and Jun-kun today, but I’ll come find ya after I’m done,” you tell him, grip loose on your backpack as you bounce down the road. 

“Okay,” Kita says. He’s walking at a steady pace, and you’re careful to match your strides to him, even if you want to run ahead. “How long are ya gonna take?”

“Maybe a few hours? Not sure yet! But I’ll definitely see you before I go home,” you say earnestly. “Because being with ya is a part of my routine!”

There’s a small smile on Kita’s face at your words, as faint and lovely as a pattern of frost on a window. “But ya don’t normally have a routine. Does it even count?”

“Shin-kun, that’s mean,” you whine. “I try to see ya every day!”

“We’re neighbors, and our families are friends,” Kita points out. 

“Still! The effort counts!”

“Well, being with ya is part of my routine, too,” Kita says. “I like seeing you every day.”

You can’t help but skip down the street at that, backpack bouncing on your back at your sudden burst of energy, and Kita watches you, smiling all the while. Not that it’s unusual, though; Kita is always watching like that, everything and everyone.

When you drop Kita off at his doorstep, you give one giant wave at him, promising to stop by as soon as you can, before you turn down the street and head towards the nearby park. 

(Kita likes to watch you from the window whenever you leave, waiting until you’re nothing more than a dot on the horizon before he turns away. This, too, is a ritual). 

Shiori and Jun are already waiting by the time you drop your backpack off at home and rush over to the nearby park, a good fifteen minute run from your home. They live farther inside the neighborhood than you, but attend the same school, so you know them fairly well. Not as well as Kita, but you don’t know anyone else as well as you know Kita.

After a particular explosive game of tag (Shiori was it at first, and she knabbed you by the tail end of your shirt) and kick the can (you’d like to brag you valiantly defended the can quite well, which was a water bottle donated by Jun, as you hunted down Jun and Shiori), Shiori finally turns to you with cheeks rosy from exertion, her mouth opening into a question.

“Kita-kun isn’t here with ya today?” Shiori asks. “I feel like you two are always together.”

“He had ta go home,” you confirm. “And that’s not true! We’re not together right now, aren’t we?”

“Why’re you always with Kita, though?” Jun asks. He’s a little quiet, but there’s something in his tone that you try not to bristle at.

“Whaddya mean? Shin-kun is Shin-kun,” you say. “He’s the best.”

“But Kita-kun is kinda… quiet. And he’s always in the corner, just doing his work! He doesn’t really talk to us unless he has ta,” Shiori says, hesitant.

“Kita is boring,” Jun says bluntly. Shiori blushes at his statement, but makes no move to disagree. “He doesn’t seem like a lotta fun. What do ya even talk about with him?”

You pause. Kita, boring? The idea has never occurred to you before. Kita is steady, reliable, responsible, and chides you sometimes like your mom might do, but he’s not boring. Boring is for things like schoolwork, and chores.

“Shin-kun isn’t boring. If you’re mean to Shin-kun, I’m not going to play with ya anymore!” you say firmly. “He’s real fun and super smart. He knows everything, and he can do anything, and he works hard!”

“Aw, don’t be mad!” Shiori says hastily, elbowing Jun, who grumbles. “We didn’t mean anything like that. I guess he’s just a little hard to talk ta sometimes.” 

“If it’s hard to talk to him, why don’t we play together next time?” you suggest. “I’ll make sure ya understand how great Shin-kun is.” 

“Yer bragging about him an awful lot,” Jun says again.

“Shin-kun is Shin-kun,” you repeat firmly, as if that answers the question. And it does, in your mind, but Shiori and Jun glance at each other and say nothing more.

The rest of the time passes well enough, though you are perhaps a little too enthusiastic to win in seeing who can swing the highest and then leap off, because even though you’re the clear champion, you’re left with scrapped knees that Jun winces at. You, Jun, and Shiori wave at each other before heading home, the setting sun its own reminder to keep your promise to Kita.

Still, by the time you meet up with Kita, you’re kicking at the ground, smarting from your friends’ comments you can’t get out of your head. You knock on his door, once, twice, and Kita opens it as if he’s been expecting you. 

It’s hard to hide the expression on your face, but even if you weren’t terrible at concealing your emotions, Kita would probably pick up on it anyways, because he always seems to know how you feel. Not that you could tell him what’s wrong, because you don’t want to repeat those awful comments.

After taking a few seconds to observe you, Kita asks quietly, “Do ya want something sweet? Okaasan brought back some madelines.”

You sniff. “Really?”

“Yeah. Come on,” he says, taking your hand, chubby fingers secure around your own. “Let’s get some together.” He then glances at your knees. “And ya gotta do something about that.”

A few cakes and bandaids applied to your skinned knees courtesy of Kita, and your troubles are forgotten. Even Kita seems to look a little more relaxed in the presence of your smile again, a sunflower turning towards the sun it can’t help but follow.

You really don’t get why people are incapable of understanding a simple fact: Kita isn’t boring at all. In fact, he’s the most wonderful person in the entire world.

—

Elementary school comes and goes, with a graduation full of classmates that cluster around you, begging for one last photo together. Your bouquet wilts from how tight you’ve clutched it as you run from camera to camera, but when Kita sees, he offers you a few pink gerbaras of his own.

(He’s also the first to take a picture with you, your families cooing as they crowd you close together, but he’s never needed to be told to stick close to your side. It’s simply what’s natural, and he frames the photo, keeping it near those dried flowers he still hasn’t let go of).

You have a longer commute in middle school, but it’s one you still share with Kita. It’s a precious period of your day where the two of you walk to school together, side by side. He shows up at the same time at your door like clockwork. You’re usually scrambling with a last-minute breakfast or putting your uniform together, your blazer slipping down your shoulders while Kita looks impeccable as always, not even a thread out of place.

“Ya should have learned to be more careful now,” he chides, even as he reaches out to smooth away the wrinkles with gentle hands, fixing the uneven knot of your tie. “‘s not a good habit to be sloppy.”

“Aw, but Shin-kun,” you say, “Ya always fix it for me!”

“Maybe I should stop.”

“Noooo,” you wail as Kita spins on his heel, collecting both your bag and his in one smooth motion, while you dart after him. “Don’t do that, Shin-kun! Then I’ll be even more of a mess!”

One of the great changes in middle school, besides the advanced curriculum and different uniforms and the evolving roster of classmates, are the inclusion of more involved clubs. 

Of course, you already know what club you want to join, and have known it since the beginning: you want to join the boys volleyball club as a manager. As it is, you’re assistant to the current manager, Yuna, who jumps every time you speak up behind her, taking in your enthusiasm and loud voice with wide eyes.

You’re quick to brag about it to Jun and Shiori, too, who are in a class down the hall from you, popping in for a brief visit during lunch, pulling up a chair to huddle around Shiori’s desk. You have an armful of snacks from the cafeteria, unable to resist spending a few yen on baked goods.

“Always felt like ya should be on the team and Kita should be manager,” Shiori says. “Didn’t realize it’d be the opposite way ‘round.”

“Why’s that?” you ask, curious.

“‘Cause of… um… Just, you know, the sorta impression you and Kita-kun give off is a little different—” 

“It’s ‘cause Kita is smart and yer a meathead,” Jun interrupts bluntly.

“Jun-kun, ya better be ready to back-up what you just said,” you threaten.

“See? Only a meathead would say that,” Jun says. “Aren’t ya faster than Kita, too? And during gym class, ya were always the one ta spike the ball over the most. Just makes sense, right?”

“Well,” you huff, flattered despite yourself at Jun’s acknowledgement of your prowess, “Being on the court is cool, but being a manager is real important too. They do a lot of work behind the scenes to support the players, like helping plan scrimmages and researching opponents. Without ‘em, the players wouldn’t be half as prepared as they are.”

“Managers sound really awesome, then,” Shiori says supportively.

“And,” you add, “They get ta tell people what to do! Shin-kun’s always lecturin’ me about this and that, but if I’m the manager, he’s gotta listen to me for once!”

“There it is,” Jun says. “Knew there was another reason.”

“Jun-kun,” you begin, but a quick glance at the clock has you straightening up, plucking a few wrapped bread from your arms and dropping them onto Shiori’s desk. “We’ll settle this later, but I gotta get back to class. I said I’d spend the rest of lunch with Shin-kun. This is for you two, though!”

(Shiori and Jun both sigh as you burst out of the classroom, Jun propping up his cheek with his hand. It’s obvious from your smile that you’re hoping to see a smile on Kita’s face or hear, at the very least, a quiet thank you. You’ve always been predictable in that way, chasing after your childhood friend with all the clumsy, floppy grace of a lovesick puppy.

“I just don’t get it, not them, or Kita-kun,” Shiori says. “Do ya think they really don’t know how obvious it is that they like him?”

“Ya know how they are. Kita has it rough,” Jun says, and leaves it at that.)

You trundle through middle school, easily collecting friends with your cheer, a parade of people greeting you every morning when you step through the gates. Kita is just behind, by your side as steadily as the way shadow follows light. 

Kita is liked well-enough, you think, but people always seem to have difficulty approaching him. Maybe it’s his mature demeanor, or his steady gaze they can’t meet, as luminous as snowfall on a winter night, quiet and all-consuming. Or maybe it’s the way he’s consistently top of the class, pulling perfect hundreds, and the principled student all the teachers uphold as the model everyone should strive to emulate. 

“If only you could be more like Kita Shinsuke…” is a phrase troublemakers hear in their nightmares.

You maintain decent grades, too, but you still badger Kita for his notes, if only because he keeps such meticulous, detailed ones, and his handwriting is prettier than yours with how graceful it looks, like the work of a professional calligrapher. He beats you out easily in class rankings, much to your chagrin.

The real highlight of your day is volleyball practice after school, to the point your friends in class offer to take over clean-up duty from you so you can get to the gym early. Your duties mostly consist of helping keep track of scores during games, managing player statistics, and refilling and passing out water and towels. 

At times, you’ll help Yuna and the coach contact other schools for practice matches. Your role is mostly to observe how Yuna handles being manager, in preparation for when she graduates and you take on the role yourself.

That leaves a lot of time where you can stop to watch Kita. If he’s watching everyone else, who’s going to watch him? It might as well be you, his childhood friend, and it’s a habit you’ve maintained since you were children. Besides, it’s easy for your eyes to follow Kita, and you seek him out in every room before you’re even aware of what you’re doing.

Kita is diligent and steadfast, going through every drill without a word that the other students complain constantly about. He never takes shortcuts, and always does what’s required of him. He even stays after to help collect the balls and mop the gym with you.

You’re proud of him. There’s no way you wouldn’t be, but when two other first-years are selected as regulars for the team, you can’t help but feel slighted on his behalf. During games, sometimes you’ll end up side-by-side, watching rallies, though Kita always scolds you if you talk too much and end up distracting the benched players.

“Don’t ya wanna be on court, Shin-kun?” you ask, hands behind your back. Right now, your team is hosting a scrimmage with a local middle school, and one of your wing spikers pulls a sharp cut shot that leaves everyone cheering.

“Everyone wants ta be on court, but only the players who’ve proven they deserve to be there can stand on it,” Kita says. “I only do what I’m supposed to, and if I do it well, then that’s when I deserve ta be on court. That’s the proper way to go about it.”

“If that’s the case, then yer definitely gonna be a starting member one day,” you say. “Because I see ya, Shin-kun. Ya work hard, and you’re careful with everything that ya do. You never skip practice, or take shortcuts during laps, and you always do all your drills until ya can do the motions in your sleep! You’re gonna earn yer place there, I know it!”

Yuna calls your name and you scamper off before he can respond. 

(Kita breathes in. Breathes out. Like Obaasan told him, so long ago: “The gods are always watching.” Someone will always notice. Someone will always see him, but she never said that  when they did, there would be a miniature sun in his chest, overflowing gold that he can’t keep contained).

—

Middle school passes with its own routine, one that you settle into. Kita and you walk to school together in the mornings, rain or shine, eat lunch in his classroom and share parts of your bento with each other (he’s always putting vegetables on your plate), and then you attend volleyball practice, where you’ll mop the floors and wipe down the balls with Kita’s help and then walk home together. Kita will drop you off on your doorstep, and then head off to his own.

There’s little deviation to your routine, at least until your second year during lunchtime, when a boy approaches you when you’re halfway through your anpan. You’ve pulled up a chair right across from Kita, your bento and notebooks scattered across his desk. Though you’re in different classes this year, you still make an effort to bother him daily, and eating lunch together is one of your rituals.

“Can I talk with you?” he says. You try to place where you’ve seen him before; maybe in the class across from yours?

You’re still chewing and covering your mouth with your hand, trying frantically to swallow before responding. “Yes? Did ya need me for something?”

“There’s something I want to tell you. In private,” he emphasizes, flicking a glance at Kita.

“Sure,” you say. “But lunch is almost over, so we should hurry. I’ll be back, Shin-kun!” you add over your shoulder. 

Kita only nods, watching you scamper off without a thought in the world as to what your classmate could want now. Maybe about homework? A shared classmate?

(Kita’s hands are steady, even as he grips his chopsticks tight enough that his knuckles turn white. A lot of people have been confessing to you lately, but it’s not surprising, not with how well-liked you are. Not that you ever seem to realize what’s happening, how the easy, careless charm of your smile, the way you always face the person you’re talking to like they’re the only ones in the world, is dangerous).

The boy guides you down hallways and stairwells until you’re in the courtyard, standing in a little alcove that shields you from views of most of the windows. Including, you think, the gaze of your own classroom’s.

Clouds swirl overhead, grey and heavy, a light breeze stirring the grass. Is it going to rain soon? You glance up, just as the boy in front of you wrings his hands and takes several deep inhales.

“I wanted ta say… I’ve noticed ya from the very start of orientation! Yer always so bright and cheerful, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you since then. When we pass by in the halls, I always look at ya and…!” his voice raises in a shout. “And I wanted to say I like you. Please go out with me!”

Your mouth works before your mind does, but even then, all you can say is a strangled little “Oh… erm?” You remember his name now, Eiji, but you’re still too startled by his sudden words, all your thoughts scattering like birds. This has happened a few times now, but it still takes you by surprise every time. You? Liked? It’s strange to think that people think of you in such a way, that they could hold such expectations for you, when you’re just going about your day.

He’s still staring at you expectantly, and it’d be rude to keep him waiting any longer. Your tongue is still glued to your mouth, but you manage to unstick it to croak out, “I’m sorry. I appreciate your feelings, but I can’t return them.”

Eiji hangs his head. “I figured. I wanted to let ya know, anyways, but ya already have Kita-san, right?”

“Huh?” you squeak.

“Huh?” He tilts his head. “Ya and Kita-san. Aren’t ya dating? Everyone says you are.”

“That’s not—we’re just childhood friends,” you say hastily. “I mean. It’s not as if I don’t like him, but—we aren’t—I mean, I think—he’s just my friend.”

Huh? Wait a moment. What do you feel about Kita, then? All your feelings for him have always been rolled into one glowing ball that you’ve termed “like,” but people like each other in different ways. Is the way you like Kita different from how you like Jun and Shiori, or your own parents? What does “liking” someone even mean, then?

Eiji must see the confusion mar your face because he sighs. “‘s all right. Thank ya for yer time. But I hope ya and Kita-san can work out whatever it is you have. You don’t want ta be leading him on, or anything.”

Eiji heads in first, ducking his head and running away as you stand in the courtyard for a moment longer, eyebrows furrowed. A drop of something cold splashes on your head. It’s raining, the clouds sending out a shy drizzle as a warning, and so you hurry inside, distracted for the rest of lunch.

After school, you’re standing by your shoe locker glumly. The rain has transformed into a monstrous downpour, causing squawking students to brave the weather with only their bags over their heads, or hang under dripping eaves as the world is washed clean.

You’re one of the people who didn’t bring an umbrella, and so you’re stuck contemplating your options. You can run out and hope to make it home, or stay behind until the rain clears a little. Either way, you’re most likely going to be soaked, and a trek in soggy loafers is not on your list of enjoyable post-school activities. 

“Did ya forget your umbrella?”

It’s Kita, and though he’s a respectful distance away from you, as he always is, you jump as if he’s whispered right into your ear.

“Yes!” you say, with more force than necessary.

“Ya should have checked the weather report,” Kita says plainly. He has a clear plastic umbrella in his right hand.

“I shoulda…” you say morosely. Eiji’s earlier comments are still swirling around your head, and you let out a long sigh. Are you hurting Kita, somehow? At least the rain is as miserable as your mood.

You expect more admonishments or another remark about your lack of preparation, but Kita only unfurls his umbrella and says, “We can share.”

The umbrella is small enough that your shoulders are pressed side by side, and you can feel, distinctly, the heat from his body. Kita doesn’t run hot, and he’s always at a consistent, mild temperature. His hands are always cold, though, and you like to rub his fingers with your own until they warm up. You’re hyper-aware of his body now, and how much of it you know. Stupid Eiji.

“What did that guy want from ya?” Kita asks.

“Just confessin’,” you grumble. “But I wasn’t interested. I don’t know why people are so caught up in romance. Doesn’t make any sense. Relationships? Dating? Marriage? ‘S all ridiculous.”

“I see,” Kita says simply. “Did he say something to ya?” 

“Just…” You let out another sigh. “I don’t know, Shin-kun. Am I hurting ya? Do ya feel like I’m leading you on? If I’m hurtin’ ya, you gotta let me know.”

“Yer not hurting me,” he says. “Yer my oldest and closest friend, and you’ve never done anything wrong. Ya don’t gotta listen to people like that; they don’t think before they speak, or consider how their words affect others. They just say what they want, so what they say doesn’t matter one bit as long as you know what you believe in and what’s true ta you.”

“Aw, Shin-kun!” You fight the urge to fling your arms around his neck, and settle for slapping his back empathetically as Kita lets out a quiet little “oomph” with each strike. “Yer right!”

Eiji’s comments don’t matter, you decide. Your relationship with Kita is no one’s business other than your own, and people can think whatever they want. It doesn’t really matter if you aren’t sure of the exact nature of your own emotions; you like Kita, no matter what it means, and that’s all that matters. 

(Kita has heard what other people whisper in the hallways. You’ve never asked him how he views your relationship, but that’s all right. You don’t need to. What he feels is something he has nurtured for years. Step by step. Day by day. Ritual by ritual).

—

It’s the last volleyball match of your middle school careers. Kita has never played a game, never been on the starting line-up, but still people flock to him for advice or for his analysis on the other team’s plays. He’s often sitting with you on the bench, watching, quietly exchanging notes with you.

He’s your assistant, you like to joke, though you think you feel more annoyed than Kita over the fact he’s never been chosen. Even though he practices more consistently than anyone else. Even though everyone relies on him. He’s not flashy, sure, but he’s steady, and that’s more important than anything in a game where even the best-laid strategy can go awry.

“Are you Kita Shinsuke?” 

You spin around, and through the half-open gym doors, you see a man dressed in a track suit, with glasses and a keen smile. He’s not immediately recognizable as one of the other middle school coaches. But he still speaks with a surety that makes you wrack your brains, regardless, trying to place him. It’d be awful to have met him and forgotten his name.

Kita looks up from his clipboard, gaze tranquil and steady. “Yes.”

“Have you thought about what high school you’d like to attend? What volleyball programs are you interested in?”

(Someone is always watching. Someone will notice).

And that’s how you and Kita end up at Inarizaki, a bus ride and fifteen minute walk away from your neighborhood.

—

You say goodbye to middle school in a deluge of tearful farewells and congratulatory wishes to classmates who’re attending different high schools. You’re encircled by admirers, take so many pictures your mouth starts hurting from how often you’ve had to smile. You’re given flowers, last-minute confessions, invitations to lunch and dinner and dates you have to refuse. 

You’re just not interested, you explain. You don’t have the time for such things, but you appreciate their feelings regardless.

Jun and Shiori are attending a different high school, so you’re sure to squeeze them extra hard during graduation, handing them flowers from your own bouquets, yellow roses with stems stripped of thorns.

“Let’s still hang out,” you say. “We’re always going ta be friends! Don’t be afraid to say hi!”

“I’ll miss ya,” Shiori says sincerely. “I’ll stop by when I can, I promise!”

“Don’t forget to invite me to yer wedding in the future,” Jun adds.

“Wedding? We’re too young ta get married! I’m not even thinking about that right now,” you say. “Jun-kun yer so weird.”

He only shrugs. Really, what an odd thing to say, though it does give you a disconcerting feeling that you’ve forgotten something, some hazy, half-remembered flashback to flower crowns and a distant spring day. But it can’t be too important or you’d have remembered, so you tackle Jun and Shiori in another hug instead.

Your favorite picture from graduation, though, is the one you take with Kita, an electric smile on your face, your arm looped around his, your bodies leaning towards each other like flowers sheltering in a storm. When you line it up with your elementary school graduation picture, it feels like a perfect set, a history of your life so far with Kita.

Outside of your new uniform, high school proceeds much the same as middle school did. You and Kita have a routine, the precious rituals you’ve built over a lifetime of knowing each other, and those aren’t things that collapse so easily.

In the morning, Kita shows up at your door, albeit a little earlier than he did in middle school, smoothing down your rumpled tie without too much complaint. Kita always gives you the seat on the bus, standing in front of you, your knees knocking together when the bus lurches around a corner. He always asks if you’ve eaten, and if you’ve run out the door without any food, he pulls out packaged bread that you much on.

You share your first year class together, which means you only need to drag your chair to Kita’s desk and place your bento in your lap to see him. You flick crumpled-up notes at him, but he only reads them, smoothes them out, and places them within his notebook, sending you no reply in return. You chatter about your day at every opportunity, about the difficulties you face in lessons or the petty squabble between new friends that you’ve made. 

In the afternoon, you and Kita head to the gym after school. You’ve applied to be manager of the Inarizaki volleyball team, though it seems plenty of other students in your grade have the same idea. You hear it’s a popular one to apply for but near impossible to get the position, if only because so many people want to join just to get close to the boys on the team. Which is ridiculous, because the boys on the team are just like the boys anywhere else: a little sweaty, a little rude, and wholly ordinary.

Kita might be the exception to that, but that’s because he’s Kita. Even when he sweats, he smells nice, and he’s always polite, and he’s the most wonderful person ever. It’d be hard for any other boy to beat that, really.

Suffice to say, you manage to beat out the other candidates and snag the spot. Much like in middle school, Kita is on the bench, not having made the starting lineup again, and you’re lugging around water bottles and tracking scores in practice games.

After school, you and Kita head home together, side by side. You match his slow, steady pace, and sometimes if the weather is nice, you’ll take a longer route home, just to see the scenery. Kita walks you to your door, and you wait in the doorway to see him enter his own before you wave goodbye for a final time. 

The one thing that’s different about high school, though, is the confessions. Not to you, though you still get your fair share of them and have managed to tune them out as mild irritations in your day, but to Kita.

The first is a girl from the class across from you, clutching at the edges of her skirt during lunch. She went to your middle school, you think, but you were always in different classes and didn’t share any friends. 

“Kita-san,” she says shyly, in a tone so full of longing it makes you want to take Kita’s hand and pull him away in the other direction, “Can I talk to you in private?”

Your classmates snicker around you as Kita calmly stands and says, “Okay.”

You stare out the window, unable to relax, bouncing your leg so nervously that the entire desk shakes. More and more catastrophic scenarios arise in your mind—of Kita accepting her confession, of distancing himself from you, of deciding to move away to another country with this girl—before Kita comes back and says, simply, “She asked me out and I turned her down.” 

Then there’s a second-year, two weeks later, who even brought food with him as if a love confession was a bribe. And then someone from your own class, who Kita shared his notes with, shouting so loud you’re pretty sure the kids from the class next door overheard. The confessions pile up, little by little, irritating and spaced far apart enough that each new one feels like a bucket of ice water thrown at your head, even though you’d hoped it wouldn’t happen again.

Because of course people would like Kita. He’s wonderful, and kind, and smart, and the best person in the entire world. But no one has ever confessed to him before, or shown much interest in him, romantic interest, until high school. 

The thought of Kita, your best friend, spending more time with someone else or just liking someone more than you makes you feel sour. Sure, you don’t like the idea of him with a partner, but you also can’t stand the idea that your relationship will deteriorate because he chooses to prioritize someone else in his life. He’s always been by your side, and you’ve always been by his. That’s not a position you ever want to relinquish.

The last straw is a pretty third year who corners Kita after practice and clean-up, leaving you behind to wait near the gym doors, glowering at the rocks near your shoes, as if they’re the world’s worst criminals.

“Let’s go home,” Kita says, when he returns. The third year is noticeably absent from his side, and he looks as unruffled as ever.

“What did she want?” you say, not moving, twisting your hands together.

“She wanted to say that she likes me. And wanted ta know if I was free to go to a cafe with her this week.”

“Oh. What did ya say?”

“I told her no,” he says plainly. “Volleyball practice takes up most of my time after school.”

“She was pretty,” you grumble. “And real nice. You really said no?”

“I’m not interested in a relationship with her,” he says. 

“There’s been a lot of people who’ve been asking after ya these days, Shin-kun,” you press. “You really aren’t annoyed by it?”

“It’s not annoying because it’d be wrong of me to treat those peoples’ feelings carelessly. It takes courage ta tell someone you like them, and I want to respect that courage and their feelings, even if I don’t feel the same.”

Good old Kita, thoughtful as always. But you still feel petty, and small, and wrap your arms around yourself. How is it that he can look favorably upon these others, when all you do is feel rotten? He could stand to be less honorable, let them know that he isn’t available because—because what?

You shake your head, as if to clear yourself of your confusing thoughts. You try to pin a smile on your face, but it’s small, tight. “Okay. I get it. Let’s just go home, then. Before someone else tries to get ya.”

Kita doesn’t say anything for a while. He seems to be weighing his words in his mind, watching you with the same intensity he devotes to everything, and you hunch your shoulders, as if doing so will help you escape his scrutiny. Finally, he says, “Okkasan got some madeleines on sale last week. The kind ya like.”

“Ya can’t bribe me with cakes, Shin-kun! I’m not a kid anymore.”

“ Even if it’s yer favorite flavor?” he says. 

“That’s not…” you say, pressing your lips together. “Well…”

“Ya can have as much as ya want.”

“... Fine,” you grumble.

“Not too much, though. It’ll spoil yer dinner.”

“Shin-kun!”

You swear you see him smile then, a brief flash like the glint of sunlight on water, but his face relaxes, falling back into its usual neutral expression.

(Kita’s just glad you’re the same as you always are. He’s had a lot more practice than you, after all, to exercise patience in the face of unwanted confessions directed towards someone he likes, even if you look awfully cute when you’re jealous).

—

Inarizaki High, you’ve come to learn, is a real powerhouse for volleyball, a school that regularly makes appearances at nationals, so practices are more intense than in middle school. Inarizaki also has its own marching band that comes to games, and the money to buy all its members, starting lineup or not, the same brand of athletic sneakers. And so there’s a certain pressure that comes with being manager and having to oversee a gaggle of rowdy teenage boys and wrangle them into practice and drills. 

Everyone who makes it to the starting line-up, you’ve come to learn, is a bit of a personality. There’s Aran, who’s funny and reliable as their ace, and Omi, who reminds you of your grandmother, steady and stern. And, of course, there’s the upcoming batch of first years.

“Are ya and Kita-san dating?”

The question comes from one of your boldest newcomers, the starting setter, who has bleached blond hair and unrelenting cockiness in his own skills. The team is in the middle of serving drills, but he’s evidently taking a break from his current set, because he’s hounding you as you refill the water bottles, one by one.

“We’re not,” you say.

Atsumu curses under his breath. In the distance, you can see Osamu raise his eyebrows and Suna snicker. Is this a bet of some kind? But you’re used to these sorts of inquiries from middle school, the assumptions of everyone else.

You know what you and Kita are to each other. You’re best friends from childhood and… well, it’s better not to think about it too much.

“Did ya ever date him?” Atsumu presses. “Like in the past? Even just a little?”

“Hm? Not at all,” you say. “Shin-kun’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Manangerrrr,” Atsumu groans, “Yer killing me here. I got my lunch riding on this. Yer really not together? Then why’re ya always hanging off each other?”

“We don’t hang off of each other,” you protest.

“Ya do! And Kita-san always gets this soft look on his face when he’s with ya, like–”

“Atsumu. Did ya finish your serving drills?” Kita cuts in, hovering somewhere over your shoulder, voice cold and direct. He must have noticed Atsumu’s absence on the court.

Atsumu visibly straightens under the force of Kita’s stare. As someone who’s been subjected to that cold stare for a majority of your life, you can’t help but pity Atsumu, who’s not used to it at all. “Er… ya see, Kita-san, I was just—”

“If you’re not finished, then why are you here?”

And with that, Atsumu trudges off back to Suna and Osamu, who both seem to be holding back laughter at Atsumu’s expression. 

“Was he bothering ya?” Kita asks. 

“Not really,” you say. “But I think the first years were bettin’ on whenever we’re together. Isn’t it a little silly? I don’t know why everyone assumes that.”

Kita gives a soft hum of acknowledgment, tucking a stray curl of hair behind your ear. “There’s no reason ta mind them. They should be focusin’ on practice, anyways.”

“Right, right,” you say. “Oh, Shin-kun. I just refilled the water bottles.” You pluck one off of the bench and hand it to him. “Have some. You’ve been running around so much, and ya gotta make sure yer staying hydrated!”

(There are few team dynamics that Suna and the others are quick to pick up on. For example, you’re popular on the team for your cheer and energy, but Kita is known for his cold perfectionism. No flaws, always diligent, never a single hair out of place.

Sometimes, it makes them all just a little curious to see where he trips up, because surely, someone like Kita must have one weakness, right? Whether it’s a silly habit, a dislike, or another  person.

“I really thought they were datin’,” Atsumu groans. 

“Too bad,” Osamu says unrepentantly. “Ya owe me yer lunch for that. I told you they weren’t.”

“Makes no sense! Didja see how he looks at them? And how they always dote on him?”

“That’s ya get for assumin’, ya scrub.”

“Yer the scrub!”

As the twins dissolve into another spate of bickering, Suna flicks a glance at you and Kita, the way he leans close to you, intent on catching every word, because he never gives you anything less than his full attention, no matter the circumstance. 

When Kita glares at the three of them, though, the first years all jump and scramble to their feet, guiltily slinking towards the court to practice their next round of serves. 

Troublesome. Just because Suna can pinpoint his weakness, doesn’t mean he can do anything with it).

—

It’s not until your third year that Kita is made captain, and he steps onto court for the first time, when Inarizaki down six points in a set during an Interhigh game. He’s subbed in for Aran, who rests on the bench alongside you and the coach, towel around his neck, hands folded in his lap as he intently watches the game resume.

“Are ya feeling okay?” you ask Aran, handing him a water bottle. “That was an intense rally.”

“I thought my hands were going to fall off,” Aran says, groaning. “But it’s a nice break. Can’t believe Atsumu kept settin’ on first touch.”

“He just trusts ya to always get the ball,” you say. “And he wants to make up for the point gap real bad.”

“Maybe he trusts me too much,” Aran grumbles.

Though you’re fairly friendly to everyone on the team, especially the third years, Aran is one of the people you’re most close to. It helps that he’s also friends with Kita and you’re in his class this year, so you gravitate towards his desk to trade silly jokes and steal pieces of his bento. Even though he groans, he lets you get away with it, and you’re sure to give him something from your own bento in return.

“Go Shin-kun,” you whisper under your breath, pumping your fist as he crouches and digs the ball with one perfect, fluid motion. “Ya got this!”

“Thought you’d be cheerin’ louder than that,” Aran says.“Haven’t ya been wanting him to be on court since our first year here?”

“I don’t want to distract him,” you say. “It’s his first time in a real match! Well, not that Shin-kun would get distracted by something like cheering, anyways.”

“First time in a match?”

“Yeah. Surprised no one told ya yet,” you say, eyes glued to Kita’s figure. He’s steady, reliable, and already the other players on court are relaxing their bodies, their focus sharpening. He’s lecturing them, you imagine, pointing out all the ways in which they’ve been overcompensating or slacking. “Never made it to the court in middle school. I knew he would, eventually. Shin-kun’s good, even if he doesn’t think so because he’s not flashy. But being diligent and doing things so consistently every time is real hard, and so that’s its own skill.”

“You’re… really paying attention to him, huh?” Aran says.

“Because he’s Shin-kun,” you say. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re up again, Aran,” Coach Kurosu calls. “Take yer number. We’re gonna put ya back in after this rotation. Think the team’s back on its feet, and Kita’s about to rotate to the front row.”

“Good luck, Aran-kun. I want ya to score at least ten points in a row!” you say, holding out your hands as he slaps them in a double high five.

“Yer asking for too much,” he groans, picking up the plastic sign with the number four emblazoned on it, raising it as he stands. 

The whistle blows. Kita returns to you and the coach, covered in a light sheen of sweat, breathing harder than normal. Other than that, he looks calm, cool, as if this isn’t the first match in his high school career.

“How was it, Shin-kun?” you ask, handing him a water bottle. “Did ya have fun on court?”

“What I did on court was simply the product of all my practice,” he says. “No more, no less. But…”

“But?” you prod.

“I enjoyed it,” he says simply.

“Good! I told ya you would be out there one day! Next time yer out there, I hope you have even more fun, because we’re gonna go far! Take first place at nationals, even!” 

You raise your hands in the same gesture you just did for Aran, both hands splayed out for a high five. Kita observes the movement, sets down his water bottle, and quietly, carefully, slaps your hands in celebration.

—

Your dreams at nationals end after three sets during your first game there. You’re walking off the court, away from whatever promises you’ve made, a stage you can only see for this one final time. The echo of your shoes on the hardwood, the parade of volleyball players chasing the same desire, the dome so high and so impossibly large you have to squint to make out the ceiling.

Inarizaki High stays until the end of the day, when the sea of crowds trickle into a stream of stragglers and most stalls close, the window to buy souvenirs shrinking. You want to stay until the last possible second but then the entire team is packing their bags, and the Miya twins catch you while you check for the location of all the players. 

“Sorry, manager,” Atsumu whispers. He looks deflated, properly chagrined for once, none of the usual arrogance in his stance or words. “We were supposed ta show you the first place trophy.”

“It’s yer last year,” Osamu says simply. 

“Then make sure you make it next year,” you say, clapping both of them on the back so hard that they jump. “I’ll be watching ya, okay? So don’t disappoint me! I wanna see ya take Inarizaki as far as it can go, and then beyond!”

“I promise,” Osamu says. There’s none of his usual relaxed, lazy drawl now, just a fervent honesty.

“Make sure ya come watch!” Atsumu says.

The last six years of your life, spent chasing after volleyballs and planning scrimmages, tracking player stats and filling water bottles, is over. You’ll no longer have to dedicate your afternoons to a gymnasium. You’ve managed to find a replacement, a kind first year named Ichika, so the team will be in good hands.

In the lobby, you run into Aran, who’s watching one of the last games of the day on a television monitor mounted on the wall.

“‘S disappointing, but I’m still gonna do volleyball after this,” Aran says quietly. “I’m thinkin’ about going pro.”

“Then ya better not forget me when yer pro, Aran-kun. I want your autograph. Maybe I can sell it for a lot of money,” you cheer.

“Don’t try one of yer get rich quick schemes with me,” he says, but he still slaps your hands when you hold them out in a double high five.

“You were good on the court,” you say. “So I know you can make it. It was a good game. A real good game, the most excitin’ one I’ve ever seen so far, and ya had a lot of good spikes.”

“Did ya have to say that now?” Aran says groaning, turning away, and you pretend not to notice as he scrubs at his eyes.

On the bus ride home the next morning, you and Kita sit at the front two seats. The bus ride home is quiet; everyone must be exhausted, because when you look back, all you can see are closed eyes and slumped bodies. Atsumu has an arm flung over Osamu, whose eyebrows are drawn in irritation. Suna huddles in a corner by himself. Gin’s mouth is wide open while Omi’s arms are crossed as he leans back next to him. Akagi is smushed against a window, and Aran’s head jostles with every turn of the bus.

But Kita is wide awake, watching the scenery flash past outside. Your hands rest lightly next to each other on the bus seat, just a centimeter of distance. It’s a strange thing to be aware of, but all you can think about is how his fingers must be cold, and you have to resist the urge to pick them up and rub them, curling up all your desire to touch him into your clenched fists.

“Yer not going to keep up with volleyball, right, Shin-kun?” you whisper. “This is yer last season.”

“That’s right,” he says. “But yer not either, are ya?”

“It was a good six years. But there are other things I want ta do. I’m gonna miss this, though.”

“I’m never gonna forget it. I wanted to stay on court a little longer,” he murmurs, voice dropping low as if his words are for your ears alone even though everyone else is asleep, “And show off the team, and everyone’s hard work.”

“I wanted everyone ta place first. Show all of Japan who we are,” you groan. “‘Cause everyone was good enough to make it! We got out too soon. But the other team was way too good too. Can’t believe we never heard of ‘em before this year.”

“But even if we can’t make it to first place, it wasn’t a bad experience. Built a lot of memories, and a lot of muscle,” Kita says. “I know the team always says we don’t need memories, but all our past actions make up who we are now. The me in the past that practiced and ate well and studied hard and got the me of today where I am now.”

You turn over his words. It’s true, after all. Everything you’ve built becomes a foundation for who you are now, and everything you want to build in the future.

“That’s just like ya to say! But ya know, I kinda like our motto. We don’t need ta worry about the past and the things we can’t change. We can only focus on now, and what we’re gonna do in the future. Because who knows what’s gonna happen tomorrow. ‘S exciting,” you say. “And Shin-kun?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you for all yer hard work all these years,” you say sincerely. “I’m glad ya got to stand on court one more time, and that all of Japan could see just how awesome ya are! I wanted to show off and yell, ‘see? Isn’t my childhood friend the coolest?’”

Kita blinks, once, twice, and you wonder if you’ve caught him off-guard for once because he looks like a startled fox, fur bristling. There’s a faint pink tinge to his cheeks, but he only says, “But we wouldn’t get half as far without ya as support. If I looked cool, it’s only because ya and the others worked so hard to get us where we were. ‘S not just my effort alone. Ya were the one doing research and preparin’ all the supplies, so thank you for all of your hard work as manager.” 

“Aw, Shin-kun,” you say, and this time, your hand reaches across the divide, forefinger loping around his own. Just this much should be okay, shouldn’t it? Kita has always had cool skin, but today, it burns with an intense heat that seeps into your skin. Or are you mistaking your own body heat for his? But isn’t it all the same warmth at the end of the day, because you’re always by his side? “I know all that! Ya should take the compliment. Ya don’t gotta find a reason for everything all the time.”

Kita laughs softly, a sound as gentle as the swirl of snow across a courtyard. “‘S habit. It’s important ta think through everything, and do it carefully and slowly. Especially for the important things. Ya don’t want to rush through those, even if no one notices.” His finger squeezes around yours. “I’m looking forward to seein’ what tomorrow looks like, after all that hard work.”

“Tomorrow will be good,” you say confidently, “‘Cause we built the foundation for it today. And ya don’t need to worry, Shin-kun. Even if yer watching everyone else, I’ll be watching ya, and I’ll see all the effort you put in.”

“I know ya will,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness, how it colors all of his words, the way it always has.

—

March arrives in a froth of cherry blossoms and pink petals that get caught in your hair, long-winded speeches during the graduation ceremony as you bounce in your seat, your juniors crowding around you with a bouquet of flowers they pooled their allowances together to buy. The flowers are vibrant reds and pinks and yellows, as vivid as the team you’re leaving behind.

“We’re going to miss you, manager,” Atsumu says. His eyes are rimmed in red.

“He cried thinkin’ about you and the other third years leavin’,” Osamu says bluntly. “Like a baby.”

“And Samu couldn’t even sleep ‘cause today was the last day he could see ya all,” Atsumu responds nastily. “Made him all worried.”

“I’ll send you the photos later,” Suna whispers, discreetly aiming his phone at the bickering twins, who look like they’re one step away from escalating it into a physical altercation.

“Thanks, Suna-kun,” you whisper in return, shifting the flowers to rest in the crook of one arm. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t slack too much.”

Suna hums noncommittally, eyes sliding away from you, but Ginjima pats his chest, standing straight.

“I’ll watch out for Suna,” he says, voice already strained with restrained tears. “Don’t worry, manager! I’ll work hard, so ya won’t have anything to worry about.”

“Thank you, Gin-kun,” you say. “But watch out for yourself, too!”

With graduation comes a last minute wave of tearful confessions, of promises to stay together, and a request for buttons. You navigate skillfully around an obstacle course of classmates clamboring for your second button or any buttons at all, turn down a wave of confessions, and skirt around anyone who seems like they’re eying you.

Is Kita getting the same influx of confessions? You really hope not. It takes you a few seconds to spot Kita hanging back from the mingling crowds, at a careful distance. For a moment, all you can do is stare. He looks pretty framed against the trees, like an ephemeral spirit watching over humanity, forever separated. But unlike a spirit, you don’t want him to fade away to a place where you can’t be with him.

“Shin-kun!” you say, running up to him. You flick a quick glance at his jacket; all his buttons are still there. “There you are!”

Kita reaches a hand to your head, brushing away a shower of petals that must have settled into your hair in your journey to find him. “Did ya talk to the second years? They were lookin’ for ya.”

“Just finished!” you announce, waving your flowers in front of him like a baton. “They gave me these. Aren’t they pretty?”

“They really like ya,” he says. 

“Well, they like you a lot too! Are ya gonna give me something, Shin-kun? Since it’s our high school graduation?” you joke.

Kita regards you for a long moment. Then, his nimble fingers reach towards his uniform blazer, tugging out the second button, before he holds it out to you, button lying flat on his palm. “This is for you.”

“Shin-kun?” you say. Kita, who has never looked anything less than perfect, who keeps spare buttons in his bag in case he loses one and has to sew it back on, who never does anything unnecessary, is handing you a button. His second button, the one he ripped out of his jacket.

“It’s customary to do something like this,” he says. “Ain’t it?”

“It is, but ya know, giving the button… it’s like…” 

“You don’t want it?”

You quickly snatch the button from his hands, your fingers grazing against his palm, and it feels like even that momentary touch has burned you, like you’re marked by him in a way no one else can ever do. “I didn’t say that! I’m glad ya didn’t give it to anyone else, but…”

“Ya didn’t give yers to anyone else, either,” he says quietly. “That’s good.”

“I didn’t want ta,” you stammer. It’s Kita. Kita, your best friend and childhood friend. The one you hold near and dear to your heart, who’s always gone along with your whims. But right now, it feels like he’s one leading you along.

You like him. Of course you like him. But the shape of his feelings are different from what you expected, or thought they would ever be. And what are your feelings? How do you feel about Kita? Kita, who you adore, who you like, who is the most important person in the world to you?

“So there’s no one ya want to give it to?” Kita asks.

You open your mouth, and you don’t know what you’re going to say, because Kita looks so serious, and he’s always serious, but today, he has an intensity that he only gets when he’s focused, when he really cares about what he’s doing, and you’ve never felt more flustered to be on the receiving end of such a penetrating stare—

“Kita! Manager!” Akagi calls, waving his arms. “There ya are!”

Startled, you whirl around, waving back to Akagi, who’s running towards you, and Omi and Aran, who stand a little ways back. 

“Let’s go, Shin-kun. The others are calling for us!” You scurry off, your entire body fever-hot. For now, at least, you’ve been granted another reprieve from having to think about your feelings.

(“I told him not to interrupt ‘em,” Aran says, groaning, watching as you high five Akagi, Kita trailing just a bit behind. “Did ya see how Kita looked?”

“He looked fine to me,” Omi replies. 

“Are ya kidding?” Aran says. Once again, he has to wonder if he’s the only sane one on the team, a thought he’s had many, many times before.

It’s obvious that Kita cares about you in a different way than he does for the others, a special regard that you yourself seem oblivious to, whether that’s purposeful or not.

Kita is perfectly polite, kind, and meticulous, the sort of boy that parents absolutely adore. Aran would struggle to come up with a single bad word to say about him, not that he wants to. They’re friends. They’ve spent three years together. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something that most people wouldn’t pick up on.

It’s just…

“Foxes mate for life,” he mutters, the fact springing into mind unbidden, from a nature documentary or class, he isn’t sure.

“Did ya say something, Aran?” Omi asks.

“‘S nothing. Let’s join them.”

It’s just a little possessive).

—

You squint up at the house in front of you, shading your eyes with your hand. It’s been a few years since you’ve visited Kita Yumie’s home, but it looks just as it did in your childhood: clean, small, well-maintained, curtains pulled back and windows open to let in a breeze, with a porch that you just want to sit on with a pot of tea.

The spring air is warm, inviting, as if winter had never shown its face and it’s always been such pleasant weather. Your suitcase rattles behind you as you pull it along the dirt road and up the house steps, knocking on the door.

It’s been a year since you’ve graduated college, and five years since you left high school. In the time since, you’ve landed a job at a wedding planning company, and you haven’t had time to rest. There’s always a last minute disaster to handle, an argument between the couple, or a mistake in booking. And just when you’re done smoothing out one problem, there’s always two more to handle, and a new wave of clients at your door.

But you’ve always wanted to work in hospitality, to connect with others, and the look of joy on your clients’ face when the wedding comes together gives you a satisfaction like nothing else. There’s something about connecting people, of watching people who want to spend their lives by each other’s side, that makes you feel as giddy as if you’re the one getting married.

You keep in touch with your classmates and the volleyball team members you once coached, though it’s still hard to wrap your head around the fact you know three professional volleyball players now. Osamu has a habit of giving you free onigiri whenever you stop by his shop, and Shiori and Jun still text you sporadically with updates on their lives.

But it’s Kita who you make an effort to call and text everyday. Even if you don’t live next to each other anymore, hearing from him is always a part of your daily ritual. He’s your best friend, and the two of you have only seen each other in person at family get-togethers during the holidays, or when you try to take a day off to see him on his birthday. It’s a little lonely to know he’s no longer just a few doors down, that if you looked out the window, you wouldn’t see him walking by.

Neither of you talk about high school graduation. You don’t bring it up, and neither does Kita, and your relationship is virtually unchanged. Even though you still keep his button, turning it over in your hands when you try to think about what you want. Even though you know both you and Kita are waiting for something. Even though you’re no longer a child and it’s been five years, and you’re just taking advantage of his kindness, because he always, always spoils you.

But there’s never been a good time to broach the subject, not with classes and now work, and you wonder if it’s too late now. If you imagined the whole thing, if you were wrong, if this is finally the one line you’ve crossed.

“Yer here,” Kita says, opening the door. “And yer early.”

“Hi, Shin-kun! I’m back!” you say, smiling. “The plane landed at the airport ahead of the scheduled time. Thanks for lettin’ me stay for the weekend.”

Kita is taller now, hair kept a little shorter than he did in high school. He’s dressed in a plain blue jumpsuit, muddy gloves tucked in his pocket. But he still has the easy, silent grace he always has had, the same intense stare and efficiency and purpose to his actions with no wasted movement. And he’s still Kita, dear Kita, and you know every inch of him, from past to present.

“Obaasan likes ya, so it’s no problem,” he says, picking up your suitcase before you can protest. “She started preppin’ your room as soon as I told her ya were visiting for a while. She’s out visitin’ friends now, though.”

“How’s the farm doing? Want me ta help out?”

“Farm’s doing great, so you should only help if ya want to. I know yer here on break.”

“It’s not a problem!” you say, flexing your arm. “I still keep pretty fit. And I’d feel bad if I didn’t help out at all, ya know!”

When you come downstairs after arranging your luggage in your room (Kita is right. Yumie still has your pair of faded yellow slippers set out, and she fluffed up the futon and set up a vase of pink flowers to brighten up the room), Kita is waiting for you downstairs. He pulls you into his arms for a hug as soon as your feet touch the floor, and you try not to squeak in surprise at the gesture, at the strength hidden in his arms.

“I missed ya,” he says. There’s a confidence to his movements, an openness that he didn’t have before. It would have been unimaginable as children, the idea of Kita hugging you first, as if you belong nowhere else but his arms.

You wrap your arms around him, his body as familiar to you as your own, sinking into his touch. “I missed you, too.”

And then he pulls away, leaving you with only the tingling memory of his warmth all over your body.

“Yer not too tired?” he asks. “Was yer flight long? Did ya eat?”

“I slept on the train,” you say, ticking off on your fingers each question that you answer, “The flight wasn’t too long, and I packed lunch that I ate on the way over. If I didn’t, ya would’ve lectured me again, wouldn’t you?”

“Yer an adult, with a difficult job,” he says simply. “I wantcha to take care of yourself. Ya used to walk out the door in the mornings without making sure ta eat properly.”

“You’re always like this, Shin-kun. But I promise I won’t give ya a reason to worry anymore. I’m not a kid, so I know how to be careful now,” you say playfully. “Why don’t ya show me around?”

The rice paddies sprawl for what feels like miles with pools that reflect the blue sky and billowing clouds, as if shards of the sky have fallen to the earth. New, tender green shoots shyly peek their heads out, the start of the growing season. You walk on the outskirts of the fields, the same fields you once visited as a child during vacation.

Even if it feels the same, the plants and the gentle hands working the land are different. Each meter of land and each budding stalk is a testament to Kita’s diligence, to the dedication and care he puts into each and every single action he takes everyday.

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “A lot nicer to look at than my cubicle, that’s for sure.”

“Do ya have any weddings coming up?”

“Yup! I have a lot of clients who’ve booked me for May next month. That’s when the wedding season gets busiest, so I figured I might as well take advantage of our slow months to come see ya. It’s been ages, Shin-kun.”

“Have ya thought about your own wedding?”

“Me?” you say, startled. “It’s not something that’s really on my mind. I mean, there’s so much work that goes into it. And can ya imagine me gettin’ married? It’s a little silly. I’m the wedding planner, not the person who throws a wedding.”

“I can,” Kita says quietly. “And ya used to want ta, didn’t ya? When we were little. Did that change?”

“Shin-kun,” you say. The two of you have stopped walking, and a spring breeze stirs your hair.  “What do you mean? Did I say something like that?”

He takes a step closer to you. And wonderful Kita Shinsuke, your childhood friend, your best friend, the person you’ve always loved most in the entire world, pulls out a bundle of daisies from his pocket, green stem tied with a white ribbon, holding them out to you like a wedding ring.

“I want to marry ya,” he says plainly. “I’ve been waitin’ my whole life, ever since ya asked me when we were little. We couldn’t then, but we can now. I wanted ta make sure my finances were all right, and didn’t want to rush ya while you were still in school and settling into your job.”

“But–When did—How!” you say, words a jumbled mess. Your face is hot, hotter the sun, and you’re dizzy from the sheer intensity of Kita’s open, genuine affection. You take the flowers from him with trembling hands. They’re simple flowers, but you remember now, your childish eight-year-old self’s declaration, Kita’s response, an ordinary spring day. It was just a silly, impulsive choice, born out of the intensity of your affection for Kita, but Kita remembers, because of course he does. Because he’s always looking at you, as much as you’ve been looking at him.

“Did ya forget?” Kita says quietly, bringing your hand to his mouth, his lips ghosting across your fingertips, the promise of a kiss. He lowers your hand, but doesn’t let go, your fingers hooked over the edge of his palm. You can’t shake him off, you could never even think about it, because it’s Kita, Shin-kun, the most wonderful person in the entire world. “But I didn’t forget all this time, ever since you asked me. Even if you didn’t mean it, I did. I wanted to take my time, court you properly, ‘cause that’s just the right thing to do.”

“Shin-kun, ya said you didn’t want to marry me,” you protest, but your voice is weak even to your own ears. “I remembered that you rejected me!”

“I said we can’t, not that I didn’t want to marry you. I meant that we should wait until we were old enough to. Kids can’t get married, but adults can.”

“You weren’t very clear on that! How was I supposed to know what ya met?”

“That’s why I’m telling ya now. Marry me,” Kita whispers. “I’ve been waiting for you all my life. I can wait as long as you want me to, but I’m not as strong as ya think. I’m a greedy man when it comes to you.”

“Shin-kun, yer not being fair,” you whisper. “We haven’t even dated.”

“We don’t have ta get married right now. We can date first, get engaged. Take the time to plan everything, do it in the proper way. I love you,” he says. “I’ve loved ya ever since we were kids. If ya don’t feel the same, then you can tell me right now, and I’ll still be yer best friend. That won’t change. I’ll always love you, even if ya don’t love me in the same way.”

He’s impossible. He’s impossible, and this isn’t real, it can’t be. You bring the bundle of flowers to your face, the smooth edge of a waxen petal pressed against your lips. 

You can’t hide it anymore, even if you wanted to. You can’t lie to yourself, can’t pretend that your feelings are anything other than what they are. You have to stop running, because Kita is waiting for you, right here, right now, and he’s not going to leave. 

“I love you,” you say, voice choking. “Shin-kun, I love you. What are ya saying? You really think I wouldn’t feel the same way? I’ve loved ya since before I knew what love even was. Yer the most wonderful person in the world. I’d choose ya, again and again. I want to marry you, Kita Shinsuke, even if we gotta wait another ten years.”

The flowers fall from your lips as Kita cups your face, cradling you as tenderly as he’s always treated you, because he’s always going along with all your whims while never straying from your side. His lips are on yours, soft, sweet, and he kisses you. Again, and again, and again, an endless shower of kisses that rain on you, as if he’s making up for the years in which he couldn’t. And you accept his kisses greedily, parched earth finally watered, because Kita Shinsuke is the most wonderful man in the world, your best friend from childhood, and the person you love more than anyone else.

(“Yer really not going ta ask them out? I thought ya liked them. Yer young, Shinsuke. Ya gotta be bold,” Obaasan asks. She’s washing vegetables over the kitchen sink, shirt sleeves rolled up, as he chops radish on the cutting board, an efficient system for dinner that they’ve worked out ever since he moved in.

Ever since high school, she’s been slyly dropping hints about marriage, eyes drifting towards you meaningfully or inquiring about how your relationship has been going. But it’s Obaasan, so Kita dutifully entertains her questions every time even though he can see her ulterior motives, plain as day.

“I’m courtin’ them,” Kita says plainly, “In the way that works best for us. Datin’ would only make it more complicated, and I don’t think they want any of that yet, not with their job. ‘S no good to rush things. Ya taught me that.”

“Do they know that? What if someone snatches them up? They’re so cute, and they’re young and alone in a big city. Since they’re visitin’ tomorrow, ya gotta take the chance to say something, ya hear me? I want ta see the two of you at the altar soon.”

He thinks about the daisies he’s grown and picked that are now waiting patiently for your hands, the photographs from your childhood together carefully framed on his dresser, the years he’s spent by your side, nursing his feelings day by day, ritual by ritual.

“I’m not worried,” Kita says. “Because we’re important ta each other. Even if they didn’t love me like I loved them and married someone else, that wouldn’t change.”

Obaasan chuckles. “Ya know, the two of you really think alike. ‘S like yer meant to be. When you were babies, they used ta reach for ya on the playmat and chew on ya, but ya wouldn’t let go once they did. Clung to them like ya were afraid of them disappearing, like they belonged right by your side.”

“Obaasan?”

“‘S nothing. As long as the two of you find yer way to each other, it doesn’t matter how bumpy the road is. All that matters is that day by day, moment by moment, yer building yer life and relationship together. And as long as the two of you reach each other in the end, you’ll be okay.”)

There’s no time for Ruggie to do anything but to let himself be swept along in the familiar rhythm of work, his body running on years of experience: jotting orders down on his notepad, keeping track of the various customers and their moods, refilling drinks whenever they run low and the melting ice shines under the lamplight.

He darts among tables, balancing trays along his arms, keeping his step light as he cracks jokes and greets customers as they arrive. He’ll be here until closing, which means he’ll need to see the last customer off and wipe the tables, mop the floors, and check the inventory.

If he’s lucky, there’ll be extra tips to line his pockets as he jogs home. If not, then he’ll make do, as he’s always done, and at least he’ll have his paycheck and some leftovers from the kitchen.

Ruggie likes the familiarity of restaurant work even if others call it grueling. There’s a certain honesty to manual labor he can’t find anywhere else: the amount of work he puts in with his body correlates to the result he’ll get back. He likes the chatter with customers, the surety of his goals, and how much relies on his ability to observe and think fast on his feet.

“My, you’re working hard, Ruggie,” Jade calls as he glides by, a tray of sparkling drinks in hand.

“‘s nothing! Gotta keep everything running, right?” Ruggie shoots back, swiping a spray of hair that falls in his face. Jade is the sort of person he has difficulty in trusting. Ruggie has met his fair share of con artists, and that poised smile and polite tone hide more than Jade lets most people know.

“Have you considered becoming a permanent member of our staff?”

“Not unless you’re gonna give me the right compensation!”

He picks up several stacks of empty trays, sprays down the table, and wipes. Then it’s time to usher in a new set of customers and head into the kitchen, where the heat of the roaring stoves and bubbling fryers feels like a miniature summer as the chefs rush about, piles of orders taped overhead.

Ruggie dumps the plates into the foaming sink, but before he can turn, something grabs him by the scruff of his neck and he’s yanked around until he comes face to face with Floyd.

“Remora,” Floyd drawls, apron tied lopsidedly around his waist, paper chef hat threatening to topple over, “You look free. Try this for me.”

Before Ruggie can protest that he is, in fact, not free, Floyd shoves a plate into his hands. Seared scallops nestle in a bed of greens, a reduced red sauce drizzled over the entire thing in tasteful twists.

Well. There isn’t a point in turning down free food, especially the fancy kind he doesn’t normally get the opportunity to try, so Ruggie pops one into his mouth. It’s an explosion of delicious, salty flavor, with hints of sourness and sweetness to balance it all.

“It’s good,” Ruggie says, reaching for another.

“Hm,” Floyd says, a satisfied, toothy smile on his face.

“Is it a new menu item or something?”

“Nah. I was just bored,” Floyd says. “Shouldn’t you be on the floor right now? Azul’s gonna deduct your pay if you aren’t working hard, Remora.”

There’s no point in reminding Floyd that he’s the one who distracted Ruggie in the first place. Floyd’s moods are mercurial, and so it’s better to just take him in stride rather than risk his anger, or worse, boredom. He takes a breath and back into the Mostro Lounge he goes, submerging himself into yet another wave of customers. 

Ruggie pulls at the collar of his uniform, loosening his tie just enough to give himself enough space to breathe. Octavinelle’s uniform, which all the waiters don, is the sort of thing he doesn’t usually wear: formal, luxurious, tailored to a sleek black shine like ink on water. 

Ruggie has delivered another round of drinks and food orders, clearing tables all the while, when the flow of students has slowed to a steady trickle. The worst of the current rush is over until the next wave comes, and now all that’s left to do is keep an eye on the remaining customers, who linger to chat with their friends.

It’s enough time for him to take a quick ten minute break. He’s been on his feet for the better of the evening, and though he’s used to the strain, he knows better than to push himself too far. He heads towards the back of the restaurant, away from the haze of student noise, but there’s someone emerging from the opposite side.

When she sees him, she smiles. “Hey, hey,” Yu says, waving both hands. “How’s your shift been so far?”

“‘s the same as always,” he replies. “It’s not too bad now, though.”

She draws closer, her patent shoes clicking on the tile. During nights like these, he only has enough time to spare a brief moment for his fellow coworkers. He and Yu work on the opposite sides of the restaurant besides, which means their paths rarely cross unless through serendipity (Azul grumbled something about their wandering fingers and proclivity to mischief, and how it’s better to keep them apart. Ruggie is sure he has absolutely no idea what Azul means).

Yu’s hair is pulled into a complexity of braids pinned against the back of her head, her uniform as polished and neat as Azul expects from all his employees, with the same understated purple eyeliner everyone around them dons.

But her steps are bold, cheerful. She holds herself with a careless poise, and her dark eyes gleam when she beckons him closer.

Ruggie obliges, leaning down just as she reaches a hand up, brushing back the hair that falls in front of his forehead. She clips it to the side in one swift movement, her fingers brushing against his face.

“There,” she announces. “Your hair shouldn’t get in the way now.”

“What did ya use?”

“Some spare hair clips I have lying around. You can give it back to me at the end of the shift.”

The noise picks up in the distance, the crowd returning. Their shift isn’t over yet, and they both dive back onto the floor. When he picks up a silver serving tray, Ruggie glances down briefly to see his own reflection, a pink flower hairpin bright against his hair. He touches its glossy plastic, a momentary indulgence, before he returns to taking orders.

Ruggie sometimes wonders if he’ll be working his whole life to make ends meet. There’s an uncertainty to his future that he turns over and over in his mind, clay on a potter’s wheel that he tries to mold into a manageable shape. Even then, he knows better than most that there are no guarantees in life. 

The only guarantee is this, the solid ground of the Mostro Lounge beneath him, and the feel of papery soft thaumarks in his hands. He’ll make his way in life, regardless of what happens. There has never been any path for him but forward, and he has never had anything but his own hands and feet to carry him.

During closing shifts, when the last customer has dragged themself home, there’s mopping to be done, the kitchen to be cleaned, the trash to be cleared. The lounge is empty for once, silent like a midnight sea. The faint scent of sea salt lingers in the air.

Azul steps on the floor, examining every movement with a critical eye, testing the cleanliness of each table and any bit of dust that might have gone unnoticed.

“Your pay for the day,” he says, slipping Ruggie an unmarked envelope. “Excellent work as usual. I’ll see you next week.”

Ruggie flips through the stack of bills with a practiced hand, quickly counting each one. Not a single thaumark out of place. Azul is contentious in his own way, though Ruggie would never trust him for more than he has to. “Ya got it, Azul.”

Another day done, another shift’s money earned. He makes a quick stop to change out of his uniform and then he’s ready to head back to his dorm, pass out for the night, and get up early for work the next day.

“Hey,” Yu says. She’s at the entrance of the restaurant, hands behind her back, leaning against the doorframe. She’s still in her uniform, though her tie has been loosened and loose wisps of her hair float around her face in a frizzy halo.

“Hey,” he returns. Ruggie brings his hand to his head, conscious of the clip he still has. It’s done a good job of keeping him from swiping his hair out of his face every few minutes. Yu holds out an outstretched hand. As he returns her hairclip, his fingers graze her palm, and he lets it linger longer than he needs to.

“Next time, let’s meet before our shifts,” Yu advises.

“Why?”

“So I can help you with your hair. I’m an expert, if you haven’t noticed,” she says with a dramatic wink.

He lets out a little laugh. “Yeah? You’re not offering this to me for free, right?”

“Of course not. If I help you, you should help me with mine,” she says. “It takes me way too long!”

Back then, in those first few days of your arrival at the Grove of Epiphany, you had little time for anything outside of survival. You had nothing save the clothes on your back and the torn edges of a few slim books you managed to save before the black tide swallowed your home and your family.

If you weren’t staying up late each night reading the books your father cherished, then you were disoriented by the swaying whispers of divine branches that woke you every morning, the eternal night that shadowed your window, the internal politics of a people entrenched deeply in academia. 

Still, you couldn’t escape Anaxa even then, infamy blooming with his every odd experiment and reckless movement. His name was always on the tips of everyone’s tongues, accompanied by admiration or reprobation. 

He was mad, people said. A heretic, using the intelligence Ceres blessed him with for all the wrong reasons. The sages should kick him out for the ideas he held, ones that seemed more intended to outrage than to produce any meaningful discourse.

“It’s better to stay out of his way,” one of your gossipy classmates advised you. You had decent enough relationships with your peers, but you primarily kept to yourself and took internal notes of the various topics that fascinated them. “He’s so rude, and he doesn’t care about anything but his experiments!”

“He’s very smart, though,” someone else chimed in. “If you can stomach the way he talks, you can ask him for his notes. Best ones I’ve ever seen.”

Anaxagoras, Anaxa, the Great Performer. What an odd man. You kept his name tucked away in the corner of your mind to turn over like a golden coin, spied his fluttering hair out of the corner of your eye, saw the sheen of black fabric covering his eye, and heard the echo of his brisk steps passing you in the halls. 

He was an oddity that sparked your interest, even if he never seemed to notice you. That was fair enough; you were only another pair of eyes in a crowd of them, and he must have grown used to the attention by the time you arrived.

Still, you had little time to worry over Anaxa outside of those stray moments when your paths collided, heretic or not. You had fled to the Grove of Epiphany for a particular reason, out of all the other city-states you could have taken refuge in.

You were here for the library, which housed the largest collection of stories Amphoreus had ever seen. Its wealth of knowledge would have fed a starving man for centuries, and you were a supplicant begging for even a morsel.

You were weaned on stories from your very first memories. Your father read you books from his private collection, and your mother spun stories from her own imagination or that she remembered from the words of others. Even your older brother took you out to see travelling storytellers or the nearby temple to hear about the myths of gods.

“Stories are the most beautiful things in the world,” your father told you. “They can house a world’s memories, a culture’s legacy.”

Stories were the only ways for things to survive, and it was how people could outlive their limited lifespans. After all, if you didn’t tell your family’s story to yourself, then you would have killed them twice. You poured over your memories, even when it was a story that could only end in the same way every time: your mother, pushing you out the backdoor and telling you to run as she gripped a rusty knife in hand. You father, handing you a few cherished books from his private collection, your only inheritance. Your older brother, biding you to hide with shaking hands as he ran out to distract the monsters.

People were finite. Stories were not

In a few more months at the Grove, you wormed your way into an assistant librarian position, content for now with the jobs of shelving books and organizing the catalogue, cocooned in your world of ink and paper, getting to touch the face of every new scroll or book that passed its way into the archives.

For all intended purposes, your life was going according to plan. You were surrounded by stories, and you were certain that after studying library sciences and dedicating all your time here, you could take the role of head librarian one day. Yet, why did it feel like you were still missing something?

That was when you first met Anaxa as he glided into the library with a relaxed arrogance that drew ire and admiration from all of your classmates, robes fluttering behind him.

“I need these books,” he told you curtly, without looking at your face. He slid a sheet of parchment across your desk, scrawled with the names of tedious-sounding titles. His handwriting, you were surprised to find, was an elegant, looping scrawl.

“Some of these books have restricted access,” you said, scanning the list. He was a man you had heard so much about, and yet, he was still just that: a man. Still, there was a gravitas to his bearing. This was someone who would truly do something remarkable in his lifetime. “You need permission from a professor or a librarian before you can check them out. Some of these books are quite controversial.”

“Controversial only because people were unwilling to acknowledge anything that didn’t reinforce their limited worldview,” Anaxa said. 

“Well, in a world ruled by the Titans, it’s controversial to posit that they could ever be similar to us.”

“The boundary between divinity and humanity is a false one,” he said. “But you can’t access these books?”

“It’s not within my authority,” you acknowledged. “These books are especially rare because their production was stopped early, or people burned so many copies we only have these few left. So they’re kept under tight supervision.”

Anaxa turned, his interest in you gone now that you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

Your heartbeat quickened at the loss of attention, of how easily this strange man was going to slip through your fingers. Maybe that was why you couldn’t stop yourself from saying, “But I could, technically, find a way. If you made it worth my time.”

Anaxa turned back around, finally looking you in the eyes, observing you in the same way he looked at a lab specimen on a dissecting table, keen gaze intent on flaying you open. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Nothing that would inconvenience you much, really. Something simple. You’re an alchemist, right? Consider it an act of equivalent exchange.” The idea spun itself into existence as you voiced it, an answer to your tedium you hadn’t realized you were considering until now. “I want to witness your story.”

“A story? You’re surrounded by books.”

“I’m curious,” you said, “about a story only you can tell me. They call you a heretic, you know. The things you’ve told me are things most people wouldn’t even dare voice. So I want to see where your path leads.”

Anaxa still watched you, as if the dissection he thought would be simple had suddenly unearthed a new complication. “If you’re going to bring up an equivalent exchange, what am I getting out of this? You’re the only one who benefits from such an arrangement.”

“I know this place better than anyone else. It’s easier to get your hands on something when you have someone on the inside, don’t you think? There’s a chance if you ask for permission from someone else, they’ll refuse your request.”

“And if someone catches and punishes you for misconduct? You would risk your position for a story?”

“Not just any story,” you corrected. “Your story. This is beneficial for both of us. Besides, you’re a performer, right? Don’t you want an audience who’s going to watch you attentively until the very end?”

“That’s a bold proposition, librarian,” he said. 

“Are you going to refuse?”

“No. I think it’s an interesting idea. I’ll agree to your terms.”

“It’ll be a pleasure to work with you,” you said. 

You held out your hand, and after a beat, Anaxa slid his into your grip. His hand was papery soft and cool, thin, elegant fingers wrapping around yours. They didn’t seem like the hands of a heretic.

“Now. My books?” Anaxa prompted, withdrawing his hand immediately. 

“I’ll get them for you.”

Basking in the afterglow of your unexpected meeting and his ready agreement, you relished in the chance to observe him up close. Anaxa was a bizarre character who challenged everything that was determined as an immutable fact, and he would change the Grove.

You would watch him until he didn’t find you useful, or you grew bored. Fate might spin its wheels, and tangle you helplessly in its threads as it wrenched you along, but this relationship, at least, was clear.

In a matter of weeks, you came to recognize Anaxa’s presence in the library by the sound of his light and decisive footsteps and the scent of ink, chemicals, and paper that trailed him wherever he went. He showed up at a similar time every day, and his appearance became so embedded in your routine you didn’t even have to raise your head to acknowledge his presence; he only announced himself by sliding a paper of all his various requested books across your desk. 

“I need these books,” he said.

You scanned the list. “This one hasn’t been mentioned in our records in several decades. I’d have to dig through our archives to find it.”

“Well? Is it too hard for you, then?” Anaxa raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. 

Asshole. You stood with a clatter of your chair. “Not at all.”

He was one of your most frequent patrons, and easily the most annoying. Every day it seemed he came with new demands and a list of obscure books that you had to dig through the shelves to find. As soon as you brought out his staggering collections of tomes, he perched on the edge of your desk, flipping through them and remarking on their contents.

It didn’t bother you too much as you were always flitting between shelving new returns, sorting through the catalogues, and helping students with their various requests. But no matter how long it took you to accomplish all of your tasks, Anaxa was always waiting when you came back, posture still neat and legs crossed, one over the other. Privately, you’d begun to think of him as the library’s resident cat in the way he lounged in places that most inconvenienced you.

“It took you twenty minutes to assist the student this time, librarian,” he said, without looking up from his book. “Perhaps you aren’t as familiar with the library’s layouts as you claim.”

“It’s still faster than you would be. There are centuries of books to sort through, and sometimes these students only have a general idea of what they want and not a specific title,” you replied. “Wouldn’t it be more comfortable for you to sit in my chair or find somewhere else to read?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anaxa said. “What do you think about the soul?”

“Immaterial, difficult to work with, and the basis of an overwhelming amount of philosophy books in the library.”

“And the gods?”

“I don’t care much for them, though I am familiar with all of their stories. They only matter to me insofar as they relate to the books housed here.”

Anaxa laughed. “Why, that sounds borderline blasphemous.”

You sighed, slouching back in your chair. Your desk was a curve of polished wood located near the center of the room, in perfect view of every student who wandered the library so they knew exactly where to go for help. Though with Anaxa’s presence, they only approached you when you wandered the stacks, or he was absent for the day.

There were already rumors springing up about your relationship and how much time the two of you spent together. You warded off your classmates’ inquiries with a practiced smile, as you were the more approachable of the two. Even if you wanted to answer them, there wasn’t one you could give. You barely knew what to call the two of you yourself.

Were you close to him? You wouldn’t say that. You hadn’t really let yourself grow close to anyone here on principle. What word described the two of you best? Friend felt too kind of a word. Lover was irrefutably wrong. Partner was at least somewhat correct, but lacked context. If nothing else, then the best explanation was that Anaxa was a planet and you were a moon, drawn into his orbit for no other reason than the natural rules of gravity. 

“I believe your only god is memory,” Anaxa said.

You didn’t spare him a glance as you idly picked at the supplies lining your desk, lining the stacks of papers and colorful pots of ink in neat formation. “Then your god is truth, though I’d like to say your god is also yourself.”

“Then we’re not so different.”

“Are you going to keep needling at me, or are you going to fulfill your end of the bargain?”

Anaxa tilted his head. With his hands braced on the edge of the desk, he leaned closer to you, an insufferable smile playing on his lips. “I already am, librarian. A story can only be defined in the retrospective, once it comes to an end. Right now, you’re in the process of witnessing mine, aren’t you?”

“I just hope for more from the person they call the great performer,” you said evenly. 

“And what are you hoping for, precisely?”

“A good story.”

Anaxa placed a hand on his chest in mock sincerity. “Then you won’t be disappointed. Have some patience! Good stories require proper build-up.”

He was an infuriating man, through and through. But he was an infuriating man you had decided to tie yourself to, and you would see where his road would lead him in the end.

In the next several years that passed, Anaxa devoted himself to the pursuit of higher knowledge, working as the assistant of professors and pursuing his doctorate, and you pulled yourself up one tedious position at a time until you were working full-time at the library, losing yourself in documentation and categorization. There were always new books being brought in that had to be labeled, sorted, and registered in the library’s catalogue, more stories for you to devour.

No one had a complaint about you as you cared for nothing but your stories, it seemed Anaxa always found a way to needle those in charge, and he never tired of their outrage and indignation. His dreams were lofty, his inspirations grander than anyone could understand. And through it all, you watched him, taking note of all his movements: how he slept little and mumbled to himself, scribbled alchemical equations on any available surface, and the way manic light suffused his eyes when he came to a supposed breakthrough.

Anaxa slid into the framework of your life without any preamble or fuss, as natural as the air you breathed or the blood in your veins. His presence by your side was natural, and you only paused to acknowledge him when someone brought him to your attention. Your strange little relationship eventually expanded beyond the confines of the library. Anaxa still visited you there, but now, the two of you were prone to meeting in courtyards or various classrooms, wherever it was convenient to steal a moment to converse.

Your classmates no longer commented on your relationship, though you did still get the odd stare here and there. The two of you existed in your own little bubble, uninterested in other people outside of what they could offer you.

“Is it true that the two of you are dating?” New students were prone to asking you that question, with all the boldness and innocence that youth commanded. This one was no different, and she watched you with curious eyes.

“I can’t date Anaxa because he’s already in a committed relationship with his research. I can’t ask him to cheat,” you replied dryly.

“I didn’t give you permission to call me Anaxa,” he sniped.

“That’s because I gave myself permission.”

However, the closeness you semi-enjoyed with Anaxa came with one major detriment: a lack of respect for your personal space. 

“Librarian, wake up.”

You grumbled, emerging from your fragmented sleep, the cobweb of dreams still clinging to your mind. With sunlight warming your face and a nest of blankets wrapped around your body, you were loath to wake. And yet you did to Anaxa staring unsmiling down at you, arms crossed.

You swore viciously, scrambling upright and drawing your blankets closer to yourself. You launched a pillow at him, which Anaxa promptly side-stepped.

“Good morning,” he said.

“How did you get in here?”

“You left your door unlocked.”

“And you didn’t knock?”

“You didn’t answer, and I needed your assistance. I’ll give you ten minutes to get ready.”

“Make it thirty! And get out of here!” You threw another pillow at his retreating back. 

It really was like you had become close to a cat. Without a care in the world, he flounced into your life and took your lack of rejection as an invitation to make himself comfortable. It was simply more effort to chase him away than to let him in.

After making yourself as presentable as you could, you were out the door five minutes earlier than expected. Anaxa waited just outside, and the two of you took off side by side at a leisurely pace.

“So? What do you want?” you prompted.

“I have an invitation from Okhema. One of the Chrysos Heirs came directly to speak with me.”

“And…?”

“They were extending me an invitation to become a Chrysos Heir and join them on their journey.”

It was impossible to exist anywhere in Amphoreus and not hear of the Chrysos Heirs. They always felt more like distant legends than anything tangible, but it was a story you had some vested interest in. “You? A Chrysos Heir? What did you say?”

“Of course, I rejected their offer,” he said. “I have no interest in the Flame-Chase Journey, or going to Okhema for some grand destiny laid out for me by the gods.”

“But once you’re chosen, even if you don’t go to Okhema and you reject their path, you’re a Chrysos Heir for good.”

“So what? Other people can call me whatever title they like, but it has no influence on who I am or what I intend to accomplish,” Anaxa said.

“And what is it that you intend to do?”

“I plan to start my own school of knowledge here, and then I will become one of the seven sages.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of your throat. “Arrogant as always, but I expect no less.”

The two of you had been winding through the various gardens and courtyards that interspersed the Grove. Soft light filtered playfully through the grove, branches and plants twining around marble patios and columns. It was beautiful, and this was the closest place you could call home.

“And you?” Anaxa said. “What do you plan to do?”

“Stay here and work in the library,” you said. “Someone has to manage it. You should know this.”

“And the Chrysos Heirs?”

“They only interest me insofar as they relate to you and whatever you plan to do,” you said. You skim a hand along one of the branches closest to you, an outshooting of the Sacred Tree, the manifestation of Ceres, the Titan of Reason. The wood is full of delicate whorls like the tight folds of a brain, emanating its own heat and humming under your touch.

“You have the capacity to be one yourself. The messenger they sent hinted as much. If you were interested, you could talk to them.”

You laughed again. “Well, I only have the capacity to be one, right? I wasn’t chosen, not like you, and that’s for good reason. I have no interest in being a saviour for other people.”

The two of you come to a stop in a secluded garden. Everywhere you gazed, you saw the soft, verdant green that announced Ceres’s continued presence and blessing. There must have been irony somewhere that Ceres accepted everyone in the pursuit of knowledge, even those who didn’t believe in them, or loathed them.

“You really don’t believe in the gods,” Anaxa mused.

“I don’t believe in anything but my stories,” you said. You couldn’t stop the bitterness that creeps into your voice. “If the gods were truly omnipotent and omnipresent, they would have stopped the black tide.”

A breeze rustled Anaxa’s hair. He watched you in silent contemplation. “You’re angry.”

“Isn’t everyone? I’ve lost my family, Anaxa. They sacrificed themselves so I could escape, but for what? There’s no safety. There’s not even a guaranteed future I can look forward to.”

“You doubt humanity’s ability to succeed, librarian, even after all the stories you’ve read.” There’s a rare note of intense emotion in Anaxa’s voice, like you’re a stubborn student in one of the classes he assisted in. “You should understand more than anyone else humanity’s potential. If the gods can fail, then that means they are no different from us, and we can succeed where they can’t.”

Despite what everyone thought of Anaxa, his mania and arrogance, what you couldn’t stand the most was his unrelenting faith in humanity’s future. It was a clear belief, one you didn’t understand. You strode closer to him until you were only a breath apart. His single eye stared down impassively at you, a brilliant, jeweled shard that you could cut yourself on. “Then show me something I can believe in.”

Before you could pull away, Anaxa gripped your wrist, using your momentary shock to guide your hand to his eyepatch. Your fingers rested gingerly on the fabric, though you had an inkling that if you were to slide them under, Anaxa would let you. It was a dangerous sort of permission, a line crossed in your relationship that hadn’t been breached before.

Neither of you moved. In a conversational tone, as if this was another one of your light-hearted spats, Anaxa said, “I lost this eye when I tried to bring my sister back from death. Like a fool, I had failed to consider that an eye was not an equivalent enough sacrifice for one life.”

“Your sister?”

“Lost to the black tide, like your family.”

You brushed a finger down the fabric covering his lost eye, as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss. “So we’ve both lost people we loved. How do you find it to keep going?”

“Simple. The gods are false shackles, binding us to our uncertainty and passivity. I intend to break those shackles. Isn’t it the same for how you live for your stories? Because you want something more than the pitiful narrative that’s been penned for humanity?”

“So I live for my stories, and you live for your goals. But that does make me wonder. What else would you sacrifice, Anaxa?”

He burned with an unnatural fervor, a pale flame that would never extinguish. “Everything. So if you can’t believe in anything, believe in me. Don’t look away. Watch me.”

His hand on your wrist seared into your skin, the proximity to his body too intense, too much. You wrenched your hand back, rubbing your wrist, and Anaxa let you go.

“I can’t believe someone like you is a Chrysos Heir. Maybe they’ve finally lost their minds,” you muttered. “Either way, you don’t need to tell me to watch you. I couldn’t look away, even if I wanted to.”

You could never let your past go. It was a simple truth you were forced to acknowledge. Anger and pain rotted in your soul, carving out a home in the same way termites burrowed into healthy wood, destroying it from the inside out. It was easier to cling to apathy, to watch people from afar rather than risk destruction from attachment. 

You still dreamed of your family, though their faces were starting to fade from your memory. Even your father’s tomes were beginning to disintegrate, no matter how careful you were when handling them. The gods could save nothing, not your family, not your people, not this world, so how could you believe in them?

You were set on being alone, on burying yourself alive in your library. Not much moved you.

That was why it was frightening that Anaxa stirred your heart in ways you dared not dwell on for too long, like the ripples from a stone thrown into a placid pond, spreading farther and farther still.

It didn’t take more than a few years after that for Anaxa to achieve the lofty goals he had presented to you, though you suspected he laid the groundwork for his plans much earlier than he admitted and was simply watching them come to fruition. Despite the opposition, he established his own burgeoning school, and students flocked from afar to study concepts of the soul. He was one of the youngest people to become a professor and a sage, an impressive achievement. 

You became the head of the library, and when you weren’t buried among mountains of books and tomes retrieved from the farthest corner of Amphoreus, you still made time to watch Anaxa. You visited his classrooms, shepherded his confused students to the correct materials he required, and chased him down when he returned rare books far past the due date. 

Research was always his first priority. You never doubted that he would choose his alchemical experiments over you. It never bothered you, because if you had to choose between the library and Anaxa, you would have sacrificed him in a heartbeat. The way he threw himself into his research with a vicious mania wasn’t new or unexpected.

But the way his clothes hung so much more loosely on him, the sharp bones jutting beneath his waxy skin like outcroppings of rocks in a murky sea, his drawn, pale face: that was all new. His body couldn’t keep up with the strain of what he was doing. 

He had told you as much, that he would sacrifice anything for his goals, but it disconcerted you to watch it happen in person. Nothing was sacred, not even his body or his soul.

You knew Anaxa’s schedule as well as your own. When his final class of the day ended, you made your way to his office, where the occasional student milled about in the hallway, chatting with their friends or grumbling about course assignments. It was a familiar sight from your own student days.

“Professor,” you greeted, shutting the door behind you when you entered his office.

“Librarian,” he said. Anaxa flipped through his notes, frowning. He was leaning against his desk, as if the mere act of sitting properly on his chair pained him. “What is it?”

“You’ve been using your body as materials for your alchemy experiments,” you said. Blunt and straight to the point, just as he enjoyed.

“Is that all you came here to say?”

“If you push yourself too much, you’ll die. You’re still only human.”

“I know my limits. There can’t be advancements made without sacrifices.”

“What have you used so far? Your blood? Your organs? Are you going to rip pieces of your soul apart next?”

You’re close to him now, close enough to pin him against the desk, your arms placed on either side of him like bars. Though it didn’t seem as if Anaxa had any intention to; he only watched you with that same curious stare he leveled everyone. It was always a chess game with him, the way he sizes up your next movement, readying his pieces in hand.

“I don’t want a premature end to your story,” you said, “I want to see what you’ll do next. How far you go. You still haven’t given me an impressive performance yet.”

“Oh, librarian,” Anaxa said. “It seems as if you’ve grown soft. Why do you sound so worried? Would you like to check for yourself how I’m doing?”

Coyly, he grasped one of your hands, bringing them to rest against his chest, right above his heart. Your fingers curled over the fabric separating you from him. You laid your hand flat enough against him, and felt the slow, steady pace of his heart, like a story marching toward an inevitable end.

Anaxa barely gave you enough time to settle into the soothing rhythm before he brought your hand to the center of his chest. Instead of solid flesh, there was nothing there but empty space, barely covered by his flimsy robes; you bit back a sharp gasp, driving your teeth hard into your lip.

“Well?” he said. The word fell like a taunt. 

This was an invitation, a provocation, really. Anaxa let you go as you pulled back the buttons of his shirt, almost ripping it in your haste. You were met with a milky galaxy, swirls of blue-green and bright stars, the infinite cosmos unfurling in his chest. His skin broke into a jagged scar shaped like a star, all sharp angles made from soft flesh.

“That was quite bold of you,” Anaxa mused. “We’re still in public, you know.”

“No one is going to come in,” you snapped. “And I locked the door.”

“Were you planning on jumping on me?”

“Were you planning on letting me?” You could do nothing but breathe in tandem to the rise and fall of his chest, to the ripple of the galaxy held within him. This foolish, infuriating man. “How did this happen?”

“Consequences from an experiment,” Anaxa said cryptically. You weren’t going to get any more out of him, if the stubborn silence he fell into was any indication. 

Instead, you brought one hand to the cracks, feeling the edges of skin. Warm, and smooth. It still felt like his human body, and you let one finger drag along his flesh, tracing the outline of the cracks.

You glanced at him, and met an eye that was watching you with palatable intensity, like you were another equation he was trying to solve. There was nothing else for you to do except gently dip your fingers into the hollow of his chest. It was a warm, smooth liquid consistency, like ocean waters from a sun-warmed beach, inviting you to draw your hand further in. 

You noted the way Anaxa tried to hold back a shudder at the first contact. This was affecting him more than he wanted to let on, and you wanted to see his insufferable composure break. He was always so poised, so above everything. You dipped your hand further in, up to your wrist, to your elbow, further than you should have been able to touch. 

Perhaps you could fit your entire body in here. It was a strange thought, unbidden, the idea of letting yourself be swallowed up by him forever, nestled close to his heart, so every time it beat he would be reminded of your presence. 

“Librarian,” Anaxa said in a strained voice. His eye was unfocused now, his breathing shallow. 

“If you’re going to give pieces of yourself away,” you said, swirling your fingers in absent loops in the space inside him. Every part of you felt weightless, like you weren’t really there. “Why not give something to me?”

“And what would you do with it?”

“What do you think?” 

Anaxa’s head dipped slightly. “Something untoward.”

“I think you would like it, though. Is your heart still here?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Can I touch it?”

“Only if I let you.”

“Will you?”

You were met with silence, so you spread your arm through the hollow space, bracing your other hand on the desk behind Anaxa. Everything was disorientingly expansive, like the hole in his chest has pushed the pieces of his body apart, a trick room where the space inside was larger than the space outside. You angled your hand sideways experimentally, towards where his heart should be, and brushed the edge of his rib. Clean, hard bone that you held tenderly, gliding your fingers along the length of it. 

It was this provocation that proved too much for Anaxa. His head fell on your shoulder, and his hands moved to grip your waist, as if he would fall apart without you to anchor. His hands were still slender and elegant, the sort of beautiful hands built for creation.

This sight, the great Anaxa brought so low at your touch, was reserved just for you. As was his body, the tender caverns of it. You took your time to ghost along his bones, relishing in every shudder that wracked his body, and then you found it. A wet muscle, pulsing ever so gently, the center of Anaxa’s body.

You caressed his heart, squeezing it slightly, feeling it contract in your hands. Anaxa’s hands tightened around your waist, his nails digging into clothed flesh. Still, you did nothing more but hold it gently, feeling it quicken alongside Anaxa’s shallow breathing. Soft, warm, inviting. You stroked a thumb along the tender muscle.

“If you want it, you’ll need to give something else to me,” Anaxa said, his voice a low, hot murmur in your ear. “As is the manner of equivalent exchange.”

Before you could respond, a knock resounded on the door. “Professor? I had some questions about the material covered in the lecture today.”

At the sound, you jerked your hand back, your arm emerging pristine and untouched. It felt heavy, gravity weighing you down, unlike the inviting, weightless expanse within Anaxa. In a few seconds, you straightened your clothing as Anaxa buttoned his shirt back and smoothed his robes, leaning heavily against the desk, hand curled around his mouth. You were across the room and pushing open the door, revealing a surprised student, curled fist raised mid-knock.

You schooled your face into a neutral expression, and threw a quick shout over your shoulder. “You aren’t excluded from the rules of the library just because you’re a sage now, professor! Turn your books in on time.”

And then you hurried on, keeping your eyes straight ahead, flexing and unflexing your hand as you walked. The two of you would never speak of that moment again, though you noticed Anaxa looking unbearably smug in the weeks that followed, and you found a new habit of touching his shoulder when you talked.

In the following years that passed, more Chrysos Heirs came to study at the Grove, working under Anaxa’s strict tutelage and wandering the rows of your library. Your favorite was Castorice, who kept a respectful distance back and asked you numerous questions about the books in your archives. Your least favorite was Phainon, who had a habit of being a little more clumsy with the books than you liked.

“Do you enjoy teaching them?” you asked, hand cupped in your cheek. Anaxa retained the habit of perching on your desk, still preferring to claim your space as his rather than find one of his own.

In turn, however, you had grown bolder with his body. If he wasn’t going to take care of it, you might as well put it to use. His arm lay stretched across your desk, and you scribbled notes on the creamy, smooth skin of his inner arm: alchemical equations he taught you, or reminders of what books he had to return, or doodles of dromases. 

“If they’re going to embark on the Flame-Chase Journey, it’s prudent for them to find their own path, instead of blindly believing what they’re told,” he remarked. You put down your pen, and Anaxa glanced at the fresh ink still shining on his skin. “Librarian, what is this?”

“A dromas,” you said.

He examined the inked doodle, eye borrowed. “The proportions of its facial features are off and too close together.”

“How picky, professor. I’ll draw a better one next time.”

It was easy, so easy being with Anaxa that it frightened you. New students of Anaxa’s assumed the two of you were “together,” and it wasn’t right, but it wasn’t wrong, either. The two of you were a pair, and it felt wrong to be away from him, like you were being denied part of who you were.

Did you love him? Did you need him? Your desire took on confusing forms, eluding categorization and convention. Maybe you were simply greedy: like the day he let you touch the galaxy in his chest, you wanted more of Anaxa, to shelter within him forever.

How to understand this? Was there even a way to understand it, or were you helpless to desire’s whims? It was an unsolvable equation. 

The years could have passed so sweetly and comfortably, until you heard news of Titankin flooding Okhema and strange new warriors appearing. As Hyacine made to venture into the holy city to treat the wounded, Anaxa approached you one evening while you were in your bedroom, flinging it open without a knock, another habit he retained.

“Go with Hyacine to Okhema,” Anaxa said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re curious about the new strangers in the city, and what happened with Strife, aren’t you? Go with her and learn.”

“Are you kicking me out of the Grove, professor?” you asked.

“I’m telling you to seek new knowledge, and see the center of a new, great story. Or have you grown complacent here, tending to your dusty scrolls?”

“Aren’t you going to miss me?”

Anaxa leaned against the door of your bedroom. “Why should I?”

“You want to know about those strangers and the status of Okhema,” you guessed. “Don’t you?”

“If that’s how you chose to see my words, I don’t see any need to refute you.”

“You’re as frustrating as ever, professor,” you said. You stood, making your way over to him. Idly, you started playing with the hair that fell over his shoulders, silky strands slipping through your fingers. “Why don’t you say you’re also worried about me? Shuffling me, a poor librarian off to the holy city, when there’s so much turbulence in Amphoreus right now… It doesn’t feel coincidental.”

Anaxa dipped his head, chin lowered to his chest. “Will you admit that that sort of concern makes you happy, then?”

“Do you have any evidence to support that?”

“Do you?” he challenged.

“Well, since my expertise doesn’t lie in debating, so I’ll refrain from answering.” You withdrew your hand, reached down, and pulled Anaxa’s hand up by the wrist, placing it over your heart. His fingers rested lightly against your chest, as if he could cage your heartbeat. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, then. Goodbye for now, professor.”

“Goodbye, librarian.”

The road to Okhema was relatively pleasant. Hyacine was cheerful and made for good company, perceptive enough to know when you tired of talking. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little disoriented. You weren’t attached at the hip to Anaxa, as your duties took up most of your time, and he had his spells where he forgot the rest of the world existed when he was buried in research. But you weren’t used to being far enough away where if you called his name, he wouldn’t be able to hear.

Okhema was still vibrant and bustling when you and your retinue of exhausted scholars approached, shining with a ferocity that denied any rumors of defeat and downfall. Kephale rose grandly above the city in the distance, arms outstretched as if ready to take on your burdens. 

“I need to go look at some of the soldiers now,” Hyacine said. “Why don’t you go greet Lady Aglaea first? I’ll follow you as soon as you can!”

It was as solid a plan as any. You trudged through the city, making your way to where Aglaea waited. As you walked through sunlight and vapor from the local baths, through laughter and the splash of carefree citizens: it seemed humanity would prevail no matter what.

When you found Aglaea, she was waiting, patient as ever, an enigmatic smile on her lips and hands folded in front of her, as pristine and flawless as a god carved from marble.

“Hello, librarian.”

“Hello, Lady Aglaea. I’m here from the Grove of Epiphany along with a few of my companions. Hyacine will likely come greet you soon,” you said. There was no need to go through any formalities with her; her golden threads had likely picked up on the vibration of your conversation with Hyacine. It cut down on any need for pleasantries and explanations.

“And I’m sure you’ll be reporting everything we say back to that man?” Her smile was still cool, unruffled; you admired her composure. You had no quarrel with Aglaea, and you could not grudge her need for control and protection of all her citizens. Still, it was a daunting task to stand in front of someone like her.

“Reporting is a strong word,” you said. “I would prefer something more like observation. I’m not here to make trouble, only to note what I see.”

“They say you’re a recluse, a librarian who’s only fond of stories and barely has the time to give to anyone outside of a certain professor,” Aglaea said. “You would have made a good candidate for the Coreflame of Time.”

“Ah, but I’m too selfish to sacrifice myself for humanity,” you said, filling in the gaps of her words. “I know my flaws.”

“Indeed. You’re too caught up in your own stories, narrating everything you see as if it has nothing to do with you.”

“And is that so wrong? It’s simply the most interesting thing for me to do,” you said. 

“You and that man are alike in that way,” Aglaea mused. “Caught up in your respective research and acts. You’re a narrator and a performer on the same stage together, though I wonder. It seems as if that man is eager to perform great feats for the distant narrator to watch, so they won’t turn their attention away from him.”

You settled your gaze somewhere over her shoulder, your hands grasped tightly in the folds of your clothing. “Lady Aglaea, I apologize for my bluntness, but I daresay you’re wrong. We both know Anaxa is the sort of man who would only stir to action for the sake of his own goals. Anything else that happens is incidental to what he achieves.”

“Do we both know that?”

“You’ve seen how he acts.”

“Regardless, I only wanted to extend a word of caution to you, librarian. You’ve long refused the invitation to step on the stage, and so your chance to take the spotlight has passed. Are you truly prepared to witness the story playing out in front of you without being able to raise a hand to stop a single event from transpiring?”

“Is this advice from you personally, Lady Aglaea, or is it advice from a demigod?”

She smiled. “What do you think? I’m sure you’ll come to a conclusion all on your own. I only find it a shame we couldn’t work together more.”

That was the end of your conversation with her. But throughout your stay in Okhema, Aglaea’s words rang in your head, like a burr stuck to the folds of your thoughts, even as you found yourself preoccupied by greater worries. The Grove being overtaken by the black tide. Political unrest in Okhema. And Anaxa, who, from all accounts, had seemingly escaped the fate that befell your coworkers and peers.

Once more, your home was lost, but this time, at least one person had survived. Yet, to your growing ire and confusion, Anaxa did not approach you once when he came to the city. You only received reports from Hyacine in the temporary room you took refuge in, provided by Aglaea. 

You thought nothing of it at first, certain he would seek you out on his own time. It wasn’t uncommon for Anaxa to rush headlong into whatever project or scheme caught his attention. He would make his way back to you eventually.

As the hours passed, malaise and discontent settled on you like a heavy veil. You were not a Chrysos Heir, so you were not privy to the inner politics of their number. You were nothing more than a civilian. But this was the first time you had to hear about Anaxa’s movements from other people instead of relaying them to others. 

His silence was a purposeful message: Anaxa was not going to involve you in whatever he had planned. You were to sit and wait and watch on the sidelines, as you always had.

You could guess at his motivations: he was playing risky games, getting involved with the Council of Elders. He had done something outrageous, brushed right up against the divine, and had to undertake his trials alone. You were not useful to him in these games, and it would be dangerous for him to openly associate with you and alert people of your presence in his life.

People were lost so easily, but stories lived forever. You had believed this all your life, and yet, as you melted in your chaise, stacks of half-finished books piling around you, all your beloved stories felt stale and tasteless. 

Someone flung open your door, and you jerked upright as Anaxa strode into the room with the same arrogance as if this was your home back in the Grove. You barely had time to smooth your rumpled clothing and pull your legs to the side before Anaxa was settling at the end of your seat, legs folded.

“Where have you been, you ass?” you snapped, kicking him with your foot.

He didn’t move, taking your kick with stoicism. “I’ve been researching,” he said.

“Well? Are you going to tell me what you’ve been working on?”

“These theories are still being worked on.”

“That hasn’t stopped you from telling me before. Honestly, what have you been doing? The Chrysos Heirs are all over the place, and there’s been talk that you’ve joined the Council of Elders. Not to mention what happened with the Grove. How did you get out? What happened? Why–” You choked on your words, all your nameless frustration and fear surging out. “Why couldn’t I be there with you?”

Anaxa’s eye was focused on you, but his gaze was distant and foggy. His lips moved, as if he was speaking to himself, and you could only wait in impatient silence before he said, “I’m dead, librarian.”

With a furious burst of energy, you lunged at Anaxa, pinning him down to the chaise. His green hair fanned across the cushions, as your hands shook.

“Anaxa, I don’t have time for your games. For once in your life, just tell me the truth.”

“I haven’t lied to you.”

“You’re still here,” you pressed. “If you were truly dead, you wouldn’t be moving like this.”

“That’s simply because I bound my soul to a Titan. I don’t have that much time left.”

“Titan…? You can’t mean… You bound yourself to a god? Are you mad?”

“Only in the eyes of fools,” he said. 

“Anaxa. How long do you have left?”

He called your name, said in such a soft tone, as if you were still teenagers in the Grove of Epiphany, still young and foolish with your entire lives in front of you. “Only until the end of today. You know the black tide takes all, and you know the principles of equivalent exchange. A life for a life. It’s fitting.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you whispered. “You were going to show me a grand story. Things I haven’t seen before. A brilliant conclusion.”

“I will.” Anaxa brought his hand to the back of your head, pulling you down to rest on his chest. You closed your eyes, burying your face in the fabric of his clothing. You sought desperately for his heartbeat, but it wasn’t there. “But all performers must leave the stage eventually.”

“I don’t want you to,” you said. It was a childish, petulant protest, the likes of which you hadn’t made in years, not after your family died. “You’re supposed to live forever, Anaxa.”

“I will. I will live forever in your stories, librarian. You should understand this.”

“You infuriating man.”

“You meddlesome librarian.”

“Are you telling me goodbye? Is this what this is?”

“It doesn’t have to be something permanent,” he said cryptically.

“And I’m sure you won’t explain what that means, either, will you?”

“All will be revealed in due time. Have patience, librarian. That’s one of your strong suits.”

“Anaxa!” Your shout came out to a strangled whisper as you fisted your hands in his robes as if in some vain attempt, you could bind him to this earth forever, as if he wasn’t already lost to you. “You’re a wretched, blasphemous fool. But you’ve forgotten something.”

“And what have I forgotten? Enlighten me, dear librarian.”

“You let me touch your heart,” you murmured into the hollow of his chest. “Remember? That day in the classroom?”

“Well, it’s difficult to forget the liberties you took with my body. What about it?”

“You asked me what I would give in exchange for your heart. I never answered you, and as per the laws of equivalent exchange, as you so like to espouse, I’d like to give you something now,” you persisted. 

“Oh? And what are you planning on offering?”

“My heart,” you persisted. “If you give me a part of you, then I’ll give you a part of me.”

“Do you plan on ripping your heart out for me?”

“If you asked, then it’s yours, to do with as you please.”

Anaxa did not speak. He only stroked the back of your head, as if he was tracing alchemical equations. “What an audacious claim.”

“You don’t dislike it, though.”

“I told you I don’t lie, librarian.”

“Then you need to understand this,” you confessed, a supplicant before a god, the words tumbling out in a way they never have before. Your heartache, laid raw and bare, the weave of your soul exposed. “I’ve kept myself distance from everything. The Grove. The other scholars. Even Amphoreus itself. But you, Anaxa. You make me act so foolishly, want irrational and unattainable things. I can’t keep myself apart from you.”

“Well, well,” Anaxa said. “The reclusive librarian has finally shown me a bit of what lies in their heart.”

You hit him lightly with your fist, the action carrying no anger or weight to it. “Come on. Is that all you have to say to me?”

“I don’t need to say anything. All you need to do is to keep watching me, like we once promised,” he said. “Come, librarian. If you’ve laid claim to my heart, you should understand it by now. What I do, I do while thinking of you and of the best way to keep you entertained.”

You wrapped your arms around Anaxa. He was still touching you ever so gently, stroking your back in a way that belied the harshness of his words. Neither of you spoke. You closed your eyes, imagining what it would be like to fall asleep in his arms. 

“I’ll see you again,” you mumbled. “If not in this life, then in the next. Don’t think you can get away from me so easily.”

You thought you could feel him smile. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

This was the last time you ever saw him. When you did drift off to sleep, you awoke on your chaise, a blanket pulled up to your shoulders, with nothing left of Anaxa but the cooling spot he once occupied.

—

After his death, you dream of him. His body cracking, flaking away to reveal a cosmos birthed beneath his skin. His smile and unfocused eyes, looking at some grand scheme beyond you. The hard, red crystal of heart, the white lines of his ribs.

One day, you will return to your library in the Grove, to your archives and books and your catalogues. But for now, you reside in the holy city, recording what you see, marking history in your own words. The narrator to a play you could not change, as Aglaea called you, in love with a performer who left the stage of his own accord.

Anaxa does not lie, so you know his theories to be true, even if others decry them as blasphemy. You will find him again, in the next life, in the next world. You will find a way to keep his memory alive, weave it into the fabric of the universe itself, so not even the gods could rip him from you even if Amphoreus as you knew it fell to pieces. 

You imagine what it would be like, in the next world. You would pull him close, your dear professor, and tell him every story that happened in his absence. This time, you would not let him go.

“It’s an honor to work for an esteemed family like them,” your mother would say. “And our family has done so for a long time.”

Needless to say, your curiosity is spiked about Ushijima Wakatoshi before you’ve even met him, what with all the stories you’ve heard. He’s the cherished heir, someone who does well in school and is perfectly obedient to his mother and grandmother, the picture of filial piety. And, to top it off, he’s a one-of-a-kind volleyball genius, winning junior tournaments and taking private lessons with top coaches.

Because he does so well, Kaasan loves bringing him up as an example against your wild ways, the mud you always track into the entryway and the dirty shoes you leave in the cupboard, your fluctuating grades which are as turbulent as the swell and dip of ocean waves (you do well in school when you’re not falling asleep during tests), and the fact you’re never in bed when you’re supposed to be and you always drop bits of rice from your chopsticks during dinner.

“Ushijima-kun always eats with such good manners. He always goes to bed on time, and never complains. He always remembers to wipe his shoes before coming in,” your mother would say. “You should try to be more like him.”

Ushijima Wakatoshi, as far as you’re concerned, is a mythical creature of some sort, a perfect child that can’t possibly exist in the real world. He’s setting unfair standards for the rest of the kids with his actions, and you’re positively tired of being compared to him.

Which is why, on the first day you’re old enough to accompany your parents and they no longer decide to shuffle you off to Obaachan’s house when they’re too busy to look after you, you decide to look for this mythical creature. He can’t really be that great, can he? You’re going to prove firsthand that he’s not; there has to be something that he messes up on. Maybe he forgets to wipe his mouth after eating, or he forgets to brush his teeth in the morning. Something like that, that you can hold up to your parents to prove that even Ushijima Wakatoshi messes up.

You’re meant to stay quietly away from the main household and to stay where your parents are working, after Kaasan repeatedly warns you multiple times to be on your best behavior, to be quiet and bow respectfully to anyone you see, and to use -san and not -kun or -chan or whatever silly nickname you want to bestow on a stranger.

Still, as soon as they’re off managing whatever tasks they’ve been assigned to, you immediately slide open a door and start wandering. The Ushijimas have a traditional house, all wood beams and shoji doors and tatami mats, with a fenced-off courtyard in the middle with a pond, a cluster of budding flowers, and a rock garden your father has to rake every day.

Even the decorations are tasteful, simple vases set on glass tables or ink brush paintings on the walls. It all screams wealth, but each room feels strangely lonely. Less lived in, and more for decoration and showing off to guests. It’s a far cry from your own cluttered home, the strings of drying laundry on the porch and the piles of books in the living room, the smell of Kaasan’s cooking wafting from the kitchen.

You’ve visited each branch of the house at least once, careful to bow to anyone you see, chirping out the appropriate greetings (you know how to be polite! If only Kaasan would trust you!) and haven’t seen Ushijima Wakatoshi at all. Maybe he’s away practicing tea ceremony manners, or reading some book that’s way above his grade level just to show off, or whatever it is that rich kids like him like to do in their free time.

With a huff, you head back down to the courtyard, ready to while away the time looking for worms and bugs, or playing pretend that the entire courtyard is the ocean and you’re a fish trying to survive in the brutal waters—when you spot a tuft of dark green hair crouched among the flowers. 

They’re sunflowers, you realize on closer inspection, heavy green heads still tightly curled like a closed fist, as if they were too shy to bloom. The stems are long and reedy, and the boy isn’t even doing anything, just crouching in front of them, as if he’s trying to blend in among them forever and become a flower himself. 

“Hi!” you chirp, wandering up the boy. He blinks up owlishly at you. He has a strangely solemn expression, one that makes him look disconcertingly mature, even with his chubby cheeks and thick eyebrows. He must be the kid of another worker here, just like you.

“Hello,” he says.

“What’re you doing here?” you say. “Do you like flowers?”

“They’re nice,” he says. 

“So are you here because you like them?” You crouch right next to him. At this angle, the sunflowers are taller than you, and you squint up, a sky of green leaves and waving heads, arching right over you. “Or are you looking for bugs?”

“Bugs?” the boy says.

“Yeah! Or worms! They’re really cool, aren’t they?” What, has this boy never known the joys of worm-hunting? You dig in the dirt, moving clods of moist soil as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb the flowers until you find a wriggling pink creature, attempting to burrow further down. You pluck it up in your dirty palms and thrust it in the boy’s face.

“This is a worm,” the boy says. He’s looking at it cross-eyed, frowning. “Why did you dig it up?”

“Because it’s fun? And they feel so slimy! Here. Take it!” You take the boy’s hand and smooth it out, placing the worm on his outstretched palm.

“But the worm belongs in the dirt. It doesn’t want to be here,” the boy says. However, he’s still watching it stretch across his palm, without making any move to fling it back.

“Well, that’s why we put them back when we’re done! When it rains, I always try to throw them back into the grass. It gets so sad when they dry up, right?”

“I suppose so,” he says, carefully placing the worm back into the dirt and watching it wriggle deeper down to return to its wormy little home. He pats the clods of dirt back into place, carefully smoothing them out with his fingers. 

“The flowers are pretty,” you say after a while. 

“Otousan helped plant them,” he says. “But if you want to dig for worms, then you shouldn’t do it here.”

His dad must be the other gardener, then. You wrap your arms around your knees, sneaking another glance at the boy and his serious face. “Eh… does that mean you don’t want to look for worms? We can look for other bugs.”

“I did not say that. I simply said we should not look for bugs here, where we might disturb the flowers,” he says. “You’re an odd person. Okaasan has told me it’s not good to play in the dirt.”

“Well, you’re also weird,” you counter. “You talk super stiff and formal! Like you’re a grown-up. You’ve really never played in the dirt before?”

“Is that a bad thing?” he says.

“Nah, it just means we’re both weird. If you’ve never really played in the dirt, come on! I’ll show you how to! The dirt is really fun. Everyone should play in it at least once.” You stand, stretching, and hold out your hand to the boy. After a second of staring, he carefully takes your muddy hand into his, letting you pull him up.

For the next most pleasant half hour of your life, you traipse around the garden with the boy. The two of you look for ladybugs and grasshoppers, and you carefully cup them in your hands to show him before they fly up into the air or jump out of your hand. You find the most pretty rocks you can in the rock garden, plucking up smooth white stones as round as eggs. You peer down into the koi pond, watching the glubbing faces of the fishes staring back as you stick your tongue out at them.

“Are you having fun?” he asks you.

“I’m having a lot of fun! Why wouldn’t I be? We’re friends,” you say.

“We’re friends,” he murmurs. There’s a small, awkward smile blooming across his face, as hesitant and gentle as one of the budding sunflowers in the garden.

Your new friend is a little odd and clumsy, but he follows along obediently, even when you ask him to pretend to be fishes with you and he asks what kind he should be, and if he was meant to be a saltwater or freshwater species. There’s something fun even about his adult-like mannerisms, the way he asks questions and approaches the world. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never played in the dirt, though,” you say, during a momentary break, when the two of you are spread out on the grass. Well, you’re lying on the grass, and your friend is sitting in a perfect cross-legged position. “That’s kinda weird for a gardener’s son.”

The boy blinks at you, slow and owlish once again. “My father is not a gardener here.”

“Eh?”

And then, from the open door leading out of the courtyard, Kaasan calls your name with a scandalized shout. “What are you doing? And why is—Ushijima-kun?” she says, and your stomach drops. You turn to the boy in slow motion, as if you’re trapped in a horror movie and the monster is looming just behind you, an inescapable presence. 

“I am Ushijima Wakatoshi,” the boy says, giving you a perfectly neat and polite bow. “And my father used to live here. It is just my mother and grandmother and I now. This is our estate.”

—

After a furious bit of scolding from Kaasan for dragging Ushijima out to play in the dirt and getting both of your clothes dirty, you’re certain you’re never going to be invited back to their estate again. Kaasan apologizes to his mother and grandmother for so long it gives you a headache, and makes you bow and apologize, too, even though his mother laughs it off and says it’s fine. His grandmother, though, didn’t say a word the entire time, and you shrink under her stare.

Still, it’s the greatest shock you’ve ever experienced. The young heir you’ve heard so much about is the friend you enjoyed such a pleasant afternoon with. You even caught the best and fattest bugs to share with him, and you wouldn’t have done that if you knew who he really was! Well. Maybe you still would have. Ushijima Wakatoshi is nothing like you expected, and it’s hard to wrap your head around the mythical creature your mother talks about and the Ushijima you know.

Only a few days later, while you’re moping on your bed because you’re technically semi-grounded and neither Kaasan nor Tousan plan on bringing you to the Ushijima residence, Kaasan barges into your room, letting the door swing open without knocking. She always does that, even though she complains when you do the same, and then complains more when you point out the double standard.

Kaasan takes a deep breath, then lets it out. Her arms are folded tightly, her lips pressed together. She doesn’t look mad, though. Just a little worried. “Do you remember Ushijima-kun?”

“It’s not like I can forget him,” you grumble, poking at the threading on your bedspread with your nail. 

“Well, Ushijima-kun has asked for you to come visit the estate again. He enjoyed your company, and after talking it over with Ushijima-san, we’ve agreed that you can be his playmate,” she says. “But! I need you to listen to me. You have to be careful around Ushijima-kun, all right?”

“I’m always careful,” you say.

“I’m serious,” Kaasan says. Her voice carries a low intensity, and it’s different from her usual frazzled or exhausted tone when she’s lecturing you. She’s worried, really worried, and at the change in her voice, you sit up straight, staring straight into her eyes. “You and Ushijima-kun are going to be friends, but you can never forget that the two of you live in different worlds. Never, ever forget that. Can you promise me?”

You nod, a slow, sweeping motion. There’s a weird feeling in your chest. You can’t quite name it yet, but it’s distinctly uncomfortable, the knowledge that Ushijima, a boy your age, could make Kaasan so apprehensive. It’s wrong, somehow, for a kid to wield that sort of power over an adult, especially one as tough as Kaasan.

“I promise,” you say. It’s the only thing you can say. “I promise I’ll never forget.”

You’re shuffled to Ushijima’s home the next morning alongside your parents, staring out the window as his house comes into view. You’re struck again by how big it is, how imposing. It could easily swallow your entire house whole, and you’re not even sure if Ushijima even uses all the rooms you wandered through last time. What’s the point of a room you can’t even use, anyways?

This time, Kaasan ushers you through the main house and drops you off in a stuffy guest room. Ushijima is already waiting there, legs folded under him in a proper sitting position, his back so straight you could probably align it with a ruler, with a collection of dry cookies and warm tea placed in front of him.

“Be good. I’ll come get you when I’m done,” Kaasan whispers.

You settle uncomfortably in front of Ushijima, who simply pushes the plate of cookies towards you.

“Hello,” he says. “How was your journey here?”

You poke at a cookie. It crumbles under your touch, and when you place it in your mouth, a shower of crumbs rains from your mouth as you chew and talk. “It was fine. How are you?”

“I’m doing well.” A pause. “Thank you for coming over again. I enjoyed playing with you.”

You finish chewing and swallow. You then pick up a cup of tea and guzzle it down as Ushijima watches politely. You want to listen to Kaasan and be as polite as you can, but you’re going to die of boredom if you have to keep acting like this.

“Want to go play in the garden and look at bugs?” you ask. Surely that can’t be against the rules, especially if you make sure not to get any mud on your clothes. 

Ushijima blinks owlishly at you. Once, twice. “All right,” he says.

“Yay! Let’s go, Waka-chan!”

“Waka-chan?”

“That’s my nickname for you,” you say unrepentantly, and jump out of your seat.

The two of you spend a successful afternoon looking at bugs, and then catching them when you’re tired of just looking. You think you saw Ushijima smiling once or twice, especially when you shoved your hands in his face to show him a chirping cricket, beaming proudly at your accomplishments. But it’s awfully hard to tell when he’s smiling or not, so maybe you were wrong.

Your knees are a little muddy by the end of your adventures, and Kaasan narrows her eyes when she sees you, because she always has a sixth sense for when you do things you shouldn’t, but Ushijima only says, “See you tomorrow,” and when you excitedly wave at him before you leave, he gives a small wave back.

—

Your playdates with Ushijima falls into a routine after that. Since your parents spend most of their time at the Ushijima estate, they bring you along with them whenever they travel to work, and so you end up spending most of your days with Ushijima. From the early hours of the morning until your parents return home in the evening, it’s a summer schedule of nonstop Ushijima Wakatoshi.

It’s not too bad, though. After your initial impressions, you decide you like him. He’s a little quiet and weird, and he’s definitely more put-together than you are, but he always follows you around. Whenever you suggest a game, he’s always willing to try anything at least once.

He’s just another elementary schooler like you, and you like making new friends. Besides, it must be boring being by himself in such a large estate, with no one to talk to but other adults. No wonder his speech is so formal.

During that summer, you draw chalk outlines on the sidewalk outside until your hands are covered in a fine rainbow dust, jump rope and shoot plastic water guns, or just play whatever nonsensical game you want to in the garden, sunflowers waving around you, pretending to be frogs or pirates or whatever creature has caught your attention that day.

There is one game that Ushijima seems to like in particular, that he always gravitates back to: volleyball. If you don’t have any suggestions for the day, then Ushijima pulls out a worn white ball, scuffed and faded from repeated use, before you can offer up a different game. Ushijima handles it like it’s an old friend, with a care and reverence you’ve never seen him treat anything else.

You’ve played a little volleyball during gym class in your local elementary school, but Ushijima moves like a professional. He knows the names of all the positions on court, the strategies, and hits the ball so hard it makes your hands hurt when you try to receive it. He’s always lecturing you on proper posture, and you might have hated it if it wasn’t for the way he looked, solemn and focused, and the way, as rare and precious as a miracle, he would smile.

“Why do you like volleyball so much, Waka-kun?” you ask. You’re passing the ball back and forth in an easy rally, though on occasion it’ll bounce off your arm or Ushijima will fail to send it back to you properly, and you’ll have to chase after it.

“Because it’s fun,” he tells you seriously, as if he’s a grown-up discussing the economy. “And because of Otousan.”

“Your father?”

“Yes,” Ushijima says. “Ah.” The volleyball bounces off his arm and rolls towards the patch of sunflowers. Ushijima runs after it, and you follow.

“Otousan taught me how to play. He used to play as well,” Ushijima says, crouching down to pick up the volleyball. You crouch down next to him. Neither of you move to stand up right away.

The sunflowers have finally bloomed, unfurling bright yellow petals. They sway gently overhead, suffusing the air with a faint golden light, shielding the two of you from the rest of the world. For a few moments, the two of you stay silent, watching the flowers move overhead.

“He also planted these flowers before he left,” Ushijima says.

“They’re pretty. Do you like them?”

“I like them,” he says. “But there is something he said I don’t like. He told me that if I missed him, I should look at these flowers.”

Maybe that was why, the first day you saw him, Ushijima had been crouched in the garden. Was he thinking about his father?

You draw your knees closer to your chest, resting your chin against them. Ushijima is watching the flowers, but you’re watching him. He’s like a sunflower himself, tall and strong, with a steady gaze. There’s a faint furrow on his forehead, his eyebrows drawn together like two lost furry caterpillars, and you press one finger firm against the wrinkle.

He turns to you, confused, and you stick your tongue out at him. After a beat, he sticks his tongue back out at you, mirroring your gesture. It pleases you more than it should. “You don’t want to just look at the sunflowers, do you?”

“The sunflowers are not Otousan,” he says simply. “And he does not contact us often.”

“Don’t you call him, though?”

“I do not.”

“Why not?” you press.

“I don’t want to bother him,” he says. “He lives in America now.”

“But Waka-chan,” you say. “Aren’t you lonely?”

Ushijima frowns at your words. He speaks slowly, as if he’s taking the time to process his thoughts. “Lonely? I think, when he left, I was. But I’m not anymore.” He’s always giving you the most serious and efficient answers, no matter what your questions might be.

“That’s good,” you say. “But if you ever want to call your dad, we can do it together.” You stick out your pinky at him. “Promise.”

“Okay,” Ushijima says. He slowly curls his pinky around yours. There’s a funny expression on his face, like he doesn’t know whenever to smile or cry, and it looks a little like a budding sunflower. “I promise.”

—

When summer finally comes to an end and school resumes again in fall, you think you might not see Ushijima again. Your arrangement was convenient when you were both on break, after all, and had all the time in the world to see each other. But your lives have diverged once again, because Ushijima goes to a private academy that’s a thirty minute drive away and you attend the local public school that you walk to every morning.

You were just starting to get used to him, too. But your lives could only ever converge in that one perfect moment, when your parents had the time to bring you to his house while they worked, and you were free to spend the time as you pleased. Now, you have to return to your ordinary lives.

So it’s a surprise when, on the weekend after your first week back to school, when you’re getting ready for a day of wandering around the neighborhoods and seeing what plants are still in bloom and if any leaves have started to change color, Kaasan calls you into the kitchen. She’s making onigiri at the counter, apron pulled tightly around her waist, and shaping the rice with expert hands into perfect, fluffy triangles.

“Hi, Kaasan,” you say, arms pulled behind your back, standing on your tiptoes to peer at the filling she’s using. Salmon, pickled plum, and just plain white rice. “I’m not getting into trouble, I promise.”

“That’s not why I called you in here,” she says, then pauses. “And you know it’s suspicious when you tell me that, right? Are you getting into trouble?”

If sneaking into the neighbor’s yards to stare at their flowers up close counts as trouble, then yes. It’s not your fault that the roses are so pretty, though. And the neighbors are rude, which is why you have to sneak in. “No.” “Right. Well, Ushijima-san has contacted me.” “Yeah?” Your interest is perked, but you try to act as casually as you can. “She did? Did Waka-chan say anything?”

Kaasan lets out a choked, startled noise at Ushijima’s nickname. It sounds like a dying bird. “Not fully. But she wanted to know if you would be interested in taking volleyball lessons with Ushijima-kun. He asked her if you could attend alongside him.” Kaasan pauses, her hands kneading harder, faster. “He’s never asked for anything like this before.”

“I’d like to play volleyball with Waka-chan,” you say instantly. It doesn’t even take you a second of consideration; you like volleyball, and you like Ushijima, and you like playing volleyball with Ushijima. Ergo, you want to play volleyball with him. Those things just go together in your mind, you and Ushijima and volleyball. Like rice, seaweed, and salmon to make the perfect onigiri.

“All right. I’ll let her know.” Kaasan still hasn’t turned around to face you.

“Kaasan?”

“Hm? What is it?”

You dig one slippered foot into the floor of the kitchen. “Are you mad at something?”

“No, no. I’m not. Unless you’re getting into trouble, in which case I am. It’s just… I’m glad you’re making friends with Ushijima-kun. I didn’t expect the two of you to get along so well. And Ushijima-san is nice enough to offer to pay for your lessons, too. But I don’t want you to take it for granted, all right? Their kindness is appreciated, but we can’t rely on it too much. Tousan and Kaasan can take care of you, too.”

Her words are a little confusing to you. Are volleyball lessons such a big deal? Adults are weird, and Kaasan in particular is always overthinking things. She always keeps the Ushijimas at such a distance and speaks politely to them, despite the fact Kaasan can talk on and on when she runs into her friends at the market. Tousan rarely talks to the Ushijimas whenever he’s on the premises, but then again, Tousan isn’t chatty in general.

“I remember our promise, Kaasan,” you tell her instead. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Okay. That’s good. Now run along, unless you want to help me make onigiri.”

The next day, Tousan has dropped you off in front of a private gym, a behemoth of glass and steel with a fancy, whirring automatic door. You clutch the strings of your knapsack tightly; inside, you’ve packed your worn gym shoes and water bottle, as well as a towel and a few wrapped onigiri from Kaasan as a snack when you get hungry.

“Have fun,” Tousan calls. “I’ll come back later.”

He speeds off, and you’re alone. Somehow, the inside of the gym is more dizzying than the exterior: sleek furniture, the cool hum of an air conditioner, a few potted plants in the corner. It’s almost like you’ve teleported to an alternative universe.

But to your relief, Ushijima is waiting close to the entrance, settled in a chair with his posture as perfect as always, frowning down at a book in his hands.

“Waka-chan!” you say, voice perking up, waving your hands wildly as you approach him. “What’re you reading?”

“A math textbook. I am studying the assigned pages from my tutor for our next session together,” he says. You glance at his book to see a row of complicated equations and numbers swimming across the page.

“Oh. Well, I’m here now, so you should talk with me instead!”

“All right,” Ushijima says. “What should we talk about?”

“We should talk about volleyball,” you say instantly. “Thank you for asking Ushijima-san if we could take lessons together!”

“I wanted to spend more time with you,” he says. “We would not have an opportunity to do so during the school semester.”

“Well, I also like spending time with you,” you say, grinning. Your heart flutters at his words, like wind rustling through petals. Ushijima never says anything he doesn’t mean, and though you’ve gotten better at reading him, it’s still relieving to hear that he feels the same way you do. “And I like playing volleyball with you, too, Waka-chan. But if you’re not careful, I might become an even better player than you!”

There’s a faint smile on Ushijima’s face. “I’d like to see you do that.” 

“Ushijima-kun!” An vaguely familiar-looking man in athletic shorts and with a bag slung over his shoulder calls out to the two of you, salt and pepper hair spilling out of the cap on his head. You stare at him as he approaches, but Ushijima simply closes his textbook and puts it away in his bag, standing up to bow at the man. You decide to follow suit, bowing and then sticking out your hand for good measure. “Hi!” you chirp, introducing yourself by name. The coach’s eyes wrinkle at the corners as he smiles. His grip is strong and firm, and you can feel the callouses on his palm. “Oh, so you’re the one that Ushijima begged to join his volleyball lessons?” “I did not beg,” Ushijima says, unruffled. “I asked.” The coach laughs. “Well, I’m Coach Kasamatsu, and I may not look like it now, but I used to play for the V.League. You know, I really wasn’t interested in coaching, but I knew Ushijima-kun’s father in high school, and when I heard his son was looking for a private coach, I couldn’t say no to an old friend.”

That’s why Coach Kasamatsu looks familiar, despite you never meeting him before now. You must have seen him on television from time to time out of the corner of your eye, when Tousan flips through sports channels to watch on lazy afternoons. Coach Kasamatsu is famous, but he doesn’t feel like it, not with how down-to-earth and approachable he seems, the way he looks you straight in the eye and talks as if you’re an adult.

It’s not the first time you’ve thought this, but Ushijima really lives in a world far apart from yours, one where it’s easy for him to brush elbows with the famous and powerful. You wouldn’t have dreamed of meeting a professional volleyball player on your own, let alone have him teach you how to play, but this is simply an unremarkable aspect of Ushijima’s life.

The volleyball lesson itself lasts for an hour. You and Ushijima run through warm-ups and then basic drills, while Coach Kasamatsu lectures you on the proper form for serving, receiving, and even the way you’re supposed to move around the court. Near the end of the session, he has the two of you practice spikes, and Ushijima lands every hit with a solid connecting swing, the volleyball bouncing so high you think it might have touched the heavens if only the roof didn’t get in its way. 

You do your best as well, but you can’t help notice there’s a gap between you and Ushijima. He might make a mistake from time to time, but never as much as you. Then again, you’ve only ever played with him for fun. You’ve never had a real coach before, and any other time you played volleyball, it was for gym class in school.

By the end of your session, you’re sweaty, tired, and a little sore. Ushijima doesn’t look like he’s breathing hard at all, despite the exertion turning his face red. It feels a little unfair somehow.

At the end of the lesson, you’re both waiting in the lobby to be picked up. You swing your legs against your seat, and Ushijima sits with the same posture he did before, when you first walked in. 

His ride is the first to arrive, a sleek black car pulling into view. Even this is different from your life; he has someone whose job it is to just drive him and his family around.

“See you next week,” Ushijima says politely. He bows at you, the picture of poise and grace. You wouldn’t have guessed he just ran around a gym for an hour.

You mimic his actions, knapsack sliding over your head as you do so. “See you next week, Waka-chan!”

He smiles at you again, causing that funny feeling to blossom in your chest. You smile back at him, and it feels like you have the sun caught in your mouth. You really are happy that you can play volleyball with Ushijima. He’s basically your best friend, and because he is, you push all of your bad feelings away, somewhere you don’t have to think about them again. 

—

Your life with Ushijima continues at its careful, meticulous pace even once you graduate elementary school and enter middle school. But Ushijima has always liked his routines and his plans, so maybe it shouldn’t surprise you that once he’s decided on something, he doesn’t quite like to see it change.

Ushijima goes to a private school named Shiratoriza, with fees so exorbitant it makes your eyes hurt just to see the number, and you go to another local public school that’s within commuting distance of your home.

Every weekend, you see him for volleyball lessons. Ushijima is on his school’s boys volleyball team, and you’ve joined your own school’s team as well. It feels like something that connects the two of you, even when you aren’t in the same place. During breaks, you visit him as often as you can get away with, tagging along with your parents when they drive off to work, barring the fancy parties he has to attend, the plans you make with other friends, or the trips you make to visit your respective grandparents. 

When you’re at the estate, Ushijima-san, his mother, is kind to you. She offers you your favorite snack foods to eat whenever you visit, asks about your life at school and your friends. She never seems to mind whatever you get up to with Ushijima, whether it’s working on summer homework or playing games in the garden.

His grandmother, the Ushijima matriarch, never seems to be around too much. You’ve only spoken to her a handful of times, and her overwhelming presence kept your eyes glued to the floor. Out of all the family, you get along with her the least, and you’re happy to stay out of her way.

There’s something about the way she looks at you that makes it feel like she’s always assessing you, trying to fit you into place. She doesn’t seem cruel, but a lack of malice isn’t the same as being kind.

In your third year of middle school, you’re studying for Shiratorizawa’s high school entrance exams during a winter weekend spent at Ushijima’s house. It feels like your brain is stuffed full of English vocabulary words and math equations. From morning to night, you’re chained to your collection of textbooks and flashcards, diligently combing over every possible topic that could pop up on the exams.

You try to review old tests and you’ve even signed up for the cheapest, most efficient cram school that you can afford, one that eats up your evening hours, meaning you don’t come home until the sun has set and you shovel a mouthful of dinner into your mouth before collapsing into bed, exhausted, kanji dancing in your mind’s eye.

Shiratorizawa is prestigious, and there’s no way you can get in without a scholarship. Though you and your team excel well enough at volleyball, you’ve never actually gone to nationals, despite coming close this last season. If you can’t rely on an athletic scholarship, you’ll need to rely on an academic one. Your grades aren’t bad, but you need to be more than just good; you need to be the best.

It’s not the easiest choice in the world, choosing to attend Shiratorizawa. There’s the cost of the uniforms, the entrance fees, and the yearly tuition that’s such a staggering number Tousan almost fainted when he saw the total.

Shiratorizawa is the best choice for your future, but it doesn’t hurt that Ushijima Wakatoshi is going to attend, too. Not that you’re basing your decision solely on him.

Once, Ushijima-san offered to help cover your fees when she heard you were trying to attend. Something about how your parents are valued employees, how she’s impressed with your work ethic, and how she’s willing to make an investment in your future. It was a kind thing to do, but for the first time in your life, you understood why Kaasan had looked so upset when Ushijima-san paid for your volleyball lessons.

“No,” you told her. “I’ll get in on my own merit.”

Maybe Ushijima himself is being considerate of your efforts, because whenever you hang out lately, the two of you inevitably end up studying together. He’s never said a word to you about your ambitions, but there’s always tea and fruit piled up on the table, the cushions are laid out and fluffed, and he always has a new test booklet to lend you. 

He’s supporting you, in his own taciturn way. Ushijima would never wish you luck or tell you to do your best, because your success will not be born out of luck or circumstance, but it will come as an inevitability, the culmination of all of your effort. 

It’s on one of these study sessions when you’re taking a quick break, a five minute walk shuffling down the halls, wondering if you can get Ushijima to quiz you on vocabulary words again, when you see her, like a ghost emerging from the mist. Ushijima’s grandmother. 

She’s dressed in a simple cream sweater, but she’s nothing like Obaachan, who Kaasan says you take after, friendly and boisterous. Instead, she’s elegance incarnate, like a flower turned into a human, from the way she takes each silent step with deliberate precision, to her solid, graceful posture, an echo of Ushijima’s own.

You bow your head instinctively as you press yourself to the wall of the hallway, waiting for her to pass you.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stops directly in front of you. You’re looking down at the edges of your slippers, heart in your throat. 

“You’re Wakatoshi’s friend, aren’t you? The one who comes over all the time?”

“Yes,” you mumble, then repeat it in a clearer voice. “Yes, I am.”

“The child of the handyman and one of our servants.” It’s not a question, so you don’t answer. “I’ve seen you around. I hope you remember your place.”

She doesn’t say it with any malice, none of the overwrought anger or disdain like you’ve seen in romance dramas on television, the angry speeches from overprotective mothers about how “you’re not good enough for my son” when the impoverished female lead strikes up a relationship with the rich ceo’s son. No, she says it like it’s a simple fact and nothing more, and that somehow hits you harder than if she had said something cruel.

You’re frozen, and you can just barely raise your head to look at her in the face. In the dim light of the hallway, she seems to loom over you, beady eyes glinting like dark pearls, or perhaps the lightless eye of an eagle surveying the land right before it finds a rabbit and dives.

“Wakatoshi is very kind to you, and my daughter likes you as well. But you belong to two different stations in life. You will get hurt if you presume there is something more to it. I hope you remember that. We are a traditional family, and there are certain hopes I have for Wakatoshi.”

You can barely process her walking away, brisk and efficient. She’s said her piece to you as if you’re just another task to check off on her list. For a long time, you stand in the hallway, only aware of the slow sound of your own breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out.

It’s funny how her words are the same as Kaasan’s: the same warning, the same lecture. You’ve never really forgotten Kaasan’s words, but it had been easier to ignore them before, to not understand what they meant. You liked Ushijima, and Ushijima liked you, so that was all you were concerned about. Maybe, as a child, nothing else really mattered. But you couldn’t stay children forever, could you? 

Ushijima Wakatoshi is the heir of the Ushijima family, and he can afford to have a famous athlete as his personal volleyball coach and a cushy ride to a private school. You’re just the child of his household servants. That’s the truth, as immutable as the families you were born to and your respective opportunities in life.

“You were gone for a while,” Ushijima says when you return.

“I got stuck in the bathroom,” you say, sliding back into your seat across from him, keeping your head down so he can’t see your expression. “Waka-chan, can you quiz me? I need help with some vocabulary words.”

—

The day you make it into Shiratorizawa, your parents take you out to a local restaurant with worn booths and laminated, hand-written menus, letting you order whatever you want without complaint. You’ve earned one of the hardwon academic scholarships, which means your continued enrollment is dependent on your good grades. It looks like your days of endless studying aren’t coming to an end any time soon.

Every Shiratorizawa student lived in the dorms, so this would be the last time you see your parents in a while, like a final hurrah to your childhood.

“Our clever child,” Tousan says fondly. “Do your best at Shiratorizawa. We’ll support you.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard him say at one time. He must be excited, or the two glasses of beer he’s already downed in celebration are getting to his head. 

“So you’re going to Shiratorizawa, huh,” Kaasan asks. “Are you excited?”

“Yes,” you say. “I’ll do my best. I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’d never be disappointed in you,” Kaasan chides. She’s quiet for a beat before she slides a piece of marinated beef onto your plate. “Ushijima-kun goes there, too, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I chose to go there just because he does,” you say quickly, defending yourself when you see her eyebrows raise at the admission. “Shiratorizawa is the best school in the prefecture.”

“Well, the two of you have always been close, so I’m sure it didn’t hurt that Ushijima-kun is there,” she teases.

“I’m not answering that,” you huff. “But you don’t need to worry, Kaasan. I know my place.”

She should have been happy with your words. Hasn’t it been something Kaasan has warned you about, since the very beginning? You’ve always caused her so much trouble, but for once, you’re heeding her warnings. Instead, her lips droop into a frown, and there’s a troubled expression on her face.

“Hvae some more meat,” Tousan interrupts. He’s sliding another piece of beef onto your plate, and now it’s overflowing with a mountain of meat. “We’re celebrating, and you have to eat well! You’ll need all the strength you can get to do well in school.”

That night, you call Ushijima with the news. You’ve been debating over whether to tell him or not, but he did help you study. Also, the two of you are still friends. You’re not going to let his grandmother control your life that much.

As soon as the call goes through, you start talking before he even has the chance to say hello. “I got in,” you say.

“Congratulations,” he says simply. “We will be classmates in the upcoming school semester.”

“That’s only if we’re in the same class,” you say. “There’s a chance we’re going to be put in different ones, Ushijima-kun.”

There’s a beat of silence. For some reason, you imagine Ushijima cocking his head like an inquisitive bird. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “You’re more quiet than usual.”

“My name,” he says. “You did not call me Waka-chan.”

It feels a little ridiculous to hear Ushijima say that cutesy nickname with such gravity. Like it really means something to him, your silly childhood nickname, given only on a whim. “Well, it’s kind of childish, you know? And we’re not kids anymore. So I wanted to use something more serious. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable when we’re in high school!”

“I would not be uncomfortable.”

“Still. Other people might say something.”

“You could call me Wakatoshi.”

You tighten your grip on your phone until the metal cuts into your palm. His grandmother also calls him Wakatoshi. “No, I don’t think that’d be right. You’re Ushijima-kun,” you say firmly. “Okay? I’ll see you at the entrance ceremony.”

You hang up before he can respond, and you know it’s a coward’s move, because you just can’t bear what he might say. Your arm drops to your side, phone slipping onto the hardwood floor with a plastic clatter. 

On the ceiling, you can see the glow-in-the-dark stars you once pasted as a child, and they still glow with a faint neon luminescence, even now. This is your room, small and comfortable, full of trinkets from friends and vacations, seashells and rocks and plastic gachapon toys, old notes and doodles and books borrowed that you’d never returned, with markers and scuffs on the wall. It’s cozy and a far cry from Ushijima’s own palatial room, with its rich furnishings and lonely air, the only personal touches being his volleyball and textbooks.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the Shiratorizawa uniform that Kaasan starched and ironed that afternoon, painstakingly placing it on a hanger before draping it across your desk chair, mindful of any creases. She handled the royal purple fabric with such care, and you can imagine her doing the same for Ushijima’s uniform if that was part of her job that day. If not, one of his other servants would iron it instead.

Ushijima Wakatoshi. You. You live in two different worlds, as far as the distance between the plastic stars on your ceiling and the cold, glittering stars outside.

—

During your first year at Shiratorizawa, you decide to quit volleyball and focus solely on academics. 

Outwardly, you reason that you’re not on a sports scholarship, but an academic one, so it makes more sense for you to focus on your studies, and join something like the student council instead. Inwardly, you’re much too old to keep relying on Ushijima-san’s kindness to pay for your private lessons. Unlike Ushijima, volleyball isn’t in your future, so it doesn’t make sense for you to keep pursuing it.

“You could join as a manager,” Ushijima offers, when he notices that instead of heading to the gym for volleyball practice and tryouts, you’re heading towards the student council office.

“It’s okay! I think I’ve gained everything I need to from volleyball. Besides, I heard your coach is super intense! I don’t think I’ll get along with him,” you say earnestly. It’s excuses, all excuses, but you try to put as much cheer in your voice as you can.

“I see.”

And that’s the end of that conversation, as painless as it always is with Ushijima. He never pushes you for more than you’re willing to give. It’s both relieving and disappointing, all at once, that he never asks for more.

When you close your eyes at night in your dorm room, you think of Ushijima’s grandmother’s words. You and Ushijima are from different worlds, and maybe you’re just going to drag him down. What does your friendship really do for him?

The two of you are still friends, of course. It’s not as if you’re going to pretend almost a decade of memories means nothing to you, and you don’t want to let someone else dictate your relationship. 

Sometimes, you wish you were children again, or that you’d met him just a little earlier, back before you were old enough to know what it meant for your family to work for his. That’s a pipe dream, though, and a few years of extra time together aren’t going to be enough to make up for the distance you’re trying to put between the two of you now.

But Ushijima keeps going on stubbornly forward, as if there’s nothing different about your life at all. If he notices you’ve withdrawn, then he doesn’t make any note of it. Volleyball practice tends to run longer than student council meetings, so he asks you to wait for him to finish so the two of you can head to the dorms together. Sometimes, if you’re busy prepping for school events and meetings run late, he’s the one waiting patiently outside the student council room for you to finish.

He has lunch with you, placing his tray right next to yours no matter who you’re sitting with, even if your friends tend to fall silent at his sudden presence, cowed by his reputation and the magazine articles emblazoned with his accomplishments. You see him everyday, because he always makes time to seek you out, regardless of the weather or your respective schedules, even if it’s only for a brief, five minute chat before he has to run or someone grabs your attention.

You make friends with some of Ushijima’s teammates by proxy, just because your lives are so braided together. The Shiratorizawa boy’s volleyball team is intimidating, and you’ve seen their posters plastered in the halls, tall boys with lean muscle, an array of awards, and a consistent presence at nationals. Everyone knows their names, and they’re the pride of the school.

Tendou is the one you’re closest to and the most approachable, though you say hi to Leon, Semi, and Hayato when you pass them in the halls, if only because you’re in the same year together. Tendou lopes through the hall without a care in the world, always looping his arm around your shoulder when he sees you like he’s about to sell you a knock-off watch.

He does this regardless if you’re alone, with a friend, or chatting with Ushijima. He always does this when he spots you with Ushijima especially, pulling you close like you’re a ragdoll. 

“On a date without me?” Tendou will say in a singsong voice. 

“It’s not like that, Satorin,” you’ll reply amiably. 

There’s always an imperceptible flicker across Ushijima’s face whenever you use Tendou’s nickname, some spasm of emotion that you can’t quite catch but that makes Tendou burst into uproarious laughter.

“Ohhh, never change, you two,” he’ll say, dramatically wiping at the corner of his eyes and flicking his fingers.

Life might have continued on in this way with Ushijima stubborn and consistent as always, and you with your attempts to put a subtle wedge between the two of you that he never seems to notice, not until an injury during the end of your first year of high school.

It’s an accident, really. Carelessness on your part, from hitting the track too hard during P.E., feet pounding against the tarmac, pushing yourself faster and harder, heedless of the cries from your friends and teacher to slow down, until you trip spectacularly over some hard edge of the race track.

Then you go crashing down in front of everyone, like a ship running aground, momentum forced to a sudden halt as you lay dazed, trying to piece together what happened with blurry faces above you.

“They’re injured!” someone yells.

“You need to go to the nurse,” the teacher says with a click of her tongue, hands on her hips. 

“I’m fine,” you protest, attempting to stand, but pain lances through your leg as you do so. You must have sprained your ankle when you tripped.

Just when you think your humiliation couldn’t get even worse, what with eating dirt in front of your classmates, you yelp when a shadow falls over you and arms wind under your knees and around your back, and then you’re being lifted up into the air.

People giggle and titter as you cling precariously to whoever’s picked you up, wrapping your arms around a very familiar neck. It’s Ushijima. You’re eye level with him, so you can stare right into his placid gaze.

“Ushijima-kun?” you whisper, astonished. You can feel the furnace heat of his body, the increase of his body temperature from running laps around the court. The way he’s holding onto you is with a grip so solid and steady that for a second, you wonder if you’re ever going to be let down again.

“We’re going to the nurse’s.”

“You can put me down,” you protest, but he’s already striding away, the sound of your classmates gossiping ringing in your ears. You can already imagine the gossip that is going to circulate, and Tendou’s gleeful expression when he hears about what happened. You’re going to be fending off dating rumors for the next two weeks, at least until something more exciting happens to take the attention off of you.

“You’re injured,” he says. “It would not be wise for you to stand on your own.”

“Ushijima-kun–”

“No,” he says firmly. He’s cradling you close to him, as if you’re something precious, and you try to convince yourself the heat on your face is from the exertion of exercise, and nothing more.

You’re in the nurse’s office before long, and Ushijima carefully sits you down on one of the beds. The nurse is out, so Ushijima takes it upon himself to shuffle through the cabinets. You sink the mattress, watching as he expertly sorts through medical supplies with a threadbare frown, pulling out an instant ice pack that he shakes to activate. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, kneeling in front of you. It’s strange to look down on him like this, not when his own gaze is so earnest and the entirety of his intense concentration directed solely at you.

You look away. “No, it’s fine.”

“Does it hurt here?” Ushijima gently presses his fingers to your ankle, grazing the edge of your sock as he carefully caresses your skin. His touch tingles, but it’s probably because your ankle is tender and sensitive. It has nothing to do with the gentleness of his hands, not when you remember how he can hit a volleyball with so much force it can knock the opposing libero off their feet.

“Only a little,” you mumble, wincing when his fingers ghost across a particularly sore area.

He nods, and Ushijima presses the ice pack to your ankle, a sudden cold shock to your sweaty skin. For a second, neither of you say anything. Ushijima carefully considers your ankle, and you consider him, the fringe of his hair and his eyelashes, the sweat beading at his temples, the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Why do you no longer call me Waka-chan?”

It takes you a few seconds to process the question before you open your mouth. “It’s a childish nickname. I told you already.”

“You have not been coming over as often. And you quit volleyball.”

“Because,” you say. “I’m busy. We live in the dorms now. And volleyball is fun, but I don’t want a career in it.”

“Is there something wrong?” he says. Ushijima never minces his words, and he always, always cuts right to the heart of the matter.

You could lie here, and Ushijima would most likely accept it as the truth. Why would he doubt you? But the truth, which you’ve kept compressed for years, the uncomfortable feelings, the warnings from others, spills out like water from a full cup, overflowing and unstoppable: “We live in two different worlds, Ushijima-kun. I mean, think about it. Your family employs mine. You have access to things I never will. A relationship like ours shouldn’t work in the first place.”

“I do not care about that,” he says simply.

“But I do,” you insist. “You can say that you don’t care, but I do. I care. I think there should be more distance between the two of us.”

Ushijima doesn’t speak for a while, as if he’s pondering your words. Then, he says, “All right.”

It’s such a simple word, and you should be relieved. Here it is, what everyone wants from you, your mom and his grandma, your relationship is restored back to the way it should have been from the start. You finally know your place.

But why do you feel so awful? Why do you feel like you’re giving up? Why are you fighting back tears when you look at the top of his head, the swirling part of his hair, Shiratorizawa’s promising volleyball ace on his knees without question or complaint, just because you’re injured and he could think of nothing else than carrying you here and treating you himself?

Neither of you says anything again. The whole time, you look up at the ceiling and Ushijima keeps the ice pressed to your foot until the nurse returns and shoos him off.

“You’ll be fine,” she says briskly after checking your ankle, with hands decidedly more efficient and less tender than Ushijima’s. After all, to her, you’re just another patient. “Just some rest and continue icing your ankle, and you can be back to action by tomorrow. Are you all right? Does it still hurt?”

Your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, but you manage a weak smile. “No. I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

—

Falling out is the wrong word to describe what happens next. It’s such a violent word, really, and implies there’s some sort of cataclysm, some large event that you can pinpoint as the direct cause. 

No, what happens is more purposeful and slow, a deterioration of your relationship with Ushijima as gradual as erosion, persistent water chipping at rock until it crumbles to pieces. 

And you know the cause, don’t you? It’s you who rang the death knell for your relationship.

Ushijima is not rude or cruel. He simply does what you ask for and keeps his distance. The two of you don’t stop talking, but you can go days without seeing him now. 

There’s a space Ushijima used to occupy by your side, some phantom pain where you used to have an extension of yourself, and it aches. You still find yourself turning to make a joke or express an errant thought, a reflex born from years of companionship, only to be met with empty air. Ushijima does what he says, and says what he does. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s an old-fashioned, honorable habit you find so endearing, even now.

Your second year of high school passes like that, at a cool, controlled, distant orbit around each other. Loving Ushijima and missing him are the same reflex, a practiced response born from your shared childhood, where he was always just one car ride, one call, one loud shout of his name away.

Is the proper way of doing things always so painful? Isn’t part of adulthood accepting that necessary things aren’t always so sweet or easy? And this is necessary, isn’t it? The best decision for Ushijima’s future, and your own? And you’re no longer a child, so you can swallow any bitter medicine easily, only you’re still waiting for the illness it’s supposed to cure to go away.

During Golden Week after the start of your third year of high school, you’re lounging at home when Kaasan calls you.

“I left my bento,” she says. “Take the bus and bring it to me at work. Go in through the side door!”

She hangs up before you respond, and you’re left speechless. You haven’t visited Ushijima’s house in three years, not since the moment the Ushijima matriarch reminded you of his place, and you would prefer to keep it that way. 

But Kaasan never allows for any argument, so reluctantly, you make your way over. Ushijima’s house isn’t that much different from when you were a child. It’s still the same imposing build with its furnishings kept elegant and sleek, but you drag your feet on the familiar hardwood floors that you once roamed, peering into rooms you once played in. They love keeping things as they are, the Ushijimas.

His grandmother is out. That, at least, is your only relief.

Kaasan pinches your cheek and reminds you to “be good” when you find her in the laundry room and present her with the bento. A quick in and out, your task done, you should be able to go home now.

However, you find yourself near the garden, sunflowers waving their stalks and buds at you like old friends, and you quietly step into the grass. The sunflowers haven’t begun to bloom yet, not at this time of year. That will come later, when the weather is warmer and softer. 

This is where you first met Ushijima, where everything in your life changed. Despite everything, it’s hard not to be fond of this place. You take a step closer, and pause.

There’s someone already there, sitting with crossed legs under the flowers, staring up at the leaves. It’s Ushijima, and for a second, you can’t breathe. There’s something about the arch of his back, the slope of his shoulders that seems so lonely. It’s like he’s still that kid again, the one who couldn’t admit that he missed his father, but still stared at the sunflowers he left behind everyday.

You should leave. There’s no place for you here. But you approach him instead, as if you’re that same kid, too, the one excited to make a new friend, who couldn’t leave that strange little boy in the garden alone. It’s too unbearable, the idea of abandoning him twice.

You sit next to Ushijima, leaving a respectable enough space between the two of you, legs pulled up to your chest. Ushijima doesn’t say anything. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the golden shadows of the flowers moving above you, a promise of everything they’ll become.

“The flowers are still here,” you say.

“Yes. They’re a perennial species, so they come back every year. With the right care, they can bloom for a long time.”

“I hope they bloom forever, Ushijima-kun.”

“That’d be impossible. Everything dies eventually.”

“I guess so. But you could always plant more,” you suggest. But would he even want to, when the original sunflowers were a gift from his father? What could ever replace that?

The silence weighs on you. You pluck at a blade of grass, rubbing it between your thumb and forefinger. In one of the shows you watched as a kid, one of the characters could play entire melodies by using a single blade as an instrument. You tried so hard as a kid to recreate that song, pulling up entire rows of grass with Ushijima, trying to find the perfect blade to make sing. That afternoon, your mouths and knees were stained green and Kaasan scolded you for hours.

“I miss you.” 

The words are unexpected, without hesitation or pretense. Ushijima says the words like they’re as easy as breathing, as easy as saying good morning or good night. You can’t look at him when he says that. You can’t. If you look at his face, his honest expression, the full weight of his unparalleled, unchanging adoration and regard for you, you’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.

“I told you. We need distance.”

“Did someone say something to you?”

You hesitate, twisting at the blade of grass until it snaps. Ushijima values his family, and you don’t want to cause a rift between them. “Even if someone did, I made this decision on my own.”

“Was it Obaasan?” he says evenly. Your ensuing silence is answer enough, and he continues. “I respect her greatly. Obaasan has always been strong, dedicated, and clever, and has tried to do what’s best for the family and me. But that does not mean I will always agree with the things she says. And you do not have to, either.”

“Ushijima-kun. You don’t even know what we talked about.”

“I do not need to know the details. I can imagine, because she does not hide herself, but I have never wanted to be her heir, or to be anyone but myself. And I already know that you are more than what other people tell you that you can be,” he says. “I like who you are, and who you try to be everyday.”

“How can you still like me?” you whisper. His words are painful, and you want nothing more than to run before they obliterate all the walls you’ve worked to maintain. “Ushijima-kun, I’m being terrible to you. I’m selfish, asking you to ignore our friendship. You should hate me.”

“Hating you is not something I can do,” he says. “Do you hate me?”

You bury your head in your arms, your voice muffled as you respond, “I could never hate you.”

“Then that is all I need.”

Neither of you move. For a while longer, during a stolen moment on a spring afternoon, the two of you sit side by side, accompanied by nothing but the budding sunflowers, heads pregnant with dreams of summer and the hope of blooming for another year longer.

—

You’re aimlessly flicking through television channels when you come home from giving Kaasan her bento, news reports and variety shows flashing by as you struggle to find something that catches your attention for longer than five seconds when Kaasan and Tousan return from work.

Your conversation with Ushijima that afternoon is still fresh in your mind, and you turn his words over and over, stones tumbling in river water until they’re worn smooth and small. To be yourself. To still be so loved, even now. Ushijima Wakatoshi, who is precious to you beyond words, beyond understanding.

“There you are. Have you eaten yet?” Kaasan asks. She’s at the edge of the couch, peering at you from where you lie slumped over, still flicking through channels before you settle on a variety show with some idol you vaguely recognize from magazines.

“Hmmm,” you say, a response that doesn’t satisfy her at all. “Yeah.”

You think that’s the end of it, or Kaasan is going to lecture you for wasting time on the television and somehow running up the electricity bill with your indecisive channel switching, but to your surprise, she settles on the couch next to you instead, folding her legs to the side.

“I saw you with Ushijima-kun today,” she says. 

“I didn’t talk about anything appropriate,” you say immediately. “I promise I’ve been keeping your words in mind, and—”

“I’m not going to lecture you. Unless you’ve done something that requires a lecture from me?”

“Kaasan!”

“I’m kidding,” she says, running an affectionate hand along your hair.

There are new lines around Kaasan’s eyes, and her hands are calloused from years of hard work and manual labor. Her hair is sparse, gray streaks sprouting in her hair like cracks breaking through the pavement. It makes your heart ache, and you lean into her shoulder.

“I hope you know,” Kaasan says, “That I’ve always been hard on you because I only want the best for you. I want you to have a good life, even if I’m not around to take care of you. And you’ve always been a little too rambunctious for your own good. Society isn’t nice to people who don’t fall in line, and I’m always, always afraid you’re going to get hurt.”

“I’m better about that now,” you protest.

“You are, and I’m proud of you. But I’ve always loved that spark in you, too, the part of you that isn’t afraid of anything, that knows what you want. And I’m worried that I stifled that.”

“You didn’t do anything. You were just telling me what was right.”

“No, I did,” Kaasan says. “You haven’t been happy since you decided to stop being friends with Ushijima-kun. He isn’t, either. Do you think I couldn’t tell? You used to talk about him all the time. You know, I was always a little resentful that it felt like Ushijima-san could give you things that I couldn’t. It felt like I was falling behind as your mother, so I resented her, and without meaning to, I took it out on you. And it’s true that your social standing is going to affect how you navigate the world, but I shouldn’t have made you feel small or worthless. 

“You and Ushijima-kun might come from different places, have different opportunities in your lives, but you are no less than him. You are going to have to work harder than him to get what you want, and the world is unfair in that way but instead of telling you to accept things as they are, I want you to eat the entire world.”

“Kaasan,” you whisper, burying your head in her shoulder. She runs a hand down your back, slow, affectionate, as the television blares out with tinny laughter and music. You can’t speak for a while, long-buried tears choking your voice. “Ushijima-kun’s grandmother… she told me that…”

“She said something, didn’t she? Don’t listen to her. She has her way of doing things, but you have yours. Don’t lose your spark,” she says. “I’ll support you. Go for the things you want. Within reason, of course.”

“I love you,” you mumble, tears thick in your throat. You feel like a little kid again, clinging to your mother like she’s a raft in a turbulent sea, the only thing sheltering you from the world outside.

“I love you, too, and I’m sorry.” Kaasan strokes your back, and you wish you could stay like this forever.

—

When you approach Ushijima at lunch the next day, it’s with a levity you haven’t experienced in months. He’s an island in a sea of empty seats, and you’re always guaranteed to snag a spot in the crowded cafeteria. People tend to cut him a wide berth as if there’s some unspoken rule that ordinary people can’t approach him. The only one who doesn’t seem to care is Tendou who chatters on about the manga he’s reading, though you aren’t sure how much of it Ushijima understands.

“Hi,” you say, dropping your tray down in front of the two of them. “Satorin, Waka-chan.”

Tendou’s words cease, as if a boulder has cut off the flow of his words. He tilts his head, eyes stretching unnaturally wide as if he’s trying to puzzle out this new development with his preternatural intuition. “Waka-channnn? You haven’t used that name before.”

“Well, I used to, and I miss using it,” you say. “Ushijima-kun is too stiff! I sound like Kaasan. You don’t mind, right, Waka-chan?”

“No, I do not,” Ushijima says, chewing his rice and swallowing before speaking, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “I prefer that name.”

“What have you two been up to?” you say. “Anything new on the volleyball court?”

Tendou leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table, launching into some detailed account of their practices, the new freshman who’s easy to tease, their prospective rivals and his predictions for how the season will go (which usually involves him making blocks to crush the opposing team’s spirits and hopes).

You nod along, but risk a glance at Ushijima. You can’t gauge his expression, but there is a lightness to his shoulders, an ease to the way he holds himself that hasn’t been there since you started distancing yourself from him.

It’s natural how you rejoin Ushijima’s world after that, as if you’re simply slotting into a place that was reserved for you from the beginning. You start seeking him out in the hallways between classes, during lunch, and wait for him after volleyball practice. You text him with every random thought in your head and complain about homework and annoying classmates.  

Now, you can wave at him whenever you see him in the halls, jump onto his back, and crack jokes as Ushijima nods seriously. It’s back to the way things used to be, but there’s something a bit different now in your interactions. There’s a newfound tenderness, reinforced by your painful year apart, as if you’re marveling at the miracle of each other’s presence.

But it’s not as if you’re just going to pretend nothing has happened. You apologize to him as soon as you muster up the courage for it a few days after you approach him during lunch. The sun is sinking low in the sky, and there’s a sheath of papers in your arms, forms from student council you’ll sort through later.

The school is empty, save for a few stragglers from sports practice that run late, but you and Ushijima are functionally alone. He’s carrying his bag and your bag, too, both slung carefully over his arm as you and him make your way down the gym steps. There’s still sweat clinging to his hair from volleyball practice.

“Waka-chan, I’m really sorry,” you say, hands tightening around your papers. “I want to apologize for how I’ve been acting. I hurt you, and that’s unacceptable. I shouldn’t have gotten up in the words of other people, or demanded that we stop being so close. I was selfish.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “You’re here now. And it is not as if you were wrong to be aware of our positions in life, and how that will affect our relationship.”

“But still,” you persist, “I made you feel lonely. I should have known better than to do that! And I feel like I’m taking advantage of your kindness, even now.”

“You’re not taking advantage of my kindness,” Ushijima says. “I’m doing this because I like you.”

“Well, I like you, too,” you say. “It’d be weirder if we didn’t like each other at this point, you know?”

“Yes,” he says. “But I also would like to date you once we graduate, with the intention of marriage.”

The papers fall from your arms, fanning out across the dusty ground. You’re no longer walking, and when Ushijima notices, he pauses and looks back. You don’t know where you should be looking—the sky, the ground, the papers on the floor you’ll need to pick up—but you most definitely cannot look at his face.

Ushijima bends down to collect the papers for you, and after a beat, you follow suit. It’d be wrong to make him do all the work, and it’s only once all the papers have been returned to your arms, albeit a bit more dirty than they were before, that you can speak.

“Do you even know what dating is, Waka-chan?” you say. “You only do that with people you really like.”

“I know,” he says, “That is why I would like to date you.”

“But,” you say. “But…” Your words trail off. There actually isn’t a refutal that you can think of.

“Do you not like me?”

Your heart feels like it’s exploding in your chest. There’s never really been any other answer to that question, is there? From childhood until now, even if the way you understand your own emotions have changed, in some aspects, they’ve always been the same. “I do. I like you a lot.”

“If our feelings are mutual, then all is well,” he says, nodding. “After graduation, I will have time to properly court you. I have been waiting since we were children to do so. I can wait a while longer.”

A strangled noise escapes you, like the dying call of a bird. Since you were children? Has he always been planning to do this?

“Are you all right?” Ushijima asks.

“Yes. Well, no. But also yes! Waka-chan…” you say. “It’s not fair that you confessed first! I wanted to do that.”

“You will have time in the future to do so,” he says. “Should I pretend we didn’t say anything just now, and you can confess to me during graduation?”

Is that a joke? Did Ushijima Wakatoshi, the most straitlaced, unbendable person you know, just make a joke? Maybe you are rubbing off on him. 

The two of you walk towards the dorm in the light of the setting sun, and the entire world feels like it’s been burnished in gold. You could continue like this forever—you and Ushijima, side by side, the most natural place for either of you to belong. 

—

There’s dirt under your fingernails as you carefully drop sunflower seeds into shallow, two and a half centimeter holes, smoothing over the moist, loamy soil once you’re done. You’ve tried to space each seed roughly fifteen centimeters apart, so that they’ll have room to grow when they finally bloom.

You wipe the back of your forehead with your hand absently, leaving behind a streak of dirt. You probably should have worn gloves, but you like the feeling of soil on your hands. It reminds you of when you were a child, playing in this very garden.

Before you can move, Ushijima brushes away the dirt on your face with a pristine white handkerchief, folding it over when he’s done and placing it carefully in his pocket. He’s situated right next to you, having finished with his side of the planting already.

“Thanks, Waka-chan,” you say, crouching back on your heels. “Tousan will help take care of them while we’re gone! I told him not to use any fertilizer, or to overwater the plants.”

He hums in affirmation. The sunflowers his father once planted have finally withered and died for good. You don’t want to see this patch of the garden stay empty, though, so on a day when Ushijima is free from volleyball practice and you don’t have any classes, you both agreed to make the trip from Tokyo to Sendai to plant some seeds.

“You should take a picture,” you say, surveying your work. For now, the area in front of you is pitifully bare dirt. But you know, just under the surface, the seeds you’ve planted are germinating, ready to stretch out tender roots. Even when you can’t see it, things are growing and changing. “Your dad’s going to want to see.”

Ushijima dutifully takes out his phone and snaps a picture, then angles it towards you. You hold up a peace sign as he takes a few more.

“Do they look good?” you ask.

“You look radiant,” he says simply. “Otousan will want to see that you’ve been doing well.”

You stand, stretching out your hands as high as they can reach. Your arms are a little sore from all of your work. Since you only recently joined the community volleyball team, you’re still getting used to the exertion again. “Okay, then let’s go see Kaasan and Tousan! Kaasan’s going to be mad if we’re late for lunch. And, Waka-chan—” You waggle your fingers until Ushijima obediently shuffles over, bending his head down and you kiss him on the lips, a brief, affectionate peck. “Let’s come back to see the sunflowers once they’re in bloom, okay?”

Ushijima is smiling at you now, something small and delicate, just like a flower bud. It feels like he’s been smiling more often these days, like when he got his contract with the Schweiden Adlers, or you got your internship with the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, or just whenever you surprise him in the stands during games. You want to bottle up his smile forever, just so you can carry it around and admire it on bad days.

You’re living together in an apartment in Tokyo, and with your respective busy schedules, it’s hard to find the time to see each other. But you make it work, and if nothing else, you like the assurance that when you come home, it’s to Ushijima. 

His grandmother might not be the biggest fan of your relationship, but it’s not as if you’re worried about what she thinks anymore. Besides, Ushijima-san, Kaasan, and Tousan are happy enough to see the two of you together, but even if they weren’t, you probably would have just eloped with Ushijima.

“All right. We’ll come back,” Ushijima says, granting your wish as easily as he grants all of them. He leans down to kiss you again, as if the first one wasn’t enough. His kiss is tender, lips lingering against yours, and it’s a promise for everything to come and the flowers yet to bloom.

Your mother chatted with Gopher Wood, gloved hand covering her mouth as she laughed pleasantly, and you hovered just a step behind her. Sunday was buried in Gopher Wood’s robes, anxious, chubby fingers clutching the fabric as he looked at the ground.

He glanced up at you, and before he could glance away, you mouthed, “Hello.”

He stared before tentatively waving his free hand. You smiled at him, pleased, and then he broke eye contact, looking down at the ground again, red blush staining his pale ears.

After that, your mother and Gopher Wood left the two of you alone over china cups of black tea and a rainbow swirl of macaroons in order to get to know each other better. You promptly got up to sit next to him on the plush, rose-pattern fabric, plopping down so close that Sunday’s wings fluttered in agitation.

You held out your hand, and said your full name. “What’s yours?” you asked.

“I’m Sunday,” he murmured, startled, perhaps, at your proximity and how bold you were. Your mother always chided you for acting too forward, but what was wrong with knowing what you wanted?

“Your name is pretty,” you said. “Sundays are my favorite days of the week.”

Sunday blushed again, and you really did think he was pretty, the prettiest boy you ever saw. Whenever you came over for weekly visits, an effort meant to increase the intimacy between the two of you, he would shyly ask how you were and if you wanted anything to hear about what he was reading that day.

You were the one to decide the pace of your relationship, taking his hand and dragging him around to explore the libraries, to ramble in the gardens, to spy on the grown-ups and eavesdrop  on their conversations. No matter what you wanted, he followed obediently, trailing after you like a baby bird whenever you took his hand in your own.

Arranged marriages aren’t about love, and yours is nothing more than a political engagement between the Oak and Iris Families. At the time, though, you thought you could love him. Fancied yourself a little in love with him already, but then your cute little bird changed. It was gradual, the way he became more withdrawn, how he let go of your hand and started talking to you in the same polite tone he used with shareholders and political opponents.

It’s not as if he’s cruel these days, either. Sunday is courteous, respectable, responsible. He takes you out to lunch once a week at noon sharp on Fridays, with a long-standing reservation at a restaurant you enjoy. He sends you gifts of jewelry, necklaces with delicate golden chains and dewdrop gems nestled in creamy wrapping paper. He opens doors for you, keeps a hand on the small of your back, brings you back home before nine and never asks for anything except for a chaste kiss on his cheek.

No, on the surface, you have no reason to complain about your fiance. It’s just that you’re aware of the truth, always lurking under every interaction: Sunday shut you out, and he’s never let you back in.

—

You’re alone in your dressing room, staring at the vanity’s mirror, necklaces and bracelets and earrings spread around you in an indulgent feast of gold and jewels. There’s a party in half an hour, but it’s really just an excuse for political maneuvering and sucking up to those in power. You’ve grown up attending such events as the heir of the Iris Family, so you know how to smile and flatter, how to shut down the wrong people attempting to get into your good graces.

Knuckles rap on the doorframe, but you don’t startle. There’s only one person who could enter your room so freely. Besides, your mirror captures the edge of your door, so you can see the shine of Sunday’s gold cuff links on his black silk suit jacket, his pressed pants perfectly creased down the middle, as he likes it.

“You’re not ready yet,” Sunday says. You keep your eyes steady on the mirror as Sunday approaches, stopping a polite distance away from you.

“Well, I’m stuck,” you drawl. “I just don’t know what jewelry would match with my outfit.” You’re dressed in white and black silk, something that slinks down your body and matches with Sunday’s outfit.

Sunday flicks a glance across the dazzling array of jewelry. “Why not this?” he asks, pointing at a simple gold pendant, a modest white diamond its only adornment. He gave it to you for some holiday or the other, an obligatory gift that you never wore, though Sunday has given you so much jewelry it’d be hard to find the occasion to flaunt all of it.

“It doesn’t fit,” you say. “I was actually thinking of…” Your fingers dance on your vanity until they loop around the chain of a silver necklace, awash with blue and green gems that sparkle in the low light. It’s just shy of ostentatious, but it’s the opposite of the sort of subtle, classy jewelry Sunday prefers. “...this.”

“That’s from one of the IPC’s Stonehearts, isn’t it. Aventurine, I recall?” Sunday asks. His face still retains its poised expression, and his voice is perfectly pleasant, but it dips in tone, the only sign that your choice has any effect on him.

You smile at him in the mirror, your lips curling with the weight of your own self-satisfaction. “Oh, is that so? He was quite charming, wasn’t he?”

“The IPC’s presence here doesn’t bode well,” Sunday says, voice sharp, the barest edge of a blade.

“Well, it’s not as if we want to get on their bad side, either, do we? This could be a show of good-will.”

“All the same, we’re not here to bend to their demands,” Sunday says. “Besides, the necklace I showed you would suit your outfit more.”

“I think you just like gold,” you say, twirling the necklace around your fingers. “No, I’ll wear this one.”

“If you already had your eye on a particular piece, I fail to see how my input was necessary.” 

You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Maybe I just like hearing the sound of your voice, Sunday.”

Sunday doesn’t look away. “And if you wanted to hear me talk, you have more than ample opportunity at our engagement tonight.”

“You’re so touchy,” you grumble. “You already know you’ll be busy with everyone trying to suck up to you to spare a single thought for me.” 

“Fulfilling our duties is the only reason we’re here in the first place,” he says. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll be out in a bit, hm?” You waggle your fingers to dismiss him.

Sunday doesn’t move. “Let me help you put your necklace on.”

You dip your head slightly in acquiescence, and Sunday pinches the delicate chain of the necklace with both hands, bringing it up to rest against the hollow of your neck. You watch as he gazes at the necklace in the mirror, evaluating it against your skin. 

His movements are slow and deliberate as he fastens the necklace together, the brush of his silk gloves cool against your nape. He lowers his gaze in concentration, eyelashes shadowing his cheeks. For a second, neither of you speak, and in the dim lamps floating around the room, his eyes shimmer, molten gold that threatens to swallow you whole.

“We’re leaving in five minutes,” he says, and then he’s gone, vanishing from your mirror, footsteps receding behind you.

You sigh, fingering the cold gems that rest against your collarbones. It’s not as if you can blame your deteriorating relationship solely on Sunday. But as forward and obstinate as you are, Sunday is just as stubborn and unyielding. And if teasing him like a child and playing petty games is the only way to crack his facade, then what other choice does he give you?

“You could have at least told me I looked nice,” you grumble at your own reflection, but there’s no one to respond.

—

The party is hosted by the Oak Family, and like everything Sunday likes to do, it’s a dazzling, opulent affair, positioned to show both prestige and power. In the Dreamscape, where everything can be bent to his whims, musician-less instruments strum a dreamy waltzy in the corner, silver plates piled with delicacies from across the galaxy waft through the air, offering themselves to the silk and jewel encrusted members of Penacony’s most elite society.

You and Sunday walk through the entrance together, your hand safely tucked around his arm, and you press yourself to his side, the picture of a beautiful, engaged couple. A flock of admirers drift around you the entire time, socialites eager to get into your good graces, members of other Families hinting for more funding, more support. 

It takes a while before you can shake most of them off, and when you do, you practically drag Sunday towards a cluster of floating drinks, swirling with ruby red liquid.

“Hyenas,” you murmur, snatching a thin-stemmed glass out of the air. “You’d think they followed the Voracity instead of the Harmony with the way they act.”

“Everyone is drawn to the promise of Penacony’s sweet dreams,” Sunday says. “But that’s what this party is for, to contain their ambitions. As long as they understand their role in things, there won’t be any issue.”

You glance at Sunday. The way he talks makes him feel like a stranger at times, a thousand miles away from you. What happened to the child who used to hide behind curtains with you at stuffy, formal events, sneaking more sweets than your guardians would ostensibly allow?

“The two of you look quite well this evening.”

You whirl around, raising your glass to your lips to hide your grimace at the voice, creamy smooth and decadent to the point it makes your hackles raise.

“Aventurine,” Sunday greets, and you can’t tell whose smile is less genuine.

Aventurine is dressed in a shimmering green suit that shifts under the light, the top three buttons left undone, dripping with silver and blue jewelry. His eyes crinkle when he sees you, and as he lowers himself into a bow, he reaches out a hand.

You give him your free one, and he presses it to his lips.

“Your necklace suits you,” he says. “I’m glad you liked it enough to wear it for this party.”

“Why, it was so beautiful I couldn’t resist,” you say, a charming smile of your own plastered to your face. “Thank you for such a treasure.”

“It’s a trifle, really,” Aventurine says, waving one careless hand. “It’s the least I can do for a new friend, hm?”

On the surface Aventurine and Sunday are nothing alike. He’s rakish, oozing with charisma and sweet words, and Sunday is formal, courteous, benevolent if a bit distant.

But you’ve been raised by politicians, surrounded by entertainers and performers. You know a liar when you see one, no matter how skilled. Everything both of them do is calculated, from the number of buttons Aventurine leaves undone, to the way Sunday hides behind manners and decorum.

“I hope we can become good friends, Aventurine,” you say.

“Me, too,” he says, his voice a purr. “I think we could do excellent things for each other, don’t you?”

For a split second, you think Sunday is going to say something. His face has smoothed into something blank and impenetrable, eyes cold. But then he smiles, all kindness and charm, and expertly secures your hand around his arm again.

“If the opportunity arises, then I’m sure we’ll all get along quite well,” Sunday says. “But if you’ll excuse me, my fiance and I must get going. There are some members of the Bloodhound Family we can’t afford to neglect.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to hog your attention all to myself,” Aventurine says. “Another time, then, friends.”

Sunday leads you along, all but steering you away from Aventurine. You try to quell your rising irritation as the two of you bounce from guest to guest, Sunday never letting you stray from his side. He traps your hand with his own, keeping it securely pressed to his arm.

When Sunday moves towards another group of guests, you instead tug on his arm, dragging him towards the end of the hall, past a door that opens just enough for the two of you to slip through. It’s an area that no ordinary guest can access: the end of the sweet dream, where you’ll be safe from prying eyes. In the party’s backstages, blue bubbles float and burst, furniture wheeling in a chaotic jumble overhead.

“What are you doing?” you say, voice low.

Sunday appraises you, his eyes flicking from your expression to the way you slide your hand off his arm.

“Do you have a problem with my conduct?”

“You’re acting strange, Sunday,” you say. “Ever since we talked to Aventurine. Do you expect me to just smile and act like it’s nothing?”

“I simply found that man and his transparent ulterior motives irritating. There’s nothing to be gained from the IPC taking an interest in Penacony.”

You fold your arms. This time, it’s your turn to appraise Sunday, the flutter of his wings, the way he folds his hands in front of him, pristine and untouchable. His expression is mild, relaxed, but his head is tilted up, so it feels like he’s looking down on you as he speaks.

“Sunday. Are you jealous?” you say.

“Jealous? Why would I be? You’re my fiance.”

It’s the way he says it, so dull and careful, as if you’re another asset, unwilling to let any emotion affect his voice that makes your temper spike. Even now, in private, he’s incapable of letting his facade slip, just once.

“I’m only your fiance in name,” you snap. “Please. We all know this is just a marriage of convenience.” You take a step forward, jabbing your finger at his chest. “I don’t know why you bother with putting on an act in public. Everyone knows this is a sham. You might as well just break our engagement and find someone else. I know anyone will do for you—”

“Anyone will do?” Sunday’s voice is quiet, intense, as he grips your outstretched hand. His touch is firm and possessive, the pressure just shy to crush your fingers. “You think I would be happy with just anyone else?”

“Yes,” you snarl, jaw clenched, unwilling to look away from his eyes, those unfathomable pools of gold, deep enough to drown you. “You haven’t given me any reason to think differently, have you? The last time you were honest with me was when we were children, Sunday.”

“I am not going to break off our engagement,” he says. “That has never been a possibility. It will never be a possibility.” His free hand snakes alongside the back of your neck, gloved fingers toying with the clasp of your necklace. “This color is abominable. Gold has always looked best on you.” 

You let out a breath, and then, jerking your hand out of his grip, you shove Sunday, hands flat against his chest as you push him with enough force that he stumbles. For a fleeting moment, you savour his bewildered expression, his eyebrows knitted together, mouth open with shock. Your childish games, your childish rewards.

“Really?” you say coldly, rubbing the back of your neck, fingers pressing into flesh, as if you can rub away the memory of his touch, or press it deeper into your skin. “I find both gold and silver awful colors on me.”

“It’s a shame we disagree.” 

“Why don’t you talk to me?” you say. “Tell me the truth. Tell me how you feel. I can be here for you, like I was when we were children.”

The silence stretches out, taut and fragile as a spiderweb. For a moment, you think he’ll do it. He parts his mouth, but then he scrubs a hand across his face, smoothing his expression back into something placating. The face of your fiance, the heir and the head of the Oak Family. “Things are much too different from when we were children. If you’ve finished composing yourself, then we should head back.”

Bitter disappointment seethes in your stomach, but you manage a careless wave of your hand as you turn from him. “Oh, no. I don’t think I’m done with my temper tantrum. You’ll have to go back to the party without me. Otherwise I might be liable to embarrass you.”

“As you wish.” Sunday moves past you as you dig your hands into your outfit, slippery silk crushed in your hands. At the doorframe, he pauses. “Why haven’t you broken off our engagement, if you’re so unsatisfied?”

A memory surfaces of a shy little boy fluttering after you, hand reaching out to you. Back then, he wasn’t afraid, because he knew you would always, always take his hand. “Because it’s too much trouble, I suppose.”

“I see.” The door cracks open, letting in a swirl of light and laughter, and then he’s gone. 

—

After your first meeting with Sunday, you and your mother rode home in a chauffeured car, sleekly winding through the streets of Penacony like a snake. You snuggled into her side, as content and satisfied as a kitten. 

“What did you think of Sunday?” your mother said, glancing out the window, where Penacony was nothing more than a smear of a dream, bright colors running together. 

“He’s cute! I like him a lot,” you said, giggling, as she ran a fond hand through your hair. 

“That’s good. This may be a political marriage, darling, but it makes a world of a difference if you like the person you’re marrying.”

“Oh. If I said I didn’t like him, then does that mean we’d be unhappy?”

“I’m not sure,” your mother said. “It depends on the person. Even if you didn’t love each other, you could still be partners. There are different types of relationships.”

“Well,” you said, toying with the rings on her hands. Your own mother was cordial with your father, business partners. You were an asset, you knew, but in rare moments, she indulged you like this. “I want to like him, but even if he doesn’t like me, we’re going to be together forever, right? Then I just gotta do my best until he does.”

—

A few days after the party, a gift shows up at your door, packaged in sleek white paper, wrapped with a blue ribbon. You twine the ribbon around your finger as you rip the package open, revealing a gold necklace nestled in a little box.

There’s no note or address, not that you need one to know who it’s from.

You let the slinky chain run through your hands as you marvel at the craftsmanship, the solid weight to the gleaming gold. You press the necklace to your lips, a cold kiss, before you throw it onto your vanity, where it bounces carelessly onto the wood.

You want to stain Sunday’s heart, sink into him and mark him as deeply as he’s marked you. It’ll never be enough, not until you have him right where you want him: by your side, where leaving isn’t an option. 

You’re tired of necklaces. For the next party, you don’t think you’ll wear any at all.

But then there’s the less orthodox part of your job, the one most of the school really knows you for and what other managers don’t have to deal with: you’re Oikawa Tooru’s unofficial PR manager, and you have been since your first year of high school. 

It’s a decision you came to after mulling on it during the nights leading up to the high school entrance ceremony in spring, just because you didn’t want a repeat of middle school. Since middle school, it’s been a consistent issue that his fans will mob the gym doors, making it hard for players to enter or to leave. Not to mention the constant confessions at all hours of the day that interrupt both study and conversation, the biohazard of overflowing cookies in Oikawa’s shoe locker, and the way his fanclub maintains a cultish devotion to him and an irrational hatred of anyone who “oversteps their boundaries.”

You’ve known both Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime since childhood, which means you’ve born first hand witness to a lot of crazy stunts over the years, including but not limited to: a girl baking her hair into a chocolate tart she gifted Oikawa for Valentine’s Day, and an underclassman following him home for weeks in your second year of middle school. Suffice to say, you were the one who escorted Oikawa to a doctor’s appointment and threw out the tart, and alerted both your teachers and the local police about the unwanted behavior.

Neither of these were his fault, of course, and he bounced back pretty fast, all things considered, waving it off as “fans who were just a little too into him.” The only thing he demanded after was your unrelenting attention, arms looped around your waist as he nuzzled into your shoulder, or intertwining your hands together as you walked to school. He was probably more traumatized by the events than he let on and needed comfort, which was why you let him cling to you incessantly, even when Iwaizumi grumbled that “you were spoiling him too much.”

But Oikawa has been this way since you were children, so his clinginess is no longer any surprise. Your earliest memories involve Oikawa crying unless you were paying attention to him, a whining Oikawa tugging at your clothes so much they became permanently stretched out, and Oikawa always insisting on sleeping in your bed during sleepovers, unable to drift off unless you were right by his side, close enough to latch onto.

It doesn’t help that Oikawa is, unfortunately, someone who thrives off attention. He’s always kind to his fans, even the ones who overstep their boundaries and cling to him a little more closely than is professional. He likes to claim that he’s providing vital fanservice, that he wouldn’t want to disrespect anyone who’s worked so hard to get his attention and is so enthusiastic in supporting him. 

So, you have no choice but to take matters into your own hands, as one of the people who’s known him since birth and thus has some measure of responsibility over him, and because you’re tired of dealing with fan-related disaster after disaster. Thus your Oikawa Tooru Fan System is created, an elaborate schedule that you maintain with the appropriate diligence and zest.

Instead of fans mobbing him at all hours of the day, you’ve set up a designated time for people to confess to him (the first half of the lunch hour, with every person lined up in a neat row, a two minute slot per person), a gift-delivery service (from the hours of eight in the morning to two in the afternoon you will accept any gifts that people want to give to Oikawa, provided they pass your rigorous inspection and fill out the necessary forms declaring the contents first), and even specified days in which all manner of fan activity must be ceased for the duration of any important matches (though cheering and attending the match is permitted, as long as no one tries to step onto court).

You’ve gotten pretty good at managing his unruly fans over the course of three years, and your system has spared you no amount of headaches, too. Sure, it’s a lot of work, but it’s better than the chaos of the past, when you were constantly worried about getting trampled in the manic crowds. Most people are pretty good about following your rules, realizing it’s better for them to have a specified slot than trying to compete with a crush of fans determined to give Oikawa their presents at the same time.

Well, just as there are people who appreciate your system, there are always some people who want to push their luck. They don’t appreciate the beauty and efficiency of the system you’ve created and don’t understand just how lawless it used to be before you took over.

“Can you please give this to Oikawa-senpai?” The girl in front of you is begging, hands clasped together, a pink paper bag dangling from her arm. It contains “her love”/“her well wishes”/“her earnest desire to support Oikawa” (and so on and so forth, reasoning you’ve heard a million times before).

You hold up a hand. You’re going to be late to practice if she doesn’t stop her pleas, but every time you try to duck around her, she just steps in front of you again. “Sorry, this is outside of designated gift-giving times. You should wait until tomorrow to try.”

“Please,” she wheedles. “It’s just one gift. And you’re going to volleyball practice, anyways, right? So you’re not going out of your way.”

“I understand your frustrations,” you say gently, “And your desire to support someone you admire.”

“So–”

“But,” you say, “The system is in place for a reason. If I let one person break the rules, then everyone will, and then it’ll be chaos. Besides, Tooru is going to be focused on practice. He has the Interhigh qualifiers coming up, so it’s more important than ever that he only accepts presents on a limited basis. As a fan, I hope you can understand.”

She huffs, cheeks reddening with frustration. “But I don’t! It’s just one gift. I don’t get why you’re the one who gets to decide who gets to give him his presents, anyways. Are you really that special?”

And there it is: the “you have no right to be so close to him”/“you’re monopolizing all of his time”/“you think you’re better than us because you’re his childhood friend” (and so on and so forth. You’ve also heard this a million times before).

You tune her out as she speaks, wondering if you can make a run for it and deal with the fallout later. Oikawa’s fans don’t scare you, and most of them are pretty nice, anyways. You’ve even made a few friends with them, the regulars who always bring him cookies during practices and give you the extras, which you appreciate. 

But there are always a few who bristle and yell, who think they’re entitled to a bit more attention, who don’t understand why the rules can’t be bent. It’s almost charming, the first year girls and boys who think they’re threatening when they sound like squeaky kittens, baring their claws for the first time in their lives.

Before you can decide what to do, you hear the sound of familiar footsteps behind you and the girl lets out a gasp, her cheeks flushing.

An arm descends upon your shoulders, and you promptly duck to the side. “Tooru,” you say, turning towards Oikawa, who’s all easy, charming smiles and artfully styled hair, his jacket left half-open (which he does on purpose, you know, because he thinks it looks cool). “What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t at practice yet, so I went to go look for you. Coach said you had some information on the team we’re going against in a practice game?”

“Yup. This was one of the few times they were available for a scrimmage, and I did some research into their libero, who might be a problem,” you say, tapping a finger on your chin.

Oikawa’s eyes fall on the first year girl, who quivers, the blush spreading at an alarming rate across her face like a fungus. “And hello, cutie. Who are you?”

“I’m,” she says, hands trembling as she extends out the gift bag, now clutched in two trembling hands, “I’m a huge fan of yours, Oikawa-senpai!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says smoothly, placing one firm hand on the small of your back, “And I see you have a present for me? If we weren’t so busy with nationals, I could accept it right now! But you can give it to me tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

“Okay!” she squeaks. “It’s okay! I’ll do that, then!”

With one final, deep bow at him, she scurries off without even acknowledging your presence. Oikawa pushes you along once she’s gone, the hand on your back an incessant, unescapable pressure.

“You really didn’t need to do that,” you say. 

“Aw, even though I was trying so hard to help my cute little manager?”

“Ugh.” You start speeding up in an attempt to escape Oikawa and his touch, but he simply keeps pace with you. “It’s not like people haven’t done that before. Sometimes they just need an outlet for their frustrations, and I’m the most convenient target. Besides, I was just going to run past her.”

“You know, you’ll never be popular with girls if you blow them off like that,” he chides. “You need to face them with an honest heart, like I do—Manager-chan! You’re going to trip!”

You finally shake him off and dart towards the gym, Oikawa trailing just a step behind, protests bubbling on his lips that you ignore.

With one hand pushing the gym door open, you pause. “Thanks, Tooru,” you say over your shoulder. 

“Well, of course. I’d do anything for you,” he responds, preening under your gratitude. “Why don’t you thank me with a kiss?”

“Denied. And you have to run five extra laps during practice.”

—

When practice ends, you’re usually the first one to step outside the gym, whistle in hand, facing a parade of fans that are waiting to descend on Oikawa with fervor.

“All right, everyone,” you say, blowing on your whistle. “Line up! If you’re here to say something to Oikawa, you get a minute to do so. There will also be time tomorrow if you can’t finish what you want to say today. And remember, no gifts. Those are only viable during school hours!”

The students acquiesce, falling into a loose line that stretches down the stairs, as you prop open the gym doors with your body.

“You guys can leave now,” you announce to the volleyball team members huddling inside.

“Thanks, manager,” Kindachi says, skittering down the stairs.

“This is annoying,” Kunimi mutters as he follows.

One by one, the volleyball team descends. The only one who doesn’t immediately head home is Iwaizumi, who makes a beeline to your side to help you keep the door open, bag strapped across his chest. 

Of course, the final person to leave the gym and the self-proclaimed star of the show is Oikawa, who emerges with an easy, gracious smile already on his face, waving as some of his fans let out inadvertent cheers at the sight of him.

“Hi, everyone,” he says, “You’re really all here for me?”

The first fan steps forward. “Oikawa-senpai, I’ve always admired you, and I hope you win the Interhigh. I’m going to go to Tokyo just to see you play!”

“Thank you for your support. I’ll be looking for you in the stands, okay?” Oikawa says, winking, and the boy turns bright red.

“You aren’t tired of this?” Iwaizumi murmurs, low enough that you’re the only one who can hear. You keep a hand on your whistle, ready to intervene just in case someone tries to test their luck. It doesn’t happen as much these days, but it never hurts to be careful.

“Well, it’s better than not being able to leave the gym because everyone’s crowding the entrance. Besides, you know Tooru will die if he doesn’t get attention,” you say, slinging your school bag onto one shoulder. “He’s like a rabbit in that way, Hajime.”

“So he’s a wild animal?”

You snort, pressing one hand to your mouth. “You said it, not me.”

It takes ten minutes for Oikawa to greet everyone in line, showering his fans with compliments and thanking them individually for their attention and well-wishes. If there’s one thing about Oikawa, it’s that, at the very least, he’s pretty considerate of his fans, never taking advantage of their feelings or letting them feel neglected or unappreciated.

“Sorry, Iwa-chan, Manager-chan. That took a while. But wow, isn’t it nice that so many people love me so much?” Oikawa says. Most of his fans have dispersed, satisfied with being able to express their feelings. A few linger on the steps, chatting with each other, and one boy in particular keeps glancing back at the three of you.

You and Iwaizumi exchange a pointed look. “Wild animal,” you say.

“Wild animal,” he affirms. 

“What? You guys are so mean! I’m not a wild animal at all. If anything, I’d be a cute forest creature!”

“That’s still a wild animal,” you say. “You’re just proving our point.”

As you jostle the bag on your arm, shifting it from side to side, Oikawa frowns. He tugs on the strap. “No, no, let me. For our wonderful manager, the least I can do is carry your bag—”

“Hi!” 

The three of you glance at the intruder, a red-faced boy who keeps tugging at the edges of his shirt. His bangs keep flopping into his eyes, and it looks uncomfortable enough that you want to ask if he wants to borrow a headband or hair clips to hold it back. He looks to be in your grade, and though he seems vaguely familiar, he’s not in any of your current classes.

You step in front of Oikawa instinctively, holding out one arm. “Hi. If you have something you’d like to say to Tooru, then you should wait until—”

“Oh, I’m not—I’m here for you,” he says nervously.

You blink, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He points at you, as if to affirm your statement. “Yes. I was, um, I was—”

“Sorry! Manager-chan is tired. I don’t know if they have time for you right now,” Oikawa interrupts. He’s still smiling, but it’s shot up in pitch, the way it always does whenever he’s insincere. Oikawa yanks you backward by the strap of your bag which he still has a hold of, and you stumble back a few steps, colliding with his chest.

“Oh. Well, it won’t be more than a few minutes, if that’s um, if that’s okay.” He glances hopefully at you, attempting to ignore Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi, for his part, only raises one eyebrow at you as he watches the entire scene take place in front of him. Unless someone is actively bothering you or you ask for his help, Iwaizumi usually lets you handle things on your own.

“Sorry, what was your name?”

“I’m Kazuki,” he says. 

From the way he acts, it’s obvious he’s a fan of Oikawa. You’ve had people like this before, those who’re too nervous to interact with Oikawa in person, so they default to using you as a gopher for presents and messages. And he seems particularly nervous about it, too, so you smile at him encouragingly, which only makes him turn even more red. He must be shyer than you thought.

“Nice to meet you, Kazuki,” you say. “But fan activities have now ceased for the day. If you’d like to talk to me about Oikawa, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Most activities start at eight in the morning, and you can find me in class six, okay?”

“Oh. I think there’s some sort of misunderstanding—” 

“You heard Manager-chan,” Oikawa chirps. “If you want to talk to them, wait until tomorrow, okay?”

“Let’s go,” Iwaizumi says, and the three of you trudge past a stunned Kazuki, Iwaizumi flanking one side, Oikawa finally slipping your bag off your arm and slinging it over his free shoulder as he falls in step on your other side.

“Manager-chan, I didn’t realize you were cheating on me and Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. 

“What are you talking about?” you say, disgruntled. “Also, we’re not in a relationship like that.”

“That guy, Kazuki. He’s a third year. He’s in class three,” Iwaizumi says. 

“Oh, that’s cool. I’ve never seen him around before, so he must be a new fan of Tooru’s,” you say.

Iwaizumi stares at you, then flicks you on the forehead. It’s not hard enough to really hurt, but it still stings, because it’s Iwaizumi and he never holds back. “You’re an idiot. A bigger idiot than Shittykawa.”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa protests. “You don’t need to insult me, too!”

“Hajime,” you groan, rubbing your forehead. “What was that for?”

Iwaizumi only lets out a sigh, and doesn’t say another word for the entire walk home.

—

Since becoming Oikawa’s unofficial PR manager, you’ve gotten into the habit of bringing a tote bag with you to school, something able to weather the various trials of being the go-between Oikawa and his fans. It usually fills up before the day is over, housing a circus of presents: homemade cookies, letters, good luck charms, and handkerchiefs spritzed with sweet perfume. Along with each present, you request that his fans fill out a form declaring the contents, the papers stapled to each package. 

Kazuki approaches you during lunchtime, when the initial rush of fans has cleared away and you’re sorting through the presents, checking to ensure the papers match the contents of the packages. Anything that seems too suspicious or that doesn’t match you set aside to examine later. You try not to throw away presents if you can help it, but you still have distinct memories of the “hair in tart” incident, so you can’t be too careful.

Kazuki is toying with the edges of his shirt, gaze glued to the floor as he hovers by the side of your desk. For once, you’re alone. Iwaizumi and Oikawa have gone on a mission to the cafeteria, fighting to claim Oikawa’s beloved milk bread before it goes out of sale. 

There’s a clear cellophane bag of cookies in Kazuki’s hands, tied with a blue ribbon, and he holds it out to you immediately.

“Oh, hello,” you say, unwrapping a container of meringues. “If you want to give that to Tooru, I’ll need you to write a form declaring its contents. You can staple it to your bag, or roll it up and put it inside.”

“It’s not for Oikawa!” Kazuki blurts out, his hands shaking. “This is… This is actually for you!”

“Yes, yes,” you say, nodding along. “I know how much this means to you, and how important it is that you can express your admiration for… wait. Me?” You finally glance up to stare at Kazuki’s cherry-red face.

Your brain short-circuits as you try to make sense of Kazuki’s words, like someone has presented you with a formula in an alien language and asked you to solve it. Things like this just don’t happen to you, not in the same way they happen to Oikawa. It’s not as if you think you’re unlovable, but growing up, Oikawa was the one who captured people’s hearts. Anyone who approaches you is usually just trying to get close to Oikawa, or relying on you to convey their gifts and messages. 

It might have bothered you more when you were younger, but you’ve gotten used to the state of things. In a way, you’re thankful for it, because seeing how extreme Oikawa’s fans act makes you glad you don’t have to deal with half of what he does. Besides, Oikawa is always flinging his arms around you and demanding attention and pressing presents on you, anyways, so it’s not like you have the time for other people’s confessions. You have your hands full with him already.

Well, not that this is a confession. It’d be absurd of you to assume you know someone’s feelings like that. Maybe Kazuki is just a nice person, who’s trying to become friends.

Kazuki nods. “This is for you. It’s not for Oikawa!”

“Oh.” You look at the cookies, then back at Kazuki, who’s still staring at you, despite the flush on his cheeks. With every second he spends with you, he seems to gain some measure of confidence.

“Would you take them? I made them myself.”

“Right. Of course. Thank you?” you say, accepting the cookies with a befuddled expression. 

“You’re welcome!” Kazuki bows. It looks like he wants to say something else, from the way he keeps fiddling with his shirt, but when you tilt your head, smiling encouragingly, he seems to think twice about it. “Please enjoy them!”

He flees the classroom, just as Oikawa and Iwaizumi head inside, an armful of bread in Iwaizumi’s arms. Oikawa pauses in the doorway, watching Kazuki run past him, while Iwaizumi makes his way to the desk next to yours, dumping all the bread onto it unceremoniously.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says, placing a piece of bread in front of you. “Saved this one for you.”

“Thank you,” you say. “It’s the Tooru Tax. For making us deal with him, we get a freebie from his lunch.”

“Mhm,” Iwaizumi says, tearing the plastic wrapping off of one of the pieces of bread and shoving it into his mouth. 

“Manager-chan,” Oikawa says pleasantly, gripping the edge of your desk, knuckles turning white. “Who was that?”

“Oh, Kazuki. From yesterday. He wanted to give me these cookies,” you say, holding your new spoils aloft.

“Oh! Did he, now? I’m surprised he hasn’t given up yet.”

“Give up? On what? He’s just trying to be nice,” you reply, shaking the bag, watching the cookies dance. 

They do look kind of good now that you have time to process them, simple round sugar cookies with sparkly sprinkles on top. And it’d be rude not to at least try them, right? You purse your lips, cracking open the bag, and then Oikawa promptly reaches inside and snatches a fistful of cookies. He brings them to his mouth, chews, and swallows, leaving nothing but destruction and crushed cookies in his wake.

“Tooru!” you accuse. “What was that for? Those were my cookies!”

“Sorryyyy,” he says, licking his lips to catch any stray crumbs. “But you don’t need to worry. These cookies aren’t even that good.”

“Not like I would know,” you mutter bitterly. “You ate all of them.”

“Aw, don’t be sad, Manager-chan,” he chirps. “You can have some more of my bread.” Oikawa plucks a few milk bread from Iwaizumi’s desk and carefully sets it in front of you like an offering. “See? These are way better than whatever Kazuki got you.”

“You’re a jerk. I’m going to eat all of your bread as punishment,” you grumble, unwrapping one and stuffing it into your mouth, cheeks puffing out.

Unfortunately, Oikawa is right. The bread is pretty good, and stealing most of Oikawa’s haul, despite his protests, is enough to make up for the injustice of your lost cookies.

—

Since middle school, you like to be the first one at the gym after classes end, racing through the halls so you can set up before the rest of the team arrives. It’s a silly competition you like to hold in your own head, and you usually win.  

As you leap up the steps of the gym, indoor shoes looped in your fingers, you’re already congratulating yourself on another victory—at least until you land inside the doorway and you hear the sharp thwack of a volleyball landing on court.

It’s Oikawa. He’s warming up for another serve, volleyball tossed high in the air. He hasn’t noticed you yet, so you stay quiet, watching from the doorframe. This is something you can never tell him out of fear that his head and his ego will inflate to a bigger size, but you like watching Oikawa play volleyball. 

It’s a given that growing up with Iwaizumi and Oikawa meant that you learned how to play the sport, too. You picked up on the different hand signals to use during unofficial games and you studied strategies for them, observing professional games and taking notes on what each player did (it’s part of what makes you a great manager, after all). But you also learned to receive and bump the ball. It always fell on you to dive for the volleyball after Oikawa and Iwaizumi set and spiked, keeping it alive for them to hit it one more time, or to test the strength of their serves.

You like volleyball, sure, but Oikawa loves it. You can’t help but feel it in the way the ball kisses his hand, as Oikawa jumps and hovers in the air, as if he’s begging gravity to stay aloft for just a few more seconds, his concentration set firmly on the space he wants to aim for. And you know it’s all he can see, the court, the net, the space between one point and the next, the play and the method to get there, the serve, the receive, the set, the spike.

His love is a steady courtship, one formed after persistent years of practice, of stubbornly repeating the same motions over and over until they settle into his muscle like memory, until he can get volleyball to love him back, even if just a little bit.

The smooth arch of his back, the swing of his hand, a motion formed through countless practices and repetition, condensed into one perfect flow of movement that sends the ball arcing into the other side of the court like a meteor: when he plays so beautifully, it makes you love volleyball a little more, too. It’s impossible not to.

“Nice serve,” you call, and Oikawa spins around. 

“Manager-chan! Good timing. Come spike for me,” he says.

“Tooru, I need to finish getting the gym ready—”

“Come on,” he wheedles. “We haven’t played together in so long. No one’s here and Coach Irihata wouldn’t be mad, anyways. Please? Just once?”

You let out a long-suffering sigh, but roll up your shirt sleeves, jumping up and down in place. “Fine, but only one, okay?”

Oikawa throws up his hands in celebration, and you pluck a volleyball from one of the rolling carts, throwing it up and down in the air. It’s been a while since you were on a proper court, and not just doing passing drills by the riverbank near the school or in the park across from Oikawa’s house.

“Ready?” you call.

“Ready!”

You toss the ball towards Oikawa, who easily sets it in a high, beautiful arc, giving you enough time to leap up and slam it straight down onto the other side of the court. It’s frustrating how great his sets are, the way they’re always right where you need them to be, even as he coaxes you to reach just a little higher, to hit it just a bit harder.

But that’s just Oikawa in general. He’s always there where you need him, for as much as he jokes and postures. He cares more than anyone else, and he tries harder than anyone else, too. You’ve seen all the effort he puts in, the late nights at the court and the early mornings spent running. At the end of the day, you can trust him with anything. 

There’s a low whistle and a few claps from the doorway, and you turn to see Matsukawa and Hanamaki leaning against the frame.

“Nice kill, manager,” Matsukawa says.

“Have you thought about joining the volleyball team?” Hanamaki adds. “We need you on the court!”

“Yeah, but only if I’m taking your position as a regular, Makki,” you say.

“Hey! I worked hard for this!”

Oikawa slowly tosses another volleyball in the air. He’s strangely quiet, the expression on his face as focused as a lighthouse cutting through darkness as he watches the volleyball ascend and descend.

“Satisfied?” you ask. “I have to go grab the water cooler now.”

“I want to set for you forever,” Oikawa whispers, in a tone so reverent it makes you shiver. Then he smiles before you can react, adding, “Aw, but Manager-chan, Makki is right. You’d be a great wing spiker, if you wanted!”

“No thanks. I have my hands full trying to research our opponents and dealing with you guys as it is,” you say, holding up a hand, already jogging in the direction of the clubroom. “And don’t forget to pick up all the volleyballs you just served!”

That was a little weird, but Oikawa has always been a little weird about volleyball, more intense than either you or Iwaizumi. You still like to play casual games with the two of them on the weekends, and sometimes you can rope a few of the other volleyball team members into it. But Oikawa plays in the same way he breathes, like it’s an integral part of his life that he couldn’t live without.

Besides, though you think volleyball is fun, you like working to support everyone as the manager just as much, too. You handle all the little things to make games run smoothly, the part that no one thinks about: the cart of ever-replenishing volleyballs, the water bottles and towels delivered when they’re most needed, the research into other schools and strategies to counteract them. It feels like a natural extension of your habit of looking out for Oikawa as a child, much like being a PR manager is.

Even if it’s not flashy, your work is needed. And if Oikawa needs you, then you need him to function just as much. He’s been by your side since you were children, and you’ve always laughed when people asked if you “liked him.” Does your heart need to beat? Do your lungs need to take in air? Even if you never put it into as many words, liking him is a natural function of your body. You can’t imagine a world in which you don’t.

Practice continues the same as usual after that. You serve as impromptu coach during full court games, signaling with your hands and flipping scorecards. It’s also easy for you to observe everyone’s forms and call out little bits of advice as they work.

“Keep your elbows straight, Kunimi,” you call light-heartedly, and Kunimi groans. 

The only interruption occurs halfway through, when the team is doing diving drills and you take the opportunity to refill the water cooler, dragging it by the handles. There’s a nervous figure hovering at the entrance of the gym doors, one that you recognize immediately. It’s Kazuki, who’s clutching at the edge of his shirt, and it has to be stretched out with how often he grips onto it.

“Hi,” he says shyly.

“Hi,” you say, pausing. “Did you need something? Oh, wait. Did you want to join the team? You can scope out practice if you want, but as a third year, it’d be too hard for you to join—”

“No, no,” Kazuki says, waving his hands. “I just, um. I didn’t realize when practice ended and I wanted to…to see you.”

“Me?” you say. “Oh. Well, I’m a little busy, but I’m refilling the water cooler right now. We can talk for a little bit, but after that, I need to head back inside.”

“I can help you,” Kazuki adds quickly. He reaches for the handles of the water cooler, but you heft it out of his reach. 

“No, that’s all right,” you say. “This is my job, so I don’t feel right about forcing it onto someone else. It’s nice of you to offer, though.”

Kazuki chews his lip. “This isn’t a closed practice, right?”

“No, not usually. But we don’t encourage students to come in for practice on the days close to tournaments, just to cut down on distractions for the team.”

“Then,” he says slowly. Kazuki must come to some internal decision within himself, because he nods and then steps forward, “Can I watch the team practice?”

“Well…”

“I’m interested in the team,” he adds. “I know I can’t join anymore, but I want to play volleyball in the future, so I’d like to… to learn. Maybe you can help me?”

“If that’s the case,” you say, brightening, “Then why not? I’ll talk to Coach Irihata. I’m sure he’ll be okay with it, and I can run you through our daily schedule and drills.”

“That’d be great,” Kazuki murmurs. “Thank you.”

Kazuki waits for you near the gym doors as you fill up the water cooler and lug it back up the steps. Though he offers to help you again, you shake your head and shoo him inside. It’s easy to get permission from Coach Irihata, who’s excited that Kazuki is interested in volleyball at all, no matter how late he’s come to that interest.

If you think about it, Kazuki’s interest in volleyball would explain all his erratic actions around you. That’s why he’s so nervous, why he has difficulty speaking to you, why he doesn’t seem interested in Oikawa at all. He was really just someone who felt shy about his sudden interest in volleyball, and he approached you because he knew you were the manager. That’s the most logical explanation.

As you run him through the drills, the basic positions on the court, and how games are scored, Kazuki is always just one step away from you, so close that your heads almost bump when you move. He’s not close enough that it’s disrespectful or uncomfortable, but he’s still closer than you think is strictly necessary. The only one who ignores your personal boundaries is Oikawa, who drapes himself over you, but Oikawa has never had a good sense of distance, anyways.

You also can’t resist pointing out Oikawa on court, and bragging just a little about your childhood friend.

“See? Tooru has been perfecting his jump serve since middle school, and he’s the best setter in the prefecture,” you say.

Kazuki watches Oikawa quietly before looking back at you. “You… You like him a lot, don’t you? Oikawa, I mean.”

“Well, yes. I wouldn’t be his PR manager if I didn’t. We’ve known each other since we were little, and he’s my best friend, too. He’s annoying, but no one works harder than him.”

“Could you tell me some more about the rules again?” Kazuki says.

“Sure!”

You raise your clipboard to explain the different strategies on court, Kazuki leaning over your shoulder and his face a disconcerting few centimeters from yours, when a volleyball smacks into the wall by Kazuki’s head. It lands with a resounding crack, hit with enough force that you could feel the heat of it as it flew past, and Kazuki scrambles away from you, face pale, almost falling over his feet from how fast he moves.

“Sorry, sorry,” Oikawa calls. He’s waving from across the net, both hands in the air. The entire team has paused their serving practices at the commotion. “That’s my bad!”

Iwaizumi smacks Oikawa on the back of his head. “Shittykawa. You almost hit that guy. You think you could do something like that during a game?”

“You’re so mean, Iwa-chan!” At their bickering, the rest of the team resumes their practice, volleyballs flying across the court to various degrees of success.

“Are you okay?” you ask, ignoring Iwaizumi’s and Oikawa’s ensuing comedy routine behind you. You don’t need to look to know that Iwaizumi is lecturing him and Oikawa is coming up with flimsy excuses, judging from the yelps behind you. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

Kazuki shakes his head. “I’m okay. But Oikawa has some powerful serves, doesn’t he?”

“He’s usually better at hitting within the lines, but like I said, he’s been practicing since middle school. He’s got the best jump serve on the team,” you say confidently. “I feel bad for whatever guy has to receive his serve.”

“Oh,” Kazuki says softly, and he flicks a glance behind you, towards Oikawa. He flinches at something that you can’t see, eyebrows drawing together.

You spin around, confused, but Iwaizumi is only sighing and Oikawa is smiling at you, without a care in the world. 

“Is something the matter, Manager-chan?” he says cheerfully.

“No,” you say, “But you should get back to practice. That serve was terrible. You hit it out immediately! You should work on accuracy. Come on, Kazuki.”

Kazuki doesn’t stay for long after that. After a few more minutes of running through the basic movements in volleyball, he only thanks you and scurries off, face still pale as porridge, without even trying out any of the positions you’ve shown him. Had the force of Oikawa’s serve scared him that much? It can be pretty intimidating for people who aren’t used to it.

A bit later, while you’re passing out water bottles and the team is taking a momentary break from practice, Oikawa immediately slings his arm around your shoulders, nuzzling his sweaty body closer as you groan and attempt to shove him away. 

“Back off, Tooru. You smell,” you say, wrinkling your nose, but Oikawa only pulls you flush against his body, so close you can feel the heat from his recent exercise radiating off of him, the outline of his hip and torso pressed right against you.

“Kazuki is getting awfully close to you, huh?” Oikawa says, squeezing your shoulder. “What was he even here for? Is he a stalker? Stalking is a crime.”

“It’s nothing like that,” you say, swatting his arm away as Oikawa whines. “He’s only interested in volleyball. He wanted to learn more about the game.”

“Volleyball, huh. Well, if he’s scared of a serve, I don’t know how he thinks he can be in a game.”

“That’s because he’s not used to it,” you say sternly. “Anyone would be scared of one of your jump serves almost hitting them in the face.”

“Why are you taking his side, Manager-chan?” Oikawa whines.

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” you snap, finally shoving Oikawa away. He lets you go, holding up his hands as you point a water bottle threateningly at him. “Anyways, did something happen? He didn’t look so well when he left.”

“Nothing happened. Right, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa chirps. “Maybe he just realized volleyball isn’t for him.”

Iwaizumi, without looking up from his water bottle, says, “Shittykawa was making faces at the guy.”

“Tooru!” you scold, briskly slapping him on the arm. Oikawa isn’t a bad person, even if he’s dramatic and childish, but sometimes he can really go too far. “You really shouldn’t do that! You’re a third year. How can you act so childishly?”

“I wasn’t,” he protests, but his excuses aren’t enough to save him from your lecturing.

—

A few days after Kazuki showed up at the gym, it’s your turn to marvel at how terrifying an improperly aimed serve can really be.

“Watch out!”

The warning from Kindaichi comes too late. One second, you’re picking up volleyballs on the other side of the court and lobbing them into a cart, and the next, you’re flat on your back, a throbbing pain searing through your head as the world spins around you. 

You groan, and there’s a panicked shuffling of feet and voices approaching you. It’s hard to make out who’s who when every face surrounding you blurs into smears of hazy watercolor.

“Manager! Manager, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” 

“They’re dying. Kindaichi, you killed our manager.”

You can barely formulate a response to Kindaichi’s and Kunimi’s words before a pair of arms lift you up by your shoulders and you’re pressed against someone’s chest.

Oikawa calls your name, your first name, voice quiet and worried. There’s not a trace of his usual cheer as he helps you to your feet, arm pressed protectively around your waist the entire time. You have no choice but to lean against him, because your other option is to fall and faceplant in front of the entire Seijoh volleyball team as they cluster around you.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“No,” you groan. The world is tilting around you, and you clutch onto Oikawa’s free arm for dear life. He doesn’t even flinch when your nails dig into his flesh, only keeping his other arm around you.

“I’ll take them to the nurse’s office. Iwa-chan, can you watch over the team while we’re gone, and tell Coach Irihata where we’re going?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says. He presses a hand against your forehead, and in a gentler voice, adds, “Feel better soon, all right? I’ll come see you after practice. We can help walk you home.”

You give Iwaizumi and the rest of the team a weak thumbs up, trying to sooth Kindaichi’s horrified face with a smile. But it comes out as more of a grimace, which you don’t think helps reassure Kindaichi at all, judging from the way he blanches and Kunimi puts a hand on his shoulder.

With a steady arm around you, Oikawa guides you to the nurse’s office. He’s rubbing circles on your waist with his thumb, soothing patterns that make you relax into his touch. Your pace is slow, meandering, Oikawa careful to match his strides with yours. Despite everything, he’s always been considerate of you. It’s hard not to feel comfortable around him, knowing that he’s doing his best to take care of you, in a strange little reversal of your typical roles.

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

“Just my head,” you say.

He hums. “It’s probably not a concussion, but we’ll have the nurse check to be careful. Do you remember who you are? Who I am?”

“I’m your PR manager,” you say bluntly, “And you’re my annoying childhood friend.”

“Annoying! Maybe you hit your head too hard after all. How could you forget about how cute I am? I’m your favorite lovable Tooru!”

“I think Kindaichi should hit me in the head again so I can forget you said that,” you grumble.

“If you can say such mean things, then you’re probably okay,” Oikawa says, but he drags you closer to him by your waist.

When you reach the nurse’s office, the nurse ushers you two inside. She’s kind, a middle-aged woman with her hair tied back into a low bun as she sits you on a chair near the medicine cabinets. Oikawa hovers by the doorway, arms crossed. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as the nurse shines a light in your eyes and asks you questions about how you feel and where you are.

“You can go back to practice, you know. I’ll be okay,” you tell him, because he’s shifting restlessly by the door, bouncing on his feet and tapping his fingers in a disjointed rhythm, tracking your every movement with razor precision.

“And leave our poor manager all by themself? I’m not a brute like Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “I can’t practice if I’m too worried about how you’re doing.”

It surprises you, the intensity in Oikawa’s eyes. He only ever gets like that with volleyball, watching old games on his computer until he’s dissected his opponent’s habits and moves, finding cracks in their strategy. To have that keen interest turned towards you makes you feel strangely embarrassed in a way you’re not used to with Oikawa, as if you’re something important that he has to turn over and over in his mind until he understands it down to every hidden inch.

Oikawa doesn’t relax until the nurse claps her hands together and gives you her diagnosis. 

“It’s not a concussion, but you are going to need to put some ice on your head to help with the swelling, okay? I’ll get some for you, so lie on the bed for a bit. With some rest, you’ll be fine, but you should go home early from practice today.”

“Yay! Isn’t that great to hear, Manager-chan?” Oikawa’s voice is cheerful, but his touch is unrelentingly firm as he guides you to the bed in the corner. When you settle on top of the covers, he draws the curtains around the bed. For a second, it feels like the two of you are cocooned in your own private little world, swathed in gauzy blue fabric that cuts you off from everything else.

The nurse has left, leaving the two of you alone. You attempt to lift yourself up on your elbows, but Oikawa only pushes you back down.

“None of that,” he says. “You need to rest.”

“Come on, Tooru,” you say. “It’s not that big of a deal. You heard the nurse. I’ll be okay after some rest.”

“Nope,” he says, turning his head. “I’m your nurse now while she’s gone, and I’m not going to listen to a patient who clearly isn’t in the right state of mind.”

“You’re so annoying, Tooru.” With a groan, you drop back on the covers, grumbling as Oikawa clambors onto the bed alongside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. You shuffle as far to the side as you can to make room for him, until you’re pressed between the wall and Oikawa’s body. The bed isn’t large enough for two people, so you can feel the whole warm length of him against your back, his breath right by your ear.

It reminds you of when you were children and Iwaizumi and Oikawa slept over in a nest of blankets and pillows tossed on your bedroom floor, the three of you tangled together in one heap of limbs and sleepy voices. 

Oikawa was always clinging to you even then, whining if you were a few centimeters too far from him or if you leaned closer to Iwaizumi. Sometimes, you would wake up to find Oikawa’s full body weight pressed down and his arms and legs wrapped around you, as if he was determined to hold you close to him forever. You couldn’t move a single inch, so you would just run your fingers through his soft hair until Iwaizumi woke up and helped pull Oikawa off of you.

“You don’t mean that, though,” Oikawa mumbles into your ear, walking two fingers up the full length of your arm, and then walking them all the way back down. Wherever he touches you, your skin tingles.

“You’re making my head hurt worse,” you say flatly.

“Don’t be mean to me, Manager-chan! I’m just worried about you!”

“Yeah? Maybe I’m worried about you. You’ve been acting weird lately, and you’ve been really rude to Kazuki. What’s up with that?”

Oikawa is quiet for a breath, his fingers still skating along your arm. His knees are tucked under yours, his sharp hip jutting into your back, and you can feel the intake of each breath, the subtle expansion of his chest, right before he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“It’s because I love you. More than Kazuki. More than Iwaizumi. More than anyone else in the world.” Oikawa’s words are muffled as he nuzzles incessantly at your neck, warm breath fanning against your skin. For a second, you think he’s going to bite you, but he doesn’t, only noses at your pulse, as if he could bury himself under your skin.

He’s clung to you before. He’s said “I love you” before. He’s affectionate, and it’s not a  strange thing for childhood best friends to tell each other. But why does it feel so different this time?

“Tooru–” You aren’t fully sure of what you’re going to say before the infirmary doors slide open.

“Manager?” Kazuki’s voice and footsteps echo in the space beyond the curtains, hesitant and anxious. “Are you there? Iwaizumi said you were hurt.”

Oikawa grumbles a curse against your neck, bracing one arm against the other side of your head as he lifts himself above you, hovering just a few centimeters away, close enough that you can still feel his warmth as he cranes his neck towards the sound of Kazuki’s voice.

“Are you sleeping?”

“If they were, they wouldn’t respond,” he whispers, low enough that only you can hear.

“Manager?” Kazuki is just outside the curtain now.

Oikawa glances down at you, and it occurs to you what a terrible position you’re in. If Kazuki does walk in, how can you explain why Oikawa is essentially lying on top of you, or why he was in your bed in the first place? Not to mention, if word ever got out, the team would make fun of you, and Coach Irihata wouldn’t be happy, and Iwaizumi would flick you on the forehead, again.

Kazuki’s hand grips the edge of the curtain and Oikawa springs up before you can react, shoving himself off the bed and pushing the curtains open just enough for him to poke his head out. There’s a false cheeriness to his tone, the sort of light-hearted, honey-sweet voice he takes right before he says something childishly mean or passive aggressive. “Oh, Kazuki. What’re you doing here?”

“Oikawa! I thought… I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

“Well, I am,” he says unrepentantly. 

“Do you know where the manager is? I was hoping to see them. Maybe I can spend some time with them, or look after them if they’re not feeling well.” 

“Oh.” Disdain drips from that single syllable, but Oikawa immediately shifts tract as he emerges from the curtain, forcing his voice into that nonchalant brightness again. “Well, they’re sleeping, so I don’t think you should bother them, okay?” 

“But—”

Kazuki’s weak protest is cut short by Oikawa’s barrage of words that sound more like demands than suggestions.“The nurse says they need their rest. Why don’t we go back to the gym together? You were interested in the volleyball team, and you didn’t even get to try spiking last time. I’ll introduce you to the guys on the rest of the team.”

You stay curled up on the bed until their voices and footsteps recede, Oikawa’s overpowering chatter vanishing down the hall. For a long while, you don’t move. The cooling spot beside you still retains Oikawa’s scent, a faint trace of sweat and mint. When the nurse comes back with an ice pack that you gratefully accept, she places the back of her hand on your forehead and frowns.

“Your temperature has shot up,” she says. “Let me get the thermometer out again.”

—

Kazuki approaches you the next day during lunch, bowing so deeply that you’re afraid he’s going to topple over. You’re sitting in the courtyard with Iwaizumi and Oikawa under the shade of a tree, bentos in your lap. Oikawa is pressed so closely to your side that you’re trapped between him and Iwaizumi, and you’re forced to wiggle your way up into a standing position. 

“I have something I need to say to you! Can I please have a moment of your time?”

Is it about the volley team again? You glance down at Oikawa, certain he’s going to say something rude. But he only smiles pleasantly at you, as if he hasn’t been acting catty towards Kazuki for the past few weeks.

“No, no, go on, Manager-chan. Iwa-chan and I can wait for you,” Oikawa says, but you’ve spent enough time to recognize the gleam in his eyes, the way he not-so-subtly jabs his elbow into Iwaizumi’s ribs, who lets out an irritated grunt. He’s up to something, but what can you do about it?

You follow Kazuki a few steps away under a bower of trees, leaves fluttering in the breeze, suffusing the ground with emerald light. There’s a line of bushes to your side, hiding the wall of the school. It’s a gorgeous day, with clear blue skies and warm spring sunshine, perfect for eating lunch outdoors.

Also, it’s a perfect time for confessions. You had a longer line of fans than usual during the first half of lunch, people eager to confess their feelings to Oikawa. It was to the point where you had to cut it off early and tell the rest to come back tomorrow, because Oikawa needed time to eat.

You hadn’t been able to look Oikawa in the eyes as people gushed about their feelings, keeping your attention on the adoring, blushing person confessing instead. Everyone always either squealed, or swooned, or simpered in front of him, to varying degrees. Even though it was just Oikawa, the same boy who got upset when you climbed trees with Iwaizumi, far beyond his reach.

And maybe it was just your imagination, but you thought you felt the heat of Oikawa’s gaze on you, lingering between each fan confessing. 

Kazuki takes a deep breath, fist clenched over his heart, and takes a step forward. And in the clearest, most unwavering voice you’ve heard from him all the time since he’s approached you, he says, “I like you.”

You open your mouth to respond, then close it, and open it again.

“You… like me?” you say slowly.

He nods, his gaze clear and determined. 

Oh. Oh. That explains all of Kazuki’s strange actions. The cookies, the sudden visit to volleyball practice, his presence at the nurse’s office. It all feels so startlingly clear when you lay it out like that, puzzle pieces sliding perfectly into place. He’s not Oikawa’s fan, and he probably isn’t interested in volleyball either.

He’s interested in you.

Maybe Iwaizumi is right, and you really are an idiot. But you already know your answer to Kazuki’s confession.

“I’m sorry,” you say, as gently as you can. “I can’t return your feelings.”

Kazuki smiles, though his lips wobble at the corners. “I figured, but I wanted to let you know how I felt, anyway.”

“Thank you,” you tell him. “For telling me, anyways.”

“I’ve always admired you, you know. Since I saw you during the entrance ceremony, three years ago. I didn’t have the courage to approach you until now, but I promise I won’t bother you from on. I see now that you and Oikawa like each other, and I won’t get in the way of that.”

“What? Oikawa and I—”

He bows one more time and rushes off before you can finish your sentence. You and Oikawa? There isn’t anything to get in the way of. And when it comes to liking each other, the truth is both simple and complicated, all at once.

You rub at the bridge of your nose in frustration, before letting out a long sigh. How does Oikawa do it? One confession has exhausted you, but he’s used to dealing with at least a dozen a day. Maybe you need to revise your opinion of him.

“—Stop shoving, Iwa-chan!”

“You’re the one who needs to stop moving! You’re going to give us away!”

Or maybe not.

The source of the noise is coming from a pair of bushes almost directly to your side, and when you push aside the leaves, Iwaizumi and Oikawa are crouched near the ground, squabbling. Iwaizumi has one hand pushing at Oikawa’s cheek, smushing his face, and Oikawa has a fist in Iwaizumi’s uniform jacket.

“Hello, Tooru, Hajime,” you say, crossing your arms.

They freeze at the sight of you, slowly letting each other go. Iwaizumi has the good grace to look embarrassed, scrubbing at the back of his neck. Oikawa only beams angelically at you, like it’s normal for him to be hiding behind a bush.

“Hi, Manager-chan,” Oikawa chirps. “Isn’t the weather so nice today?”

“Were you spying on me?” you ask.

“Shittykawa kept complaining about having to follow you,” Iwaizumi says. “He said he was worried about Kazuki acting inappropriately.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa hisses. “You decided to come with me, anyways!”

“Because I knew you were going to do something stupid if I didn’t!”

You hold out your hands to your childhood friends, palms flat and expectant, cutting off their argument with a single gesture. Iwaizumi and Oikawa take your hands, and you pull them up. Iwaizumi brushes dust off his jacket, grumbling, but Oikawa doesn’t let your hand go. Instead, he starts playing with your fingers, squeezing each finger between his thumb and forefinger.

“Come on, you two. This is so childish! And it’s disrespectful to Kazuki, too.”

“I knew he was hitting on you,” Oikawa grumbles, rubbing his fingers over your knuckles. “I could sense his impure intentions. You’re so dense, Manager-chan.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know he had a crush on me?” you argue. “It’s not like he made it obvious!”

“I have to agree on Shittykawa with this one,” Iwaizumi says. “It was obvious. Even Kunimi and Kindaichi knew.”

“What?” you say. “Really? But this is the first time someone’s approached me. Oikawa’s the popular one!”

“You’re so dense about these sorts of things, Manager-chan. You really don’t get it.” Oikawa laces your fingers together, squeezing your hand once, twice. “You think you’re not popular, when you’re this cute, and nice, and funny?”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve been getting confessions,” you protest. 

“That’s because you have a dog that runs off anyone who tries,” Iwaizumi says bluntly. 

“I don’t own a dog, though,” you say, and Iwaizumi flicks your forehead, hard enough for it to hurt this time. “Ow! Hajime!”

“Iwa-chan! You’re such a brute! Come here, Manager-chan. I’ll kiss it better.” Oikawa puckers his lips, leaning towards you.

“That’s so gross, Tooru. Back off!” You swat at him, but Oikawa only tugs on your linked hands, dragging you right back to his side. His arm pins you in place as you half-heartedly squirm.

Iwaizumi eyes the two of you with undisguised disgust. “If the two of you are going to act like this, then I’m going back to my lunch.” 

Iwaiumi marches off, leaving you to tussle with Oikawa for a while longer.

“This is stupid,” you say. “It was just a confession. It’s not a big deal. I didn’t even know Kazuki that well!”

Oikawa presses his cheek against yours, rubbing them together. “Aw, but Manager-chan, it makes me sad to think that someone might take you away from me.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you say. 

“But I do! You’re so slow when it comes to these things.”

“You don’t,” you repeat. “There’s no one else I love more than you, Tooru.”

Oikawa stiffens at your words, every bit of playful energy gone. His grip on you is still tight enough that you can’t get away, but you aren’t trying to.

“Aw, I know, we’re childhood friends, and you—”

“I mean it,” you say. You wait a beat, and then add, “And I also really like Hajime. He’s pretty important to me. Makki and Mattsun are great, too.”

“Manager-chan! You’re just as much of a brute as Iwa-chan! No, you’re worse, playing with my heart like that!”

Oikawa resumes mercilessly nuzzling against your face, whining and complaining all the while about favoritism and obliviousness. 

It’s not like you can tell him the truth, though. It’s a truth you’ve only realized recently, but in a way, you’ve always known it since Oikawa first placed a chubby hand in yours and never let go. You love him, and it’s as simple as that, no matter what form it takes or who you are or what name you want to call it.

Oikawa Tooru is special to you. He always has been, and he always will be. 

There’s no reason to let him know just yet, not when you graduate at the end of the year, and Oikawa has both Interhigh and the Spring Tournament and the rest of his career to worry about. You want to see him chase his dreams, and you want to see him succeed, and you’ve already seen him look up airplane prices to Argentina. Besides, he already has an inflated ego and sense of self-importance, and you don’t want Iwaizumi accusing you of making him worse.

But it’s all right. Even if you don’t say anything, you know the truth and Oikawa knows it, too. The two of you have always belonged to each other, and so you’ll always find your way back to each other, no matter how far you go, and no matter how much time passes to get there.

—

You’re caught in a jumble of people when Oikawa calls, squinting down at the paper map in your hands. It takes you a while to answer as you’re caught up in the sudden surge, the sun burning down on your head. He always calls at this hour, but in your travel rush and the juggle between time zones, you’ve completely forgotten.

“Hi, Tooru,” you say, phone trapped between your ear and shoulder.

“Did you miss me?” he says, and pauses, the noise of the crowd filtering through your phone. “Are you still out? Isn’t it midnight in Japan right now?”

“I’m just running some last minute errands,” you say lightly.

“Well, be careful, okay?” Oikawa says. “It’d break my heart if something happened to you! I’d have to fly all the way back to be at your bedside.”

You roll your eyes, but remember he can’t see the action through the phone. “Right. Your presence would make me immediately worse.”

“Rude!”

It’s been a few years since you, Iwaizumi, and Oikawa have split off paths after high school. Iwaizumi is in America to study sports science, and Oikawa is pursuing a professional volleyball career in Argentina. You’re studying abroad in Spain to pursue a degree in communications, and you’ve finally managed to get your Spanish to a decent enough level that you’re not always pulling out your phone when you go out.

Despite living such different, busy lives and dealing with the international fees, the three of you keep in touch as much as you can. Calling, texting, and at one point, when Iwaizumi’s phone broke, emails. Even if you’re not physically by each other’s sides, it's a habit to be together in any way possible.

You squint down at the map in front of you, and murmur a quick apology as you bump against someone in the crowd. As far as Oikawa knows, you’re back in Japan for winter break, and you made Iwaizumi swear not to breathe a word otherwise. 

“Didn’t you say your apartment had a green door?” you ask Oikawa, looking up and down the narrow street. You’re in a fairly populated residential district, with a few cafes and stores farther down the way. 

“Yup!” he says. “Green door, but I’m on the second floor! With a street view, too.”

“Are you home right now?”

“Why?” Oikawa says, suddenly suspicious.

“Look down,” you say, hanging up before he can respond.

You squint up at the second floor windows, but it’s hard to make out anything with the bright glare of the sun reflecting off the glass. But you don’t need to wait a second longer before the green door of Oikawa’s apartment is flung open and he dashes out, tackling you into a hug.

You yelp as your feet leave the ground and he lifts you up and doesn’t put you back down, spinning you around for good measure, until you’re almost dizzy. “Hi again, Tooru,” you murmur.

“You’re here,” he says breathlessly. “You’re here! Why are you here? I thought you were in Japan!”

“I can go back if you want,” you offer, but he shakes his head.

The pictures don’t do Oikawa’s changes justice, not the new, lean muscle, the tanned skin, the shorter cut of his hair that you run your fingers through. He’s dressed in a loose t-shirt and flip-flops. You’ve changed, too, though you don’t know what Oikawa thinks of it as he drinks you in, his grip unrelenting, scanning every part of you as if comparing it to what you looked like the last time you met.

But when he opens his mouth to pout and whine, it’s still the same old Oikawa, the one you’ve always known. “Why didn’t you say anything? You’re so mean to me. Did Iwa-chan know?”

“Well, yeah. I told Hajime not to say anything,” you say. “I’m your PR manager, so think of this as a surprise visit. I need to make sure your fans are in line, that you’re doing okay, and that no one’s bothering you.”

At the airport, after high school graduation when you parted for the first time, Oikawa hadn’t cried. You and Iwaizumi had woken early to see him off, so early the sun hadn’t risen and you were still fighting off yawns. Oikawa, with his suitcase and his backpack, the blue jacket that you knew he would have to shed once he was in warmer weather, had never looked more confident.

In some ways, he would always be the child from when you first met, an uncertain crybaby who clung to you and needed your help to save him from trouble. But he was also the boy who devoted himself wholly to volleyball, who always answered when you threw rocks at his windows, who had never strayed so far from your side for more than a few blocks and longer than a few hours. 

When you turned around, he was always there, following just behind. So why were you looking at his back now, receding farther and farther away from you, as he turned around just before he entered the airport gate?

“I’ll come back one day,” he promised. “And I’ll send postcards. And we’ll call everyday. So it won’t be any different.”

It was you, this time, trying not to cry for once. “You better, Tooru. Or I’ll have to come find you.”

His face crumpled then, and he ran towards you for one last hug, hands fisted in the back of your sweater, face buried in the crook of your neck, pulling you so close you could feel every taut centimeter of him. As if, with enough force, the two of you could melt together and you would carry him inside you, never to be parted by time or distance ever again.

Oikawa still hugs you in the same way now as he did back then, with the same possessive, tight grip, as if he’s afraid you’ll leave if he doesn’t hold on for dear life. That’s another thing that hasn’t changed about him, the way he touches you, as if he’s known from the beginning that once he holds onto you, he doesn’t want to let go.

He’s shaking his head now. “You’re not my PR manager anymore. We’re not in high school, so you don’t have to do that, and I have a professional one now.”

“Well, I’ve always been taking care of you, so it’s not like I can stop.”

“Iwa-chan would disagree,” Oikawa says. “He would say that he’s the one who has to take care of both of us. You’ve always been just as bad as me.”

“Hajime isn’t here to argue that point, so I win,” you say. “Tooru?”

“Hm?”

You wrap your arms around his neck. This time, you’re the one clinging onto him, pulling him closer, this boy you’ve loved for all your life, and that you’ll love forever. “I thought it’d only be fair if I came to see you. But, you know, if I’m not your manager, then what am I?”

His face is so close to yours, breath ghosting across your lips. You could close your eyes and map his face by touch alone, trace all of his changes. “You’re my childhood friend, and my best friend, and the person I love more than anyone else. Isn’t that enough?”

You lean in to kiss him before he can finish speaking, trailing kisses from his lips to his nose and to his cheeks. They’re kisses that leave the two of you a little breathless, filled with a lifetime of waiting and love. “I guess I’d be greedy to ask for more. I love you, Tooru.”

“I know, because I love you, too,” he murmurs, and when he leans in to kiss you again, you can’t stop the smile spreading across your lips.

You couldn’t look at him, not at first. You couldn’t see anything but the shine of his patient leather shoes, so polished and pristine you could almost see your reflection in them. He was framed in the door of your windowless room by a sharp square of artificial light, burning your weak eyes. You rarely saw the sun, and light always made them hurt.

You could see the shoes of your aunt (heels, a nice three inches, bright red, meant for company) and uncle (loafers, black, simple and stately, meant to impress) just a few inches away from that man. Because you were always looking down, it was a habit to judge the moods and desires of your family by the shoes they wore, and it let you know what sort of company was around.

“I’m sorry, is it hard to see?” His voice was still that low, smooth timber, the same sort of voice one would use with a startled animal.

You only had a few seconds before he nudged your chin up with two fingers, slipping his own sunglasses onto your face. You blinked, the world tinted in a pleasant brown, looking right into the eyes of the man who had stepped into your room. 

His eyes were beautiful, the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen. A swirl of luxurious purple and blue, a bright pop of color that you had been starved of all your life. And you felt starved, mouth dry, as you stared into his eyes. These weren’t the sort of beautiful eyes someone like you was meant to behold.

“There,” the man said. He was smiling at you. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice a hoarse, desiccated husk next to this man’s indulgent tones. You cleared your throat, but it hardly helped. You weren’t used to speaking with anyone for long.

“I’m Aventurine, and I’m investing in you, all right?” he said. His fingers were still on your chin, preventing you from looking anywhere but up into his gorgeous eyes. They were gorgeous and also cold, appraising you from every angle, like a jeweler and the uncut gem he’d found. “Consider these glasses a little present. Something you’ll pay me back in the future for.”

“Sir,” your uncle began, somewhere over Aventurine’s shoulder, but Aventurine shushed him, shaking his head.

“Okay,” you whispered, putting as much emphasis into your brittle voice as you were capable of. You had no attachment to your life, no interest in either staying or escaping, but you wanted to follow this man, trap or not. You couldn’t look away from him. “You won’t regret it.”

“Really? I’m looking forward to it,” Aventurine said.

When he held out his free hand to you, you took it. You had little choice either way, you suspected, but it was kind of him to offer the illusion that what you wanted mattered.

—

Your family liked to say that they were born to follow HooH, to serve as THEIR vessel and spread their message until the universe crumbled into dust. They had done so for as long as history had been recorded, and would do so long after.

Since the beginning of the galaxy, when no other god answered their call, they turned to the Equilibrium for comfort and answers in the cold, uncaring cosmos. They established traditions in the name of worship that they carried out for century after century, following HooH with unflinching, unwavering faith. THEIR name was said with reverence and more affection than yours had ever been called. Everything your family did was to maintain Equilibrium, to dedicate themselves to its pursuit.

HooH, in all THEIR glory, had blessed your family. Cursed, you would have said instead. But maybe gods didn’t care about what humans called their actions, and they were all born out of the same indifferent whim. 

In every generation of your family, a pair of twins would be born. One would bring about great prosperity, a blessing in every sense of the word. Fecund soil produced bounty after bounty, rivers never ran dry, and the world was flush with feast and fortune, opportunities knocking on every door. In simpler cases, anyone around them would be blessed with luck, even for the most minor gambles.

The other twin was cursed, a receptacle for pure, unadulterated disaster. Deaths followed in their wake. Lost fortunes, unfulfilled love, unimaginable catastrophes. Tragedies, on scales both global and local. They were the cause of wars, in the worst cases. Minor inconveniences in the better ones, bug infestations and a string of bad luck that made people shun them.

The twins were kept apart from each other, another one of the traditions your family upheld. The blessed twin was honored like a god in their own right, paraded during festivals and ceremonies. The opportunistic and wealthy traveled far and wide just for the chance to kneel at their feet, to partake in some of the blessing HooH imparted.

The cursed one was kept locked up, much like all the ills of the world must be contained. You’ve never met your blessed twin, the luckier of you two, but you’ve always envied them whenever your thoughts did turn to your other half. 

Your destiny was to stay in your small room, trapped in the same place, day after day. But your family wasn’t unnecessarily cruel. Your room was comfortably furnished, and you never wanted for anything that you requested. Food arrived on trays, contained in plain packages. Electronics stuffed full of movies and a glimpse into the outside world, which always broke after a few months, and could never be fixed again, no matter how you tried. 

In some ways, you understood. No one willingly chased bad luck.

If you were lucky, you might, on occasion, be let out for a particular purpose, dressed in black robes and hooded. Conversations died when you were around, people shuffling away as fast as they could. In much the same way people paid for the blessing of your twin, others paid for your curses.

You were sent out like an executioner for political enemies, jealous lovers, grievances both minor and small. It didn’t matter what, as long as they had the money for it. You didn’t know how your bad luck worked, just that it did. Sometimes it had taken days before anything bad happened. Sometimes, only hours. Sometimes, it happened due to your touch, or gaze, or even just close proximity. But eventually, they would fall prey to the worst fate, their destinies twisted by your hand.

No one who stayed with you had ever been happy. The one servant who tried to befriend you, taking pitying on your condition, fell ill and passed away. Your father insisted on you living a normal life and died not long after, murdered on the street. Your mother never visited and you were not to even think of your twin, and so your uncle and aunt had undertaken your care instead. 

You would only leave that room upon your death, and then the next pair of twins would be born, one of them taking your place.

That was what you understood your fate to be until Aventurine showed up. After escorting you from your room, he shuffled you into a luxurious car as sleek and smooth as silk, smiling as you sat ramrod straight, unable to lean back into the plush interior. It was too comfortable, and you didn’t like that.

He was closer than he necessarily needed to be in the car, but only just so. No parts of your body touched.

“Your family was in debt,” he explained. “They took out enormous amounts of money, did you know that? And one of the corporations they borrowed from was the IPC. I was sent to collect their debt, and they had a few choices to mitigate the damage. You were simply collateral damage from a deal they struck, an asset they traded away, and you’re going to make the money back for them.”

You stared out the window, a bevy of greenery and life you’d only seen in pictures until now blurring around you. There were people out there, smiling families, playful children. Animals, too. Dogs with their tongues lolling and cats with tails wrapped around their paws. You pressed your hand to the cold glass, watching as it all receded pass, the world you’ve never been a part of.

“I’ll bring you bad luck,” you said simply. If he was trying to scare you, then it wouldn’t work; fear meant you had something to lose, something that you valued. But you had nothing. Like he said, you were simply an asset, and a change in ownership didn’t change that.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” You glimpsed Aventurine’s smile in the window, his ghost wavering in the reflection. When you closed your eyes, the mirage of his smile still shimmered in your mind. His smile was perfectly pleasant, but it still felt wrong to you somehow, twisted and a little shallow.

Nothing good could flourish with you, and fortune died in your hands. Only time would tell what sort of curse Aventurine really was.

—

You were shuffled into the Strategic Investment Department as Aventurine’s assistant as soon as you signed your signature on a bunch of forms, eyes skimming over the terms and conditions. It was all a formality, anyways; it wasn’t as if you actually had a choice in what happened to you.

It wasn’t unheard of for people to join the IPC like this, coerced by debt, misfortune, or agents knocking on their door. Your story wasn’t unique, but your position, perhaps, was. Instead of starting at the lowest levels, Aventurine kept you close to his side, gave you a plain, black uniform, a room of your own, and a few other toiletries that you lacked. But these weren’t kindnesses; these were things you were sure he would make you pay him back for, one way or another.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” he said, knocking lightly on your door. 

You never kept your door open or unlocked, not if you could help it. But it was hardly as if you could turn your boss away, so you reluctantly let Aventurine in.

It had only been a few days since you had been traded away from your old life, and your room was as bare and spartan as it had been since you came here, your bed corners tucked neatly in. But it wasn’t as if there was anything you wanted to buy, even if you had any credits for the company store.

In fact, you spent most of your time sitting in your room, staring out the window, waiting for Aventurine to call on you or to give you something to do. Were you allowed to roam the halls of whatever IPC company housing you’d been assigned? Even if you were, there was nowhere for you to go, and the risk you’d run into another person.

“It’s not a promotion if I didn’t earn it,” you said. You still wore the sunglasses he gave you because the bright fluorescent lighting of the IPC burned your eyes.

“Well, you could consider yourself lucky enough to skip having to work your way up the ranks,” he said brightly. “And to earn a position right by my side, too.”

“Did you need anything from me, sir?” you said instead. 

“I wanted to give you a welcoming gift,” he said. Aventurine unveiled a gift from behind his back, a glitzy box wrapped in emerald paper and garnished with a pale silk bow.

He handed it to you, and you methodically tore through it. Inside, there was a bracelet made of green stones, interspersed with concentric circles, rings of light and dark green. It was simple but luxurious, and you rolled each cool bead under your fingers.

“It’s nice,” you said. What did he want from you: subservience, gratitude, obedience? You could play any role, if only he would give you something to go off of.

“It’s malachite,” he said. “Stones that symbolize transformation. People say they provide protection by absorbing negative energy, but it can absorb positive energy, too. So it really depends on what you put into it.”

“That’s fascinating, sir.”

“Please, call me Aventurine. There’s no need for that. We’re friends, you know. You don’t need to be so polite.” He smiled at you.

“All right, Aventurine,” you said. It felt wrong to call him by his first name when he was your boss, but if he wanted you to do that, who were you to refuse?

“And I have another gift for you, too, if you want to accept it.” You hold out your hand, but Aventurine shakes his head. “No, no. It’s not a physical one. It’s a name.”

“A name?”

“Yes. I was given one, you know, when I joined the Stonehearts. I was thinking it was only fitting to celebrate your new beginning.”

“I’m not a Stoneheart. I don’t know if that’s appropriate for me to try to act like I’m one of them.”

“But you’re not. It’s simply one of my gifts to my new assistant,” he said. 

“What name do you have in mind, Aventurine?”

“Malachite,” he said.

You clenched the bracelet tighter in your hands, stones digging into your palm. “Malachite,” you repeated.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s lovely,” you said. As if you really had a choice. But what did it matter what he called you? You had no sentimental attachment to your name. Whatever he wanted to call you, whatever he wanted to do, however he wanted to use you: none of it mattered.

“Then I’ll see you in the morning, Malachite. You’ll start your duties tomorrow. I’ll come get you, hm? I don’t think you’re too familiar with the building layout yet.”

“I could learn it.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Let me show you around. I’ll see you then.” With a wave of his hand, Aventurine pushed himself off your doorframe and disappeared.

As promised, he did arrive to fetch you in the morning, but even as he walked you through the geometric design of the building, introduced you to the members of his team and your various administrative duties, which included scheduling, event planning. and arranging transportation, you still weren’t sure why he chose you for such a role.

You had no head for numbers, and could barely keep up with the mental games the IPC favored and played amongst themselves. You knew how to keep quiet, read others and their moods, and when to keep your head down, but those were hardly unique qualities in an IPC employee. You weren’t ambitious or cutthroat, either.

There was also the matter of your curse. Aventurine never made mention of it, but you were an asset that had been traded away. There was only one reason he’d ever bother to take you on, only one reason that made sense. But there was no mention of sending you out into the field, of tormenting reluctant debtors or bringing his enemies crashing down. What did he want from you? The question lingered in your mind, a constant pressure like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. 

He didn’t say anything during the first day. Not the day after. And on the third day of juggling documents and picking up coffee for Aventurine, you finally broke your silence.

“It might be better if you had a different assistant,” you said, sleeve riding up as you handed him another sheaf of papers. “I’m not sure why you put me in this position, but I think you should know that it’s not going to work.”

“You wore it,” he said. He was glancing at the bracelet that you usually kept hidden under the sleeve of your uniform. 

“Yes, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about,” you said. “I don’t think I’m suited for this role, Aventurine.”

“Why not? You’re doing perfectly well, working through the debt your family owes.”

“I can pay the debt off in other ways.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Oh? Is that so?” 

“Not like that,” you snapped, cheeks warming at the insinuation. “You know what I mean. I’m bad luck. Things are going to go wrong if you spend enough time with me. Deals will fall through. You’ll lose your position and wealth. Gambles won’t pan off. Deaths, at worst.”

“Bad luck isn’t something I worry about. In fact, I’d welcome it,” Aventurine said. “It’d be interesting to see whose blessing is stronger, don’t you think? Your bad luck or my good luck.”

“What?” Reacting was what he must have wanted, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from flinching, eyebrows knitting together, confusion apparent in your face and voice.

“I’m like your twin,” Aventurine clarified. “Maybe your luck will win out over mine. Or mine over yours. Or maybe nothing will happen, and we’ll live perfectly normal lives. It’d be a balance, don’t you think? A form of equilibrium.”

Your breathing was shallow, and you tried to school your face back into its neutral expression, digging your fingers into your palm hard enough to leave a mark. It made sense that in the vast universe, there would be others like you and your twin, but you had never expected to meet anyone like that. “That’s not possible. You’re taking a risk. I’m dangerous, and you’re going to get hurt.”

“A good gamble isn’t worth anything if I don’t put something on the line. Who knows? Maybe my good luck brought you to me.”

“But what if my bad luck brought you to me?”

Aventurine laughed, a charming, mellow sound. “Then we’ll only know at the end of our partnership who was right. I’m looking forward to seeing where the chips will fall.”

—

Over the weeks, you established your own routine. You regularly reported to Aventurine, and studied in your free time, cramming your head with financial planning and organizational software. You were cordial with your coworkers but avoided them as much as you could, so Aventurine was the only person you truly talked to. You were his assistant, after all, which put you in close proximity to him often.

He was nice to you, and someone else might have been content with that. But you were always waiting for the twist, the moment when things soured, a glimpse into why he was so eager to keep you by his side. He gave you gifts, he looked after you, but he never got any closer than necessary, even if he toed the boundaries of professionalism. You were like a pet project, perhaps. Or some experiment he was awaiting the results for. There was a line he drew between the two of you, and you knew better than to cross it.

Despite your best efforts, inevitably things started to go wrong. Coworkers who chatted with you for a little too long suffered injuries, poor deals, an increase to their debt to the IPC. Machines broke when you were around, coffee machines sputtering death keels and spouting hot water into the air, laptops frying, even spaceships experiencing technical problems that left mechanics scratching their heads. Former business associates turned cold and unfavorable, and Aventurine’s department suffered in its performance.

You could only be thankful that things weren’t worse. These things were minor, containable.

The rumors started after that, and in Aventurine’s small department, it wasn’t hard for news to spread. He kept so few people around him, and had the smallest cohort of all the other Stonehearts. And even if you weren’t forthcoming about the details of your acquisition, any employee of the IPC worth their salt knew how to ferret out hidden information.

You were cursed, bad luck, a source of misfortune. People started to avoid you, and you were grateful. You had known from the start you weren’t meant for the life that other people had, not love, not connection, not even mundane happiness. 

The only person who never seemed affected, though, was Aventurine. In fact, if he joined a deal that your presence soured, he always managed to turn it around. Machines that went on the fritz purred smoothly to life in his presence. Old business partners were swayed into renewing contracts with the IPC again. Everything that went wrong around you went right with him.

And you? You were braced for the worst to happen still.

—

A few months after you joined the IPC, Aventurine requested your presence for a business deal outside of company headquarters. During your conversation, he lounged in his chair, the ankle of one leg casually crossed over his other knee. He was the picture of easy grace and casual power, your boss with his glittering jewelry and his beautiful eyes that served as a spotlight, placing you in the center of a stage with nowhere to hide.

“You won’t have to do much,” he says. “Just stay by my side, help handle some of my reports. You’re my assistant. It’s good for you to see how deals are run. You might have to manage some of your own in the future.”  

You stood in front of him, arms crossed behind your back, fingers clasped together to keep them from trembling. “Aventurine, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Your bad luck again? Don’t worry about that. With me around, nothing will happen.”

“It’s not just that. You have people in this department who would suit the task better than me. I’m still learning the fundamentals of business. I’m not ready for negotiations yet. I’m not even that good with numbers. I wouldn’t be much of an asset.”

“It’ll help with your family’s debt too, you know. The more work, the more you pay it off.”

You shook your head. “My family will be fine. They’ve faced worse, and they’ve always come out the other side.”

“You have such faith in them.”

“It’s not faith. It’s the truth. Everything will always come to a balance in the end. Both misfortunes and fortune never last for them.”

“Can’t you think of it this way? You’re my lovely assistant, and I want you to be by my side. It’ll calm my nerves,” he said. “And you owe me that much, don’t you, Malachite?”

You twisted the bracelet around and around your wrist. You never took it off, even though it felt like a collar, a reminder of your infinite debt to Aventurine and the IPC, a debt which accumulated more and more interest everyday. “...All right,” you said, finally.

If only he would let you work off the debt in the way you thought you would., your bad luck honed as a tool against others. Or perhaps you could have been stuck doing grunt work, sent to the outer reaches of the galaxy to manage small planets and tedious projects with little risk or value. Instead, he kept you close and gave you preferential treatment that you didn’t deserve.

The deal was to take place in a neutral meeting ground, a small waystation that hovered as a transit point for interstellar travelers on their ways to several different planets. It was perfect for a discreet meeting, with people always coming and going. There was an inn, a bathhouse, a general store,  and several small restaurants scattered around.

These were all things you researched and relayed to Aventurine, though it wouldn’t surprise you if he knew the facts already. Still, it made you less nervous as you fed him the information in a low voice on the flight over.

“The client is the leader of a small band of wanderers, who took out a loan from the IPC with 8.2% interest, and has yet to pay it back. The debt has accumulated for nine years now, so it’s now valued at 1,532,145.86 credits…” 

“And what did you find out about the client?”

You shifted through the papers in your lap, briefcase resting at your feet. Aventurine was right next to you, but he was idly flicking a pair of dice through his fingers, but you didn’t believe for a second that he was actually distracted. “Her followers call her Cassandra, and they believe she has unique prophetic abilities, capable of telling the future. I couldn’t confirm if those were true or not, but her followers certainly believe so. And they’ve been evading the IPC for years, so I wonder if it’s true.”

“Well, stranger things have happened, haven’t they, Malachite? But if she could tell the future, then she should have foreseen that ripping off the IPC wasn’t going to end well for her.” He flicked a glance at you. “Ah, but we’re here to ensure it goes off without a hitch, aren’t we? Whatever happens today, don’t disappoint me. I’m counting on you to play your part well.”

The ship juddered to a halt, and without waiting for you, Aventurine leapt out the door, dusting off his clothes with a certain imperious air that you weren’t used to. Now, he wasn’t Aventurine, the man who saved you, but Aventurine, one of the Ten Stonehearts, someone who clawed his way up the corporate ladder and whose very presence demanded respect.

“Don’t wait for me,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll stretch my legs before I head to the meeting point, so make sure you check in for us and meet me there, hm?”

“Aventurine—”

And then he was gone. Aventurine had been capricious before, but he’d never been cruel. And you couldn’t read this as anything other than a little malicious. But who were you to question him? You could do nothing more than pack your papers, pick up your briefcase, and check in at the front desk of the inn, glumly getting your keys and the other logistics in order.

It took a bit of time to drag all your bags through the front door and into your room on the second floor, two beds and tidy but worn furniture greeting you. Aventurine’s luggage was a designer brand without much wear compared to your plain, cheap work-issued bags, but even having something of your own, as disposable as it was, was better than how you were living before. 

It was several minutes later, lost in your musings, when you paused. Your surroundings were unfamiliar, and you had just been letting your feet guide you across the nubby carpet. But where were you? And where was the meeting hall? You had never been the best with directions or open spaces, not when you had been cocooned in a room so small it only took a few paces to reach the other side.

Aventurine had made so many allowances for you already, but not even he could be happy if you were late to a business deal, especially considering how he left you earlier. It would make the IPC look sloppy.

Before panic could fully set in, a gentle hand settled on your shoulder, and a clear, melodious voice chimed, “Oh, my. Are you lost?”

You whirled around, startled, and the woman behind you held up her hands. Vibrant red curls fell around her shoulders like a plume of lava, and she was dressed in a simple pantsuit, with a sleek obsidian sheen.

“No, I’m just… looking for the conference room,” you said, straightening. There was no point in revealing any hint of insecurity or weakness to a stranger.

“I see. I’m also looking for the conference room,” she said, smiling. “I suppose we’re here for the same reason?” 

You tried to keep your face set in a neutral, passive expression. This was just getting worse and worse. “Perhaps so. I’m here on behalf of the IPC for private business.”

“Ah, how funny. I’m here to meet the IPC for private business. You might have heard of me? I’m Cassandra.” 

The woman was watching your reaction, head tilted, smile enigmatic as a prophet’s should have been. “I’m familiar with the name,” you said.

“Why don’t we head to the conference room together? Since we’re here for the same reason.”

Cassandra didn’t give you a single moment to relax before she strided away, as if expecting you’d follow. And what choice did you have? You took off after her, always staying just a step behind. 

“You look awfully young to be a Stoneheart. I’m guessing you’re an assistant?”

“I’m just here for support, ma’am. And I’d rather not say too much before negotiations begin,” you said.

“And clever, too. It’s rude of your boss to leave such a cute employee by their lonesome. But I’ve heard the IPC is tough on their employees, regardless of how skilled they are. It’s a shame how little people are allowed to flourish.”

It was a clear provocation, but for what end? You simply kept your mouth shut and Cassandra didn’t say anything after that. After traversing a flight of stairs and turning down another corner, you reached the room.

The conference room itself was a room the inn rented out for various purposes, and it was nothing more than a few lowset lamps with discolored glass shades and cracked leather couches, a rich, matted purple rug underfoot. This was a room far less luxurious than Aventurine could have chosen for a business deal, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was on purpose to take it in such a shoddy room.

Aventurine was already lounging on the couch, an open bottle of wine in front of him. The stem of a wine glass was caught between two fingers of his fingers, and he tilted it at the two of you.

“Ah, there you two are. I was worried neither of you would show up.”

“Please, Aventurine,” Cassandra said, smiling. “I would never miss a meeting with a Stoneheart such as yourself, not after the charming little messages you’ve been leaving. It’s my pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Aventurine said.

He beckoned with a finger, and you meekly took your place next to his side, Cassandra’s eyes following you all the while. 

There was no need to join the conversation between the two, and so you kept your eyes to the ground and your ears open. All the two did was exchange pleasantries, veiled threats behind sweet words, dancing around what they were really after. Subterfuge after subterfuge: didn’t the two of them get tired of it? Aventurine made no move to include you in the negotiations, and you couldn’t help but wonder what your place here really was. 

There was only a brief respite when a knock sounded on the door, an inn employee poking their head in to say, “Aventurine, sir? There’s a message for you. I hate to interrupt, but it’s urgent.”

Aventurine rose from the couch. “It’s a shame, but I have to respond to this. I’ll be back. Play nice while I’m gone, hm?”

You tried to catch his eyes, your shaking hands clenched tight in your lap, but he didn’t look at you once before he left. 

It was just you and Cassandra now. At some point, she had poured herself a glass of wine, which she sipped until there was nothing but a bloody smear at the bottom. When she picked up the bottle to refill her glass, she tilted it at you in question, but you shook your head vehemently.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“What?” you said, your voice squeaking.

“That was quite cruel of your boss to leave you alone with me.”

“I wouldn’t question his decision like that. He has his reasons.”

“He’s testing you. Does he do it often?”

Her questions were blunt, pointed. More direct than she had been with Aventurine, and you didn’t how you felt. Were you not worth the effort? Or was there something she was trying to needle out of you? She kept such a good poker face you couldn’t tell at all.

“I’m an asset for the IPC,” you said at last. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You could be more than an asset, dear,” Cassandra said. “I think it’s cruel to treat someone so cute so poorly. And unfortunately, I have a fondness for strays.”

“Ma’am—”

“I’m proposing a deal with you,” she said, tilting the glass in your direction, the wine a hypnotic swirl. “He left the room on purpose, you know?”

“This isn’t appropriate.”

“Neither is leaving a rookie alone in the middle of a private deal,” she countered. “But why don’t you think about it? The IPC is going to chew you up and spit you out. Your boss in particular is notorious for his risky dealings, the little gambles he likes to play. And he’s such a perfect lapdog, too, obedient to a fault to the IPC. And it seems like he’s trying to turn you into the same thing. I could offer you a way out, if you chose it. I won’t treat you like a pawn; this is a deal between equals. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

Aventurine saved you, but only to shuffle you from a worse situation to a bad one. Everything you had—from the clothes you wore to the room waiting for you back at company housing—was borrowed. He could take it away from you as easily as he gave it, shove you back to your family as soon as he deemed you useless.

He’d be treating you particularly poorly today, too. For what reasons, you couldn’t fathom, but it had never been your place to question his decisions. 

But why should you be so arrogant as to think you deserved to know what he was thinking? You were nothing more than a tool, an investment and acquisition, so it only made sense for him to treat you as such. Cruelty and indifference was familiar. Kindness was unknown, something that could be taken away at any time. 

At least with Aventurine, you knew where you stood, and he made no illusions about the nature of your relationship. Each transaction was a comfort, and let you know where, exactly, you stood. If that was twisted, then the two of you were twisted together, the rotten roots of a decaying tree.

“It’s kind of you to offer, but I have to refuse,” you said. “I can’t betray Aventurine. I hope you can understand. I still haven’t paid off my debt to him.”

“That’s a shame,” Cassandra said slowly. “I was hoping you’d say yes, and make it easier for all of us involved. But you see, I have no interest in being hounded by the IPC again.”

Two things happened after that, almost simultaneously: flames roared to life around Cassandra, sweat trickling down your face as the room blazed like a sudden inferno, fire trapping you on the couch, and second, a shot ran out, clear as a bell, striking the wall next to Cassandra’s head, flying so close to your face you could feel the heat of it brush by your head, the door kicked open with a sudden force.

“Are you bothering my assistant?” Aventurine said pleasantly, gun cocked in his hand, aimed right at Cassandra’s face, heedless of the flames flickering around him. “I thought I told you to play nice.”

“Well, they were so cute. I couldn’t resist,” Cassandra said. “Were you listening to our conversation? That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you.”

“Ah, what can I say? I was just taking a gamble that seemed to have paid off,” he said, pleasantly. 

“It seems we’re at an impasse, then.” Without taking her eyes off of Aventurine, she spoke to you. “And it seems you, dear, don’t realize what being involved with this man entails for you.”

“Malachite, you should leave now,” Aventurine said. “You’ve already done a great job. I need to discuss things with Ms. Cassandra in private, so if you would be so kind…”

You shook your head, sweat trickling down your spine. “No. I’ll stay.” 

He sighed, and you couldn’t tell if the sound was more regretful or pleased. “All right. If you insist.”

“Oh, Aventurine,” Cassandra said. “And you, Malachite. There’s nothing but tragedy awaiting you two in the future. I can’t see any way this relationship will end happily.”

You didn’t close your eyes, not even as Aventurine’s gun went off one last time and the flames vanished, Cassandra’s body slumping to the floor, a spray of brilliant blood on the wall.

Hands covered your eyes, the soft brush of velvet gloves enveloping your eyelids. Aventurine’s breath was soft and low in your ear. “Don’t look at it for too long,” he murmured. “But you did an excellent job. You’re truly the best assistant I could have asked for.”

“Was this a test, Aventurine?” you said.

He paused, fingers still restraining your vision, a cocoon of luxurious black that felt stiflingly warm. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then it doesn’t. Don’t think about it, Malachite. You played your part well, so you don’t need to worry about anything else.”

Aventurine arranged his post-clean up affairs, IPC workers on standby who swiftly came into the room while Aventurine bribed the innkeeper, flashing a thick stack of credits in his hands. You sat on the edge of your bed in your room, Cassandra’s words ringing in your ears. When you closed your eyes, you could still see the arc of bright blood sinking into the wallpaper, her life extinguished in an instant.

Whose luck was that? Yours, or his?

It haunted you long after her body was disposed of and her group of vagabonds were scattered. Aventurine received glowing praise and commendations. The IPC had collected its debt. A happy ending, for everyone involved.

—

Something in your relationship with Aventurine changed after that fateful business meeting. If it was a test of your loyalty, then you passed with flying colors, because you were greeted with a circus of presents outside your door a week later: a riot of jewelry, brand clothing from labels that even you had heard of, decadent pastries from bakeries with a minimum two hour queue to enter. 

Even Aventurine himself was a touch kinder than you were used to, as if he’d relaxed around your presence. Perhaps he was trying to soothe you after what happened with Cassandra, or he was trying to make up for the slight cruelties from the trip. Or he’d donned a new mask, meant to keep you unsettled and your guard lowered. He praised you for your work ethic, teased you as if you were close friends, and always, always brought you along for his future business deals. 

“My good luck charm,” he said, and you would twist the bracelet on your wrist so tightly it burned your skin.

It was stifling, but it wasn’t as if you hated him. That was the worst part, that there was only one time of the day that you truly enjoyed with Aventurine. Before each workday started, he requested you go into the office early so the two of you could go over the day’s agenda. Steaming mugs of coffee were placed between you, and you would have a moment of quiet before the workrush really began. 

Sometimes, he would say nothing at all. Other times, you would engage in idle chatter. The silence was the most genuine piece of Aventurine you would get. You could flick a glance at him and see all his ease melted into something quiet and serious, a frown marring his face as he thumbed through reports. He looked exhausted, ordinary, and entirely within your reach.

You accepted all his gifts and flattery otherwise, because there was no reason not to. You still wore his sunglasses and his bracelet. Debt piled on debt, his keen eyes watching you with a fervor that felt feverish and strange. What was he thinking?

The one time you refused his gifts, you were overwhelmed by the constant barrage, lacking room to place everything. Aventurine was outside your door with another white gift bag dangling from his fingertips, a souvenir from whatever planet he just visited, when you told him you didn’t want it. Aventurine’s smile dropped, like a curtain sweeping across his face, cutting off a stage spotlight from the audience.

He chucked the sunglasses on your nose, and you tried not to flinch at his touch. “You don’t want this?”

“I’m okay,” you said meekly. “This is enough, Aventurine. I already have so much from you.”

“Is that so? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was overwhelming you. You don’t have to accept this, then.” His gloved hands, velvet and soft as lamb’s skin, cupped your face. “But isn’t there anything else I can do for you? You’ve been such an excellent assistant, and I would hate to see that go unrewarded.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “I’m only doing the bare minimum of what’s required of me.”

A thumb stroked slow circles on your cheek, and you tried not to shiver. Aventurine tilted his face closer towards you, his breath a warm puff against your own lips. “Really? You’re okay? There’s nothing else you want from me?”

Your glance was skittish, eyes darting all over before you finally had the courage to rest on his own eyes. His beautiful purple eyes, the first burst of color you had seen in your life, were glassy and unfocused. Sweat beaded along the angle of his cheek, dampening his neck. He wasn’t focused on you, but on something beyond you, some space and time you couldn’t access, that he would never let you in to.

You jerked away from Aventurine, shoving backwards with so much force you almost stumbled. “I’m fine. I really am, Aventurine! This is enough. Thank you, truly.”

Aventurine swiped a thumb along his bottom lip. “No, I’m sorry, Malachite. I pushed you too far. This isn’t what you wanted out of our relationship, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He vanished before you could say another word. The only thing you could do in that moment was wrap your arms around yourself. You were never destined for relationships with others, so could you know what you wanted, what was right or not? Everything tangled within you, and you didn’t know which end was what.

This was more than you deserved, more than you ever thought you were going to get. How could you ever ask him for anything more? Would Aventurine use this as an excuse to leave you behind, or would he hold it against you, another debt? Aventurine would carve bloody hunks of flesh from his ribs to feed you, and you would have to smile and bear it, knowing he would shove the bill on you later.

For a few days after that, Aventurine was distant. You didn’t hold your early morning meetings. He didn’t contact you beyond the bare minimum and left on distant planet excursions. Just as you wondered if you had hurt him in some way, he came back with smiles and more gifts, as if your previous interaction had only been a bad dream.

“I’m back, Malachite. Missed me much?” he said. And you loathed to admit it, but you did.

There were also rumors about Aventurine, same as there were about you. Rumors about how he came into the IPC, about what he had done in the past, about the tattoo on his neck. But you tuned those out, walked out the room when he was brought up, changed the subject as soon as you could. Whatever Aventurine’s past was didn’t concern you.

He was a Stoneheart, above your reach and your purview. You’d interacted with his coworkers very little, less than a handful of times. Your most frequent contact was usually Topaz, who asked you about Aventurine’s schedule or location, pestering you to reach him when he wouldn’t respond to her calls. 

Once, it was Jade.

“Oh, you’re Aventurine’s little assistant.”

She was beautiful, but beautiful in the way poison could reflect brilliant colors before it was slipped into a wine glass, or the hypnotic gaze of a snake before its jaws shut around you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A long manicured nail tapped on your desk. A Stoneheart, in person. You could only keep your gaze glued to your papers, your gaze lowered. Out of fear or respect, it didn’t matter. They were both the same thing at the end of the day. “How is he treating you?”

“Very well. I enjoy working with him.”

She still hadn’t moved. “I bet it’s hard to keep up with him. He never makes it easy for his assistants. If you’re ever curious about him, just let me know, hm? I could help you out.”

“For the right price,” you added. “Isn’t that how it works, ma’am?”

“Why, yes. A mutually beneficial transaction for the both of us. It’d give you enough leverage to do something in your relationship, if you wanted. You could be more than a simple assistant. Rise above the ranks. Become a Stoneheart yourself. But to do that, you need information. You’ve never been curious about Aventurine? His name? His past?”

“No. It’s okay, ma’am. I don’t need any of that,” you said firmly. You finally raised your head to meet her eyes, blue and piercing. “It’s not my place. I don’t need to be so close to him, nor do I have any desire to surpass him. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the price of your information.”

Jade only smiled. “I understand. But if you’re ever interested in switching departments, please give me a call. I could use someone as smart as you. I’m well familiar with the process of polishing rough gemstones into something beautiful. But you’re quite loyal to him, aren’t you? I hope that it isn’t misplaced.”

—

Fortune was fickle, a weathervane that flipped in the wind, pointing in whatever direction fate guided it to without rhyme or reason. It was something you understood better than most people, and so little surprised you. 

One morning, you showed up and Aventurine wasn’t there. 

Not a surprise in and of itself, but he never missed work. More than that, he was always on time. And if he was held up, he would let you know. None of your other coworkers knew where he was, simply shrugged and said he would turn up when he did.

It wasn’t your place to keep track of him, and if no one else was worried, you didn’t need to be. But as soon as work hours were over, you rushed to Aventurine’s room.

You knew where it was, of course, but you’d never have a reason to visit before now. You didn’t even know if it was his real room, or just a place he stopped by when he had to manage his in-person affairs at the IPC. He was always on the move, Aventurine, and hard to pin down. 

Everyone received company housing, but the Stonehearts had more luxurious places than the grunt workers, which was to be expected. Still, there was something solid and unassuming about his door. It was lonely, too, set so far apart from everyone and everything else.

“Aventurine?” you called softly, knocking once, the rap of your knuckles echoing down the empty hall. No response.

You knocked again, harder this time, knuckles slamming against unyielding metal to the point of pain.

You didn’t have to be here. No one else was worried about him. If he wanted you to know where he was, he would tell you. You shouldn’t step over any lines. You were always so, so good at that. And Aventurine was capricious, fickle, and pushed and pulled at you with equal force, letting you get just shy of close before backing away again, a chasm filled with glittering presents between the two of you. If you walked away now, no one would know.

You pushed the door open. It was unlocked, and swung open silently at your touch, as if it was waiting for you.

The room was dim. The blinds were drawn, and the lights were off. Your eyes were used to weak lighting, though, and you were comfortable in the darkness. There wasn’t much to make out; a few clothes tossed carelessly on the floor and draped across a chair, a plush rug that your feet sank into. There were no decorations, no sign that anyone lived here or stayed for longer than a few days at a time. It was much like your own room, save that his furnishings were more luxurious, but that somehow made the sparseness that much sadder.

You crept closer, towards the bed in the middle of the room, knees bumping against the frame. Aventurine was twisted within its silk sheets, slick with sweat, eyes closed.

“Aventurine?” you whispered.

He moaned, a low, pained sound, like that of a trapped animal.

You reached out to touch him, but he jerked back as if on instinct. Your hand hovered uselessly in the air before you let it drop. His movement had shifted the sheets, revealing bandages wrapped around his torso, blood seeping through, bright blooms that stood out even in the darkness. 

“What happened, Aventurine?” you asked.

He didn’t respond. It was a mission, of some kind, most likely. Private Stoneheart business, or a deal gone wrong. But what happened didn’t matter so much as the fact that he was hurt. He had no honeyed words or facade left, just a pale, vulnerable body curled up in the dark by himself, trusting no one and nothing to come save him. Was he just planning on laying here until he healed, brushing off his absence with excuses? This was the most honest he had been with you, and it wasn’t even by his own violation.

For the next few hours, you brought him water, fruit, and soup. Cold towels, painkillers, and new bandages. You waited on the edge of the bed until he stopped flinching when you approached, when he cracked open his eyes, feverish and unfocused, to see you. Stray, golden hairs damp with sweat curled around his forehead.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped. 

“I know.”

But now that he saw it was you, he let you coax warm soup into his mouth, catching whatever dribbled down his chin. You wiped away the sweat and pressed cold compresses to his forehead. You gave him painkillers and he shook his head, and so you placed them back on his bedside without a word.

It was thankless work, with supplies heedlessly bought from with your own money, credits that you would toil to earn once again. You passed time in this quiet, warm room with Aventurine, sleeves rolled up to your elbows as you changed his blood soaked bandages, revealing raw skin stitched and bleeding over a bullet wound, the wound low on his abdomen.

It was brutal work, what marred his skin, clearly meant to hurt, but you couldn’t look away. Nor could you stop from noticing that his back bore traces of old scars, silvery, tough flesh. More secrets, more things that you could ask about but would not. 

When his bandages were exchanged for a fresh pair and you had wiped away all the sweat again, Aventurine reached out a weak hand, tapping the bridge of the sunglasses on your face.

“You’re still wearing these.”

“They help my eyes.”

He laughed, a weak, dry sound, wind rustling through dead grass. “You could have bought better ones. What are you after, here? The Stoneheart position? Another promotion? A transfer, even? Jade says she likes her work.”

“No,” you said. “I won’t ask for more than what I have.”

“You can,” he pressed. “Are you afraid your luck will take it away? As long as I’m here, it won’t—”

“Maybe I did this to you,” you interrupted. “Have you considered that? Your luck has run out with me around.”

“So? What if it did?” Aventurine said. He propped himself up on his elbows, purple eyes intense as they bore into you. “That’s what I’ve been hoping for, Malachite. That your curse is stronger than mine.”

You sucked in a breath, then let it out. This was the heart of the matter, the truth of why he let you stay by his side, the answer you’ve been wondering all this time. He was after your curse after all, but not in a way that most people were. “You’d like my curse to affect you, wouldn’t it? That’s cruel of you, Aventurine. Maybe I was wrong, and I was the one cursed with you. You’re my bad luck.”

“Then isn’t that great? The universe’s most lucky and least lucky people are stuck together.”

“I changed my mind,” you said. You weren’t sure what emotions boiled in you. Anger? Happiness? Resentment? It pooled into one cavernous want, dark and bottomless, the same thing you felt when you first saw him. “I do want something from you. Tell me your name, Aventurine.”

“Who’s cruel now?” he murmured. Still, you didn’t pull away as he brought himself closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and fevered. “It’s Kakavasha.”

“Kakavasha,” you said, rolling the name around in your mouth like a pearl. “Kakavasha.”

“Are we even now? Don’t wear the name out, Malachite.”

“Not at all,” you said. “But this does balance the scales slightly.”

“Does it now? Being by my side won’t bring you much benefit, as you can see.”

“Neither does staying by mine, but you should know that I owe you a debt, so I’m stuck with you,” you said. 

“Oh?”

“And that means you’re stuck with me, too.”

Carefully, as if you were still approaching a cornered animal, you reached out a hand to Aventurine, twining your hands together. Your grip was loose, tenuous. His fingertips were cold, but the solid weight of it felt like a burning sun, his sweaty palm pressed against yours. He didn’t pull away, and that was enough.

There was nothing in the world you owned. You were cursed, and you could never have an ordinary life or a happy future. But you would grasp onto the things you wanted so tightly that nothing else could tear them away, no matter how selfish it was, no matter who got hurt. Because that was how people like you and him survived in this world.

“I’m taking a gamble on you,” you whispered. “So don’t disappoint me, Kakavasha.”

But today, when you wake up coated in a layer of sweat, your throat so sore and swollen you can barely take a few sips of water, your head pounding in a throbbing, off-tempo rhythm, your attendance record is broken.

It’s a small thing to feel sorry over. Petty, even, but you can’t help the disappointment welling in your chest. It takes most of your energy to drag yourself out of bed, groggily take your temperature with a thermometer, where it rests at a perfect 39 degrees Celsius, or 102.2 degrees Fahrenheit. You pop a fever tablet in your mouth, swallow it with water, and bundle yourself in two different blankets on your couch, ready to sweat out your fever.

As you doze throughout the morning, sleep unwilling to pull you under, you’ve never felt smaller in your own apartment. With your particular salary, you can afford a nice place, but the empty space yawns around you. Your mind runs through the people you could contact, faces blurring together, but it’s a pitiful amount. Your thoughts always trail back to Section Six. But what would you ask them? To drop work to come see you, like a fussy child?

The sunlight in your apartment changes in glittering intervals, from pale dawn to a rich, afternoon gold, and still you’re caught somewhere between dream and sleep, a hazy state where you alternate between kicking off your blankets and pulling them tighter around you. Your fever blazes like a furnace behind a closed grate, barely contained, your body warring with itself.

In your dreams, you imagine you hear the vague thud of your door opening, feet shuffling across your polished hardwood floors, a cool hand on your forehead that you unconsciously lean towards. But that’s all it must be: a nice dream, conjured from a desire you can’t voice to yourself. There’s one person who has the key to your apartment, but he should still be at work right now, if not slacking off, as he always does.

The next time you wake, it’s to the fragrance of something warm and comforting, food cooking on your stove. There’s someone in your kitchen, and your hand weakly scrabbles at your side, where you would normally keep a knife, but you’re clad in nothing but thin pajamas. Just as you begin to run through the various martial arts you know, Harumasa pops his head around the wall that divides the kitchen from the living room, a blue cloth mask covering his mouth and your black, Bangboo-print apron tied around his waist.

“You’re awake,” he says. “Perfect. I’m almost done with this.”

He disappears back into the kitchen. Now you know for sure this is a dream, because the sight of Asaba Harumasa wearing your apron, cooking in your kitchen, is nothing short of miraculous. 

You pull yourself up on your elbows, head spinning. There’s a damp towel laid on your forehead, and a glass of water on the coffee table. You down it, parched. 

There’s a clatter in the kitchen, and Harumasa steps out with a bowl of rice porridge in his hands. He sets it on the table in front of you, curling up at the foot of the couch.

“Well? Eat up,” he says expectantly. “I’m pretty confident in its taste. It’s hard to mess up boiling rice and water together, you know.”

“What are you doing here?” you ask. Your voice is still slow from sleep and fever, but Harumasa’s eyes crinkle at the corners, as if he’s smiling under his face mask.

“What do you think? I’m here to take care of my poor partner!”

“And this isn’t an excuse to skip work?”

Harumasa places a hand on his chest, the picture of innocence. “Me? Skip work? Why, I’m here out of the goodness of my heart! There’s nothing wrong with leaving a bit early because I’m worried about my dear partner, you know!” You still make no effort to move, and Harumasa picks up the spoon, scooping a generous portion of congee. “Want me to feed you?”

You snatch the spoon out of his hand. “I’m okay, thanks.” The first bite is scalding hot, and you try not to wince as you roll the rice around your mouth. 

“Don’t forget to blow,” Harumasa says. “It’s fresh off the stove.”

The rice is finally cool enough that you can swallow without pain. It’s simple, but delicious, with a slightly richer flavor that makes you suspect he added dashi to it.

Harumasa watches you intently the entire time as you bring spoonful after spoonful to your mouth, waiting for it to cool before you swallow. You’ve learned your lesson.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, and you realize it’s true. Maybe it’s the food, or the company, but your body doesn’t hurt as much as it did this morning.

“Did you take medicine already?” 

“When I first woke up,” you murmur. “I have some fever medication tablets in my bathroom.”

“Take some more in the evening if you still feel bad, but it depends on the specific brand you’re using. Six hours is a standard time to wait between tablets, though,” he says. “Oh, and I have something for you.”

Harumasa jumps up, heads to the kitchen, and returns with a plastic bag, pulling out a package of cat-themed cough drops, bright oranges tangled in a red plastic net, and a card with bright crayon drawings. “The cough drops are from Tsukishiro, the oranges are from Chief, and the card is from Soukaku. When they heard I was coming to see you, they wanted me to bring these along too.”

You flip open the card. It’s a drawing of you and Soukaku holding hands in what appears to be the Section Six office, with a quick message scrawled in blue on the opposite page. Feel better soon!! I miss you!!

You reach for Tsukishiro’s gift next. All the cough drops are packaged individually, and you roll one around in your hand, staring at the pink cat chasing butterflies printed on the plastic.

“Why’d you really come today, Harumasa?” you say.

“Why not? I got off work early, so I had time to visit.” Harumasa lounges on the floor in front of the couch, legs folded underneath him. “Besides, it’s quiet when you’re not around.”

“Everyone else is in the office.”

“Well, they miss you, too. It’s not the same if you’re not there.”

The cough drop is a drop of golden sunshine in your palm, and when you place it on your tongue, you can taste honey and eucalyptus. “So what you’re really saying is that you missed me a lot, huh?” The joke comes out less playful than you’d like it to be, a plaintive note beneath. 

“Well, I didn’t want you to be lonely,” Harumasa says. He tears open the bag of oranges with his nails, picking at an orange until the skin unfurls like a flower beneath his fingers, citrus scent blooming. “Being by yourself, with no one else around, in an empty room, no one taking care of you… It’s hard being sick, but it’s harder being sick on your own.”

“Aren’t you worried about getting sick?”

“I have a mask,” he says, tapping at the cloth covering his mouth. “And if I catch your fever, then Tsukishiro can’t be mad if I have to take a leave of absence again. You’ve never used a sick day before, right? So you might as well enjoy the time off to rest.”

You sink back into your nest of blankets, honey melting in your throat, cough drop soothing the worst of the swelling. Your words come out tangled, vulnerable. It’s your fever, it has to be your fever, unearthing words you’ve never given voice to before. “But I want to be in the office. If I’m not there, then I might disappear. It doesn’t feel like I’m real unless I’m doing something for other people. Will I be worth remembering if I’m useless?” 

Harumasa doesn’t say anything for a while. There’s only the sound of peeling oranges, placed one by one on the coffee table like little offerings. “Did you know that babies have a grasp reflex?” he says finally. “When you stroke the palm of their hands, they instinctively grasp your finger. I think humans were probably born reaching for each other. We want someone, anyone, to be there, because we’re lonely. But at the same time, a lot of people are afraid to reach out, afraid that no one will reach back.” Harumasa shuffles over and slides his hand into one of yours, resting it flush, palm to palm. His fingertips are orange and sticky with juice. His touch is cool, soothing, against your own hot fingers. “So you can miss as many days of work as you want. I’ll always come here and cook you rice porridge.”

You curl your fingers over his palm. A perfect fit, like puzzle pieces slotting together. Somehow, when you’re with Harumasa, all your worries and fears evaporate like frost melting under the sun. 

In a swift movement, you tug your linked hands to press your burning lips against the back of Harumasa’s hand. He lets a sharp, surprised inhale, but only curls his fingers around yours, so your fingers intertwine in a tangle.

“When I come back to work,” you mumble, “You better be in the office, too. Otherwise I’ll have to go to your apartment and cook for you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

“All right, all right. I understand. Get some rest. When you wake up, you should have some of the oranges.”

“Are you going to leave?”

“No. I’ll stay here for as long as you need me to,” Harumasa says. He squeezes your hand. 

Your eyes drift shut, reassured by the weight of his body, the warmth of his touch. Harumasa would stay for the entire night, a hundred years, even, and all you would have to do is ask. How lucky it is to have someone in this world who, if you reach out to him, will always reach back.