NO MORE SHAME / NO MORE FEAR / NO MORE DREAD

when the tiniest sliver of an opportunity to deflect presents itself, she fits herself inside of it.

“i don’t even smoke anymore.”

and by anymore, she means for the last month. ish. translated: tucker’s trying to be a clean girl. he’d like that, wouldn’t he? she’s made multiple tiktoks about this mystery man of hers and all of her commenters agree. except the ones who don’t— who think she should dump him because he's just using her for ...

she deletes those.

“look, forget it.”

which means the exact opposite.

“i have to go.”

"You have to go?"

He doesn't rise to stop her. He doesn't rise to do anything. However, he's watching her with an acute sharpness that had been lacking before now.

"Where are you going?"

And how is she going to get there? Look, she's not trapped here, and he doesn't mean to imply that she is, not even in the privacy of his own confused thoughts, but—this isn't how the night was supposed to go. They'd made arrangements.

she also stutters a lot, or else interjects her own thoughts with other, less relevant thoughts, like she can't decide between which one is important enough to say—if any of them even are. which ranta is starting to doubt. sometimes, as now, he has to frown at her to try and parse her meaning.

sit down? dirty ... footwear?

he sticks out his leg and considers his shoe. then he looks at stella and considers her shoes, too: sensible but not dirty. just like his!

' sure. ' he doesn't say if you want, because then it'll sound like he's doing this for her. due to how red her face is, he decides that this isn't something she can handle right now.

the circus isn't wanting for seats, but of course most of them are arranged around the ring. instead of entering this seventh layer of hell earlier than strictly necessary, he settles on a pair of hay bales that someone had dragged in front of a gold- and mahogany-striped tent. he shirks off his cardigan and lays it on one; waits patiently for stella to take her place; and then sits down on the other.

' —do you think they like it here? ' such an irrelevant question, and one he regrets immediately after asking. ranta makes a point of not philosophizing about anyone he considers less fortunate than him. his sisters, mostly. and sitting ducks. hypotheticals were easier to stomach. sure, they could be dangerous (the inflammatory what-ifs of a better life). but they were more-or-less safe when applied to strangers, whose lives simply did not apply to him at all.

like stella's, for example.

a stalk of straw digs uncomfortably into his thigh. he shifts to avoid it and, when that doesn't work, resigns himself to endurance.

' sorry, i mean—do you think you would like it here? ah, working. and eating this every day. ' does he really think they eat cotton candy every day? ' would you do it? ' if everything were different and nothing were as it is? he stares at his open palms.

As it did not occur to Stella earlier that Ranta's unprompted, gratuitous compliment could have been directed towards anyone but her, she now assumes, and therefore knows confidently, that Ranta agrees to sit for her benefit more than his own. He didn't need to say if you want for her to draw this conclusion.

"Thank you," she says, too-quick and too-gracious since she didn't thank him quickly enough for his compliment. His chivalry, now, must be acknowledged appropriately.

Stella sits. As soon as she does, she regrets ever having suggested this—even though it prevents her from conjuring up facts about Blackwell's half-rooted in reality or compelling Ranta to see this place as more glamorous than it truly is.

He couldn't possibly hate it here, but he certainly doesn't look impressed. She's glad he asks a question because she'll have less to come up with on her own. She's not glad for what the question is, so she doesn't answer for awhile—long enough for Ranta to finish asking if Stella would want this life.

"Of course they like it here. They love it here. It's—it's really nice, it's a great place, and they're—we're like a family."

(I like this cage, and I like my spot here in it. Even sitting on your cardigan waiting to watch my father's employees dazzle audiences with their powers so they can pay their bills, I am so extremely grateful.)

"Eating—this every day?" She shakes the cotton candy. It shifts, dandelion-like, though slightly more stubbornly enduring.

"I guess so. I like the noise. There's always something to—" distract you from the horrors "—do. Everybody has ADD now, you know? I think that includes me."

She gets to work. You always start with the roots.

“it’s somethin i heard once like out of a fortune cookie or somethin. or maybe someplace else, like, what have you done today to earn lookin at all that’s good lookin in the world around you. it’s a thinker.”

giddy’s head hurts. he straps the dirty pink headpiece with the bunny ears attached under his chin. the fabric muffles the ringing in his ears. he sighs, and itches his arms, and seems to remember that choso is there in full corporeality.

But Giddy doesn't say this outright, or even say much that would allow Choso to infer it. It's an accusation Choso's already decided to hear. It's grown legs.

He's still fretting over Giddy's undeniable resentment towards him when he realizes Giddy has the look of someone who's been subjected to Satoru Gojo's infinite void, or maybe the look of someone who was hit by a brick very severely not so long ago.

Now Choso's got even more to worry about.

"—yes."

He did say something. Are you mad at me are you mad at me are you mad at me?

Choso wrings his hands until they settle on his arms. He feels better when he's wrapped around himself. He understands Giddy's accessorizing, the utility and the purpose of it, more than he could articulate in any language. There's too much real feeling to it for words.

"How are youuu—euh. Sleeping?"

what he needs is a three-ply tissue.

she presses one into his palm. despite the tremors she can see and feel passing through him, he remains cool to the touch. she suspects that this is because choso’s blood flows to his heart and pools in his chest. hemorrhages, sometimes, in the form of tears and sobs. and so there’s none left over for his pale skin or often-rigid limbs.

' mm. ' fondness melts into something soft down her throat. she smiles a smile of her own, slight and rounded, because smiles are contagious—and when choso talks about yuji, he does it in a way that fills the room. there’s no choice but to enter the memory with him, experience that single joy firsthand.

It doesn't taint his adoration of her that there is, presently, nowhere else for her to go but by his side. Even if they walked in opposite directions until their legs gave out, they would return to one another as if they'd never tried to leave. They haven't tried that; they do not want to. Tengen's bland, uninspiring habitat does not allow any necessities to be desired, once you know how to communicate with the space. And even if they could leave or separate, two more things prevent it: their duty to this mission and their increasing fascination with one another.

Yuki's hand is warm. He wants to hold it. Instead, he knows he needs to pull himself more together.

Not only for Yuki, or himself, but for—

<<Yuji wouldn't want to see me like this. He shouldn't see me like this. If he were here, he would want to race from one end of Tengen's sanctuary to the other, like a game we could have played when we were growing up together. Even though he's young, he has the right perspective. He's very optimistic. Like you are, too.>>

He turns his head towards her, which has the effect of leaning his cheek against her palm. Still warm.

"OHHHH," she sighs heavily, raspberries out her lips, "that fuckin hullubaloo. had, like, a date thing, cancelled on me. for like, the fiftieth time, su'thin' like that. bad form. i've this really cracker reservation too, but it's always like, ohhh, my dog's sick, this that and the other. iiiiiit's fine."

it's absolutely not fine. this promoter has been stringing her along for weeks, before she'd even got her eyes on big tall nanami, always bailing on her at the last minute with this fucking ragdoll of a mutt his constant excuse. then, right, then, pidge will open her phone and see some IG story of him posted up on some patio, dog in tow. lyin bastard. but, pidgeen joyce is not immune to the feminine thrill of having some scrub to complain to her friends about. she's kept on the chase of him partly out of spite, partly because he's quite well connected and partly because he is a bit sexy.

He doesn't feel polite—and it's not because he's merely tolerating her. Because this isn't what that is. He feels impolite because he needs them to be somewhere he doesn't need to be so violently self aware—as if Nanami Kento were ever capable of forgetting himself.

For Pidgeen to have been so lividly, vividly incensed over a shitty potential suitor endears him. He also allows a somewhat egotistical surge of irritation—a real man would never treat Pidge like that. A real man could never let her think she was worthless or unimportant.

"I haven't had Hawaiian food." This is somewhat because: "I've never been to Hawaii."

He's never been on any sort of vacation at all. Moving here's the only time he's been on a plane. His work in Tokyo allowed him to remain local. But I don't know how to have fun isn't a thing you can say so bluntly.

Not aware he'd just done the same, Nanami adjusts his sunglasses.

"I'm sorry you went to that trouble. He shouldn't have taken you for granted."

it's that weird motherfuckers like this just peel themselves out of the woodwork and foist themselves upon her by her association to her idiot brother. the whole city hums with them, but roscoe really manages to attract the worst. bizarro flies on sticky shit.

choso sets selene on edge, gives her a chill up her neck that shrieks wrongness! which doesn't quite drown out his histrionics.

but the other part of her remembers streaming noses and little boy tantrums with a touch more reticent softness. selene sighs as if put upon, and hands choso a tissue from her purse.

He knows they're close—infuriatingly close. He knows what he needs to do. Kind of. There aren't any books or articles or lived experienced documented by historians at all that inform Choso on the exact steps to take on this particular quest. He's also yet to encounter any helpful materials on how to interact with the likes of Selene Segal—and exit the interaction unscathed.

Maybe next time. For now, he comforts himself with reassurances that if anyone fails to take him seriously, they're only disadvantaging themselves. He doesn't consciously realize that he's accepted the tissue and even begun to blot gingerly underneath his eyes.

He's not good at this. Soon enough, he's rubbing where his face itches and making a heinous mess of himself.

"I don't know how to make it stop doing that."

He has been in this predicament before. Refraining from eyeshadow application in the morning hasn't been considered as a viable solution.

If they weren't standing in the middle of a blacker-than-pitch room, Rupert might have seen the jump of her shoulders when the chaos threatens to break into the room, but all he gets is a resolute "agreed." Dolores has been in one too many horror stories to want to stick around for this. She thinks she can remember the rough lay out of the room-- at least enough to get them pointed in the general direction of an exit, but first; she has a tourist politician to collect. "Marco," she calls. The sooner she hears a polo, the sooner they can get out of here.

She beckons him. All his determination not to reveal himself—shit. He needs her help.

"Po—" He clears his throat, then resumes, more cheerily than before: "—polo, yes!"

His arms are rigidly at his sides.