#BUCKLE UP KIDS IT'S TIME TO LEARN ABOUT BUSHIDO

[sabraeal]

If the Mind Is Willing, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

Part three of 500 Follower prizes @bubblesthemonsterartist​ earned herself years ago! Only two more and I will have fulfilled all those fics...probably just in time to have a 1K follower raffle

Blue light washes her pink sheets pale, until it’s impossible to tell when cotton ends and her skin begins. The shadows pull longer in its glow, turning her own nearly skeletal as she reaches out a finger, hovering over the link.

“U-J-Kyo?” Chizuru’s mouth wraps around each letter, the sound of them tumbling softly into the muted glow. “But that’s just...?”

The university’s homepage. And her laptop’s, technically, now that Yamazaki helped her set it. Not something she’d normally associate with Souji’s interests, not unless he’s started some new hostilities with the provost’s office again. Their last open letter hung on the fridge until just before Thanksgiving, the second paragraph asking for “certain individuals in the student body“ to “show more conduct becoming of an undergraduate of a prestigious institution” highlighted proudly in lime green.

Dean Kondo dropped by the house only a few days later-- for a friendly visit, he’d said, smile as warm as she remembered. He’d stayed for dinner, complimenting the soup she’d made from their leftovers, and then talked with Souji out on the porch until the swing’s chains started to creak. The letter disappeared the next morning, unremarked, though Souji kept glowering at the bare metal every time he passed through the kitchen.

Chizuru swipes tentatively at the screen, messaging app blooming beneath her finger. The link’s innocuous, known, but Souji has a gift for slipping a sting into any handshake. And if he’s calling it a gift, well--

[ToudouDomination] omg holy shit dude nice knowing u hijikatas gonna kill u 4 sure 💀💀

Professor Hijikata’s taught her enough about Trojans to take that kind of present at face value.

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] *skullfuck u mean skullfuck ull b the most beautiful corpse at ur funeral bro

Her lips press tight, clinging to each other as close as the rubber case to her phone. If everyone’s acting like this about it, it’s better that she doesn’t look.

[ToudouDomination] MY funeral???!! what’s this got to do with me??!!

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] nah man im not talking ab YOU im talking ab dead man walking over here

She’d regret it if she did, probably.

[Dr 💖💋🤭] jfc I’ll say somethign nice at you’re disciplinery hearing

[ToudouDomination] Me??

[Dr 💖💋🤭] No one’s talking about you Heisuke

It’s an accident, really. Her thumb skims up the side of the screen-- scrolling past the sudden influx of skull and fire emojis the boys heave into the chat-- and the pad of it just barely brushes the link. It flashes under the pressure, blue then purple, selected, and well...

There’s no harm in just letting it happen, is there? It’s only the university homepage, nothing--

Ah. That’s what it should be at least. But instead of the azure and white, there’s text curling across the screen, a half dozen different hand-written poems in blue bic and college rule, tiled across every inch of the background. There’s coffee stains on them too, some in the corner, and some in rings, like they were more used to being coasters than literature. And in the center of it all--

“Oh.” She blinks, tilting her screen to get a better view. “A video?”

Hogyoku Open Mic, it reads at one corner, reflection on water. A strange choice for Souji; he’s never mentioned an interest in poetry, let alone live readings. Frowning, Chizuru tilts her phone, letting the video fill the screen.

It plays, and oh, several things become clear, all at once.

“My heart is pure,” the man on screen promises, words raking over the gravel of his voice-- how little of it there is marks his age more than the lack of lines on his face-- but Chizuru’s isn’t, not when she can’t do much more than stare, fingers numb around the rubber case. “I use my palm as an inkstone.”

The camera pans closer, and yes, above that black dress shirt-- open to its third button, oh goodness gracious-- is Hijikata. Not the one she knows now, the grizzled professor who kicks his feet up on the desk and uses profanity as punctuation, but--

But a much younger man, not much older than her, considering the last little bastions of baby fat clinging to his cheekbones.

[Dr 💖💋🤭] This muts be a hundred pakcs of cigs ago

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] 💯

[ToudouDomination] do moths feel desire or is that like a poetic thing he talks about rain a lot too whats that all ab

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] its a sex thing

[Dr 💖💋🤭] Shin don’t tell the baby taht

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] hes a growing boy he has to learn sometime better he hears it from us hijikata fucks 🍑🍆🍑

[Saito.Hajime] Can I please be removed from this group? Also, congratulations, Souji, on finding a new, creative way to die

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] no way if we all have to think think about hijikata fucking u have to suffer too

[Saito.Hajime] I am not certain I care for that logic

[Dr 💖💋🤭] Too bad, bud. Your stukc with us

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] yeah bro u signed the housing contract ur here til death comes for u or like u move out or smthn

Chizuru means to stop the video, really she does. It’s not something Hijikata would want them to see-- at least, she assumes so, considering the way he flushes every time Souji brings up his graduate school slam jams, threatening to expel him if he doesn’t ‘shut his damn mouth.’

But the one on the screen smiles as he finishes his set, smouldering out past the stage lights, and she-- she expects snapping, some cool cats with shades and berets nodding their heads to his truth or whatever mood this is supposed to give. A respectful silence, one that gives space to the idea he’s introduced to the space, but instead--

Instead there’s screams. A full audience of women-- and a few particularly enthusiastic men-- loudly voicing their appreciation for what she’s hoping is the poetry.

Ah, maybe Shinpachi is right. It is a sex thing. And she’s watched a full ten minutes of it.

Hijikata can never know. Or worse--

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take this down. Now.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] eat my ass

Her heart ricochets around her rib cage, panicked, before it lodges itself in her throat. It flutters there, queasily, and-- and there’s no way he could possibly know, but still, guilt seizes her. She shouldn’t have looked, not once she knew. She should have been the first to say it was wrong. Helpers can only help when they know there is a problem, that’s what Father would have said. If you cannot perceive it then you are part of it.

She could say something now. Her hand squeezes tight around the case. No, she should say something now. She has to, because father will ask. She’ll tell him about this frantic midnight showdown, and he’ll say, and what did you say?

And if it is nothing...

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take it down now. Or I will get university IT involved.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] you don’t have the fucking balls

[Susumu Yamazaki] Try me.

Even with her eyes closed, her failure is inescapable. The words flash behind her eyelids, no longer composed of ones and zeros but scrawled in neon lights instead, reminding her that if she were better she could have fixed this. That if she were good enough, she could have found the magic phrase to get them all to get along. But instead...

Silence, that’s what he’ll give her. A long pause where all his expectations weigh on her, piling on her chest like boulders on a criminal. A cluck of his tongue, and a soft, I thought I raised you better. Any moment now, her phone will ring, and Father will know what a disappointment she is because--

It’s Christmas. Just about everywhere but Hawaii. A couple other islands in the Pacific too, if she’s being fair. It’s Christmas, and he’s supposed to call because that’s the way it’s always been: her staying up late not to catch Santa and his Reindeer but Father emerging from his office. It’s her that would tromp down the hall with all the grace of an elephant, to fling her arms around him and yelp, Merry Christmas!

And it was him who had to be stern, who must put her back down on the carpet and scold her for being out of bed. Who has to wait until she’s nearly shut her door to stop her, to call out, Merry Christmas, Chizuru.

It’s supposed to be her first. The one given moments after midnight, the most real, and-- and--

And she’s spent the whole day waiting for an empty office.

There’s a part of her, one that’s still too short to reach the microwave and can’t bear the kindness next door, that thinks she missed it. That there’s some dead zone in the house that she unwittingly lingered in, or a notification that her phone somehow swallowed whole. That it’s her fault she never presented herself to be loved.

But there’s another part, one that’s growing every day, and that one--

That one’s just tired. 

It’s tired that wins out, in the end.

There’s a weight that drags at her, urging her to stay within the cocoon of her covers, to let the night unfurl across her screen, each blow reported in black and white right before her eyes. A passive observer, an active disappointment, but most importantly: unmoving.

Even still, she gets up, throwing the cloud of her comforter back so that she can slide out from underneath it. Her heels hit the floor with a force that chatters her teeth; or maybe that’s just the chill of the air now that her body heat is no longer trapped up against her skin.

Her phone settles on the nightstand, cozening up to the lamp, and for a long moment, she thinks about turning it on. Every muscle complains as she peels her day clothes off and exchanges them for pajamas, her eyes straining to make out what’s a hole and what’s just dead air, and yet--

Yet it’s easier than facing herself.

The same weight drops her back onto the mattress, an anchor sinking into the endless depths of open water. She isn’t sure when she’ll hit bottom, but staring at the blank screen beside her feels entirely too close to it.

It’s with a trembling finger that she guides the volume from full to vibrate. Even that makes her heart race, makes her wonder if she’s just punishing Father for having priorities besides a fully adult daughter, the same one who had so happily told him she would support his sabbatical wherever it took him. What if he needs to get a hold of her? If there’s an emergency on Borneo or San Cistobal or whatever island his research took him? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just keep it on a little, just in case--

Her fingers flex. She deserves to sleep tonight, what little of it there is left. And if this is on...

Vibrate changes to mute. The phone flips over, screen pressed against the wood.

“Good night, Daddy.” She gives the case one last, small tap. “Merry Christmas.”

“Hey, jailbait.” Something warm nudges her shoulder, not gently. Chizuru has the space of exactly one breath to wonder what, before the same something grips both and shakes. “Get up!”

“Haah?” Her hands flail out, but whatever’s gotten hold of her slithers out of her grip, retreating past her arm’s reach. “What...?”

It’s bright when her eyes peel open, the sun already seeping through the curtain even though it can’t be more than--

“Class!” Her limbs fly out, wild as she tries to turn over, tangled up in the tight embrace of her covers. “I’m late for--”

“Hold up a slice, shortcake.” Souji looms over her, tall enough that his knees barely brush the bed to do it. “No classes today.”

“No...?” It’s not as if she has anything to say, brain moving at a snail’s pace that it is, but her mouth keeps moving anyway, as if just working her jaw might help get the gears moving. Which it does, oddly enough, reminding her it’s not a weekend but a holiday, and not just any holiday but Christmas, and--

And Father never called. Unless it came in the night, after she’d put herself to bed. After she’d not only turned off the ringtone but vibrate too, leaving him no chance to hear her voice, forcing any attempts for him to contact her straight to voicemail, like she didn’t even care--

“Hey.” Souji knees the mattress, jolting her outstretched elbow right into the corner of the nightstand. “Get up already.”

Painful tingles race up her arm, bouncing from elbow to shoulder and back and, oh, why is it called the funny bone when it’s not funny at all? “Souji, why are you--?”

A bleary blink turns the blurred numbers on her clock to something like sense.

“Oh!” She bolts upright on the mattress, sending Souji skittering back a step. No wonder he’s deigned to scratch at her door; Harada might be the oldest, but of the three of them, Chizuru’s the only one that can be trusted with the stove. “It’s late! Are you hungry?”

“No.” This close, it’s easy to see that furrow flash between his brows, the quick reassessment of his opinion. “Well, yeah. But that’s not what I want right now.”

This early, her brain’s as bleary as her vision, but it won’t clear no matter how much she blinks. “Then what...?”

He heaves a sigh; her only warning before long fingers clamp around her wrist, cold as iron. “Just come with me already.”

It’s a feat to get untangled from her blankets; there’s a knit one sandwiched between the top sheet and the comforter, plus another for more weight-- and heat, since she shares her thermostat with Shinpachi and Harada, whose bodies both run at a temperature verging on medically alarming if they think sixty-five degrees is comfortable. It’s harder still with Souji yanking at her the whole time; she’s not certain whether he does it because he’s impatient or because her struggling amuses him. Possibly both, knowing Souji.

Impatience, however, wins out. One foot wins free, planting itself on the bedside braided rug, and he snaps, “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

She’d love to, if only the comforter hadn’t swallowed her up to the ankle, cinching tight when she tries to pry it apart. “Ah, I know! Just give me one--”

Unless she’d meant to say second-- which she hadn’t, not at all-- Souji doesn’t give it to her. Instead he tugs, and she stumbles off the mattress, dragging half the blankets with her. “Good,” he huffs, barely glancing back. “Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Souji has a terrible habit of making things worse the longer he’s made to wait, but she digs in her heels anyway. Or, well, the one that isn’t still trapped in Poly-Fil. “Can I at least put on my robe?”

“Why? It’s not like there’s anyone to see your cute little Christmas--” he squints “--raccoons?”

“Tanuki.” She smooths her hand over the fabric, one of their round faces peeking playfully out from between her fingers. “They’re just so fluffy.”

Souji stares at her, stone-faced and silent, and-- and it’s longer than that his teasing typically takes. “Right,” he says, stilted. “Whatever. Just hurry it up, Sleeping Beauty.”

Chizuru is keenly conscious of every second Souji suffers her, all-too aware of how impossible it is to win a race against the limits of his patience, but she’s determined to make the most of what she’s given. It’s hopeless to aspire to Hajime’s cool efficiency, but she tries, keeping her movements sharp and purposeful, as if putting on her robe required the same sweeping grace as his kata, and yet--

Yet she barely cinches the knot tight before he’s grabbed her again. “C’mon, princess. We’ve got things to do.”

It’s a struggle just to keep her feet beneath her, but she manages a very eloquent. “Huh?”

His mouth quirks, too pleased, as he tugs and she stumbles, bare feet barely braced against the jamb. “People to piss off.”

Ah, well that’s hardly promising.

When all is said and done, he doesn’t drag her far. A cold comfort, considering.

“This is Hajime’s room,” she informs him. His grin assures her he already knows. “And, Ya-- ah, I mean, Su-- uh, um. S-susu...?”

The name’s foreign in her mouth, tongue stumbling and stuttering around it, and it’s-- it’s just odd not to use it, when she’s so used to Souji and Hajime and Heisuke and Shinpachi and even Sano, if it feels safe to say, instead of intimate. As if she’s letting all the rest of them close while keeping him at arm’s length.

Which isn’t true. But still, she can’t bring herself to say Yamazaki’s first name so casually, not when even Heisuke, who barely lasted three hours before asking if she was cool with nicknames, hasn’t managed it. With the syllables rolling around in her mouth, it’s almost...

Illicit. That’s it. “Is there a reason you need me here?”

Souji’s mouth curls, so satisfied she’s surprised she can’t see feathers between his teeth. “Yes, definitely.”

“But they went home for the holidays.” She frowns. “Did you need something in there? I’m pretty sure it’s--”

His leg kicks back, and with one smooth swing, he completely bypasses the need for a doorknob, the open door shivering from the force.

“-- locked,” she finishes faintly. “Oh my.”

One hand catches the door, long fingers splayed across the grain. “After you, jailbait.”

She nearly balks-- it’s not as if it’s his room; he hardly has the right to invite her-- but the door swings open, and she--

She’s never seen this before. Yamazaki’s room. Or Hajime’s, of course. A tour down the hallway would be enough to get a glimpse into any of the other rooms; Heisuke hadn’t even waited a day to drag her into his, pointing out all his favorite posters. Harada and Shinpachi took a few weeks longer, though she’d spent most of that visit with her hands clapped over her eyes. Even Souji tolerated her shuffling a step over the threshold, even if it was only to ask for him to help her reach one of the taller cabinets. But Yamazaki and Hajime...

Their door has always been carefully shut, not even the slightest gap for a peek. An easy habit to explain away; the both of them value privacy over accessibility, choosing to socialize in the common areas of the house rather than in their room, but still--

It’s almost surprising how normal it is. Not that Chizuru expected it to be wallpapered floor to ceiling with centerfolds, like Harada and Shinpachi’s room, or crowded with collectibles like Heisuke’s, but maybe white walls and stark sheets, monochrome and neat as a pin. The sort of room that would seem unoccupied, if it wasn’t for the monitors on the desks. Sterile.

Instead there’s posters. Not crowding the walls, so close that the corners overlap, but there’s personality, if not chaos. Enough to know that the boy who sleeps under the navy comforter likes movies with kimonos and swords or computers from the 80s, and that charcoal comforter likes wuxia and vintage medical diagrams. And books too, if the stack teetering on his bedside table is any indication.

Chizuru shuffles a step further into the room. It would be rude to rummage, but surely-- surely it wouldn’t hurt if she just read the titles. If she just stooped down the tiniest bit and--

And tripped over Souji, shoulder-deep beneath Yamazaki’s mattress. “W-what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grunts, annoyed. “A guy that uptight’s got to be hiding something. And not just the normal stuff. The kind of something that’s gotta be top shelf fucked up.”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“Oh come on, you know what I mean. Whips and chains.” He drags his arm out with a huff. “Autoerotic asphyxiation. Snuff tapes.” Souji reaches up, flipping over his pillows. “Yiffing. Who could say what a small-dicked little turd like him is into?”

Half those words are unrecognizable, and so it’s not until he’s on his feet, poking through desk drawers that Chizuru realizes, “You mean you’re looking for...for...” Her mouth works, cheeks painfully hot as she manages, “Girlie magazines?”

His fingers still, pressed into a sheaf of glossy page edges. “I’m trying to find porn, Chizuru. That’s what we call it this century.”

The book shuts with a snap, joining its friends on the shelf, and when he reaches for another, she blurts out, “Don’t people just watch that online now?”

Souji laughs, not kind, but abandons the bookshelf. “And everyone thinks you’re so innocent, huh, princess?”

Her hands clap to her cheeks. Ah, she hadn’t realized it could be painful to blush. “I, um...only, ah--” Souji flings open the closet “--I don’t think you should really be--!”

“Jackpot.” The hangers rattle as he slips something off the rack; with only the sunlight eking in around the blinds to light the room, it’s hard to see just what. “What do you think? Would it look good on me?”

The fabric’s black, limp and shapeless on its hanger, utterly unrecognizable. “I don’t...?”

“Nah, no way I could fit into that shrimp’s costumes.” The light might be dim, but Souji’s teeth practically glow when he says, “But you could, half pint. C’mon, get over here.”

She doesn’t have much of a choice, not when he grabs her wrist and yanks. “I don’t understand,” she murmurs, watching him separate a smaller piece from the whole, more uncomfortable by the second. “Why did you need me when you were only going to..um...?”

Steal seems a little strong for the moment. Scrounge falls a little short.

“Ahhh, see, kid, last night I left a little gift for the whole student body. Right on the main page, where everyone could appreciate it.” He steps entirely too close, the warmth of his body filling the space between them. “And our favorite little ass-kisser didn’t appreciate it.”

The scrap slips over her head, cool and smooth where it settles around her neck. “So he took it down. Or got some of his nerd friends to do it. Either way...” Souji shrugs. “It’s rude to give back a gift, isn’t it?”

His wrist twists, the cloth pulling tight against her skin. Tight enough that only a twitch guides her into a nod. “See? That’s what I thought too. Kid needs to learn a thing or two about manners. So that’s what I’m doing.” Souji grins, the fabric loosening as he lets it slip from his fingers. “Teaching him a lesson.”

“B-but...” Her focus stumbles as he steps closer, threading his hand beneath the few inches of her hair that don’t clear the fabric and pulling them free. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“It’s cute that you don’t know.” His smile could cut when he slips the cloth right up over her nose. “This is a hostage situation, jailbait, and you’re going to read from the script. Now look over here.”

She does, blinking right up into the blinding light of flash photography as his arm squeezes her close. “What...?”

“Perfect.” Souji’s lips slant to a smirk, phone pinched delicately between his fingers. “Now I just need to post this in--”

The lights flick on. Neither of them are near the switch.

But Hajime is.

“Just what,” he says, brows drawn down like a storm, “do you think you’re doing in here?”

There have only been three house meetings since Chizuru showed up on their doorstep, hair shorn and all her earthly possessions split between a backpack and a trash bag: the first, called by the professor, to announce that that there would be a new roommate; the second, to decide how exactly to handle the fact that Chizuru wasn’t a boy’s name, nor was she; and the third, well...

I’m not complaining that you invite girls back, Sano, Shinpachi had said, with all the gravitas of a judge, but you can’t let them wander around. She went through our trash, dude!

But this-- it’s different. Not just because of the Christmas lights, festively twinkling through their cycle, or Shinpachi’s sweater blinking through its own.

It’s that they’re all here, Christmas afternoon-- evening really, with how early the sun sets these days-- holidays cut short. Chizuru might not have anyone to spent Christmas with, but Shinpachi did, and Heisuke, and Yamazaki--

And instead they’re all here. Because of her. Not a single one of them is smiling.

It’s too much.

“I’m so sorry!” The words burst out of her, rushed, but it’s important to get them out before anyone else can speak, before they think she’s only sorry because she got caught. “I really didn’t mean to go in! I just...Souji said...”

“Narc.” It’s muffled in his shoulder, just loud enough for her to hear. And maybe others, the way Yamazaki’s brow twitches across the table.

“Chizu, Chizu. Come on.” Shinpachi holds up his hands, as if a half-hearted sweep like that could clear the slate of her worries.. “No one here thinks this is your fault.”

It’s kind of him to say, but that’s...impossible. Not when she’s so clearly transgressed. “I went into Y-Yamazaki and Hajime’s room without permission. That’s against the--”

“No, Yukimura, that’s not--” Yamazaki’s teeth clack down, hard.  “I don’t mind if it’s you. Ah, I mean--” his ears flush the same angry pink that licks up the column of his neck “--it’s, er, different.”

“You are respectful of other people’s personal belongings,” Hajime clarifies. “There is no issue with you in our private space. Souji, however...”

“Oh, come on.” Souji kicks his feet up on the coffee table, baring every hole in the bottom of them. “It’s not like I broke anything.”

Yamazaki’s eyes hone onto him-- or rather, the parts of him only inches from Harada’s iced mocha, so close a flex of a toe could touch the coaster. “Right, you only stole something. Not like that’s a big deal.”

“Stole? Like I want--” with a sweep of his palm, Yamazaki clears the surface of appendages, so precise it doesn’t even disrupt the condensation on the cup “--hey!”

He doesn’t smile, but when Yamazaki glances up at the couch, his satisfaction shines just as bright as one.

“Souji.”

Hajime is not like Shinpachi, using his outdoor voice in every room no matter how small, or Heisuke, unable to control his volume once a conversation gets interesting. He’s soft spoken, serious; the sort of person other people lean in to hear, rather than ask him to speak up.

But today, he pitches his voice to be heard. “You cannot enter someone’s assigned private room without express permission.” With even graver inflection, he adds “It is against the rules put forth in the Signed Housing Agreement.”

Souji snorts, sinking further into the couch cushions. “No one pays attention to that crap.”

Air hisses between Yamazaki’s teeth. “That’s--”

“If I am not allowed to leave the group chat unless a member of the house boots me for a pre-agreed upon duration,” Hajime says, mouth pulling thin, “then you are also not allowed in my room.”

His glare is hardly aimed at her, but it comes close enough that she flinches. Souji doesn’t, refusing to acknowledge it that same way a cat declined to be caught on a curtain, as if reality was simply an opinion he did or did not hold. “I didn’t even touch your stuff. I don’t know why you’re trying to--”

“You did touch Yamazaki’s stuff, though.” Harada shifts in his chair, the vee of his sweater dipping deep enough to bare cleavage. It might be distracting, if it wasn’t already a relief that he was wearing all his clothes. “Which is against the rules.”

“Yeah, that’s fucked up, right?” Shinpachi cracks open a tall boy, cold enough that the beer fizzes out, threatening to drip right across the festive moose on his chest; HORNY AND WELL HUNG according to the words knit into his sweater. “There’s no locks on the doors, man. We’ve all got to trust each other.”

Chizuru blinks. “But I have a lock.”

He pauses, mid-sip. “Well, I guess that makes sense. You’re a girl, after all. Can’t have a girl be alone with a bunch of guys if there no--”

“My room also has a lock.” Hajime frowns, considering the socks Souji’s just returned to the table. “Hardly a good one, if Souji was able to bypass it with just his foot, but...”

“Me too,” Heisuke chimes in. “I just don’t really use it.”

“Wait, what?” Shinpachi swivels between them, lost. “Are me and Sano the only ones who don’t--?”

“I think the best course of action is to inform Professor Hijikata about the infraction.” Kneeling on the carpet next to Shinpachi’s luggage, Yamazaki’s hardly an authority figure, but when he raises his voice the room fritters to silence. “I’m sure he can take it from there.”

Harada hums, unconvinced. “I don’t know about that. Souji’s already got two strikes against him. If we report another one, I’m pretty sure Hijikata’s going to toss him out.”

They might be more suggestions than eyebrows, but still, it makes an impression when Yamazaki furrows them.  “I don’t see why that’s any of my concern.”

“Aw, c’mon, Yamazaki.” They all might tease her about her pleading eyes, but it’s Heisuke that uses them now, as compelling as any puppy in a pet store window. “You know Souji doesn’t have anywhere else to go. You wouldn’t throw him out in the cold just like that, would you?”

His mouth pinches, bracing the way the rest of him is, squared off and utterly implacable. “Souji is a grown man who can make his own decisions. If those decisions lead to him getting tossed out, that hardly has anything to do with me.”

Souji snorts. “None of the people who complained are even here anymore.”

Yamazaki whips around, eyes so cold they could turn any other man to ice. Souji just smirks. “Yes, because of you.”

“Well, I don’t know...” Heisuke hums, thoughtful. “Ryu left because of that art program. You know, the one that had the scholarship.”

“Only after Okita shoved him off--!”

“Oh, c’mon.” Souji’s shoulder twitch, barely summoning up the energy for a full shrug. “That’s all water under the bridge.”

Yamazaki surges to his feet; only Harada’s hand, keeping him from jumping the table too. “You broke his wrist in three places! The only reason he didn’t press charges was because his foster father is somehow an even bigger asshole than you!”

Souji picks his grins the same way a chef picks his knives from the block: with the intention to cut. “No hard feelings.”

“Hard feelings?” Yamazaki chokes out. “You think this is about hard feelings? When Itou left, he--”

“Itou was a prick.”

Hajime doesn’t so much sigh as hum, raspy and dubious. “That doesn’t mean that what you did was right, Souji.”

His eyes narrow, annoyed. “Don’t pretend you miss him running around the place, acting better than everyone.”

“No, no. He’s got a point.” The easy chair grunts as Shinpachi shifts his weight back, crossing his legs ankle to knee. “They both do. You know I don’t want to kick you out, man, but you’ve got a bad habit of taking stuff way past funny right into, well...”

“An actionable offense?” Harada offers, wry.

A blunt nail taps at his can, uncomfortable. “Yeah, that. It’s not good, bro.”

Something happens with Souji’s mouth. A lot of somethings, actually; subtle ones, hidden in the corners and tucked into the cheeks, the sort that happen between one blink and the next. Missable, save for the fact that Chizuru never looks away.

There’s a jut of his lip first, not a pout but its more serious cousin, the kind that’s like a levee to a deluge: one tremble away from a flood. A scowl next, never quite reaching his eyes; good practice for the smile that follows, curving into a smirk the way steel takes an edge: like it’s meant for it.

“All right, all right.” His hands raise up, too lax for a peace offering. It might stand in for a concession, if she tilted her head and squinted, but only a little. “So you’re all mad at me or whatever.”

“For good reason.” It’s a strong stance for Harada; he’s usually the one who’s quick to compromise, so long as it keeps everyone civil.

“Sure, right.” Souji shrugs, unconcerned. “I get it. But consider--” fabric whips out from behind a pillow, matte and black-- “this.”

Chizuru blinks. “Wasn’t that in...?”

Yamazaki’s closet, she doesn’t say. Not when he shakes it out, turning it from cloth to clothing, a whole jumpsuit with fussy embroidery picked out in an even darker black.

“What’s that?” Shinpachi scoots to the edge of his chair, squinting. He must not have his contacts in. “Some sort of ninja costume?”

She knows better than to turn, to draw attention to the statue suddenly sitting across the table, but Chizuru can’t help it, not when Souji is so quick to say, “It is.” There’s enough relish in his tone that she can taste it. “And it’s Yamazaki’s.”

There’s a pause-- for effect, she’s sure, considering the way Souji grins. Like he’s pulled off some magic trick, making his troubles disappear in one hand and then plucking them out from behind Yamazaki’s ear.

“So?” Harada snorts, unimpressed. “Are you surprised? He’s been a ninja for Halloween like, what? Three years running? Since I’ve been here at least. What next? Gonna pull a sexy firefighter out of Shin’s closet?”

“Hey!” A hand presses right over WELL, leaving HORNY and HUNG peeking out from underneath it. “I’ve branched out! This year I was a sexy soldier.”

“How can you tell?” Heisuke mutters, hunched shoulders making his chest even narrower, more concave. “You’re only wearing like half a costume.”

“We’re not talking about Nagakura.” With all the subtlety of a bomb, Souji drops, “We’re talking about Mr Kiss-Ass and how he has like, five of these tucked away for a rainy day.”

It’s been three months since Chizuru managed to insinuate herself into the house, but not once has it been quiet. Even in the night there’s something: Shinpachi snoring, Harada’s flings trying to find the front door, Heisuke up entirely too late typing up papers or-- more likely-- playing video games. Something. But now--

Now it’s a ringing silence that’s left in Souji’s wake, an awkward air that has every shoulder stiff, every eye finding somewhere else to look besides the place where Yamazaki sits, still as a stone.

Or at least, until Hajime slides forward, dexterous fingers smoothing over the raised stitches of the sleeve. “Oh,” he hums, impressed. “Your skills have really improved since your last attempt. I take it this is for next weekend?”

“Ah...” He swallows, loud enough that even Chizuru can hear. “Y-yeah. The new kunai were too heavy for the belt, so I thought if I remade that, I might as well add a few more quality of life adjustments, and, er...”

“Oh my god,” Heisuke breathes, quivering like a corgi at the end of his leash. “Are you a real ninja?”

A broad hand cuffs him on the back of his head. “C’mon,” Harada mutters. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

If Yamazaki’s ears were painted pink before, they’re crimson now, hot enough to burn from touch alone. The square of his shoulders deflates, rounding with the slow leak of his confidence, but--

But Hajime simply nods, stroking his chin. “Perhaps I should look at my own as well. It hardly feels adequate next to all the work you’ve done.”

“Is this like...a sex thing?” Shinpachi’s eyes dart between the two of them. “It’s a sex thing, right?”

“No,” Yamazaki says, stern, immediately undermined by Hajime’s, “A little.”

It’s with a hefty heaping of betrayal that Yamazaki turns to him, glaring as he grounds out, “Absolutely not.”

Hajime’s mouth gives a dubious twist, and he opens it, perhaps to gainsay him, but--

But there’s no time, not when Heisuke practically explodes. “Are you a ninja too, Hajime?”

He blinks. “No.”

“Oh.” Heisuke deflates. “Okay, I guess...”

“I’m a samurai.”

“What--” Harada’s voice strains beneath the words “--is going on?”

“So let me get this straight.” Harada’s fingers pinch at the bridge of his nose, but by the wrinkle above them, Chizuru doubts it helps. “You two...dress up as samurai...?”

“I’m the samurai,” Hajime explains, so helpful. “Yamazaki is currently playing as a ninja. As he typically does.”

“You don’t have to tell them that,” he mutters. “That’s not really the point--”

“Right, of course, but...” Harada grimaces. “This is what you do on the weekends? For fun?”

A narrow shoulder lifts under Hajime’s tee, the closest he comes to a shrug. “An afternoon a month, to be more specific.”

“Once a month?” Heisuke asks, wide-eyed. “That doesn’t seem like a lot.”

“It takes a large amount of effort and dedication to keep up a long-form Live Action Roleplaying campaign,” he explains gravely. “That the organizers are able to run so often is a testament to their skill. And to run a weekend event--”

“So you mean you go there the whole weekend?” Heisuke blinks. “Like just forty-eight hours of samurai stuff?”

Hajime’s correction comes the same way as all his interactions: swiftly and without any judgment. “Seventy-two hours.”

Shinpachi goggles. “That’s a lot of fucking hours.”

“It is to aid with immersion.” Hajime isn’t a man of many words, but now he does not so much pause as he does breathe. “Unlike other games of its kind, Legend of the Five Rings does not focus so much on combat as it does internal conflict, and the robust worldbuilding--”

“This isn’t what they’re asking.” Yamazaki’s gaze darts wide-eyed around the table, never daring to stay longer than a blink. “You don’t have to--”

“--Is based on Sengoku Era Japan,” he continues, heedless. “As gratifying as it is to play on a regular basis, it really isn’t until a few hours into any session that people truly come to embody their roles. The court politics alone--”

“Saito.” Yamazaki may be seated at the opposite end of the living room, but his stare is enough to make even Hajime hesitate. “I think they get the idea.”

Harada looks between them, pained. “So are there...scripts or something?”

“No. Yes.” Hajime frowns. “It’s complicated. Each scene is improvised in character, but the organizers are present to facilitate the flow of the story. It is a collaborative effort.”

“But that’s it?” Heisuke asks. “You’re just like...samurai for a day? Or, er, three of them?”

“Yes.”

“And you do this--” Harada’s eyebrows furrow, pained “--for fun?”

Hajime doesn’t answer so much as cock his head, hands outspread as if to say, what else?

“That’s so...so cool!” Heisuke leaps to his feet, practically tripping over the table in his excitement. “Can I go? You guys gotta bring me!”

“What?” Harada blinks at him. “You want to go to this?”

“Uh, yeah?” His hands clench, too excited. “You get to be a samurai, Sano! Who wouldn’t want to?”

“Hey, so.” Shinpachi leans in, face pinched in curiosity. “Is this like...D&D or whatever?”

“In spirit,” Yamazaki creaks out, looking like death warmed over.

He nods. “Right, right. So like...a total sausage fest, or...?”

“The numbers on many tabletop games typically skews toward male,” Hajime explains, “but Live Action Roleplaying draws a higher percentage of female participants. Possibly due to the cosplay aspect.”

Shinpachi grins. “Oh, then count me in too, sensei.”

Harada stares at him. “Who are you?”

“What?” Shinpachi shrugs. “It’s math with babes. What’s not to love?”

“Ah...” Yamazaki waving hands don’t do much to hide his grimace. “I don’t really think this will be as interesting to you as you think...”

“He’s right,” Harada presses. “You may think it’s a good place to pick up women who aren’t afraid of, er, theoretical numbers--”

“They’re not theoretical,” Shinpachi huffs. “They’re real, it’s just the equations used to describe them are--“

“See? Already my eyes have glazed over.”

“I don’t know,” Chizuru hums, pitched just loud enough to be heard. “I think it sounds...fun?”

Yamazaki’s stare fixes on her. “Really?”

Even as a girl, Chizuru had never been one to play dress up, never been one to play pretend-- father didn’t approve, for one. Not when there were more direct benefits to be had from drilling flashcards or reading books. A second, her daydreams were vivid enough she hardly needed to act them out, not when Father was so apt to remind her, princesses don’t have to pass their medical exams.

But Yamazaki is as serious as they come, a TA for the dean of the pre-med department even before graduating. His acceptance to the medical school almost assured, and he finds this worth his time. Enough to have made a costume-- with his own hands!-- and sign up for a whole weekend away from his studies...

“Y-yeah.” She ducks her head, hoping to hide the heat that pricks at her cheeks. “I mean, as long as it wouldn’t be a bother for me to, um...”

“Ah, no! I mean, yes. Never.” Yamazaki shakes himself, pink staining the high arch of his cheekbones. “It’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, Chizu!” An arm clamps around her shoulders, dragging her against Shinpachi’s personal light display. “That’s right! Let’s all go. House field trip!”

Yamazaki’s jaw drops. “I don’t, er, know about that--!”

“Fine.” Harada sighs, getting to his feet. “If Chizuru wants to go. Count me in.”

“That’s the spirit!” Shinpachi claps him on the back, hard enough that even Harada has to cough. “Now, that just leaves...?”

“Uh-uh.” Souji’s arms fold over his chest, forbidding. “No way I’m going to your nerd party.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Shinpachi drops between them on the couch, arm pulling tight. “Think of it as a group bonding experience.”

Souji scowls. “What makes you think I care about bonding with any of you--”

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it.” He squeezes tight enough to eke a squeak out of him. “Think about it as, ‘if you go we won’t tell Hijikata about you stealing shit.”

Souji glowers. “Fine,” he grumbles, shoving him off. “But I won’t like it!”

Shinpachi’s smile is all knives when he replies, “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

It’s dark when Chizuru stumbles out into the hall; there’d been daylight still when they’d piled into the parlor, but now night clings to the the edges of dusk, only enough light to gild the snow in golden shadow. It might bother her more if it wasn’t such a relief, a respite from having to scrape at the last reserve of her smiles. And so she takes it; one big breath and the muscles around her mouth slump, aching from use.

Any other night, she might worry about one of the boys following out behind her, but she can hear the ruckus shift from the parlor toward the kitchen, wheeled baggage and Shinpachi’s booming voice all tromping toward the back stair. Her day may have happened in fits and starts, but everyone else has been on the move, going from Christmas to short notice travel to fraught house meeting all within the space of hours. There’s no one who’s going to be worried about her.

Which suits her just fine. A few minutes lying face down on her comforter and she’ll be right as rain. Just a breath or two to herself, and--

Someone huffs behind her. Right behind her.

She whips around so fast, she nearly tumbles Yamazaki into the wall with her. Or at least his arm, half outstretched, now just hanging there in the air between them.

“Oh!” There’s no reason for her to shy back, but she does, guiltier with every inch. “Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“No, no. It’s my fault.” His hands aren’t large, not like Harada or Shinpachi, but the fingers are long and tapered, digging runnels through the shaggy bristle of his hair. “I should have-- ah, I mean, I just saw you, and er, wanted to make sure that you were all right. After, ah...all that.”

Her first instinct urges her to laugh, to let her nerves giggle out, there’s no need to worry about me--

But Yamazaki stares at her with the same careful intensity as he had in the kitchen-- you’re worth a good meal-- and Chizuru tries deflection instead. “I’m the one who should be asking you that! I went into your room without any permission and all, and Souji--” Yamazaki grimaces at the name “---I just...you have every right to be mad at me!”

“You?” he echoes, incredulous. “It’s not your fault, Yukimura. Okita’s the one who dragged you in there.”

She shakes her head. “I could have chosen to leave any time. I just was too curious to think to question him.”

“Curious?” There’s no inflection to the word, and with the shadows making a muddle of his expressions, there’s only the tilt of his head to tell here there’s a question. “Why would you be curious?”

“Ah, I’d just...never been inside before?” Her palms clap to her cheeks, and oh, she must glow from how hot her cheeks burn. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not! It’s just, ah...unexpected. I...” His mouth opens, as if he might say more, but with a lick of his lips, it closes instead. Or rather, his chin dips down and it follows, gaze dropping from her eyes to somewhere at her neck. As if...

“Oh, did I spill...?” She can’t actually remember what she’s eaten today, whether it could be something that she could walk around wearing, but Yamazaki’s already shaking his head.

“Ah, no, it’s just...you still have...” His fingers curl hesitantly in the air between them. “If you would let me...?”

Every twitching nerve of her stills as he steps close, fingers skimming past her shoulders. Only days ago she’d knotted his scarf, but it feels different now that he’s the one reaching, so close his hand meet behind her neck. He’s not bundled up now, no three layers of wool and thermal and parka to keep her from realizing that he smells nice, like...like something clean with a hint of eucalyptus, and it’s...

It’s a lot.

His fingers knit into the fabric at her nape, too slippery for him to find the end of it by touch. At least, the first time; he gathers it up, hiking it higher and higher until he can slide under it, the flat of his nails smooth and warm against her neck. Her pulse pounds so hard he must feel it, but Yamazaki doesn’t flinch, instead lifting it with surgical precision. The stretchy fabric threads right off her ponytail with no more than that initial brush of fingers, and she--

She stare. It’s the mask. The one Souji put on her. All this time, and she’s-- she’s just been wearing it, like some sort of...scarf. Right over her tanuki pajamas. In front of everyone.

In front of Yamazaki.

If she could melt into the woodwork, it would be a miracle. But as always, reality refuses to oblige her. “Oh, I hadn’t even...ah...”

“Please, don’t worry about it.” His fingers smooth over the fabric, mouth curving into a rueful smile. “It looked better on you than it does on me.”

“Ah!” Her gasp catches in her throat. “That’s not...um...” She hakes her head, hoping that might clear enough room for a sentence or two to compose itself. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Yamazaki glances up at her, amused, and oh-- she hadn’t meant to say that. Not like that.

“You know, I meant to...” He stops himself. Not abruptly, like she does, but a slow, thoughtful halt. Like a train pulling into a station rather than a car braking for a yellow light. “I mean, I don’t think I ever got around to saying it last night, and today, with everything...well”

He hesitates again, a breath hissing between his teeth. But this time his shoulders square, and even though his gaze is lost in the shadow of his brows, she knows he’s looking at her. “Merry Christmas, Yukimura.”