#inokami

[sabraeal]

don't speak boyshit, Chapter 10

[Read on AO3]

It’s not that Kamitami waits around for Kashima. People get that shit twisted all the time, thinking that they’re joined at the hip just because they’re in the same club a couple days a week, or have stupid kid brothers that like to run around together, or because he acted like some sort of emotional support dog for the first few months after that kid came to the academy. But that’s not why he lingers at the bike rack after practice, fussing at the gears as Kashima herds the skinny little bean sprout that passes for Kotaro out the school doors.

No, it’s because when he gets up, casually dusting off his uniform pants like this is all a happy accident, like he only just saw them wandering down the walkway with a purpose and not whole minutes ago, all he has to say is, “Heading out?” and Kashima replies, “Oh, Kamitani! I didn’t see you there! I guess if you don’t mind.”

He grunts at that, grumbles a bit, but that’s the thing— he doesn’t. Most people are effort, expecting him to do shit like talk and be nice— like he doesn’t have a dozen other things he’d rather be doing than shooting the shit with the boneheads in his class, or being cornered by a bunch of girls who think giggles are a good way to carry a conversation. But Kashima can keep one up all by himself, not expecting anything more than a grunt to tell him to keep going. All those nerds that study physics might say that perpetual motion is impossible, but that’s only because they’ve never seen Kashima on a real jag before midterms. Kid doesn’t even need air sometimes.

He’s quiet today though, letting Kotaro off his leash enough to scramble through some bushes. At least, as long as they stand there, staring at the quivering branches like they have any idea what that kid is up to in there. Which is fine with him; if he can’t count kids then he won’t feel that weird missed-step pitch and roll in his stomach, like something’s missing. Like it’s weird that Taka isn’t in orbit around him, some puny little moon determined to crash right into his planet’s surface, instead of the only thing he’d wanted for the last five years.

Kashima shifts like he might feel it too, like he’s done the mental math and come up one body short of normal. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t fill the air with chatter, telling him that it’s okay to have emotions, to mourn even the positive changes in his life. Doesn’t ask him stupid questions either— that’s what he likes about Kashima, honestly. The kid knows how to stay in his damn la—

“Kamitani?” His name sits high in Kashima’s mouth, strained even as he tries to look casual. “Are you avoiding Inomata-san?”

Well, there goes that. Time to find some new fucking friends.

“Kamitani?” Kashima cranes his huge eyes towards him, shock scrawled across every millimeter of white around them. “Are you?”

He’s not.

That’s the long and short of it. If that girl’s going around complaining that she can’t find him, well— that’s a skill issue. It’s not because he’s been making himself scarce whenever he hears the squeak of her school shoes rounding the corner, or because he’s been finding reasons to stay late at club just in case some nerd’s lurking around the bike rack, waiting to shake him down over her stupid questions. Kamitani isn’t just walking around, letting Inomata live rent-free in his head twenty-four-seven just because she wants to know what his type is.

At least, that’s what he should say. What he wants to, once he’s had some time to stew on it. But what he manages now is, “Shut up.”

A couple years ago that might have actually done it; might have made Kashima’s eyes get all big and watery and sent him scrambling for a safer kind of conversation. But tonight he only sighs, sending him the sort of look that makes Kamitani’s shoulders ache, begging to bow beneath the weight of his disappointment.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you can just say so,” Kashima tells him, all prim, like shut up wasn’t clear enough. “But if you want my opinion—”

“I don’t.”

“—You should talk to her.” His gives the barest little shrug, like this is casual advice, something he probably hadn’t been working himself up to say all evening. “At least find out what she wants to tell you.”

“I already know what she wants.” What feature do you find most physically attractive in the opposite sex and why? “To annoy the shit out of me.”

“Kamitani.” There he goes again, giving him that look, like somehow he’s the wrong one here. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think it will be.”

He’s right. It’ll be worse. “Easy for you to say.”

Kashima hums, unconvinced. “She’s a perfectly nice girl, if you’d just give her a chance. Which you’d know, if you’d just talk to her.”

Kid wouldn’t be so quick to say that if he was the one saddled with fifty short answer questions about what gets his dick hard. “Why should I? Because you think it’s the nice thing to do?”

 “Well, yes.” His head tilts, half-thoughtful, half-guilty. “That, and, er…Inomata-san isn’t exactly known for giving up…”

Ah, well. Kamitani grimaces. Kid does have a point. It’s just fifty questions, after all. No wrong answers. “I’ll think about it.”

*

Just fifty questions.

What traits besides the physical do you find desirable in the opposite sex?

Opinion shit, too. Simple stuff.

What would you consider the ‘perfect date?’

Easy as breathing.

Do you have a ‘type?’ If so, what is it?

Except it’s fucking impossible. Oh, sure, he’d given Kashima a metric ton of shit about letting some perfectly cute girl off because he didn’t know whether he liked her or not. Because he’d spent too much energy trying to figure it out, and he wanted to focus on being a good big brother, or whatever, but now—

Now he’s had two weeks to find out he doesn’t know shit about what he likes either. Just like back in first year, when Kashima cornered him with the sort of questions those stupid magazines asked idols, and all he’d been able to give him was his height and blood type. Only worse, because a third year should know his favorite food, or favorite color, or at least have a fucking opinion about whether he likes shy girls or sporty girls or whatever, and Kamitani—

Kamitani doesn’t. Even when he’s got his dick in his hand, it’s just whoever’s on the cover of the nearest magazines from the neck down. Nothing special, just breasts and butt and the idea of a warm body to make the whole thing go quicker. Real simple. Utilitarian, even. Reasonable.

It’s goddamn embarrassing, that’s what.

“I’m as bad as fucking Kashima,” he grunts, the heel of his hand the only thing keeping his forehead from meeting the desk. He’s half-tempted to let it go— a couple minutes of unconsciousness would be welcome with the way this day is going but—

“What’s up, Captain?” Saginuma’s grin can get him climbing walls on a good day, but right now one flash of it has him putting in real effort not to snap the arm resting between his seat and Kamitani’s desk. Be easy too; the kid doesn’t work out enough to give him more trouble than a toothpick. “Can’t figure out how to get the team to Koshien?”

“Shut up.” That gets his head up at least, even clears it a little. “I could win those games with my eyes closed.”

“Yeah, get real, Saginuma!” Hands clap down on his shoulders, shaking them the way Usokawa’s probably only seen through the TV screen. It takes a full count of ten for Kamitani to convince himself it’s not worth it to break his fingers too. “Kamitani’s got our season on lock. We’re going all the way to—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Saginuma waves him off, already bored. “But it begs that question doesn’t it? If our dear captain here isn’t biting his nails over plays, then just what has got him so stressed out?”

It’s bad enough that he has to suffer that idiot’s grin ratcheting wider, his stupid arm trespassing further into his personal bubble to support that shit-stirring lean— but it’s worse to see he’s got Usokawa doing the same thing, lenses flaring like some lame cartoon villain. Even Ebizawa’s half-turned in his seat.

“None of your business,” he snaps. Stupid move, since that only gets Ebizawa to turn the full way around, brows pitched high on his forehead. “I’m not stressed out.”

“Sure, of course. You’re just pulling your hair out for fun, like the rest of us.” Usokawa adjusts his glasses, too knowing. “Now come on, tell us what’s up.”

“Nothing.” It comes out too fast, too defensive. Might as well have put up a big sign saying, I’m hiding something. Bonehead move, since there’s no way he can asked these losers about—

Or maybe he could. Ebizawa’s had a string of girlfriends; nothing serious, just a few confessions that stretched into a handful of dates, petering out by the time they had to switch uniforms. Even Saginuma had a vague something over summer break second year, at least until the girl left him for the ghoul in 3-B’s haunted house during the culture festival. And Usokawa…

Well. Was Usokawa. Even if he’d never strung more than three words together in front of a girl, he had opinions about them. Not ones Kamitani cared to listen to, but he had them, at least. Unlike some people.

“Hey,” he grunts, scrubbing at the back of his head. “What’s your type?”

Kamitani’s not stupid— he expects the question to land like a bomb, devastating the conversation around it. He expects the silence, the glances that pass between Ebizawa and Saginuma, like there must be something wrong with their ears—

But he doesn’t expect Usokawa’s nearly instant, “B! Just like yours, right, Kamitani?”

It takes his brain a full ass minute to catch up. “I don’t care about your fucking blood type.”

Usokawa blinks. “But you said—?”

“He meant like with girls, idiot.” Ebizawa glances at him, like he can’t quite believe it himself. “Uh, right?”

His shoulders twitch, skin starting to itch right around his collar. “Whatever.”

“What? Really? Kamitani?” Sure, it’s not something he usually cares about, but there’s no reason for Usokawa to gape, pitch forward all slack-jawed like it’s some sort of shock. “Well, I like bookish girls with glasses and a soft side.”

Huh. F cups and a preference for bikinis would have been his guess for that perv, but that’s practically normal. Nice, almost.

“They always have the biggest breasts, after all,” Usokawa leers, and ah, there it is. The weird shit he’s been waiting for. “Plus they get all bashful during the beach chapters when they lose their—”

A well-timed cuff from Saginuma saves him from having to hear anymore about beach episodes. “He means three dimensional girls, idiot.”

“Hey, some of those games are fully rendered n—”

“The ones that aren’t programmed to take their tops off if you feed them enough cheesecake.”

“Oh, well, fine, I guess. In that case,” —Usokawa clears his throat, adjusting his tie for good measure— “my type is anyone who lets me touch them.”

“I said real girls,” Kamitani grunts. “Not non-existent.”

“I kind of like when they’re shy,” Saginuma offers, almost wistful. “Girls, I mean. Though I like them when they’re perky too. Energetic, you know. Or both, I guess.”

“They can’t be both shy and energetic,” Usokawa scoffs, like he’s some sort of expert. “Those are on two completely opposite sides of the same slider, like bookish and sporty—”

“I don’t know, some girls are shy until you get to know them.” Ebizawa shrugs, holding the only brain cell between the three of them. “And then they talk just as much as all the other girls. Sometimes even about the same stuff.”

“Yeah, Usokawa. Girls have layers.” Saginuma grins, adding, “At least the ones in 4D.”

“Hey, my waifus have layers too!” he insists, entirely too earnest. “Some of them even have seasonal outfits!”

Kamitani turns, putting both of those idiots at his back. “What about you?”

Ebizawa blinks. “Me?”

“You’re the only one out of these chucklefucks who’s managed to talk to more than one girl for ten minutes.” And have her keep his interest for longer than it takes the conversation to end. A superpower, as far as Kamitani’s concerned. “What’s your take?”

“Oh…er…” He runs a hand through the fluff of his hair. “I don’t really know. Ah…nice girls, I guess?”

“Nice girls?” Saginuma groans. “Really? All those girlfriends and that’s what you’re got? Girls that are nice to you?” He huffs, shaking his head. “Must be nice to be good looking.”

“T-they don’t have to be nice to me!” Ebizawa sputters, red splotching his cheeks. “Er, I mean…it’s nice, when they are. But I was thinking when they’re like…actually nice. The ones that are always supporting their friends, or uh…helping underclassmen with their work, or like…get chocolates for the whole class on Valentine’s Day—”

“Really?” Saginuma’s brows brush his hairline. “You want obligation chocolate?”

“I’m not saying that I—I want that! I just think it’s just nice that they’d think of everyone when—”

“Not everyone is too proud to take Kamitani’s seconds,” Usokawa sniffs. “Right, Ebizawa?”

“He doesn’t speak for me.” Ebizawa’s gaze cuts to him, desperate. “You know that, right? I don’t want any of your, er…ah….?”

“Actually, yeah.” Saginuma swings back around, forehead crumpled in disbelief. “What is with that, dude? Can’t you be at least a little grateful? Some of the ones you got last year were handmade.”

Annoyance itches up Kamitani’s spine, spiking his shoulders up around his ears. “I don’t like sweet shit. What’s hard to understand?”

“Yeah, but you could be nice about it.” Ebizawa flinches under his glare. “I’m just saying! Girls put in a lot of effort into that sort of stuff. It wouldn’t kill you to think about their feelings.”

“Why the hell do I care?” It’s not like any of those girls cared about his. None of them asked if they could shove their chocolates in his face; they just did it and hoped he’d think they were cute enough not to care that he couldn’t even put a name to a face. Like it wasn’t weird to have upperclassmen corner him with some half-baked confession when they hadn’t even spoken two words to each other. “I’m not interested in any of that sort of shit.”

His life’s complicated enough; the last thing he needs is to add some girl’s tender feelings to the mix. The hag’s bad enough as it is.

“Really?” Saginuma blinks, all wide-eyed, like this is some revelation or something. Like he hasn’t spent the last four years dodging every doe-eyed classmate that tried to get him on the roof alone, or every enterprising senpai that brought him a bento. “You know, now that I’m thinking of it— just what do you like in a girl?”

“Oh, hey, yeah!” Usokawa whips around in his seat, practically vibrating. “You’ve asked all of us, but you haven’t said— what’s your type, cap?”

It’s just his luck that every conversation in this classroom reaches a fucking lull just in time for Usokawa to put his personal business on blast. There’s not one head that doesn’t snap to their corner, the weight of thirty stares boring into into him and—

And Kamitani scowls. This isn’t just a mistake, it’s a fucking disaster.

“None of your business,” he grunts, already halfway out of his chair. There’s no plan once he gets out of it, just a certainty that anywhere he goes will be better than staying here, but—

Bing-bong ding-dong.

“All right, students,” Kumatsuka-sensei hums, quiet voice carrying beneath the last tolling note of the bell. “Time to take your seats.”

*

The thing is: he really doesn’t care about this shit. Perfect dates and blood types and whether someone’s chocolates end up on his desk out of obligation or not— none of that matters. The other guys might waste their time thinking about which girl in class fills out the uniform best, or who would look the cutest in a yukata, or whether they have a chance of getting either of them to kiss them on the school roof before the end of the year, but that’s not his problem.

A girlfriend’s inevitable; the kind of thing that’ll happen to him one day no matter how he feels about it. Worrying over when or how is like tearing his hair out over earthquakes that’ll hit in his thirties— absolutely useless, and completely out of his control. It’ll either wreck his whole life or it won’t; he doesn’t need to have an opinion about whether it’ll have a B or C cup when it does.

Or at least he didn’t, until now. Because now it’s weird that he hasn’t.

“Kamitani-senpai?” Chain link rattles as Sato settles against the batting cage next to his, arms folded just under the name stitched onto her windbreaker. “Got something on your mind?”

None of your business sits at the tip of his tongue— a reflex, really, a rock he’s always ready to throw— but there’s no one else here on the pitch, and if he’s being fair, it’s a manager’s job to ask that sort of thing. “No.”

“Senpai.” It huffs out of her, as close to a laugh as he’s heard from her. “The machine stopped pitching balls two minutes ago.”

The bat dips in his fingers, scuffing dirt across the plate. “Huh? Re—?”

A ball whiffs past— the perfect one, a real potential out-of-the park pitch— the whole cage rattling as chain link catches it instead of aluminum. Sato simply says. “No.”

Kamitani’s cleats kick up clay as he shifts, abandoning his hitter’s stance to scowl. Another pitch whizzes through, hitting the chain a little lower, and she adds, “But you didn’t notice one way or another, did you?”

Kid’s got him there. He sighs, leaning back until metal crowds him, worn enough to bow out and cradle his shoulders. Her head cocks, bobbed hair settling against the line of her jaw. Makes it look strong, like she belongs here, part of the team rather than just a cheerleader on the sidelines.

“Sato.” This time the machine’s really out, gears clucking across the pitch, whining and whirring until it finally shuts off. “You’re a girl.”

She blinks— real slow, mouth rucking up all weird too, weight shifting until she goes from at rest to potential energy all at once. “Is that what you were thinking about, senpai?”

“What?” It’s not like he needs to meditate on her bone structure to figure it out; the bust-to-waist ratio kinda gives it away. “No. I’m saying that you know what girls are thinking. Because you are one.”

Kamitani’s not the type to give ground, but he will give the kid this: he’s earned the epic side-eye she slants him, both brows hiked up to hit her hairline. Or at least, he assumes they are after he loses line-of-sight over the event horizon of her bangs. “I know what I’m thinking, at least.”

Good enough. “If you were asking a guy about his type, what would you want him to tell you?”

Sato stares. “Is someone asking you that kind of stuff, senpai?”

“Hypothetically,” he grunts, shoulders hunched. “What would a girl be looking for?”

There’s a pause— a long one; strained, like she’s coming up with answers he’ll never have the clearance to hear— before she says, “A boyfriend?”

“Not happening.” Not when his only qualification for this whole survey business is that he’s best friends with the idiot Inomata actually likes. “What else.”

“I don’t know about that, senpai.” Her nose scrunches up, all dubious. “Are you sure she doesn’t want you to say she’s your type?”

“Hell no.” Inomata might not know much about this shit, but even she’s not stupid enough to expect ‘high-maintenance know-it-all’ to rank at the top of anyone’s list. “This is…informational. Data, or whatever.”

“O…kay.” She fixes him with this look, one that says then-what-the-hell-are-we-doing-here-senpai, and, god, he should have just kept his mouth shut. “Then why can’t you just tell her what you’re into?”

Kamitani might be shit with his feelings or whatever, but even he knows that it’s frustration that makes his neck knot up so much it aches, that makes his fingers so stiff they practically crack as he drags his hat down, covering his face. “Forget it. This is stupid.”

“W-wait! Senpai”— there’s chain link between them, but Sato half-reaches out anyway, eyes wide— “do you not…? I mean, with girls, don’t you—?”

“Girls are hot.” There’s some heat behind it when he says it, a different kind of frustration funneling right out of his mouth, the kind that hits him when school skirts slip a little too far up a thigh, or when his elbow brushes past something that certainly isn’t a shoulder, but he’d rather die than let more of it out. “I just don’t think about it all the time.”

Sato blinks. “Oh. Okay. So you don’t really have a, er…?”

“I just don’t get what people want to hear,” he grounds out, folding his arms to hide the way his hands clench. “Like, what? That tits are good? Or that I care about some hobby or whatever? I don’t.”

“Ah, I…see. I think.” Her head tilts again, but this time it’s assessing, like she’s trying to figure out his fucking problem. “Maybe you should think of it like…what’s the first thing you notice about a girl when you look at her?”

Easy. How annoying she’s going to be until he finds a reason to walk away. “Legs?”

Sato coughs, like something’s gone down the wrong pipe. “Well. That’s a start.”

He frowns. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Her grimace is all the answer he needs. “Okay, what if you thought about it more as…if you were going to date someone, senpai, what would you want them to be like?”

Nothing like the old hag, for one. “Normal.”

Sato’s whole face furrows, like not only is his answer shitty, but it has a stank to it too. “Normal.”

“Like they don’t get weird or whatever.” It’s self-explanatory, really, but Sato keeps staring at him like he belongs beneath a microscope. Or maybe on the bottom of her shoe. “You know what I mean. Girls are fine, but then they become girlfriends and just hang off a guy until something shakes ‘em off.”

“And that’s”— she hesitates— “bad?”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Because then they wanna go on dates. Get all picky over who a guy talks to, even if it’s just for school stuff. Want to call them by their first name.”

Kamitani hadn’t even known Ebizawa had a name, not until his last two-month wonder came in with a special bento just for her Arata-kun. He could have died happy never knowing.

Sato sighs, hand rubbing over her face. “Senpai, are you even sure you want a girlfriend?”

“I’m not talking about me,” he grunts. “This for data or whatever.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, senpai” — she glances up at him, shaking her head— “but I think you’re an outlier.”

*

Outlier — that’s a nice way to put it, one even Kashima would be hard put to argue over. He’d try, of course, say a bunch of things about opportunity and responsibilities and everyone taking things at their own pace, but it wouldn’t change the facts:

It’s fucking stupid that he can’t figure this out.

“Hayato!” The hag doesn’t so much shout his name as let it reverberate through the whole house, practically shaking the floorboards just to get attention. “Hurry up! I’m leaving in ten.”

Kamitani grunts, wrist-deep in his shirt drawer. The same place he’s been standing for the past five fucking minutes, thinking about this shit instead of picking between long sleeves and short ones. Because that’s apparently where this whole disaster has put him— not able to think and function at the same time. “Give me a minute, woman!”

It’s Inomata’s fault. He’d been just fine before he looked at her stupid questions, but one flip through them has him so twisted up he’s struggling to put his arms through the right holes, taking no less than three tries to get the damn thing buttoned the right way and—

“Hayato!” His teeth clack down so tight he nearly scrapes a layer off his tongue. “Let’s go!”

“I’m coming,” he growls, shoving his shirt down into his pants. “I’m coming.”

His hands fumble the belt— someone needs to put him out of his fucking misery already— and it’s with one last glance in the mirror that he sees red and white stripes balled up in the corner. A half-tied, hopeless mess that’s probably been there since April, when the old taskmaster that ran this school insisted that everyone had to wear their full uniform to the Entrance Ceremony, and—

There’s a tie in our dress code. Even now he can see that sour sneer she gave him, all superior, like being top-spot in the Advanced Class made her better than him. As a third year, you might bother to wear one.

It’s stupid. He couldn’t be paid enough to care about what Inomata thinks about him. And still—

Still he snatches that tie and sling it over his neck. Let her fucking choke on that.

*

Lunch bell’s hardly rung before Saginuma’s hanging over his seat, phone shoved right up under his nose. “You guys seen this yet?”

Kamitani’s neck cranes back, the black blur on the screen resolving into a blur with shit on it. “Maybe,” he grunts, knocking Saginuma’s arm wide. “If you didn’t just shove it in my face.”

Kid doesn’t even break stride, just lets his phone settle between the four of them as he plows on. “It’s Onibaba’s Curse 3: The Cure, the sequel to Onibaba’s Curse—”

“I know how numbers work,” Kamitani grunts, glaring down at the screen. Not that there’s much on it— just black and some white figure, no less blurry at this distance. “What’s it got to do with me?”

“It’s playing at the theater in town right now.” Ebizawa and Usokawa are crowding in now, and Saginuma puffs up as he says, “We should go see it. I heard it’s even scarier than the first one, and that—”

“Nearly had Kashima climbing out of his skin,” Usokawa reminds him. It’s gleeful, the way he says it, a feature rather than a warning. “Sounds perfect.”

Kamitani catches the empty seat to his side and frowns. “Where the hell is Kashima, anyway? Didn’t he bring lunch today?”

“He did.” Usokawa turns wistful, one cheek propped up on his hand. “Probably made by that butler of his. Think he’ll let me have a slice of his omelet if I give him one of my hot dog octopuses?”

“No deal. That guy makes a whole aquarium’s worth of those suckers,” Saginuma sighs. “And they’re made from the really fancy dogs too.”

“Aw, but—”

“I didn’t ask about his hot dogs.” It comes out of him like a whip crack, a roll of thunder right before lightning strikes, but neither one of them does so much as jump, too caught up in dreaming about Saikawa’s stupid sausages. “Where’s Kashima?”

“He got called out by another girl again.” Ebizawa shakes his head, huffing, “This is, what? The third one this month? It’s not even summer break.”

“It’s third year, I’m telling you.” Usokawa’s eyes blink wide behind his glasses. “It makes the girls crazy. All of them are looking for their high school romance, and they’re taking no prisoners.”

Kamitani snorts. “Seems like they’re taking plenty of prisoners, actually.”

“Hey.” Ebizawa shifts in his seat, pitching himself up on one knee. “If we’re gonna get bread, we should probably get going.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kamitani gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders to work the stiffness out of them. “I’m—”

“You!” School shoes squeal as they skid to a stop right in front of him, and oh, he knows that stomp too well to even need to glance above the knee-highs. “Don’t move.”

It’s nothing to smirk down into Inomata’s scowl, to straighten from his slouch and loom every last inch over her, enjoying the way her mouth only furrows further into her cheeks. “And what are you going to do—?”

About it, that’s what he should be saying. Maybe even with a real aggressive lean, feet planted so she can’t haul him off like she did last time. But she wraps a whole hand around his tie and tugs instead, and the thought rattles right out of him, ideas as dried up as his mouth.

“Come with me,” she grunts, another good yank driving him two steps after her. He barely makes it; the room tilts as Inomata herds him out, knees suddenly jelly, trembling, and—

And she’s got to be choking the life out of him. That’s why everything’s gone all swimmy, breath ragged like he’s run four kilometers without stopping for air.

“Hey.” He digs in his heels, hauling her up short. “Cut it out.”

She scowls up at him, knuckles still blanched to match the red and white wrapped around them. It’d be nothing to knock her away, to squeeze that wrist until her fingers untangled themselves, but instead he just stands there, stupid, as she snaps, “We don’t have all day.”

Kashima’s the kind of idiot that would just take it, that would stand here, letting his mouth work— babbling, probably— until she hauled him off. But Kamitani— Kamitani waits until he’s sure his knees will hold him before he yanks the tie from her grip, demanding, “Just where are we going?”

Inomata blinks— all slow, like he’s the idiot— and says, “The courtyard.”

He frowns. “What? Why?”

“What do you mean why?” She lifts the bag in her hand— a nice cloth one, the kind the rich kids always had wrapped around their parent-packed bentos— and says, “It’s lunch time.”

*

That girl might not have him on a leash anymore, but she still bullies him right down onto one of the courtyard’s empty benches. One of the last ones, by the looks of it; everywhere else is covered in couples, making doe-eyes at each other, feeding each other from their nearly compartmentalized meals. Thankfully they’re all too wrapped up with each other to notice when Inomata shoves a bento in his lap, a single sheet of printed paper balanced on top.

“What the hell is this about?” Kamitani grunts, glaring as she drops down beside him, her own bento perched in her lap. “I was gonna get bread.”

“This is better than bread,” she informs him primly, breaking apart her chopsticks with the same precision as she arranges the pleats on her skirt, a sharp charcoal horizon cutting across her knees. “This is a balanced meal.”

He glares down at the metal lid, dubious. “Curry bread is balanced. There’s meat. Bread. Stuff.”

“It’s really not. Now hurry up and eat.” Her chopstick stabs toward the paper he’s snatched up between his fingers. “You’ll need time to fill out the rubric.”

“The…?” It’s a grid, he realizes, staring down at the sheet. Flavor, one square says, while another below it reads, Mouth Feel. There’s other squares beside them too— comments, the first one reads, while the one after says, score—

A grading rubric. She’s given him a grading rubric for lunch.

“There’s something wrong with you, you know that?” he grumbles, flicking open the latch. “Something real unbalanced.”

“Well, if you can’t answer some simple questions” — simple, she says, like it would take a real moron to get caught up on question two. Like a hot-blooded high school boy should know what he likes when it bends over right in front of him— “then I’ll have to resort to acquiring useful data through other means.”

He snorts. “Like making me choke down your cooking?”

“Don’t scoff when you haven’t even looked at it.” Her chin lifts, all prideful, but he can’t help but notice she hasn’t opened hers either. “Maybe I’ve struggled with some of the…er…finer points of pastry, but even I can make a bento.”

“We’ll see,” he hums, giving her rubric a pointed glance. She swallows at that, real thick, the nerves starting show in the way her fingers clench against her own tin, and, well, he might as well put her out of her misery—

“What?” It’s barely more than an exhale, breathy as she leans closer, glancing between the open bento and the look on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s vegetables in this.” Bell peppers, broccoli, and the worst offender: carrots. Big, thick slices too, laid right on top of his rice. Gross.

Her forehead furrows, mouth rucked up with annoyance. “There’s vegetables in curry too.”

He grunts, rolling the chopsticks in his hand, trying to figure out how to get to the actual food underneath. “Not ones I can see.”

Inomata stares at him, real nasty-like, as if he’s the problem, and not the girl who put vegetables in his lunch. “How are you one of this school’s top athletes? You eat like a garbage bin.”

“I’m a growing boy.” That’s what the hag always says at least, before shoving more bok choy onto his plate. Chopsticks clacking, he excavates the rice beneath a strip of nori, stopping to pick up fish and pickled radish before shoveling the whole thing into his mouth.

Inomata pitches forward, eyes wide. “Well?”

He shrugs, picking out a slice of carrot. “It’s edible.”

“Edible.” He might as well have said disgusting from the way she groans, a useless heap collapsed over her completely untouched lunch. “I don’t want it to be edible.”

Kamitani shovels in another bite— this one with pickled lotus— and it’s…passable. Nutritious, if not exactly mouthwatering. He’d probably finish the whole thing, if she let him stop talking long enough. “Considering some of the other stuff you’ve made, you should be happy I’m not calling a dentist.”

“The point isn’t just to not cause physical harm,” she grits out, still not eating. “It’s supposed to display the sort of skills that would make me…girlfriend material.”

Inomata slumps, hair falling forward in a solid black sheet, hiding her face like she’s that girl from Ringu. Dejected, that’s how she looks. Mortified too, knowing her. Completely hopeless.

It doesn’t fit on her. Same way that case of nerves didn’t in his house, making her look all coltish and lost, like some little kid, and—

And maybe there is something wrong with this bento after all, since he gets that weird pit in his stomach again, the kind that can’t be filled with more rice and a hefty dose of curry bread. His mouth rumples, wrinkling as the words shove themselves out between his teeth. “It’s not bad.”

Her head rolls toward him across her shoulders, fixing him with a flat stare. “Do you want to date me now?”

Ha. Now that's fucking funny. “It’d take more than a bento to do that.”

“That’s what I thought.” She sighs, straightening her spine along with her skirt. Only one of them needs it. “Well, if there’s something you’d actually like to eat, just make a note of it somewhere on the rubric. I won’t make any promises, but…I can take it into consideration.”

He glances up at her, fingers stiff where they settle against the chopsticks. “So this what we’re doing now? Bento?”

Her palms smooth over her already pristine pleats. “It seems the most obvious skill for improvement. Yagi-san said—”

“Yagi.” He nearly spits out the fish in his mouth. “You’re taking advice from that pervert?”

Red flares over her cheeks, splotchy and uneven, but her shoulders take on a defensive hike. “Well, I wouldn’t be, if someone had given me something else to go off of. But if there’s anyone who knows what a bento should be like…”

It would be the prince of third year, who had his pick. “Why are you so worried about what he thinks anyway? Shouldn’t you be making stuff Kashima likes?”

“Well, ideally— yes. But…” Her shoulders twitch, a flinch rather than a shrug. “It’s not as if I have a natural way to ask. We don’t…hang out outside of school hours.”

“Does anybody?” he grunts, so dry he nearly scorches his mouth. But she glances up at him, all reproachful, like she doesn’t know if he’s teasing her or Kashima, and there it is, that stupid knot again, lodged right in his gut. “Listen. We’re going to a movie this weekend.”

Inomata glances up at him, brows furrowed. “Huh?”

“The guys. All of us together.” There’s an itch between his shoulders he can only scratch with a shrug. “Kashima’s coming too.”

Or at least he will be, once Kamitani’s done with him.

“Oh.” Her head tilts, wary. “That’s…nice?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What I’m trying to say is: it’d probably be fine if you came.”

“What?” She’s all eyes when she blinks, mouth falling slack. “You mean…really? And you wouldn’t mind?”

“Yeah.” He sets the chopsticks over the empty tin. “It’s fine or whatever.”

“Real—?”

“I said it’s fine, didn’t I?” he snaps. “Besides, I owe you for the lunch.”

“But…” Her mouth works, rounding over a half dozen words before she sits back, hands pressed flat against her untouched bento. “All right. Sure. I think I could make that work.”

She spares him the smallest, shyest glance. “T-thank—”

“Shut up,” he grunts. “Just eat your damn food already.”

*

“I-I don’t know.” Kashima’s pale when they finally corner him before homeroom, eyes darting all over like he’s looking for an exit. “I-I might have to look after Kotaro that day.”

“Kashima,” Saginuma groans, hands slapping to his face. “Come on. The headmistress can’t spare you for a day?”

“I mean, sure, but really…i-it’s fine.” He puts on that shaky little smile of his, and Kamitani knows: if he looked under the kid’s desk, his knees would be quivering. “B-besides, it’s not like those sorts of movies are, you know…my thing, really…”

Kamitani had assumed it would be him who had to lean in, him who had to put the nail in the coffin, but instead it’s Ebizawa, brows pitched to his hairline as he asked, “Oh, so you’re scared?”

“W-what? No.” He can’t tell whether Kashima is shaking his head or just having full body tremors. “I’d be perfectly happy to go, if it wasn’t for—”

“So you’re coming?” Kamitani doesn’t even flinch when the kid turns that betrayed look his way. He’ll thank him later. Probably. “The hag’s gonna have to get used to not having you around anyway. She won’t have all this free labor when you’ve got entrance exams.”

Or after, but he knows better than to say that. He’s not going to be the one that gets Kashima to chicken out of college just because it might be more than two doors down from his brother.

“I-I suppose so.” The kid straightens, nodding. “I’ll, ah, see what I can’t work out.”

“Hell yes!” Usokawa whoops. “The five of us, hitting the town—”

“About that.” Kamitani strives to keep his voice even as he says, “I’m bringing someone with me.”

Saginuma blinks. “Yeah, sure, man. Whatever. The more the merrier.”

“No problem at all!” Usokawa adds, as if he has any bearing on the answer. “Anyone you bring is sure to be cool!”

“Yeah.” Kamitani smothers a grimace. “We’ll see about that.”

[bubblesthemonsterartist]

Drabble: Inomata x kamitani, green

Taka’s snotty nose presses against the glass like he’s not the entire reason they’re up here.

“Sorry,” Kamitani grunts. At least he doesn’t have to worry about Inomata of all people cornering him. She looks as pleased to be on this ferris wheel as he does.

“Normally I would blame poor guardianship, but after the babysitters club, I realized that he-”

“--Is just like that. Yea.”

“Mm.” She stares down at the park below. “Yes.”

“Kirin wants to see too!” A small voice demands, pushing Taka out of the window seat.

Kamitani smirks. He always did like that one.

[sabraeal]

don't speak boyshit, Chapter 11

[Read on AO3]

Maria has never been one to listen to the school rumor mill; first, because it was usually wrong— how else did one semester at the top of the grade turn into stuck-up Inomata-san, who thinks she’s smarter than everyone— and second, because, well…after three years of being stuck-up Inomata-san, even her own friends tended to forget to send the newest gossip down her branch of the grapevine. But still, she would have to be dead to avoid what they said about Kamitani: most talented captain the baseball team has ever seen, hottest boy in the whole academy, Morinomiya’s best chance of getting to Summer Koshien, most kissable boy in all of third year—

And here he is, stripping each scoop of his lunch of vegetable before shoveling it into his mouth.

“I thought boys your age were supposed to be as picky about food as a trash compactor.” Maria may not be the arbiter of taste when it comes the preferences of her classmates, but even she can tell: this is distinctly uncool behavior. “Are you really going to pick out every single bit of carrot you can find?”

“Yes.” A well-pickled matchstick rotates between his chopsticks before he sets it aside, joining the pile of rejected root vegetables. “They’re gross.”

“They’re good for you,” she reminds him, since clearly the Morinomiya’s most talented captain has forgotten the whole second tier of the food pyramid. “I even cut them smaller this time.”

He spares her a single, flat stare. “They’re still carrots.”

“Honestly.” Maria digs heartily into her own well of pickled vegetables. “I bet you still leave bell peppers on your plate.”

That gets her a snort this time— not amused but affronted, like a cat pet the wrong way— and a much more measured glare. “I’m not a kid.”

“You could have fooled me,” she sniffs, peeling back the seaweed on her noriben. “Now do you have any other complaints? Besides the fact that I’m making you eat like a grown adult.”

“Even adults have stuff they don’t eat.” His chopsticks pick at a shred of slaw, tugging out a long, orange strand. Well-seasoned, she thinks, but the meaningful look he tosses her way suggests he has no intention of finding out. “You’re lucky I don’t dock your score for this shit.”

“You should.”

There’s no reason for the Great Athlete to fumble his utensils, and yet somehow they scurry out from his grip, only reflex catching them before they plummet to the pavement. Maria frowns, clenching her own chopsticks between her fingers. “I’m not asking for flattery, I’m asking for improvement. If you don’t like what I make, your assessment should reflect that.”

There’s a funny sort of pause, a lacuna of conversation as Kamitani considers yet another strip of carrot, the already unfriendly angle of his eyebrows furrowing deeper.

“Well, yeah,” he finally snorts, dropping it into the pile. “But it’s not like you’re making these for me. Kashima probably loves shit like this. Vegetables or whatever.”

“That’s—” a good point, little as she likes to admit it. “That doesn’t matter. Boys our age are all the same anyway.”

It’s a struggle not to squirm when one of those stern brows angles toward his hairline. “You think Kashima is like everyone else?”

“W-well…” Half the reason he caught her eye is because he isn’t; all the other boys talk about bust-to-waist ratios or burp the boss music to their latest video game, but Kashima— Kashima might be able sing the entirety of the Petit Pois opener, or name every one of the Ranger Five and their signature moves, but he can’t name two idols in the same girl group, let alone notice they have the sort of features that could be measured and marked down in magazines. “He can’t be that different. Everyone has to eat, don’t they? You’re friends, after all.”

There’s no reason for his brows to furrow so deeply, for him to sit there and glare at her as if she’s the problem. Like there’s something wrong with her. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I-I don’t know,” she mutters, plucking up a savory square of omelet. It may not be as technically perfect as the one Tanaka-san made when she demonstrated how to roll one up without burning the whole pan, or as delectable as the slice Yagi let her try from his own bento, but it’s good. More than edible, at least. And yet, Kamitani hasn’t touched it. “You eat together, don’t you? So you must like the same things…?”

“He doesn’t go around eating off my plate or whatever,” Kamitani sneers, pushing his vegetable off the side of the bento and into an empty well. There’s enough to be a side dish all on its own. “That kid gets plenty of food all on his own.”

“Right, but you must, you know…go out?” That’s what she’d always thought friends did— go out after school, stopping by some local spot for a pick-me-up after a long day of class. Split one of those limited-time appetizers that would probably leave her stomach queasy from all the grease, if anyone ever bothered to invite her. “Don’t you share food then?”

“Not really.” His mouth hooks into something like a smirk. “Maybe those idiots do, but I like my shit spicier than those losers can handle.”

Maria stares at him, stymied. It’s a wonder he even has friends, honestly. “Well, in any case, you’re the one eating my bento right now—”

“Not like I’ve got much of a choice.”

“—as a favor to me,” she grits out, words just squeaking through her teeth. “So it should at least be something you want to eat.”

It’s never occurred to her how much of Kamitani is perpetual motion— huffing and sighing and scowling and just generally being a pain to deal with— until he stops, chopsticks hanging over his rice. Hovering there, just for a moment, before digging in. Like a hiccup in one of those old film reels, or a video paused to buffer.

“Sure,” he mutters through a mouthful. Much more than, considering the way his cheeks bulge around it; a poor attempt at trying to control the massive mound he shoveled past his teeth. “Whatever.”

Maria sighs. Restrained, of course; so soft he probably doesn’t notice over all his meal mismanagement. “If you have any requests—”

They can probably hear him swallow from the classrooms. “No carrots.”

“—Reasonable requests,” she amends. “I’ll be happy to hear them.”

“I am being reasonable,” he says, even though he couldn’t locate the definition of the word on a multiple choice test. “Get rid of the vegetables. They’re gross.”

Her knuckle bones blanch where they knit over her lap, threatening to creak under the pressure. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

He nods— just a little chuck of his chin, like it’s too much effort to bother with doing the full movement. For her, at least. “You should.”

A shrill sigh rattles out from her nose; a warning, like a kettle that’s finally come to a boil, but— but Maria tamps down on the impulse to let off the steam. Oh, it’s tempting to raise her voice, to turn all of this frustration in his direction and really boil over, but it won’t get her anything. Not unless she wants to sit through another fight, or worse, one of his smirks.

She clears her throat, chin lifted, confident, and attempts a different tack. “Midterms are coming up.”

“Don’t remind me,” Kamitani grunts around his rice, shoulders hunched to his ears. “The hag’s been eyeing my DVDs for weeks.”

What that has to do with anything, Maria can’t possibly say, but she’s come too far to turn around now. “If that’s the case, I suppose I should be making good on my half of our bargain, shouldn’t I?”

Fish drops from the pinched points of his chopsticks, abandoned in the messy, half-eaten bed of rice still in his bento, and he just stares at her— gapes, like there’s something wrong with her.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he growls, ingracious as always, like she’s not doing him a favor, offering her time and— “I haven’t done your dumb packet thing. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Oh.” Her mouth clicks shut, tongue all tangled up behind her teeth. “I guess that’s true.”

“You guess so?” The corners of his glower bite into his cheeks, forehead furrowed so deep it’s giving her a headache. “You think I want to be in your debt or whatever?”

“N-no! I just thought it would be like…making a down payment. Since you already agreed to help.” Negotiation is supposed to be a game of give-and-take, an offer met with a haggle and brought to a compromise— that’s what Mother had always said at least, right before her yearly review. But dealing with Kamitani is like running across quicksand, racing to get to her point while every word only drags her further down. “I didn’t realize you’d get caught up on the fairness of the situation.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?” His head swivels, aiming that unrelenting glare on her, and ugh, this is what makes him so impossible to deal with— he never looks away. “You think I’m just going to get what I want and screw the rest? Like I wasn’t raised right or something?”

Maria’s no stranger to Kamitani’s growls and grunts, to the way his voice pitches louder and deeper the shorter his fuse burns, but there’s something different in the way the words break off his tongue now. It’s more raw, sharp; a ragged edge that cuts both ways.

It certainly gets under her skin, at least; leaving a strange, sticky sensation down by her bones she can’t scrape off. Like dried glue sitting between skin and muscle, crackling with every stretch and twist of her limbs. Like guilt, almost. Not that she’s done anything wrong, but still…

“T-that’s not it at all!” Her neck nearly snaps from how hard she whips it around, heat clawing up to her cheeks as she meets the muddled color of his eyes— not quite brown, not quite gray, not quite green or gold or any of the flowery tones she’s heard the girls around school pull from thin air to describe them. Just…unexpected, is all. “You’re already keeping up your end of the bargain by evaluating these bento.”

“Really?” he snorts. “You think making me food means you owe me something? Not even you cook that bad.”

That’d almost be a compliment, if it wasn’t, well, not.

“You also invited me to that, um, movie as well, don’t forget.” If life was interested in being fair, her face wouldn’t look half as hot as it feels, but by the way Kamitani arches his brow, incredulous— well, Maria’s quite aware that her toast always lands butter-side down. She clears her throat, letting her voice lift to its loftiest, most imperious tones. “It may not have earned you my notes, but it’s certainly worth a few study sessions.”

“Together?”

His derision alone is enough to send her thoughts scampering, slipping from her fingers like marbles across a slanted floor. She tries to summon up enough presence of mind to take it all back before another word gets out of him, but—

“Sure.” His shoulders drop, one half of a lazy shrug, and instantly he’s turned from sharp edges to lanky limbs. “The hag’s working late tonight. Meet me after practice.”

It comes out of him so easy, like it’s normal. Like she’s the sort of person who gets asked over after club all the time, like she just goes over someone’s house to hang out. Like it was stupid to believe she could be anyone else.

It…doesn’t feel terrible, she has to admit.

“Sure,” she says with the sort of confidence a serial hanger-outer might have. Even tosses her hair for good measure, like none of this even matters. Like her palms aren’t sweating enough to leave streaks on her skirt. “I’ll see if I can make myself available.”

*

In the year and change since she showed up to her first club meeting, Tanaka-san has always maintained a respectful distance; the sort expected between a president and a club member, or a kouhai with her esteemed senpai. But as Maria frowns down at the chocolate refusing to melt in her bowl— she knows that cream was scalded when she poured it, no matter how stubbornly the shavings clump— the girl tucks herself right up under her side, voice dropped to a dire whisper as she murmurs, “In—Inomata-senpai. Could I, er…could I have a word?”

Maria’s gaze skips, unbidden, over to where Inui stands, frowning over her own bowl of— presumably— failed ganache. It takes a stepping stool for her to be tall enough, the first year’s small bun trembling with disappointment as she peers over the metal rim, but there’s no daggers pointed Maria’s way, no blame being flung inexplicably in her corner. She’s not in trouble, most importantly. “Of course, Kaichou.”

“You can keep working,” Tanaka-san says quickly, her gaze flicking up over the counter to meet Suzuki-san’s three stations away. “I just wanted to ask if you…ah… had any luck with your”— her voice drops, so soft and low Maria strains to hear it—  “bento?”

“Oh.” Maria blinks, stepping back from the half-melted mess on the counter. “Well, I don’t know if I’d call it luck, but they at least came out edible.”

“You can just heat that over simmering water,” Tanaka advises absently, waving a hand toward the stove top. “Just make sure to be gentle, or it will split. And don’t mix too much, or you’ll get streaks. But it was, ah, accepted?”

“Accepted? What—?” The bento, she realizes, belatedly. They’re still talking about the bento. “Oh, yes. Both of them.”

“B-both?” Tanaka gapes, mouth hanging open for a long moment before she manages, “You mean more than one? I mean— did he like them?”

“For the most part, it seems.” Kamitani’s assessments might have assigned her some middling scores— for all his carrying on over it, he did dock her for the carrots, after all was said and done— but aside from a pile of vegetables and an untouched omelet, he had polished off both meals with only minor hemming and hawing. Perhaps not an unmitigated win, but it’s hardly a shabby first try. “He did pick out his vegetables.”

“The vegetables?” Tanaka’s hands hook over her hips, her scowl nearly motherly. “But they’re part of a balanced meal!”

“That is what I said,” Maria hums, vindicated. “But if you don’t mind my asking, Kaichou—?”

“Anything.” Tanaka hands fly up between them, clenched into eager fists. “I’m happy to help however you need, senpai.”

She leans in, close enough that Maria can see her shoulders quiver, suffused with keen determination, and it’s— it’s unexpected. Strange, if she’s being honest. People don’t usually get excited like this, not around her. Not for her.

“Er, well, it’s just…” She tugs at the end of her hair, trying to collect her thoughts. “The omelet you showed me— I made it just the same way, and I’ll admit, it didn’t taste quite as good, but still well within acceptable bounds.”

“He didn’t like it?” Tanaka-san rocks back on her heels, thoughtful. “You can take that off of the heat now. Do you think it might be the seasoning?”

It was a little bland— she’s had a sparing hand with the salt, more afraid of too much than too little— but still. “He didn’t even touch it.”

“Really?” A line furrows itself right between her eyebrows, deepening as she watches Maria set the ganache on the counter. “But almost everyone likes omelets.”

“Maybe he likes sweet ones,” Suzuki-san offers, suddenly no longer three stations away but underfoot, her ponytail bobbling as she hops on top of a cabinet. “Some people have pretty firm preferences for them. My dad swears he can tell by the smell— he likes the savory ones, won’t even touch the other ones.”

Maria snorts. “I don’t think that’s it.”

Not with how quick he likes to snap, I don’t like sweet shit, at least.

“You could always ask,” Tanaka-san offers, though even she seems to shy from the idea. “Maybe one of his friends? Or, um, a sibling…?”

Charming as the idea is, the only thing Taka bothers to remember is the special moves of the Ranger Five. She’d have more luck asking Kamitani-sensei, and that— that is a nuclear option; cheating almost. The sort of thing that would almost certainly work its way back to Kamitani himself, and the last thing she needs is him thinking she cares about impressing him. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“But he’s taking the bento, at least.” Suzuki-san blows out a sigh, the swoop of her bangs eddying in its wake. “Has he, you know, said anything? Done something to, mm, show his gratitude?”

Gratitude might as well be a foreign country for as much as Kamitani seems to be acquainted with its customs. “I did get invited to a movie.”

“A movie?” They squeal, so perfectly pitched that they might as well be one voice. Suzuki’s the one to shake off her shock first, leaning in to whisper, “Are you going?”

“Oh…yes.” When their eyes widen, excitement drawing them open to the whites, Maria quickly adds, “It’s not a big deal— it’s just a group thing.”

“Group thing?” Suzuki-san murmurs, her buzzing energy banking. “Hm.”

“Well, that’s not bad.” Tanaka-san’s smile takes a bent toward encouraging, eye crinkling not with mischief, but at least a close cousin. “It might not be as nice as one-on-one, but it can be a little thrilling to try to find an excuse to sit next to a boy you like. Letting your shoulders brush or having your knees knock against each other. Almost like a secret, you know.”

Maria tries to think of it— walking close to Kashima, letting the natural swing of their hands guide them to brush past each other and—

And her mind goes utterly blank. “Oh.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Suzuki scoffs with a wave of her hand. “Yuna-chan’s too pretty. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have to compete with other girls.”

“I do so!” She’s seen Tanaka-san blush before— a bloom of rosy pink as she humbly tucked her chin, thanking the club for taking her on as president; or the barest flush as some of the other second years teased her about a boy in her class— but when the president snaps to face her now, there’s no delicacy in the color, no subtle hint— she’s red from collar to hairline, heated. “Don’t listen to her, senpai, I’ve had plenty of trouble with boys!”

“Yeah,” Suzuki snickers behind a hand. “Like which one to pick.”

“That’s not—”

“Hey!” Inui’s shoes don’t squeak, but they certainly stomp, pulling up right in front of her station, her hands fisted on her hips. “What are you three giggling about?”

“Nothing!” Suzuki spits out, more reflex than reaction. It’s not very convincing, even by Maria’s standards, and Inui’s eyes narrow, frown furrowing deeper into her cheeks.

“Mika-chan.” It’s impressive how quickly Tanaka-san turns from silly to serious, buttoning up her presidential mantle with the same ease most people do a coat. “Did you need help with something?”

“No.” Her petulant mouth puffs into a pout. “Just keep it down.”

*

It’s still strange to toe off her tennis shoes in the genkan, leaving them in a little tray right next to Kamitani’s high-tops and what she assumes must be Taka’s light-up Ranger Red sneakers. They don’t look right sitting there, like a pig trying to pass as a puppy, thinking that as long as it wriggles its way into the pile and wags its tail, no one will be the wiser. But it’s impossible, the white sticking out like a sore thumb, making it clear that someone is here that shouldn’t be, that an interloper has elbowed their way into this home, and—

“Are you just gonna stare at your shoes all day?” Kamitani grunts from the edge of the genkan, glaring back at her. “Or are you gonna get out here already?”

“Oh!” She scrambles for a pair of guest slippers, gracelessly shoving them on her feet as she takes the last step up into the hallway. “Ah…coming!”

He sighs, shaking his head— rolling his eyes, too, if her own aren’t playing tricks on her— and pads out toward the stairway, navy blue flashing out from the bottom of his pant legs.

That’s another thing she can’t quite get used to— Kamitani’s socks. Or well, not the socks really, but the way he wears them, just strolling out across the floor without even a pause to consider slippers. She’s witnessed Kamitani at his most casual— not just two buttons popped on his uniform or pants rolled up to the knee, but slouchy sweats for some outing Kashima’s clearly dragged him fresh from bed to attend, almost certainly against his will— but this, this feels vulnerable. The fabric’s so thin she can see how his toes articulate beneath it, joints flexing and gripping as he walks—

“Do you need a map?”

Her gaze jolts up, no longer fixed on where cotton-nylon blend presses against pine, but to the tilt of his head, impatience implied with every degree it’s dropped. “A map?”

A sigh saws out the long slope of his nose. “Or maybe I just need a leash. Are you coming or not?”

“O-of course I am!” she snaps, heat flaring over her cheeks. It’s ridiculous— staring at his feet, as if that had anything to do with anything. Worse, he could have seen her do it. “I was just…thinking!”

He snorts, and she can see it, the way he’s winding up, ready to sling his next barb right off his tongue, and—

And, there’s no sign of Taka in the hall, none but the sneakers sitting in the genkan, but the pitch of his voice cuts straight through the walls. “Is that Inomata-nee-chan?”

Kamitani’s eyes widen, every clever little nastygram he’d been ready to hurl her way eliding into one very eloquent, “Shit.”

“Oh.” Maria turns, confused at whether the call’s coming from the kitchen or the den, especially since the thump of his small steps seems to be everywhere. “I guess we should say hello before—”

“No way.” It’s all the warning she gets before his fingers band around her wrist, tugging hard enough for every thought to stumble out her head alongside her feet. “We don’t have time for his crap.”

“What do you—?”

“Nii-chan!” Taka’s head pokes out from the den, hair as tidy as a haystack. “Didn’t Mom say that if you’ve got guests, you gotta—?”

“Shut up,” Kamitani grates out over the thud of his footsteps, not quite dragging her up the stairs but only just. “We’re gonna study, so mind your own business.”

“But—!”

Whatever formal protest Taka wished to lodge is lost over the slam of the door behind them, the wood hitting the jamb so hard the walls shiver in sympathy. Her teeth do too, rattling in the back of her mouth until the house settles, leaving her and Kamitani alone in the National Disaster Area that is his room.

“I’m not sure,” she says, delicately sidestepping what she refuses to recognize as a pair of boxers, “that all that was entirely necessary.”

He huffs, the palm wrapped around her wrist falling away to bury itself in a mess of black bristle. “Say what you want, but you’d have a hard time teaching me English when you can’t get a word in around his stupid Ranger Five stuff.”

She’d rather die than admit he has a point, but he saves her from having to choose by jutting out a hand and grunting, “Sit.”

There’s a half dozen things wrong with how he put that— she’s not a dog, for one— but the one she settles on is, “Where?”

It’s barely been a week since the last time she exposed herself to whatever environmental hazards pervade Kamitani’s room, but somehow this time is worse. What few glimpses of floor she’d managed to garner are completely obscured now, lost beneath dirty clothes and sports paraphernalia, glossy magazine covers shining out from beneath balled up socks like a drowning passenger waving their arms in a last ditch effort for rescue.

“There.” He points now, treading through the treacherous terrain with the same ease as mountain goats do sheer cliff faces to show her the singular ten-by-ten square untouched by the roiling miasma of gross boy stuff. “It’s clean.”

Only by the barest definition of the word. “It’s dirty by association.”

He’s crouched down, not even touching the floor himself, but he glares like she’s the ridiculous one. “You’ll live.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” she sniffs, edging a stray pair of pants with the toe of her slipper. “I won’t even fit there, look—”

Maria twists herself into half a knot, arms thrown out toward this singular, miraculous zone of inhibition in his room, trying to illustrate just how inadequate it would be on a physical level and— and she catches it. Just a glance up, a glare really, at the same moment his drops. Drops down, raking over her shoulders, her belly, her waist— until it lingers, entirely too speculative, on her, er…seating apparatus.

“You’ll fit,” he says. Declares, really, with a confidence that makes it easy to drop to her knees, since they certainly aren’t interested in holding her anymore.

“I don’t see why I have to sit here,” she mutters, arranging herself so that she’s not possibly touching any of the boy explosion around her, and oh, it’s terrible that he’s right. Or at least he would be if she sat cross-legged, bottom on the floor, the way he does, but she neatly folds her knees under her instead, nudging detritus out of the way with as little exposed skin as possible. "It’s not as if there’s any reason it’s any better than—”

His eyebrows furrow— not angry, for once, just annoyed. “It’s where the table is.”

“The what?” she manages to ask, just before he drops his arm down and sweeps it across the mound of mess in front of her, video games and magazine giving way to wood grain before being unceremoniously deposited on the floor.

“The table,” he repeats, dropping his books onto it for good measure. “Where we’ll study.”

“Oh.” It’s more gasp than word, just air that leaves her chest unbidden with just enough heft to have a shape. “Right. Then, um…where would you like to start?”

*

This is hardly the first time Maria’s been asked to study; after the first time she ended up at the top of the class list, she’d had plenty of classmates who had never said so much as a ‘good morning’ suddenly wanting her to join their after-school sessions in the library— some even trying to bribe her with the promise of homemade snacks. Not that it was necessary; back then, she would have been happy to just settle for whatever crumb of friendship they’d been willing to give her. But then she had pictured telling Mother and Father about it— trying to explain that she’d be spending some of her dedicated study time helping other people understand what she’d already wrangled through weeks ago in preparation and—

And she’d just said, “I don’t think I need that.” Stuck up Inomata-san hadn’t followed too long after that. There had been other invitations as she got older, as her classes changed between years and she’d been put up into the Advanced Course; people trying to see if they could eke out a few more points on their exams by stealing a few from her, but she’d been wiser then, harder. She knew there wouldn’t be any cute weekend shopping excursions or silly stay-up-all-night slumber parties for her no matter how many hours she put in, helping so-called friends get their grade up enough to stay in clubs or get into the university of their choice, or have their parents let them stay up late talking to their boyfriends. So they’d dropped off over time, only the most desperate daring to approach her, and now—

Now she’s realizing how much of this whole studying thing is sitting around, waiting for Kamitani to give her something to work with.

“Just staring at me isn’t going to make this go any faster,” he grunts, forming English letters with a shakier hand than the daycare kids manage kanji. “You know that, right?”

“I’m looking to see if you’re making any mistakes.” Besides which way the ‘p’ goes; she can tell by the way it flip flops on the page that it’s the sort of long-standing mistake that is far past the purview of her position as study buddy. “That way you won’t reinforce bad habits.”

His narrowed eyes hone his glare to a point. “Look less.”

“Fine,” she sighs, folding her hands across her lap. “Have it your way.”

Without something to hold her focus, it wanders. She first lets it trace over the shelves in the room— manga, magazines, and too many trophies for someone who typically couldn’t be bothered to traipse down to the daycare room to check on his own brother. Not that it matters anymore now; Taka’s in yochien now, just like Kirin and the twins. It’s Midori and Kotaro that are left behind now, the oldest of a whole new group of faculty babies. And Kashima—

Her brain grinds to a halt. Kashima is going to be at the movie. No, Kashima was the point of going to this movie; an extra reason to see him outside the hours they’re at school, to see him without the ubiquitous queue of children at his heels. A chance to talk with him without having to worry about class bells or curious eyes, where she could sit next to him as the theater lights dimmed, their arms brushing over their shared armrest, hands gently bumping as they reach for the same bag of popcorn. Where their knees might accidentally touch, the fabric of his pants rubbing up against her…skirt? Skin?

Maria hesitates. It is perilously close to the summer holidays, every day warmer than the last. She could conceivably have a hemline above her knee, so long as the weather called for it. He could even be wearing shorts, and when their knees knocked together, it would be skin-to-skin, that strange electric frisson running through her— and maybe even into him. Maybe their eyes would meet as it happens, both feeling the zip of lightning now that there’s no barrier between them.

Or they would, so long as it isn’t weird for her to wear something like that. She’s gone to the movie with Yuki’s friends before, and they’d worn skirts with hemlines hiked up further than Maria would dare. But that’s just among the four of them, girls to a one, and if there were boys, well— who's to say there aren’t other rules? There probably is some complex social formula for it, a subtle function of interest and inches, only no one’s ever told her, because—

“Hey,” Kamitani grunts, arms folded over his notebook. “Did you hear me?”

Maria blinks. “H-huh?”

“I was asking if you—”

He might as well be speaking Chinese for all that she’s paying attention; she just watches his mouth move up and down, eyebrows furrowing deeper into the space above his nose, and for one, desperate moment she loses all reason, and what falls out of her isn’t an answer, isn’t an excuse, but something far, far worse.

“What do I wear?”

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 9

[Read on AO3]

“Inomata-san?” Most girls would be thrilled to be the object of attention for the Prince of Third Year, utterly breathless by the way his gaze follows them across a room, seeing sparkles with every bat of his eyelashes. “You’re looking very...determined this morning.”

The rest of the female student body might also squeal at the wisps of blond curling over their desk, thrilled that Yagi-kun deigned to rest his head so close to their own fingers. But Maria simply frowns, dropping her pencil case near enough to endanger his well-being. Or at least the integrity of his haircut.  “I didn’t ask you.”

His smile tightens by the smallest flinch, imperceptible to anyone whose vision blurs to pink and bubbles when he breathes.

“Inomata-san.” It’s impressive how normal he can seem when there’s no chubby cheeks around to entice him. “I’m only trying to be friendly.”

“You should try that on someone who would appreciate it,” she suggests, sliding into her chair. It takes a moment for her to organize all her limbs-- girls may stop growing at her age, but she’s still never gotten used to all the extra inches-- but when she’s nearly folded and tucked, Yagi’s still there, curious. ���There’s a whole classroom full of girls who don’t know you well enough to know there’s something wrong with you.”

One end of a perfectly shaped eyebrow twitches. “You really don’t mince words, do you?”

Maria squints down at him, the same way Galileo must have when he stared into the sun. “I’m not trying to impress you.”

The blinding brightness of his smile doesn’t blur or dim, but this close, Maria could swear a nerve jumps in his jaw. “That much is clear.”

“Yagi-kun...” After three years as the sole female in the Advanced Course who is safe to sit next to the Class Prince-- a dubious honor doled out her first year after the disastrous mid-term seat change-- she’s nearly in expert in the gradation of weariness in Nezu’s sighs. This one suggests that he should have stayed home if they were going to be in this sort of mood today. “Stop bothering Inomata-san.”

With all the speed guilt can provide, Yagi springs up from his seat, smile dialed up to its max wattage. “Ah, Chuukichi-kun, good morning! I wasn’t bothering her, we were only--”

Nezu slants her a dubious glance.

“I was handling it,” she assures him, “but thank you.”

“H-hey!” That sunny smile shines itself close to a grimace. “I mean it. I was just trying to compliment her.”

With a toss of his head, the wild thicket of Nezu’s hair parts just enough to reveal a rare glimpse of his forehead-- one that is furrowed with incredulity. “Uh-huh.”

“Really! Inomata-san came in with a spring in her step. Or, er--” his voice falters under the strength of their combined stare “--as close as she comes. I assume this means that you had some progress with your romantic endeavors.”

It’s Maria’s turn for her eyebrows to take a hike up her forehead. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what you’ve been frowning over the past few weeks, isn’t it?” He darts a glance at Nezu, as if confirmation might come from that quarter, only to be met with resounding confusion. “You said Inomata-san asked you about boys just a few weeks ago, right, Chuukichi-kun?”

He has the grace to flinch under her glare. “Ah, yes, but I didn’t think you’d, er...”

Be interested, the slope of his shoulders says. His glare, however, implies, didn’t think you’d run your mouth off about it.

“I was surprised you didn’t come to me.” Yagi’s popularity has always been one of life’s mysteries, another sign that she’s not like the other girls in her class, a statistical outlier destined to go uncounted. But looking at him now, all concerned and earnest and every inch what a class president should be--

Well, it’d be easy to get twitterpated under this sort of attention. If she didn’t know the precise amount of tissues he goes through when the children play house. 

“I’d be happy to help you.” Under the spotlight of his smile, it’s a struggle not to shrink back, to raise a hand to make some shade. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can figure this guy out.”

Nezu snorts. “You’ve never even been on a date.”

“Neither have you, and you got to help,” Yagi reminds him with his usual maddening calm. “I’m a boy, aren’t I? I’m sure that’s enough similarity for Inomata-san to--”

“Absolutely not!” The very idea that she could apply advice from this man and apply it to Kashima-- her skin shivers at the thought. “The two of you don’t have a single thing in-- in--”

(Shouldn’t it bother you that you’re stuck here with us? Usaida’s grin says he already knows the answer. I think most seventeen year olds would prefer to be celebrating with their friends.

Oh, no no! Kashima’s smile isn’t even the littlest bit strained. I like being here. The kids are so excited, and er... He must forget she’s here, playing house with Kirin in the corner, since he mutters, I think they’re a little easier to deal with than my classmates sometimes.)

“Really?” Yagi arches one of those perfect eyebrows of his; a girl three rows back squeals. “Not one thing?”

(He’s getting too big for it now, Kashima sighs, listing close enough to her that the cotton of his button-down brushes hers, but sometimes I just want to-- to-- it’s charming, how red he flushes --pinch his cheeks! Just a little.)

“It just wouldn’t work.” Her fingers curl, nails too short to cut her palms the way she’d like. It’d be grounding, if they could. “A-and you’re too late anyway! I already found someone else to help me.”

Yagi blinks, jaw so slack he could catch flies with it. “You don’t say. Who offered to...?”

“That’s privileged information.” Maria stifles a grimace. It’s the same answer her father pulls from his pocket every time she pushes too hard and too long on why she isn’t allowed to go to sleepovers, or about the Sunday plans that are too rigid to allow her to see a movie on Saturday, but-- well the last thing she needs is word getting around that she needs help from Kamitani. He’s not even in the Advanced Class. “And in any case, their advice will be much more helpful than anything you could give me.”

There’s a moment where that sunlight flickers, Yagi’s mouth flirting with the beginning of a frown before his mood clears to bright skies once again. “Is that so? I would have figured that someone as logically-minded as yourself would have wanted as much data as you could collect.”

He would have a point, if he was anyone else. As it was... “There’s no point in collecting from what’s sure to be an outlier.”

Nezu chokes. Impressive, since he hadn’t even seemed to be eating anything, but Yagi leans over, pounding him on his back until the sputtering stops.

“Well, if you’re sure,” he says, giving Nezu one last slap on his back for good measure. “I’m always here, if you change your mind.”

Maria’s mouth pulls as thin as her patience. “I won’t.”

Not as long Kamitani follows through, at least.

*

It’s not that Maria is impatient, per se. Excited, perhaps. Eager for the rush of data analysis, definitely. But impatient? Restless?

Certainly not. During homeroom, she doesn’t even think about the oddly powdery pages of those test booklets, never quite holding fast to the strokes of her pen. Even as far as first period, she never once dwells on the unique pleasure of being finally being the one that wields the corrective marks, scrawling red over what’s already written--

And then Yagi is called to the board, chalk squeaking as he works out a differential equation in his neat hand, clean enough it could have come from a textbook. The girl beside him flushes, hand trembling with the effort to make her bubbly numbers look as professional as his. In the end, it’s a failure, her own nerves making fours into x’s and b’s into sixes, until she has to write the whole thing out again, chalk dust dotting her uniform as she trudges back to her seat.

But the boy after them-- his answer has more in common with chicken scratch than letters, so cramped that even sensei has to squint. Maria snorts; no one will be asking her to letter any banners, but at least her handwriting doesn’t require the teacher to crouch down, as if being level with the mess might help untangle it. That sort of disaster seems to be entirely the purview of boys, Well, excepting Yagi-kun.

It’s only logical then, that she thinks of it. That her mind suddenly projects Kamitani’s test booklet into her hands, completed cover to cover. It falls open, draping over the smooth wood polymer of her desk, and--

And it’s utterly illegible. A thicket of hiragana that cuts as she tries to wrap her mind around it, brambles pricking at her palms she as teases out individual strokes. With the way he keeps his room, it could hardly be anything else; even if Kamitani gives her that booklet today, she’ll have to spend weeks wading through his answers, trying to uncover his meaning. Her syllabus will be in shambles.

The lunch bell isn’t the same complicated set of bings and bongs as the one that marks the start of homeroom, but Maria’s on her feet at the first note, out the door fast enough that the squeal of her school shoes puts a flourish on its final one.

“Mari-chi?” Kawata leans her hip against the door of 3-C, sipping at a strawberry milk. “You’re back today too?”

“Uh...” Her shoes skid to a stop just shy of that speculative stare, suddenly aware of how her hands are utterly empty of excuses. There’s no papers to pass to the office, no official business to shield her from scrutiny; even her lunch is left back in her bag, forgotten in her rush. “So it would seem.”

“Oooh, who are you looking for this time?” Yamane cranes her neck out around the corner, gaze sweeping up and down the hall. “Yuki-chan, maybe? You guys haven’t had lunch in a while.”

“Yuki just stepped out to drop off some papers for sensei,” Kawata informs her, bumping Yamane to the side. “I’m sure she’ll be back in just a few minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“Ah, but I’m not, er...”

Honesty may be the best policy-- at least, that’s what Father always says-- but Yamane’s grin goes a little sharp, like a small puppy about to bite the neck of her favorite squeak toy, and only just clamps around the impulse before the girl asks, “Or maybe you’re here for someone else? Kashima--”

“Not him either!” she squeals, loud enough that a few passerby give pause, and oh, this isn’t worth it, not at all. There’s no point in making a spectacle of herself when it would just be easier to find that annoyance after school, or maybe even--

“What’s all the noise about?” Kamitani’s scowl is already firmly set when he insinuates himself in the doorway, but when he catches sight of her, it furrows deeper. “I should have known.”

There had been a plan when she left 3-A, a course of action; one that involved dragging Kamitani from his desk and demanding the data she’d so patiently waited for. But now that he’s here, one arm braced against the jamb, buttons popped above the vee of his cardigan, like he didn’t even bother to dress right--

“There’s a tie in our dress code,” she snips, “as a third year, you might bother to wear one.”

His eyebrows spring free of their furrow, hitching up his forehead until it’s no longer a scowl stretched across his mouth but a smirk. He shifts too, slipping past Kawata to lean against the outer wall, limbs so long Maria has to step back to avoid scuffing his shoes. “That right?”

“To...” It’s terrible how she feels a flush working up her neck as he watches her, far too pleased with himself. "To set a good example. To the younger students.”

“To the younger...?” Humor leaves him in a huff. “What are you doing over here, Inomata? Looking for someone to nag?”

His edges might be blunted by annoyance-- a feeling that’s mutual as far as she’s concerned-- but she can see the gleam in his eye, the tilt of his chin. He wants her to rise to his bait, to admit that, yes, she’s looking for him. A challenge she’s willing to meet, except--

Except that Kawata and Yamane are right beside them, stares burning into the side of Maria’s head.

“I...” Maria clears her throat, letting the motion pull her spine all the straighter. “Not anyone in particular.”

His mouth pulls tight, frustrated his little farce has been foiled. Good. Maybe now he’ll learn that silly games earn silly rewards.

“Cool.” It’s indecent the way that he pulls the word so long; insolent even. And only made worse by the wall he pulls away from the wall, one vertebra at a time. “Guess I’ll just go back in and--”

“Wait!” If she’d taken more than a moment to think, Maria would not have reached out. And if she’d done more than react out of simple panic-- well, she certainly wouldn’t have grabbed him, fingers locking tight over the pulse fluttering in his wrist. “Don’t...!”

It’s bad enough that he is staring at her, the already muddled color of his eyes made muddier with incredulity. But Kawata and Yamane--

They’re right there, watching with entirely too much interest, and-- and she doesn’t know how to do this. To put a patch over this whole debacle and slip out unscathed.

“Er...” She turns to them, stiff, her grip wrapped so tight it’s little more than bone and tendon itself. “Would you excuse us?”

Kawata’s expression hardly changes; she just darts the smallest, subtlest glance between the two of them and squeezes out, “Go ahead...”

“Yeah,” Yamane adds faintly. “Take your time...?”

*

The girls are quick to scuttle back into the classroom, but their wide-eyed glances through the door are a reminder that this is hardly a secure location. Certainly not free from prying eyes, and if the searing pressure at her back is any indication, any one of them will feel welcome to relate what happens between Kamitani and herself to the nearest willing ear. Which may, most distressingly, be Kashima’s. “Come with me.” 

It’s a pleasant surprise that he doesn’t struggle when she tugs him. She’s hardly gentle, either; panic and the threat of humiliation tightening her grip until her own fingers ache, she drags him down the hall with very little care to what obstacles might be behind her. Which there must be, it’s busy; most students in the upper school bring lunch, but there’s always a horde of boys ready to supplement their carefully crafted bento with the high-calorie offerings of the bread line.

One he might be in, if she hadn’t waylaid him. Not that the state of his stomach is precisely her top concern; she’s too busy shoving him into a stairwell to think about such petty things as physical needs. It takes climbing up one flight and down another before she’s content that there’s no malingerers, no underclassmen with big ears and bigger mouths to spread their business far and wide, and--

“You just about done?” he asks, utterly unimpressed. “I’ve got gym after this.”

Of course he has to ask her when she’s still catching her breath, winded from adrenaline and exertion. “Do you have it?”

His eyes narrow. “Have what?”

Oh, honestly. It’s not like she’s in the habit of just handing him things right and left. “You know what!”

She can practically hear the gears grinding behind that sour face; it takes entirely too long for his eyes to widen, for him to finally grasp the low hanging fruit of her meaning. “You wanted me to finish that today? Are you crazy? It’s got to be fifty pages.”

“Thirty-five,” she informs him, prim. “It’s shorter than most practice tests.”

“Yeah, but those tests are multiple choice,” he huffs. “Every one of yours is some...short answer or something!”

“Well, I’m asking for your opinion!” She tucks her arms over her chest, shoulders hiked high enough to brush her ears. “That should be easy for you, shouldn’t it? Since you love to give it entirely unprompted!”

“Me?” He straightens so quickly it’s a race to put space between them, her stepping back even as he looms. “I like to give my opinion--?”

If boys could breathe steam, Kamitani would. She can picture it, curling tendrils like smoke from a dragon’s mouth, all rushing from his nose in one great huff. That’s how he does it now, one huge exhale that seems to empty him right down to his toes.

“Fine,” he snaps, like even that’s more than he can chew. “I’ll get it done.”

Huh. Maria blinks. She hadn’t quite thought he’d give in; not that easily at least. “Tomorrow?”

He sneers. “Don’t push your luck. Soon, okay?”

Soon. Like she’s going to believe the timetable of someone who can’t move two feet to drop their underwear in the hamper. “You’re not getting my notes until you’re done.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He shoulders past her, heading toward the door. “I get it.”

*

Kamitani’s version of soon, as she suspected, doesn’t conform to any accepted definition of the word. Or at least, not unless she would like to make progress at the same rate continents separate and divide. At this rate, maybe she’ll get to have a conversation with Kashima that isn’t about schoolwork or small children by the next ice age.

Honestly, you’d think with her-- highly coveted, never shared-- notes on offer, he’d be able to answer fifty simple questions. But Tuesday blends into Wednesday, and Wednesday into Thursday, and there might just as well have not been a weekend for how little relaxation brings, since by Monday morning, she is just as tense as she was when she confronted Kamitani by the bike rack, as if she hadn’t done any work at all.

It would be one thing if he had approached her like a civilized person; Maria may be eager but she is not inflexible. If between two clubs, his schoolwork, and his homework he had needed an extension, she would have been happy to give it. But oh no, after five days of coming all the way over to 3-C only to find he’s already left-- for bread, for club duties, for a conveniently timed bathroom trip-- she’s left to conclude that this is not all just happenstance. No, Kamitani Hayato is dodging her.

Well, fine. If that’s the way he wants to play, then Maria can play too. He can keep on slipping out of every room she enters, using his club-- and the men’s facilities-- as a shield, but Maria-- Maria--

She’s memorized Kashima’s schedule. A data set that just so happened to include the days Kamitani would be at his club, if only to assure minimal interference when she did deign to come down after her own. Last thing she needed was some grumpy manchild complaining about how he didn’t like sweets when she showed up with two bins of extra desserts.

“Inomata-san!” Kashima’s eyes round when he sees her in the doorway, jumping to his feet to greet her. “I-is there something you needed?”

His gaze drops down to her hands, and, ah, yes, maybe she should have brought something. An excuse, for one.

“No.” A glance over his shoulder counts five children, as it should, and Usaida, even if he’s just napping, but-- “Are you the only one here today?”

“And Usaida,” he offers staunchly, even if the man doesn’t deserve it. It’s a point she might stick on, if she didn’t have other useless boys to account for.

Maria squints, glaring a hole through the green apron still hung on its rack. “Doesn’t the baseball club have the day off?”

“Ah, yes, it does! But Kamitani came by just a minute or two ago to tell me he wouldn’t be able to make it.” Kashima smiles, entirely too used to the habits of his fair weather coworkers. “Apparently there’s something he needs to do with the manager today. He explained it but...well, I’ve never really been all that good at sports...”

He shrugs sheepishly. An act she’d typically savor, coming from Kashima, but today, oh, today--

She’s too busy thinking, how convenient.

*

“Is that Kamitani-kun?” One of the first years-- Makino, she thinks the girl’s name is, or maybe Miura-- steps away from her station, standing on tiptoe to see over the sill. “I thought baseball club got canceled because of the rain storm last night.”

“Of course it did,” Inui sniffs loftily over her batter, too good to follow suit. Still, Maria catches her glance, that small bob up on her toes while backs are turned to take a peek. “But Summer Koshien is only months away. Even if the team doesn’t practice, he and the manager still have to come up with their strategy.”

She spares an ingratiating little smile for Maria. “He’s going to take us all the way to nationals, you know.”

A lofty goal for a boy who can’t even take his clothes all the way to the hamper. Or keep to a perfectly rational timetable.

“But isn’t...” Makino-- Miura?-- drops her voice to the precise pitch gossip travels at. “Isn’t the manager a girl?”

Another one of the first years slides between them, wide-eyed. “Oh, do you think that they might...?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Inui snaps, cheeks flushed. “You can’t possibly think he’d go after the team manager when...”

The rest of that thought catches between her teeth, ones she turns right on Maria. “I suppose if someone were his girlfriend, though, they might get nervous about something like that. You know, their boyfriend spending so much time with another girl. Especially if there wasn’t much special about them to begin with.”

It’s not until Tanaka-san murmurs under her breath, “Don’t take her bait, senpai,” that Maria realizes it’s even meant for her.

Inui simply stands there, saturated in self-satisfaction, so sure that Maria will react. That somehow, the insinuation that Kamitani has something going on inside his head besides a rotating system of baseball scores and bad attitude will send her into a tailspin. That him tolerating some girl was any of business of hers to begin with.

Quite frankly, it’s insulting. Or at least, it would be, if she wasn’t too busy being annoyed that he might have devised some legitimate reason to be unavailable. Air hisses through her teeth just thinking about it. Unbelievable. The lengths he’ll go to to avoid doing her a single favor.

At least she knows now: if she wants those lessons, she’ll have to be the one to set the syllabus. “Kaichou, could you--?”

“What do you think, Inomata-senpai?” Inui grits the words through her sunny smile, never once letting it flag. She expects the first years to giggle, to flank her as they always do, but this time they simply stare at the girl, as if drawing attention to their snide asides is somehow beyond the pale.

It’s tempting to ignore her; it’s not as if she actually cares about that poor manager being cooped up with hours of Kamitani’s irritating company. But the air stills, and she realizes that the entire club is watching their exchange, even Tanaka and Suzuki-san. For some reason, her answer matters.

So Maria lifts her chin, letting her gaze snowball into a glare as it slides down the steep slope of her nose, and says, “I think if someone has to worry about who their boyfriend is with all the time, that is either a reflection of their own insecurity or their own poor taste. Either way,” she continues, bored, “I think it’s hardly any of your business.”

Unlike Inui, Maria has no need to see a reaction, instead she simply turns on her heel and says, “Kaichou, may I ask to borrow some of your culinary expertise?”

Tanaka-san stares at her, eyes so wide it’s obvious when they slip behind her shoulder, and even more so when they snap back. “Ah...my expertise?”

“Yes.” She nods. “I’m curious about the way one would go about constructing a bento.”

*

“Inomata-senpai.” Tanaka-san’s hands tremble in the air, first toward the containers, as if she might grab them, then to her hair, as if that might soothe, before pressing them both firmly onto the lab’s countertop. “I appreciate that you came to me for this, erm, important advice, but surely...you must know how to make your own?”

“I do.” Her mother does prefer to make them-- if my mother did it for me, she says, checking her watch to make sure that she will not be late for her train, then I must do it for you-- but part of Maria’s duties have always including picking up whichever balls drop in the juggling act of between motherhood and making partner. Lunch happens to be one of the more consistent ones. “But that’s different than when you make them for someone else.”

“A-and that’s what you’d be doing?” Tanaka-san’s eyes bounce around from table to table, hardly pausing to rest. That’s what makes her a good president; even when she’s giving her attention to one club member, she’s always keeping an eye on the others. “Making it for someone else?”

A quick breath steels her spine. “Yes. Hypothetically.”

“So this is a...hypothetical situation,” Suzuki-san asks, her stool dragged close. “You would hypothetically use this information, because there isn’t someone you’re hypothetically using it for?”

“I mean that I would like to learn the basic rubric of creating a bento for another person,” she clarifies, “so that I could conceivably make a passable meal for anyone in the future, not just to please the person I would make one for right at this moment.”

Suzuki-san swings her head toward the president, weary. “I think I’m more confused now. Is there someone, or--?”

“That’s not what matters right now,” Tanaka-san declares breathlessly. “Is it? Inomata-senpai wants to know the, um, rules of making one. What other people would expect if you were to give them one. Some...common sense?”

Maria nods. “Yes, exactly. Common sense is just what I’d like. The sort of things that are considered standard. Or if there’s any, er, hidden meanings to what dishes are made.”

The last thing she needs is to find out that edamame is a signal that you’d like to be kissed, or a sweet omelet means you desire the receiver carnally, or whatever other terrible shorthand simple dishes have become in the hands of the romantically inclined. It would just be sleeve-tugging all over again.

“Hidden...?” Tanaka-san blinks. “Ah, no, it’s just usually what your boyfriend likes to eat. Or, ah, whoever you’re giving it to!”

“What if...?” It’s a struggle to keep from grimacing. “What if you don’t...know?”

Suzuki’s giggle is light, more bells than belly, and it takes the sting from her reply. “Then you ask him!”

Doing that will give her an excellent idea about what Kotaru likes in his lunches, but Kashima, well... “That won’t work. Is there anything that boys like in general?”

“Ah...” Tanaka-san flushes. “I’m not sure I’m the one to ask. I’ve only had the one boyfriend, and not for that long...”

“I made a bento once!” Inui offers. “It was pretty good.”

“Really?” Miura-- no, Makino?-- asks, curious. “I thought you said not even the babies would eat it.”

Inui deflates. “Well, sure. But it looked good, that’s all that matters.”

“No.” Suzuki’s smile is too wide when she assures her, “It definitely has to taste good.”

“Maybe you should ask someone who has made a lot of bentos,” Tanaka-san suggests. “Or, ah...has received a lot of them...?”

“Yuna-chan,” Suzuki coughs, “are you telling Inomata-senpai to ask a popular boy. A prince type or something?”

Tanaka-san claps her hands to her cheeks, shaking her head. “N-no! I mean, maybe, if she knows one--”

With a sigh, Maria feels her mood sinking straight into her stomach. “I think I just might...”

*

“Inomata-san.” There’s a distinct lack of enthusiasm in Yagi-kun’s greeting this morning, his customary smile fading to a frown as she heaves herself into the seat behind him. “Is something the ma--?”

“I think,” she says, begrudging every word, “that I might need to consult your...personal expertise.”

[sabraeal]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤️

As I said on my first fic rec post, I have written very many fics and I love almost all of them, so I can't pick FAVORITES so much as CATEGORIES, and this category is going to be "Fics Joanna Made Me Write Outside My Comfort Zone Because It's Good For Me Or Something"

Whenever I view the moon on the battlefield This was the FIRST fic I wrote outside of ANS fandom, and if that was not already out of my usual groove enough, it's also from the POV of one of the minor characters in Hakuouki, Shimada Kai. The concept was originally conceived while I was streaming a playthrough for the obiyuki discord-- Yamazaki (our best boy) and Shimada are both spies and spend quite a bit of time off screen, so we kept running into scenes and being like "how AWKWARD is it for those two to be watching this right now?" And so when it finally came time for me to throw my hat into the yamachi ring...Joanna asked for THIS to be the fic. You know. Instead of one where Yamazaki and Chizuru actually kiss or whatever. Sigh.

The Most Perverse Creature in the World Listen. I know there are people out there who LOVE xReader fics. I'm happy for you, truly. I am not one of them. But after answering the fandom fuck/marry/kill game (otherwise known as only one bed/slow burn/enemies to lovers) with small littler blurbs about the kind of story I would write for the older gentlemen in ANS (Shidan, Lata & Haruka), SOME PEOPLE got very invested in Haruka's little enemies-to-lovers blurb. Some people made puppy eyes. Some people made puppy eyes and then got very sick after, and I AM A GOOD FRIEND and wrote ONE CHAPTER and have never known a day of peace since. Six years later it's up to thirteen chapters, has a very complicated plot involving the politics of taxing oral sex, and I've learned how to effectively write in 2nd person.

don't speak boyshit I cannot properly explain how absolutely in our heads the Maria/Kamitani pairing is, but like. It's good okay?? Joanna did not so much force me to write this one so much as like...emphatically encourage its existence, to the point where I have a very complicated outline and she routinely reminds me I'll finish it when i'm like. 50. But this is certainly the gateway fic to the OTHER fics for this pairing she DOES want to twist my arm over, SO ON THE LIST IT GOES. I am one of TWO authors in this ship tag, and also one of TWO fics...and yet this is one of my most popular non-ANS fics 🤣

If the Mind Is Willing This is a fic Joanna will HAPPILY admit to being the main driver for, since, as she puts it, "there is no one else who could possibly ever write this fic." Taking TWO very niche concepts (LARP and a SURPRISE FOR LATER) and a very niche pairing (yamachi) would perhaps not have been MY first choice...but Joanna asked for the first chapter as a birthday gift a few years back and here I am, learning a whole new tabletop system and really giving my FBI agent something to talk about at the watercooler.

He Who Studies Evil Of all the niche fics Joanna has convinced me to put to paper (or at least, word document), this is probably takes the top spot. A prequel to my obiyuki Star Trek AU, this covers events about 10 years previous, with Haruka taking over DS9 and immediately being thrown into a political nightmare when he is informed that the Cardassians are in possession of a missing human child. This took...an INORDINATE amount of time to research and write-- I hadn't seen DS9 since I was in high school, and I watched through nearly half a season just to get the timeline right-- but I still REALLY love how it came out. Which is good, because it is definitely one of my least read fics 🤣

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 8

[Read on AO3]

It’s Usokawa who watches those stupid rom-coms, the ones with the hot girl-made-mousy tripping over herself to impress some j-pop idol trying to break into acting, but Kamitani is at least familiar with how this whole thing should go. A girl who weighs eighty pounds soaking wet sits on the rack, stares dreamily out over the countryside, and the boy does all the hard work. Easy.

But apparently no one’s ever bothered to give Inomata that talk. “Stop squirming, you’re not gonna fall off.”

“It’s not like there’s a seat belt back here!” she shrills, ass shifting enough to make the whole damn frame wobble. She’s lucky he’s used to Taka, otherwise they’d be sprawled out in a ditch somewhere, having some real words face-to-face. “If you take a corner too fast I’ll fly right off.”

If only. “No, you won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.” He’s half-tempted to shove her off himself if she can’t keep her butt still and her mouth shut. “The physics doesn’t work out!”

“It does,” he huffs, hating every minute of being right. “There’s centrifugal force or whatever. How gravity works.”

“Don’t you mean centripetal?” Unearned confidence, he’d call it, if she hadn’t placed first in their exams five semesters running.

It was a mistake to ever get on a moving vehicle with Inomata, let alone one where she had to be so close. The last thing she’s ever needed was an invitation to pick at him, and now he’s given her VIP seating. “I said what I said.”

She clucks, loud enough he can hear it over the click of his own gears. “Centrifugal force is fictitious. Centripetal force is what makes gravity work.”

For being wrong, she’s pretty snotty about it. But she can send as many as her little nastygrams as she likes; Kamitani’s the one in control here. All he needs to do is crash this bike, and he can end this conversation at any time. It’s nothing to just shrug it off, let her be wrong--

“You’re lucky I agreed to tutor you,” she sniffs. “You clearly need the help.”

Kamitani hauls his bike short, right in the middle of the bridge.

“What--”

“Google it.” She stares at him, jaw slack, as he shoves his phone into her hands. “I’ll wait.”

“If you think about it.” Inomata trails too close up the front walk; every few steps she jogs his elbow, and god, he’s never wanted to slam the door on someone harder. “It’s really both forces working together that make up the concept we think of as gravity.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t; a real legendary effort that keeps his hand out to let her pass through. “It’s not.”

She can’t even toe her shoes off like a normal person; oh no, Inomata sits down all primly on the lip of the genkan, knees pressed together like he cares what’s under her skirt, and gently works them off her feet. “It is.”

Kamitani doesn’t fucking care about physics, he doesn’t. And he especially doesn’t care about having a fight about terms first years should be familiar with. But he sees her stupid loafers sitting neatly in the tray next to his scuffed up sneakers, the way that old hag is always nagging them they should, and the next thing out of his mouth is, “Not unless you’re moving in a circle, or whatever.”

“A curve describes part of a circle’s circumference,” she informs him, as if he didn’t score higher than her in the general science exams. Not that he wanted to; that hag had been holding his recording of last summer’s Koshien and promised to bring it straight to the curb if he didn’t make it up on the board this year. “Which is what a turn is.”

There’s a part of him that’s tempted to prick at her-- what about when you’re at a light? Ninety degrees doesn’t describe any circle I know. He can hear her huff now, tinny in the small space, arms all folded up as if he’s the problem. I meant in motion, she would say, and he’d have to bite his cheek to keep from grinning when he clapped back with, but that’s not what you said. It’d be easy as breathing to get her all riled up, to make her stamp her foot and calling him a bull-headed idiot, and any other day he might, just to see her lose that Teacher’s Pet polish--

But it’s too weird when she’s just standing in her socks in his genkan, one toe shyly scratching at her calf. Her too-long fingers flex against her skirt like she’s some sort of character from a game without an idle animation, just hanging around waiting for player input.

“Come on,” he grumbles, putting his back to her. “This way.”

The thing about Inomata is: she’s all limb. Not in a sexy way like the girls in magazines, all long legs and wide eyes and parted lips. No, she’s lanky, with elbows and knees that by law should be registered as weapons. Kamitani’s taken one of two of them before-- by accident, she always insists, like he can’t see the gleam in her eyes-- and he’s convinced: she’s got to be some sort government project, the kind where they graft blades onto bones because one nudge from that girl could draw blood.

So when she trails him down the hall, he expects carnage; a boar let loose in a house made of paper. Broken vases, pictures hanging askew, dents in the drywall-- all of it would have surprised him less than silence. Enough that he wonders if she got lost somehow; it’s not like his house is hard to navigate, not with it’s single hallway connecting the whole downstairs, but he wouldn’t put it past her to need some gold embossed invitation just to get out of the genkan.

But there she is, just a few steps behind him, quietly padding along the hardwood in her knee socks. They’re ridiculous without her shoes on, her legs whittled down to matchsticks between the elastic around her calves and the hem at her knees. She’d look like a little kid if she wasn’t so long, made worse by the way her arms are clamped to her side, just one thin line from the floor to her head.

The old hag must have put something in his curry, since it’s not sitting so pretty now, rocking in his gut like it’s got its own tides. Hell if he knows what solar body’s causing it. It’s stupid; here’s Inomata, finally keeping her mouth shut, and he can’t even enjoy it.

“My room’s upstairs.” His arm swings out toward the staircase, and, god, he might as well step into some mascot costume and spell it out too for how cool he’s looking right now. “Over here.”

At least only Inomata’s around to see it. It’s not as if she pays attention to half of what he says anyway.

He gets one step up, glancing back to make sure she’s going to follow his lead-- last thing he needs is Inomata getting it into her head to look around or whatever-- and she’s just...staring at him. Wide-eyed, too, like he told her exams don’t matter after graduation, or that Kashima’s already had his first kiss, or--

“MOM.” Taka speeds out of the kitchen, shrieking at a decibel only dogs and big brothers can hear. There’s a plastic bag balled up in his hands, whatever’s inside lost in the mess. “MOM. You gotta open--” he skids to a stop, wide-eyed and inches away from collision-- “you’re not mom.”

“N-no.” Inomata’s shoulders roll back, her spine pulling flagpole straight, and whoever that cringing girl following him before was, she’s all gone now. Well, except for that splotchy disaster of a blush that’s still slapped across her face, turning the tips of her ears a red he could cook eggs on. “I’m definitely not.”

Taka’s got eyes so big they already eat up all the real estate on his face, but they go even bigger now, threatening to annex his forehead. “Inomata-nee-sama! Are you in my house?”

“Ah...” He watches her struggle not to look at him, to ask him to help the way he always has to when his brother gets too excited over people, like small dogs do when the front door rings. “It does look like that, er, doesn’t it?”

Taka grins so bright Kamitani nearly winces from the glare. One of his small hands seizes hers, tangling his bag between them. “Really? Kirin-chan’s going to be so jealous. Do you want to see my Ranger Five collection? I’ve got all of them, even Ranger Yellow, who has super lame powers but I felt bad leaving her--”

Kamitani flicks him on the back of the head. Not hard-- the little shit may not look like much, but Kamitani’s learned the hard way: kids his age don’t know how to hold back-- but enough to finally knock the motor out of his mouth. “Buzz off, brat. She’s not here to look at your stupid toys.”

“They’re not stupid, they’re super cool!” Taka stamps his foot too, like that helps his case. “Better than any toys in your room.”

He lets his scowl stretch into a sneer. “That’s real rich coming from the kid who’s been begging to have a turn on the playstation in there.”

“W-what? That doesn’t count!” Taka glances between them, suspicious. “You aren’t going to play on it are you? If you are, I wanna wa--”

“We’re not playing anything,” Kamitani snaps. “Go watch your Lame Five or whatever.”

“It’s Ranger Five!” His cheeks puff out, not quite as big as they used to be, but still begging to be poked. “And if you’re not playing, then what are you doing?”

“None of your business,” he grunts, unfortunately at the same time Inomata shrills out, “Studying?”

Ugh. This is what’s wrong with only children: they don’t know how to tell a kid to scram.

“Oh.” To his annoyance, Taka only looks thoughtful, shifting back and forth on his feet until he sidles up to the lowest stair. “Can I come?”

Kamitani fits his whole hand over his brother’s face, and with full feeling, shoves. “No.”

“H-hey!” Taka splutters as he pounds up the rest of the stairs, Inomata skittishly following behind him. “I’ll tell Mom!”

“Good luck,” he grunts back, shaking his head as he hits the landing. “She’s not going to be home until late, and your memory is shitty.”

“You better not play anything without me!” His shrill little voice bounces up the stairs, amplified a hundred times by the time Kamitani gets to the top, rattling his teeth in his skull. “Or you’ll be in trouble.”

He huffs as he turns the corner, muttering, “When am I not?”

“Is that something you should worry about?” Whatever spine Inomata found in front of Taka, she must have left on the stairs. She’s back to shuffling behind him, watching each door they pass as if it might leap out and bite her.

Kamitani cranes his neck over his shoulder, annoyed. “What?”

One of her skinny shoulders shrugs, a shadow beneath the surface of her shirt. “You know. Taka telling Kamitani-sensei that I was here.”

It’s no good. No matter how long he looks, he can’t figure out what’s wrong with her. Besides, well, being Inomata. “What’s wrong with that? It’s not like she’ll figure out you have a crush on Kashima from--”

“Ah! Not-- not that!” Her hands wave in front of her, like just being weird might shush him up better than acting like a functional person. “I mean that you’ll have had a girl in your room. Unsupervised!”

He blinks. “Who?”

Inomata stares right at him, putting a hand over her school tie and clearly enunciating, “Me?”

Even the old hag and her over-active imagination isn’t stupid enough to look at that regulation-length skirt and the blouse buttoned up to its last hole, bow still crisply tied even after club, and think, I bet boys want to do more than study with her. But he knows better than to say so when Inomata’s notes are on the line. “It’ll be fine.”

The noise she makes isn’t thunder, but it’s the mark of a storm moving in quick. He puts his back to her all the same, reaching for his door. “What do you mean, ‘it’s fine?’ Do you really think--?”

Inomata’s protests grind to a halt, watching with growing horror as his door swings wide and-- “You live like this?”

For a minute, he worries that Taka already got into his stuff today, the way that old hag always lets him, leaving candy smeared into his carpet and game cases strewn across the floor. But he glances in, and it looks like it always does. A little cluttered, sure, but he’s seen worse. “What?” 

“It’s a sty,” she snaps, slouch gone with a sniff. “Don’t you have a hamper? There’s clothes everywhere. How you ever have people in here is beyond me. Do you really--?”

She startles when his hand smacks the door, holding it open for her. “Get in already”

“I couldn’t possibly.”  Her scoff grates like nails on a chalkboard. “There isn’t even a place to--”

On the field, it’s a move that would have put him on the benches. But there’s no ref here, just him and Inomata, so when she sways that bare inch in front of him, her arms all crossed like the state of his room is an affront to all of Japan, he just..bumps her. A little. Enough that she stumbles, socked foot catching on a T-shirt from last weekend, gets right at the center of it all.

“Better make yourself at home.” His lips peel back from his teeth in nothing like a smile. “Because I’m sure as hell not cleaning up for you.”

“I don’t know what the big problem is,” Kamitani grumbles, plucking another t-shirt off the floor. “It’s clean. Look, you can even see the floor.”

There are bugs that have gotten friendlier expressions than the one he gets from Inomata. “You have to be kidding me. There’s a pair of day-old b-b--” her voice drops to a hiss-- “underwear right there.”

“That’s not from yesterday.” Her bumps past her-- not his fault, she’s the one standing in the middle of his room, making herself as useful as a traffic cone on the grass-- and scoops the offending article off the floor, giving it a sniff. “Yeah, that’s got to be Friday. At least.”

If that girl glared any harder, those eyes would pop right out of her head. “And you just left it there?”

“Sure.” He grabs another set of boxers, hidden by the last pair, before she can catch a glimpse. “It’s not like I was expecting anyone to invite themselves over.”

That gets a blush out of her, at least, even if it doesn’t slow her scold. “Neither do I, but I at least keep it neat! Your hamper is only two feet away, for goodness’ sake.”

He glances up at her from his crouch, and snorts, “You haven’t been in many boys’ rooms, have you?”

Scrawny shoulders hike up, a surly little picket by her ears. “Of course not.”

“Well, take it from me,” he huffs, flicking his duvet over his sheets, smoothing it out all nice. “This is about as good as it gets.”

“I doubt that.” Her head tosses, sending that haystack of hair wild, strands flying out every which way. “Kashima-kun hardly seems like the sort of person to leave his, er, unmentionables out where someone could see them.”

“Kashima doesn’t count.” He wouldn’t leave his boxers out if the headmistress might see them either. Or worse, Saikawa. “Did you come here just to nag me or what?”

She blinks. “What?”

With one last trip to the hamper, Kamitani drops into his desk chair, spread-legged and weary. “You wanted help with your boy stuff or whatever, didn’t you? So what does this whole tutor thing involve?”

For a long moment she just stares at him, lips pressed tight and toes curled into his carpet, and he thinks this is it, that she’s going to lose the courage that got her through the door and just bolt, but--

But instead, she bursts. “And just where am I supposed to sit now?”

Honestly, if it’s not one thing it’s the other with this girl. “I made my bed.”

Smoothed it out too, all nice like how the old hag nags him to do it, no bunched sheets making lumps beneath it. And yet, Inomata isn’t impressed. “I can’t sit there!”

“Why not?” His hands hook behind his head as he leans back, trying to catch something like an answer in her scowl. “You don’t think I’d actually try--?”

“Of course not,” she snorts. “But I know what boys get up to on their beds. There’s probably all sorts of...boy gunk on there.”

His sheets were washed just last week, but the way she sneers at his perfectly clean duvet makes him hold that little tidbit of information to his chest. “Are you sure you want a boyfriend?”

“What?” There’s the blush again, rising up all uneven across her face like a rash. “I didn’t say--!”

“Even Kashima’s going to have gunk.” Though it makes him feel gross thinking about it. “So if that’s a deal breaker, then maybe you should quit while you’re behind. Save us both some time.”

The glare she levels at him would make Usokawa piss himself, but Kamitani just tilts his chin; a dare. And by the puff of her cheeks, she doesn’t miss it.

“Fine.” How the word grinds out from teeth clenched so hard they creak is nothing short of a miracle. She takes one hobbling step, then another, and with a sigh nothing short of resigned, she perches herself on the corner of his comforter, legs crossed at the ankle. “There. Happy now?”

“Would have thought I’d be the one asking you that,” he grunts, bracing his hands on his knees. “After all, you’re the one with the big ideas here.”

“Excuse me?”

Her eyelashes flutter-- confused, not cute-- and his palms itch. Right at the center of them, impossible to scratch. “You’ve got something in mind, don’t you? A whole fucking binder filled with dumb ideas sorted by colored tab?”

“Ah...” That stupid flush spreads down her neck, disappearing under the stiff line of her collar. “Right, yes, of course...”

“You do, right?” Hands give way to elbows as he leans forward, curry sinking like a stone in his gut. “You’re not just going to give up your notes with no plan.”

“Of course not!” She scowls, reaching into her bag. “It’s not really a binder, not yet, but I did throw this together a day or two ago. It’s really more of a, er, thought exercise than anything else.”

He doesn’t get a good glance at it, not until she shoves it into his hands, the thin paper powdery against his fingertips. “What’s this? A...test booklet?”

“It’s just fifty of the questions I thought would be most helpful at the beginning of this project.” She strives to sound normal about it, but Kamitani catches the gleam in her eye, the victorious flush across her cheeks. This is nerd shit. “If you could just fill it out and return it to me, then I’ll be in a much better position to analyze what I need to work on and come back with a plan that--”

“You made a test? You want me to take tests?” He skims the first few pages, bile burning in his throat with every question he reads. Explain your type in ten words or less. What are the three most important criteria in a romantic partner? Describe the perfect date, using as much detail as possible. “And they’re not even multiple choice!”

Her hands wave, more cajoling than denial. “It’s not a test! It’s data collection. There’s no right or wrong answer, I just need you to answer to the best of your ability. This one isn’t going to be graded, so--”

“Graded.” He should have known better than to tangle with Inomata and tutoring. “You’re going to grade me.”

“No, no, it’s not an assessment! Or, well, it is, but it’s not about what you don’t know, but rather, what I...” Her mouth purses. “It’s just your opinions. Preliminary data so I can see where my knowledge is most insufficient. It wouldn’t really make sense if I was the one grading you, now would it?”

The booklet snaps shut-- at least, as much as the pages will let it, making more of a shush than a snap. “So I’m gonna grade you?”

“Well, er...” She squirms, his duvet dimpling beneath her, and it’s weirdly distracting, her just sitting there, thighs squeezed together. “I expect there will be a, uh, practical portion of the curriculum?”

He stares. “Practical...?”

“Yes!” Her head bobs, too enthusiastic. “Though I suppose that would have to be on a rubric. What’s measured can be improved, after all.”

“But what would I...? Her groans, rubbing at the spot that pounds between his eyebrows. “Did you want kissing lessons or something?”

Inomata’s eyes bulge. “What? No! Why would I--? With you--? Have you ever even kissed anyone?”

Kamitani doesn’t blush, he doesn’t, but the skin under his collar still burns, licking up the side of his neck to the tips of his ears. “No.”

“Then why would I ever..?” It’s terrible how her words hang, stoppered up by that suspicious squint. “Did you want there to be kissing lessons?”

“What? Hell no!” He shifts back in his seat with a grunt, crossing his arms with as much denial as he can manage. “I just asked so I could tell you it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Good.” Her mouth rucks up into a mean little knot, and god, how she ever thought anyone would want to kiss her, he’ll never know. “I wouldn’t even if you wanted to.”

“Well, I don’t, so--” he reins himself in with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So what would I be grading you on?”

“Ah...” All that confidence disappears with a cough, her shoulders inching up to her ears. “I hadn’t really thought about the specifics. But, er, I suppose whatever you’d expect a girlfriend to do...?”

Kamitani stares. “So you do want kissing?”

“No!” It’s kind of funny, the way she flushes this time. Not like her usual, all patchy and red, but an almost delicate pink, just sitting at the peak of her cheekbones. “I meant things that would be expected of someone in a relationship-- ah, besides that,” she snaps, when he fails to smother a laugh. “The sort of things that make a guy think it wouldn’t be so bad if maybe...”

Her brain must catch up to her mouth, because all at once she stops, cheeks flaring that stop-light red. “Ah...” she sighs, smothering the sound in her shoulder. “Never mind. Maybe it’s better if we just keep to--”

“Stuff that makes you attractive right?” It’s stupid, really, to feel bad for a girl like Inomata. But those big eyes of hers peek over the pickets of her shoulders, so wary of the smallest bit of help, and well-- it’s no skin off his nose to push through, to pretend like he didn’t just watch her lose every ounce of brazenness that got her this far. “Makes a guy see a girl as a woman, or whatever. Wants to bring her home to his mom and stuff.”

“I...” She clears her throat, smoothing her skirt over the spread of her thighs, right down to her knees. “Right, yeah. That. Stuff like, er...”

“Making bentos.” It’s the sort of thing Usokawa would jaw off about when he was deep into one of those stupid manga. “Going on dates. Good conversation.”

Inomata sighs, relieved. “Yes, exactly like that.”

“Good,” he grunts. “Because I can’t do anything about your rack or whatever.”

It’s weird; after all the shy shuffling she’s done this afternoon, he’s almost relieved to see her scowl. “I wasn’t going to ask you to! I’m already well-aware that I don’t really have the, um...” Inomata glances down, grimacing. “...Assets to compete on that front.”

As much as he’s tried to keep out of girl stuff, Kamitani’s heard girls talk about themselves. My butt’s too flat, my stomach’s all round, my face is so skinny, and I sat out too long this summer and now I’m all tan. It’s endless the way they edit themselves, trying to fit into some weird idea of what a guy wants-- like they don’t know they could have dog paws and three-fourths of the guys he knows would still want to hook up-- but at least they seem like they care about what they’re complaining about. Involved, even. Inomata just sounds...

Tired.

“Girls aren’t just breasts or whatever.” He doesn’t know why he says it. It’s not like he cares about Inomata’s feelings. But when she looks up at him, startled, he adds, “There’s other stuff that matters.”

Good tits help though. Not that he’ll say that, not when she’s looking at him like-- like that. Like he’s said what she needs to hear. “Oh...thanks.”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “You’ve got legs too.”

Whatever good feelings he’s earned evaporate in a groan. “You’re such a dog.”

“So? I’m seventeen.” His chin tilts back, just enough that he catches her eye. “We’re all dogs. Even Kashima.”

By the purse of her lips, she’s not precisely convinced. Fair, Kamitani’s not so sure on that either. Sure, any normal red-blooded guy his age would turn his head for any flash of girl flesh, but Kashima--

Well, Kamitani’s not really sure what his deal is, but it’s survived several cute girls throwing themselves at him, so non-existant‘s the likeliest option. Or maybe he’s just never asked the right questions, and Kashima’s a total freak. One of the reasons the kid’s so tolerable is because they never fucking talk about this stuff.

“Fine,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. What subject do you need help with the most?”

He watches her rummage through her bag, eyebrows hiked up toward his hairline. “Really? That’s it?”

“Filling out that questionnaire alone is enough work to earn a study session, and since I can’t make a lesson plan until you finish it...” She shrugs, lugging some huge binder onto her lap. “Which subject?”

He’s not convinced they’re even, but, well, it’s not his problem if she wants to grab the short end of this stick. “English.”

“Mom.” Taka says the word with as much seriousness as a six year old can muster. It still makes him sound like a muppet, especially around a mouthful of rice. “Nii-chan said my memory was shitty.”

Her hand flashes out, cuffing Kamitani on the ear; not hard enough to hurt, but he does lose the strip of meat between his chopsticks. “What’s wrong with you? I’ve told you not to talk like that.”

“I’ll talk how I want,” he grunts, fishing through his stew to find another likely piece. It’s beef tonight; he’s not about to waste it all by filling up on vegetables and rice. “Besides, his memory is shitty.”

“He does have you there.” The hag tilts her head, too thoughtful. “What were you supposed to remember, anyway?”

The little shit’s cheeks bulge out around his dinner. “I forget!”

Kamitani rolls his eyes. Typical. "You’re such a pain. Why’d you even say anything?”

“I wanted to get you in trouble,” he says like it’s obvious. Which it is; he just didn’t expect the brat to come out an admit it. Not in front of the hag, at least.

“Whatever.” He stands with a grunt, shoveling stew into his mouth. “I’m out of here.”

That old witch squints up at him, mouth already puckered around whatever excuse she’s conjured up to stop him. “Just where do you think you’re going? You haven’t even finished eating.”

“I have stuff to do.”

“More important than dinner?” One eyebrow raises, practically dripping with suspicion. “Have you been screwing around with your games again instead of doing your homework? I told you I’d put that thing on the curb if you--”

“No, it’s done.” Or at least as done as it’s gonna get, even with Inomata’s notes. But there’s an exam’s worth of useless questions burning a hole in the corner of his desk, and they’re not about to answer themselves. That girl may have told him to take his time, but he knows exactly what sort of scene will be waiting for him if he doesn’t turn them in by first period. “Just...stuff. None of your business.”

It’s a mistake; the hag straightens up all at once, a storm brewing at her brow line, and he mouth opens--

“I remember!” Taka shouts, hopping out of his seat. “Nii-chan had a girl in his room.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, at the same time his mom asks, “Hayato?”

It’s surprising, he’ll give her that, but she doesn’t need to sound so incredulous about it.

“Yeah!” The little brat sits back down, smug over the mess on his plate. “Inomata-nee-sama was here.”

She whips around to stare at him, brows hovering at her hairline. “Inomata-san?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, all casual, like it’s obvious. “We were studying.”

“You were...studying?” She settles back in her seat, too thoughtful. “I suppose that could be true...since it’s Inomata-san...”

“You told me to take exams seriously this year, didn’t you?” If he hears another word about good universities and the kind of scores it takes to get in them, it’ll be too soon. “Who else was I going to ask?”

“Honestly, I just thought you were going to blow it off again, and I’d have to listen to that ass--” she darts a glance at where Taka sits, happily anticipating the punishment his tattling had bought-- “to some people at work tell me that you would have done better if you’d been raised in a more disciplined household.”

It’s habit that makes his hands clench, skin pulling so tight against his knuckles he sees bone. The hag’s not looking, not right at him, but he shoves them in his pockets anyway. “Has he said that to you? That it’s your fault.”

“Not in so many words. But I’m sure he would, if...” Her shoulder lifts in a sad excuse for a shrug, and suddenly Kamitani’s aware why she always nags at him for doing it. It’s obnoxious. “It doesn’t matter.”

It does. Sure, he’s got complaints a kilometer long about the hag’s parenting style, but it’s a damn sight better than anything that loser could come up with. If he thinks he can get on Mom’s case just because of a few points shaved off for sloppy math, well--

“That’s not what we’re talking about.” The hag waves her hand, like that’s enough to dispell the sour specter in the room. “We’re talking about you. And Inomata-san. Studying.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Even as he says it, she leans closer, inspecting every angle of his face. “Cut that out! I told you, she just came over to lend me some notes. For English. I was having trouble with the grammar.”

Her eyes narrow, but she sits back anyway, running her gaze over him like she’d find the truth if only she could turn out his pockets.

“Fine,” she hums with a chuck of her chin. “Sounds likely enough.”

“Good.” It’s little more than a grunt. “Because that’s what happened.”

“I do have one question though.” The old hag tips forward onto her hand, mouth twitching into an all too knowing smile. “Did you keep the door open?”

[sabraeal]

3, 6, 11, 16 and 20 for the fic rec asks!

3.) 😂 A fic that made you laugh out loud

First one to come to mind is @claudeng80's Away From It All, which she wrote for the 2020/2021 winter challenge. Obi is just SUCH a disaster in the first chapter, having agreed to essentially put himself in a bottle episode with the object of his huge, life-shattering crush, and Shirayuki isn't faring much better in hers. Both their POVs are SO funny, it gets me every time (especially Shirayuki really pondering if she should let that terrible mattress Take The Wheel on this whole thing)

6.) 😊 A fic that made you smile on a bad day

I can't remember any SPECIFIC bad days but every time @codango posted a chapter of The road to Clarines is gravel it was an EVENT in the server. Fully everyone dropping everything to scream at whatever new twist had happened. I think me and Joanna spent several days after every drop speculating over what might happen next, and even if there was no outstanding crummy day to pin this on, it at least gave me a whole lot of joy.

11.) 🛳️ A fic that brought you aboard a new ship

Tension in Three Parts by negoshi26. I watched the first season of Attack on Titan right when it came out, and as much as I loved the characters, I didn't have any like...bulletproof ships out of it. Beside knowing I really just did not like either Jean or Eren for Mikasa. One of the people I followed from BSG fandom was a mod on het_reccers, which became a mainstay for finding new pairings for me, and this fic showed up on it as a rec for Levi/Mikasa. Kinda squinted a little bit over it-- I don't mind an age gap but even this one was a bit big-- but I liked both the characters, said what the heck, and then came out the other side of this one being like, OH WELL THIS IS IT FOR ME, I GUESS 🤣

16.) 💞 A fic that led to you making friends with the author

Analysand by @infinitelystrangemachinex. There were like a total of 20 fics on AO3 when I first fell into AnS fandom, and about 7 of them were obiyuki...and about three of those were Andi's fic 🤣 After I inhaled Sharon's Knots, I fell straight into Andi's fics...and I think it was this one where I was like, I cannot lurk anymore. I must come be this woman's friend. She needs someone to feed her as regularly as she is feeding me. And so then I very coolly and calmly left comments on EVERYTHING SHE HAD EVER WRITTEN, and started commenting on posts she made on the comm, and definitely made Andi worry I was going to invite her to a Secondary Location until I posted the first chapter of Seven Suitors. AND NOW WE ARE FRANDS.

20.) 💖 A drabble that made you want 100K more words

Listen there are so many but I must say that is it this drabble where Wen Ying suffers over his working dick by @bubblesthemonsterartist. If you don't know, Joanna and I have OBSESSED over this modern AU EXTENSIVELY, with absolutely no intention of ever writing it, but like. I mean I do want to read it. All of it. In my eyeballs. I KNOW THIS MEANS I WOULD HAVE TO WRITE STUFF TOO. But it would be worth it for the complicate Wen Ying dick feelings okay???

[sabraeal]

10, 19, 20, 30 :) ?

10. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

SO many of them, but I think some of my greatest joy comes from working on don't speak boyshit, simply because that is the quintessential "I wrote this fic for me and one other person" and so every bit of extra love it gets delights me to no end. There is no canon baiting for this pair. This is purely speculation and a wish to make the two grumpy ones kiss. It is one of two fics for this pair in the tag. It STILL has an improbable amount of hits AND I feel like it single handedly rehabilitated Maria's perception in the fandom. I cannot wait to get back to writing it in Feb/March.

19. Share your favorite opening line

It was on four legs that Obi had run to Sereg, and it was on four that he left it, the ever-night sky bright with its new constellations. Not the ones his mistress has taught him— the hunter with his shield and sword aloft, the vain queen turned on her head, the two plows that carving Boann’s furrow through the stars. None of those hang in this night, so new that the air still smells of smoke and steel, beeswax and lethe but a fading memory.

From A Fire's Light From Far Away.

20. Share your favorite ending line

“You?” His stomach flips, Lili’s eyes far too blue for comfort. Ah… Soowon didn’t mean to move.

From to all the ghosts still standing in this room.

30. What’s something that you want to write in 2024?

SO MANY THINGS. I'm exciting for every single one of my 1000 Followers fics, I'm planning to get back on board updating don't speak boyshit and whenever I view the moonlight, I'm really hoping to finally get to finish want your heart (to be for me). I've got something fun coming up for the Do-Si-Do that is going to be a longfic and I'd LOVE to get more done on that, plus budging the needle on literally anything else I've got to work on...I really like all the fics I write, so i'm always excited for ALL of them (until I actually have to work on them...)

2023 In Review

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 6

[Read on AO3]

There’s always been something busted between Kashima’s ears and his brain; the sort of something that turns every protest into a positive. So this time, Kamitani’s sure to say it slow:

“I’m not going to the stupid hanami.”

“But Kamitani.” He hates the way that kid tugs on his name, strumming at a pitch only guilt can hear. “We’re all supposed to meet there! Even Ebizawa-kun and Saginuma-kun are coming!”

Kashima can make all the big eyes he wants, but Kamitani wasn’t born yesterday. This is a tactical selection of friends, one that conveniently leaves off a few names. Like Usokawa. Usokawa, who has been riding his last nerve for the past week about third year and girlfriends and how one of them has to get one, just to report back about what boobs feel like. Usokawa, who is definitely going to be there anyway, because Kashima is allergic to leaving anyone off a guest list so long as he’s friendly with them.

And yet, here he is, considering caving, if only so that Kashima will stop giving him those eyes. God, if he thought one of those puppy looks was bad, two is worse. And as experienced as Kashima is looking like a someone stole his dog, Kotaro’s an expert.

He’s not some little potato-shaped runt anymore, dragging Panda-chan around behind him, but he’s still got a face that looks like he’s going through it all day, every day. So when he flips that guilt switch, eyes swallowing up his face, Kamitani’s steely will all goes to water. “But Taka-kun wants to come.”

“I do!” The little brat’s already dressed for it too, woolen cap pulled down tight around his ears, shoes tied up like he’s some sort of big kid instead of a big pain in his ass. “I want to go, ‘Nii-chan! I do, I do, I dooo!”

Summoning every scrap of magnanimity he can scrounge up, Kamitani tells him, “Tough.”

His brother’s cheeks don’t take up half his face anymore, but it’s still impossible to miss the way they go red, his stupid foot stamping on the front stoop. “You’re the worst, ‘Nii-chan! The super worst! The biggest, dumbest, stupidest--”

There’s more to this tantrum, he’s sure, but Taka shrills at a pitch that turns off the part of his brain that cares. Instead he just watches as this kid stomps around their front walk, calling him the sorts of names that would be fighting words if he was three feet tall and still wet the bed.

And that’s not the worst part. No, that would be the fact that Taka’s too big to just pick up and take away anymore. Kamitani can’t even do anything about it, he just has to just stand here and watch him being annoying.

Kashima, of course, can’t.

“Oh!” he hiccups, like Taka’s opinion means a goddamn thing. “I don’t think we need to-- it’s not necessary to ah, um--”

He turns to him like he gives a single shit about what his brother does, like it’s his job to fix this. Like being born first means that he has to suddenly make his whole life about doing shit his stupid brother wants.

Kamitani’s learned a lot these past three years, but surviving Kashima’s guilt trip isn’t one of them. With a roll of his eyes-- just so that angel doesn’t get any ideas about who’ll give him his wings or whatever-- he calls out, “Oi, Taka.”

On cue, the tears stop. His head whips around, all hopeful--

He grins. “Get over it already.”

“YOU’RE THE WORST, ‘NI-CHAN! THE BIGGEST, MEANEST--”

“Kamitani.” He doesn’t know where Kashima gets off sounding exasperated when he’s the one going around ambushing people at their houses, but here they are. “Why don’t we all go together? It’ll be fun.”

Taka turns on a pin, like he always does, and it would be easy to say yes, to just give in to another one of Kashima’s good times. Probably should too; odds are good that he’ll have something like fun, and it would make the little brat happy. Better yet, it’d shut him up too.

Instead, he glares. “Because I don’t want to.”

“Nii-chan!” All the fight goes out of the kid; there’s no more bluster, no more grandstanding, just a thin, hopeless whine. Just the way he used to when Dad wouldn’t--

He pinches the bridge of his nose, headache building behind his eyeballs. He hates this, he hates it. Why is he always the bad guy for wanting to have a life? Major League MLB isn’t going to play itself, after all. And flowers suck.

“No,” he says again, firmer, and Taka-- Taka wilts. No argument, no stomping just...goes limp, his stupid cap hanging heavy between his shoulder.

Kashima gives him The Look. The big one.

“Fine,” he grunts, rubbing at his neck. “If it means that much to you...you can go with Kashima.”

This doesn’t solve a goddamn thing, just like he thought it wouldn’t, only gives that little shit a second wind.

“I’ll tell Mom,” the ankle-biter threatens, pausing in his tantrum to shake a tiny fist at him. “We’ll see what she says, huh?”

Ugh, as if he needs more people up in his business today. The second she gets a whiff of this, she’ll be pushing him out the door, because sure, Taka’s old enough to go on his own, but that witch wants him to socialize. The way she did or whatever, so he can grow up with basic common sense, and not knock up some girl fresh out of college and divorce her for having a brain once she’s popped out his kids. Like he needs help not being...

Whatever. The problem is that the brat wants him to go, because if he had his way, he’d stick to him like Kotaro does to Kashima, and Kamitani--

Kamitani is not having that. There’s only one way to solve this: brazen it out.

“Fine, go ahead, see what I care,” he lies. “Hell, if you want, I’ll even go tell the old hag myself.”

Taka’s cheeps puff up, all indignant, like he’s got a single thing to complain about. “Fine!” he shrills, and this time it stings.  “I don’t need nii-chan anyway. I’m...I’m indemented!”

“Independent,” Kashima corrects softly, at the same time Kamitani offers, “Idiot.”

Again, he gets The Look. After he’s tried his best and everything.

“Are you really sure that you’re okay with this?” Kashima eyes him, like if he made him turn out his pockets, he might find an emotion. “I really think you’d have a good time if you just--”

“Yes.” He shoves Taka out onto the stoop, right into Kashima’s capable, if noodly, arms. “Just go already.”

“But Kamitani--!”

He takes the opportunity to end this conversation the only way he knows how: slamming the door right in Kashima’s cherubic little face. There. Now there’s nothing between him and picking the perfect team.

Kamitani’s good mood barely makes it to the stairs. Not because he’s got regrets or anything-- he does not give a flying fuck about flowers-- but he gets one foot on the first step, and it creaks loud enough to wake the fucking dead.

It’s the last thing he needs when the old hag’s got herself parked right at the kitchen table, the one that’s got a full view out to the set of stairs he’s currently failing to sneak up. The ones he’s got to get up if he’s going to shuffle through same-faced Americans to win the World Series.

By some miracle, she’s still just sitting there, attention fixed to the stack of exams in front of her, reading through the sort of essays thirteen-year-olds write. If they’re anything like the ones he wrote back then, she’s going to need her whole brain to hatchet through the poor grammar and wrong characters to find the answer underneath.

Confident, he takes his next step, this one quieter, and--

“Where’s Taka?”

She’s right at the banister, hands on her hips, glaring up at him like she wasn’t just a whole room away two seconds ago. Leave it to the old hag to use her stupid witch powers jump him.

“How should I know?” he snaps. “You won’t let me keep him on a leash.”

“He’s your brother, not a dog.” She’s right; a dog probably wouldn’t choke itself trying to slip its collar. If he tried putting one on Taka he’d be back to being an only child by Tuesday. “You really haven’t seen him?”

There’s a thread of worry hanging from her words, one he could tug just to watch her unravel. And he’s tempted, he really is, but hanging out with Kashima’s ruined him. “He went off to go watch flowers or whatever.”

Her brows raise and, oh, he’s not going to like this part, he can just tell. “And you’re still here because...?”

“Because I don’t want to go.” She glares, unimpressed, and his shoulders creeps towards his ears. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s with Kashima.”

“That’s not the point.” The hag’s mouth wrinkles, her whole face as sour and flushed as a plum. “You’re his brother, he’s your responsibility. You can’t just foist him off onto someone else because you don’t feel like it.”

God, this is the exact reason he didn’t want to talk about this. “Why not? Kashima’s a total pushover. He’s probably stuffing his face with candy and having a better time than he would with me anyway.”

It’s useless; his mom has never met a topic she cant be unreasonable about, especially when it comes to Taka. “It’s not Kashima’s job to look after your brother, its yours. It’s not fair to him that you make him deal with Taka, when--”

“Oh, so now that it’s Kashima, he’s a handful, huh?” His ears ring, and vaguely he’s aware that he’s getting loud-- no, that they are, because that’s the only way to be heard around here. But he can’t bring himself to back down, not now that he’s finally got the high ground. “I say he’s a brat, and you tell me I can deal, but Kashima--”

“Get your coat on,” she says, like this conversation is somehow over. “Don’t forget your hat.”

“I’m not wearing any hat, you old hag, because I’m not going.” He glares down his nose; a maneuver that works way better now that he’s taller. At least he got one good thing from his sperm donor. “And you can’t make me.”

This stupid hat itches. Which would be the worst thing about it, if it didn’t also look like the one Taka left in. Because that’s how he wants to arrive to this stupid thing, looking like him and that brat are a matching set, letting that mutt jump and slobber all over him in his excitement. Look, he’d shout, loud enough for people in orbit to hear, me and nii-chan are twins!

He tears the damn thing off his head. It’s got to leave his bristle all twisted and matted, some real hat hair situation, but he refuses to be twinsies with that idiot. It’s bad enough that there’s a picture of him at that age, in the very same hat, looking like they could be. One that old hag has probably showed all her coworkers enough that they would remember, that they could say with confidence, Oh, Kamitani, he really is the spitting image of you--

Wool scratches at his palm when he clenches, and he’s tempted-- so, so tempted-- just to toss the thing in the bin. He doesn’t, because wool caps don’t grow on trees, and he’s not in practice of earning lectures he can avoid, but still-- the feeling is there.

He shoves it into his pocket instead, scowling down the cobbled walkway. There’s pink everywhere, enough to make his eyes ache; not just the trees, but stalls are lined with the stuff, and some big swags of fabric sway between lamp posts. Even people wear it, like it’s not an eyesore at all. At least, his eyes are sore, itchy no matter how much he rubs them, watering every time he blinks.

God, he’s going to eat that hag for breakfast, making him come out here like this, just so she can pretend he’s having fun with guys his age or whatever. Like he doesn’t have friends he sees six days a week, whether he wants to or not. Just because he doesn’t want to spend his one day free dealing with them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. They’re just obnoxious.

Except for Kashima. He’s extra obnoxious, but in a way he can weirdly tolerate. At least, most of the time. Not today, when he’s going to show up to this hanami, and Kashima’s going to stare up at him with big eyes and say, Oh Kamitani, I knew you’d make it!

Just thinking about it makes him vomit in his mouth a little. The big deal that kid is going to make about him coming is enough to make him want to turn right back around and--

Pain blooms in his shoulder, enough to pull him up short, looking for the source. It doesn’t take long; some moron’s sprawled ass-first on the cobbles, and Kamitani doesn’t need to be in the Advanced Class to puzzle out that this idiot tried to clip him going full speed. “Oi! Watch it!”

This should be the end of the interaction. This guy pulled an asshole move and ate dirt for it; Kamitani’s said his piece. But the guy’s on hands and knees, stunned and struggling to get to his feet, and-- and Kashima’s fucking ruined him, because he lingers long enough to sigh, “You okay though?”

”Yes! Just fine!” his victim creaks out, blushing off his slacks. “Excuse me, I must not have been watching where...”

Now that he’s on his feet, Kamitani finally gets a good look at the guy and: messy red hair. Messy prep clothes. The only new thing is that he can look him straight in his shifty eyes, and he can thank his second year growth spurt for that. “Inui-senpai.”

“A-ah, Kamitani-kun.” Already he’s looking squirrelly, gaze flitting around, landing everywhere but on him. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to be here,” he huffs, arms folding over his chest. Inui flinches, shoes scuffing back a step, like he’s ready to bolt. Fine by him; last thing he needs today is this guy being weird in his general direction.

“But if you are...” His eyes dart over his shoulder, then correct to peer around his side, like he’s the sort of guy who goes around hiding shit behind his back. “Ah...say, is Kashima here with you?”

Or hiding someone. Kamitani stifles a sigh. “No.”

It’s not a lie, technically. Not that Kamitani cares. Today’s going to be obnoxious as it is, he doesn’t need senpai floating around, making things weird with Kashima.

“But will he--?”

“Hey!”

Inui-senpai jumps, nervous and twitching as a rabbit. But before he can hop off, some girl gets him by the arm, gripping hard enough to crush soda cans-- at least, by the way senpai yelps. “If I’m not allowed to go off on my own, Nii-san, then you aren’t allowed to...go...off...”

She turns to him-- she’s a little young for senpai, in Kamitani’s opinion, but this is getting less his business by the moment-- and her words trail off until there’s only a squeak.

“Mika, you’re hurting me!” Inui darts a quick glance at him. “I-I mean, you’re being annoying.”

“Ka...kami...kami....?”

With a quick yank, he pulls free, rolling his eyes. “Little siblings, am I right?”

Ah. Well that makes more sense. “Tell me about it,” Kamitani says, hoping he wouldn’t.

Inui shrugs, trying to be casually but instead just being...Inui. “Sorry to bother you. We’ll just-- Mika!”

The sister busts forward, planting herself right in front of him, fists clenched like she’s going to throw hands. “Kamitani.”

That’s my name, he means to say, because what else is there when she’s just staring like that, but then the wind blows, and-- and--

He sneezes. A loud one, right into his sleeve. Ugh, flowers are the worst.

And there’s Inui’s sister, looking like he killed her kitten or something.

“What?” he snaps, miserable. “You need something?”

Her eyes go wide, and with a squeak, she spins right around, dragging her brother away with her.

Kamitani rolls his eyes. Good to know weird is genetic.

“Kamitani!” Kashima beams, and there it is, those stupid big eyes as he toes his shoes off at the edge of the blanket. “You made it.”

The I knew you would is implied.

“The old hag made me come,” he grumbles, sinking to his knees. “I still don’t care about some stupid flowers.”

“Of course not.” Kashima says it all soothing, like he’s some baby that needs it, like he’s not fully aware how much he doesn’t even want to-- “Would you like some sakura mochi? Saikawa-san made it himself.”

Well, at least the day isn’t an entire loss. “Fine. If I have to.”

Kamitani will give him this; there may be a lot of people-- Kashima has a way of attracting a crowd-- but by the time he’s mowed through the bento Saikawa gives him, the blanket’s cleared out. Usokawa’s being stupid with some tree while Saginuma tries to impress one of the girls in their class-- the one with the side ponytail; he can’t be bothered to remember her name. Taka’s up, screaming his lungs out with the other kids as they run circles around Kashima and Usaida. Even Inomata has walked off, heading toward the treeline with a purpose-- hell if anyone knows what it is-- and he’s left with a bunch of the adults. It’s a mercy, really; not like they’ll be interest in talking--

“Ah, Kamitani.” Mamizuka beams at him, as if she hasn’t ruined his plans. “Could Shizuka not make it today?”

“No,” he grunts, shoulders hiking up, just the smallest bit. He likes Mamizuka, he does, but he knows from long experience-- when his mom’s coworkers get together, things can get...rowdy. Meddlesome. At least he doesn’t have anything they’d be interested in stirring up.

But still, she blinks at him, like he should have more to say. Like she wants a conversation.

“She’s grading,” he says, grudgingly. “A bunch of exams. Probably was slacking off after hours again.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” One of her small hands rubs over the giant bulge at her belly. “It’s such a nice day for a flower viewing.”

It’s not like Kamitani doesn’t know how small talk works. He’s suppose to agree, then she says something about the color or the wind, and he makes some observation about the temperature, and they go back and forth until one of them has to piss or dies from boredom. He just hates it, so when she gives him that polite, expectant look, he picks up another mochi and shoves it into his mouth.

It’s a mistake. One of these was fine, but now that he’s on his second, the sugar sits thick on his tongue, just as clingy as Taka at his worst. There’s no place to spit it out; he’s just got to sit there and chew, regretting his choices.

“Oh, is that Inomata?” Sawatari-san wonders, craning her neck to see over him. He doesn’t bother; he just saw her walking around, it’s pointless to watch her do it some more just to get drawn back into a conversation he doesn’t want.

Kumatsuka-sensei blinks in that slow way she has. “And a boy.”

It’s more habit than interest that gets him looking up, scanning the treeline until he sees it: Inomata bracing herself as the wind blows, petals tangling in her hair, and she’s talking to--

“Isn’t that Inui Hiroyuki?” Mamizuka murmurs thoughtfully. “I thought he graduated last year.”

“He’s been hovering around here for the last few minutes,” Kumatsuka observes in her usual monotone. “I hadn’t thought...hm...”

He doesn’t know why that heavy gaze of her falls on him, but he has a feeling it’s for the same reasons that old hag does. Well, she can look as long as she likes, he doesn’t listen to any of the gossip that flies through the halls, let alone anything from the Advanced Class.

“It is that time of year, isn’t it?” Sawatari-san giggles. “I didn’t realize Inomata had such romantic sensibilities.”

She doesn’t. He knows that for a fact; it’s the one thing about her that’s tolerable. Or at least she’s not like the other girl that keeps following Kashima around, always blushing and huffing and looking like she’s going to faint if he so much as breathes in her direction. “If she was going to do something that stupid, she would have done it last year, before Inui-senpai went to college.”

Mamizuka-sensei looks all nice, but she smiles like a steel trap. “Oh my, Kamitani. I didn’t expect you to be so interested.”

“I’m not,” he says, not even defensive or anything, but for some reason they’re all looking at him now like he’s a cell under the science lab’s microscopes. It’s going to be impossible to get any peace now.

“Kamitani--”

“I’m tired of eating,” he announces, getting to his feet. “I’m gonna go take a walk.”

The thing is: he doesn’t mean to walk over there.

It’s none of his business what Inomata is doing with Inui-senpai. Maybe if it was that Yuki girl, he’d feel some sense of responsibility-- she’s the kind of girl who needs looking after, or else she ends up taking candy from strangers. Or on a group date with some real weirdos. Got one of those faces; too pretty, too friendly.

Not matter how much the old hag tries to tell him how classic Inomata is, it doesn’t change the fact that she looks like she’s bit into a lemon on a good day. And even if he pulled her back from a cliff, she wouldn’t thank him for interfering. The last thing he needs to do is get involved, not when she’s so insistent she can handle everything herself.

But still, it’s Inui-senpai. Kashima might like him or whatever, but Kashima would adopt a man that tried to steal his wallet. Kamitani doesn’t trust the guy as far as he can throw him.

So sure, okay, maybe he just sort of floats by, just to make sure it’s all okay. Kashima likes her, and if this guy gets her back up, it’s all he’s going to hearing about it for the next week. He doesn’t mean to walk over, but if he does, it’s just to make his own life easier.

So he’s close enough to catch her say, “--like about girls,” before Inui spins on her, stepping so close she backs into the tree, shaking loose a couple petals.

“I’m so glad you asked,” he breathes, relieved, hand braced on the trunk. “I am definitely someone who likes girls. I mean, woman. I like women. B-breasts even.”

“Well,” Inomata sighs, undaunted, “that’s not very helpful for me, but--”

Inui reaches out, and it’s stupid that he’s right there, right between them, knocking it away. Some real grade A idiot stuff right there.

“Kamitani!” Inui leaps back, hand falling to his side, completely forgotten. “I didn’t realize-- is Ryuuichi with you?”

The kid looks behind him again, like he keeps Kashima in his back pocket or something. “No. Is he bothering you?” he asks Inomata, even though he full well knows the answer. It’s just something to do while she glares.

“No,” she grates out, at the same time Inui asks, “I should go say hello shouldn’t I?”

Kamitani frowns. “I don’t think he really cares.”

“Excellent idea,” Inui pushes on, not listening. “I think I will.”

He bolts, not giving either of them a backwards glance as he cuts across the lawn, beelining to Kashima.

“Well,” he grunts, “that at least takes care of--”

A long finger prods him right in the sternum, pointed enough to hurt. “What were you doing?”

“Me?” He rears back. “What were you doing?”

Inomata’s red faced, glaring up at him like him like he’s the problem. “I was having a perfectly satisfactory conversation, until someone decided to interrupt--”

“With Inui-senpai?” It’s unreal the things this girl can call reasonable with a straight face. Probably would get right into a white van if the guy inside said he had this year’s study guide. “That guy is a creeper!”

She blinks, all wide-eyed, like the idea had never occurred to her. “Well, sure,” she says with significantly less bluster than she started with. “But he was going to help me.”

Kamitani glances over his shoulder, just in time to see Kashima smile-- and Inui fail to eat a mochi without choking. “That guy?”

Inomata sniffs. “Not everyone can be good at everything.”

“Or anything,” he snorts as Inui-senpai hacks the sticky glob onto the grass.

“He was in the Advanced Class,” she insists, all imperious, like somehow being good at tests isn’t a skill that has a shelf life. “Top of his grade.”

It’s a miracle his eyes don’t roll. “For what good it’s done him.”

Inomata tosses her head, her hair falling in one big sheet over her shoulder. “Well, what I needed to know, he was an expert on. And now I’m back at square one.”

He has a hard time believing that there’s anything worth knowing that his guy could be an authority on. As far as Kamitani’s concerned, his only stand-out skill is his inability to read a room, and Inomata doesn’t need any help with that. “What did you even need him for anyway?”

Her face goes all pink, not pretty, the way the other girl’s does, but splotchy. Uneven, like she’s been laying on one side too long. “Things!”

“Things?”

It’s painful to see how red that skin can get. “You know...boy things. Like what-- what boys like. About, er. Girls.”

God, that girl cannot pick up a hint even if someone put it in her pocket. “And you went to Inui-senpai.”

“He’s a boy!” Her shoulders twitch, somewhere in the neighborhood of a shrug. “Who else could I go to?”

“Anyone,” he laughs. “Even Kashima could--”

“Not Kashima,” she blurts out, and oh, huh, he didn’t know someone could get that red and survive it.

“Why?” His head tilts. “Is it because you like him or whatever?”

“W-wh-what?” She spins away from him, hands clapped to her cheeks. “That’s not-- I’m not-- why would you say that?”

“Uh.” He stares at her. “Because it’s obvious.”

“O-oh. Oh, no.”

For ten terrible seconds, he’s terrified that Inomata is going to inflict the worst upon him: actual fucking tears. But she reigns it in, eyes still watery as she demands, “Does-- does Kashima know?”

“What? No. He’s stupid.”

“He’s not...” Her lips press together, all thoughtful. “Well, he’s very good with the children.”

That kid might be good with toddlers and their tantrums, but he couldn’t read a hint if it was up on billboard. “So all this is about what Kashima likes?”

“Well, yes.” She huffs, glaring out over the grass. “I tried to ask him myself but...”

But Kashima doesn’t even know what he likes. At least, anything that isn’t Kotaro.

“Saikawa-san told me I should ask boys around his age.” Her mouth twists. “His...friends. That maybe they could tutor me in what would be...typical. And maybe even what would be applicable to my specific area of interest.”

His eyebrows hike toward his hairline. “And you chose Inui-senpai.”

“I couldn’t think of anyone else! There’s the other boys in your class, but they’re all...”

“Idiots?” he supplies, so helpful. “Even bigger ones than senpai.”

She sighs. “Yes. That had been my assessment too.”

He shrugs. “Sucks.”

“It isn’t the most enviable of situations,” she agrees, arms folded beneath her chest. “But I’ve exhausted all my other options.”

They stand there for a moment, not looking at each other, almost...friendly. It’s weird, feeling like he’s got something in common with Inomata, even if it’s agreeing that all his friends are dumbasses. But it’s more than he usually has with anyone.

“Kamitani,” she says after a long while, voice all weird. “You’re a boy.”

“Thanks for noticing,” he snorts. Still, his eyes track over to her, curious. “What about it?”

“And you’re Kashima’s friend.” There’s a speculative light in her eyes, one that sends his stomach on a journey through his rib cage. “His best friend.”

“That’s kind of overstating it,” he says, even though it isn’t.

“If that’s the case...” Facing him head on, she doesn’t grin, but she sure comes close. “You could be my tutor.”

Well. Fuck.

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 7

[Read on AO3]

“You’re not sick.” The hag says it with authority, the kind she only has because she’s not the one whose skin is squeezing her bones like it’s last year’s uniform. “Go to school.”

Kamitani grunts, shrugging his shoulders like it might make his body sit right for once. “You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do, I’m your mother.” Everyone says he’s got his mom’s eyes, straight down to the squint, but he knows his don’t look as stupid when they roll. “You probably just have some test you don’t want to deal with. What is it? English? Japanese? Chemistry? Or are you worried about midterms already?”

“I do just fine in chemistry, no thanks to--” He grits his protest between his teeth. “Whatever. Exams aren’t for weeks yet. Can’t you see I’m actually--?”

That hag just shakes her head. “Try something else. Did you forget to do your homework? Oh, or maybe you’re avoiding some--”

“I just feel weird, all right?” he snaps, arms folding across his chest like a fence. “Like, I don’t know, all itchy or whatever.”

“Oh.” His stomach may already be a restless pot about to boil, but it flips when that woman smiles, all knowing. “I get it. This is some puberty thing--”

“I’m just sick, okay?” His face has got to be feverish enough now to make some mercury rise. “How are you so sure I’m not?”

The hag huffs, like he’s being the ridiculous one here. “Because if you were sick, you wouldn’t be down here complaining. You’d be in your room under the covers, acting like you’re going some ill antelope, wandering off from the herd to die.”

Well, he’ll give it to her, that’s a good point. “Can’t you just get a thermometer or something?”

“Fine.” She throws up her hands. “But if it’s normal, you’re going to school

Ten minutes later, he’s glaring at the tiny numbers like he could make them inch up to thirty-seven degrees from will alone. “I still feel weird.”

Mom claps him on the shoulder. “Walk it off, champ.”

That weirdness clings to him all morning, makes his tie sit too tight-- Hebihara snaps at him in the hall to straighten it, and Kamitani makes sure to shove that thing so deep in his bag it’d take a team of archaeologists to find it-- and his sweater itch. Which he could deal with; having the check engine flash every few days is pretty much his whole experience with puberty. It’s just--

“Is that the girl from the advanced class?” Saginuma leans over his desk, little shard of his chips falling from his mouth because he’s a fucking animal. “You know, what’s-her-name?”

Usokawa huffs, all nervous. “W-What’s she doing down here?”

His palms go clammy, stomach clenching in anticipation, and still, he doesn’t put it together, not until Side Ponytail stands up and calls out, “Inomata? Are you looking for someone?”

He doesn’t mean to look up. It’s just a reflex, a quick glance to figure out what Usokawa’s on about so that he can just call him an idiot and move on. But instead she’s there, idling awkwardly at the door like she doesn’t belong. Because she doesn’t.

Well, if he thought living through some mystery illness sucked, figuring it out is worse. Every nerve fires at once, trying to figure out which combination will get him out of his seat and through the door. Anything to keep him from having to talk to her again.

The other girl’s up there too now, the shorter one, giggling as she asks, “Kashima-kun, maybe?”

Kashima’s already halfway out of his seat, all curious because he’s too nice to look annoyed, and that’s when she lifts her chin, glaring out over the short girl’s shoulder. “I’m looking for Kamitani.”

Usokawa’s head whips around. “Dude,” he whispers, eyes round behind his glasses. “What did you do? Fail a test or something?”

Worse. He didn’t answer one of her questions.

“Nothing,” he mutters, getting to his feet. “Come on, Kashima, let’s go.”

The kid stares, like somehow he’s not sure how words work. “M-me? But Inomata-san’s looking for--?”

“I’m grabbing some bread.” With a huff, Kamitani grits out again, “Let’s go.”

Still, he‘s just crouched there, wasting precious seconds. “But I brought lunch--?”

“Don’t care.” He grabs Kashima’s wrist, hauling him up. Inomata may have gotten one door all cluttered up with his classmates and their questions, but there’s a second one. A fact he’s going to make good use of. “You’re coming with me.”

Kashima makes a good show of protesting, sputtering and stammering as he drags him across the classroom floor, but for all his carrying on, he doesn’t try to stop him. Not even when Kamitani jerks him over the door jamb, school shoes only missing the metal slide by inches. It’s one less sound to draw her attention, which is all he cares about.

“Kamitani,” the kid bleats out, glancing over his shoulder like he thinks any moment Inomata is going to bear down on them with the wrath of a righteous god. “I don’t see why we have to--”

“I’m hungry,” he grumbles, maneuvering Kashima in front of him. Kamitani hardly needs any help navigating the crowd-- he’s tall enough that people get out of his way without encouragement-- but the goody-goody needs to be babysat. The last thing he needs is his insurance to get a crisis of conscience right before the reckoning bears down on them. “You need a better reason?”

“But I don’t see what that has to do with me?” he yelps, eyes so wide they start eating up his eyebrows.

Too bad Kashima’s not a dog, or better yet-- a younger brother. At least then he’d do what he’s told. “I like company.”

Kashima glances back over his shoulder, brows shuffle like a deck of cards. “No, you don--”

“Hey!”

Great. Kamitani grits his teeth. Barely a meter down the hall and they’re already out of time. “C’mon, Kashima, get a move on.”

His eyes are wild, trailing over his shoudler. “But, Inomata--”

“Stop!”

Her shout’s got enough steel in it to arrest a grown man, but Kamitani hasn’t coasted through all of gakuen by doing what angry women shout at him, and he’s sure as hell isn’t about to start now. Not by listening to Inomata. He doesn’t even spare a look back, propelling Kashima down the hall with the same shove that’s tagged more runners than anyone else on the team combined. But when he goes to follow--

He pulls up short, like a dog on a leash. Inomata’s already pale, but next to the navy of his sweater her fingers are white as stripes, crushing the wool beneath them. He tugs, just a bit, to test her, but they don’t budge, not a millimeter. Damn, that’s some grip.

It’s a mistake to look up; her glare’s waiting, pinning him the way beetles are to cork board. “You can’t just avoid me because you don’t want to listen.”

Watch me doesn’t work when she’s got hands like a vise. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not just avoiding you,” he informs her, enjoying the dubious twist her mouth takes. “I’m going to get some food, and I don’t want to talk to you. It’s different.”

Inomata doesn’t have nails to speak of, but what little she has pricks through the wool. “If you would just hear me out--”

“Don’t want to.”

She snorts, just like a boar, annoyed. “I’m only asking for you to give me a minute--”

“Oi, Kashima!” he calls out, drawing wide-eyed confusion from where the crowd’s carried the kid down the hall. “Can you wait up a sec?”

Inomata’s grip tightens. He’s going to have bruises at this rate. “You wouldn’t.”

He rolls his head along his shoulders, letting his mouth twitch toward a grin. “Try me.”

“Kamitani?” Kashima stumbles against the flow, tripping over a few first-years before he finally ends up close enough to hear over the noise. “Did you need me for something?”

“Just a sec.” He stares down at her; funny how much easier it is to catch all the daggers her glare throws at him when he has the high ground. “Okay, now go ahead and say what you want to say.”

All that huffy stubbornness deflates underneath the pressure of Kashima’s polite confusion. “We’re not done talking about this,” she warns, but it’s nothing to tug away from her now, the strength gone right out of her.

“Yeah, yeah.” I have unlimited access to Kashima, his grin tells her, and by the way she pouts, Inomata receives the message loud and clear. “We’ll see.”

With a huff, she spins on her heel, storming down the hall with a much smaller wake.

Kashima struggles to stand at his shoulder, staring after her. “What was that all about?”

“Who knows,” he lies, rubbing at his wrist. “C’mon, let’s get back to class.”

“W-what?” Kashima is constitutionally incapable of glaring, but he comes close now. “But you said you had to get lunch!”

It’s easy to shrug his shoulders, to let all this roll off his back like water off a duck. “Just remembered I brought mine.”

The girls always groaned over gym second year, complaining that having it first period ruined their work or whatever, but in Kamitani’s opinion, having it straight after lunch is worse. Sure, a few of them might have smudged some make up, but he’d take that over the stomach cramp he’ll earn running the track on a full stomach.

At least the girls change earlier now, using part of the lunch period to go swap clothes in the bathrooms, rather than making all the boys wait outside while they switched clothes in the classroom. That shit used to take forever, and by the time the guys were done, it felt like they’d lost half the time on the field. Barely get through calisthenics before Mamizuka-sensei was waving them inside.

Now the only chunk out of PE is how long it takes fifteen boys to change into a t-shirt and shorts. Which should be three minutes tops, except--

“Dude,” Usokawa coughs. “What did you do?”

He’s got a whole policy about Usokawa’s bullshit: don’t fucking get involved. But he’ll admit-- once he’s got his sweater over his head, he does try to figure out what that idiot is on about. The guy’s barely got two brain cells to rub together most days, but sometimes whatever’s rattling around in there is entertaining.

It just so happens that today it’s him. At least, that’s what he assumes from the stare he’s fixed with. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“With Inomata!” the idiot hisses, just loud enough to sound like a whisper without actually being one. “She came here for you didn’t she?”

“Yeah, man! Are you in trouble or something?” Saginuma’s shirtless, the cotton rucked up in his hands ready to wear, but he pauses to lean in anyway, like they aren’t on the fucking clock. “Did you break a rule? Flunk a test?”

Kamitani glares. “I don’t flunk tests. I’m not you idiots.”

“Right, you just come close,” Usokawa allows, still wearing his stupid uniform. “Then what is it?”

He grunts, dragging his shirt over his head. “Why are you asking me? She comes here for Kashima all the time, and I don’t see you guys asking him what fucking color his underwear is.”

Kashima flushes; with his shirt off, it races right down to his chest. “Kamitani!”

“Well, yeah, but you don’t hang out with her like Kashima does.” Saginuma finally puts his shorts on, hands sitting on his hips. “So it’s weird, you know what I mean?”

“No.”

“Hey wait.” Ebizawa’s halfway through tying his sneakers and looking too thoughtful for the effort. “Didn’t you both disappear during the hanami? Kashima said he saw you walking off after her.”

Kashima holds up his hands, like that’ll keep him from glaring a hole right through his nosy face. “I just said you walked off in the same direction! Not, er...”

“Oh ho ho ho!” Great, now Usokawa got his chin pinched between his fingers, looking far too smug to survive this conversation. “Maybe Kamitani-kun is in some other kind of trouble then?”

His teeth grit around a, “What?”

“You know how it is. You meet a girl under the sakura, petals are falling around you, there’s magic in the air...” Usokawa flutters his eyelashes like he’s the one with his back to the tree. “Stuff happens...”

“Get your head out of the gutter.” he snaps, shoving his head through his shirt. “Like I’d do anything like that.”

“Yeah, c’mon,” Saginuma laughs, shaking his head. “Any other girl in our class would be happy to be cornered by Kamitani, so why the hell would he go do that with Inomata?”

The thing is: he agrees. Or well, as much as he can ever agree with something that comes out of these idiots’ mouths. He’s spent the last six years dodging confessions from nearly half the female student body because girlfriends are a fucking pain; the last thing he’d ever do is to turn around and shack up with the most annoying chick he knows.

And yet when Saginuma says it like that, like there’s something wrong with her, his hand starts to itch. The kind that makes him think that Saginuma’s smiling face looks really fucking punchable.

“You don’t need to say it like that.” Kashima’s always been the sort of kid that flaps in the breeze, couching all his confrontation in ums and ers and burying his meaning in a whine. But now he looks straight at Saginuma, inches taller than the last time the school measured. “Inomata-san is a good person. She might be a little high-strung, sure, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with her.”

No, but now Kamitani has a strong worry there’s something wrong with him. He drags a hand down his face, like somehow that might scrub the last ten minutes from his head. “Whatever, can we just go run our fucking laps now?”

Ebizawa groans. “Only you would look forward to that, Kamitani.”

He grunts, shoving on his shoes. “It’s easier than putting up with you morons.”

“Thanks for staying late, Kamitani-senpai.” Sato’s hair is too short to tie up in a ponytail-- I never liked stringing that through a cap, she huffed when the first years asked her if she’d ever grow it out-- so she just pushes a strand of it behind her ear. “I know it’s the club’s off day, but it’s a huge help to have two hands on deck for inventory.”

“We should have made the whole club hang back,” he grumbles, brushing some dust off his sleeve. He’s not sure when the last time the storage shed was cleaned out, but it certainly wasn’t by any of the captains he’d played under. “At least maybe then they’ll stop just throwing stuff in there without looking. I’m sure as hell not gonna go clean up their shit again.”

Makino-senpai would have huffed. She would have waggled a finger and told him that just because she was the club manager didn’t make her their mom either. But Sato just tilts her head back, a small hand rubbing at her chin. “That’s not a bad idea. Do you think you could bring it up to them? I would, but I feel like they might not take me seriously since I’m, you know...”

A first year, hand-picked by Makino-senpai from the middle grade’s team last fall. That should be enough clout to box the ears of these idiots, in his opinion, but, well-- he’s not stupid. The old hag might be the bane of his existence, but she hasn’t rattled on about lack of respect for having possession of two complete chromosomes for nothing.

“Yeah,” he grunts, shoving his hands in his pocket. “I can box ‘em around the ears for good measure, too.”

She laughs; the same trilling one that blonde girl does, the one in their class that’s always hanging around Kashima. “Well, sure, okay. Just don’t do that literally, senpai.”

“Don’t see why not.” He shrugs, scratching an annoyance between his shoulders. “They probably deserve it.”

“Probably.” Sato’s the kind of cute that always has half the team sighing and making eyes-- and the other half complaining that they prefer someone mature like Makino-- but when she grins, it stretches tight across her teeth, bloody-minded. “But if you do that, we’ll have a heck of a time getting to Koshien this summer with half our players benched.”

Yeah, she’ll fill Makino-senpai’s shoes just fine. “Fine,” he allows with a sniff. “I’ll let ‘em off easy.”

“Thanks. And again, I appreciate that you stayed behind.” Her shoes scuff on the sidewalk before going silent, and for the second time in as many days, his stomach drops. Sato’s a nice enough kid, he’d hate for her to ruin it by being a girl about him being decent. “Make sure you tell your girlfriend I’m sorry for keeping you.”

“Girlfriend?” He shakes his head. If this is a come on, it’s the first time he’s heard it. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh?” There’s nothing leading about that sound, only curiosity, and when he whips around she’s not looking at him. Oh no, she’s looking down, tracing the slope of the hill, right down to where it blends into the entrance, and-- “Isn’t that her standing by your bike?”

He’s not trying to be quiet, not even a little, but still that girl has the gall to startle when he grunts out, “You really don’t know when to quit do you?”

“I--!” Her back arches off the post like someone’s put a current through it before the rest of her follows, propelled forward until she scuffs up to a stop in front of him under the awning. Her mouth works, as wide and round as her stupid eyes, but all she comes up with is: “You!”

“Yeah, me.” Air hisses through his nose, but he grits his teeth before he can get any further. “Have you been waiting here since class got out?”

“Wha--? Not the whole time!” Her whole face ripens like a tomato, so quick he’s surprised she doesn’t faint from the rush. Kashima’s never mentioned what Inomata’s post-graduate plans are, but whatever it is, it better not involve lying. You know, since she’s shit at it. “I went to club.”

Kamitani’s always been tall, but that last growth spurt second year really gave him something to work with. He uses every last inch of it to loom over Inomata, folding his arms and letting his doubt fall as heavy as a piano from a window.

“I did!” she insists, defiant and squirrely all at once. “I just I told the president I had a personal issue.”

“Inomata-san skipping out on school duties.” His whistles, impressed. “Didn’t expect to see that today.”

Most girls blush all delicate, just a rosy tint on their cheeks that makes them look all cute or whatever, but Inomata approaches it the same way she does everything: head on, looking like she’s got a rash all up and down her throat. “I’m not skipping! I’m excused for personal reasons.”

He snorts. “That’s supposed to be because your grandpa died or something. Not because you’re late to being a pain in the ass.”

“M-me?” She huffs, fists on her hips as she reminds him, “You’re the one who won’t finish our conversation!”

“Uh, I did.”

“You didn’t.” She glowers, like somehow he’ll be intimidated by an ill-tempered girl. Like she hasn’t met he mom before or something. “You just laughed.”

A grin threatens to escape containment, twitching at the corner of his lips. “That seems like a pretty good answer. Especially since you wanted to ask me to give you romance advice.”

“I wanted you to tell me about boys,” she snaps, that rash reaching finger up to her cheekbones. “I don’t see why you’re being so strange about it, it’s just information. You’re already a boy, that makes you practically an expert.”

There’s something sad about Inomata trying to stroke his ego like this, like if she just greases his wheels a little he might not squeak when she pushes him. “You don’t care what boys think, you care what Kashima thinks.”

If he thought she was flushed before, she looks like she could be an entry for spontaneous combustion now. “I didn’t say that!”

"I mean, you did.” He steps closer, enjoying the way she flinches. “That’s the whole reason you even want me, right? Because I’m his friend or whatever.”

“I...” Her mouth works, trying out about half of a dozen words before she lets it snap shut, glaring at him like somehow that’s his problem.

He reaches out, grabbing his bike off the rack. “Great talk.”

“No, wait! Fine. I--” her breath hisses through her teeth-- “I did say that. About how being friends makes you a good candidate for being a tutor.”

Kamitani shrugs, stunted by the death grip he had on his handlebars. “Sucks for you then. I don’t know anything about what he likes. Frankly, I don’t think Kashima’s got a handle on it either.”

“I understand,” she blurts out, looking anywhere but at him. “I do. But even...even just regular boy stuff would be helpful. Anything, because I don’t really...um...know...about...” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Any of that...”

He shifts, annoyance dragging its nails beneath his skin. “No shit. Who would want to hang around and let you nag them?”

Kamitani has a reputation-- one he’s been building since middle school, when girls started giving him sly side-eyes and talking to his shoes instead of his face-- as a guy who doesn’t care about tender feelings. As the one who finds boxes of Valentine’s Day chocolates in his cubby and tips them in the trash. Someone who can field a confession with a simple, “Not interested.”

But sometimes, sometimes, he knows it can be too much. Back in the middle grades he tossed out a box of a dozen homemade chocolates; it wasn’t until he glanced in the bin that he saw the wrapper wasn’t from any store he knew. Freshman year he’d ragged on a batter limping to home, only for them to find the kid’s ankle swollen twice the size of a baseball back in the dugout. Only a few months after, D-- that guy left, the hag had sent him up to his room for something stupid and he’d yelled out, this is why Dad couldn’t take it anymore.

So, he doesn’t need to see behind Inomata’s fluttering hand to know what kind of expression she’s hiding. Or that once again, he’s let himself too far of the leash.

He stifles a sigh. “Fine. What do I get out of it?”

Her gaze jumps the fence of her fingers, wide and utterly blank as it fixes on him. God, this girl didn’t think about this stupid plan at all.

“As I said--” he lifts his handlebars again, trying to disengage the bike from the rack-- “great talk.”

“Wait!” Her fingers are white against his grips, bracing the bike in place. Impressive, considering that she probably doesn’t know what a free-weight is, let alone lifts them. “Study!”

He blinks. “What?”

“Study.” With a shuddering breath, she looks up at him, eyes flinty enough to start a spark. “Midterms are coming up, aren’t they? I can help you study.”

That stops him in his tracks. Inomata’s held the top spot in their class five years running, both Nezu and Yagi nipping at her heels but never landing a bite. She might not be a popular pick for slumber parties-- or parties at all, for that matter-- but around exam time there’s always some idiot that tries to tempt her into a study group, only to be met with a shoulder so cold it could freeze fire solid.

And now here she is, offering it up on a platter. Not something he can sneeze at, little as he’d like to admit it

“That’s a month away,” he reminds her, wary. “You think I want to put up with you for that long?”

“You? Put up with me?” Those eyes of hers spark, bright enough to melt this whole rack into modern art. “I’m the one who would be putting up with you. What were you on the last set of exams? Sixty-seven?”

Seventy-six, but the last thing he needs to do is help her point. “That’s just because I don’t give a shit. I could get higher if I felt like it.”

It’s not possible for steam to come out of someone’s ears, but Inomata looks like she’d love to give it a try. “What do you mean you’re not trying? Why would you purposefully--?”

“See?” This time he does grin, leaning right down into her face. Close enough that she blinks. “You already want to take up my time talking about boy shit. What makes you think I’m gonna double that time by adding studying?”

Her cheeks puff out, annoyed. “We can do both at the same time. And--” she says the word like he’s pulling teeth-- “I’ll give you my notes.”

Now that-- that’s something. He’d seen a glimpse of them before, snapped shut before he could take in more than the neat handwriting and detailed diagrams. Girl couldn’t draw a pig to save her life, and yet he’d seen jawbones with detailed articulation, and a cluster of crisp little hexagons up in one corner of the page. Color coding too, if he was to hazard a guess at the purpose of all those little tabs in her notebook.

“Never mind,” she sighs, grip loosening. “If you really don’t want to, I can’t--”

“Fine.” He jerks his thumb behind him. “Get on.”

She blinks, eyebrows rumpling right over the long slope of her nose. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it. You convinced me.” This time, it’s his chin that tosses over his shoulder. “Now come on, get going. I don’t have club but I don’t got all day for this either.”

Her eyes dart behind him, but she doesn’t move, just stands there looking confused. “Go where?”

They say people trade arithmetic for trig when it comes to learning higher functions, giving up something simple to make space for the hard stuff that comes after, and for a moment Kamitani has to wonder if Inomata’s given up her basic conversation skills to fit all that stuff she needs to be number one. “My place.”

Her eyebrows jump up, chasing her hairline. “Right now?”

“You said you’d help me study, right?” With a yank, he pulls the bike free-- both of the rack and Inomata. “Not gonna get a better time than now. Unless you’d like the old hag knowing you’re over our place, hanging out with me.”

Her mouth pulls into a grimace. “Ah, yes, well I suppose it would be best to get everything ironed out today.”

“Great.” His leg swings over the crossbar, toes scraping on the pavement. “Then get on.”

“On your bike?” She peers behind him, dubious. “There’s no room.”

“Of course there is,” he scoffs. “You’ve just got to hold my bag.”

Her eyes round, horrified. “You want me to ride on the bag rack? That’s illegal.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “We could get in trouble.”

“Sure,” he agrees. He’s never seen it happen, not in a podunk little town like this, but it could. “Are you coming or not?”

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 5

[Read on AO3]

On the morning of the hanami, Inomata Maria wakes up before her alarm.

She does not, however, get up. No morning stretches to ease the stiffness of her muscles, no hurried shuffle to the bathroom to wash the stale taste of sleep from her mouth, no frenzied ironing so her pleats sit the way they do on the academy’s brochure.

Instead dread paralyzes her, keeping her pinned to the mattress, a literal weight on her chest conjured by her anxiety to inconvenience her. All she can manage to do is curl up on her side, watching the red numbers tick by, the knot in her stomach growing heavier with every minute lost.

Precious time, the kind she should be using to study, not lay here and have an existential crisis about whether or not she can afford to give up these few hours, or if she’s just signing herself up for an afternoon of regret dogging her heels.

Guilt slithers beneath her skin, two sizes too tight. It’s not that she isn’t excited to see Yuki-- or even Kawata and Yamane, when it comes to it-- or that she doesn’t enjoy being with them. It’s only-- only--

Three years isn’t enough time for Maria to believe she’s not just the girl at the birthday party only because it's rude not to invite the whole class. Rationally, she knows that’s not true, that she’s not just some awkward pet Yuki’s adopted and the other two simply tolerate, but still-- the worry’s there, just out of sight, lurking in the shadows of every good time. It’s exhausting to think about how it may never leave.

Her alarm saves her from further contemplation, habit and reflex driving her to her feet before dread can pull her back under again. And once she’s upright, it’s easy to move forward, to pretend that she’s too not weird to have friends and not too simpleminded to skip studying.

That is, of course, until she gets to her closet.

Maria does not own enough clothes to be daunted-- at least, clothes that aren’t the academy’s uniform, neatly pressed and hung on their hangers, a skirt and blouse for each day-- but even still, she hesitates, taking in the pinks and browns and--

Do you wear cute things out of school?

Her hand clenches around the door. Her clothes had seemed just fine yesterday, serviceable even, but now-- now she’s squinting at each piece, wondering just how short this falls of those glossy cover expectations. Would those girls with their glowing skin and perfect hair pick out the same pieces, or would they pass them right by in the window? She’d always thought it enough to pick girlish colors-- rose and lavender and daisy yellows, blues that could be described in terms of babies-- but it can’t be, not when so many other girls are thinking about lip gloss and mascara and hemlines.

Maria isn’t made for this sort of thing. Perhaps Kawata or Yamane-- or Inui Mika-- would stand in front of their closet, debating the merits of a coffee A-line or a slate box-pleat, but Maria just blindly reaches into her closet, grabbing the first skirt and blouse she sees. There’s no point after all; it’s not as if Kashima is going to see her.

One quick glance in the mirror makes her blanch, bloodless above an eggshell collar. The shades might be a bit off, but-- button-up blouse, straight skirt. All she’s missing is the bow and blazer. “I look like I’m going to class.”

Kawata has a point; Maria’s clothes may or may not be cute, but she’s certainly not dressing like she’s out of school.

“Maybe,” she mutters, manhandling buttons out through their holes, “today calls for something a little different.”

It’s a dress that she settles on in the end, a pale rose that makes her look even paler above it, like she’s made of porcelain than flesh. An effect adults have always told her was sweet, but maybe-- maybe it’s too much. Maybe she’s too pale, and pink is too obvious a color for a hanami. There’s small flowers printed across it too, not sakura but close, and--

And she needs to stop thinking about this. Sure, the skirt falls a little too close to the knee, and the cut is certainly more academic than trendy, but at least it reads teacher rather than student.

Maria curls her toes around the edge of the landing, floorboards creaking under her indecision. It’s what she’s wearing. She just needs to accept it. Move forward.

“Maria?” Mother’s voice hugs the corner of the kitchen, stealing up the stairwell. “Come down and set the table.

Good thing there’s always something she’s supposed to be doing. “I'll be right there.”

A restlessness races through her legs, urging her to take the stairs two at a time, to skip down them-- anything to burn off that tremble coursing through her. But Maria is nothing if not an expert on nervous energy; she restrains herself to a sedate pace, entering the kitchen like it’s simply a normal Sunday, and this the most normal of breakfasts.

Mother’s fussing with an omelet, urging the egg into a roll with one hand while the other jostles the pan, hissing under her breath. For a moment, it is so normal, so utterly mundane, that Maria forgets there’s anything to be worried about at all besides setting out the right bowls.

That is until Mother says, gaze not moving an inch from the pan, “You look nice. Is that for the hanami?”

She smooths her palms over the stiff cotton, jasmine blossoming between her fingers. “It...It is.”

With one last flip, Mother turns, prodding the omelet out onto the cutting board. Maria expects her to reach for a knife, painstakingly marking the roll into even parts before she commits to a cut. But instead Mother stops, eyes scrolling over her with an intensity that makes her wonder if her hemline is long enough. “You said you were just meeting your friends there, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes.” She bustles over to where the bowls are stacked, fingers fitting into their grooved sides. As long as she’s moving with purpose, it’s easy to maintain control. “Yuki is the one handling the arrangements, but she did say both Yamane and Kawata would be coming.”

About the boys, she’d heard nothing at all. It’s a relief; the last thing she wanted was to spend her whole afternoon muddling through a conversation with some random boy from 3-C. It might disappoint Yuki, but Maria knows: they’ll have a much better time with just the four of them. After all, anything’s better than watching their dates all clamor for Yuki’s undivided attention.

And yet, Yamane and Kawata looked forward to it. Were eager to go, as if the discards were all they could aspire to. Is that what she’ll be left with when the dust settles and there’s a degree in her hand: some more perfect girl’s leftovers?

Maria coughs, trying to clear her throat of the nerves creeping into it. “Can I ask you something?”

The knife clacks as it hits the cutting board, too loud in the kitchen’s quiet. “Of course,” Mother says. “You can ask me anything. You know that.”

It’s a testament to her mother’s efficiency that she can pack so much disappointment into only three words. Maria’s teeth ache from biting back an apology that’s all reflex and no remorse.

Instead, she funnels all that uncontrollable urge into blurting out, “How did you meet Dad?”

Mother’s eyes narrow over the chopping block, head taking a sharp, curious tilt. “What’s brought this about?”

It’s impressive how much accusation she can fit into a simple question. “I was just wondering. I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

“You’ve never been interested before. Maria--” Mother’s gaze catches hers, as firm as a touch, holding her attention hostage for good behavior-- “are you going to meet boys today?”

She says boys the way other people might say venereal diseases: with the unspoken implication that they went unwanted and avoided by the virtuous.

“No! No.” Maria shakes her head hard enough the bowls nearly slip from her fingers. “Why would we want to invite them?”

Kashima might be tolerable, but the rest of her year-- well, at least an infection would go away if she found herself with one. She’s not so sure she could say the same for Ebizawa or Saginuma. It was hard enough keeping Yagi out of her business, let alone someone who might see talking as interest.

“I remember being your age.” It’s impossible to imagine; there are pictures enough of her mother in gakuen, her blazer smart and shirt pressed, every pleat on her skirt falling in line. But still she can only see her as she is now, scowling and stern as sakura petals fall around her. “Your studies come first, Maria. Boys are something you can worry about after college.”

“I-I know that.” Guilt gnaws at her stomach, twisting in knots to get away from its teeth. “There’s no plans to meet any boys.”

Anymore, at least. But Mother doesn’t need to know that, not when she’s already nodding. “Good. You’ve worked so hard already. It would be a shame for you to throw it all away now for some...distraction.”

Right, because that’s what a boyfriend would be. One that might keep her from getting into her top choice if she slipped on her studying. A perverse impulse urges her to protest, to say that if it were Kashima, it would be different. He’s a balm to her nerves, not a block to her focus, someone who makes her calmer, softer-- a better person.

But what point was there? She’s spent too many hours already on trying to understand what he wanted, what could make him need her as much as she needed him, and the results have been clear: no matter what she does, she’ll never have a chance.

“I know,” she murmurs, bowl striking the tabletop with a clack. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Good.” Mother reaches out, fingers brushing through her hair. “I knew I could count on you.”

Punctuality, Father was so fond of hearing himself say, is a journey that starts by arriving early.

It’s an adage that has seen Maria through aced exams and disappointing piano recitals, through family photos and an exceptionally disastrous semester of ballet. But now, now--

Every second of it feels like a mistake.

They are supposed to meet at eleven. At least, that’s the time Yuki’s email stated as of last night; Maria had gone over it at least a dozen times, just to make sure, even looking at maps of the park to pinpoint their exact meeting location. Fifteen minutes early is the minimum requirement for on-time-- at least according to Father-- but she adds another ten for a potentially missed bus, and another five for finding the specific spot by the canal she’s supposed to wait. Which leaves her an entire twenty minutes to stand around, looking completely friendless, a sad sack that every passerby would look on with pity--

“Inomata-san!”

Ah, she can tell herself it’s useless, that this time, this time she’ll finally see her way past this crush on Kashima, but the moment she hears her name, her heart is racing again like it never stopped.

Maria turns her chin past her shoulder, and-- and there he is, raising an arm with his wide, boyish smile. “Over here, Inomata-san!”

Her foot scuffs, angling her right toward him like an arrow to a target, all quivering eagerness to fly. But she catches herself, drawing up short before she can take a step further, hands clenched at her sides. It’s not his email that’s in her phone now asking her to wait. It’s not him who smiled up at her yesterday, saying so sweetly, you’re coming, aren’t you, Maria-chan? Her heart might wish different, but she’s not here for Kashima.

“I’m sorry,” she calls across the path, toes curling in her shoes to keep them planted there. “It’s nice to see you, but I’ve already made plans with--”

“Ushimaru-san?” Kashima’s smile is already too much at the best of times, but now it widens, actual joy seeping out its edges, and she-- she ducks behind her scarf, cheeks blazing. “I know. She sent me an email last night about meeting today.”

“O-oh.” Yuki’s smile takes on a different edge in her memory, a sly one. You’re sure you’ll come, Maria-chan? You’re sure you’re sure? “I hadn’t-- I didn’t know--”

Kashima stares up at her, eyes too wide for anything but innocence. “She said she would send you the change in plans.”

“Did she? I looked last night and--”

And there it is, right on her screen when it flips open. 1 UNREAD MESSAGE FROM YUKI-CHAN. “Ah.”

Her lips press tight as she opens it, as she reads, Kashima-kun said that we could join his group today. You can thank me later

A winky face stares up at her, its one colon eye accusing, as if even unseeing, it can sense the depths of her depravity. “Oh,” she manages through her teeth. “I see it now. How--” she blinks-- “wait, your group?”

“Ah.” Kashima rubs at the back of his neck, skin blossoming with a flush more delicate than any petal. “Yes, well, I had already invited--”

“’Nii-chan!” Kotaro races to the edge of the blanket, stopping just short before he slowly, gently puts a foot on it. “I caught a flower!”

“Haah.” Embarrassment leaks so heavily from Kashima’s smile that she’s almost mortified for him. “Good job, Kotaro! I was just telling Inomata-san--”

“Welcome, Inomata-sama.” Saikawa kneels down behind Kotaro, head bowed in deference. “I am happy to hear you will be joining us today. Please do partake in the bentos I have packed for Ryuuichi-sama and Kotaro-sama’s friends.”

Inomata blinks. “Kashima...and...friends...?”

“Ah, that’s what I’ve been trying to say,” Kashima admits. “I invited the babysitter club.“

Now that she’s looking, it’s obvious: Kashima’s blanket is less a blanket and more like the bottom of a pavilion, spread wide over the grass between the trees. Far too big for a group date-- though a lunch provided by Saikawa might test that theory-- but just the right size for the club, plus a few extra.

“Ah, Inomata-san, please, sit down.” Kashima sweeps a hand out, cheeks still a humiliated pink. “We have plenty of room.”

Even with the invitation, it’s with colt legs that Maria hobbles over to it, unsteady and unsure. The moment her soles touch the fabric, she braces to slip; that would be her luck after all, to get a chance to impress Kashima all on her own, and waste it by falling over like some idiot. Still, she keeps her balance just fine, dropping to her knees with all the grace of a pig in a trough.

When she dares to look at Kashima, she expects to see a grimace, or maybe a squirming level of discomfort, something to remind her that he’s just being nice, that if he had his choice, he would have left her off his list entirely.

But instead he smiles, eyes crinkling earnestly as he says, “I’m glad you could make it, Inomata-san.”

“Tch.” She turns her head away, cheeks burning. “I was only coming to meet Yuki-chan.”

“Ah! Of course.” His hands wave nervously between them. “I wasn’t trying to say that you were...um...hm...” He clears his throat. “It’s very kind of you to keep your plans with Ushimaru-san, even if they aren’t...quite what you agreed to.”

Someone with charm might tell him, but these ones are even better. Someone like Yuki, who could make anything a compliment with her sweet voice. Maria, on the other hand, only manages, “Well, I wasn’t just going to leave! That would be rude.”

“I know, I know.” Now he does grimace, chagrined. “I wasn’t trying to make fun of you, Inomata-san. I just wanted to thank you for being such a good friend.”

“Oh.” Her forehead feels like it’s on fire; maybe she’s getting a cold. “That’s fine then. And, er, even if she told me about our change in plans earlier, it would have been fine. You’re an all right person to spend time with.”

“Oh.” His smile widens, so bright she can hardly bear to look. “That’s nice of you to say.”

I mean every word. That’s what she should say, what burns on the edge of her tongue, begging, to fall out, but--

“High praise from someone as discerning as you, Inomata-sama.” She nearly jumps as Saikawa leans in with a much milder expression, though just as pleased. “Perhaps you might like a bento now that you have been seated. I made three different kinds, the first--”

“There’s sakura mochi too!” Taka chimes in, spilling into her lap. His grin is toothy and pink-- the same pink that’s smeared all over his mouth and chin too. “It’s really good.”

She blinks, mouth working for a moment before she manages, “You’re here too?”

“Of course I am,” he says proudly, slapping a hand over his chest. “I’m an honor-- honolary-- horrorary--”

“Honorary,” Kashima supplies with his usual patience, and it’s not until then that Maria realizes that she was waiting for a don’t hurt yourself, stupid instead.

“Honorary member,” Taka finishes, right as she asks, “On your own?”

His cheeks puff, petulance giving them the same dimensions they had only a year or two ago. “Mom’s busy, and Nii-chan’s not coming. He says all this pink stuff gives him a headache or whatever.”

A ridiculous excuse, one she should expect from a layabout like him, but-- but she also remembers the clump of blossoms during the ceremony, falling with an unceremonious fwump on his lap. And the way he’d sneezed, violent enough to make Kotaro’s eyes water.

Ha. Now that would be a funny little twist on Inui Mika’s romantic plans. Her stretching up, right on the tip-toes of her Oxfords, leaning in to breathe, take care of me-- and Kamitani sneezing right in her face.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Taka asks, suspicious. “You aren’t looking for my brother, are you?”

“What?” she squawks, smile squashed. “No. Of course not. It’s just-- he’s usually not far from where you are. Glowering.”

“Inomata-neesama,” Taka says, so serious, so dire. “Are you guys gonna get along?”

She gasps. “Absolutely not!”

Kashima leans over, interest bright in his eyes. “Oh my! Have you and Kamitani finally warmed up to each other, Inomata-san?”

This is the last thing she needs. “I would never--”

“I caught them talking during storytime a couple weeks ago,” Taka offers, “but Nii-chan told me to mind my own business.”

Kashima’s eyes widen. “Really?”

Maria can’t just clap a hand over Taka’s mouth, but she can’t let him keep talking. Not when he’s liable to tell Kashima everything, beskirted fish and all. She needs to find some other way, something to distract rather than neutralize.

“Yeah, and they--”

Or at least something that might keep his mouth too busy to talk.

“Hey, Taka-kun.” It’s too loud, the way she speaks, too bubbly. Too much like Yuki-chan and not enough like her. “Do you want another mochi?”

But it works. Taka swings toward her without a moment’s hesitation. “Oh yeah, gimme it!”

“Here,” she says, moving the tray toward him with a beatific smile. “Enjoy.”

In no time at all, the blanket goes from nearly empty to utterly crowded, Maria pressing shoulders with Kumatsuka-sensei on one side and Mamizuka on the other. Yuki arrives not long after the teachers do, Kawata and Yamane in tow. Maria gets to her feet, meaning to drop down next to her-- this was, after all, supposed to be an outing between the four of them-- but Yuki stares at her like she’s grown an extra head.

“Maria-chan,” she gasps, wide-eyed. “What are you doing?”

Maria blinks, half-crouched. “I was just coming to say hello...?”

Yuki stares at her, uncomprehending. “You were sitting down right next to him!”

“W-who--?”

“Kashima-kun!” Yuki hisses, her hands making stressed starburst by her cheeks. “You need to get back there before he follows you!”

“But--”

“Maria-chan.” Warm hands clasp around her own, squeezing tight. “This is your chance to talk with him outside of school. Don’t let it get away!”

She jolts up, nearly dragging Yuki with her. “I-- I won’t. I’ll do my best!”

Maria strides back to her place on the blanket, facing Kashima with a level of determination she typically saves for exams. Guilt tries to grab at her as she watches him, Mother’s voice echoing in her ears-- you aren’t going to be meeting any boys today are you?--

But it finds no purchase. It’s not as if she planned to see Kashima. And even if she had, there was hardly a chance anything more than simply talking would occur. There were teachers here, after all. “Kashima--”

“Oh, look!” He blinks, craning his neck to see down the blanket. “The guys from 3-C are here. I should probably go say hi.” He flashes her an apologetic smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Her jaw drops. “But--”

It’s no use; he stands, making his way down to the other end of the blanket, mouth spread just as wide when he greets his friends as when he greeted her. Nothing special, just-- Kashima being Kashima, as always. And her always hoping there’s more to it.

“Ah, good, he’s finally gone.” Sawatari-san leans in, eagerly clasping her hands. “Now we can talk to you, Inomata-san.”

Maria blinks. “Eh?”

“Shizuka told us all about your troubles, Maria-chan.” Mamizuka’s mouth pulls far too wide when she smiles at her, elbow prodding her side. “Your boy problems.”

To think, when Sensei had pulled her aside, she’d worried about her letting her secrets slip to Kamitani. This is far worse. “I don’t have any--”

Two cold hands grasp her shoulders, stilling her words right in her mouth. “It’s all right, Inomata-san,” Kumatsuka-sensei tells her, expression disturbingly mild. “We’ve all been through the same thing. You can trust us to give you a sympathetic ear.”

“And good advice.” Mamizuka gives her a terrible, salacious wink. “You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Oh, yes.” Sawatari nods, smile warm. “Anything you need, Inomata-san, we’re here for you.”

For a moment, Maria is tempted. As confusing as Kamitani-sensei’s ‘advice’ was, it at least came from experience. And three happily married women must have even more; maybe even a surefire way that she could get Kashima to--

“Oh, sorry.” Kashima smiles brightly as he kneels down; an expression that dims when he earns a glare from each teacher in turn. “I-I didn’t mean to interrupt anything...?”

Mamizuka’s voice is too high-pitched for a growl, but she sounds like she might give it a go anyway. “You are.”

“We were having a conversation with Inomata-san,” Kumatsuka informs him, mild and yet somehow more threatening than a shout. “An important one.”

“O-oh?” His mouth tries a tremulous curve. “What about?”

With the utmost calm and composure, Maria presses her palms flat to her lap and yelps, “It’s none of your business!”

“Inomata-sama.”

The blanket is empty, the others up and wandering after the children, laughing as the petals fall around them. But Saikawa-- Saikawa is somehow at her elbow, looking as grave as always. “You’re enjoying the bento I prepared?”

“Ah, yes.” She wipes at her mouth. “It’s--” excellent-- “very good.”

He nods, pleased. With confident hesitation, he says, “Inomata-sama, I am not sure how to bring this up, but it is my understanding that you are learning about love.”

She stares, her whole face hot. “I-- I haven’t-- who--?”

“I myself have never experienced such a magnificent phenomenon,” he continues, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “But once, in my youth, while I was visiting my grandmother in the Alps--”

It would be unconscionably rude to interrupt him. Maria knows that, she really does; if Mother ever found out, she would send her right to her room for her lack of manners. But she won’t, and if there is another thing Maria knows, it’s that she won’t survive a story as long as this, not when she’ll be on alert, wondering when Kashima will wander back with Kotaro. If he hears even a words of this, she-- she--

“I’m not learning about love,” she blurts out, too loud, but it does the job-- Saikawa halts mid-word, attention fixing on her. “I just want to get a boy to like me.”

He blinks, not in confusion like most people, but like a breath. A way for whatever passes for a brain inside that head of his to switch gears. “Well, there are many who have dedicated their lives to the idea of being desired, Inomata-sama. I shouldn’t think it would be hard for a young woman like yourself to find some young man who would--”

“I mean a, er, specific boy,” she clarifies. “Not just anyone.”

“Oh.” He sits back on his heels. “That seems much more simple, then. I would be best to ask him about his preferences. Once, Ryuuichi-sama tried to make a meal for me to express his gratitude, and he--”

“I’ve tried,” she hurries to inform him, trying to divert his story before it can start. “Sort of. But he just told me things that--” she can’t say brother, not to Saikawa, not when it would make it obvious-- “um, other people like.”

“Ah.” He nods, knowing. “I understand. It is hard for us to know our own hearts.”

“Sure,” she agrees. “But this is, uh, more than usual.”

His eyes round. “Oh, I see. He must be the sort who takes care of others before himself. A very noble young man. You have exceptional taste.”

“I know.” It’s nice to hear it, though she’d die before admitting it. “I’ve already tried studying to understand him, and I’ve had mentorship, er, thrust upon me.”

“To no avail?”

“No.” Her shoulders sag with a sigh. “I’m not sure what else I can do.”

“That does sound wearying.” Maria’s surprised to find that it is, that now that Saikawa’s mentioned it, she’s tired, the way she is after an exam. Wrung out, even. “Have you tried...? No, never mind.”

Her spine straightens, gaze fixing to him like a crow to a call. “What? What is it?”

“This may seem obvious, I suppose, but...” He glances down at her, oddly curious. “Have you tried asking one of his compatriots?”

She stares at him, unblinking. “You mean, one of his friends?”

Saikawa nods. “Yes, someone his age. Someone who is both better acquainted with the desires of youth, and able to speak with some authority about the subject itself. Or rather, himself. A...tutor, one might say.”

“A tutor.” She settles back onto her heels, mulling over the prospect. It’s certainly not a bad idea-- at least, better than anything else she’s heard-- but still... “Who?”

He blinks. “I couldn’t possibly speculate. It would be very individual to your person of interest. If you were to tell me, however--”

“That won’t be necessary.” Kashima, after all, has a lot of friends, a good number of them boys in their year. The ones in 3-C, for one, who are only a few steps away--

And one of them-- the one with glasses-- is trying to use his shoe to knock petals from the tree. I need it for my profile picture, she hears him shout, much to the amusement of his friends. Girls love when there’s flowers and stuff.

Right, there’s a reason these boys aren’t in the advanced class. And if the way the other two are shooting furtive, hopeful looks at Yuki is any indication, talking to them might read as interest rather than research. A request for tutoring might as well be a date.

The boys in her class are no use either; Yagi’s a pervert-- or the next best thing to one-- and Nezu’s advice has already failed her. But there’s not one else, not unless--

“Inomata-sama,” Saikawa says, his tone curious. “Is that someone lurking behind that cherry tree?”

She blinks, letting her eyes readjust to the distance. it takes a minute-- there’s petals everywhere, drawing her eye, but once she ignores them, she sees...red.

Ah. How...convenient.

“There is,” she says, mouth pulling into a smile. Saikawa makes to rise, but she holds out a hand, already on her feet. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle this. It’s just our old senpai, after all.”

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 4

[Read on AO3]

The name of her ‘rival’ is Inui Mika. Maria knows this for certain, since the girl is kind enough to announce it to the whole club three days after she flounces out.

The girl trembles with feeling the whole time, like one of those small, quivering purse-dogs dressed in the academy’s uniform. It might have even moved Maria to pity, if she hadn’t followed it up with a smug, “And you can’t intimidate me, Inomata-senpai.”

Her friends flank her, their skirts rolled up to the same precise height, accessories all matching hues of pastel. Their glares comes in a set too, grim from behind Inui’s narrow shoulders, and-- and it’s unfair. Maria only has Tanaka-san; Tanaka-san who is paused mid-scoop, valiantly attempting not to have any expression at all.

“I’m glad that you’ve decided to come back, Mika-chan,” she says finally, smile describing the most perfect, friendly parabola. “But I’m sure Inomata-san didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome.”

There’s a heavy pause, the sort that implies a line has been missed in this act of social politeness. Maria chances a glance at Tanaka-san to see her already staring back, eyebrows pitched so far up her forehead they’re in danger of tangling in her hairline.

Oh, it’s her. She’s the one missing her cue.

“Of course not,” she blurts out brusquely. “I don’t care who joins the club. Just as long as they do the work.”

Inui lifts her pointed chin, drawing herself up like with enough willpower, she’ll find the six inches it’d take to look down on her. “I’ll do it even better than you do.”

Maria has her doubts; even if she’s not gifted with culinary talent, she at least has a persistence that makes up for it, a stick-to-itiveness that produces something edible at least three times out of four. Unless declaring formal rivalries and devising unnecessary confrontations is what’s needed to become a successful chef, Inui Mika will soon go the way of last meeting’s dropouts: to the Literature Club.

“That’s the spirit,” Tanaka-san manages with muted enthusiasm. “Please pick a bench, we’ll be around to drop off these trays shortly.”

“I’d love to,” she says, her sweet tone hardly hiding the nasty one beneath it. “Can’t wait to get started, senpai.”

Girls like Inui Mika don’t walk so much as flounce to their destination, taking every step with a purposefully cuteness, designed to draw the eye. Maria doesn’t mean to watch-- she’s busy enough parceling corn out into little muffin cups, she doesn’t need to participate in this girl making herself ridiculous-- but she can’t help herself; she takes one glance over her shoulder and Inui’s haughty glare is waiting, echoed in the dire ones her shadows spear her with.

Tanaka-san’s shoulder nudges into hers. “Is there something I should know?”

Ah, so now not only must she suffer Inui’s bad behavior, but she’ll be blamed for it too. “No.”

The answer comes too quick; Tanaka quirks a brow, more insistent. “If this is going to be a problem, I’d like to know now.”

She’s too kind to say, for the club, but Maria can hear those words loud and clear. It would be best to stay calm, to be collected if she means to correct Tanaka-san’s assumptions, but by the time she opens her mouth, her shoulders have edged up to pickets, like that could keep people off her lawn and out of her business.

If the past three years have taught her anything, it’s that Keep Out signs only make people look closer. “I only met her a few days ago at the opening ceremony. If you want to know why she’s singled me out, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her.”

That should be the end of it. Maria’s said her piece, she’s put the ball in Inui’s court to explain herself, but instead-- instead Tanaka-san settles back on her heels, fixing her with a look that would turn out her pockets and rifle through the contents. Or at least it would, if their uniform had any.

“Inomata-san,” she says, tone utterly restrained. “Is this about a boy?”

There’s no thought in her head, but still her mouth manages, “I should hope not!”

Tanaka-san deflates, shaking her head. “Of course not, what was I thinking? Here--” she pushes a finished tray into her hands, nodding her chin toward the crowded benches behind her-- “start passing these out to the girls. If we want to finish on time, we should start walking them through it now.”

There’s almost certainly too many to go around; the daifuku did its job last meeting and sent some of the less sincere applications scattering. As alluring as boyfriend bentos and cute cakes seemed in abstract, few were actually willing to crack the eggs-- and risk the manicures-- to get them. But the ones that remain are serious, or at least seriously hungry, eagerly descending on the ingredients as soon as Maria sets them on the bench top.

It’s promising. The Home Ec Club has been a mainstay since the academy first allowed young women through its doors, never in danger of losing its charter or its lab, but still-- it’s better to see it thrive, to see a new crop of students discovering the joys of creation and discovering how raw ingredients can combine and change to make something entirely new. It’s almost enough to make her wonder--

“We’re going this weekend.”

Inui’s voice squeaks at the precise pitch that makes thought impossible; it takes all of Maria’s willpower not to scowl when she sets the tray at her table. The girl only grins, shifting at snooty little glance her way when she adds, “Cherry blossoms are so romantic, don’t you think? It’s the perfect place for a confession.”

It’s rude to roll her eyes, but Maria is sorely tempted. This girl might as well be a character from Yuki’s manga, existing only to clasp her hands and swoon straight into the too-long arms of the nearest floppy-haired boy. Her friends aren’t much better, simpering and sighing at the idea of sakura and soppy love confessions, but that’s all...age appropriate, probably. Those stories are written for high school girls; it only makes sense that they think it’s the pinnacle of romance.

Maria doesn’t remember Yuki or Kawata or even Yamane being quite so hopeless then, but, well, maybe she’s just forgotten. She’d want to, if they were.

“I’m going with my family,” Inui continues needlessly, dropping a few corn kernels into her batter. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t meet someone there too. If I slipped out, I could ask Kamitani-senpai--”

The picture of that-- that annoyance standing beneath the cherry trees, petals falling around him in great, romantic clumps as this girl looks up at him with her big, shining eyes, sighing, take care of me, senpai--

Maria can’t help it. She snorts.

By the way her eyes spark, Inui’s been waiting for it. “What’s the matter, Inomata-senpai?” she simpers, batting her too-long eyelashes. “You don’t think I have a chance?”

It would be a stretch to call her and Kamitani close, by any means-- on the contrary, her blood pressure spikes every time he insinuates himself into one of her conversations-- but he is Kashima’s best friend. Even if she doesn’t like him, she’s been forced to be in his presence regularly for three years, and she can say with some authority: in a situation so saturated in romance as that, he’d be more likely to break out into hives than a confession. She’d almost pay to see it; anaphylaxis couldn’t happen to a more deserving boy.

“As good as anyone else’s,” she replies evenly. “Which is to say none.”

It’s a fact, one any of the girls in 3-C would be happy to expound on for hours, but this girl, this Inui Mika--

She sniffs. Her big eyes are liquid as they stare at her, her mouth all rucked up, and she-- she--

She flings herself from her stool, tears shimmering in the air behind her. “Why are you so mean, senpai?”

Her squeak, no-- her squeal rings in the air long after she darts out the door, sobs echoing down the hall.

A dropped pin would sound like an anvil in this silence. Every eye in the room is pressed to her, palpable as a touch, and Maria can’t run, can’t move. Even Tanaka-san stares at her, a question weighing heavy in it, but she can do nothing but stare back, lost.

“All right,” Tanaka-san says after a moment, loud as a shout. “Who’s ready to start steaming?”

A club officer is supposed to set a precedent for behavior; both Tanaka-san and the vice president, Suzuki-san, agree about that. So does Maria, for that matter, and having sent a girl from the lab crying twice-- the same girl, no less-- definitely constitutes a breach of propriety.

It’s just that none of them are able to piece together just what Maria’s done.

“I’m not sure what is going on, Inomata-san.” Tanaka-san sighs, weary, rubbing at her forehead. “But I’m reasonably sure it’s by accident.”

“But, Kaichou.” Maria shifts nervously on her feet, head bowed to focus on her toes. “Officers are supposed to be disciplined for behavioral infractions. It’s part of the charter.”

“I know, it’s just...” Her shoulders slump, rounding over the box of leftover mushi-pan. “I know I’m the president, but you’re-- you’re my senpai. I can’t just punish you.”

“Of course you can,” Maria insists, her anxiety ebbing from her, leaving only calm, the way water recedes from the shore before a tsunami. “You have to, otherwise I would be-- be getting away with something.”

Tanaka grimaces. “Would that really be so bad?”

She stares, shocked. “It would be against the rules.”

The president’s mouth opens, then closes, and after a few tries, she settles on, “Then why don’t you take all the leftover mushi pan?”

For anyone else, that might be considered a mild punishment, but for Maria-- guilt pricks at her. “But I was already planning to--”

Tanaka-san nods, warming to her idea. “Yes, that’s right. There’s three whole boxes!”

“Three boxes?” She certainly wasn’t going to ask for that much.

“Yes, three.” The president piles them high in her arms, smile widening with each addition. “And you can’t let any of them go to waste. Not a single one, senpai!”

“Ah...” She swallows, watching the last container drop into place. “All right. I...won’t let you down, kaichou.”

Tanaka-san smiles, patting the last box. “I know I can always count on you, Inomata-san.”

“Well, well.” Usaida leans against the daycare’s doorway, his apron smattered with stickers already peeling at the edges. “If it isn’t Inomata. To what do we owe the pleasure.”

It should be obvious, seeing as how she’s holding three decently-sized containers of cakes, but Maria still reflexively sniffs, “No reason.”

His eyebrow hitches up, too lazy to make much more effort, and it’s-- it’s all so familiar that she expects Midori to peep over his shoulder, bushy little ponytail and all, burbling her opinions. But it’s not her on his back anymore but Yuuma, his wide eyes staring at her with a curiosity neither Takuma or Kazuma ever managed. “Is that so?”

“W-well. I also just finished with my club meeting for the day,” she admits, squeezes the containers closer. “I thought the children m-might enjoy the extras. I-I don’t plan to eat them, after all.”

He stares down, smirk canting higher with every cake. “You don’t say...”

“I-in any case.” It’s an effort not to let her gaze wander over his shoulder, to peek through the daycare’s decal-covered windows and try to catch a glimpse of light blue. “There’s three kinds: matcha, chocolate, and sweet corn and cheese.The ones on the bottom--”

“Ryuuichi isn’t here, you know.”

It’s terrible how high she jumps. “I wasn’t--!”

Nearly as terrible as the unscrupulous smirk Usaida makes when she does, leaning in with a far too knowing, “Hmm?”

“I didn’t--” Her teeth clamp down around her words like a vise. She’s not some-- some first year, rising to his bait. No, Maria is almost a fully grown woman, in control of how she reacts. She simply has to act like it.

Easier said than done. “I’m not looking for anyone. I just wanted to drop these off before I went home. It seemed like the sort of snack the children might like.”

A shark’s smile splits his face. “You mean, like Kotaro?”

“Uh--”

“He’s been pretty into mushi pan lately,” Usaida muses, popping the top lid. “Ooh, chocolate. You know, Ryuuichi’s been trying to find some place within walking distance with fresh ones.”

“H-has he?” It’s a good thing her hands are full; the last thing she needs is for him to catch her out by the way she smooths down her skirt, or god forbid, tug on her collar. “G-good thing I thought to drop by...”

“Oh, sure.” His grin sharpens to a point. “Just like you meant to with the daifuku a few days ago.”

“Ah...?” Maria can’t help it, she stares. “How did you...?”

“Kirin told me.” He snaps the lid back into place, fingers rapping a quick tattoo against the plastic. “She told me something else too. Something pretty funny!”

Heat itches under her collar, but she doesn’t dare move a hand to scratch it. “Children frequently say funny things. But most of them aren’t true.”

“Ah!” He holds up a finger, waggling close enough to cross her eyes. “No, no. That’s a misconception. What I’ve found is that they always tell the truth, just in the way they understand it. Which begs the question--” his eyes light up with a greedy gleam-- “why do you wanna learn about boys, Maria-chan?”

Her teeth grit down as if she could tear that chan from her name if she clenched hard enough. That lout would never dare to call her that, not if he didn’t know the precise angle of the corner he had her trapped in. “That’s not--”

His smile spreads like a snare. “Though I think I can take a guess.”

With exaggerated care, he turns, calling out, “Kotaro! Come over here.”

Kotaro might not be old enough for yochien, but when he wanders over, hesitantly curious, he moves far more like a child than a toddler. Baby fat still clings to his cheeks and some roundness lingers on his limbs, but beneath that there’s a hint of the face he might have when he get older. Like Kashima’s, almost, but rounder, more thoughtful.

“Yes, Usaida-san?” he murmurs, shyly shuffling over the jamb.

“It looks like Inomata-san has brought over some mushi pan!” Usaida crouches down, Yuuma gurgling excitedly over his shoulder. “Isn’t that exciting?”

Kotaro’s head swings around, tiny eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty, and-- and it’s to her he looks, as if he expects this is all a trick, that there may be mushi pan but for reasons that aren’t exciting at all. A shrewd suspicion, considering that he’s under Usaida’s care.

“Yeah,” he says finally, accompanied by a firm nod. “Yeah.”

“Hey...” Usaida slants him a look that can only mean trouble. “You wanna have one before the other kids can get their paws on them?”

His mouth rucks up, distressed. “Those are for everyone. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Maria’s mouth twitches. By the numbers, Usaida might spend the most hours with Kotato, but it’s clear just who is raising him.

Usaida smothers a sigh, crouching down to his level. “That’s very good of you, Kotaro. I’m impressed with how kind you are.” His mouth curls at a corner. “And such kindness should get a reward shouldn’t it? Maybe...an extra mushi pan, before the other kids can get them?”

“Oh.” He tilts his head, eyes wide. “Well, I guess it’s okay if it’s a reward.”

“That’s the spirit.” With not so much as a warning, Usaida riffles through the containers, peering through their sides to get a good look. “Now what do you want? Chocolate, sweet corn?”

“I’m not a vending machine!” Maria snaps, twisting away from his thieving grasp. “Just take one from the top! Or better yet, just take all of them off my hands already!”

His eyes round, so innocent, so insincere. “But, Maria-chan, what if he doesn’t want chocolate--?”

“I like chocolate.”

Usaida glares down. “You’re no fun at all, Kotaro. Here--” he pops the lid of the top box, dropping the cake into his awaiting tiny palms-- “remember to thank Maria-chan.”

“Thank you, Inomata-neesama,” he replies dutifully before unhinging his jaw and shoving half the thing inside. That boy has been hanging out with Taka far too much for his own good.

“Is it...?” Her fingers tighten around plastic. “Is it good?”

His whole face lights up like a lantern, glowing from the inside. “Uh huh!”

“Glad to hear it, Kotaro-kun. Why don’t you go tell the other kids about the nice snack Maria-chan’s brought us.” Usaida’s mouth quirks, and he calls after that tiny back, “And make sure you tell your brother all about it tonight.”

“What?” she squeaks. “I didn’t say--”

“That’s the thing about working with kids,” Usaida drawls, sauntering back toward the door. “I know what people want even when they can’t say it.”

She doesn’t mean to stay; Tanaka-san’s ‘punishment’ may have given her a good reason, but Maria’s all too aware-- she had been ready to beg some extras off the club just for a solid excuse to come by the daycare. With even the slightest whiff of an alibi, Maria had been willing to risk her pride just for the chance to exchange a few words with Kashima outside of school hours.

She thought Yamane silly with her seat-stealing warmth, but this-- this is equally pathetic. And with every moment she lingers, it’s worse, like she’s simply waiting around for him, just as obvious as a girl waiting by his locker.

But the children make her forget all that. Midori takes her hand in her sticky one and pulls her over to the play mat, informing her that she’ll be playing the tiger to her bunny, and-- and she simply forgets all about miniskirts and sleeve-tugging.

That is until her phone buzzes, and she sees, We’ll be expecting you for dinner.

“It’s too bad you have to go so soon.” Usaida follows her to the hall, Yuuma for once not in tow. He’s on the mat instead, little fists clenched around the art table, watching Kotaro color a panda. It’s pink, at Midori’s insistence. “The kids like it when you’re here.”

The warm glow in her chest nearly chokes her. “I...I’m glad. But I really do need to get home. There’s going to be a test in--”

“Not so fast.” His hand clamps down on her shoulder, spinning her right into his grin. “We haven’t gotten to solve your problem, Maria-chan.”

Her blood runs cold. “M-my problem?”

“You want to know what boys like.” Each word hones his smile to a sharper point. “And lucky for you, I just happen to be one.”

“You’re not a boy,” she deadpans. “You’re a man.”

He waves her off. “A technicality. Like how tomatoes are fruits, instead of--”

“I don’t need help!” she yelps, wriggling out from under his grasp. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t want it from a layabout like you.”

“Too bad!” He hooks an arm around her shoulder. “I’m what you got. Trust me, I’ll be real helpful.”

“I don’t see how,” she mutters, trying to pull away.

“I know all about teenage boys. I even work with two of them.” His head cocks toward her, voice dropping to the precise volume of conspiracy. “Listen, guys this age are easy. You just have to roll up your skirt a little, look them square in the eye, and tell them--”

“Just what are you up to?”

Usaida stiffens; the sort of prey instinct that affects the sinews too, pulling them tight until she’s clenched enough to make her squeak. It does not impress Kamitani-sensei, not at all.

“Ah, hah, Kamitani-san...” He clears his throat, meeting her glare with shrinking innocence. “I was just...giving Inomata here some friendly advice...”

Sensei pinches his arm just above the elbow-- ow! he yelps, much to her indifference-- and drags him off her, looking thunderous. “What could Inomata-san possibly learn from you that she doesn’t already know?”

His mouth twitches. “Funny you should ask--”

“Nothing!” It’s bad enough that Usaida knows, but a real teacher-- she’d never live it down. “It’s nothing at all. I was just heading--”

“It seems Maria-chan here wants to know about boys.”

Sensei blinks. It’s fine when it’s just at Usaida, when there’s still a chance she thinks he’s just talking nonsense, and Maria’s reputation as a student precedes her, but--

But then her eyes sweep over her, both incredulous and interested-- no, assessing. “You don’t say.”

Usaida’s grin sharpens. “You see, I thought I could help. I’m a boy too, after all, and--”

Kamitani-sensei scoffs. “I don’t think you’re in the same league of boys Inomata would look at.”

There’s that at least. “All boys--”

“Don’t listen to this man,” Sensei tells her, as if it didn’t go without saying. “He doesn’t know anything. About anything.”

“Hey.” His hand presses to his apron, right where a heart would be in a normal, functioning person. “I happen to have a degree in--”

“Babies.” Sensei fixes her gaze directly on Maria. It’s odd to realize that she has to adjust it nearly an inch up. “Listen, Inomata-san, if you want to know about men, I can teach you about men.”

Usaida’s eyebrows make a break for his hairline. “Like how to chase them away?”

“Like how to avoid leeches like you. Come on, Inomata.” Sensei’s hand hooks around her elbow, grip far steelier than any Usaida ever pinned her with. “You help me grade, and I’ll give you real advice.”

Usaida coughs. “Real bad advice.”

“Better than anything you’ll tell her.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t make it good.”

“Ah, sensei?” Maria hums, pitch rising with her anxiety. “You don’t really need to-- I don’t need to--”

“No, you don’t,” Kamitani-sensei agrees, setting her papers down with a thunk. “But since you’re interested, someone has to take you under their wing. And I can’t let that idiot fill your head with nonsense. Now, sit, Inomata-san.”

Right on cue, her knees fold like origami, dropping her right into the molded plastic. “I know better than to listen to Usaida-san,” she protests, less confident than she would like. “He just--”

“Ambushed you.” An assessment Maria can’t help but agree with. “I know how that man works. He would have filled your head with all sorts of ridiculous things about-- about your legs and make up.”

“Well--”

Kamitani-sensei smacks her hands down on her papers, fixing her with a stare that practically pins her to the bulletin board. “Inomata-san, do you want to know what boys really want?”

It’s embarrassing how quick her nod is, how eager.

“They don’t know what they want.” Sensei throws up her hands. “They tell you that they like how free-thinking you are, how brilliant you are, and then when you actually take steps to have a career--” she hauls herself up short. “Ah, never mind that. What I mean to say is, boys your age don’t know what they like yet. You have to tell them.”

“Oh.” Strange that they would print so many magazines about fitting their expectations when they didn’t have any. “Um.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised, Inomata-san,” Sensei admits. “You’re a smart girl, I wouldn’t think you’d waste your time on boys when you could be studying for entrance exams.”

“Well--”

“But if you’re going to get a boyfriend, now’s the time, I suppose.” Sensei taps her chin, too thoughtful. “If you get them this young, you can train them into something worthwhile. Any later and they’ll just ruin your life--”

“Oi, hag!”

Maria stiffens-- as if boys’ sight was movement based, as if there was a chance he might walk by and not witness her complete humiliation so long as she just sat still enough. It’s hopeless though; she hazards a glance from the corner of her eyes, and there’s Kamitani lazing in the doorway, baseball uniform streaked with dirt.

“What are you still doing here?” he grumbles, brow fouled up as it always is. Sweaty too; he raises an arm to wipe away the sheen at his hairline, and-- disgusting. They have showers for a reason. “You’re supposed to be picking up Taka today.”

“Can’t you see I’m having a conversation?” Sensei snaps, fists riding high on her hips. “Inomata-san and I are having a very important chat. If you have enough time to come up here and complain to me, surely you have enough time to grab your brother.”

“I don’t. Look, I haven’t even gotten to hit the showers.” His eyes cut to her, derisive, and oh no, no. The last thing she needs for him is to guess what they might be talking about, or-- or who. “What on earth do you two have to talk about anyway?”

“If you must know, Inomata has come to me for personal advice.” It’s strange how proud Sensei sounds of the fact, like there’s something special about being on the other side of her nervous word vomit. “And we have a shower at home. You can just take one there.”

Kamitani’s gaze sharpens, fixed on her, too intent. “What? Since when do you have a personal life?”

She pulls her spine ramrod straight, cheeks flushed. “That’s none of your business.”

He grunts, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, I don’t care anyway.”

“Hm.” Sensei glances between them, strangely thoughtful. “Are you sure about that?”

Kamitani recoils, suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean, hag?”

Sensei’s mouth curls. “Oh, don’t worry about it.”

“What do you mean--?”

Maria’s pocket buzzes. If you are going to be late you should let your father know.

“Ah!” She jolts to her feet. “I should get going. It’s late.”

Sensei’s eyes widen. “But you just got here.”

“Yes, sorry.” She bows her head between her waving hands. “I’ll have to help you another time, sensei.”

“But--”

She flees from the room before she can hear her protest. But it’s still not fast enough to miss Sensei muttering, “Look at what you did, you scared her away.”

Her cheeks burn, embarrassment gnawing at her-- like she’d ever be intimidated by Kamitani-- but then-- then--

Then he huffs, incredulous. “Nothing scares Inomata, you old hag.”

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

After years of being teased on the playground, being called teacher’s little robot and flinching from the press of tiny fingers before they hiss, Inomata-san is cold as ice, it’s easy enough for Maria to believe she’s too reasonable, too unfeeling to be moved by casual wounds of the heart. But when it comes to the truth--

In truth, she spends the last lingering moments before the bell wiping the sting from her eyes. Her tears are hot, burning as they slide over her hands, falling in an endless drip like she’s a faucet someone’s forgotten, knob only half-turned. She wants to stop, she wills it to stop-- she’s not this girl, not the one who cares when boys are stupid, especially the nice ones who can’t even tell her a simple dessert-- but it won’t. 

For one breathless moment, it seems as if it never will. That she’ll just have to go to class and learn about integrals with shame searing tracks down her cheeks for all of 3-A to see. Yagi might even try to show her sympathy, and then all the girls in the room will sigh and simper, turning glares on her like she’s done it on purpose, and--

Her eyes dry up, like they’d never started at all.

Maria blinks up at the mirror, meeting her swollen gaze in the glass. There’s nothing to be done about that unless she wants to call Yuki up here and listen to her rattle off her seventeen surefire tricks to smooth skin and clear eyes. And since this involves Kashima-kun...

Well, Yuki may profess herself fully recovered from her years-long infatuation with him, but there’s no need to test her resolve. Maria can deal with her own feelings just fine on her own, thank you very much.

With a new sense of purpose, she steps out into the hall, striding through 3-A’s threshold...just as the passing bell chimes. Attention turns back to the front of the room, and she becomes the center of it, swollen eyes and all.

Ever the eager student, Yagi calls out, “Inomata-san, are you all right?”

Reflex is a hard animal to cage, but Maria likes to believe she’s gotten this beast’s reins at least. Not enough to keep her cheeks from puffing and flushing, but enough to at least keep her mouth shut. There’s no need to give that idiot any information when he’ll forgot about it as soon as she walks past, so long as she keeps it all to her--

“Oh.” Nezu tosses his head, a brief glimmer of his eyes surfacing beneath his bangs before they settle. “So it didn’t go well?”

Maria freezes, stuck in the aisle between her seat and his, and oh, if intensity could hone glares to a point--

“Not go well?” Yagi yips, twisting at his desk. “Were you trying to do something, Inomata-san?”

She drops into her seat, and with all the gravitas she can muster, she informs Nezu, “Sleep with one eye open.”

Although the introduction of limits and derivatives keep Yagi’s mind too busy to remember what’s best forgotten, Maria is not so fortunate. Oh, she follows the switch from definite integrals to the hundred poets, but while her pen scrawls her an academic lifeline, the rest of her brain is churning, a flywheel about to slip from its bearings.

Books have failed her. Yuki-- her one recourse in matters of the heart-- cannot be consulted. And even going to the source netted her nothing more than mushi pan.

Inomata Maria is at the end of her rope, and truthfully, she cannot find the will to climb. Maybe Mother is right; she can worry about boys after she gets a college degree. Even a PhD seems achievable next to Kashima Ryuuichi.

“Inomata!”

Her body jerks, a marionette with her strings pulled, all her limbs flailing to a halt. She’s standing, she realizes, her gaze fixed to the red stripe across her toe, drawn to the way it crossed the thin lines of the hall’s tile. The hall’s tile, because that’s where she is, the corridor littered with loitering students waiting for their clubs to start, or putting off room cleaning for one last thread of gossip.

The school day’s over, and she’s hardly noticed. Just let her feet point her toward her goal, which--

She glances up, then blinks. She’d rub her eyes too, if it’d make any difference. But it won’t, not when the truth all too plan to see: left to their own devices, her feet have carried her to 3-C.

Without so much as a by-your-leave, her cheeks burn. There’s no reason for it; this hallway is as much 3-A’s as it is 3-C’s, and if 3-C is in the exact opposite direction of the stairs, well, that’s no one’s business. And besides, it’s not as if Kashima is there; the clubs may not have started, but nothing so pedestrian as a clock could keep him from Kotaro, not when--

“Maria!”

She’s mid-pivot, feet aimed back toward the direction of the Home Ec room-- it’s not as if she has anything better to do than arrive early, perhaps set up for the visiting first years-- but Kawata’s deadpan gaze awaits her. “A-ah, you...?”

Kawata cocks her head, the sleek ribbon of her ponytail snaking over her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“N-no!” Her hands wave between them, as if it might do anything to ward off her questions. “W-what would make you think that?”

“Well.” Kawata leans her hip against the classroom’s jamb, arms crossed. “You’ve been pacing in front of our door for the past five minutes.”

“Oh!” Of course she would so something so obvious, so awkward. “I was just on my way to the Home Ec lab--”

“And I’ve been calling your name for three of them,” she adds, a single brow raised. “So what’s going on?”

An impossible question to answer. Kawata maybe be Rena-chan in her contacts-- a change she demanded in second year, when she saw all their names were still written last name-first in their stodgy kanji-- but she’s still more Yuki’s friend than hers. They’re in the same class, have the same interests, and by Yuki’s account, have even gone out shopping together. How could Maria possible tell her that she had feelings for--?

“Kashima-kun isn’t here,” Yamane interjects brightly, squeezing into the doorframe behind Kawata. “If that’s who you were looking for.”

Maria stares. “I-I wasn’t--”

“Oh!” Yamane perks up, the steely gray of her eyes shining bright. “Are you going to try to steal the last of his warmth from the seat?”

“Wha-what?” Maria skitters back a step, face burning from hairline to collar. “I would never--”

“Don’t be stupid, Saki-chan.” Kawata shakes her head, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. “His seat’s already cold.”

“Oh.” Yamane’s mouth curves around the sound thoughtfully. “That’s right.”

“You don’t...?” Maria coughs, her gaze darting between them. “You don’t actually do that, do you?”

“Not often,” Kawata replies, just as Yamane pipes in with, “I sit in Kamitani’s seat all the time!”

Yamane's all innocence when her stare turns pointed. Truly, there is no accounting for taste.

“But seriously, Inomata,” Kawata continues with her usual no-nonsense tone. “What are you doing here?”

Whatever high ground she’s foraged during this whole...chair sharing arrangement ebbs out beneath her, like sand at the ocean’s shore. No matter what she might like to pretend, she has no reason for being here besides something equally pathetic. “N-nothing. If I’m not wanted, I can just go--”

“I didn’t say that.” It’s funny how in one moment that tone can cut to the quick, and yet in the next it’s a comfort. “But this is about Kashima-kun, right? That’s why you were down here early asking about snacks.”

“Er...”

“That was amazing.” Yamane clasps her hands, eyes glistening. “Kamitani-kun doesn’t like sweets!”

“Is that...” Her mouth works, trying to elect the words least likely to expose any other strange rituals Yamane has devised. “Unexpected?”

“No!” The girl practically glows with her delight. “It’s just like he said when I gave him chocolates first year!”

Kawata gives a twitch of her shoulders, less a shrug and more a resignation. “Excuse her. That’s just the most words that Kamitani-kun’s strung together in years. At least, that isn’t about baseball. But your problem isn’t with him, is it?”

Maria has plenty of complaints about Kamitani, enough to fill the whole hour until clubs start, but Kawata’s right. She’s not wandering the halls because Kamitani hasn’t met a private conversation he can’t interrupt, or leave a single indignity unwitnessed, but-- but--

Yamane stares at her with big, hopeful eyes, and Kawata-- Kawata is steady. The sort of girl with a good head on her shoulders. The sort of girl boys list after Yuki when they make lists of the class’s most datable girls. She may not be able to bear asking Yuki-chan about Kashima, but maybe...

“Do you know what boys like?”

The words hurry out of her, like tardy students racing the last bell, and once they’re through the gate--

Kawata swings aside, one hand sweeping out in invitation. “Step into our office.”

The floors are freshly swept when Maria picks through the aisles, half the chairs neatly placed on top of their desks. She generously concedes that although she did not interrupt their cleaning-- after all, she’d only been pacing, not looking for anything more than a quiet place to lose her mind-- she may have at least distracted them from it.

“Take a seat,” Kawata directs, and with hardly any ceremony, Maria drops down into one, crossing her ankles neatly below the chair. She’s already intruding, it would hardly do to take up space on top of it.

There’s no lights on in the classroom, but when Kawata slams down her stack of magazines, their glossy covers shimmer in the sun, glistening like all the hot summer fun they promise. Popteen sits at the top, boasting the same idol Seventeen sports three spots down. A PopSister pokes out toward the bottom, splayed over the latest issue of AnAn. A veritable set of encyclopedias for the all the high-stakes, teenage heart-throbbing problems adolescence can provide, but Maria--

Maria only resists the urge to straighten them.

“These can tell you everything you need to know.” With the barest hesitation, Kawata adds, “About boys, that is.”

Yamane nods sagely. “They know everything about what boys like.”

Maria delicately slides an issue of Seventeen off the pile, half afraid that her fingers might smudge the cover’s pristine gloss. It’s pink-- aggressively pink-- and over a girl’s face she only half recognizes, it reads, 10 Ways to Drive Him Crazy. She assumes they mean ‘crazy’ as in the sexual desire sense, not the way Yagi makes her crazy enough to shove him out a window. Which is a more promising start than Men Prefer Otoro opened with. At least, until she flips through the pages.

“Wh-what?” She slaps it shut, cheeks burning bright enough to cook mushi pan. “I can’t do this!”

Kawata tilts her head, a frown following suit. “Why not?”

“T-they say y-you should--” Maria strains a breath between her teeth-- “lick him behind the ear.”

“Ooh, really?” Yamane glances over with a terrible curiosity. “Can I see that when you’re done?”

Kawata places a firm hand over the cover to keep her from trying. “What else?”

“W-well.” Maria slumps into a miserable hunch. “That I should also try to g-grab his sleeve so that he knows that I...that I--” she drops her voice to the barest whisper-- “that I want to k-kiss him...”

“That doesn’t seem so bad,” Yamane opines, earning a nod from Kawata.

“Doable, even,” she agrees perversely, as if the suggestion were somehow reasonable.

Maria’s fingers curl tightly around the curve of the desk. “It’s not.”

Quite honestly, between this and the licking, it’s worse. At least if she were going to put her mouth on someone, it would be purposeful, a gesture that can’t be mistaken. But tugging on the sleeve-- that’s something she might have done, all unknowing. A signal Kashima would receive loud and clear while she remained oblivious, like a broken flashlight flickering in Morse code.

And if there’s just this one innocent thing-- a tug for a kiss-- then how many more much she not know about? Has she been bumbling through every social interaction secretly signalling for a different sort of intercourse, like when her grandmother would buy her a shirt with English on it, never knowing that the blouse she thought was so lovely read feel me up right across her chest?

“Can you cook?” Her gaze jolts up, catching Kawata’s assessing squint. “Boys love it when girls cook for them.”

“Oh, yes!” Yamane claps her hands, practically glowing as she adds, “Girlfriends always pack the cutest bentos!”

Maria’s all too aware; it’s a contest in 3-A to make Yagi the most delicious and intricate lunch, each girl racing to shove theirs in his hands before any of the others could. Yagi always graciously accepts, smiling that stupid politician smile of his, thanking them for their thoughtfulness as if he was standing by the polls. She’d hate him for it if she didn’t know he just handed them off to Nezu the second they stepped out of class.

“I know my way around a kitchen,” she reminds them, “I am the treasurer of the Home Ec club.”

“Right, sure,” Kawata hums, eyes narrowing. “But are you any good?”

There’s an impassioned defense of her skills right on the tip of her tongue; sure, she started out rough, but last year she made a mousse even Usaida declared passable, and roughly two-thirds of her cookies came out edible. But her last batch of shortbreads had nearly set the lab on fire, and when she’d tried to make herself instant ramen on the stove over the summer they’d had to throw out the pot. “No.”

Yamane remains undaunted. “But are you laid back?”

The answer is obvious but still, it stings when Kawata huffs out a, “Ha.”

“Alright....” Yamane flips through a few pages of a PopTeen before she settles on, “Do you like letting a man lead?”

Maria stares. “Is he a teacher?”

Kawata makes a strangled noise before suggesting, “Maybe you can dress nicer?”

“What’s wrong with the what I’m wearing?” She blinks down, staring at the rumpled pleats of her skirt. “It’s the same as what you have on.”

“Nothing!” Yamane is quick to assure her, just as Kawata offers, “You could roll your skirt up a little.”

“But...” It’s already above her knees; just about as long as the ones she wears on weekends. “That would break the dress code.”

Both girls cross their legs, flushed, and Maria can’t help but notice theirs settle significantly higher than hers, riding up to mid-thigh as they squirm.

“Well,” Kawata presses on, “what about the weekend? Do you wear cute things out of school?”

Maria blinks. “I think they’re fine.”

Both girls exchange a look. She doesn’t need a magazine to tell her what that means.

Covers splay over the desk in front of her, the models so similar, so uniform that at a glance they could be mistaken for the same girl with different clothes. Glossy hair, perfect skin, their mouths parted in eager surprise-- even with a team to transform her, Maria’s certain she couldn’t look like that.

“Are you sure this is what boys like?” She can’t see Kashima caring about long legs and waist-hip measurements; after all, the only body he can’t seem to resist getting his hands on is Kotaro’s chubby one. “All boys?”

“Inomata.” Yamane’s wide-eyed, staring at her with hushed admonishment. “They couldn’t print it if it wasn’t true!”

“Besides,” Kawata continues, rolling her eyes. “Everyone know boys our age are dogs.”

“Hey!”

The lights flick on, momentarily disorienting. But when the sparks clear, Kamitani stands in the jamb, his glare stark above the white of his jersey.

It takes a moment to realize he’s not glaring at them, but at Yamane specifically. “Why are you in my seat?”

As always, the first meeting of the Home Ec club is full to the brim with first years, giggling and jostling shoulders as the president speaks. They squirm with excitement, like a basket of puppies, but Maria knows all too well it’s not with a love for the culinary arts. No, these are all the girls who aren’t athletic enough for a sport and aren’t talented enough for an art, the ones who saw the Home Ec flyer and thought about bentos for boyfriends rather than acquiring a life skill. A young professional could not live on take out alone, after all.

There’d be half as many attendees next time, and then half again, until a handful of girls remained, having found a love of baking-- or boyfriend who didn’t mind receiving the benefits.

“When you join the club, you’ll be able to pick you own projects,” Tanaka-san continues, smile big and bright. She’s a second year, popular in her own grade, and it’s clear the crowd likes her too. “But today our treasurer, Inomata-san, has picked out a recipe for all of us to make.”

“It’s daifuku,” she says promptly, watching as their smiles stretch tight. It’s a dirty business to work with mochi, and most of these girls won’t make it past the bean paste. “Strawberry daifuku.”

There’s a scattering of groans when they stand, crowding around the benches. Tanaka-san may have joined as a boyfriend-hopeful, but after working through her first high school romance in short order-- Maria hadn’t quite been paying attention, but it couldn’t have been more than a month-- she’d found she has talent for it, pure and simple. Her last project before the third years left had been a three-tiered wedding cake, just to prove she could, and served it their last meeting.

It hadn’t been much of a surprise when she’d been voted president, even over the third years. And watching her guide the first years through wrapping anko around a strawberry, it’s even more clear-- she’s made to teach.

“I don’t really need to be here.”

It’s hard to pick out any one voice over the excited chatter-- and groaning as they pick anko out from beneath their nails-- but this one, for some reason sticks out. Maria chases the voice back to a first year, her chin proudly lifted as she flicks her loose bun over her shoulder.

Oh, it’s her. The girl from the Opening Ceremony. Her rival, somehow. Inu... Inu...?

“I already made a bento once,” she continues, floating on half a sigh. “That makes me practically a professional.”

Maria can’t help it; she grunts. From effort, of course; the anko is a bit stubborn when it comes to sticking to her strawberry. She really doesn’t mean for it to sound as skeptical as it does.

The girl, however, doesn’t miss it. In fact, there’s a distinct satisfaction in her smile that says she’s been waiting for Maria to engage, though she can’t think of a single reason why. “What about you, senpai?” she asks, too arch for the simpering tone she attempts. “Do you make your boyfriend bento?”

A strange hypothetical to contemplate. She might be in her flush of youth, as Yuki’s manga likes to call it, but not a single boy in these past two years has ever sniffed around her for anything more than her notes, and Maria has firm doubts that they ever will. She’d chalk it up to the rigors of secondary education, how both school and clubs leave a dearth of time in their wake-- but she knows better. The boys in her class find time to flock around Yuki just fine,

But that’s not what this Inu girl is asking.

“I don’t see why I should,” Maria replies loftily. “He has a mother, doesn’t he?”

This does not garner the response she expects; instead of a roll of her eyes, this first year drops her daifuku with a splat, anko splattering across the bench top.

“You’re so stupid, senpai!” she shouts, eyes swimming as she glares. “Who would ever like you?”

She flees the room, sobbing so hard Maria half expects tears to fly from her, glistening in the late afternoon light. After all, this sort of thing only happens in shojo manga; it would only make sense that it abides by genre convention.

“What,” Tanaka whispers, leaning into her with wide eyes, “was what?”

Maria shakes her head. “I have absolutely no clue.”

By the end of the meeting, Maria is left with a romantic quagmire, sore feet, and a full tupperware of strawberry daifuku. She hardly makes it within a hundred feet of the daycare before she collapses on the the courtyard’s bench, weary all the way down to her toes. Entrance exams are months away, but oh, how she’ll look forward to the break. Studying for ten hours will be a vacation compared to navigating a social life. All this stress and it isn’t even guaranteed to get her into the university of her choice.

Her eyes clench shut, fingers tightening around plastic. All this work, emotional anguish, and she didn’t even manage to make something for Kotaro. Or, well, he’d certainly eat them, but half of what’s on his plate would end up saved for Taka, and though seeing Taka’s face light up would do a world of good for her mood...

Well, it wasn’t as if Kamitani would be giving her any thanks. Not that she wants him to. It’s just-- Kashima would if she did something thoughtful for Kotaro. It would be polite, at least; a salve for the fact that she wouldn’t be getting one from the boy she wanted. That she never would, because those magazines are right; there’s no way she can make herself as an attractive option if Yuki never got Kashima to look twice at her. At least, not short of changing everything about herself.

She may like Kashima, but not even Maria is silly enough to think she can become much more than this. Her one skill is studying, and if she gives that up, she’s nothing more than a girl who places at the top of the regular class.

Distantly, she’s aware things aren’t so dire. Even if Kotaro does end up saving his snacks for Taka, Kashima will thank her all the same. And as fond as she is of Kotaro, Taka’s smile is a rarer currency now that he’s attending yochien instead of the daycare; one she’s happy to pocket at the end of any day. And Kashima...

She doesn’t need him to notice her. It’s just...it’s just that right now she’d like to wallow in defeat. Savor the taste of rock bottom, since she’ll never, not ever, let herself go after a boy--

“Maria-neesan?”

Her eyes blink open, and yellow assaults her vision. With a rub of her eyes, it resolves into Kirin, neatly dressed in her school uniform, all yellow and plaid and bright bucket hat, like a particularly opinionated ducking. “Good afternoon. I suppose you’re here to pick up your brother?”

Kirin practically glows when she nods. “Daddy went inside to get Sai-chan, but I saw Maria-neesan, and I asked if I could come over.”

High praise, considering how much she prides herself on being a doting big sister. Maria had worried whether  girl so used to her father’s sole attention would take having to share it, but aside from Kumatsuka-sensei sharing a few funny ‘look at me daddy’ stories, Kirin’s taken to her new position in the family with a vigor that might one day put Kashima to shame.

“I appreciate the company.” For once, she means it, shuffling on the bench just enough to make a show of making room.“I’m glad your daddy let you.”

“He said it’d be better this way.” Kiri hops up, bowing to accommodate the backpack still slung over her shoulder. “There’s too many perverted young men in there.”

Maria sighs. Kumatsuka-san should be the drama teacher, not his wife. “That sounds just about right.”

Kirin squiggles beside her suddenly locating a dozen more eyelashes when she catches sight of the container in her lap. “What’s in there, nee-san?”

She blinks, staring down at the lid. The container may be thick-walled, sturdy enough to last the walk home, but it’s still clear on the sides, the pinkish shell of the mochi smooshed against the plastic. They aren’t so malformed as to be unidentifiable-- at least, the ones Maria didn’t make. “Strawberry daifuku. I...I’m going to bring it to the daycare, but I just...need a minute.”

“I see.” Kirin sidles closer, legs swinging at a studiously casual pace. “Well, if you’re worried they might not taste good, Maria-neesan, someone could always...”

Oh. Well. That did explain the question. Her mouth twitches. “Would you like to try one?”

“Well,” Kirin huffs as she pops the top, fingers clenched in her skirt. “If you insist.”

Maria barely pries up a corner before two disappear, one right after another, leaping into Kirin’s mouth with a speed that would make an adult choke. Kirin, for her part, only takes another.

“They’re good!” she manages through her mouthful, smile distended by her chipmunk cheeks. “Very eatable!”

Edible, she doesn’t correct, the lid clicking back on. “You think so?”

“Mmhmm!” Kirin licks the sugar off her fingers, mouth falling further with each lick. “Maria-neesan, why did you look so sad?”

“Huh?” She blinks down at her, meeting that small furrowed brow. “Do I?”

“Not now,” Kirin clarifies with another lick. “You’re always happy around me, just like Mama is. But before. That’s why I came over”

“Oh.” She slumps, metal slats digging into her back. “It’s nothing. I just...got advice for a, er, problem, and I think it means it’s...”

Hopeless.

“Was it about boys?”

Maria jumps, shrinking under the stars in Kirin’s eyes. “H-how did you know that?”

“Everyone knows,” Kirin admonishes brightly, “that whenever a woman has a problem, there’s a man behind it.”

“I...” Her mouth works, but words abandon her. “R-really?”

“Well, that’s what Ami-chan’s mommy tells her friend,” Kirin informs her, too serious. “Or at least, that’s what Ami-chan says. Has he pulled your pigtails? That’s a sure sign he likes you. Ami-chan’s mommy says that too.”

Maria can’t imagine Kashima pulling on her sleeve, let alone her hair. “No. I don’t think he would, even if he did like someone.”

“Hmm.” Kirin taps her chin. “That’s harder then. Does he share his toys with you?”

“I...” Maria catches herself contemplating whether Kotaro might fall under the toy category, and give herself a single, solid shake. “No, I don’t...I already know he doesn’t like me. Or well, he does, just not...like that. I’m trying to see if there’s a way to, um...”

Change his mind. It sounds terrible that way, as if she’s trying to trick him, talk him around in circles until he mistakes that for attraction. All these magazine, all these books, they want to change her-- not forever, but just long enough to get him. To teach her how to put on a mask when all she wants to do is be liked.

“Oh, well.” Kirin flaps a hand, undaunted. “You know boys only want one thing.”

“What?” Maria leans in, tense with attention. “What’s that?”

Her tiny shoulders twitch in a careless shrug. “Oh, I don’t know, that’s just what daddy says.”

“Wha--?”

“Kirin-chan, my wonderful daughter!” Kumatsuka-san waves from the door, smile bright as he switches Kai’s chubby body from one arm to the other. “Are you ready to go?”

“In a minute, Papa!” Kirin leaps off the bench. “Sorry, nee-san, I gotta go.”

“Ah!” Her hands flutter over the tupperware, half ready to hold her back. Kumatsuka-san may be an adult, but he-- he was a boy once. Maria takes in his winning smile, his artfully tousled hair, the looks that had-- allegedly-- made him the heartthrob of the drama society. If anyone could tell her what Kashima could want, it would be him. She could pay him in daifuku--

“Good luck with your boy problem!” Kirin calls back, one tiny hand waving as the other holds onto her father’s trousers.

All at once, Kumatsuka’s handsome face turns dark.

“What was that?” he asks, thundering across the courtyard. “You weren’t talking about boys were you, my innocent little pea? My sweet little pony child?”

“Oh Papa,” Kirin sighs, weary beyond her years. “Mama already told you, you can’t ask about girl talk.”

Kumatsuka-san sputters as his daughter tows him away, heels dragging just like a toddler’s. “But my shining pearl, surely...”

Maria stares after them, eyes wide. On second thought, maybe she’ll keep the daifuku to herself.

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 2

[Read on AO3]

Maria can admit with little hesitation: when it comes to human skills, the kind that can’t be solved with a stack of books and a personal sacrifice of time and sanity, she falls well short of standard. Small talk, facial cues, making friends; if any one of these were put on an entrance exam, Maria would be looking for an alternate vocation to college student before the end of the year. But paying attention-- there she excels. Only last semester, Kamitani-sensei told her that if they could bottle her hyperfocus, she’d never have to teach summer school.

So the fact that she can’t do it now, today, the first day of her last year of school-- that, that rankles.

And it’s all Yuki’s fault. If only you could study to get a boyfriend.

It’s not as if there’s a lack of things to worry over. The Home Ec Club’s first meeting is tomorrow-- the one meant to entice new members-- and she still hasn’t decided on a recipe. As acting treasurer, hers should impress, showing off the hard-earned skills she’s learned in the past two years...but yet, with each magazine clipping or cooking blog she scrolls through, Maria only pictures this being the snack that loses Kotaro his first tooth.

Her schoolwork is a constant; tonight there’s flash cards for English, a review of trigonometric functions, and at least three chapters of the novel assigned for Japanese. She’ll be reading six, of course, just to keep ahead of the discussion along with another two for chemistry. With Hebihara-sensei as her teacher, a test at the end of the week is implied.

And if all that wasn’t enough, the hanami certainly would be. Boys will be there, boys who are joining them specifically to find girls that want to hold hands and exchange email addresses. The thought of one of those sweaty palms touching a single thread of her sleeves makes Maria want to take a week long shower.

But she’s not thinking about any of that. Oh no, her mind isn’t filled with useful concerns, but instead only one thing, one that rattles through the empty cafeteria of her skull like a dropped tray: there’s no reason I can’t.

Certainly, there were skills that couldn’t be taught in a book: how to play a piano, for one, or how to dance, or folding a fitted sheet. But romance--

Well, if her father could give her a book about making friends and how to find them, surely there had to be something for a skill as important as finding a-- a lifemate. Maybe she couldn’t just input values into an equation and solve for the boy she wanted, or learn a mnemonic for all the topics deemed to be desirable for the perfect girlfriend, but there had to be guidelines. If all of Yuki’s shoujo manga followed the same formula, surely there’s some parallel application to real life.

It’s just up to Maria to find it.

I am going to the bookstore after school today. In the harsh light of the metro, the email glares balefully back at her. I will be back in time for dinner.

Her phone sits cradled between trembling hands, judiciously silent. Even empty, disapproval radiates from the screen, each flash of the cursor implying a question yet to be asked, an inquiry to which she can never give the truth.

Then just lie, Kuwata would tell her, deadpan as always. She’s a normal girl, one who can construct a simple story and leave it at that, but Maria-- Maria only needs to imagine Mother’s glower, and every last thought comes spilling out of her, a flood that can’t be stemmed by reason or self-preservation. Even if she could manage it with liberal application of the backspace key, it would only last as long as it would take for her to walk through the door. Or, she thinks queasily, for Mother to think to call.

The metro doors slide open, and Maria hurries out onto the platform. What if Mother tried to call her right here at the station? She’d hear the din of the crowd around her, jostling to get to the escalators, and demand that she come home. It is unacceptable that you elected to go out of town without prior discussion, Maria, she would say, each word corpse-stiff like her social life would be. We will be reviewing your privileges at length when you return.

She pauses at the second floor, the bridge for the bookstore looming ahead, but peeks back at the schedule board. It’s unreadable from this far up, but she knows it would only be a few minutes wait to catch the train back, to just head home like nothing happened at all--

Her phone hoots twice, vibrating against her fingers. Good. She can’t see her mother, but she pictures her firm nod, the sign of expectations met. It would be best to pick up the new study guides earlier rather than waiting for when all the other students will rush to get them for cram school. We will reimburse you for whichever ones you need to purchase.

Ah, well. That’s a better story than she would have come up with herself. You can rely on me. I will do my best.

Maria flips her phone shut, hurrying toward the doors-- she did promise she’d be back by dinner-- but it hums against her palm. A message?

I know we can. Mother words gleam on the screen, glinting with impatience. You always do.

With exaggerated care, Maria closes it, using only fingertips to slide it into her purse. As if it’s too delicate, her touch too dirty to do more than pinch it in her grasp. Guilt thickens her throat, clinging to it like congestion, and she-- she--

Well, she better get this done quickly, before she chokes on it.

If Maria were given to hyperbole (which she certainly is not, no matter what Usaida-san likes to say) or idioms (which she might be, if she could ever recall them anywhere but in bed, after the lights went out), she would proudly admit: if there was a place she knew as well as the back of her hand, it would be the library. And if there was a second place-- which there should be, since hands come in both right and left configurations (chirality, her brain prompts, needlessly)-- it would be here, this very bookstore. She could be blindfolded at the top of the escalator and still find her way to the study guides on the first floor.

But that’s not where she’s headed today. At least, not until she’s finished finding the one that will help her pass the practical exam called dating.

Before today, Maria would have said she’d been in every section at least once. Even behind the Red Curtain, though it’s not her fault-- she only stumbled a toe too far past Romance to dodge a group of boys in Morinomiya uniforms. The last thing she needed was some rumor about her, like Inomata-san reads romance novels in her spare time, or Inomata-san likes romance because she’ll never find a boyfriend. Then there would have been boys and questions and people trying to figure out what her type is, and she’d last three days before blurting out she’d only been there to rescue a misplaced copy of The Dancing Girl. Which she hadn’t even liked, even if it was a classic.

But now, when she approaches Self-Help, she realizes-- its single aisle is a blank space in her mental map, the Bermuda Triangle of the bookstore. It’s ridiculous; there’s no reason for her to have avoided it. Sure, there might be a hefty focus on more...social issues, but the titles on the end cap read...

Cooking for Dummies, or Piano Note-By-Note. Maria grimaces. Well, that would explain it.

Still, she is more than the sum of her failures. Or at least, that’s what Kumatsuka-sensei has told her to repeat in the mirror. With a steeling breath and eyes screwed shut, she crosses the boundary into the unknown, opening to see--

It’s empty. Or, well, it mostly is; there’s a woman crouched at the other end, lifting books one by one to read the title before dropping them back onto the shelf with a tooth-rattling thunk. The sort of behavior she wouldn’t be surprised to see Taka doing, but an adult--

It’s not any of her business. If the waxiness of her skin and the disheveled nest of her hair is any indication, she’s experiencing some sort of...self-help emergency. If Maria hopes that it might be for manners, well, there’s no need for her to say so. Especially since she already has her own work cut out for her.

The end cap might have a dozen titles more suited to skill building-- the technical kind, not the social-- but the ones that dominated the actual shelves are almost romance exclusive. Or rather, relationship-- with such esteemed works as Why Did He Leave Me? and The Commitment Toolbox for Handy Ladies, everything seems more tailored to women that have made the leap to dating and are now firmly entrenched in fixing up the man they chose. For the first time since she first picked up Panda Learns 1-2-3, she worries that her reading material of choice might be too advanced for her understanding.

“Ohh!”

Maria jumps clear off her heels, book clutched to her chest. Catching herself, she turns, a wan face peering over her shoulder. “E-excuse me? May I help you?”

The woman-- the one with complete disregard for the wholeness of book bindings-- gives her a smile as tepid as her personality. “That’s a good one.”

“A-ah?” She glances down, catching a glittering glimpse, Why Doesn’t He Like Me? “This one, er, helped you? With a, um, relationship?”

Getting in one, she means, but it’s hard enough to admit her failure to herself, let alone someone who probably dog-ears their pages.

“Oh no!” There’s no reason for this woman to smile so wide, to sigh so fondly over a cover pink enough to be considered a hazard. “Definitely not. But it did help me find out what’s wrong with myself.”

Clearly not, if she can’t even put books on the shelf right. Unless that’s what this one taught her; that relaxing her standards for proper behavior could make her a more lovable person.

You shouldn’t be so negative, Maria-chan. Yuki told her that only hours ago, sitting on that bench. Maybe if you don’t expect every boy to be Kashima-kun, you might find you like one of the ones that comes to the hanami.

Horror creeps beneath her skin, crawling up her arms to settle chilled fingers at her throat. That’s who she could become if she read this book. The sort of person who thinks boys should set her expectations. She’d drop it right to the ground, here and now, if she didn’t have the utmost respect for the art of publishing. It’s not its fault something so heinous is printed on its pages. This book deserved better.

“This one too.” Another glossy cover slides into her hands, this one with a giant, smiling, beskirted fish, held in the tender arms of a businessman. Gentlemen Prefer Otoro, it informs her, along with: all the ways to give him exactly what he wants!

Her biology textbook currently holds the dubious honor of being the only book that has ever made her vomit, but this one comes dangerously close. “I don’t think--”

“Oh, no thanks are necessary.” The woman pats her hand, limp as a tuna on a dock. “Plain girls like us need as much help as we can get, don’t we?”

Maria’s mouth works, her words barely eking past the anger constricting her throat. “I really--”

“Inomata?”

Every muscle body in her body tenses, stomach dropping before she can even see that rumpled sneer or glimpse those raggedy hedgehog spines. Oh no, she knows him from voice alone, the echo of it ringing in her ears like it does in the school’s halls.

“W-what are you doing here?” It’s meant to be a demand, but under Kamitani’s impatient glare, it hitches to a squeak. “Can you even read?”

Kamitani stares at her like he’s trying to do the math for how she got into the advanced class and just can’t make the numbers work. “It’s story time and my mom’s working late.”

His chin jerks, and with no more urging than that, her eyes skitter away from him. The kid’s section sits mere feet away, castle walls running toothily over it’s bookshelves, bursting with pennants and studded with towers. A large chalkboard sits by the drawbridge rug, reading Children’s Storytime 6:00.

“Shouldn’t you be in there?” she asks, recovering her footing. “Someone needs to keep an eye on Taka.”

He grunts, eyes rolling up to glare at the ceiling. “I already take care of him enough. That brat can sit his butt on the carpet and listen to a story about pandas or whatever by himself for ten minutes.”

That’s just the sort of childcare advice she’d expect out of a boy. At least one who isn’t Kashima. “Are you sure you’re part of the Babysitter Club?”

She can hear his teeth grinding. “I didn’t want to--” He hauls up short, a dog at the end of his leash, and shakes his head. “What are you doing here anyway? Isn’t the first day of school some sort of religious holiday for you? I thought you’d be studying.”

“I am!” It’s perhaps the most obvious lie she’s ever had the misfortune of telling; by Kamitani’s dubious lift of his brows, he’s happy to let her know he’s noticed. “I mean, I’m going to. I just wanted to check if they had the new study guides out for the entrance exams.”

“Those aren’t until December,” he scoffs, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you’re already in a cram school.”

“No!” She squeezes the books tight against her chest. “But that’s no reason not to start preparing.”

“Sure.” His mouth quirks at a corner, barely more than a quiver of his lips. “But don’t they keep those by the registers? You know, on the first floor.”

Her jaw drops, and so does his gaze, right to where a cartoon tuna peeks out of her pile, pink painted in a cupid��s bow over its gaping mouth. “I-- I mean-- er--”

“ANIKI!” A small bullet catapults out of the castle; Maria flinches, bracing herself, but it only has eyes for Kamitani, glomming straight onto his trousers before resolving into a yochien uniform. “Where did you go? They were just getting to the good part with a dragon--” Taka finally blinks, wide eyes locking onto her-- “Inomata-nee-san! Are you here for storytime too?”

She shuffles, wrapping both arms tight around her bundle; the last thing she needs is for Taka at his only volume (full) to ask about whether she’s buying some kind of fish manga. “Er...”

“No.” Kamitani’s mouth twitches. “Inomata’s here for boring school stuff.”

“Oh, okay!” He stares up at her, so much taller than she remembers. “Hey, do you need help carrying that stuff? Books are really heavy! I could--”

“NO.” The bindings bite painfully into her chest. “I was just...putting these back. They...fell off the shelf.”

She could swear she sees a sliver of teeth before Kamitani deadpans, “Sure they did.”

Taka squints up at her, nonplussed. “Alright. Hey, ‘ni-san.” His neck cranes around even more to stare at Kamitani with wide, pleading eyes. “Can we get ice cream on the way home? I saw a place while we were walking here--”

“No.”

“Whaaat?” Taka has a gift for shifting from saint to demon in a blink, his cherubic shine quickly growing horns. “You’re the worst, ‘ni-san! Who would ever like you, you big smelly--”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts and, with barely a catch of his breath, lifts his brother wholesale, as if he were still the same tiny child he was two years ago. “You can tell that old hag whatever you like. It’s no skin off my nose.”

His limbs might not be as small as they were, but when Kamitani hauls Taka out of the store, it’s clear they’re just as vigorous. “I’m gonna tell her all about how you--”

The glass doors close around that particular threat, but it’s effective-- Kamitani stops for a whole minute to give his reply, fist shaking the entire time.

“Oh, well.” The waxy woman slips up next to her, blinking owlishly toward the bridge. “I can see why you’re having a problem with that one. But if you just read chapter thirteen of this--”

“What?” Maria shrills, shrinking back from the glossy cover. “Absolutely-- that’s not--”

With a thrust of her hands, the books tumble between them, slipping and sliding until they hit the floor. It’s a sign of clear distress on her part that she can only summon up the thinnest ghost of guilt.

With a huff, Maria pulls up to her full height-- a good inch over this other woman’s head-- and declares. “I don’t want him.”

The elation of turning her back on this woman and her abominable books lasts only as long as it takes her to scurry back, placing back on their shelves with the same care she’d show the five classics. The woman’s there the whole time, picking up her own and slamming them back into place, watching her from the corner of her eyes. It’s mortifying enough that Maria leaves as soon as the last cover slides into its sleeve-- a mistake she doesn’t realize until she’s at her front door, entirely empty handed.

Mother doesn’t ask any questions. It’s a small mercy next to the scorched earth of her morale.

Maria trudges to school the next morning; even at a shuffle, there’s only one fluffy head bent over his desk when she arrives. Nezu flicks his hair, the thick mass hardly budging. “Good morning.”

It’s all he spares before he’s back in his book, nose just a little close to the page. Maria snorts. Maybe if he bothered to brush back that hair, he’d be able to read at a normal range.

Not that it matters.  She should snatch that useless thing out from under his nose, save Nezu from the disappointment she can’t escape. All that studying, and when she needs them most, books fail her. The betrayal burns like a wasp’s stinger trapped beneath her skin, a new flash of pain every time she moves. To think she dedicated her whole life to them, and now she-- she--

Maria takes a single deep breath, sliding her hands over the polish of her desk. Books aren’t the only way to learn, just the most accessible. She needs a new plan.

Nezu shifts, chin rolling from one palm to the next as he pulls out his notes, and-- yes, this is a good place to start. A like mind, equally studious but...different.

“If I--” she clears her throat of its croak-- “if I--”

He blinks up, eyes still obscured by the wild hedge of his bangs. “Are you talking to me, Inomata-san?”

“Ah...?” The classroom’s empty besides the two of them. “Yes. I wanted to ask your opinion on something. No, I mean-- your advice. I’d like your advice.”

She can’t see his eyes, but she knows they’re staring at her, askance. “Alright.”

“If I...” Her teeth scrape her cheek. If only vocabulary made her use words better. “If I liked a boy, how would I go about...er...finding out what he liked?”

Nezu stiffens. “You like someone, Inomata-san?”

“I didn’t say that!” she yelps, ignoring the guilty blush burning across her cheeks. Hopefully he will too. He’s polite like that. “I meant hypothetically.”

“Oh.” He’s stock still at his desk, not moving save for an occasional, distressed twitch in his finger. “Because you....want to impress him?”

“No!” His head cocks, dubious, and she mutters, “Yes.”

Nezu approaches his next question with all the studied stillness of a park ranger freeing a boar from a trap. “Is this about Yagi?”

“NO.” To her everlasting horror, she gags, just a little. It’s a small comfort that Yagi deserves it. “How could you--? No!”

His hands fly up between them, like that could somehow erase the insult of-- of liking Yagi Tomoya. “Sorry! It’s just when girls usually ask me, they’re asking about...”

Ah, right, because to everyone else he is the Class Prince, the Perfect Boy. None of the other girls know about his proclivity for bloody noses around chubby cheeks. “Well, I don’t care about him.”

“Okay.” He squirms in his chair, awkward. “So this is just...in general.”

It’s specific, actually, but Nezu doesn’t need to know that. “Yes. Hypothetical.”

“Oh, well, then that’s simple.” He shrugs. “Just ask him.”

It’s easy enough for Nezu to say that-- and it’s even easier to believe it, at least right up until she’s lingering outside 3-C with no alibi, no reason to be looking for Kashima except to ask him what he likes. An easy enough mistake to fix, until the door slides open.

“What are you doing here?” Kamitani glares down at her, the sort that would inspire most girls to quiver and cry. After two years, Maria is well aware this is just his default expression. “Hey, Kashima, get over here. Inomata wants to talk to you.”

“W-what?” Maria stutters as the whole class stares at them-- or at least, Yuki is. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to,” he grunts, brows lowering to brew an even more thunderous expression. “You were staring at him enough.”

Now Kawate and Yamane are looking too, wide and curious. Of course they are; she’s already had a longer conversation with Kamitani than most of the female body has managed in three years. “I was not! You’re just--”

“Ah, Inomata-san!” Kashima steps out with his usual buoyance, shuffling neatly around the jamb to keep from blocking the door. Like Kamitani is right now, glaring suspiciously at the both of them. She might feel self-conscious about that too, if that wasn’t just the way he was made, his face angled for the ability to convey the most annoyance. “You needed me?”

What she needs is a minute, a solid breath to pick up the scattered pieces of her plan. But Kamitani’s ruined any chance of that; instead she pulls back her shoulder and says, firmly, “I have club today.”

Kashima blinks, his face settling into its usual polite mask. “Oh! Really? Ah, so do I, I suppose...”

“You have club every day,” Kamitani huffs, “because that old hag likes to wring every last yen out of your--”

“Ah ha ha!” Kashima waves his hands in front of Kamitani’s mouth, as if that might do anything to discourage him. “The Chairwoman is very kind to give me a way to pay her back for her generosity!”

Kamitani grunts, opening his mouth to say something particularly ungrateful, but Maria seizes the moment instead. “I haven’t picked out what to make today, and I’m not much in the mood for sweets. Is there anything you would like at the daycare...?”

“You’re too kind, Inomata-san!” Kashima tells her, flushed and smiling. Maria resists the urge to puff with pride; it’s a cunning plan to include the children, making her interest in his favorite sweet far less obvious. All she has to do is wait and-- “Kotaro has been really into mushi pan, lately. He likes how squishy it is between his fingers. And I think Taka still enjoys strawberry daifuku...?”

He looks to Kamitani; the idiot only shrugs. “How would I know?”

Kashima makes a soft, disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “You must know what he likes, Kamitani-kun. He’s your younger brother!”

For once, Kamitani gives up his glare, rolling his eyes instead. “Not everyone is as into their little brother as you are, Kashima.”

“I don’t--”

“What about you?” Maria asks, trying to wrench this conversation back on track. “Is there anything you’d like?”

“I don’t like sweets,” Kamitani tells her, unwelcome as always.

She scowls. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Should have been more specific.”

“I was--”

“Ah, I’m not picky,” Kashima hurries to tell her. “I’ll be happy to share whatever you make for the kids.”

She should have anticipated this. Kashima likes kids, yes, but he also loves one in particular to the detriment of his self. Or at least, that’s what she’s heard Usaida-san say, more than once. She may not agree with that man on much, but that...well, a stopped clock is right at least once a day. Twice, if it runs on twelve hour time. “You could ask for something for yourself for once.”

“Oh, no no.” He waves his hands, ears flushed. She’d find it charming, if he wasn’t personally making himself an obstacle. “I couldn’t impose.”

“You’re not imposing,” she informs him, biting off each word. “I’m asking.”

“Ah...”

“Don’t bother,” Kamitani grunts, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Kashima doesn’t have favorites. He just has things his brother likes.”

Kashima turns to him, agog. “I do too--”

“Name one,” Kamitani dares him, and just as Kashima is about to--

The bell rings.

“Ah! That’s lunch.” Kashima deflates. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help, Inomata-san! But I’m sure whatever you make will be much appreciated.”

“Yeah,” Kamitani huffs. “So long as it’s edible.”

Her hands clench at her sides. I don’t care what everyone else thinks, she wants to say, wants to shout at him. I care what you do.

“Great,” she grits out instead. “I’ll do my best.”

She turns on her heel, marching back to 3-A, and oh, it’s good that she’s not the sort of girl who cries from frustration, not at all.

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 1

[Read on AO3]

On her last first day of school, Inomata Maria wakes up before her alarm.

It’s hardly the first time; as a firm believer in punctuality and a staunch eschewer of crutches, Maria has only ever placed a begrudging measure of trust upon that little black box. Thirteen years might endear some to its beady little gaze, but she knew better-- at any moment it might fail to remember her five am wake up call, or worse yet, play the radio, and then it would fall to her to make excuses to the disciplinary committee as she stood outside the academy gate, shouting into the uncaring wind.

It had never happened, of course, but one never knew when such petty appliances would decide to rebel against their function. And today, today--

Well, she couldn’t afford to be late.

The buttons of her blazer are shined to gleaming, skirt pleats pressed with precision, stockings fresh from the package, elastic clinging tight around her calves. With one last loop, her bow tie lies flat against her collar, academy brochure perfect.

Because above all, that’s what she is: the model student. If she has nothing else, she’ll have that.

“All right,” Maria informs her reflection, arms raised up in front of her, a readied stance. “Do your best.”

“Ah, Maria.”

Mother peers around the corner, brow already furrowed tight above her nose. She looks like her, people say-- the kind that spend too long looking at the wedding portrait in the hall, or at the baby pictures on the credenza-- and she can see it sometimes, in certain lights. Those tight lines around her mother’s mouth will be hers one day, as well as the faint crow’s feet tracing the corners of her eyes. Maybe even the reading glasses too, if she doesn’t get better posture when she studies. Just another legacy waiting for her, like always.

“Are you going already?” Mother’s shoulders already round into a concerned hunch. “Is there someone you’re planning to meet?”

A dozen answers rise to her lips; who else would be up this early for school, or no one would bother coming out here for me, or who would I meet when all my friends are books--?

But that’s not true. It hasn’t been for a long time-- not since Yuki and the other girls crowded her at the flower viewing all those years ago, filling her contacts with hearts and flowers as well as their numbers.

“No,” she says instead. “I just wanted to be early today.”

Mother eases. “I see. Excited to start your last year? Before university, that is.“

A grimace flickers across her reflection, gone as soon as it came. “Of course.”

“You’ll do your best, won’t you?” That furrow is back between her eyes, like it never left. “We’d like to send you to a good university once you finish.”

There’s no reason for the way annoyance zings through her fingers, so strong she has to clench them to dull the buzz. It’s not a new sentiment, not in the least, but for once it’s a request, no-- a question. As if this close to the finish line, she’s suddenly become someone else, someone who isn’t the perfect student they’ve raised her to be.

The joke, as she overheard Kamitani say once, is on them. There’s no one else Maria knows how to be.

“Of course.” The Maria in the mirror looks stern, studious, just the way she always has. “What else could I do?”

The academy’s entrance ceremony is supposed to be a solemn occasion; most of the first years may only be rising up from the middle grades of the gakuen, but their parents are still in sober attendance. It’s a sea of business casual-- a wave of somber black suits followed by one of wives in pressed pink and floral skirts, as befitting the season. It is, by all appearances, an event just as serious and dignified as any other high school induction, however--

“Niichan!”

--Maria is relatively certain the children aren’t supposed to be here. And even if they are, one of them is definitely not supposed to be wiggling a foot up near Kashima’s knee, failing to whisper, “Up!”

His laugh is soft, half embarrassed and half pleased. Somewhere in the vicinity of her chest, something gives an entirely unnecessary squeeze. “Kotaro, please...”

It’s possible, Maria allows, that the chairwoman has changed the rules. They are her grandsons now, and even Maria might be tempted to bend them for a sight as cute as this.

“Niichan,” Kotaro informs him with all the gravitas a three year old can summon, “I wanna sit in your lap.”

“Oh my.” With only Nezu as a buffer between them, Yagi leans toward her-- no, toward the scene Kotaro is quietly making, his foot quivering as much as his lower lip. “Is that Kotaro-kun?”

“Sit back.” Nezu’s arm braces against the chair in front of them-- the girl sitting in it spins around with a frown, one that only lasts as long as it take her to see that it’s 3-A’s handsome prince looming behind her-- but it’s a futile effort. After two years, Maria knows: there is no force on this earth stronger than Yagi’s desire to witness chubby cheeks.

And of course she is the one sitting in the chair with the best view.

“What is he doing?” he asks, breathless, tawny hair nearly brushing her shoulder. “Is he trying to climb on Kashima-kun’s--?”

Maria plants a hand on his forehead, enjoying his too-brief slack jawed shock, and shoves him back. “None of your business.”

His lower lip trembles. As if she has ever been moved by such a thing. “But...”

“You’re going to get blood all over your uniform,” Nezu reminds him wearily. “And then what will you say when we have to show the first years around?”

Yagi straightens, suddenly every inch the boy the class president he’s been elected to be. He’s smart, he’s nice, and he’s hot, Kawata was always quick to offer, and for a brief moment, he’s at least got two out of three.

“Inomata-san.” He turns all of that intense, dark-eyed smolder onto her. “You’ll tell me what’s happening, won’t you?”

Yagi might set a fire among all the other girls, but against Maria, it fizzles like a spark on wet wood. “No.”

“But Inomata-san--”

“Kotaro.” Kashima replies with an infinite well of patience, the sort Maria already feels drying up the longer Yagi buzzes in her ear. “I don’t think this is really the time--”

“It’s not.”

Maria blinks. It’s no surprise Kamitani’s next to Kashima, but still-- she hadn’t noticed. Not until he spoke up, voice soft and flat, his gruffness already grating.

“Oi.” It doesn’t take much for him to frown-- Kamitani just looks like that-- but the corners definitely deepen, an ill-tempered knot brewing over his nose. “Go back to Usaida already.”

Kotaro spares them a doleful glance and raises his still-pudgy arms. “Up, please.”

Kashima wavers; it’s the smallest bend, like a sapling in a stiff breeze. Kamitani grunts a warning, and he snaps back into himself, releasing his last, desperate volley. “Where is Usaida-san?”

A single chubby hand points; its trajectory sails past the rest of 3-C, right out onto the bleachers the academy’s set up for the parents, cherry blossoms swirling on the wind--

Ah, and there he is. Maria’s mouth pulls thin. That lazy lump of a man, covered in squiggling toddlers, still manages to have a hand free to hold a camcorder. He’s not even ashamed of the havoc he’s allowed Kotaro to cause; oh no, he just grins-- well, more since his fox-face comes with that as a default, she’s sure, and smug-- and sticks up his thumb. You can do it, Ryuuichi, he mouths.

“Do what?” Kashima wonders aloud, saving her the trouble. “I’m...already in high school...?”

“Ignore him.” Kamitani fails to follow his own advice, glaring up at the stands. “Glad my idiot brother’s too old for that geezer to drag out here.”

“He’s only twenty-five,” Kashima murmurs, more scolding than he’s ever managed on Kotaro. “Besides, I wouldn’t say that too loudly. It might give him ideas...”

Kamitani clucks his tongue, mouth opening to doubtlessly give another unasked for opinion--

And then the wind blows, hard enough that the cherry blossoms break from their branches. Pink scatters through the air, littering the hair and laps of classmates and parents alike.

Why, with ceaseless, restless haste, her mind provides, the same monotone she hears her study guides in. Falls the cherry's new-blown bloom?

Maria frowns. Ki no Tomonori; a fact she knows against her will. She’d never liked the Hundred Poets-- never liked poems, for that matter-- but still those lines rattle around in her memory, no use whatsoever. It’s not like they’ll ask about any of those on her entrance exams.

A few petals scatter in her hair, but a clump drops straight onto Kamitani’s lap. She expects him to grunt, to brush it off with a grumble about how dumb outdoor ceremonies were, but instead his eyes widen, and--

And he sneezes. Loud enough that it stops one of the PTO from speaking. And then again, and again. Four times, each louder than the last, before he snuffles, rubbing at his nose.

Kashima stares. “Are you okay?”

With as much gravitas as a man covered in sakura can manage, Kamitani says, “Shut up.”

“Niichan!” Kotaro’s loud enough that the speaker stumbles again in his speech, casting a wary glance down at 3-C. “Up.”

“Well...” Kashima wavers.

“He’s going to do it.” Yagi’s chin hovers at her shoulder, entirely too close. “I can tell.”

So could a blind man, but she’d rather fail an exam than be caught agreeing with a boy like him. “Can’t you sit in your own seat?”

“I--”

He’s yanked back into his chair, Nezu’s weary face behind him. “Sorry.”

“I suppose just this once...” Kashima’s voice weaves threadily to her ears, and she catches him just as he lowers his arms, clasping Kotaro beneath his own. “It would be fine...”

“Tch,” Kamitani clucks. “Spoiled.”

The first years file into the halls, fresh faced and eager; Yagi flags down the advanced class, gesturing for them to line up by the wall. A few girls are already whispering behind their hands, casting speculative looks toward the president, giggling when he sends a curious glance their way.

Maria sighs, smoothing down her skirt. “I don’t know why you wanted me to do this.”

“You’re the top ranking student in our class,” Yagi reminds her with the infuriating calmness that got him elected as class rep in year one. “Who else would be better to introduce them to the academy’s advanced course?”

Someone who knew how to talk in front of crowds for one. And maybe one who was good at school, instead of someone who was just good at studying. She doubted any of these children would be pleased to hear that her advice for their secondary school education was to eschew all social bonds and dedicate themselves to study guides.

“See?” Maria longs for Nezu to appear, if only to remove the temptation of throttling the class president in front of his new crop of aspiring fan club members. “You can’t think of anyone else, can you?”

The girls along the wall stare at them, inquisitive, and Maria sighs. “I could if I was better with names.”

Yagi smiles. Her fists clenches at her side reflexively. “But you aren’t, so let’s say I’m right.”

The doors swing open again, bringing a burst of cherry blossoms to litter the floor as another class tromps through. This time it’s third years, and Maria catches a glimpse of bristled black and tousled brown before one of the girls whispers, “See, there he is.”

Ah, so even the Prince isn’t enough to hold a first year’s attention. Maria smooths out the twitching corner of her mouth, turning to address the girl--

“I made him a bento once,” she tells her friends proudly, flicking at the loose bun wound over her shoulder. “He even said ‘hi.’“

Maria’s mouth thins. “It would be best if you all waited quietly. This is an academic institution, not a-- a--” she wishes she was better at improvisation-- “group date.”

The girls simply stare, slack-mouthed, as if it’s some superhuman feat to hear them nattering only a meter away.

“Ah, Inomata-san,” Yagi laughs awkwardly, “I think we can be a little more understanding. This is only their--”

“Inomata?” The ringleader shrills, fists riding high on her hips. “You’re Inomata Maria?”

She’s half tempted to say, That would be Inomata-senpai, but she restrains herself to a choked, “Yes.”

The girl steps out of line; she’s shorter than her, but with the sort of length in her limbs that said this height was temporary. “I’m Inui Mika, and I am your rival.”

She huffs, marching back to the wall. Folding her arms across her chest sulkily.

“Rival?” Yagi blinks, swiveling to stare at her. “What’s that all about?”

“I...” Her mouth works, useless. “I wish I knew.”

“Can you believe it?” Yuki’s knees knock hers as she presses close; only Maria’s steady hand keeps her bento from spilling right off her lap. “Kashima-kun really let Kotaro sit on his lap the whole ceremony.”

Only half, but the distinction seems pedantic when the truth is just as terrible. “I can.”

Spoiled, Kamitani said, like he always did. Maria hesitated to agree with any opinion that was so quickly followed by a slap, but in this case--

Well, a third year letting his brother sit in his lap the whole ceremony, no matter how cute and how small said brother was, wasn’t precisely well-adjusted. Not that Kamitani was either, but it wouldn’t be the first time she took words from his mouth with a grain of salt. She had a terrible suspicion it wouldn’t be the last.

A pensive sigh slips from her as her chopsticks pluck at a ribbon of omelette. Still, it was cute. Part of Kashima’s charm was his closeness with Kotaro; other girls might talk about the boyishness of his face, or the sweetness of his voice, but Maria watches his gentleness, the soft way he speaks to his brother, and it makes her think of what he might be like with her--

Children, of course. Their children. Not that she thinks about them having children, but even if she did that would be-- normal. Girls did that with boys they...felt affection for. She certainly didn’t want him to treat her like Kotaro. That would be...weird. And unlike the both of them, she already had parents. She didn’t need...that.

“Maria-chan,” Yuki starts thoughtfully, mercifully saving her from herself. “I have an idea.”

Maria is a terrible friend.

She knows this intrinsically, the same way she knew at age six that no matter how many hours she put into practicing, piano would be a waste of her time and her parent’s yen. After two whole years of halting progress, she shows just as much aptitude at friendship as she did at piano-- ever taking two steps forward one day to slide back ten the next. Still, she has no intention of giving it up wholesale, like she did with her dreams of being a musical prodigy-- oh no, if some people are content to plunk out the melody of a song or two, tripping over notes they’ve lost the memory of, she can do the same with this.

Just as some people are made for concertos and duets, some are made for the deep, abiding friendships that Yuki’s shojo manga bloom with-- and Maria is made to study. In everything else she can just...dabble.

But Maria is a terrible friend. She knows this because the moment Yuki-- the closest thing she has to one of those shojo manga friendships-- utters I have an idea, her attention wrenches instantly, irrevocably away from listening.

Instead, she thinks about universities. About whether it would be better to attend one of the more prestigious ones in Tokyo, the ones that opened doors in countries around the world but required her to rent an apartment; or stay closer to home so she could save up her money, maybe find a place to move to right after graduation. Her mother said they wanted to send her to a good school, a convenient shorthand for far away with how many kilometers it was to the city, but most of those entrance exams would be competitive, and if she wanted to get an edge on the applicants from the cities--

“Maria-chan. Maria-chan.”

“Ah...” She blinks, her attention dragging down to see Yuki’s cheeks impatiently puff. Kirin made the same expression when Kumatsuka-san told her that giraffe-kun wouldn’t be able to attend yochien with her. “Y-yes?”

“Maria-chan,” Yuki hums, danger in every note. “Are you not listening?”

She should lie. It’s not what she’s comfortable with-- it makes her skin itch to contemplate it, to think about cobbling together the conversation from what few words sifted through the tangled layers of her thoughts. But it would be the kind thing to do; a little white lie to smooth ruffled feathers.

“No,” she admits instead, shame burning the tips of her ears. “I was thinking about entrance exams.”

Yuki’s chopsticks had been pinched around a choice chunk of pickled daikon, but it drops, rolling into her rice. “Entrance exams? Those aren’t until December!”

“W-well, if I want to take some for the universities in Tokyo, I should start planning now,” Maria sputters, knees squeezing tight beneath her bento box. “There’s always a lot of people taking those exams, and they have a reputation of being grueling--”

“Maria-chan,” Yuki says with infinite patience. “We haven’t even been third years for a day, and you’re already thinking about university.”

She’s been thinking about university since she was four years old with very little break. Maria hardly sees the point in stopping now when it matters more. “Is there something else I should be thinking about instead?”

Her tone is supposed to imply the question is rhetorical-- Usaida had made her practice that at the beginning of second year, when he discovered that what he thought was her wry tone was actually earnestly inquisitive, and he had crowed, this will cause so many misunderstandings in a way that seemed more eager than concerned-- but neither literature nor rhetoric has ever been Yuki’s strongest subject. She lights up instead, like Shibuya just before dusk, knees rattling the lunch sprawled precariously on her thighs.

“Yes!” There’s trouble in the way she sighs-- no, worse. Romance. “Have you noticed? The trees are blossoming.”

She’d certainly noticed Kamitani sneezing all morning; first at assembly, and then again when she’d passed by 3-C for...reasons. It’d been impossible to miss all the petals she’d collected as well, threaded through her hair and hidden in the folds of her skirt, spattering the ground whenever she moved enough to dislodge one.

But that’s...not what Yuki is talking about. “It’s...spring?”

“Right, exactly!” Her mouth spreads wide as if Maria’s said something brilliant, instead correctly identifying a season. Even Taka could do that. “Don’t you think we should have a flower viewing party?”

We. The word still trips her up when Yuki says it. We, as in a unit. We, because they are friends.

“A hanami?” Her mind skips to that first year, to the way Yuki and her friends crowded around her, her phone buzzing in her hands, changing into their friends. Expanding her contacts beyond just Mom and Dad into a scrolling list of -chans, turning it from a filial tether to the phone of a regular teenage girl, one who received LINEs that weren’t just about when she was expected to be home. Even now she remembers it; the first day she actually felt like a normal girl.

“Like last year?” she says when her silence has gone on too long, Yuki’s hopeful eyes already taking on a desperate shine.

“No! Well, maybe a little.” Yuki’s bento rattles with her restless energy. “I’d want our girls of course--” there she goes, ours, like Maria belongs to them too, instead of being suffered the way she always has been before-- “but not just them.”

Maria frowns. “Who else is there?”

“Oh, you know. Other people.” Yuki twiddles her chopsticks between her fingers, pinker by the moment. “Ah, maybe...Ebizawa-kun seems nice? Or, ah, Saginuma-kun? Or, um...”

Her jaw drops, hand slamming her bento shut. “Yuki-chan, do you mean boys?”

“You don’t have to say it like that!” she yelps, clapping her hands to her cheeks. “I just meant that they’re also our classmates. It makes sense that we might--”

“Is this--” Maria draws in a steeling breath-- “a group date?”

Yuki’s silence is damning.

“I don’t have time for foolishness like that,” she announces sternly. “Boys are a waste of time.”

“Maria-chan!” Yuki’s mouth purses, her eyebrows drawing down like a storm cloud. “This is our last year of koukou. After this we’ll be--” her voice drops, ominous-- “adults.”

Legally, perhaps, although culturally two years shy, but if Usaida-san is any indication, either line is more technicality than a natural law.

Yuki seizes her hands, pressing them between her palms, warmth seeping through the spring’s chill. “We have to make the most of our last days of youth! We have to--” her eyes tear with earnest emotion-- “to squeeze the last of its sweet nectar onto our tongues and savor the taste.”

Her words are too professionally composed to be anything but a quote; the kind whispered by women in novels, attributed to the Hundred Poets-- but Maria high suspects this one is from a manga. “And just how are we supposed to do that?”

“Uh.” Yuki squirms, palms clenching hers like she might absorb the reason through their skin. “A hanami?”

Maria is no expert on how to drink the last of anything’s sweet nectar, but that sounds a little thin, even to her.

“Or,” Yuki squeaks, “maybe getting boyfriends?”

She bolts upright; the last of her bento clatters to the brick below, ejected neatly from her lap. It draws more than a few curious looks her way, girls bending over to whisper behind hands, just like they always did. Even with the wind stealing every word, she knows what they must be saying-- what’s wrong with her? Why does Inomata-san act so strange? It’s because she is! She’s just a little study robot that doesn’t know how to be human.

“Count me out!” She scowls, stooping down to pick up the scattered remains of her lunch. Rice sticks to her fingers as she mutters, “I don’t care about things like that.”

Her bento teeters on the bench, and when she glances up to steady it, Yuki looks dangerously thoughtful.

“You know, Maria-chan,” she begins, too innocent. “We could invite Kashima-kun, too.”

She nearly drops the bento again. “W-what does that matter to me?” she shrills, jolting to her feet, box clutched to her chest. Thankfully, she remembered the lid. “Y-you can invite whoever you want! It has nothing to do with me!”

Yuki stares at her with such pity, she’s almost ashamed. “Oh, Maria-chan...”

“W-what?” This would be so much easier if her skin wasn’t so eager to betray her, if she could just stop burning every time someone muttered something even like his name. “It’s true! I don’t-- he’s not-- I’m not--”

“It’s okay.” A hand gently touches hers, Yuki’s sad smile greeting her as she peers down. “You’re not over him.”

Maria opens her mouth, protest flung from her throat like a reflex-- and she catches it between her teeth. With a sigh, she slumps to the bench. “I don’t remember you getting over him either.”

Only a few weeks ago she’d been sobbing at the academy’s gate, clutching the metal bars and wailing about how she was running out of time, how the end of this year meant she only had one more before she’d never see him again. Unless somehow she found a way into the same university, or she applied to the same place where he worked, or if she just happened to find out his address from a newspaper article, talking about his accomplishments--

And now Yuki only heaves a worldly sigh. “I can’t dedicate my whole youth to one man, Maria-chan.”

Yuki’s voice has always been pretty, light and fluty and easy, the way boys like. But it drops deeper now, humming in her chest, and for the first time Maria hears a woman’s voice, the one she might grow into with a few years under her feet. Kamitani-sensei always said failed romance gave a girl character, and she sees it now in the way Yuki’s jaw settles, determined and new, and the wistful flutter of her eyes. She’s always been pretty-- always will be pretty-- but now she’ll be striking as well, and--

And then she mutters, “Especially when he’ll never notice me.”

When Maria sighs, half of it is in relief. Yuki will always be Yuki, and that new scorned woman part of her-- well, that’ll keep until they’re actually women.

If their positions were reversed, Yuki would seize her hands, folding Maria’s too-large ones up in her perfectly dainty ones. Stars would shine in her eyes, and her mouth would spin the world’s most perfect confections of comfort: never give up, she might say, or one day he’ll look right at you and see how amazing you really are, or maybe even, I’m sure he already sees you, Maria-chan, how could he not?

But Maria’s never been Yuki. She could never be Yuki, because all that comes to mind now is, there’s no reason to worry about boys when grades are so much more important. How could she possibly be any comfort when it had taken her a year and change to realize that fluttery, awful feeling in her stomach when she even glimpsed a hair on Kashima’s head wasn’t her usual, jittery anxiety that dogged her in every social situation. No, it was something different, something even more terrible and debilitating: a crush.

She could throw up just thinking about it. Lucky Yuki that she managed to escape.

“So you like someone else now?” she asks, since it seems like the polite thing to do.

Yuki blushes, a pretty dusting of pink on the apples of her cheeks. Maria’s certain she’s never managed one like it in her life. “Ah, no, not yet. But any day now, I’m sure! There’s a lot of cute boys in our class.”

“Ah.” She taps her fingers on the brushed metal of her bento. “So that’s why you want to invite, er, Ebinuma-kun, and, um-- Seri-- Sagi--?”

“Ebizawa-kun and Saginuma-kun,” Yuki corrects gently, giddiness making the names bobbing and buoyant in the air between them. “And maybe? I don’t know them all that well, and it might be nice to get to know a few, see if any of them, mm...catch my eye?”

It’s not impossible-- statistically, it’s even probable-- but despite all these passionate protests, Maria knows: Yuki will measure every boy she meets against a Kashima-sized measuring stick, and it doesn’t take an abundance of sense to know she’ll always find them lacking.

“But look on the bright side, Maria-chan! We’re no longer rivals!” Yuki’s smile is so bright, so earnest she can’t bear to remind her they never were, not really. Just two soldiers trapped in the same trench. “I can truly cheer you on, no matter who you choose.”

Maria is no expert in romance, and even less in love, but she’s pretty certain there’s nothing even close to choice involved. If there was, she wouldn’t have chosen to like anyone, let alone someone as hopeless as Kashima.

“Well, if that’s the case,” she says firmly, “I choose to study.”

Yuki heaves a weary sigh. “Oh, Maria-chan, if only you could study to get a boyfriend, then you’d be the most popular girl in school.”

[sabraeal]

Okie! For the fic questions I was wondering 1) what fic(s) do you find difficult to write? 2) What fic(s) do you enjoy writing or have the most fun with? 3) Any Au’s you would wish to do in the future or have thoughts on? :3 Hope these ore okie!

1) what fic(s) do you find difficult to write?

All That Remains because of the structure; Truth in Masquerade because there are wheels within wheels when it comes to the political intrigue; both Get Up Eight and Go For Broke because of all the historical research I have to do PLUS the distinct voice each of them needs. They are all extremely rewarding to update as well as to write, but those chapters always take FOREVER

2) What fic(s) do you enjoy writing or have the most fun with?

SO MANY. Desert & Reward is generally just me chortling to myself as I write, knowing all the twists to come and how much I'm gonna get yelled at; I'm always full of ideas for Wide Florida Bay, and between the satisfaction of getting them out and its beloved reception every time, I love working on it; In Plain Sight and We Seek That Which We Shall Not Find tend to just be extremely quick drafts (despite the size of the latter), it's all the comedy of errors that I just enjoy writing; The Most Perverse Creature in the World is the closest I really get to doing original fiction while writing fic, and I get to do a smattering of slow burn and political intrigue without the heaviness of my bigger political fics; I've recently had a HUGELY fun time writing Documented for Posterity-- it's that disaster attraction plus Suzu's ridiculously fun voice that really makes that one; and don't speak boyshit has been a recent job to peck away at, even if it takes me 3 drafts to get the voices right.

3) Any Au’s you would wish to do in the future or have thoughts on?

I'm constantly talking about how much i'd like to do an obiyuki Ao Haru Ride AU, and I'm sure there's only about a thousand others I can't think of off the top of my head...or at least are so far off from being ready to poke at that I don't want to get up hopes 😂 I'd really love a chance to go back and write both the Practical Magic AU and the Swan Princess AU from the beginning.

I also have just about a BILLION ideas for hakuouki as well-- I'd really love to do an ill-advised long term project that is an AU where some of the internal logic of canon is fixed-- Chizuru has the demon strength, the blood stuff makes more sense, etc-- but I'm definitely going to finish a few other things first 😂 I'd also love to do a post-SSL Yamachi route, which is, I guess, a technical AU since it's an official AU of hakuouki canon...or maybe even trying to do an urban fantasy version of SSL. WHO KNOWS. I've run my mouth off a lot during the steam on this one, I'm sure Joanna has a LIST of things I said I'd do