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sabraeal · 5 months

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If the Mind Is Willing, Chapter 5

[Read on AO3]

Written for @bubblesthemonsterartist, who long ago won the top prize of my 500 Followers raffle way back in 2018. These were all supposed to be done in the few months I had before I gave birth to my second son...who is now less than two months away from his fifth birthday. And in a few weeks, I will be posting the beginning of my 1000 Followers celebration. So you know. Better late than never

His fingers flex before they settle on the keyboard, a cacophony of cracks that would set his mother’s teeth on edge if she heard them. Not that she’d scold him; oh no, Yamazaki would just find a new bottle on his desk after school, some brown glass container— not plastic, never plastic; things like that were made from oil and oil has chemicals, and no matter how often he explain that all things are made of chemicals, even her all-natural essential oils, it would never take— that would say ‘Susu’s Supplements’ complete with a smiling face. Nearly four years out of the house and his shoulders twitch just thinking about it, ready to hike up around his ears at the first whisper of homeopathy.

Instead, Yamazaki rotates them, points angling from inward to outward, forcing his shoulders square and spine straight. Head over heart, heart over pelvis. A straight line from crown to coccyx. Already the muscles ache, longing to hunch— too many hours at a screen, his mother would say, we’re meant to hunt and gather, not hunt and peck. Lips pressed tight, he tilts his head, popping his neck for good measure. One side, then the other. There’s an order to these things, a ritual, and he’s in no mood to rush himself.

But he’s fast running out of joins to crack, excuses wearing thin as he twists his spine, then flexes his feet. A few satisfying pops press them flat to the floor, and he bites the bullet: inbox open, his outstanding draft unfurls across the screen.

Re: Re: Re: Final Grades Deadline, the subject line reads, and with delicate precision, Yamazaki types: Dr. Matsumoto, I hope you are enjoying your time back in Japan with your family, however—

Orange flashes at the corner of his eye. It’s the messenger, wedged tight between tabs on his task bar. Out of the way. Easy enough to ignore.

—however, it’s come to my attention that—

It’s silent, that’s the problem. Just a block of color that won’t go away until he clicks it. And a small 1 in the corner of it, letting him know it’s a direct message. That someone is looking specifically for him. And it won’t go away, not until he pays it some sort of attention.

—that there are still students for whom grades have not yet been—

Not that he has to. If it was urgent, if he was needed, anyone with that information could simply call him. This email, however, is time sensitive. Time oversensitive, if he really thinks about it. Which he’s trying to not, if only so he can finish it.

—not yet been finalized with administration. If there are any changes you would like to make, tomorrow is the last time to—

He could swear it’s flashing now, the number flicking up to 2, then 3. Like message after message is careening into his DMs, a pileup of personal correspondence he’ll only be able to sort through the wreckage of if this takes any longer.

—tomorrow is the last time to submit electronically. Anything after that will have to be manually changed by—

It’s a trick of the eye, an illusion of increased frequency. It blinks at the same rate for one message as it does for one hundred. His palms break out into a sweat. It would be so easy for 3 to flip to 4, for 4 to suddenly become 9+, and he’ll never know just how many messages are waiting for him, how many people are waiting for him until he finishes this damned email.

—stopping by the administration office in-person. Please let me know if you need any assistance with the electronic submissions.

Relief bows him over the keyboard, and with a quick flourish, he tacks on, Best, Yamazaki.

One last click sends the message on its way, that particular problem no longer his responsibility— until Dr Matsumoto inevitably makes it his— and he turns his attention down to the current object of his ire. The application flicks open, and—

[Saito.Hajime] Souji has sent me a number of Direct Messages regarding the creation of his character for our upcoming roleplaying event I thought you should be made aware

“Oh,” Yamazaki mutters, tension already flooding his shoulders. “Come on.”

[Susumu Yamazaki] Oh? Is that so? Color me surprised. Just what did he want to inquire about? Perhaps whatever character concept would be personally inconvenient for me to have to deal with on short notice? Maybe he’d like to be the emperor? Or a lizard person? A lizard-person emperor?

[Saito.Hajime] I do not believe his is taking into account your level of discomfort Though he did inquire about the non-human options open to him

[Susumu Yamazaki] Of course he did.

[Saito.Hajime] Also, I do not think the Zokujin are available as a player race Not in the current edition of the rules

[Susumu Yamazaki] No. They’re not.

[Saito.Hajime] However I did take the liberty of discouraging him from looking further into the Kitsune Impersonator school

Yamazaki grinds the heels of his palms over his eyes, fireworks splaying across the dark. The last thing he needs is letting Okita loose in a room full of roleplayers extremely sensitive to ridicule with a skill called ‘Fanning the Flames’.

[Susumu Yamazaki] Good. I would like to be invited back to the next event. So what does he want? There has to be some catch. There’s no way he’d be happy creating a character using just the core rules.

[Saito.Hajime] He asked if it was possible to acquire some information on his clan of choice There was not much present in the books we made available during character creation

[Susumu Yamazaki] 1) How would he know? He wasn’t even there? 2) The Player’s Guide has a sufficient overview of all the available Great Clans. Which one could he possibly have trouble finding information on?

[Saito.Hajime] Souji was interested in learning more about specific aspects of the Cat Clan

His teeth grit so hard he can feel the fault lines forming. Tell him, he types, pecking each key with relish, to go fuck himself. Each stroke feels good, feels perfect, up until he hits the backspace.

[Susumu Yamazaki] Leave it to Okita to pull something like this. Cat Clan isn’t even one of the listed options for play in 5th edition! Guy doesn’t even bother to show up to our planned group session, but now he wants to ask us to jump through additional hoops to help him create a character from a niche clan for the *meme*or whatever he’s on about now.

[Saito.Hajime] To know it is even an option means that he at least read the material we provided That conveys a certain level of personal investment on his part More than I would have expected Souji to show

[Susumu Yamazaki] Really? You don’t think that he just went, ‘I like cats. I think I’ll say I want to be a cat and see whether or not Yamazaki personally loses his shit about it?’

[Saito.Hajime] I think you are ascribing malicious intent where there is only indifference

[Susumu Yamazaki] Thanks. Definitely makes me feel good about all this.

[Saito.Hajime] Souji often masks his interest by attempting to be mocking or feigning disinterest

[Susumu Yamazaki] He’s also the kind of asshole who likes to take advantage of everyone’s better nature and pretend that he’s interested in something they care about, only to turn around and make a fucking joke out of it, like a total sociopath

[Saito.Hajime] If it bothers you to put in a sustained amount of effort to assist him in the event that he is ‘simply fucking around’ then I would be happy to help him on my own I would hate for him to be truly interested and refuse to engage with him over simple skepticism about his motives

[Susumu Yamazaki] Fine. It’s your time. I can’t stop you from wasting it.

[Saito.Hajime] Your concern is appreciated if not entirely warranted

“It’s just…” A hiss whistles through his teeth as his chair swivels, bringing him level with Saito’s level stare. “I don’t know why he’s even bothering to do this when he doesn’t even want to go. The other guys might be forcing him to go for” —to be honest, he’s not really clear on the reason, and at this point, he’s certain the answer will only aggravate him— “bonding purposes, or punishment, or whatever, but I don’t care if he puts in effort. He can feel free to have a bad time, it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

Saito tilts his head, thoughtful. “Is it really so hard to believe that Souji might enjoy the idea of pretending to be someone else, so long as it was in a structured, positive, and judgment-free environment?”

Yamazaki swivels back to his keyboard, mouth pulled thin as he types, Stop trying to make me feel bad for Okita. It’s not going to happen.

Saito glances over at his screen and lets out the smallest, nearly imperceptible sigh.

[Saito.Hajime] I do not expect you to

[Susumu Yamazaki] Am I just supposed to forget that he broke Ibuki’s arm? It wasn’t even a year ago! It’s not like he’s changed!

[Saito.Hajime] You are not often so intractable, but on this subject you do insist on itAnd I respect that you feel that way

He scowls at the screen, pulse throbbing just beneath his collar. I’m not being intractable. If it were anyone but Okita, none of you would even—

Knock. It’s a soft little noise at first, but enough to jar him from his thoughts and set his hands hovering over his keyboard. Knock-knock. Knock?

Okita. That’s who it has to be. Clearly using Saito as his proxy isn’t yielding the results he wants. No, now he’s got to come down and twist the screws himself. Got to saunter on over and drink the annoyance straight from the spigot. Because of course that’s who his evening would choose to shape itself around: the single person in this house he can’t stand. That’s what would make narrative sense, at least.

But as he swivels over to scowl at the door, it occurs to him that Okita might knock, but he wouldn’t bother to wait. He’d try the knob at least, rattling it so hard Yamazaki would hear it even through the noise-canceling on his headphones. But this is tentative, almost a question, and that, that seems more like—

“E-excuse me?” A voice filters through the wood, almost as soft as the knocks. “Y-yamazaki? Are you h—ah, in?”

“Ah…” Saito’s mouth curls at a corner, as close as he comes to a smile, and Yamazaki’s tongue trips over, “Y-yukimura? Is that you?”

“Um, yes! It is!” Her feet shuffle on the carpet, boards groaning with every shift. “Is it…? I mean, would it be okay if I came in?”

“Oh, ah…” He scrambles to his feet, scanning their floor in a desperate scan for contraband. They both keep their sides tidy, clothes in hampers and beds neatly tucked, but it would be just his sort of luck for her to come in and stumble over a pair of yesterday’s boxers. “Yes. Of course. Please.”

Saito’s brows raise as he takes his seat again, less surprised than amused, and Yamazaki has just enough presence of mind to hiss, “Don’t,” before the door slips open, Yukimura hesitantly insinuating herself through the gap. Her eyes fix on the toes of her slippers as if she could will them to stillness.

“Thank you for letting me—oh!” Her gaze flicks up, fluttering when it lands on the other occupant of this room. “Hajime, you’re here too!”

“I can leave,” Saito offers, far too quick. “If you would prefer to be alone.”

“Oh, no, not at all.” Yukimura’s cheeks had already been a pale pink when she shuffled in, but now they veer to a vibrant rose. “Actually, this might be better. Ah, I mean…I think. Not that I had planned to, um…”

It’s…sweet, the way she shuffles; one fluffy slipper scratching fruitlessly at the back of her ankle as she tries to wrangle her intentions into words. Yamazaki could watch her do it for hours, one bashful scratch after the other, but he takes mercy on her instead. “Did you need something, Yukimura?”

“Oh, um, yes!” That gets both feet back on the floor, spine so straight even his aches in sympathy. “It’s…the LARP. I thought we might talk about it, maybe?”

She’s changed her mind, that’s what this is about. After two hours of listening to all of them talk about clans and rings and whether a lion was really Toudou’s fursona, she’s finally realized that it’s just some silly kid’s game. It’s Yukimura, so she’ll dress the reason up, nice enough that even gilt might shine like gold, but that will be the long and short of it: it’s a childish little pretend game, and Yamazaki is a loser for liking it.

“Oh.” Might as well yank this bandaid off before it can bond to the skin. “Sure. Of course. Why don’t you, er…take a seat?”

His hand sweeps out before he completes the crucial mental math needed to know: there’s only two chairs in this room, and him and Saito are sitting in both of them. He jumps to his feet, offer already on his lips, but—

But Yukimura simply smooths her skirt over her thighs, settling down on top of his comforter in a way that is…distracting. To say the least. And it’s not made any better with Saito’s eyes boring into his back.

“Oh, um, is this okay?” Her eyelashes flutter uncertainly, gaze darting from him to the door to his seat and then back again. Enough time to realize he’s staring like some sort of idiot. “If you’d prefer that I move, I don’t mind st—?”

“No! It’s—it’s fine. I wouldn’t even mind if you…” Slept on it. His teeth snap shut around the words. That’s not exactly the sort of suggestion a teaching assistant should be giving a student, even if the class had run its course. “Make yourself at home.”

“Ah…” Her smile stretches thin. “…Thank you.”

Despite the invitation, she’s rigid, a wary little statue perched at the edge of his mattress. Her heels hook on the frame, hands pressed tight over her kneecaps, bent like she’s ready to spring, to hop off at the slightest hint of his displeasure. Gargoyle, Okita might call her, savoring the nasty flavor of the insult— or at least he would until Saito hummed, without a spout for water flow, she’d really only be a grotesque.

But Yukimura isn’t here to emulate architectural features. No, she’s here to let him down gently, even if it seems she could use some assistance doing so.

“Ah, Yukimura…” Yamazaki clears his throat, forcing the bile back down to his stomach, where it belongs. “You know, if you aren’t interested in participating in the event, it’s all right. You won’t be hurting anyone’s feelings.”

The amount of personal disappointment Saito can pack into a single cluck of his tongue would give his mom a run for her money. But if guilt is the target he’s aiming for, Saito misses it by a mile; instead, Yamazaki’s annoyed. Here he is trying to smother the sickening free fall of rejection, not letting a single twitch of it show on his face or the slightest tinge color his tone, and somehow it’s not enough. That somehow by refusing to push her, he’s letting everyone down, and—

“No, that’s not— I don’t mean that at all!” Yukimura waves her hands, as if that alone might clear his misunderstanding. “It’s the opposite. I mean, if there is an…um…opposite for something like this. It’s just…I know what I want to do! But I wanted to talk to you about it first. Oh, ah” —her gaze darts behind him, to where Saito sits— “the two of you, I mean. Since both of you will, um…”

She shrugs, helpless, but Yamazaki can hardly help her. It’s taking all he has to just gape, to parse that not only does she want to come with them, but she has a…a concept. A character she wants to play, one that’s complicated enough she wants his input, and he’ll look stupid if he pinches himself, but that’s the only way he could possibly prove he’s awake.

So it’s Saito that chimes in with, “Of course, Yukimura. We would be happy to provide whatever assistance you need.”

“Oh, really?” She perks where she’s perched, mouth as round as her eyes. “That’s…good! Great, even.”

“So, what are you thinking?” It’s a struggle to keep his excitement from tugging on his words, dragging them out of his register like an overeager puppy. “I know you hadn’t made up your mind when we were all working on characters, so—”

“Ah, actually…” Her shoulders round, barely obscuring the shy pink spread over her cheeks. “I, er, sort of knew what I wanted to do then, but I just…I thought that maybe it wouldn’t be okay? So I tried to come up with something else, but…”

But this is what she wants to do. What she really wants, because she has an opinion about it. She cares what she plays. It’s terrible how much he likes that about her.

“Anything you want would be fine,” he rushes to assure her, too breathless. “There’s very few things that aren’t allowed.”

At least, things Yukimura might think to do. When Saito finally strong-arms him into give the same talk to Okita, there would need to be more than a few caveats. Strictures, even.

Saito nods.“The event organizers are quite open to most concepts their players create. If you have conceived of something outside the usual bounds of play, I’m sure they would be happy to work with you to—”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing— nothing like that.” The look that filters up through her lashes is shy, hopeful even as her head ducks against her shoulder, as if she’s bracing for a blow. “I just…I thought…I mean, it was really Kimigiku who said it first, but I think I agree that it would be, ah, best if I made a character that would give me an excuse to stay near more experienced players, since I’m, you know, new, and, um, not really good at acting yet, and, ah…?”

“Ah! Excellent idea, Yukimura. There are plenty of well-established players that enjoy teaching newer ones.” Shimada would be an obvious choice— he’d been the one to take him under his wing, shinobi-to-shinobi, back when Yamazaki first joined— though his steely Hiruma scout was a difficult sell for companionship. Enomoto too, though as an organizer, it would be hard to say if he’d be playing his Kitsuki investigator or a more plot-bearing role. “Do you think if I were to email Ootori now, he might be able to get us a list of—?”

Saito clears his throat, pointed. “I think Yukimura might already have some idea of what mentors she would prefer.”

“Oh…?” Yamazaki glances at her, catching the quick bob of her head. “Ah, sorry! I didn’t think you knew anyone but Saito and myself. But if there’s someone else…?”

He hardly thinks he’s earned the weary glare Saito slings his way. At least until Yukimura stutters out, “It’s just…I thought…?” Her eyes dart between the two of them, brow pinched tight over her nose. “I thought maybe…I might play the, um…daimyo’s daughter? If that’s okay, that is.”

For as acute as his hearing is, Yamazaki cannot have possibly heard that right. “…Excuse me? Which…?”

“The, uh…Crane Clan princess.” Her lips purse, thoughtful. Too thoughtful, really, when he can’t even knock two brain cells together to get a spark. “Or I guess she’s not really a princess, but…um…?”

“The Doji daimyo’s daughter,” Saito says, devastatingly even. “The one that Yamazaki and I are sworn to protect.”

“Yes!” She smiles so bright she can’t possibly understand what she’s asking. “That way I’ll have a reason for sticking close to you two!”

He can only stare, mouth working useless at a muffled, “W-what?”

“Oh, I just…I didn’t want to impose on you two by making some new character and forcing you both to shoehorn her in to accommodate me. But I…” Her hands flutter, flustered under his gaping gaze. “I could do that, if…if that’s better? Or I mean, you don’t have to do anything for me at all, I could just, um…?”

“What?” Yamazaki asks again, slightly louder. “Do you really want to…? I mean, the daimyo’s daughter…?”

“Yes! Unless it would be a problem?” Her teeth worry at her bottom lip, and— and he can see it now, the pucker of red that would be painted over it, bright against the white of her teeth. Heat flares up his neck, head ringing with sudden rush of blood flooding over his ear drums. “Ah, I didn’t even ask if there was someone already playing her character! There probably is. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed—!”

“There isn’t,” he blurts out, more exorcism than information. God, what he wouldn’t give for a good slap, just to rattle his brain back into working order. He’s never been one to believe in percussive maintenance, but he’ll make an exception, just this once “She’s just…just lore.”

“In my opinion, it’s the perfect solution.” Saito’s mouth lifts at a corner, practically a smile. “As expected from you, Yukimura.”

“O-oh.” Hands clap to her cheeks, but it does nothing to cover how pink floods her from collar to hairline. “It’s nothing, really. I wouldn’t have even asked if Sen and Kimigiku hadn’t told me I should.”

“It is a good idea.” He means the words as he says them, and yet somehow he can’t help but add, “It’s just…I don’t see why a daimyo’s daughter would be following around a shinobi. Her father pressed him into another service nearly three years ago, so why would she…?”

Care. That’s the crux of it. For all that hime-sama had meant to him, a shinobi is eta, less than a person, worth no more than the dirt at the bottom of her slipper. That she had even deigned to notice him was proof of her generous nature, but to care for him beyond what a girl does for her most loyal hound, enough that she would risk herself and the reputation of her family to come to his side? That could be no more than a fantasy, a story he might tell himself in the last moments before death claimed him, and she—

“Kimigiku had a good idea for that too, actually.” Yukimura’s tremulous smile finds its footing, growing more eager with each word. “What if there was someone who was after her? An assassin, or maybe…some other clan who would like to hold her ransom? That way she’d have a good reason to be in disguise.”

“Disguised?” Saito settles back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “As a kunoichi? Or as someone else?”

“Kuno…?” Yukimura blinks, turning those guileless eyes onto him.

“A female shinobi. Er, ninja, I guess.” He raises his hand, but there’s no bag to tug, no strap to hold onto while he flounders. Instead he has to settle for his collar, the echo of his mother’s voice clucking, keep that up and you’ll stretch the darn thing out. It only makes him tug harder. “Mechanically, there’s no difference. It’s just, uh…flavor, I guess.”

“Oh.” Her mouth rounds into a perfect circle. “Then I guess…no? I thought that— well, Kimigiku thought that it might make more sense if I…ah, I mean, since she has been traveling by herself, that she might be trying to pass herself off as a boy?”

It’s the perfect idea, slotting right into the extensive backstory they’d hashed out three years ago— adventurous hime-sama, separated from her two most stalwart protectors just as the pillars of the Doji clan shook beneath the weight of an ailing emperor. A daimyo’s daughter gone missing in the chaos of the capital, right when her marriage would legitimize either of his son’s claims.

Silence stretches between them, long enough it starts to buzz, to ring. Like static, only interrupted by the ragged pull of his breath, and the relentless pounding of his heart.

“You…?” His tongue tangles, mouth too dry to right itself properly in his mouth. “That’s…?”

“Very clever, Yukimura.” A corner of Saito’s mouth lifts, spreading into the faintest smile, and— ah, of course he’d enjoy this, the sadist. It’s not like it’s his heart trying to escape through his rib cage. “Quite impressive.”

A blush flares across the highest arches of her cheeks. “Oh, it’s not me that…I mean, it was really Kimigiku who thought of everything. She even had a costume I could borrow, if I wanted. Do you want me to show you?”

Against all reason, Saito’s brows lift, and it’s all the encouragement Yukimura needs to fish through her pockets, pulling out a slender screen covered in cherry blossoms. She scrolls, excitement practically palpable, and yet all Yamazaki can stumble out is a “But…?”

“It’s a good hook.” Saito gaze darts toward him, pointed. “A very good one.”

Meaning: Ootori’s going to love it. With the emperor barely clinging to his mortal coil, a conflict between his sons would be imminent. The reappearance of Doji Hogyoku’s prodigal daughter at a secret meeting in support of the youngest imperial son would cause the exact sort of political upheaval that man salivates over, and all he has to do is sign off on a player’s participation. The fact that it would create a good amount of personal drama for Yamazaki in particular— well, that would just be the cherry on his sadist sundae.

“I know it is,” he snaps, shoulders hiking up to his ears. God, the smile that’s sure to spread over that cherubic face— it gives him shivers just thinking about it. “It’s just…”

He’ll never live it down. For hime-sama to show up— no, for her to arrive in his care, a personal friend he’s allowed to take her roll—

“O-oh.” Yukimura’s hands fall to her lap, grip limp where they wrap around her phone. “I’m sorry. I’m overstepping, aren’t I?”

That’s exactly what she’s not doing, but his head’s too scrambled to say so, not before her shoulders round, framing a rueful smile. “It’s really okay if you don’t want me to play her, Yamazaki. I know she’s really important to you. I can just come up with—“

“No! No.” His hand flies, like he could somehow physically stop her from running off with the wrong idea. “That’s really not it at all. Saito’s right, it’s a great idea. I’ve already, uh…”

He’s not sure what’s worse: the hopeful look Yukimura gives him as he stammers to a stop, curiosity shining out of every eyelash— or the casual way Saito kicks his chair, dislodging what he’d hoped he could keep to himself. “I’ve already played around with a potential build for her. I’ll, ah…email it to you.”

Saito’s glare burns where it bores into his neck, but he can stare all he wants; Yukimura doesn’t need to know how long this character sheet has sat on his hard drive, unused. Never meant to be used, not unless Ootori asked for it, the metatextual third member of the Crane Clan trio, the one both of their characters had been built around. The one whose absence left them less than whole.

And now here is Yukimura, squinting at her screen, about to fill it.

“Oh.” Her eyes pulse wide, scrolling through the overview. “You’ve filled out the whole thing!”

“I don’t expect you to use it! I mean, not as-is, if you don’t want to.” He shifts his squirming into a shrug, not casual enough to be normal. “You can do whatever you like, it’s just, ah…someplace to start. If you want it.”

“I do!” Yukimura’s smile peeks out from behind her screen, the sun emerging from behind the clouds, and an inconvenient warmth rolls through him from head to toe. “I mean, I have a couple of ideas that I thought I might want to use, but this…this is super helpful. It must have been so much work.”

“Less than you’d think,” he manages, faintly. “I’m glad it helps.”

She nods, emphatic. “It really does. Do you think I could take a couple minutes to look through this on my own, and then maybe…?”

There’s uncertainty in the way she lifts her gaze, a hesitation in the way her voice rises, as if she’s waiting for someone to finish the thought— and it’s not until his chair jolts under him, aided by the firm application of Saito’s foot, that Yamazaki realizes that it’s supposed to be him.

“Ah!” The sound slips through his teeth long before he’s composed an acceptable interjection, but now she’s looking at him, expectant, and the pressure alone squeezes out, “Did you want me to help you, Yukimura?”

It’s worth it for the way her whole face lights, for the way her whole body pitches forward, eagerness leaking from every pore. “Yes! I mean, if that’s okay.” Her eyes dart over his shoulder, curious. “Do you mind?”

Saito shakes his head. “It would be our pleasure.”

“Great!” The sun itself couldn’t put out the wattage Yukimura does now, so bright Yamazaki nearly squints. Oh, he’s never going to live this one down. “Is after dinner okay?”

“Yeah,” he manages faintly as she springs to her feet. “Perfect.”

The door’s barely closed behind her before the pressure of Saito’s stare bores into him, the pregnant silence only honing his unspoken words to a point.

“I know,” he grunts, head falling back against his chair. “I know.”

“It’s a good idea,” Saito says after the world’s most judgmental pause. “I’m sure Ootori will feel the same.”

A groan filters through his fingers. “I know that too.”

“It will solve more than a few logistical issues this session’s agenda has presented.” Yamazaki hardly knows what’s worse: the ribbing he’s about to take from every player in their party, or the fact that Saito has done his own math on the matter, and whatever amount he’s derived has made his tone downright sympathetic. Gentle, even. “Her part would have to be filled sooner rather than later, and I would rather have it be someone of our own choosing, rather than having it assigned to one of the admin—”

“I know. I’m going to DM Ootori about it in a minute. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” For more reasons than logistics, but that’s the last thing he’s ready to hash out right now. Especially with someone whose personal philosophy is that all is fair in LARP and roleplay— as long as it’s interesting. “It’s just…”

There’s too much ‘just’ to make a tidy little list; so many it’s impossible to separate them from their Gordian snarl into discrete, presentable bullet points. So instead the silence stretches as he struggles, trying to cut it down to its most salient points, the ones that Saito might not only understand, but appreciate, and—

“Complicated?” Saito offers simply.

Yamazaki sighs. “Yeah. Really fucking complicated.”

[Susumu Yamazaki] If you have a moment.

[The1andOotori] for my favorite shinobi? any time

[Susumu Yamazaki] I wanted to update you on our progress with character building. Or rather, if one player wants to progress with one of their current concepts, I think it may require Story Master permission.

[The1andOotori] oh? intriguing if they’re your friends, Susumu, i’m sure that i’ll be happy to accommodate them the others have been just fine right? we were a little thin on lion clan people anyway good to have some more

[Susumu Yamazaki] Please reserve your praise until after I’ve explained their idea.

[The1andOotori] ominous! i like that in a concept anyway lay it on me. promise to react with suitable horror maybe even clutch my pearls

[Susumu Yamazaki] She is an inexperienced player and concerned with her ability to roleplay well with people she is unfamiliar with. So she wanted to pick a character that would allow her to stick close to more familiar and experienced players.

[The1andOotori] that’s pretty clever

[Susumu Yamazaki] She is.

[The1andOotori] so she wants to stick close to you and hajime? i think we can manage that did she have some idea of what she wanted to do?

[Susumu Yamazaki] She wants to be Doji Hogyoku’s daughter.

[The1andOotori] HIME-SAMA??? sorry, just surprised that’s…good with you?

[Susumu Yamazaki] Saito and I have agreed she would be an adequate player to embody her role.

[The1andOotori] wow okay yeah that’s fine wow it actually takes a load off my plate. we were going to have to cast her for this session marie already volunteered but i can tell her we got it covered wow

[Susumu Yamazaki] My friend can pick another role if you it would be too difficult for you to change plans now. I know this is short notice.

[The1andOotori] no no this is good i’d rather have hime-sama be someone you like

[Susumu Yamazaki] I’m sure Marie could also do an admirable job with hime-sama. If that would make things easier for you.

[The1andOotori] uh huh okay if you had your pick of hime-samas do you want marie or your friend?

[Susumu Yamazaki] …

[The1andOotori] no judgment. your choice

[Susumu Yamazaki] I think hime-sama’s personality would come more naturally to Chizuru.

[The1andOotori] there it is then i’ll want to talk to all of you after check-in Saito too i think you guys will be interested in what we’ve cooked up

Yamazaki doesn’t so much sit back in his chair as wither into it, hands clapping over his eyes. “There. I did it.”

A chair squeaks— Saito must be turning to him. “You’re going to have to tell her.”

His shoulders stiffen so fast they ache. “I can’t do that. It would be— be metagaming. She should only know what hime-sama knows.”

He’d also rather die than explain that particular bit of backstory to Yukimura, but he doubts Saito will find that as compelling an excuse.

When his hands tumble to his lap, like dying leaves from a tree, Saito is staring at him. “Who is to say she doesn’t?”

“Excuse me?” He straightens, righteousness flaring beneath his chest. “The Daodoji are circumspect. He would never let her think— no, not even let her suspect—”

“I understand,” Saito assured him. “But what if she hopes…?”

Yamazaki licks his lips, his mouth impossibly dry. “No. That’s not possible. She doesn’t…hime-sama thinks of him as her loyal retainer. And it will stay that way.”

“Unless Ootori changes that.” Saito gives him a pointed glance. “Or Yukimura.”

His heart flutters uselessly in his chest. ��She won’t.”

Saito hums, unconvinced. “I could tell her if you want.”

Yamazaki glares. “I certainly don’t!”

“Hm.” Oume settles back in her chair, a slender finger pressed against her pursed lips. “Cutting the deadline a little close this year, aren’t we, Mr Yamazaki?”

“Ah…” Yamazaki’s hand spasms around the strap of his bag, guilt pulling his polite smile thin. “Professor Matsumoto had a few contestations in progress before he left for Japan. I’m given to understand the thirteen hour difference made the process go…slower than either party liked.”

Oume gives him a look over her half-moon spectacles so eloquent the lit department could write a dozen papers about its themes and allusions without even scraping the surface of her meaning. She might be in Administration now, but fifteen years as the former provost’s personal assistant had left her fluent in the sort of subtlety that would make government agencies green with envy. "And that is why you are here, handing me a handful of grades on a…post-it?…at three forty-five?”

“Uh…” He swallows, neck so tight he’s half afraid he’ll gag on his own Adam’s apple. “Yes. But to be fair, I at least put it on a Large Note?”

Her finger twitches; the note’s struck across it, wide enough the stickum spans the whole length, delicate blue lines running in parallel. The movement angles it just enough to read his neatest print, each name and grade change logged with precision, and her mouth wobbles at a corner. “Whatever Ryojun pays you, it isn’t enough. You can tell him that, from me.”

He won’t— even an undergrad knows better than to get between an academic and their funding— but he appreciates the thought. “Sorry again for the late changes. I tried to get them over as early as I could.”

“I’m sure you did, Mr Yamazaki.” There’s a hardness to the set of Oume’s face, a sharpness Yamazaki’s not used to seeing. With a keystroke, she brings up her university inbox, mouth pursed as she clicks Compose. “Don’t worry, I know exactly who to blame.”

It’s a sign— not one of those simple ones, like Caution: High Voltage or Slippery When Wet, but the kind that had skulls and thunderbolts and reads, This Will Kill You and Hurt the Entire Time. His sign really, telling him it’s time to clear out before he can get caught in the splash radius of whatever cursed energy she’s about to lob across the pacific.

He clears his throat, just soft enough to catch the edge of her attention. “Have a happy New Year, ma’am.”

Pale eyes flick up toward him, her mouth sparing him the smallest of smiles. “You too, Mr Yamazaki.”

Yamazaki steps out into the hallway, making it nearly three strides before he lets go of the breath he’s holding, deflating like Toudou’s most recent attempts to make something edible. Next semester, he’s going to sit on Dr Matsumoto’s luggage until the final grades are filed.

“Ah, Yamazaki!”

His whole body starts, jerking to attention, but when he looks up it’s straight into the second button of a maroon parka, left open over its zipper. He has to take a step back— and crane his neck— to even catch a glimpse of the friendly smile hanging above it. “Haah, Shimada. I didn’t see you.”

How a man as big as that can move so silently, he will never know. He appreciates it in the LARP, but here on campus— well, there’s a reason big dog owners at least put collars on them. People usually like a little warning before a Great Dane bounds up into their business.

Shimada’s mouth twitches. “I take it Oume is perhaps not in her best mood?”

“If that folder you are holding contains final grades in it, then I would not expect a warm reception,” he confirms, sternly. “I didn’t think you’d be the sort that would sit on them this late.”

“Oh, no.” A manila envelope has never looked so reasonably sized as it does in his hands. “These are the class descriptions for next semester.”

His brows raise. “Weren’t those supposed to be in a month ago?”

“Yes.” There’s another twitch of that wide mouth, this time in the other direction. “I have a feeling she’ll be just as happy to see these as she would be if this was full of grades.”

Yamazaki has no answer but a grimace.

“Oh, I talked to Ootori last night.” Shimada’s tone is curious, but only politely so. “I heard you’re bringing your friends this weekend.”

“Ah…” He can only hope Ootori didn’t get specific about just who was coming. The last thing he needed was everyone pressed to the glass when they showed up, trying to get a glance at the girl he let play hime-sama. “Yes. My housemates, actually.”

“Oh, that will be nice.” Shimada’s smile widens. “Itou probably hasn’t seen them in a while. No doubt he’ll be excited for them to see him in his biggest role—”

Yamazaki stiffens. “Ah…what was that?”

Shimada blinks. “Oh, didn’t you hear? He’s getting to play Hantei’s younger son. Daisetsu.”

[Yamazaki Susumu] I think we may have made a grave miscalculation.

[Saito.Hajime] How so?

[Yamazaki Susumu] Itou is going to be there.

[Saito.Hajime] Yes?

[Yamazaki Susumu] And we’re bringing Okita.

[Saito.Hajime] Oh Well Shit

#yamachi #hakuouki #my fic #modern au #college au #If the Mind Is Willing #LARP au #i'm having the realization that i do indeed need to build like 12 character for the next few chapter to flow properly and like #freestyle screaming over it. i have bought the 5th ed sourcebook and i have a feeling I will be picking at this #for a few months whenever I wanna stop thinking about my bigger projects 🤣#next chapter is also going to involve OCs and BOY is that gonna be SOMETHING #maybe i can finally find a place to squeeze in souma and nomura 😅

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sabraeal · 11 months

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If the Mind Is Willing, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d regret it if she did, probably.

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

[ToudouDomination] Me??

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] 💯

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

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] its a sex thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hijikata can never know. Or worse--

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take this down. Now.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] eat my ass

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

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

And if it is nothing...

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

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

[Susumu Yamazaki] Try me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That one’s just tired.

It’s tired that wins out, in the end.

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

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

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

Yet it’s easier than facing herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, well that’s hardly promising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinks. “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Hajime is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Souji.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chizuru blinks. “But I have a lock.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only after Okita shoved him off--!”

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

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

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

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

“Itou was a prick.”

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

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

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

“An actionable offense?” Harada offers, wry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chizuru blinks. “Wasn’t that in...?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks. “No.”

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

“I’m a samurai.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harada stares at him. “Who are you?”

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

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

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

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

“See? Already my eyes have glazed over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone huffs behind her. Right behind her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a lot.

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

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

In front of Yamazaki.

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

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

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

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

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

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

#yamachi #hakuouki #my fic #modern au #college au #If the Mind Is Willing #LARP au #FINALLY THE REVEAL IS HERE #writing a group scene with like six dudes is the absolute worst let me tell you that #and i have so many more of them to go next chapter #while having to explain an obscure tabletop game #BUCKLE UP KIDS IT'S TIME TO LEARN ABOUT BUSHIDO

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