Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The train pulls in slower than she remembers. Air still smelling of iron and dust, with a faint trace of early blossoms drifting from somewhere beyond the platform. It’s familiar, down to the echo of footsteps against the concrete, but everything feels older - worn down by time and weather.

Fumi rocks on her heels, half nervous, half excited, her palms damp against the straps of her bag. She scans the crowd automatically, heart thudding harder with each passing face.

Kugisaki Nobara, back in town. It’s strange even thinking about it.

God, it’s been months.

She remembers her as she was: loud, sunburnt, always getting into trouble, the kind of girl who never knew when to stop talking. Fumi can still hear her voice cutting through the heat of those long summers, loud enough to carry across the whole street. She can’t wait to recreate those memories with her, to remind Nobara what she’s left behind in pursuit of a better life.

Fumi hopes, with all her heart, that Nobara has already found it - a better life. It’s the least that she can do for her dearest friend.

When the doors slide open, it takes her a second to find her in the crowd. Nobara’s hair is longer now, pulled neatly behind her shoulders, her clothes tidier. There’s weight in her expression, something duller in the way she scans the station. Her eyes move first, quick, fast, tracking the space around her before landing on Fumi.

That’s when Fumi knows.

It’s Nobara, but not the same.

“Fumi!”

Her voice cuts through the noise. Fumi grins just as Nobara breaks through the crowd, moving fast, her smile wide enough to undo the years between them. For a moment, it’s easy to believe that nothing has changed.

She stops in front of Fumi, breath quick, smile unwavering.

Then another figure steps out from the crowd behind her.

Fumi notices him instantly. He stands out in every way: tall, neat white shirt, sleeves rolled, sunglasses resting loosely in his head. His hair is white, for God’s sake. And it’s not dyed, she thinks - it’s natural. How could you not notice him?

Her first thought is: he shouldn’t be here. Everything about him belongs somewhere else - somewhere with glass walls, fine dinings, people who lower their voices when he enters. He looks like someone who’s never been told no. And Fumi’s not particularly thrilled with the idea of an outcome should she decide to be the first one to do so.

Just what on Earth is he doing here?

Her second thought, though, isn’t fear. It’s awe. He’s expensive - ask Fumi about small town, village things; she’ll know the answer immediately. But this man - he comes from the city, born and raised, unimaginable wealth just screaming and radiating off his perfectly carried composure.

Her third thought - it’s the boyfriend. It’s Nobara’s boyfriend.

She waves and crosses the distance before Fumi can react. Her bag slips from her shoulder, forgotten, and then Nobara’s arms are around her - tight and confident, the contact sudden enough to knock the air from her chest. The scent that clings to her is unfamiliar: city perfume, something clean and stark, cut through with the faint trace of travel.

Fumi freezes for a second, unsure, unknowing of what to do. As Nobara laughs against her shoulder, too bright, too sweet, Fumi catches herself, then, hugging her back. Nobara’s hand lingers at Fumi’s spine, sure - and trembling…? Betraying something her voice doesn’t.

“You look exactly the same,” she says into her shoulder, voice warm, muffled by fabric.

Nobara pulls back, eyes flicking over Fumi’s face, searching for something she can’t name. There’s a faint curve to her lips, practiced, practiced? and polite, polite - and Fumi notices the carefulness in her. The words sound cool, but her gaze doesn’t match them. It lingers too long, like she’s trying to remember what ‘exactly the same’ used to mean.

Did something happen? Fumi thinks, wanting to ask. Something must’ve definitely happened. Hasn’t her friend already gotten what she wanted? Then why is it not happiness that she sees in her face - why is it sorrow?

Why are you so sad?

…is at the tip of her tongue, but then Nobara’s stepping away, and he’s there already, closer, his presence filling the space she leaves behind. He’s smiling, and the way his lip curls makes something buzz in Fumi’s head. It’s wrong, he’s wrong, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

There’s something wrong with this man.

“So this is the famous Fumi,” he drawls, amused. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Satoru.”

He doesn’t extend his hand - don’t people in the city do? Maybe he grew up different - so Fumi spares him the excruciating manners of the small village she’s grown up in, nodding in return of his greeting.

“Yeah, um - ” Fumi stammers, flustered, “…Nice to meet you, I guess? You’re the boyfriend, right?”

He laughs in response, but it’s not mocking, not exactly - heck, why is she thinking so negatively about a new person she barely knows? It’s not what her parents taught her - to not judge everyone based on their appearances alone; to try to be kind to everyone despite the circumstances.

Then again, she thinks it has something to do with him being Nobara’s boyfriend - someone Fumi has had a crush on since they were kids. Fumi will die before she admits it out loud, though.

“The one and only,” he muses proudly, grinning wider before he topples over as Nobara nudges - more like hit? - him hardly with her elbow, right on his stomach. Ouch, that must’ve hurt.

Fumi thinks it’s odd that he doesn’t mention his last name, but that’s probably not something worth thinking about.

“So, uh…” Fumi tries, forcing a small laugh. “How did you two meet?”

A brief pause settles between them.

They stand there in the evening glow, all three of them. Something about it feels… off-balance. Nobara’s eyes shift towards him - a small, automatic glance, gone as soon as it appears. Fumi notices. She notices everything about her.

Was she looking at him for approval…?

“We fell in love at first sight,” the man takes to answer, hand coming up to rest on Nobara’s forearm, squeezing her to himself. “Didn’t we, princess?”

Nobara grumbles, seemingly annoyed. She pulls away from his touch, but the man only tightens his grip on her more. “That’s your version of the story,” she mumbles.

“What’s yours, then, Nobara-chan?” Fumi asks, and the way Nobara flinches, as though taken aback - tells her more than words ever will. She hasn’t expected it to be taken so seriously, her teasing. Fumi starts to suspect something seriously fishy is going on between them.

Ah - but her best friend’s demeanor… how she effortlessly and thoughtlessly fixes the glasses on his head, her small berates to him, don’t take it off, it’s sunny, you’ll hurt your eyes, and him chuckling fondly at her… maybe it’s Fumi’s mind playing tricks on her. Maybe she’s just jealous Nobara has found her own person, someone new to pour her love into. Yeah - Fumi’s just jealous. That’s literally it.

“…And, yeah, that’s how he got to be my boyfriend. Messy stuff, I know.”

Fumi blinks, just realising Nobara is saying something, too busy drowning in her own thoughts. She catches a few words here and there, like seven, mall, and… school?

“I’m sorry, did you say school?” Fumi rushes to ask, alarm bells ringing in her head.

Nobara shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah. We met there.”

Fumi glances at the man, once again. He looks… older, though. This guy can’t possibly be Nobara’s classmate, right? What the heck is happening?

“But you’re…” Fumi says, trailing off, her gaze in the direction of the man.

“I’m thirty one.”

“Oh.”

So he’s not… he’s… thirteen years older… than her? Uh, Fumi doesn’t like the implication of this situation… What is Nobara getting herself into?

“Yes, oh,” the man parrots, whistling. He turns to Nobara, talking as though chastising. “I thought you’d told her about me, Nobara-chan. She looks so confused. It’s almost cute.”

Nobara smacks him at that, and she stares - no, more like, glares…? at him, but it’s serious, this time, daggers coming off her eyes; a look that can kill. The man only smiles, as if amused.

“She’s off-limits,” Nobara spits, gritting through her teeth. Fumi watches as the man staggers back, lifting both of his hands into the air in defeat.

“Fine, fine. You told me that already,” he counters, voice dripping with mockery. “No need to get so worked up, sweetness. I’d only want you, anyway.”

Fumi, dumbfounded by their bantering, this argument she has no place in, hesitatingly intervenes. She’ll be glad to spectate, seeing how much Nobara has changed; dissecting every little detail of her relationship so she can try and pick at the holes - get her to realise the truth of its nature; but time is running short, and pleasant or not, they have to be moving already.

“Erm - I hate to interrupt, but we really should get going,” Fumi exclaims softly, sweet, sweet Fumi - Nobara had called her in their earliest years - all for me, all mine, yeah? But it was said in the haze of pleasure, in their barely sober state, and Fumi does not have it in her heart to ask Nobara if that statement still holds true even now.

Probably not.

Nobara finds her eyes, and Fumi’s heart takes a little trip. That’s when she understands just how painfully wrong she is. Nobara’s eyes - her citrus, orange eyes, are staring at Fumi with the same intensity that has her holding her breath when the feeling on her heart has first started blooming. It affirms her to the point of conclusion: that, yes, the statement still rings true, even after all those months, even after all those years.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Nobara tells her, and Fumi bursts into tears. 

Fumi’s parents have always loved Nobara. That hasn’t changed.

Her mother lights up the moment she steps through the door - arms out, voice rising, all warmth and welcome. Look at you, growing so big already, pulls Nobara into a hug, pressing her close. She grins, returning the affection, I’m prettier, aren’t I, auntie? And Fumi’s own giggle as her mother responds, yes, yes, even prettier than my dear Fumi!

Even her father, who rarely shows anything, lets the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile. He nods once when Nobara bows her head, murmuring gratitude.

Sort of… different, though, their interaction. They’re keeping distance, somehow, but that’s maybe just how Fumi is with her dad; average teenage girl experience - yeah, Fumi’s dad has also been Nobara’s father figure, so it probably means nothing.

It’s easy, almost frighteningly easy, how quickly she fits back in.

Like she never left at all.

It doesn’t matter. Kugisaki Nobara is here, her childhood friend, her dearest, right in the flesh. Fumi wouldn’t have it any other way. Saori’s incident was a turning point,  a crack in their relationship, but Fumi intends to change that now. Nobara is right here - just out of reach, but it doesn’t matter. She’s here all the same.

Except she isn’t exactly the same. Her hair is longer, dye fading - revealing her natural colour, her baby cheeks receding. Fumi takes it for granted. She’s lost so much. Why did she ever let her go in the first place? She should’ve begged her to stay - or, if she was feeling bold, to come with her to the city. Now look - look what’s it done to her. Nobara is growing up, while Fumi is left behind to rot.

Her barrage of thoughts crumbles when the annoying, stupidly good-looking man speaks up.

Of course, they invite him to dinner. It would’ve been rude not to.

“Thank you for having me here. It’s an honour for me to get to know the people Nobara holds dear in her life.” Ugh, hearing his voice makes Fumi sick. On the other hand, that sweet tone melts her mother’s heart. “I’m Satoru,” he continues to add, introducing himself.

Her mother immediately warms up to him, calling him Sacchan, and Fumi just can’t destroy that happiness by telling her that he’s freakin’ thirty one years old. He shouldn’t be babied like that.

The man sits at the head of the table, where her father usually does. Not on purpose, maybe; he just ends up there. No one asks him to move. Nobara slides in beside him, shoulder brushing his sleeve as she laughs at something Fumi’s mother says. The sound is a little forced, Fumi can tell, but she tries not to comment on it. 

He’s polite, abnormally polite. Compliments every dish as though it’s the first time he’s tasted something that good. Thanks her mother once before the meal, once during, and once after. Laughs at her father’s flat jokes, the sound perfectly timed, never outdone. Every action he takes - it’s smooth, calculated, and Fumi wonders if this is how people in the city are behaving. Not true to the heart; fake.

“You must have a good eye for seasoning,” he tells her mother again, and to his credit, she flutters - absolutely pleased.

“Oh, please, it’s nothing special. Just home cooking,” Fumi’s mother says, beaming.

“I mean it,” he insists, lowering his eyes to the plate, “You can tell it was made carefully.”

Her mother breaks into a fit of giggles. Her father nods, grudgingly impressed. Fumi watches the exchange and feels something uneasy in her chest. She picks at her rice, mulling over it. His movements look rehearsed, but to anyone not paying attention, it can come across as normal. The problem with Fumi is that - she notices too much. Maybe it’s her curse, too.

He’s impossible to dislike. What should she tell her mother, that she feels something is wrong with this guy? She’ll just be called crazy.

Nobara keeps her hand close to him, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve whenever she shifts her chopsticks. It’s small, barely there, and constant - a quiet press of contact she doesn’t let go of. Even with Fumi, she’s normally not that clingy. Fumi feels a pang of jealousy in her heart. 

When he speaks, Nobara’s head lifts. When he turns to her, her spine draws straight, shoulder pulled back, as if bracing for appraisal.

Is this what her childhood friend has come to?

Fumi doesn’t want to believe it - she refuses to. Nobara beats up a lot of boys as a kid. Told her explicitly that she’d never, ever bow to a man. Yet the sight before Fumi betrays her.

A person will change, after all, and Kugisaki Nobara isn’t exempt from that fate.

“I’m a teacher at a private school,” the man says to her father’s question. “Some kind of religious institution. Pays well.”

Her mother laughs, amused. “A teacher,” now her father, repeating, “Must take a lot of patience.”

The man smiles. Picture of calm. “Helps to know which lessons are worth repeating.” Nudges Nobara, then, with his elbow, softly. “Right, princess?”

Nobara flushes. Her hand is still on his sleeve. “Beats me. What do I know about teaching?”

Fumi’s mother leans forward, eyes bright with curiosity. “You two must eat out often then! City life, right? So many nice restaurants there.”

Nobara’s smile holds. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Sometimes,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “He likes to cook, though.”

Her mother’s face lights up. “Oh, that’s lovely! A man who cooks - how wonderful.”

The man’s chuckle is quiet. Practiced. “Only when she lets me,” he says, glancing at Nobara in a way that makes her lower her gaze before she can stop herself.

Her father clears his throat, the faintest sound of disapproval, but no one comments on it. They all fall into laughter. Fumi tries, too, force it out of her throat, the sound dry.

Halfway through dinner, the man’s attention drifts from the conversation to the old framed photo on the wall - the one her mother never took down. Fumi and Nobara, years younger, grinning with their arms tangled around each other, ice cream dripping down their wrists, their faces sticky and sunburned.

He tilts his head slightly. “That’s adorable,” he says, pointing his chopsticks toward it. “You two must’ve been inseparable.”

The air shifts. It’s barely noticeable, though Fumi feels it all the same: the way her mother’s laugh trails off; the way Nobara’s shoulders stiffen as she turns to look at him.

“Yeah,” Nobara says after a moment, voice soft. “We were.”

The man studies the picture for a heartbeat too long. Something passes over his expression. Not warmth, especially not nostalgia. Amusement, maybe. Or pride. Something that makes Fumi’s stomach knot, because it’s the kind of look that doesn’t belong to a guest at the table.

But it’s gone. He smiles again, easy, pleasant, and reaches for his glass.

After dinner, her mother insists on dessert - watermelon swirl, Nocchan, your favourite, and pulls Nobara up by the wrist to help in the kitchen. The sound of drawers opening and the clatter of spoons carries from the other room. Her father stays at the table, posture loose, eyes sharp. Following the man’s every move.

The latter doesn’t seem to mind. He sits back, one arm resting lightly on the chair beside him, still wearing that clean, unbothered smile. He meets her father’s stare head-on. Not with challenge - an ease that borders on arrogance.

It’s quiet except for the clock on the wall, ticking in heavy, uneven beats. 

“You have a lovely family, sir.”

Her father’s reply lands flat. “We try.”

A beat of sweat trickles down Fumi’s forehead.

She almost jumps when the man’s phone rings, him excusing himself to take a call outside. The tension doesn’t break all at once. It unravels slowly, a room learning how to breathe again, her learning how to breathe again.

Fumi can hear the sound of laughter from the kitchen. 

“That man’s too clean,” her father says, leaning back on his chair, arms folded. Eyes fixed on the doorway he left through.

She blinks. “Too clean?”

“Men like that don’t do things without reason.”

Fumi laughs, awkward. “You’re being paranoid. Nocchan loves him.”

Nocchan loves him.

She does, right?

The thought won’t leave her. Even later, with her hands buried in soap suds beside her mother. Through the open window, she can see him, standing by the fence. Nobara with him. Laughing at his jokes. 

It’s just me being jealous, Fumi reassures herself. Nothing wrong with them, with their age difference. It doesn’t matter. She tells herself it doesn’t.

Nobara giggles, draping over him, his hand sneaking around her waist. Fumi stutters, dropping the plate she’s holding to the sink. Her mother chastises her, falling in deaf ears. 

The man finds her eyes, then, smiling. He’s lucky Fumi doesn’t open the window and throw the broken plate at him.

Fumi lies back on the bed, breath slowing, heart still caught somewhere between racing and stopping. Nobara sits beside her, brushing her hair out of her face with gentle fingers.

The man went back to the inn, just a short distance from here. She wants to stay with Fumi, albeit not without pleading. He lets her go after that, after Fumi belatedly glares at him.

As Nobara finally pulls back and wipes her lips with the back of her hand, Fumi thinks there’s nothing she could do that would wane her attraction to her.

“Won’t your boyfriend be angry?” Fumi asks, voice light but nervous. She sits up, tucking her knees beneath her.

Nobara gives a soft snort, leaning against the headboard. “Probably. Might beat me up or something.” Her tone is unreadable.

Fumi’s eyes widen. “B-beat you up?”

Nobara laughs then, full and carefree, tapping Fumi’s shoulder. “Kidding, kidding. He’s fine. He’s good to me.”

Fumi studies her. The way she says it feels both true and not. Nobara reaches into her jacket pocket, finding a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She pulls one out, lights it, the small orange glow catching the sharp edge of her cheekbone. Her hand trembles slightly when she exhales.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Fumi says quietly.

Nobara blinks, startled by how small her voice sounds. “Yeah. Sorry. Habit.” She moves to put it out.

Fumi shakes her head. “It’s okay.” Her parents would hate it, she knows, but somehow that feels far away. “Can I… try?”

Nobara gives her a long look, somewhere between amused and worried. “You won’t like it.”

“Maybe not,” Fumi admits. “But I want to try anyway.”

Nobara sighs, smiling faintly. She passes the cigarette over, steadying Fumi’s hand. “Breathe in slow. Don’t swallow the smoke. Just pull it in and let it go.”

Fumi does as she’s told, immediately coughing. Nobara laughs again, the sound warm.

“Told you,” she says, taking the cigarette back.

“I don’t care,” Fumi murmurs, cheeks flushed. “I just wanted to do it with you.”

Nobara goes quiet. She studies her for a long time, then leans in, pressing her forehead lightly against Fumi’s.

“Dangerous thing to say,” she whispers.

Fumi smiles. “I mean it.”

The smoke drifts up between them, soft and silver, until Nobara tilts her head and kisses her again. Fumi squeezes the feeling of disappointment in her chest, the one sad over Nobara not praising her, not calling her my sweet, sweet Fumi. 

That’s okay, Fumi thinks. She’ll make her remember. She’ll show it to her.

“You didn’t tell Bacchan, right, that I’m coming here?”

The cigarette between Nobara’s fingers glows faintly, smoke curling toward the ceiling. Her tone is careless. Fumi catches the way her eyes flick sideways - searching; not asking.

Fumi shakes her head. “No. You haven’t told her yet?”

“Nope.” Nobara exhales, the smoke drifting through the dim light of the room. “She won’t like Satoru.”

Oh, Fumi hesitates. “Is there a reason why?”

Nobara’s grin returns, that sharp-edged one that never quite reaches her eyes. “She just hates his guts.”

“Without knowing him?”

“She knows enough.” Nobara flicks ash into the tray, leaning back on one arm. She offers it to Fumi, who takes it greedily. “He’s quite popular.”

Fumi frowns, sucking in again, the smoke easier on her this time. Exhales. “Why haven’t I heard of him?”

Nobara laughs - a short, bright sound that doesn’t match the words. “You wouldn’t have. Different worlds, I guess.” She runs a tongue over her teeth, the sight doing something to Fumi’s lower stomach. “She used to talk so much shit about him when I was a kid. Said the only thing he had going on for him was his face. You don’t know how fucking shocked I was to land him as my teacher.”

Fumi freezes mid-motion, the cigarette still warm in her fingers. “Your what, now?”

Nobara grins wider, stretching her legs across the bed, toes brushing Fumi’s thigh. “Yeah. Surprised?”

Fumi stares, unsure whether to laugh or scold her. “Is that even allowed?”

Nobara shrugs, eyes glinting. “Well,” she says, slow and teasing, “No one else has to know. But you.”

She reaches over, plucks the cigarette from Fumi’s hand, and takes a long drag before exhaling toward her face. The smoke drifts between them, soft and dizzying. Nobara smells faintly of his cologne - something expensive, something cold. Her breath grazes Fumi’s lips when she adds, “Our little secret, hm?”

Fumi feels her pulse jump. She wants to say no. Wants to tell her that her parents at least deserve to know, that Nobara shouldn’t be dating her own teacher. Fumi’s voice catches somewhere between guilt and awe.

Her friend waits, smiling that same fearless smile.

Fumi nods. Pulls her in to kiss her, shyly, lips ghosting just mere millimetre away.

Their little secret.

In the middle of the night, Fumi wakes with a sore throat.

She hasn’t even been screaming. Maybe it’s the cigarette she smoked with Nobara just before they slept, her lungs unaccustomed to nicotine. Rubbing her eyes, she fumbles on her side, finding the space empty; cold.

Nobara isn’t there.

Fumi sits up straighter, willing the sleep away. Blanket already thrown around, legs touching the ground, barefoot. She grapples with the wall before she can find the light, and switches it on.

A squeak. Fumi glances at her table, underneath the desk. Nobara crouches down there, hugging her knees. Looking at her phone. Trembling.

“Hey,” Fumi whispers softly, lowering to her knees as well, meeting Nobara at eye level. “Everything okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away. The light’s too harsh, washing her face pale. Fumi notices her eyes first - red-rimmed, wide. She’s been crying and trying not to. Holding her sobs down, afraid to wake Fumi up.

Nobara locks her phone, turns it face-down against the floor. “Yeah,” she says. Voice thin, too casual. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

Fumi hesitates. “Did something happen?”

Nobara shakes her head, laughs a little, the sound cracking halfway through. “You worry too much, Fumi.”

But her hands - her hands are shaking so badly that Fumi can hear the faint clatter of her nails against the phone. Almond shape, light maroon paint. She reaches out before she can think, covering them with her own. Nobara flinches, then exhales. Deflating.

“You can tell me,” Fumi says again, quieter. 

Nobara looks at her for a long, still second. Whispers, “He gets angry when I don’t pick up.”

Fumi blinks. “Your boyfriend?”

“Don’t call him that.” Nobara’s mouth twitches. “His name is Satoru.”

There’s no real threat in her voice, Fumi can tell. Something sharp glints under the surface - a reflex, almost. Nobara catches herself, forces a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound - ”

Fumi shakes her head. “That’s okay.” 

It’s okay, because it’s Nobara.

They sit there like that for a while, cross-legged on the cold floor, light buzzing above them. Nobara keeps her eyes on the phone, flipping it face up, thumb hovering above. She’s waiting for it to come alive again.

When she finally speaks, it’s in a small voice, apologetic. “He doesn’t like when I stay out too long.”

Fumi’s chest tightens. “But you told him - ”

“Yeah,” Nobara cuts in. “I told him. He just… misses me so much, I guess.”

Misses me so much. Fumi can’t make sense of it, so she doesn’t ask. She scoots closer, wraps an arm around Nobara’s shoulders.

Nobara leans in, slow, hesitant. Her body feels tense against Fumi’s. A wire pulled too tight. “You smell nice,” she murmurs.

Misses me so much.

Fumi looks at her, at her hair, her face, her features. Her nose, her lips, her neck. Her lips. Misses me so much. Yeah, Fumi can’t blame her boyfriend in that regard. She, too, had missed Nobara like crazy when she went away.

Fumi swallows, unsure what to do with the warmth that crawls up her throat. “So do you.”

Silence falls, if only for a minute. The room hums with the noise of the old ceiling fan, smell of smoke still clinging to the curtains. Nobara’s rubbing Fumi’s hand absently against her shoulder, skin warm, touch too familiar for comfort. Something that used to mean safety, yet now only stirs confusion.

“Are you happy?”

The question comes out quieter than Fumi means it to. It hangs there between them, heavy, uninvited.

Nobara turns her head, eyes blank in the stark light. “Why do you ask that?”

“I just want to know,” Fumi says, continuing in her heart, you don’t seem happy with him.

“I’m happy with him,” Nobara answers, as though she can read her mind. “I’m happy when he’s happy.”

Fumi’s fingers are still on her shoulder. “But are you?”

Nobara doesn’t answer. She just stares at the curtain, the fabric swaying around with the wind. Her expression shifts. Thoughtful, maybe. Tired too, in a way Fumi’s never seen before.

Then, abruptly, “Say, Fumi.”

Nobara’s tone is calm.

“If I tell you to kill me, what would you do?”

Fumi blinks, too stunned to react. “What - what kind of question is that?”

“You wouldn’t do it, right?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. You’re my best friend.”

Nobara’s eyes flicker, unreadable. “What if I commit heinous crimes?”

Fumi bites her lip. “Well, that’s - ”

“I’m trying,” Nobara cuts in. Voice raw, shaking imperceptibly. “For him. He doesn’t have anyone. Not until me.”

“I didn’t say anything about him.”

Nobara shrugs, the gesture sharp, defensive. “I can tell. You don’t like him.”

Fumi’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She can’t tell her the truth - that she doesn’t hate him, not really, not that much; she hates how Nobara changes around him, how the edges of her used to be wild and soft but now are just contained. She can’t say it, can’t risk the distance it would bring. Can’t risk it out of her, I love you from her throat.

“Well,” Nobara says after a beat, “He’s good to me, I promise. He makes me happy.”

Her phone vibrates on her hand. Sound slicing through the quiet, screen lighting up blue.

Satoru.

Fumi glances at the clock. 2:27 a.m.

Nobara stares at the phone. Her face changes. Not joy; not irritation - something more complex, something not unlike obedience.

She answers without looking at Fumi.

Her voice drops, soft, small. “Hey. I’m awake.”

Fumi turns away, eyes fixed on the window where the world outside is dark and still. The curtain still swaying, having no choice but to move with the wind’s command.

Chapter Text

Nobara’s already gone in the morning.

Fumi wakes before the alarm, the sky still bruised with that half-dark color between dawn and daylight. Room smelling faintly of smoke, the air thick and unmoving. She sits up, rubbing her eyes, sheets cold on the side where Nobara had slept. There’s a faint dent on the pillow, the shape of her head, her scent faint. Strawberry shampoo, cigarettes.

From the kitchen comes the familiar rhythm of her mother clattering pans, her father’s voice low, talking about the weather or the price of gas. 

She walks out barefoot, hair a mess, finds her mother at the sink, rinsing greens under cold water.

“Where’s Nocchan?” Fumi asks, voice still thick with sleep.

Her mother glances up, smiling. “With Sacchan. He came early.”

The words hit harder than they should. Fumi feels her throat tighten, swallowing something wrong. Sets her glass down, too quickly, the sound harsh against the counter. “He’s here?”

“Mm-hmm,” her mother hums. “Out front. Talking.”

Fumi doesn’t answer. Moves toward the window, on instinct, heart thudding.

Through the thin lace curtain, morning light spills pale over the yard. Grass wet from dew. She sees them just by the gate.

Nobara, her back half-turned, hair pulled into a messy bun. The man stands close to her, too close for this hour, for this place. He’s in a blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perching on his head, hands on her shoulders. They’re saying something - too low for Fumi to hear - though the way Nobara’s mouth moves, small and tight, looks like apology.

Then he leans in.

He’s kissing her. Slowly, softly, the kind of kiss that - if Fumi knows even the slightest thing about it - screams ownership, instead of care, instead of what Fumi usually gives her. Nobara doesn’t resist, doesn’t hesitate. She tilts her chin up, fingers brushing the side of his face in that automatic, tender way Fumi has seen only in movies.

Fumi’s breath leaves her body. She stumbles back from the window, one hand clutched over her chest, the other gripping the counter. Her chest hurts, and she can’t tell if it’s jealousy or heartbreak or just the shock of seeing Nobara touched like that - claimed like that.

She stands there for a long moment, panting quietly. Forces herself to move. Heads for the bathroom, turns on the tap, splashes cold water over her face until her skin stings. The mirror fogs slightly, reflection looking paler than usual. Her fingers tremble as she buttons her shirt wrong, once, twice, before getting it right.

When she steps outside, the air smells like wet soil and wood smoke. The road in front of the house is narrow, lined with old fences and puddles from last night’s rain. Nobara and the man are standing by the gate still, their conversation louder now, casual. Fumi tries to focus on the normalcy of it - the small-town chatter, the crows in the distance - but all she can see is the ghost of their kiss, burned into the back of her eyelids.

“Morning,” she calls, voice too high, too forced.

Nobara turns immediately, smiling. Nothing’s wrong - she hasn’t just made Fumi’s heart cave in. “Morning, Fumi!” she says cheerfully, waving her over. “You’re up early.”

The man turns too, polite as ever. “Good morning,” he says, tone smooth, practiced. “Sorry for the early noise. I just came to pick her up.”

Fumi forces a small laugh, looking anywhere but at him. “No, it’s fine.”

Nobara’s hair is messy from the wind, a strand caught on her lip. Fumi watches her try to blow it away, her breath puffing against the air. She wants to reach out, tuck it behind her ear like she always used to, that small, thoughtless gesture that once belonged only to her.

His hand gets there first.

He does it with such ease, such gentleness, that Fumi’s stomach twists. He murmurs something - something Fumi can’t quite hear - and Nobara smiles, ducking her head for her hair to fall forward again.

They walk a few paces in silence.

Nobara speaks up first. “The bakery’s still opening at dawn, right? The one near the post office?”

“Yeah,” Fumi says. “Old lady still runs it.”

Nobara grins. “No way. I thought she’d retire by now.”

“Guess she doesn’t know how.”

“Or maybe she just doesn’t trust anyone else with the dough,” he says, voice smooth, perfectly placed. Fumi glances at him; he’s smiling faintly. The sunlight catches on his watch. It looks expensive. Of course it does.

Nobara laughs, brushing his arm with her fingers. “That’s true, huh, ‘toru? You’re the same. Never let anyone touch your things.”

He smirks. “Can you blame me?”

Their interaction makes her stomach twist. Fumi stares down at her shoes. Nobara never used to talk that way. Never softened her voice; never smiled at anyone like that - maybe except one… And that nickname, too easy on her tongue. ‘Toru. She says it so naturally now, as though she’s been saying it all her life.

Fumi forces herself to speak. “They changed the main filling at the bakery. It’s custard now, not red bean.”

“Oh?” Nobara perks up. “That’s so wrong. Red bean’s tradition!”

“She’ll make it if you ask,” Fumi says. “She remembers her regulars.”

“That’s sweet,” he says. “You must go often.”

“Sometimes,” Fumi answers shortly, shrugging.

Nobara bumps her shoulder, smiling. “She’s shy, ‘toru. Don’t take it personally.”

He chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Fumi looks up at them. Nobara’s hand is tucked neatly in his, thumb tracing circles on his palm, some kind of idle, thoughtless affection. Fumi’s throat burn. She doesn’t even realize she’s staring until he glances back at her.

“You grew up here too, Fumi?” he asks.

“Born and raised.”

“It’s a nice place,” he says. “Quiet. Peaceful.”

“Boring,” Fumi mutters.

He hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Nobara laughs again, tilting her head toward him. “She’s content with this village. Bored, but content. Always sitting still.”

“And you?” he asks her.

“Oh, I’m the opposite,” she says.

He squeezes her hand. “I can see that.”

Fumi wants to say something, anything, to break the rhythm between them. She doesn’t. The words stick in her throat. Nobara turns her head and smiles up at him, hair catching the wind, the moment’s gone.

They keep walking, the three of them. Two people talking, one pretending not to hear.

Fumi wonders if this is what being in love looks like. 

They invite Fumi to their inn.

The old man at the counter is her mother’s friend, so she greets him, just to be polite. Shoes aren’t allowed in, hence the genkan. It’s a traditional village, after all.

Their room is bigger than Fumi thought. A small kitchen, a lounge, and a full bedroom. King-sized, not a futon. This one has Fumi surprised. Socks scraping against the wooden floor, steps clattering in, her hand on Nobara’s. Fumi’s eyes follow the curve of the space. The neatness of it all, the absence of clutter.

“Isn’t it nice?” Nobara asks, teasing, not looking at her.

Fumi swallows. Nods. “Yeah.”

The man sways route immediately to the bathroom, humming to himself. Leaving them alone. Nobara guides her to the bedroom.

She sits first, bouncing a little on the edge of the bed. Mattress dips under her weight, then settling. Pats the space next to her while gawking at Fumi. “Come here.”

Fumi hesitates for only a second. Sits stiffly, fingers twisting together on her lap. Nobara smells faintly of the same strawberry shampoo. Under it, there’s something else: a trace of smoke, that cologne she’s been borrowing. Her boyfriend’s.

Fumi’s stomach lurches.

“You’re so tense,” Nobara says, half a laugh.

“It’ just - ” Fumi cuts herself, glancing toward the bathroom door. “…he’s still in there.”

“So what?” Nobara tilts her head, eyes unreadable. “You act like you’ll get in trouble.”

No, but you will.

Fumi opens her mouth to answer. Nobara leans in. Gesture smooth, instinctive; cups Fumi’s face with one hand and kisses her. Sudden, warm, a little clumsy. Fumi’s breath catches. Nobara’s lips taste faintly of mint and something sweeter, the drink she had earlier.

Fumi doesn’t pull away, not so quickly. Hands hovering uselessly, half wanting to hold her, half terrified. She can hear the faint trickle of water from the bathroom, the distant rustle of movement.

“Nobara-chan,” she breathes between their mouths, barely a whisper. “He’s - ”

Nobara only hum, murmuring, “Let him.”

It’s not a demand, not exactly. More like a dismissal.

Their mouths meet again, slower this time, heavier. Rhythm uneven, full of stops and starts - Fumi trying to stay quiet, Nobara uncaring if she’s heard. A recklessness to the way Nobara moves. She’s proving something. To herself. To Fumi. Maybe to him.

The faint metallic click of the bathroom door breaks the air open. Fumi freezes instantly. Heart leaping, throat tightening.

Nobara doesn’t move. She’s still close enough that Fumi can feel her breath on her skin. Pulling back only slightly, fingers tangled in Fumi’s hair.

Fumi forces herself to turn her head.

The man stands there, framed in the doorway. Sleeves rolled up; hair damp. For a second, Fumi braces herself for anger - shouting, disbelief - but none of it comes. He doesn’t look surprised.

He’s calm. Almost amused.

Gaze lingers, unreadable, before he speaks. “You two look comfortable.”

Fumi’s breath stutters. Jerks back slightly, hands slipping away from Nobara’s. Pulse pounding so loud she can barely hear the words that follow.

Nobara just smiles. Soft, unapologetic. Leans back on her hands like nothing’s wrong. “We are,” she says, taunting. 

The man’s expression doesn’t change. He nods once, slow, as though this is something he’s seen. Something he expected.

Fumi can’t look at him anymore. Skin burning under his calmness, under the strange glint in his eyes. Silence stretching, long and heavy, until he finally turns away, walking toward the kitchen. As if nothing happened.

When Fumi looks back at Nobara, she’s smiling faintly, hair falling over her eyes.

“See?” Nobara whispers, her tone light. “Told you it’s fine.”

Fumi doesn’t know if that’s true. All she knows is that her heart is racing and her lips are tingling. Looks at Nobara with hooded eyes, gaze clouded with something akin to lust. Feels her thighs trembling badly, something between her legs humming with pleasure.

“Nocchan,” she whispers, lips parting. “Can you… can we kiss again?”

Nobara turns to her with a glimmer in her eyes. Runs a tongue over her lips, just to drive Fumi crazy. She leans in, unable to hold back. Nobara meets her with the same devotion, the same effort - except she’s more determined, has always been the pushier one, hand on Fumi’s shoulder and pushing her back flat on the bed.

Moves on top of her, crowding her line of vision. Hair falling down, the bun undone, and dives in.

Fumi grapples with Nobara’s head, pressing her firmly, not wanting to sever the connection. Lets out a low moan when Nobara bites her lips for her tongue to make a way in, grazing her teeth, her upper mouth. Lets out another low moan as her fingers start to wander, from collarbone, between her breasts, squeezing her waist. Then her cunt.

Fumi gasps. Nobara’s spreading her legs, teasing, tracing over the outline of her cunt. Wetness leaks through her panties, face flushing.

To her dismay, Nobara breaks the kiss, makes to nuzzle at her neck, panting. Fumi’s trying to catch her breath. 

“Want you,” she mumbles, hands coming up to cradle Nobara’s sides. “Want you so bad.”

Nobara lifts her head, their noses touching, hair touching red, warm cheeks. “Needy,” she coos, and Fumi’s face flushes even more. Wants to argue, to counter, you’ve been gone for how many long, let me have this…

A whistle.

Fumi flinches, closing her legs, sitting up the bed. Nobara doesn’t look surprised. She’s… rolling her eyes?

“Having fun without me?”

Fumi ducks her head, embarassed, biting her lips. Nobara’s arm rests on her shoulder, caging her in.

“Girls only,” Nobara pokes her tongue out. “No old men allowed.”

“Aww,” the man murmurs, pressing a hand to his heart. “I’m hurt. Old, you say?” He advances towards them, which makes Fumi retreat, toes digging in the bed to push herself back. “I’m only thirty one, y’know.”

Fumi’s uncomfortable. The tension is palpable, her naivety even able to sense it. She doesn’t dare look at him, can only look at Nobara’s hand on her shoulder, gaze low, imposing no threat.

“Oi, you.”

She jerks her head.

“Yeah, you, little girl. It’s time to go home, don’tcha think?” His voice is condescending. It’s the tone her father usually uses when scolding her. Fumi stares at him, and it becomes clearer that someone his age shouldn’t be messing around with girls her age. He’s too… mature, his features refined. “Nocchan is mine for tonight. Shoo, shoo.”

Fumi’s face reddens even more. To be talked down like this… Fumi has had that happen to her, her whole life, but the thought of Nobara’s boyfriend to also look down at him… it irritates her, greatly.

“Can’t she… sleep with me again?” Fumi hesitates. Nobara squeezes her, apologetic. They already know the answer.

“Nuh-uh. As I said, she’s mine for tonight.”

Fumi nods, disappointed. They’re the couple. She’s the outsider, the third-weel.

Gets up, prepared to cry to her pillow, but Nobara pulls her in and gives her a quick, breathless kiss.

“See you later, Fumi.”

She winks. Fumi melts. 

The man clicks his tongue, unamused this time. Ruffles his hair. “Chop chop, girl.”

She hurries off before his patience wears thin. Gives Nobara a little, shy wave. Smile on her lips, a grin on hers. Gone as she closes the door.

The last thing she sees between the gaps is his hand raising up and Nobara stepping back.

In the evening, Nobara decides to drag Fumi into the bakery near the post-office.

It smells like yeast and sugar, red beans simmered to paste, a faint smoky sweetness of something left too long in the oven. Fumi pushes the door open, the little bell above it chiming weakly. Same old woman behind the counter, her hair even grayer than before, her smile the same soft shape.

Nobara’s already inside, bright and loud, tapping her coins on the glass case. “They still have the red bean filling! You were right, Fumi.”

“Mm-hmm,” Fumi murmurs. She watches as the old woman packs two pieces into a paper bag, hands them over. Nobara thanks her with a grin, holding the bag like a prize.

They sit by the narrow window, the light thick with flour dust. Outside, the street is half-asleep; a cat stretching under the post office awning.

“So,” Nobara says, peeling open the top of her bread, picking at the crust, “…what the deal is with him. He’s, like, angry that I don’t want to tell him who I’m seeing.”

Fumi blinks. “Who?”

“Fushiguro,” Nobara says, exasperated. “You remember I told you about him? Black hair, emo, always frowning. He used to live with him. You know, my - ” she hesitates for a fraction, “- boyfriend. He’s his ward. Benefactor. Whatever you wanna call it.”

Fumi nods absently, pretending to follow. Gaze drifting out the window. The wind carries the faint chime of the shrine bell up the hill.

“Oh, and there’s this boy, too,” Nobara continues, between bites. “Itadori. He’s very kind. Bright. Lousier than me!”

Fumi doesn’t laugh. She tears her bread neatly, fingers careful not to smear red bean paste on her sleeves.

“You will like this one senior,” Nobara says after a while. “She’s like Saori. Her name is Maki. Very, very brave. I adore her so much!”

Fumi still doesn’t reply. There’s something ringing faintly in her ears. The words slide right past her, replaced by the memory of something else - of him standing, just watching them kissing as though it’s not a big deal to him. Is their relationship… different? Maybe people in the city have that, something she can’t understand. Fumi’s heard it somewhere… open-relationship, she thinks they call it.

Though the way that man is… if Fumi’s correct, she doesn’t think that kind of man is willing to share.

When Fumi finally speaks, her voice sounds far away. “What happened to your ear?”

Nobara blinks. “Huh?”

Fumi nods toward her. “Your ear. There’s a wound.”

It’s small, but unmistakable. The top of her earlobe jagged, raw pink against her skin.

“Oh,” Nobara laughs nervously, touching it. “This? It was an accident.”

Accident.

Fumi stares at the bread in her hands, half-eaten. “…He’s good to you?” she asks quietly.

Nobara’s smile flickers. “Of course. Why did you even - ”

“I was just asking,” Fumi cuts her off.

Nobara stammers a bit, fumbling for the right tone. “W-well, it looks like - ”

“Can’t you just stay here?” Fumi interrupts again, voice trembling. “Stay here, with me. Don’t go back. Don’t go to Tokyo.”

Silence. The bakery bell jingles as someone leaves, door clicking shut behind them.

Nobara looks down at her bread. “I like my life there, Fumi,” she says finally. “And my friends. My school.”

“Him?”

Her head jerks up. “Him, too.”

Fumi can hear the soft scrape of Nobara’s shoes under the table. She hums, pressing lips together. Her eyes sting. She blinks fast, once, twice. “How about me?”

Nobara’s expression softens. “I like you, too,” she says simply, smiling. 

It’s supposed to be enough, but it isn’t. Nothing’s ever going to be enough for Fumi, not until she can have Nobara herself. And it won’t happen. There’s not a possibility, a reality where she can make it happen. Her parents will get mad at her, probably kick her out, if she confesses to liking the same gender.

If only she was a boy.

Fumi feels the ache settle deep, something tightening around her lungs. Stares at the crumbs on the table, the red bean filling smeared across the paper. Wants to say I love you. Wants to shout it, whisper it, make it real.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she forces a smile.

“Eat before it gets cold,” she says.

Nobara grins, taking another bite. “M’gonna finish this one for real. Not letting you take it.” Ever again, like we used to. Like I used to finish the bun for you.

Fumi laughs quietly, nods. “Whatever.”

Dinner is quiet tonight. Her father’s working late again, so it’s just her, her mother, Nobara, and the man.

The table is small. Old cedar polished smooth by years of meals, the same floral tablecloth Fumi’s mother brings out for guests. Steam rises from the miso soup, and the smell of grilled mackerel clings faintly to the air. No pickled vegetables - Nobara hates them. Cicadas cry outside, a summer sound that fills the pauses between conversation. Fumi has to remind herself it’s still spring.

“Nocchan, you haven’t visited your grandmother yet?” her mother asks between bites, in that polite, sing-song tone she uses with people she likes.

Nobara laughs, twirling her chopsticks. “Ah, not yet, Auntie. Everything gets complicated with her.”

Fumi’s mother chuckles knowingly. “Right, right, I understand.” Her gaze shifts to the man, curious. “How about you, Sacchan? How’s your parents like?”

Fumi doesn’t expect what happens next.

The man goes still, chopsticks resting halfway to his mouth. The smile slips from his face. Not gone entirely, just muted. Someone dimming a light.

“I don’t know them,” he says after a pause.

Fumi hears the faint buzz of the refrigerator, the squeak of a floorboard as someone moves their foot under the table.

“They’re still alive,” he adds, voice even, “But I don’t know them. I’ve had caretakers assigned to me since I was born.”

Fumi swallows a piece of rice that feels too dry. Oh, she thinks.

Nobara shifts beside him, shoulders drawing tight, eyes darting toward him. She’s checking for cracks. He shrugs, grinning again, a too-easy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I don’t really care, though,” he says lightly. “I have her now.” He reaches for Nobara’s waist, squeezes it playfully. She giggles, but it sounds forced.

Something catches in Fumi’s throat. She looks down at her bowl, focusing on the way the soup ripples when she breathes.

Nobara clears her throat. “Auntie,” she says, far too cheerfully, “I want that watermelon swirl again. You still have it, right?”

Fumi’s mother blinks, then beams. “Of course, dear! Come, come.” She gets up, tugging Nobara by the wrist toward the kitchen. Their laughter fades down the hall.

Now it’s just Fumi and him.

For a while, they eat in silence. The man takes his time, unhurried, graceful in the way he moves. Sets his chopsticks down, wipes his hands on the napkin, and looks at her.

“She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?” he says conversationally.

Fumi freezes, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. Fingers tightening around them until they creak. She doesn’t answer.

“I bet it drives you crazy every day,” he continues, voice soft, almost pitying, pitying, “That she chose to leave you for a better life.”

A bead of sweat trails down Fumi’s neck. She keeps her eyes on her bowl. “I only want the best for her,” she says quietly. “As her best friend.”

“Oh, but you don’t,” he hums, leaning forward on his elbows. The smile returns. Lazy, knowing, cruel. “What you want is her.”

Her heart stutters. “I do want her to be happy.”

“We both know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Fumi goes silent. She feels her face burning, pulse in her temple throbbing. The sound of cicadas is louder, unbearable.

He exhales through his nose, as if the conversation bores him. “All I’m saying, Fumi,” he says, using her name, disgusting, she wants to retch, “Is that you don’t hold her back. She’s happier in the city.” A small pause, then: “With me.”

Fumi stares at him. “That’s not true.”

He tilts his head. “And how would you know that?”

Her lips part, but before she can speak, he adds, “That wound on her ear? She got that because she was being unruly. Misbehaving.”

Fumi jerks her head up. “What?”

“Mhm.” He leans back, smiling, his tone easy. “When she’s good, I’m good too. You don’t need to make such a big fuss about it.”

Oh, Fumi can’t breathe for a moment, this man is insane.

“You’re her teacher.”

He laughs. Genuine, delighted. “She told you that?”

“Doesn’t matter what she told me. You’re her teacher.” Fumi forces the words out, nails digging into her palm. “I can report you to the police.”

He sighs, exaggerated, pinky picking at his ear. The gesture makes Fumi’s stomach turn. “They won’t do shit, y’know. Ah, but what do I expect from a high-schooler like you?”

“You - ” She can’t even form the sentence.

“Relax.” He waves his hand, smiling. “I just want to drive a point home.” He sets his elbows on the table. “She loves you, Fumi. But I need her. She can’t stay here. I’m taking her back.”

She can’t stay here. I’m taking her back.

They echo in her head like a curse. A broken record.

“She’s not - ” Fumi starts, voice cracking. “…She’s a human being. Not a thing you can take and give as you please.”

“Eh.” He tilts his head, considering. “She’s human, true. But she’s also mine.”

Fumi sees it, then, the unnatural brightness of his eyes. Blue, startlingly blue, something unreal. She wonders how she never noticed it before. It feels like looking into the ocean, the sky - something that stretches far beyond this world. An unlimited void.

He keeps staring, expression soft. Chilling. “And I don’t share, Fumi.”

The cicadas scream outside.

In the distance, Fumi can hear her mother laughing with Nobara in the kitchen, clink of bowls, kettle whistling. Her hands tremble in her lap, heart beating like it wants to climb out of her chest.

The man smiles, leans back, and picks up his chopsticks. “Eat up,” he says lightly, as though nothing happened. “Your food’s getting cold.”

Somewhere along her dream, Saori’s still there.

Nobara has looked up to her for a long time. Fumi guesses it’s not all that surprising. Her friend lacks a parental figure, only having her grandmother to raise her. Fumi hasn’t the inkling of where Nobara’s parents are, just knows that her father was never around, and her mother was a deadbeat. She feels for her, sometimes.

Saori taught them a lot of things. Bought them that red bean bun from the bakery, always giving them sweet treats at home. Fumi likes that Saori’s an outsider, too, in the village. 

Ever since Nobara got close with Saori, her demeanour would… change. She became softer, gentler. More mature. Fumi, the shy kid, has never understood what exempts her from taking a liking to Saori, too. She was nice, of course, but Fumi has considered Saori to be Nobara’s catalyst for as long as she can remember. Has never seen her as her own person. 

She got punished for that.

The day Nobara set her foot on the train, Fumi’s world collapsed. She didn’t want her to go. She wanted her to stay. To be with her. Being the coward she was, she didn’t say it. And by the time Nobara’s back in town again, she still doesn’t have the courage.

In this dream, Saori is still there. Laughing with Nobara. Some words Fumi can’t make out. 

They’re sitting in the bakery by the corner window. Afternoon light spills over the table, glinting off the sugar crystals dusted on the buns. The air smells like custard and warm bread. Fumi knows this isn’t real - she’s much too aware of everything for her own good - Saori’s got her hair down, natural. Pretty. She’s the oldest, sitting across from them, elbows resting neatly on the table. Nobara is beside Fumi, swinging her legs under the bench, talking through a mouthful of pastry.

“Saori, do you think bugs can fall in love?” Nobara asks suddenly, her cheeks puffed up with bun.

Fumi blinks. “That’s gross.”

“It’s not gross!” Nobara insists, swallowing. “Like - if there’s a boy bug and a girl bug, and they always fly together or something, isn’t that love?”

Saori laughs softly, voice warm. “Maybe. Have you considered that they just like the same flower?”

Nobara frowns, thinking. “That’s boring.”

Fumi tears off a piece of her bun, the custard oozing onto her fingers. She licks it off quickly, trying not to make a mess. “Do you believe in that kind of thing?” she asks, quietly. “Love, I mean.”

Nobara turns to her, eyes bright. “Of course I do! I’m gonna grow up and be strong and pretty,” turns to Saori, “And you’re gonna have to marry me!”

Saori startles mid-bite. “Nobara!” she says, laughing again, her tone gentle but flustered.

“What? You’re cool!” Nobara grins, triumphant.

“If you were a boy, Nobara, I would certainly want to marry you when you’re older.”

Fumi keeps her eyes on her half-eaten bun. She feels her face heat up, though she doesn’t know why. Saori’s smiling, brushing crumbs from her skirt, and the sight makes something small and tight twist in Fumi’s chest.

“I think,” Saori adds, “You’ll meet someone your own age who’s much cooler than me.”

“No way,” Nobara says, grinning wider. “No one’s cooler than you.”

Fumi knows she’s supposed to laugh. That’s what she usually does, but she can’t quite manage it. She looks down, watching the yellow custard spill out.

Saori reaches over to hand her a napkin. “You’re quiet today, Fumi.”

“I’m fine,” Fumi murmurs.

“You don’t like custard?”

“I do. It’s just… sweet.”

Saori hums softly. “Sometimes sweet things can be too much,” she says.

Nobara licks her fingers clean. “I love sweet things,” she says. “They make me happy.”

Fumi glances at her. Nobara’s face glows in the afternoon sun, and her hair catches the light. Fumi wants to tell her that she makes her happy too, though the words never come.

As she blinks, the sunlight flickers. 

The flicker isn’t natural. It moves wrong - a trick of light caught between memory and dream. The smell of bread fades, replaced by something faintly metallic, and Fumi’s head spins. She blinks again, harder, and the bakery steadies. Their table’s still there. Nobara still laughing at something Saori’s just said.

There’s a weight to it now. A heaviness that doesn’t belong.

She doesn’t want this dream to end.

Nobara reaches over and pokes her arm. “Hey. Why’re you spacing out?”

“M’not.”

“You are,” Nobara insists, grinning. “You do that when you think too hard.”

“I don’t think too hard,” Fumi mutters, defensive without meaning to. 

Nobara leans in. “You totally do. You’re always staring out the window like you’re in a sad movie or something.”

Saori chuckles softly. “Don’t tease her, Nobara.”

“I’m not teasing! She’s cute when she’s grumpy.”

Fumi’s face warms. She wishes Nobara wouldn’t say things like that - at least not here, not in front of Saori - but Nobara never notices when she crosses that invisible line between playfulness and cruelty. Saori only smiles, patient, folding her napkin neatly beside her plate.

“You two remind me of kittens,” she says. “Always poking and pouncing.”

Nobara laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her drink. “Then you’re the cat mom!”

Fumi can’t help smiling a little. “That’s… not how kittens work.”

“Sure it is,” Nobara says, unfazed. “Saori’s the mom cat, I’m the brave one, and you’re the shy one hiding under the table.”

Fumi bites back a reply. She can see it in her mind: Nobara loud and reckless, darting from one patch of light to another; herself half-hidden in the corner, waiting for someone to notice.

Saori notices. She always does.

Fumi guesses she got that trait from her, too. Stole it from her.

“Fumi,” Saori says softly. “You’re thinking again.”

Fumi shakes her head. “No. Just listening.”

Saori’s smile turns gentle. “That’s good. The world needs more listeners.”

Nobara groans dramatically. “You’re too nice, Saori. If I were you, I’d make her talk more.”

“I like her quiet,” Saori says. “Quiet isn’t bad. It means she feels things carefully.”

Fumi looks up then. Saori’s eyes meet hers across the table - kind, genuine, a little too knowing.

Outside, the cicadas start up, faint but rising. The dream’s edges shimmer. Fumi can feel it: the pull of waking, the air thinning around them.

She doesn’t want it to end.

Nobara is laughing, brushing crumbs off her shirt. “I bet Fumi’s thinking about love again,” she teases.

“I’m not!” Fumi says quickly.

“Liar.”

Saori intervenes with a small, amused sigh. “All right, all right. No fighting.”

Nobara huffs, then grins at Saori. “Fine. But if she’s not gonna finish her bun, I will.”

“Who are you kidding? You can barely finish one,” Saori says, a hint of mock sternness in her tone.

Nobara giggles, pretending to pout, and Fumi watches the whole exchange in silence. She wants to stay here forever. She wants them both to stay.

Saori turns to her, voice calm, something pulled from an old, safe memory.

“Eat the bun before it gets cold, Fumi.”

Chapter Text

Nobara’s phone is ringing again, now for the third time.

Fumi glances at it, taking a peek at the name. It says Fushiguro with a barfing emoji. She frowns, not understanding what it means. Fumi hopes her contact name in Nobara’s phone is somewhat reasonable without any weird emoticons.

“Sorry,” Nobara says, quick, flipping the phone over, essentially rejecting the call. “It’s just Fushiguro.”

Fumi worries her lips. “Why don’t you take it? It might be important.”

“Nah,” Nobara grins, leaning back on her hands, the mattress dipping with her weight, “My time with you is limited. He’s probably just being the worried bum he is.”

Well, Fumi thinks, I am also worried about you even though you are right there in front of me. 

“Come here, Fumi.”

She obeys immediately, guided by Nobara’s helping hand, crawling towards her. Leans down as far as her spine would allow her, while not so innocently slipping hand below Nobara’s shirt, touching the skin there, grounding herself there. Her best friend sighs, a smile dawning upon her face, and Fumi feels her face heating up, the need to get her friend to make that sound again skyrocketing.

She sweeps her fingers over Nobara’s stomach, pressing slightly. The motion causes a moan to slip out of her lips, and Fumi feels more inclined to wring it out of her again. She ducks, hands anchoring herself on either of Nobara’s side, before both of them freeze at the sound of someone’s abysmally loud and awful steps from the other side of the room.

No - from outside of the room.

Fumi scrambles away, gathering her clothes, panic clouding her thoughts. Nobara - this time, she mirrors Fumi’s behaviour, though it is added with swearing under her breath, the fucks and shits flying out of her mouth messily.

“Where - I don’t know - ” Fumi starts, unable to think rationally.

“The closet - ” Nobara responds, pointing at it, and without thinking, Fumi scurries to the said closet. It’s modestly sized and fairly speaking, not very suffocating, but Fumi has always hated closed (and in addition, small) rooms. 

It’s okay, it’s probably just for a while anyway, Fumi rationalises, and nods to Nobara - who looks apologetic. Fumi manages to fit herself inside and closes the door barely in time for the man’s entrance.

Nobara’s boyfriend.

Right, because Fumi’s at their inn without him knowing.

Fumi knows it’s wrong, but she honestly can’t care less after what he said to her yesterday. To quote Nobara’s words after she told her: He fucking said that? Yeah, no wonder, his narcissism is through the roof as always. It was on the phone, the morning after dinner. Which led to Nobara inviting Fumi to the inn and not telling her boyfriend about it because she said it was better that way.

Well, it did feel good, but now Fumi’s scared for her life.

There’s a sound of a door opening, steps clattering in, and Fumi can see from the louvered gaps that Nobara is fidgeting on her bed nervously. Fortunately, Fumi didn’t bring anything here but her own body, so the chance of him finding her scattered belongings would be far from high.

The man stops at the doorway, and Fumi almost imagines him shifting his gaze onto her - the closet. But he starts walking again, to the bed, and Fumi has to hold her sigh of relief at the sight. Her eyes follow the motion of Nobara sitting with a pillow propped up beneath her arms, smiling easy and steady as if Fumi isn’t hiding herself here.

He’s wearing black turtleneck this time, glasses on his head (Fumi sometimes wonders why he always has sunglasses on), a plastic bag full of - if Fumi is correct - snacks. The man starts talking lowly to Nobara, bringing out the contents of the bag one by one. Fumi sees it now - it’s a set of painkillers, a lot of calming tea bags…? and sleep aids; she knows because her mom buys that brand all the time to help with her insomnia.

Nobara struggles with sleeping?

“Thank you for doing this,” Fumi hears Nobara saying, her fingers extended to graze his forearm. He merely glances at the touch before he nods, a wide grin colouring his lips.

“No problem. I was getting something to drink as well.” He sits on the bed, in front of her, cupping her cheek with one hand. “Was someone here?”

Nobara shakes her head. To Fumi, that expression of hers is unreadable. The way Fumi interprets it, Nobara’s telling him to don’t mention it, or, more accurately - forget about it. “No, I was alone the whole time,” but she says, and Fumi is aware they’re speaking in riddles. Do they always talk like that, or is it because he realises Fumi is hiding in the closet? It’s kind of impossible, though. Fumi hasn’t made a single rustle or sound. He must have superhuman abilities to detect her inside. 

Then again, he did stop the moment he went through the door.

Fumi shouldn’t overthink it. She focuses on shallowing the intakes of her breath, her heartbeat, her nerves trembling badly to keep still. He’s leaning towards Nobara now, and it’s clear from the position where Fumi is sitting, that he’s about to kiss her friend. But he stops, his mouth moving, whispering something Fumi can’t hear.

Which apparently makes Nobara still, if only for a second, before she holds up a hand high in the air and slaps him right across his face.

The sound cracks through the quiet like lightning splitting open a storm.

Contrary to what Fumi thinks he’ll react with (anger, madness, aggravation), he laughs instead, the sound of genuine happiness and something Fumi can’t quite put a finger on. It’s like mockery and amusement at the same time. She shivers in her place, unconsciously worrying her lower lip, as she tries not to sob.

Her best friend’s boyfriend is really weird. Fumi wants to get out of here, wants nothing more to do with him, wants to take Nobara away from him. He’s weird and insane and all the things the both of them should never even encounter from the start.

But the seed is already planted, Fumi is still hiding in the closet, and she can only wait until she reaps what she sows.

His right cheek blooms red from the impact, the grin that follows after his laugh absolutely ecstatic. Nobara is breathing too hard. Her shoulders rise and fall unevenly, knuckles stark white where she clenches her fists. Angry, humiliated, scared - Fumi can’t tell which, but she knows that tremor in her friend’s hands. She’s seen it before.

He reaches out. Not in chastise, no - something worse. His fingers graze over Nobara’s knuckles slowly, the glint in his eyes unmistakable.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Fumi’s heart catches in her throat. It sounds wrong, filthy even, the way it rolls off his tongue. It’s not affection, it’s not love; it’s assessment. It’s when her mother stands with her arms crossed as Fumi cries for another ice cream. It’s her father who smiles tiredly and relents at her whines and whims. It’s Nobara’s boyfriend testing how far he can go before she flinches again.

It’s assessment and control.

Nobara jerks her head back, her toes digging on the mattress to push herself back. “Don’t - ” she starts, but the word cracks halfway through, a sudden lump forming in her throat. He doesn’t respond. He’s turning his head, his gaze landing directly on the closet.

Fumi stops breathing.

For a mere minute, she thinks she hallucinated it - how his pupils narrow, how his brow lifts. But the corner of his mouth tilts upward, and from then a thought that inexplicably has been rotting her mind since he first stepped in the room actualises. 

He knows.

The silence stretches until it hurts. Nobara shifts on the bed. Fumi can feel that gaze pressing through the slats of the door, to her, through her.

“You should tell your friend to stop hiding next time,” he says, voice calm, really amused. “It’s rude to listen in.”

Fumi freezes so hard her ribs ache against the inside of her chest. Nobara blinks once, twice, her confusion breaking apart into realization. Terror floods her face so suddenly that Fumi wants to disappear, to fold herself into nothing.

“‘Toru, no,” Nobara whispers. The sound is small, shaky. It’s the first time Fumi’s heard her sound like that - like a child again, like losing Saori all over again.

Her eyes stings.

“It’s fine,” he says again, indulgent, indulgent. “Come out now, Fumi.”

Her pulse beats erratically in her ears, the tiny, animal sound of her own breath trying to stay quiet. She doesn’t move. If she stays still enough, maybe he’ll let it go, maybe he’ll pretend she doesn’t exist.

The hope crashes as a creak of floorboards begin, unhurried steps drawing closer to her. It feels like forever before the handle finally turns, Fumi’s body betraying her, flinching, squeezing her eyes shut. Light seeping in through the thin opening.

“Hey,” he says.

He doesn’t yank it open, just easing it aside, careful, opening a music box. 

Her mouth goes dry. He’s crouching down in front of her, matching their heights, his face and grin bright in the dim light, the same infuriating grin softened into something falsely kind. Studies her face, unbothered, casually extending a hand.

Fumi clenches her first, digging nails into skin. “Please don’t hurt Nocchan,” she pleads, because maybe he’ll listen to her.

He laughs, easy and carefree, the only one not affected by this situation. “You think of me as some kind of monster. I’m hurt.”

He nudges her again, eyes shooting down to his hand, and Fumi swallows, accepting it. He stands, slowly, if only to exaggerate the motion, the careful way he’s handling this, as though he understands (and is painfully taking advantage of) both Nobara and her fears. Guides her to sit at the corner chair, Fumi pliant and unresisting. 

He takes a step back, hands on his hips, the posture one Fumi’s mother usually wears when scolding her.

“Look at you two, frightened for your life. Did you do something bad?”

“‘Toru, I - ”

He cuts her best friend off. “Shut up, I’m not asking you.” Turns to her. “Fumi?”

Fumi flinches again. “Y-yeah?”

“Did you do something bad?”

She trembles, hands shaking badly in her lap. “…N-no?”

Click of his tongue, the cracking of his fingers and Fumi letting out a choked sound as the man swings his arm and strikes Nobara hard until she collapses on the mattress. Her cheek turns bright red, the mark of his palm visible. Nobara sniffs, tears already beginning to fall. Fumi can’t stand to see it.

“Stop it! Please just stop it!” She begs, about to scramble to Nobara’s side, but his glare keeps her rooted in her place.

“I’ll ask again. Did you do something bad?”

Something bad… like what? She doesn’t think she did. But then again, he is unpredictable. And Fumi doesn’t want her best friend hurt again. So she reasons with what makes the most sense in her mind, “I… I kissed her…?” That counts as cheating, surely, in his messed-up logics?

He lets out a chuckle. “No, no. I don’t care if you kissed her or not.” Sits on the bed. Gathers Nobara in his arms, rocking her like a baby, and the sight makes Fumi sick. “It doesn’t matter to me. Think, Fumi. You did something bad.”

Fumi might as well be crying now. Why is he like this? She wants to snatch Nobara away and run from him together. Something must’ve happened to him to shape him the way he is now. Something monstrous, something inhuman.

She thinks about his question again. Something bad. Something bad. Hiding in the closet… means trying to eavesdrop?

“…I was eavesdropping?”

“Yeah! I know you’re not stupid,” he exclaims, beaming with what Fumi can only interpret as mockery. Nobara twitches in his grip, fingers trying to pry away his own from her body, but he’s much stronger and steadier in anchoring her to the spot. “See, that’s where the problem is. You’re still a kid, Fumi, but even children nowadays get taught that eavesdropping is bad. Or at least that’s what I thought. Sorry if I assume wrongly.”

Fumi’s brain is spinning. He’s… he’s holding her friend like that and he wants to talk about eavesdropping is bad…? And saying sorry for assuming wrongly? What the heck is wrong with him?

Everything, apparently.

He shifts on the bed, Nobara between his legs, one hand languidly resting on her thigh and another tracing mindless pattern on her forearm. Fumi feels absolute rage seeing it. She can’t do anything. Why can’t she do anything?

“Please,” Fumi thinks she’s saying, though the words are lost in her ears. “Please don’t hurt her.”

“Goodness gracious, no. I’m not hurting her.” He sounds exasperated now, as if she’s talking nonsense. “I’m merely teaching her a lesson. It’s what was expected of me as her teacher, you see.”

His hands slide beneath Nobara’s skirt as he spreads her legs, the resistance she puts up useless against his strength. Fumi winces, unable to stop him, though she tries - leaning over, and that is met with Nobara’s low yelp when he tightens his hold on her, fierce enough to bruise. Fumi doesn’t dare to move again, afraid that even the slightest inch would set him off.

 “Let her go, you jerk,” Nobara starts, and Fumi wishes she would just shut up. The situation is severe enough for her already. Why doesn’t she understand that fighting it - fighting him would only make him harsher? “She has nothing to do with this. I’m the one you want.”

 The man laughs - that laugh Fumi has begun to recognise and swore would remember as cruel. Compartmentalize it so it would belong to him and him only. Recalling him before anything she does so she wouldn’t take anything for granted again. “I guess that’s true. But it’s rare for me to have so much fun like this, with you.”

Nobara grits her teeth. “You can have as much fun as you want with me. But let her go.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Then you can fuck yourself - ah - ”

His palm finds the crook of Nobara’s knees, easing her higher until her back meets her chest. Her skirt is lifted by the position, and it makes her panties agonisingly visible to Fumi’s eyes. Her throat feels unbelievably, unbearably dry.

“‘Toru - ”

“No.” His tone is firm. Fumi wonders if he’s always like this, his whole life. Her first perception of him is true, in the end. He’s someone who’s never been told no, like ever. And the outcome of doing so is directly in front of her, now. “No, sweetheart, sorry. This is for your own good. You won’t learn if I don’t do this.”

“Do what?” Fumi finds herself asking.

“A curious one, aren’t you?” He muses, something coating his tone, something Fumi doesn’t want to name. “I’ll show you. Watch closely.”

Fumi has half an idea what he means. She’s not that innocent. She knows how babies are made. She knows what ‘eating a person out’ means because Nobara taught her that. She knows how to kiss. What she doesn’t know, however, is how he’s sliding his finger down inside Nobara’s panties, the motion inevitably making her tense.

“Satoru,” she tries, face fully red not from the slap, but from embarrassment. “Don’t… not in front of her.”

The man huffs, seemingly uninterested with her plea. “Oh, c’mon. You guys were making out in front of my face the whole time. This is payback, payback.”

Fumi’s ears are ringing. Breath heavy as she stares at him, his hand starting to rub at Nobara’s center and her back arching from the sensation. Her fingers desperately claw at him, but he gathers them in one hand with ease and makes to nuzzle at her neck. Canine sinking into skin and Nobara’s strangled moan filling the room. Fumi squirms in her seat.

“Keep them upright,” he says when Nobara’s about to close her legs, prevent Fumi from seeing. “You wouldn’t want to know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

Fumi wants to cry. No, she thinks she’s crying already. Nobara’s crying, too, although barely. Is she used to this? Is this what’s happening to her in the city?

Is this the better life she’s been searching for?

I like my life there, Fumi.

Fumi stays in her seat, more for Nobara than herself. She can’t stop his fingers going up and down inside of her friend’s panties. She can only watch. How cruel. How cruel of him to make her watch.

And my friends. My school.

“‘Toru,” Fumi hears her friend whispering, the sound muted and far away from her ears. Sweat gathers along her hairline, slipping down  the side of her face. His own is half eclipsed from her shoulder, and from Fumi’s position, it looks weirdly erotic. 

Nobara’s mouth is open, little gasps and whines tearing themselves out of her. Toes hooking into the sheets, desperate for something solid.

Him?

She cries out when he - seemingly, from what Fumi could see - forces a finger into her warmth. Nobara’s expression is far from the perfect picture of pleasure. She’s shaking terribly in his grip, more so when he doesn’t stop at just one, but two fingers penetrating her.

Him, too.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he groans, licking a stripe beneath her pulse point, the wounded ear. Fumi has to close her eyes and take a deep breath before she opens them again. When she does, Nobara is staring at her - helpless, pleading, pleading.

How so? She can’t save her. No one can. No one. She can’t save her.

Fumi wants to go home. Home. Home. Forget about all of this. Forget Nobara ever came back. Fumi doesn’t mind not seeing her ever again if it means the her in her memory is still the old Nocchan. Not - whatever she is in front of her.

It’s not her fault, Fumi thinks. It’s not Nobara’s fault. So why is she angry? Why is she angry beyond reason?

How about me?

“Get it out,” Nobara coughs out, face twisting in pain, body writhing under his arms. “Get it out - it hurts, it hurts,” she wails, looking utterly stricken. “Please get it out, please.” Eyes locking on Fumi. She freezes. “Fumi, tell him to stop, please, tell him to stop…”

I like you, too.

Fumi blinks, fat tears dripping down her cheeks and landing on her carefully picked out dress from her excitement at being pretty for Nobara. The cotton soft and wonderful in her fingers, it’s very you, Nobara had said, in a yesterday that happened far too long ago.

As Fumi glances at the man’s eyes, the blue in them stuns her senseless, eyes devoid of any emotion. But want. And lust. Fumi understands it then. There’s nothing that can stop him. Nothing if she tries.

Still, she does, anyway.

“Please stop…” she finds herself saying, shaky, voice cracking. “Please stop hurting her… I’m sorry for what I did - I’m sorry…”

He keeps going. He hasn’t heard her…? Does he simply not want to hear?

Nobara is full on thrashing now, since he shows no sign of stopping. He’s looking at Fumi, staring straight into her eyes. Fumi gulps.

She’s not innocent, she knows what that means.

So Fumi stands from her chair, walks the short distance to the bed, kneels down, and extends both of her hands to stop Nobara’s legs from kicking. 

Her friend stops for a moment, looks down at her, tears brimming in her eyes.

The fight starts again.

She’s not innocent. If Nobara does less thrashing, less kicking, less fighting, then she’ll get less lashing. Fumi’s just making it better for her. It’s not her fault. Nobara knows that. She must.

I like you, too.

She chose Saori, Fumi thinks. She chose Satoru. She has never chosen Fumi.

It’s not her fault.

After he’s done, after Nobara’s shaking and crying, he gathers her into his arms and cradles her against his body. Rocks her back and forth, I’m sorry, like a baby, sorry, cooing little phrases of apology, I’m sorry.

And Fumi knows her eyes aren’t lying when her best friend nods, when she accepts his affection so easily even after what happened and makes to hug him back, tightly. No I forgive yous, just nods and tears, and her quiet deference.

He looks at Fumi as though pained. But for what? No one inflicted agony upon him. He did so instead, to them.

Fumi, this time, can only just watch from afar. There’s a wall between them, a bridge she can’t cross. A valley too steep to span - that if she decides to follow, it would kill her first. Fumi thinks she can’t be okay with that. Though what else can she do? 

She can only mourn what could have been.

If only Nobara didn’t take that train.

“He doesn’t care about you.”

“You don’t get it.” Nobara sighs, pulling her knees closer to her chest, expression solemn in a way Fumi has never seen her wear. “I know he doesn’t. The problem is whether I care or not.”

Fumi frowns. “What does that mean?”

“I can’t leave him, Fumi.”

She blinks. “Sure you can, he’s just - ”

“I can’t.” Nobara cuts her off, looking too serious as she says it. As though it’s a matter of life and death. “You know me. You must know I have tried to leave him. It’s impossible for that to not cross your mind.”

Fumi bites her lip. Yeah, she did think about it. Before what happened - before she witnessed that… incident (and being complicit in it), Fumi was so sure Nobara would try to escape from that kind of situation, it’s what she does best. Nobara doesn’t take kindly to discrimination, humiliation, the likes. So the only possible outcome was that - Nobara had tried, and it didn’t matter. She had failed.

“I am merely fulfilling a role. I am sad for him, yes, but I also despise him. Both things are true and can coexist.”

Fumi shakes her head. Sad for him? “No, no, I don’t get it. He’s just a man. A human being. Yeah, I get it he’s rich, but - ”

“He’s not a man,” Nobara retorts, eyes half-lidded. “He’s everything but a man.”

But Nobara that Fumi knows would always try to find a way. Back then, they used to find the way together, to get out of every problem unscathed. Whether it be for stealing the neighbours’ fruits from their trees, jumping to the roof and falling down to the ground when they slipped, Fumi’s parents scolding them and still melting from their puppy eyes. They always find a way. They used to. What happened?

What happened to her?

“There’s this one time,” Nobara starts, and Fumi makes sure she listens in, because it’s the best that she can do, because she can’t save her best friend from her inevitable demise. “I didn’t want to go back to Satoru’s place. So I hid in Itadori’s dorm room. The pink-haired boy?” Nobara asks, unsure, and Fumi nods. She does remember. “Fushiguro was there, too. We kind of had a sleepover. Now that I think about it, it sounds…”

The smell of antiseptic clung to the room. Late afternoon light spilling in through the blinds, thin and silver, catching dust motes as they floated lazily in the air.

Nobara sat where he had told her to: on the edge of the couch, back straight, knees pressed together, hands gripping the fabric of her pants so tightly her knuckles ached.

He moved around the kitchen with that casual, easy rhythm he always had. Soft clattering of glass, quiet rustle of paper packets being torn open. The sound felt domestic. Peaceful, even, and that was the worst part of it.

Nothing about this should ever have felt peaceful.

He hummed some aimless tune - that lullaby gone wrong again - as he walked toward her. The smell of disinfectant sharpened. “Alright, turn your head,” he said, and she obeyed automatically. Body reacting before her mind did.

His fingers brushed her jaw, cool and firm, guiding her face to the light. “Hold still,” he murmured. Thumb grazing the edge of the bandage behind her ear, careful and knowing. Warmth of his skin seeping in despite her best effort to pull away.

He peeled the old bandage off slowly. It tugged at her skin, and she flinched. His voice followed, gentle and amused. “Still hurts?”

“A little,” she said, though the burn beneath the wound was starker than ever.

“You’re a bad liar,” he whispered, almost fond. “You’ve always been.”

She wanted to tell him to shut up, but the words didn’t come. His fingers moved again, tilting her head a fraction more. His breath ghosted over her neck when he leaned closer to look. The wound was pink and tender, should’ve healed already if she hadn’t kept touching it.

“You gave me a bit of a scare last night, you know.”

Her stomach dropped.

“I came to your dorm, and imagine my surprise when you weren’t there. Had to look around for you. Thought something terrible had happened.” He chuckled, and she couldn’t tell if it was forced or genuine. “But then, there you were. All cozy in the boys’ room.”

Her breath caught. “I - ”

“With Yuji,” he continued, still smiling, still calm. “And Megumi. Both of them, hm? You must’ve been so scared to need two boys to make you feel safe.”

Her throat closed. She couldn’t think.

“They’re good kids,” he said, as if it were an afterthought. “I trust them.” His tone dipped, though, quieter. “But I don’t like it when you run off like that.”

Her spine stiffened. “I wasn’t - ”

He hushed her with a finger, the pad pressing lightly against her chin. “You don’t have to explain,” he said, gentle again. “I get it. You needed space.” His hand lingered behind her ear, pressing the fresh cotton pad to the wound. The sting made her wince. “But next time, just tell me, alright? I’ll come get you myself. No need to make them worry.”

No need to make him worry.

The cotton pad moved again, slow circles of pressure that made her skin prickle. He replaced the bandage with practiced precision, smoothing the edges with his thumb. “There. That’s better. You should’ve been more careful. It’d be a shame if it scarred.”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned closer until his words skimmed against her ear. “You shouldn’t have made those boys worry. Yuji looked terrified when I showed up. Poor kid almost tripped over himself trying to sound normal.”

Her stomach turned cold.

He kept going. “And Megumi… you two got along too well for my taste. I hope you weren’t doing something bad behind my back.”

“We weren’t,” she said, barely audible.

“I know.” His hand drifted up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Her skin shivered where he touched her. Every part of her had wanted to move away, to slap his hand, to scream - but she stayed still. Tension sitting heavy in her chest, an invisible hand pressing down on her lungs.

He stood after a moment, discarding the used supplies with a flick of his wrist. “Good girl,” he said, the words coming out light and final, a ribbon tied on a gift. “See? Didn’t that feel better? You could rest easy here. No more running around with boys who couldn’t protect you.”

He turned away, heading to the kitchen. Soft clink of a kettle following, steam beginning to rise.

Nobara didn’t move. Her fingers twitched against her knee, itching to tear the bandage off, to feel the air sting the wound raw again.

He hummed again from the counter. “Chamomile or green?”

She didn’t answer.

“Chamomile, then,” he decided, cheerful. “It’ll help you sleep.”

“…It was laced with drugs.”

“What?” Fumi chokes out a breath. 

Nobara only shrugs, as though it’s not a big deal. “He started doing that when he deemed me ‘hysterical’ or ‘can’t control myself’ - in his words, he’s only doing what’s best for me.” Adds, with a quiet exhilaration, “I always woke up naked and sore after that.”

“That’s… that’s horrible.”

“You get used to it.”

“No!” Fumi retorts, half screaming. “No you don’t! Why would you have to get used to it?”

“Because I have no other choice, Fumi.”

“Sure you do!” Fumi exclaims, frustrated. “There must… there should be a way! A way for you to - to leave him!”

Doesn’t say the I’m sorry for holding you down when he was assaulting you in front of me, Fumi can’t bear it. The guilt is eating at her, horrendous, thick and tar-like, swelling every time she tries to swallow it down.

Fumi lurches forward, catching Nobara’s hands in both of hers, grip too tight. “Let’s leave,” she says, voice splintering, tears stinging her eyes. “Let’s get out of here. We can run tonight, just the two of us. You and me.”

“Please,” Fumi whispers again when Nobara’s not responding, eyes staring mindlessly at nothing. “Please, Nocchan. You can’t stay with him. You can’t - you said it yourself, he’s hurting you. We’ll run. We’ll figure it out later. We can go somewhere far. I’ll get the money, I’ll find a way, just - ”

Her voice falters. She sounds so young.

Nobara’s eyes soften, and for a moment, she almost looks like she might say yes. But then she exhales, slow and tired, Fumi knows that means she’s already decided.

“Fumi,” Nobara says quietly, her fingers curling back around Fumi’s. “You don’t get it. I can’t.”

Fumi shakes her head hard. “You can! You can, we can - ”

“He’ll find us.”

She sounds so certain. Like she’s said them before, maybe to herself, maybe in her head on the nights she almost packed her things. And Fumi doesn’t want to imagine it, doesn’t want to imagine her sitting in front of a suitcase and thinking it’s of no use.

Fumi blinks at her. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Nobara says. “He always knows. Where I go. What I do. Even when I think I’m being careful, he just - ” She stops, swallows, and shakes her head, voice thinning. “He always shows up.”

Fumi stares at her, searching her face for some logic, some hint of how that’s possible. “That’s - that’s impossible, Nocchan. He’s just a human.”

Nobara laughs, though it sounds forced. “Yeah,” she says. “Just a human.”

The silence stretches between them. Fumi’s throat closes around some kind of lump, her breath catching on it. She doesn’t understand - doesn’t really get what she’s talking about, and it makes it worse. Nobara’s eyes are distant, faraway, fixed on a point somewhere past the wall. 

“Then I’ll go to someone,” Fumi says frantically. “Someone who can help - your teachers, or - ”

Nobara shakes her head, quick and curt. “No. Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll know that, too.”

The way she says it, low and shaking, sends a chill crawling up Fumi’s spine. She realizes Nobara’s not being paranoid. She’s terrified. She’s learned it, has been conditioned to it, has it carved into her.

Nobara stands then, pulling her hands free gently. Her smile, if it can be called that, is almost apologetic. “You’re sweet for wanting to help me,” she says softly. “But there’s no running from him.”

Fumi’s mouth opens, closes. “Then what do you do?”

Nobara’s gaze drifts toward the window, where late light spills against the curtains, pale and harmless. “You survive,” she says. “You keep breathing. Wait for him to get bored. Maybe he’ll rid of me some day. Who knows?”

Fumi stares at her, heart breaking in slow motion.

Nobara’s voice lowers, kindly. “And you, Fumi - you need to stop trying to convince me. He’ll notice. I don’t want him to.”

Fumi shakes her head, tears burning hot in her eyes. “Nocchan, I can’t just - ”

“You have to.”

The firmness in her voice is the last thing left of her old self - the stubbornness, the bite. It’s still there, but dulled, surviving in the cracks.

Fumi wants to scream. She wants to grab her, shake her, make her fight back. But her friend’s already looking away, already retreating into that quiet,  composed calm she’s learned to wear around him.

“You have to, Fumi. Can you promise me that?”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Nobara laughs again, carefree this time. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m still the Nocchan you know, y’see.”

But she’s not. She’s not.

“C’mon,” Nobara encourages, holding out her hand, pinky extended, the nail chipped. “Let’s make a promise.”

Fumi hesitates, biting her lips.

“Fumi, it’s my last day here. Come on, do it for me, at least.” Nobara tilts her head, a big grin on her face, and Fumi wants to tell her to stop pretending. There’s pain written all over it - why does she look so happy? “Let’s make a promise!”

Fumi nods, looping her pink finger, tangling it together.

“See, it’s not that hard. Now say it! Say you’ll be happy even without me.”

It’s cruel. Cruel of her to do that to Fumi. Her chest tightens, heart beating too fast. “You sound like you’re never coming back.”

“Eh, maybe I am,” Nobara grins, shrugging. “Don’t have to deal with Bacchan anymore? Sounds like heaven to me.”

Fumi frowns. “Nocchan, be serious.”

“Okay, okay!” Nobara laughs again, too loud, to fake. Laugh ringing sharply in the air. “I don’t know if I’m ever coming back. This village drove Saori crazy. It’ll drive you crazy, too. I’m happy I got away before it got to me.”

It got to you, still. 

“Maybe…” Fumi starts, worrying her lips. “Maybe I can talk to my parents about moving to Tokyo.”

Nobara’s face lights up. “That would be wonderful! I’d be so fucking happy to have you there.” Eyes darting away, not staring at her. “Though I doubt he’ll let me see you often.”

Fumi swallows. Him. It’s always him.

“You’re living in his place?” Fumi asks, careful.

Nobara scrunches her nose. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“Oh.”

“Yep,” she says, forcing a smile. “But that’s okay. I don’t mind it. As long as I know you’re still here.” She continues, then, “Sorry for… about him making you do that. I didn’t expect it.”

Why would you say sorry? I should be the one to say that. Fumi blinks. The memory flashes through her - Nobara looking down at Fumi as she holds her legs still. “It’s… not your fault.”

“I know. Sorry, still.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“It’s not your fault,” Nobara assures her.

It kinda is. 

“That’s just the man he is,” Nobara adds. “Anyway, you haven’t said your promise yet.”

Fumi winces. “Do I have to say it?”

“Of course!” Nobara leans forward, pinky still tangled with hers. “I’ll keep it forever in my heart.”

I’ll keep you forever in mine, Fumi thinks, but doesn’t say.

“Well, uh…” Fumi starts, stumbling over her words. “I promise… I’ll be happy - even without you.”

“I’ll say it too!” Nobara’s leaning closer, lips ghosting over hers, a shy centimetre away from kissing her. “I’ll be happy… even without you.”

Fumi’s cheek warms. For the first time, she advances first, pressing her lips against hers, enjoying the way Nobara’s eyelashes flutter. Pinky fingers untangling, a hand coming up to cup her cheek, deepen the kiss. Tongue meeting her lower lip and Nobara’s low moan as she invades her mouth.

Love you coming desperately out of her throat, but she stifles it. She will say it another time. When he’s gone, when there’s no one between the two of them anymore.

Another time.

The train leaves in ten minutes.

Nobara’s wearing his coat. Too big for her, sleeves swallowing her hands. She tells Fumi he said it was cold out, didn’t want to argue.

The man stands a few steps behind them. No more facade, no more soft tone. He’s done pretending. Quiet, but Fumi can feel his presence as pressure against her spine. Sunglasses reflecting everything - her face, Nobara’s, station clock counting down.

The hour of her execution; Nobara leaving on a train to Tokyo again.

Fumi wonders why she hasn’t died already.

Nobara glances over her shoulder once. “He’s getting impatient,” she murmurs. 

It’s supposed to be Fumi’s line. Her throat closes. “Let him,” she says, accepting this new change of role.

That earns her a little smirk. “Don’t,” Nobara whispers, though Fumi only sees genuine happiness in her eyes. “You’ll just make it worse.

Her hand is cold, squeezing Fumi’s.

“Ten minutes,” Fumi remarks, she can’t think of anything else to fill the silence. I love you, she thinks, tell her I love you.

“Plenty of time,” Nobara grins, that too-bright smile that makes Fumi want to scream. “You still remember our promise, right?”

“Don’t bring that up now,” Fumi pleads, voice cracking.

“Why not?” Nobara teases. “You said you’d be happy.”

“I said that because you wanted me to.” Because I can’t say I love you.

Nobara’s smile falters. She looks like she did when they were seven. Saori’s first moving in and Nobara’s quiet realisation that she’s having a crush for the first time, excitedly telling the story to Fumi, who gets heartbroken for the first time.

The wind shifts, tugging hair across her face. Fumi reaches up instinctively to brush it back, and Nobara catches her wrist midair. “Don’t cry,” she tells her.

Fumi looks down at her shoes. Scuffed from when they first fell from a rooftop. Seven and alive, young and innocent. Now look at her, eighteen and dead; old and tainted. “I’m not crying.”

“You are.”

“M’not.”

Fumi bites down hard on the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to look away. Behind Nobara, the man checks his watch. There’s something casual, almost lazy about the gesture, but it chills her worse than shouting ever could.

He looks bored.

The announcement blares through the speakers - train arriving on platform two - and the sound jolts her. Everything feels too loud. Hissing of brakes, shuffling of shoes. The hour of her execution getting near.

Nobara takes a step back. “That’s me.”

“Don’t go,” Fumi blurts, coming out as a sob. “Please don’t go. Please stay here.”

Nobara’s expression softens. “You’ll make me late.”

Fumi scrambles for excuses, for reasons. She understands how many of them she spouts won’t make a difference, but if she doesn’t try, she’ll gut herself alive. “You don’t even want to go!”

“I do,” Nobara replies, voice a thin thread. “This village will drive you mad, Fumi. It’s better in Tokyo than staying here.”

It’s better with him in Tokyo than you here.

…is what Fumi hears, but she knows it’s nonsense, she knows it’s her mind playing tricks on her. Fumi watches her friend turning toward the platform. Say it, say it, say it! The man’s hand hovering behind Nobara’s spine, a reminder, a leash, a tell that she’ll never be Fumi’s.

Nobara glances back one last time. Hair whipping across her cheek, so beautiful, eyes bright and too far away. “Be happy, okay?”

Fumi can’t answer. Tell her, tell her, tell her.

I love you.

Her hair, her smile, the apple of her cheeks.

I love you.

Her name, her voice, the warmth of her hands.

I love you.

Her name, her laugh. Her, her, her. All of her. She loves her. Fumi loves Kugisaki Nobara. All of her. So why can’t she say it? Why can she only watch as the door closes, the train pulling away, and Nobara turning back to give her one last smile? 

Fumi staggers forward, a change of mind, wait, please wait, she wants to say it, she’s really saying it this time -

I love -