Chapter Text
It’s still raining when the taxi stops at Kyoto Tech.
The sky is dark, and the ground is wet, and the bottom of Megumi’s shoes grow damp as he steps outside. There’s a sour taste in his mouth and an empty Red Bull can crushed at the bottom of his backpack. His earbuds are still dead.
The rain is pouring. He should probably get out his umbrella.
With a click, the trunk of the taxi opens. The driver pulls out Megumi’s luggage with a huff and sets it on the ground.
“Thanks,” Megumi says. The driver nods, but their eyes don’t meet. He looks tired. A little too old to be working. Megumi wonders why he’s still working and how much he knows. Wonders if he knew of the small curse sleeping on the dashboard of the car, or felt anything when one of his shikigami had it as a snack.
Probably not, he concludes, and he feels a little bit altruistic as he lifts his luggage onto the curb. His hair sodden against his scalp. Water drips down the back of his neck, and he winces as it pools in the band of his pants. The taxi drives off in a spray of water, and the air around him is still once again. It’s not the first time that day he’s been left alone, but the feeling of finality settles with the spray. Something is changing. He doesn’t want to give it a name.
The veil around the school flutters as he passes through it. They must know that he’s here, considering that he was allowed in, but there’s no one by the entrance. He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, then taps on the screen.
No texts, no calls. His signal drops a bar as he steps through the main gate, then disappears completely as he enters the administration building.
The lights are on, but there’s no one by the front desk. There’s nowhere to sit either, so he stands by the entrance, red-nosed and dripping wet.
A sizable puddle has formed around his sneakers by the time someone calls his name.
“Fushiguro?”
He snaps to attention. Someone down the hall gestures toward him, a well dressed figure that he quickly concludes to be a Window.
“Welcome,” the Window continues. “I’ve been instructed to follow you to your room.”
With that, the Window turns heel and walks down the hall. Megumi follows. His hair is heavy with rain, and a damp chill seeps into his skin. He sniffles.
There are no attempts at small talk. No sound but the click of luggage wheels against tile. His sock squelches inside his shoe, and he dries his nose along the sleeve of his jacket.
Around them, the air grows warm. Soft. The tile turns to hardwood, then carpet, and the doors framing the corridor leak light from their corners. The sound of running water comes from one of them. Low voices from another. The hairs of Megumi’s neck stand up as the Window slows, then stops.
“Your room,” the Window says.
The door is down the hall, to the left; an isolated enclave of plaster. There is no sound behind it. No running water, no voices. No light creeping beneath the door.
With practiced grace, the Window slides the key into the lock and pushes the door open. An exhale of cool air receives them.
“And your key,” the Window concludes, placing the key in Megumi’s hand. There’s no keyring or label. It shines brightly, appearing unusually small in the context of his palm.
He wonders if it’s a spare.
“Do you have any questions?” the Window asks.
Megumi suspects his unresponsiveness prompted the question, so he thinks of something to ask. It comes to him slowly.
“Is there lunch? Or dinner?”
“Lunch is served at one, and dinner at six. The schedule may change based on the organization of classes. There’s a map placed in your kitchenette with more details.”
Megumi nods to himself, even though the system seems almost identical to the one back at Tokyo Tech.
“And class?” Megumi continues, even though he already knows the answer.
“Morning classes are on break, and will resume after lunch. Your attendance is not expected.”
That explains the muffled liveliness around them. Suddenly uncomfortable, Megumi tightens his hand around his room key and bows to the Window.
“Emergency contact numbers can be found above the bathroom sink,” the Window continues. “Do you have any other questions for me?”
Megumi shakes his head.
“Thank you very much,” he hurries, stepping past the Window and shuffling his luggage across the threshold. He switches the lights on, and his eyebrows arc.
There’s a pair of shoes by the door. The kitchenette to his right has a few dishes on the drying rack, and there’s a pair of dress pants sitting on the ironing table.
“Nitta is on his way back,” the Window says. Megumi jolts at the unexpected voice; he’s not sure why he thought the Window had left, but the sudden comment had done little to reduce his adrenaline levels.
“Nitta…?” he mumbles to himself. The name sounds familiar, but the insufficiency of the feeling makes him guilty. He lets the syllable sit on his tongue as he thinks.
“Nitta Arata,” the Window clarifies.
Oh–Nitta. The only other first year.
The taste of guilt becomes sharper.
“If you need any assistance, don’t hesitate to call,” the Window murmurs. Distracted, Megumi nods. The door closes, and the sound of footsteps fades.
He stands still, taking in the soft contours of the room. There’s a soap bottle in the trash. Hard water stains on the counter. There’s an air freshener plugged into the wall–the smell of cookies–and the slippers by the door are worn at the heels. With surprise, he notes that there’s a spare set. They’re unopened, sitting sterile in their cellophane wrap. He wonders if they’re for him.
It doesn’t take long for him to dismiss the thought. It’s normal to have extra slippers lying around, right? Just because there’s a spare doesn’t mean it’s for him.
But the thought returns when he notices cookies on the kitchenette counter. A ring of condensation encircles around the plate, and he realizes the smell of cookies weren’t from the air freshener. He stares at the cookies, thoughtless, a deep feeling in his chest that is neither comfort nor content.
He turns away and sets out his luggage. There’s a bunk bed in the far corner of the room: the bottom one already has pillows and posters, so he opts for the top one.
There’s another note on the mattress. Megumi blinks at it, then puts it in his pocket. It creases as he shoves it away, and the deep feeling in his chest grows a little darker. He’ll look at it later, he tells himself. The decision makes him feel better.
It takes less than ten minutes for Megumi to unpack his life into the corners of Nitta’s own. He only has one toothbrush, one comb, and one bottle of shampoo (a three-in-one monstrosity he’d bought at the corner store). The rain had somehow reached the blanket in his luggage, and the pillow wrapped inside of it now smells stale; he sets the two of them on the top bunk and makes a mental note to ask where the laundry unit is.
The only thing left in his luggage bag are clothes, poorly folded and a little bit damp. Megumi decides to hang them later. He’s bored, anyway. And he can’t find the closet.
With a sigh, he climbs back up to the top bunk. The blanket is still a little wet, and the note in his back pocket crunches under his weight, but he makes an effort to notice neither. He taps his phone.
No notifications.
He puts the phone aside, then dangles his feet over the side of the bunk. Blood pools in his toes. A prickle of gravity moves under the soles of his feet, and he flexes them in defiance.
For the first time in a long time, his mind is quiet. He lies back onto the mattress, then winces when the cold blanket meets his back. The mattress itself was cold, too; someone had turned on the air conditioning, and the top bunk borne the brunt of it. He reaches for the earbuds in his pocket, then remembers they’re dead.
The frustration is enough to snap him out of whatever reverie he’s fallen into. With a sigh, he sits up, and it takes him a moment to realize that the sound of moving fabric isn’t from him.
He stiffens, and the front door opens.
It stops halfway. Nitta, frozen in the space between the hallway and the room, stares up at Megumi’s shadow.
He’s ditched his usual butler getup for a Kyoto Tech uniform; it fits him badly, and the dark bruise on the side of his face only makes it worse. One of his arms is wrapped in gauze, and the other has a thumb splint. Megumi wonders what happened.
They blink at each other. One of them should probably say something, Megumi realizes, and the look on Nitta’s face suggests that he’s come to the same conclusion.
“What happened?” Megumi asks, only realizing he’s forgotten a greeting when Nitta stalls.
“Oh. Uh, training.”
“Oh.”
The room is quiet. There’s no fan overhead, and Megumi finds the room strangely blank without the spinning shadows.
“When did you get here?” Nitta asks. He’s still hovering by the threshold, and Megumi almost feels bad.
“Few minutes ago.”
“I see,” Nitta replies. He takes a step inside. If he notices the new set of shoes on the shoe rack, or the bedding Megumi’s sitting on, he doesn’t say anything. The door closes, softly, and Nitta smooths out a crease in his uniform. “Uh, that’s nice. Did you have a cookie?”
He gestures to the kitchenette counter. The note still sits by the plate of cookies, untouched, and Megumi definitely feels bad now. Nitta picks up on his blank expression faster than he would have liked.
“I got them for you,” Nitta clarifies. “Store-bought. Is that okay? You don’t have any allergies, do you?”
“No,” Megumi says. “About the allergies, I mean.”
Nitta smiles tightly, and Megumi realizes he’s making the other boy far more uncomfortable than necessary. Probably not the best way to start off the next few weeks, he realizes.
“That’s really nice of you,” Megumi continues. He means it, and he’s a little worried that the sincerity doesn’t carry into his tone. In light of this, he smiles. His lips crack.
Megumi winces. Nitta notices immediately.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Sorry. But thanks. I didn’t expect anything like that, so it’s a nice welcome.”
A weight seems to lift off Nitta’s shoulders. “I’m glad! Some of the upperclassmen said I shouldn’t bother…I’m glad I did…” he trails off, thinking of something else, then grabs a few cookies and puts them on a plate. He then crosses the room to hand them to Megumi.
“Take some more,” Nitta urges. “They’re good. My favorite, actually.”
Megumi can’t exactly refuse, especially not when Nitta’s standing on his toe-tips to hold the plate up to the second bunk. He takes a polite bite. They’re good.
“How was the ride here?” Nitta asks, taking a seat across the room. He has to look up to see Megumi, and the latter isn’t sure how he feels about it. “You must have left pretty early to get here before lunch.”
Megumi nods through a mouthful of chocolate. “It was fine. Slept through most of it,” he lies.
Nitta presses for more details, and Megumi tries to reciprocate with questions about Kyoto Tech. Apparently Nitta had been the one to set up the top bunk for him, and there’s a space in the laundry unit that’s been cleared for his stuff. Nitta offers to show him and Megumi, eager to get off the top bunk and neutralize the strange dynamic it caused, obliges.
The other boy guides him to the laundry unit, where he insists on setting Megumi’s linens to dry. The unit hums as he’s given a tour of the outlets and thermostat settings, the kitchenette, and the proper way to adjust the shower temperature. His earbuds are set to charge, and Nitta clears out a space in the kitchen for Megumi to study.
For all his guidance, Nitta was surprisingly quiet. Maybe he’s just shy–Megumi isn’t sure. He realizes he doesn’t really know any shy people. And aside from being quiet, Nitta was unusually attentive. Thoughtful. His questions were pointed and deliberate, and he nodded as they spoke. Megumi wasn’t used to being listened to so closely. It was an uncanny level of care for small talk.
“Do you have classes today?” Megumi asks.
Nitta considers the question seriously. “Honestly, not really? I don’t have my own teacher, since I’m the only first-year, so I tag along with the second-years. We don’t have any formal classes for the rest of the day. But we have a practical exam tomorrow…”
He fiddles with his thumb splint, lost in thought. One of his bandages has grown rusty.
“Do you have to participate?” Megumi asks. At Nitta’s bewildered look, he gestures towards the other boy’s cast and bandages.
“Oh. Well, I don’t think so? But I should probably review some of the techniques. Just in case.”
Megumi is curious what the case would be–Nitta looks like he couldn’t swat a fly, much less throw a punch.
“You should rest,” Megumi decides. He’s pleased with the finality in his voice.
“Listen, I’d like to, but–”
Their conversation is silenced by the stomp of heels on tile. The front door slams open, then bangs against the wall. Nitta twitches.
Mai glares. Megumi glares back. Her hair is cut shorter than he remembers it being, and her lipstick is too bright. And a little crooked. He considers informing her, then decides against it. Mai turns to Nitta.
“So, are you just going to take the day off?”
If Nitta looked shy earlier, he was distraught now. He begins to say something about the gauze on his arms, then his thumb splint, then backtracks and gestures toward Megumi.
“I’m just making sure Fushiguro settles in,” he fumbles. “He didn’t know…where the laundry was…”
The dryer lets out an accusatory chime. Around them, the walls hum, and Mai turns her glare back to Megumi. She seems to actually be looking at him this time, evidenced by the tight expression on her face, and the glare turns to disgust. Megumi considers it a victory.
“Looks like he knows now,” she deadpans. “Anyway, hurry up. We’re not going to be doing drills forever.”
“His arms–” Megumi begins.
“Are fine. We’re doing core and lower body. Don’t think you need arms for that, professor.”
Megumi turns to Nitta, but the latter is already shoving his feet into his shoes. He’s out the door before Megumi can say anything smart. Mai watches him go, then looks back through the doorway.
“Aren’t you coming?” she challenges. “Or is your work ethic as bad as Nobara’s left hook?”
Megumi isn’t sure why he feels offended for Nobara’s left hook, but he doesn’t comment. Shrugging, he pockets his hands and stares at the flyaways crowning Mai’s head.
“I just got here. So I don’t have to,” he says. Even though it’s the truth, it doesn’t feel like an answer, and the words sit crookedly in his mouth.
Mai must have felt the same way, because her face sours further.
“Oh, yeah. Forgot that you think you’re better than us.”
The door slams shut. The accusation is so sudden that Megumi doesn’t have the presence of mind to wince.
Overhead, the AC whirrs. He can hear footsteps down the hall, the faint echo of voices. Someone yelling. Someone breathing. Mind quiet, he rubs his fingers together; cookie dust floating off them as he does. The specks dance in the air. In the bathroom, the faucet drips.
He goes to turn it off, and the air is dark around him. He can only see an outline of himself in the mirror. The plumbing underfoot gurgles, and he studies his reflection.
The note is still in his pocket, he realizes. He pulls it out, but the water on his fingers seeps into the paper and corrupts the ink. He blinks, then crumples the paper and shoves it back in his pocket.
The door shuts behind him, and he trails after the distant sound of footsteps.
Nobara kicks the trashcan and hangs her head.
The bathroom is bright, bleached with artificial light, and the lashes she’s trying to apply keep going on crooked. She stares at her hands. One of her press-on nails is missing, and another one of them is crooked. Her toe smarts from the trashcan, so she kicks it again. The plastic dimples. She looks back at the mirror.
There’s no chance that Yuji would notice the misalignment of her eyeliner, or the fact that her cluster lashes are closer to her eyelid than her waterline—there’s an even lesser chance that Gojo would, and Maki wouldn’t care. So it didn’t need to be perfect. Sisters, not twins. Something like that. It should be fine.
To confirm as much, she takes a few steps back, then narrows her eyes. It cuts a crease in her foundation, so she stops. It’s…fine. Less remarkable than she would like. But good enough. She doesn’t need to look perfect, anyway. Just intense enough for Gojo to ask questions.
Questions for her to ignore, of course. He would ask what she was dressed up for. She wouldn’t answer. He’d press on and make a joke, buzz in the corner of her vision, and she would stare at her nails and chip at the glue.
The thought made her feel bitter and better. If Gojo and his brat son wanted to act up around her, let them. She just wouldn’t entertain it.
With crooked eyeliner and cheap falsies, Nobara leaves the bathroom feeling distinctly empowered. She smiles at the reflection on her phone, adjusts her hair part, and storms into class.
No one was there.
It wasn’t the first time that day she had been disappointed, but it feels like the worst instance so far. The room is muggy and warm. Dust motes float through the room, magnified as they pass in front of the overhead projector, and sunlight filters behind them.
“Where’s Gojo?”
Nobara would have jumped, but she heard the clomp of Yuji’s footsteps before he was in throwing distance. She rolls her eyes as the door shuts behind him.
“I wouldn’t know. Probably wherever Megumi went.”
“You’re still hung up on that?”
Nobara shoots him a venomous glare. He huffs in apology, then takes a seat at one of the desks. After a moment of silence, Nobara joins him.
“Is class canceled?” Yuji asks.
“I don’t think so. I didn’t see an announcement.”
“Do you think he might have forgotten to make one? I mean, I know he usually does it last-minute. But I can’t remember if he’s ever, like. Totally forgot.”
It’s a good question, Nobara realizes. They’re both lost in thought when the door opens, and they flinch when it bangs shut.
“Nanami!” Yuji cheers. His earlier preoccupation forgotten, he beams and rushes to the older man. “What happened to Gojo? Why are you late?”
Nanami’s lack of response isn’t surprising, but his appearance certainly is. His hair is limp, unstyled, and there’s a deep crease in his shirt. Nobara squints, eyeing his oversized Ray Bans.
They’re angular and oversized. Black. A far cry from his usual pair, she notes, and Nobara decides that it looks better. More classy, and better suited for his face than his thin-rimmed favorite. She makes a mental note to inform him of this fact. The sorcerers here could use all the fashion advice they could get, after all.
“Gojo’s on a mission,” Nanami says, and Nobara snaps back to attention. “Please place your homework submissions on the table at the back of the classroom. We’ll get started afterward.”
Nobara shuffles through her bookbag and places an unstapled, unfinished stack of worksheets on the back table. By the time she returns to her seat, Yuji’s still going through his bag, cursing under his breath.
The seat she’s chosen isn’t her usual one. At least, not in its usual place. She’s pushed it to the very front of the classroom, obscenely close to Nanami’s personal bubble, and she receives a long look as he sets up the projector. To her disappointment, though, his reaction is muted. If he notices her makeup, he doesn’t say anything, and no comments come when she scoots her desk even closer.
Impatient, Nobara raises her hand.
“Nanami?”
It feels wrong to leave out the -sensei at the end of it, but she knows he wouldn’t stand for it. And, anyway there are more pressing topics on hand.
“Yes?”
“Have you seen Megumi?”
The question was supposed to be for Gojo, so Nobara isn’t sure what reaction she’s expecting. None, probably. And yet the silence that follows is disturbing. A clock ticks on the wall, and Nanami inserts the HDMI cable into his laptop. Overhead, the projector comes alive.
“I have,” Nanami replies.
Yuji stops cussing. Nobara stiffens, face blank, the sound of blood growing loud behind her ears. Even though she can’t see his eyes, she can feel Nanami’s eyes on her.
Yuji is the only one stupid enough to speak.
“Where is he?”
Nanami remains still. Neither face nor form betrays any emotion, and Nobara is suddenly infuriated with his sunglasses.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No,” Yuji explains, then backtracks. “Wait, kinda. He said he was going to Kyoto Tech…but he didn’t say bye. He just left.”
A violent, sour wave washes over Nobara. She bites her lip and rolls her eyes, fiddling with her baby hairs until the feeling fades.
“I see.”
Nobara wants to ask Nanami what, exactly, he saw, but an elaboration never comes. A powerpoint presentation flickers onto the board. Nanami runs a hand down his face, clicks through the slides, and stops at one titled “The Venturi Effect.”
“We’ll be picking off from the lesson Gojo ended on last week. Please get your notes out.”
Yuji groans. Nobara huffs in solidarity, and Nanami ignores them both. The three fall into an uneasy rhythm. Speak, stare: repeat. The clock ticks. Outside, the day grows hot, hotter, then cool, and class ends after the sunlight fades.
Nanami is back the next day. And the day after. He remains until the end of the week, explaining his prolonged presence as a consequence of Gojo’s busy schedule. A mission. An emergency. A family obligation. A meeting. Nobara didn’t care. Not as much as she thought she would, anyway; it was just another week where Gojo was in high demand. A common occurrence. Just another time where she and Yuji came second (or third, or fourth) on Gojo’s infinite list of obligations, and Nanami had to fill the gap.
Something had changed, though. She couldn’t place a finger on it, but the texture of the classroom was different. Nanami was a little quieter. A little more fastidious about leaving after his shift. Even though nothing had changed about his teaching style, both Nobara and Yuji found themselves getting less out of their lessons. Everyone’s minds were somewhere else.
Nobara didn’t want to give the emptiness a name, but it already had one. The empty desk in the classroom. A room with no lights. The funny look from the boba shop employee when there were only two orders, not three, and the silenced contact on her phone.
Their classes were different. Their after school hangouts were different. Their training sessions were different. The week slogged by slowly, and Saturday came as a welcome relief. It was after their last class that day, as they were cleaning up the classroom, when Nanami announced Gojo would return the following week.
Nobara looks up from the desk she’s wiping. She doesn’t say anything, but Yuji gives her a loaded glance, the window blind he had been lowering suspended in mid-air.
“That sucks,” Nobara finally decides. She moves to turn off the lights and shrugs. “I could do without seeing him a little while longer.”
It’s the truth, but Yuji gives her a look that makes it feel otherwise. Nanami waits by the door, soundless, keys in hand and briefcase in the other. They step outside the room, and the door closes behind them.
“Boba?” Yuji suggests, even though they had both gone out yesterday.
“Sure.”
She’s not why she agreed. It hadn’t been enjoyable the day before, or the day before that, and she can’t imagine that it would be better today. A hot bubble of anger rises in her chest, but she swallows it back. She’s already spent enough time worrying about Megumi. She should let him worry about himself. The thought must have shown on her face, though, because Yuji places a friendly hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll pay,” he insists. It’s an unusual act of charity, and Nobara finds herself a little lighter than before. As long as Yuji didn’t need to make it all about—
“Megumi would be mad if he knew, but it’s fine. We can still make it fun without him.”
Nobara pushes his hand off her shoulder–not hard enough to shrug off her free boba–but just enough to shut him up.
“Fine, fine. Wanna go to the arcade after?” Yuji continues, having sensed that he said something wrong.
“Sure. But shut up about Megumi.”
“Okay, okay. Chill.”
To her surprise, Nanami is still lingering behind them. He regards them for a long moment, expression obscured by his stupid sunglasses, and Nobara regrets ever telling him they fit his face better.
“Has Megumi spoken with either of you?” Nanami asks.
“No,” Nobara hurries. It wasn’t a complete lie: she really hadn’t spoken to Megumi, because she’d declined his calls and made sure Yuji did the same. But he’d only called in the evening. Probably when doing homework. And probably to ask for help. An afterthought. So she didn’t feel bad about it.
“He’s probably busy,” Yuji suggests. He looks calm, genuinely peaceful, as if he really thought it was alright.
Nanami’s expression remained unchanged. He finishes locking the room, then guides the two out of the building. He doesn’t need to, they know the way, and Nobara wonders if he wants something else from them.
“Has Megumi contacted you, Nanami?” Yuji asks. Nobara studies the older man for any reaction—cool waters rippling, a wince or a flinch—but he was as still as ever. And obelisk.
“No, he hasn’t.” He sounds distracted. Probably because he has more important things on his mind.
And it seems like he does, because Nanami politely excuses himself a moment later. Yuji watches him go, but Nobara is already halfway down the hall.
“Meet me there!” she shouts over her shoulder. Yuji startles, then crosses his arms.
“Come on, just wait!”
“I’m not going to walk with you if you’re going to be slow.”
Yuji jogs over to her, then falls into step. He’s slow, but they walk together anyway, the warm air outside a welcome relief from the fluorescent lights and conditioned air. The boba shop is a quiet enclave near the south end of campus, surrounded by grass and cracked blacktop and the smell of brown sugar. Nobara isn’t sure if her favorite part of their hangouts is the walk or the destination itself: the breeze is warm, and the birds sing, the sun hanging at the low, sleepy angle that casts the world in gold. The grass underfoot buzzes with life, the smell of hot water and something new.
'“It’s a nice day,” Yuji notes.
Nobara nods. Her thoughts are far from her, and she blinks up at the clouds.
“You know,” he continues, “it’s alright that Megumi’s not here. It really is. We can still enjoy the day. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
It feels like something she should be saying. She was the one who was supposed to be nonchalant and impervious, and yet Yuji had somehow found peace before her. She feels robbed.
“Come on, Kugisaki. Don’t be like that. The weather is nice. And you’re getting free boba. What’s to be upset about?”
In any other circumstance, it would be a compelling argument. She loves sweets. She loves sunshine. She loves Saturdays and the sleepy hours after the week ended, and yet Yuji’s serene smile makes everything red.
“I don’t know. Maybe the fact that he abandoned us?”
Yuji stares. His jaw bobs as he works through a soundless dialogue, and Nobara wonders what it’s like to be chronically ineloquent.
“I mean…well, I don’t really know what to say about that. I was upset too.”
Nobara rolls her eyes. “Yeah. For, like, five minutes.”
“But I don’t think we need to abandon him,” Yuji continues. If he took any offense to her comment, it didn’t show, and Nobara felt foolish. “That’s wrong, you know.”
“I’m not abandoning him, I’m—”
Yuji plucks her phone from her hands. She hisses in protest, but the device is held too far above her head for her to do anything but glower.
“What’s this?”
He points to the most recent notifications. A missed call. An unanswered text. No contact name, just a string of anonymous numbers.
But they’re not anonymous, because Nobara had been the one to delete the contact name. Fuming, she jumps for the phone, and Yuji lets her take it.
“You can do whatever you want,” Yuji continues. “But I think acting that way just makes it harder.”
Nobara is quiet. So is Yuji. They’re moving again, though, and the weather is pleasant. Gentle. A soothing bandage over a cut that wasn’t really there. The sun shines softly.
“It really is a nice day,” she mutters.
“What did I tell you?”
They walk. Birds sing, and the little boba shop comes into view. She can smell the sugar from the other side of the hill.
“You know,” Yuji hums, “I heard it’s raining in Kyoto.”
Nobara looks up at him. The scenery around them is lush and green, fuzzy with warmth, and something flies overhead. The pores along her arm open to swallow the sunshine. She thinks of Kyoto, small and cold, and the empty dorm beside Yuji's.
“Good,” she lies.