Chapter Text
pleochroism
(noun)
ple·och·ro·ism ; plē-ˈä-krə-ˌwi-zəm
An optical property where a crystal or gemstone shows different colors when viewed from different angles or through polarized light. This happens because the internal crystal structure absorbs light waves differently depending on the direction the light travels. Common in gemstones: tanzanite (displays blue and purple) and iolite (displays deep blue, soft blue-gray, and yellow-gray).
𖢻
The knock is soft. Four taps—just loud enough to be heard, but hesitant enough to feel out of place. A pause, then another two soft knocks, a just in case it was too quiet measure.
Nagi barely lifts his head from the couch. His neck is cricked at an odd, achy angle against the armrest, game controller balanced on his stomach, legs tangled in the throw blanket Reo had chucked over him earlier. The faint buzz of game music plays from the paused screen. He hasn’t moved in nearly fifteen minutes.
The apartment smells like wet cotton and dish soap, and the late morning light filters in through the blinds, casting lines across the floor like a barcode. Somewhere down the hallway, the water from the shower is still running.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at the ceiling and considers pretending to be asleep until the person leaves or Reo comes out to answer it. Unfortunately, he can’t consider it for long.
Muffled: “Sei-kun? It’s me.”
Raihou. She knocks again.
Nagi sucks in a breath, eyes narrowing toward the door. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself up with the weight of someone fifty years older than he is—rickety bones, and stuff. The blanket drops from his lap, and his socks skid a little against the floor as he walks to the door, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes as he unlocks it. Sure enough, when he opens it, Raihou is standing there.
“Oh,” she blurts quickly, like she hadn’t expected him to actually answer. “You’re here.”
Well, yeah. I live here. Wordlessly, Nagi steps back, allowing her inside.
She steps in, heels clicking against the entryway tile before steps onto the carpet to muffle the noise. Her presence is almost, weirdly quiet that usual, but still composed—wide-legged pants, white blouse tucked at the waist, gold earrings like small, shiny coins glinting near her jaw. A large, deep-blue sapphire necklace hangs in the center of her chest.
“Um,” she starts uneasily. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.” Nagi closes the door behind her. Pads back over to the couch and drops into it. He doesn’t invite her to sit, but she perches on the edge of the opposite armchair anyway, hands folded neatly in her lap.
The sound of water running in the background is faint but constant.
She clears her throat.
“I came to say I’m sorry,” she starts. “About how my friends—how Aya and Kita were acting. It wasn’t fair to you at all.”
“Oh.” Nagi blinks. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” she says, a little too quickly. “They were rude, and I didn’t—handle it the way I should’ve.”
He shrugs. A slow, lazy thing. He didn’t actually think she’d apologize so seriously like this—she must have thought about it for a while. It’s a surprise, he feels a bit bad seeing the clear-as-day corrosive guilt painted in thick acrylic strokes across her face. How does he make it better? “Uh. It’s not a big deal.”
Her fingers tighten in her lap. Damn. Wrong answer. People are so annoyingly complicated sometimes. She should know he always says what he means and means what he says. Her self-imposed guilt is entirely unnecessary. It’s such a hassle.
“I should’ve said something,” she insists. “I could’ve—I don’t know. Told them to shut up. Made it clear they needed to stop.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I kind of did,” she mutters self-deprecatingly. “You’re my boyfriend, after all. I should’ve acted like it. I shouldn’t have just sat there.”
Nagi doesn’t really know what to say to that. He just waits for another beat.
Raihou exhales, deflating. After a moment, she leans back in the chair, voice more tentative now. “Were you—are you mad?”
Why would that matter? And why would I be? “No.”
“Hurt?”
He hesitates. Shrugs again.
She watches him closely, but he doesn’t give her anything more.
“I’m trying,” she says quietly. “I don’t always know how to do this right, but—I—I don’t want to be someone who lets you feel like that when I could put a stop to it.”
It’s the first time she’s said something like that out loud. It should feel good to hear. But all Nagi feels is the pressure between his ribs again. That sinking thing. The thing that starts whenever someone talks about care in past tense.
(His fears are personal and too close and Raihou has no idea what exactly she’s poking at in him.)
His voice is quieter now. “You didn’t make me feel anything.”
She flinches, and Nagi thinks for a beat he just made it worse. He doesn’t mean it to be cruel. It’s just the truth. And the truth is the best solution in this situation, right?
“Sei-kun, we—”
But before Raihou can say anything else, they’re interrupted by the sound of the bathroom door creaking open; footsteps pad across the hallway floor.
Raihou glances toward the noise—and Reo appears.
Barefoot, hair damp and tousled, a towel slung loosely around his neck. He’s wearing one of Nagi’s oversized graphic shirts—the shirt is, unfortunately, unmistakably Nagi’s: slouchy at the shoulders, worn soft at the collar; the kind of thing Nagi usually only wears when he’s alone, or when it’s just Reo’s around (or, more often, when Reo is the one wearing it instead)—and a pair of navy basketball shorts. His skin glows faintly from the heat of the shower.
He freezes immediately at the sight of Raihou, a wave of surprise and awkward realization and oh, shit washing over his face.
“Oh,” Reo says, blinking. “Hey.”
Raihou straightens in her seat. “Hi.”
Reo’s gaze flicks between her and Nagi, just once. He rubs the towel along the back of his neck and clears his throat, voice smooth like he’s trying his best to be casual.
“Didn’t know we were expecting company,” he says, not quite to anyone in particular.
Nagi feels a rush of warmth crawl up the back of his neck. He doesn’t know why (he does). It’s not like they were doing anything. It’s not like anything’s happening; okay, fine, many things are happening in his brain, though—a lot of synapses are misfiring. (But it’s not his fault Reo is so pretty—little droplets remain on his neck and hair like little diamonds; a bit of water collects in the dips of his collarbones like nectar and Nagi wants nothing more than to lap at them like a dog in a water bowl.)
Raihou, to her credit, doesn’t look suspicious—just surprised. Her eyes linger on Reo a second too long, and Nagi wonders what she sees. The towel. The shirt. The ease with which Reo walks barefoot across the room like he lives here.
Raihou shifts. “I just came by to talk. I didn’t realize—”
“I’ll give you two a minute,” Reo cuts her off, not rudely but swiftly, and then slips past them toward the bedroom, leaving behind nothing but the soft scent of his shampoo and the image of bare calves disappearing behind the door.
The silence left in his wake is thick and strange. Raihou doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, but then again, neither does Nagi. Eventually, she stands. Picks up her bag, adjusts the strap on her shoulder. “I should go.”
He watches her from where he sits, curled into himself on the sofa. “Sure.”
She hesitates, just for a moment. Then glances down at him. “Are we—are we okay?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Fine. Right?”
She gives a small, unreadable smile (one that seems more like relief than anything, if you ask him). Then heads for the door. She turns at the last minute, “I’ll see you later? Tomorrow? For lunch?”
Nagi pushes a hand into one of the couch cushion gaps without purpose. He wishes he could sound more enthusiastic, or maybe even less asshole-ish when he repeats, “Sure.”
When the lock clicks shut behind her, Nagi exhales — not relief, exactly. That would be just a little too far considering the fact that it’s not like he dislikes her. Just—something uncoiling from his spine.
A moment later, the bedroom door eases open again. Reo leans out, “She's gone?”
“Mhm.”
He trots back into the room, eyes flicking toward the door and back to Nagi. He walks over, brushes a thumb through Nagi’s bangs to peer into his eyes. Nagi tips his chin up to make it easier.
Reo looks so pretty like this. Every time Nagi thinks he can’t possibly get more lovely, Reo proves him wrong.
“You good?”
Nagi nods. His shoulders relax, and his body drains of tension he didn’t even realize was there. He doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives Reo is enough, because Reo flops onto the couch beside Nagi, carelessly falling halfway in Nagi’s lap, their legs tangling as Reo begins to ramble about Chigiri and stupid fucking hangovers and Kunigami’s failed attempt at laundry, and Nagi listens because he loves him so fucking much.
— 𖢻 —
Nagi hates this. No, seriously, he hates this.
The moment he steps out of the car, he already knows it—feels it in the itchy collar of his shirt, the too-tight tug around his shoulders from the suit jacket (Reo’s pick, last year, tailored to a slightly smaller version of him—Reo's been complaining recently that Nagi's shoulders keep growing broader and his genetics are 'totally unfair'), and the hard glint of everything around him.
The building is old-money elegant—white stone columns and polished gold fixtures. Crystal chandeliers inside spill light across marbled floors and make everything sharp and loud and too bright. There’s a buzz of small laughter and soft orchestras in the air, every corner filled with people standing too straight, sipping expensive drinks Nagi doesn’t fucking believe they actually like, and lying through their teeth with compliments.
Raihou seems at home. (Of course, she does.)
She steps out of the sleep white limo after him in heels that glint in the light and a silvery dress that falls like silk water over her hips. Her lipstick matches her earrings, a reddish purple stone Nagi isn’t smart enough to know the name or price of.
She’s not holding his hand, but her arm hovers as she waits expectantly. Nagi catches it about seven and a half seconds late, finally linking their arms. Raihou smiles, nods, and he can tell she expects him to follow her lead.
So he does.
He trails behind her as she glides from person to person, saying things that sound important but don’t mean much. He shakes hands with men whose names he forgets the second they’re said. He nods along when Raihou introduces him as “my boyfriend, Seishirou,” in that same easy tone she might use for her new earrings or her new apartment or a particularly good martini.
He gets it—he’s arm candy, and he honestly couldn’t care less. He doesn’t say much. He never does. But it feels more like a hassle than Nagi ever remembers it being.
Suddenly, the judgmental stares and occasional snide comments followed by Raihou’s polite laughter become more present and loud than they used to be, and all he feels is scrutinized and tired.
With Reo, it was always fine. Because Reo made it fun—would always find a corner to sit in and make fun of people under his breath, steal strawberries off dessert trays for him, point out how that one CEO’s toupee is slipping and dares him not to laugh.
But Raihou—doesn’t. Obviously, she’s not Reo. And she’s sure as hell not obligated to entertain Nagi like a babysitter. But she moves with that innate sense of belonging, of familiarity with every inch of space; she seems to enjoy the buzz, and just hums Nagi when he comments on how ugly one guy’s tie is, like a gentle shut up. She cares for appearances. Of course.
“And who’s this?” An elderly man with a gold cane looks to Nagi for an answer.
Nagi waits for Raihou to take it for him. It takes a beat longer, but sure enough, “Ah—Uncle, this is my boyfriend, Seishirou, we go to school together!”
“Ah,” the man nods and chuckles, stroking his beard. “It’s lovely to meet you, Seishirou-kun. Are you also in commercial relations? Or perhaps interested in the jewelry business?”
“Uh,” Nagi gets out awkwardly, “I’m majoring in media and computer science.”
The man’s face flickers from confusion to disappointment to disapproval to repugnance. “I see.”
The conversation ends there. Raihou doesn’t look particularly happy, but she also doesn’t seem at all upset with Nagi for any of it. But Nagi is bored. His feet hurt. His shirt is sticking to his back. The champagne tastes like flat soda, and the amalgamation of a hundred different perfumes and colognes is making his retinas sting and his cortex ache.
And he can’t stop thinking about Reo.
Especially now—right now—when he catches a flicker of blue fabric through the crowd, a laugh he’d know anywhere. It hits him like a glitch in a video game, a sudden freeze frame.
He turns his head—and there. Reo.
Even here, he somehow outshines the chandeliers. He’s wearing a blue suit with gold embroidery, something expensive and bright and Reo in every stitch. He’s got one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a glass of something grape-colored and sparkling, surrounded by a trio of older women clearly hanging onto his every word.
Of course he’s already at ease. Of course he’s thriving.
Nagi can’t hear what Reo’s saying, but he can see the easy grin on his face, the slight tilt of his head, the way he reaches up to push a piece of violet hair out of his eyes, and just like that, Nagi forgets where he is.
He doesn’t even realize he’s stepped forward until Raihou turns to say something and finds him staring across the room like he’s been possessed.
“Sei-kun?” She asks, polite but sharp, a little tug at his elbow. “You alright?”
She didn’t catch the line of his gaze. Nagi blinks.
“Yeah,” he says automatically, even though his chest feels too tight. He glances back toward Reo—but the crowd shifts, and he’s gone again, swallowed up in silk and chatter and chandelier light prisms.
Maybe it’s because he hasn’t really seen or spoken to Reo much in the last few days (midterms have been killer for students in his major), but Nagi suddenly can’t breathe.
“Just a little warm here,” Nagi murmurs, tugging at his collar. “Can we go somewhere quiet?”
Raihou blinks, surprised, but nods.
They drift toward a less crowded end of the ballroom. Nagi listens to her talk to someone from the National Precious Stone Appraisal Association, followed by a woman from a lab-diamond manufacturing company. He nods when prompted. But he can’t stop scanning the crowd for Reo again.
His heartbeat hasn’t slowed since the first glimpse.
This isn’t fun. It’s not even tolerable. And now, all he can think about is how Reo should be standing beside him—how it should be their inside jokes, their stolen desserts, their quiet, easy understanding of how much they both hate these things. Instead, Nagi is standing beside someone soft and curved and stunning and well-dressed—and all he can feel is empty.
Nagi finds Reo again.
It takes a while. Longer than what’s fair, honestly—Nagi’s a bit frustrated by the time he finally does. The gala’s crowded, people clustered around champagne fountains and appetizer trays, the air too thick with expensive perfume and polite lies. Raihou’s talking to someone about Tanzanian sapphires, gesturing with a glass of rosé in one hand and nodding like she’s perfectly in sync with the night. Nagi excuses himself and no one really notices.
And then—he finds him. At the far end of the ballroom near the terrace doors, a laugh pulling at his mouth, one hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a guy in a burgundy suit.
Nagi stops walking.
They can’t be—that can’t be—right?
He’s laughing at something Reo says, tilting his head like he’s known him forever. And Reo—Reo smiles back. Not big. Not the smile he gives Nagi, thank God. But it’s easy. Comfortable and pleasant. Genuine.
Nagi hates this.
God, he hates this. He’s going to throw up. He tries not to show it when he finally reaches them, hands deep in his pockets, jaw set.
Reo notices him first. His eyes flick up, confusion flickering for a second before softening in recognition.
“Oh, hey, Nagi,” Reo says, and Nagi watches the broad line of his shoulders ease, as he turns to face him. “Didn’t think I’d see you here so early in the season.”
“Didn’t want to come,” Nagi mumbles. “Raihou made me.”
The guy turns slightly toward him and gives him a mild smile—polite but entirely unimpressed.
“You’re Nagi?” He says, voice polite but somehow entirely unimpressed. “Motoike Raihou’s boyfriend.”
Nagi frowns. “Yeah. You know Raihou?” Moreover, how do you even know Reo?
“Professionally. I’m a model—brand ambassador for one of her family’s branch companies—Sayuri Raja Unisex Accessories.” Stupid-looking burgundy man with stupid brown hair wearing stupid glasses reaches out to shake his hand. Nagi wants it to fucking fall off his body.
Reo clears his throat. He’s wearing eyeliner. Eyeliner. It makes his eyes look even deeper, with sharper clarity than a polished stone. “Uh—yeah, so, Nagi, this is Yukki.”
Ah. Awesome. Awesome how much Nagi doesn’t care. All he cares about is that he’s standing too close to Reo right now and he hates it.
“We share a few foundations and ethics classes,” Yukki clarifies an unspoken question with an idle wave of his hand. A shrug. “It’s my first year being invited to this kind of thing, and Reo asked since neither of us had a plus one for the season. We’re not dating. Yet. Don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t,” Nagi snaps. He was. And wait what?
Sure enough, Yukki arches a brow at him, like he’s trying to gauge whether Nagi’s smart enough to follow the conversation. Reo nudges him with an elbow and he snorts.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Reo’s been talking about you like you’re some sort of legendary Pokémon. Actually getting to see you in real life’s a treat.”
Nagi shrugs. He'd totally be Reo’s pokémon if Reo wanted to keep him in a little ball and groom-slash-feed-slash-house him for eternity.
Reo’s watching him again, head tilted slightly, the tilted way he does when he knows something’s off. The ballroom feels too loud again. Nagi shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyes flicking to Yukki’s arm still near Reo’s shoulder.
“I just. I thought we’d—that you’d bring me,” Nagi says. Not accusing, more just—sad. Honest. “Like usual.”
Reo’s lips part. For a second, he looks like he’s been punched.
But Yukki’s still there, so Reo says nothing—just gives him a look. One of those looks. The gaze of read the room, what’s wrong with you?
The music swells. Somewhere across the room, someone drops a flute of champagne. It shatters. A wave of noise and hushes as the wait staff descend upon the scene like a flock of competent vultures, cleaning up the thin shards with incredible speed and rushing back to the kitchen area.
Yukki doesn’t seem to notice, but he glances at the time and sighs. “I’m gonna go check if I can still snag another peach cocktail before the diamond-encrusted gang of bitter divorcees in their seventies drain it all,” he mutters. “Nice meeting you again, Nagi.”
Then, to Reo, “I’ll see you back at the hall arch in a few.”
He leaves, and it’s just them.
Reo and Nagi. In a crowd of hundreds, and somehow still just the two of them.
“Nagi, you’re Raihou’s date,” Reo says eventually, slowly, like he’s testing to see if Nagi is genuine or fucking with him. Then, he seems to consider a different possibility, and he softens, “If you really didn’t want to go, you should’ve told her, treasure. You always said you hated these things.”
“I do,” Nagi admits.
“Then why did you—”
“—Because it used to be fine. With you.”
The words fall out before he can stop them. Reo stares at him, bewildered and speechless.
And Nagi’s throat feels tight again. He feels his bottom lip quiver. “Why’d you bring that glasses guy?”
Reo gapes at him. “Nagi—what? I needed to bring a plus one, you know that.”
“Is he your date?”
“No—what? I—what does that even matter?”
But before either of them can say anything more, Raihou calls his name from across the room, her laugh clear and expectant.
Nagi doesn’t look away from Reo. Not even when he answers, voice dull: “Coming.”
When he finally turns to walk away, he can feel Reo’s dumbfounded stare on his back all the way.
— 𖢻 —
“I’m thinking of just finishing up and coming home early,” Shizuka says, voice a little crackly through the mic. “Like, by the end of this month, instead of dragging it out until fall.”
Raihou blinks, attention sharpening. She’s been lying on her stomach for so long that her arms are starting to go numb. Her phone is wedged between her hands, screen propped just above the crease of her pillow, and her laptop balanced open beside her—camera capturing the dim lighting of her bedroom and her half-tangled hair falling over the edge. On the screen, Shizuka stares thoughtfully at her, chin resting in her palm.
“Seriously?”
Outside Raihou’s window, the city is unusually quiet for a Sunday night—soft traffic hums and the occasional bark of a dog. Inside, the only sounds are Shizuka’s voice and the occasional rustle of Raihou’s duvet as she tries to get comfortable.
“Mhm,” Shizuka nods. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. The whole thing was—manageable, at first, but the novelty wore off ago. Shanghai’s great and all, but I don’t care about the dumplings anymore. Or stuck-up insufferable old men with their bellies hanging over their belts ogling me whenever I walk into a conference room.”
“You always care about dumplings,” Raihou teases.
“Well, not right now,” Shizuka grins.
Raihou tilts her face into her pillow, quiet for a beat. “So you’d come back? For real?”
“I think so,” Shizuka replies. “I miss my mom’s cooking. I miss bad cafes that close too early. I miss you.”
Raihou smiles faintly, her cheek warming against the cotton. “I miss you too, loser.”
It’s a good moment. A warm, fuzzy one. So, of course, Raihou decides to ruin it.
“Hey,” she speaks after a pause, fingers sliding against her phone screen. “This is, like, so random, but, uh, can I ask you something really weird?”
Shizuka makes an intrigued sound. “Always.”
Raihou hesitates, thumb hovering over her photo album. Then, with a silent exhale, she pulls up a photo she’d taken a few days ago. A casual one—Nagi and Reo in the background of a mirror selfie she hadn’t meant to keep, both of them half-turned and mid-laugh.
She crops it slightly before sending it.
“Okay,” she steels herself, voice a little tentative. “Can you look at this and be honest?”
Shizuka leans out of frame, presumably grabbing her phone. “Look at what? About what?”
“Just—look at the guy on the right. Tell me if you think he looks—if he looks like me.”
A beat.
Shizuka’s face is gone, leaving Raihou with nothing but an incredible view of the top of her head, where her dark roots have begun to grow out—looks like she hasn’t had the chance to retouch since she left for Shanghai, Raihou thinks fondly. This just proves Raihou’s argument that without her around, telling her to brush it and wash it, Shizuka would gladly let her hair mat and fall out. She scratches at a loose thread on her blanket, jaw resting against her shoulder as she watches Shizuka return, phone tilted slightly as she zooms in.
Then: a hum.
Then: a blink.
Then, flatly, “That’s Mikage Reo.”
Raihou blinks back, caught off guard. “Yeah? I know?”
Shizuka pulls her phone back so Raihou can see her face clearly—eyes narrowed, mouth parted slightly in something that looks halfway between shock and offense. Repeats, “That’s Mikage Reo.”
Raihou frowns. “Yeah. I know.”
“What do you mean, you know?”
“He’s Sei-kun’s best friend.”
The loudest silence Raihou has ever suffered through. Then: “Your boyfriend’s best friend is Mikage fucking Reo?”
Raihou wrinkles her nose. “Why do people keep saying his full name like that?”
“Your boyfriend’s best friend is Mikage fucking Reo?”
Raihou raises a brow, growing a touch irritated. “Yes. Why do you sound so personally attacked by that?”
Shizuka doesn’t answer right away. She just groans, flopping back dramatically on her end of the call. “Raihou. Rai Rai. My love. My sunshine. My baby. Hello? That’s Mikage Reo. Mikage Reo. Heir to the Mikage conglomerate, rumored to be the prettiest man alive, doesn’t date or speak to anyone he doesn’t deem worth his time—that Mikage.”
Raihou stretches her legs out, twisting the cord of her unconnected earbuds around one finger. The end is trapped under her pillow. She pulls it out, and the metal piece on the edge smacks her in the wrist. “Okay? He’s Sei-kun’s best friend. I don’t know why you’re so worked up all of a sudden.”
“Just—Sei-kun’s best friend,” Shizuka mocks Raihou’s cadence with incredulity. “As in Nagi Seishirou. The weirdo sloth guy you’re dating. You never mentioned it before. Why didn’t you tell me? What the fuck?”
“Didn’t think it mattered,” Raihou mutters, pushing her hair off her face. “Why are you acting like this is national news?”
Shizuka shakes her head viciously, like she’s trying to give herself a concussion. “Rai. Did you forget that I had the biggest crush on him our last year of high school? You helped me stalk his Instagram like a psychopath during our first year of uni.”
“What?”
Shizuka sits up again, eyes wide. “No. Rai. Did you forget my gigantic fucking crush on him?”
“What.”
“Senior year. Gala season. Our first year of uni,” Shizuka counts on her fingers, pointing each one accusingly. “I looked for him at every single event. I literally dragged you to that New Year’s thing just because his last name was on the guest list.”
Raihou gasps, memories flooding back in. “Oh my god.”
“And you—you—stalked him on Instagram with me. We went through his tagged photos like forensic analysts, Raihou. You were there.”
“Oh, my god. Your tragic prince phase.”
“Don’t mock me. It was a beautiful phase. You sat next to me while I reverse image searched a blurry tagged photo of him at that champagne thing.”
“I remember now,” Raihou remarks, lips twitching. “You made me attend three galas on the off chance he’d show up.”
“And he never did,” Shizuka mutters bitterly. “But apparently he was alive and thriving—just hiding out as your boyfriend’s roommate or something.”
“Not roommate. Just—best friend,” Raihou corrects, softly. She tries not to think about the incident from a little over a week before.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, remembering the reason she’d sent the photo in the first place, Raihou asks again, quieter this time, “So? Do we look alike?”
Shizuka doesn’t answer immediately.
She glances back at her phone, studying the image again. Then her expression shifts—subtly, but Raihou catches it. A crease at the corner of her brow. A wriggle of her nose.
“I mean—like, I don’t know. Maybe. Not really.”
“You hesitated.”
“I didn’t.”
“You totally did.”
Shizuka looks away, rubbing at her brow. “Yeah. Who’s saying that, anyway?”
Raihou picks at a thread on her blanket. “Just—people. Y’know. Friends. Strangers. I keep hearing it more and more lately. And I’m not sure why.”
She doesn’t tell Shizuka how it makes her stomach turn, a little. Not because she thinks Reo is unattractive—obviously he isn’t. But because each time someone points it out, she can feel a vague, sour unease start to fester. Like a thought she’s trying not to think, but keeps poking at her, waiting for her to turn around and see the monster in the closet.
Was that why Sei-kun had been drawn to her in the first place?
She never doubted his sweetness. His gentleness. His childlike kindness hidden behind all that quiet. But there was something strange about—something, there’s something she can’t put a name to.
Nagi may touch her shoulder or awkwardly hold her waist, but he never went below the belt, nor up the front, up her shirt, beyond the wire of her bra, where—and if she lets herself think too hard about it—stop. She doesn’t.
“Anyway,” Shizuka exclaims suddenly, a bit too bright for the tone of the rest of their conversation, “I should probably go. It’s late here and my power adapter’s being weird again.”
Raihou stills, caught off guard. “Already?”
“Yeah. Long day tomorrow. And, uh—yeah.” She offers a smile, but it’s not the real Shizuka smile. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”
She goes before Raihou can even say bye or I love you.
She stares at the screen as it goes dark.
For a long while, she lies back on her bed, the silence of her room creeping in at the edges. Her phone buzzes with some unrelated notification, but she doesn’t look at it.
The image she’d sent is still open on her laptop.
She stares at it—at Reo, at herself reflected in the angle of the mirror. At the not-quite-similar curve of their eyes. The matching color. The tilt of their shoulders.
Her skin prickles.
Eventually, she shuts the laptop without a sound.
Her apartment feels too big when it’s quiet like this. When she’s not filling it with rude friends who talk too much or music through the surround sound speakers.
Raihou hasn’t even turned on the lights, and now her bedroom is cast in the soft, eerie blue of seven PM post-sunset light. Her phone lies abandoned at her side.
The screen of her phone reflects faintly in her eyes, the sharp light pricking the beginnings of a migraine in her. Totally not worth it, although she can’t seem to stop scrolling, though she’s not looking at anything in particular. She’d been scrolling aimlessly—short videos, photo dumps, a thread of outfit inspo that couldn’t hold her attention for more than a few seconds at a time.
Her mind keeps looping back to the same things.
Shizuka’s voice, that faint note of surprise, turned careful by the end. The way she’d abruptly signed off. The carefully controlled expression when Raihou asked if she and Reo looked alike.
It hadn’t been a yes. But it hadn’t been a no, either.
Raihou curls her knees up, tugging a sweatshirt that’s not hers over her legs—she had showered a half hour ago, hoping the high water pressure of the shower nozzle would beat some of the thoughts out of her head (it didn’t). The fabric smells faintly of Nagi’s laundry detergent—mild and powdery. A touch of ocean salt and beach breeze.
Nagi hadn’t given this one to her. She had pulled it out of his closet and asked if she could wear it during one of their movie nights. And Nagi, who never told her no, just shrugged and said okay. The thick fabric displays the name of the college’s soccer team in blocky blue letters—Blue Lock Barracudas. On the back, Nagi’s name and number are in the same font.
She wraps the too-long sleeves around herself like a straightjacket, as if that could somehow bring her closer to her boyfriend.
She tries to tell herself it didn’t matter.
That she doesn’t care if people think she looks like Reo. That Nagi isn’t the type of person to compare faces, to overlay one person onto another. But the thought is there now, lodged like a splinter in her chest.
It isn’t even that she thinks Nagi is being malicious. Raihou doesn’t think Nagi is even capable of malevolence. No. It’s something quieter. Simpler. A truth that might’ve existed even if they don’t realize it.
It’s true—he’s always spoken about Reo with a strange softness. Praising him in ways Raihou had never been praised before. Not for her accomplishments or her personality, but simply for existing. Reo’s presence seemed to soothe Nagi in ways Raihou’s never has.
It’s jealousy she feels, though. Not exactly. It’s more like—like standing in front of a painting for too long and finally noticing a detail that made the whole image shift. And underneath that, the faintest hum of guilt. Because even now, curled in bed, Raihou isn’t thinking about Nagi. Well, she’s thinking about Nagi, but not thinking about Nagi. She’s thinking of Shizuka’s voice—rough and teasing and spitfire, sharp and witty over the speakers. The small pause after Raihou had said I miss you too. The laugh that had bubbled out at the mention of galas and crushes past.
God. What’s wrong with her?
Raihou buries her face in her hands.
It wasn’t the first time she’d thought about it. Shizuka had always been her constant, her axis—long late-night calls, shared outfits, knowing each other’s coffee orders down to the sugar packet. She’d brushed off the fondness as something that came naturally after so many years.
Nagi Seishirou. Sei-kun. Raihou remembers the first time they met. Looking at a bug-eyed, pale, sloppily-dressed boy in the face and seeing the total, entire, complete opposite of the girl named Nene Shizuka.
Sei-kun and his fluffy, knotted snow hair, tangled at the ends, soft but impossible to comb one’s fingers through. Sei-kun and his chapped lips and oversized hoodies and sweatpants with ink stains and grass marks. Sei-kun and his bare wrists and wide, moon-big pale eyes; his body, broad and bulky, firm and solid from soccer training. Sei-kun and his silence, his pacifism, his soft presence like a blanket on Raihou’s shoulders. His apathy for words, and his disinterest in appearances, his disregard for what people have to say about him.
Shizuka, with her blunt-cut, chin length black hair dyed platinum with discipline (Raihou remembers helping her touch up the roots when they started to show). Shizuka with her dark velvet blazers and flared pants and earring collection comprised of solely Raihou’s own gifts and creations over the years (the pair she wears the most often is a design concept Raihou submitted to her father in hopes of finally being told she’s met expectations only for him to reject it like it was an intern’s scrap). Shizuka and her catlike, dark gray eyes and cool-toned skin; her sharp cheekbones and elegant, angled body, toned from years of competitive dance. Shizuka and her discolored, calloused knuckles and uneven skin from taking her insurmountable, blazing anger out on people and walls, leaving her hand permanently fucked but still pretty, at least to Raihou.
Seriously, Raihou bangs her head against the wooden bed frame, skull rattling and pain radiating from a new dent in her forehead. What’s wrong with me all of a sudden? What the hell is happening?
— 𖢻 —
It was supposed to be a quick errand.
Raihou hadn’t meant to step inside the café at all, but the sharp wind cutting down the street had convinced her otherwise. She ducks into the little shop on instinct, tucking her scarf higher around her mouth.
It’s a cozy place—warm wood panels, golden light, and the low murmur of a few lingering customers. She’s halfway to the counter when she spots them.
Nagi and Reo. They’re seated at a corner table, facing one another. Two mugs steaming between them. Nagi’s leaning back in his chair in that lazy, folded way of his, but his gaze is fixed fully on Reo—soft and unhurried. Reo says something, and Nagi’s mouth twitches into a small, rare smile. The kind Raihou has never seen aimed at her. Or for her. The most she’s ever gotten was a twinkle of amusement at one of her poor jokes. It’s not even overtly intimate. But it’s easy: there’s no hesitancy in the way Nagi stretches his legs out, nudging Reo’s ankle with the toe of his sneaker under the narrow table. No awkward pauses in their conversation.
For a moment, and not for the first time, Raihou feels like an intruder watching something she isn’t meant to see.
She thinks about all the times Nagi’s been distracted when she talks about her day. How he rarely touches her first—no hand to her back, no casual brush of fingers against hers. The flare of panic those few times they would make out on the sofa. How none of it had hurt at the time, because she’d told herself that’s just how Sei-kun is.
Except it isn’t.
Raihou draws back before they can spot her.
On the street again, the wind stings her cheeks as she walks aimlessly. Her thoughts churn in overlapping loops:
Nagi loves Reo. Maybe not consciously. I don’t know. Maybe not completely? But maybe so, at the same time. I can’t tell. I don’t know enough to tell. But it has to be true, doesn’t it? Or maybe—maybe it’s me? He doesn’t love me like that? Or even like me?
She should be angry. Or hurt, right? At the very least, something red or green or ugly. But all she feels is a hollow sort of throb—and a flicker of relief. Maybe she doesn’t love Nagi, either.
Maybe she’s been clinging to the shape of a normal relationship with an eccentric boy because it’s what she’s supposed to do. Rather, the next best thing from it.
She pulls her phone from her pocket without thinking.
Her thumb hovers over Shizuka’s contact. She lets herself picture a different future. One where she doesn’t keep burying the truth.