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Nanami spots the first star to rise over the hill. It looks like a dandelion seed, a bit of fluff against the timid azure of early evening. As the sky ripens to a richer blue and then hardens into night, the star grows brighter and brighter, a tiny jewel set in black velvet.
This night is Nanami’s gift, and she insisted on every embellishment: the picnic set-up, the basket of exquisite cakes, the thermos of coffee that makes her blush to pass back and forth with her brother as they lie on their backs in the grass. She doesn’t like the bitter drink, but she likes to think that the hint of sweetness to it is him. The telescope, borrowed from the chairman, hardly receives any use as Touga names each constellation in the vast, dark sky.
He seems to know all of them, as well as the stories behind them: supernatural archers, doomed lovers, wayward siblings. He tells her about fish and dragons, scorpions and tigers, celestial kingdoms and portentous comets. With the two of them out here alone, she can almost ignore the echo of the chairman’s words behind his, and or the thought of all the other girls he’s told these stories. He’s with her now.
“Which star is that, big brother?” Nanami points at her jewel.
“That’s Venus, the evening star. It’s twin to Lucifer, the morning star, and in truth they are the same body: a planet, second from the sun. Venus was the Roman goddess of beauty and love, often shown with golden hair.” He fingers a lock of her long hair, which has fallen between them, and gives her a coy look.
“Venus,” Nanami repeats, reddening under his attention. She decides to lie to herself a little longer about whether she is content.