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saihara shuuichi is no hero.
he’s not some ace detective, throwing himself into glory without second thought, ready to save the day or die trying. he’s not confident, not brave enough to call out injustice when he sees it, not selfish enough to defend himself when it’s thrown back at him. he’s barely even an antihero — it’s not that he has the opposite of a heroic personality,
it’s just that he doesn’t have one at all.
he works at his uncle’s private eye on the weekends, solving low risk cases like lost bracelets or forgotten schoolbags. so what if he’s picked up a couple of the more dangerous cases? so what if he crept downstairs one night to look at the file that was stressing out his uncle, just to see?
and so what if he solved it? so what if the man’s gaze, empty and burning with passionate hate, haunted his dreams and left him in a cold sweat and shaking every night?
that doesn’t make him a hero, no. he’s not some manga protagonist, some boy soldier blind with youth.
saihara shuuichi is nobody special at all. there are people far more talented, people who deserve the praise, the glory, to be treated as gods among men whose steps turn to gold in their wake.
so he really doesn’t understand why hope’s peak wants him so badly.
-
the train rattles unpleasantly beneath saihara’s feet. there’s an uncomfortable smell of tobacco and stale air, burning his throat and stinging his eyes. self-consciously, he tugs his scarf, frayed at the edges and smelling of lemon laundry soap and shampoo, a little closer to his face. tokyo is loud. unpleasantly so.
“now arriving at ikebukuro station,” the announcer reads off, carriage gliding to a halt. a group of businessmen, coloured dark with their pressed suits, all get off at once, trailed by some young couples. nobody gives saihara a second glance.
good.
he knows that people have a tendency to stare at the students of hope’s peak, unwilling idols under public scrutiny. he’s seen the looks people give the fashion designers, the chemists, the florists and the lucky students - watched them pass him in the streets, colourfully smiling and radiant with youth.
but saihara really doesn’t want that kind of attention, so, as the train pulls away from ikebukuro, he wraps his coat a little tighter around himself, pulls his hat a little further down his head, lowers his tired eyes and watches the clouds, just beyond the window, slice open the sky like a stab wound.
tokyo is a beautiful city — in a way. a spider’s web of telephone wires hangs overhead, dangling precariously between spires of grey and white concrete. it’s modern, almost stereotypically so, with unlit neon lights marking shopping districts and arcades. even this early in the morning, there are crowds lining the streets, students and commuters floating and mingling and dispersing like the currents of an ocean.
kinda cliché.
“now arriving at shinjuku station. passengers in the first and last carriages should make their way towards the center of the train if they wish to disembark.”
a few middle schoolers get off, footsteps fading as they move away. the train’s emptying out, thankfully - maybe it’ll be okay to take off his coat. it’s kind of too warm, anyway - and, apart from a boy about his age who looks far too invested in his cellphone to care, it’s just people sleeping or texting.
he folds the coat on his lap awkwardly, fingers playing with the lapels. the sun burns holes into his retinas.
the doors glide shut. the train jerks a little as it moves onward. a few more stops.
“excuse me?”
it’s the boy from before, phone tucked into his pocket and relaxed smile on his face. there’s none of the starstruck quality saihara’d expect - no hint that this is any kind of novelty. perfect silence.
“hey. couldn’t help but notice that,” he lowers his voice after a sharp glare from a middle-aged woman reading a copy of the setting sun , “you’re wearing a hope’s peak academy uniform. i’m,” a vague expression of distaste crosses his face, “in the reserve course there. mind if i sit with you?”
saihara nods wordlessly. is this going to be an everyday thing? maybe he should find another way to commute. is it too early to learn to drive?
“my name’s saihara. ah - saihara shuuichi, that is. i’m enrolled as the super high school level detective.”
what a mouthful that is. he’ll have to get used to it - there’ll likely be no shortage of introductions for the next few days. at least it’s self-explanatory.
the fact that he’s reserve course explains his low-key reaction - no wide eyes, no awed smile, no childlike look of wonder that saihara himself is ashamed to have given the main course students before.
desensitised, then.
“ah, who are you..? if we’re going to be seeing each other around a lot from now on, i’d like to know your name.”
“is there any point in me introducing myself? i’m not that special, like i said. but… well, if you want.”
he pauses, shrugs.
“i’m hinata hajime. congrats on getting into hope’s peak.”
-
to be honest, saihara feels kind of nauseous.
the entrance ceremony is dragging on, and though he’s trying to pay attention - he really is! - it’s hard to, between the exhaustion sitting on him like a rock and the fact that the boy beside him is playing the knife game with a pencil. the incessant drumming of the lead against plastic is starting to wear the detective (that feels weird to say)’s patience thin, and, as kirigiri-sensei’s speech draws to an end, he’s more relieved than he should be.
the initial shock of actually being at hope’s peak academy - the startling brightness of the halls, the way the courtyards spread out like lazy summer days and the sun glares through the windows - hasn’t yet worn off, and the gentle buzz of chatter as students leave is reassuring.
even as he rises, follows the teacher shepherding them like a flock of diligent lambs out into the hallways, he’s not quite lucid. even as a pale hand is waved in front of his face, purple eyes stare into his own, he isn’t really there.
“hey, hey! anyone in there? i’m talking to you, dumbass.”
huh?
wide, mischievous eyes, shining like amethysts or lavender quartz, greet saihara when his eyes refocus and he finally tears his gaze away from the wooden flooring at his feet. there’s something like confusion buried beneath that stare, something that could almost be concern - but what reason does a total stranger have to worry over him?
“oh- ohmygosh. you’re alive! it’s a miracle! and i was super worried, too…”
lips curve into a malicious grin.
saihara doesn’t even have time to react.
“just kidding. i don’t care about you at all. we only just met.”
as though summoned by the sound of the boy’s voice, two girls swoop in, one seeming to shepherd him off like a disobedient grade schooler whilst the other turns to face saihara a little apologetically. her eyes are that same lilac colour -
but a little softer. less the colour of royal gowns and imperial might than of wisteria trellises and windflowers. blonde hair cascades down her back like a river of liquid mercury, brightening the simple brown colour of the hope’s peak academy uniform, and, where she steps, the ground seems to sing with every tap of her foot.
she’s pretty, in other words.
“jeez. sorry about ouma-kun. he tends to, uh,” she folds her arms, “do that. anyway,” her face brightens considerably, and, with a flourish, extends a hand. “i’m akamatsu kaede! just some ordinary girl who happens to be kinda a piano freak. i get that it’s pretty weird being here, cause i’m a little starstruck too, but,”
she grins.
“let’s be friends! what’s your talent? i’m the ultimate pianist!”
it almost feels like he’s back in junior high, exchanging trading cards with the other kids - except the cards are names and talents, those of people who deserve to be here so much more than him, names and talents that he can’t keep track of or hope to even come close to.
“my name’s saihara shuuichi. i’m,” a pause, uncertainty cementing his jaw together, “only someone who happened to solve a random case. i don’t think i really deserve the title, but -” he sighs,
“i’m the ultimate detective.”
-
“as you may know, attendance isn’t necessary beyond today, but we would advise utilising the school’s - ah, yes,” the teacher consults her list of names,” amami rantarou-kun?”
a boy with windswept green hair - presumably amami - lowers his hand, a faint expression of curiosity brushed across his face.
“uh - mind if i ask why there’s no lucky student here? including myself, there’s,” he searches the room to count heads, “sixteen of us here, yeah? but i checked around, and there isn’t one. seems weird, y’know?”
the teacher pales considerably, appearing to not have wanted this exact question. amami laughs a little self-consciously, hand rising to cradle the back of his neck. he has the good grace to look apologetic.
“well,” the teacher says carefully, rearranging the papers on her desk, “do any of you know komaeda-kun from the 77th class? he’ll be graduating this year.”
a few nods or hums of agreement.
“he’s the reason why we don’t accept lucky students anymore.”
amami, expression vaguely amused, seems satisfied with that, and returns to staring out the window. curious, saihara follows his gaze, beyond the concrete utopia of tokyo and the blue line of the sky, beyond the hills so far off, beyond anywhere saihara could hope to see.
amami rantarou has the eyes of someone who is going to be something.
( what would that be like? )
-
TEXT (UNKNOWN NUMBER TO YOU) [5:52pm] : hey, it’s hinata. i got your number from your class rep. arakawa or something?
TEXT (UNKNOWN NUMBER TO YOU) [5:54pm] : meet me in the courtyard during lunch period tomorrow.
TEXT (YOU TO HINATA-KUN) [6:03pm] : sure. see you then.
-
“huuh? does my beloved saihara-chan have a date? you sure move fast. what a player!”
ouma’s voice, ringing loud with humour, echoes throughout the hallways, turning heads and spreading a blush across saihara’s face. awkwardly, he pulls his hat a little further down his
“h-how could you? after you promised your heart to me - is this really how you treat a lover? you’re,” tears pool in the corners of his eyes, “s-so m-mean to me..!”
no.
no, no, no. it’s not like that at all.
how does he tell ouma that? this isn’t -
he’s not into hinata-kun, god. he’s just being a good underclassman, taking advice from his senpai. it’s smart.
“that’s not it at all,” he murmurs, shaking his head and offering a weak smile. “i don’t - it’s not hinata-kun, that i like that way.”
ouma smiles.
“oh, i know.”
-
saihara is not a morning person.
momota and harukawa sit either side of him, bickering back and forth like a married couple. saihara’s mostly tuned out what they’re saying - something about ice cream? maybe it was grades. he isn’t really sure - but there’s no real malice in either of their voices, and, when one asks for his input, a neutral hum seems to suffice.
the breakfast table buzzes with vibrant youth, stacks of sweet-smelling food half-finished sitting around. akamatsu’s talking animatedly to amami about the music rooms between bites of her pancakes, and, though the adventurer looks rather lost, seems content to listen gracefully.
across from him, yonaga is turning her waffle into an astonishingly detailed reconstruction of a monet piece, whilst chabashira and a girl saihara doesn’t know the name of - maybe an upperclassman? - are engaged in an arm wrestle. god knows who’s winning.
it’s noisy and energetic and bright and domestic - and, though saihara would usually be appreciative, he’s exhausted.
mornings in the saihara household tend to go something like this:
he’ll wake up, maybe an hour before school’s due to start, and a little later if it’s a day off. then, get dressed, go downstairs to where the kitchen is. if his uncle or aunt haven’t made breakfast he’ll grab toast, maybe talk about whatever case file is relevant. simple as that.
this?
this is utterly foreign. it is loud and almost nauseating. there’s far too much pressure to engage than saihara would like, and, beyond slinking off, there’s little he can do to escape it. momota seems to have made it his duty to drag saihara to breakfast.
as he stands up, saihara’s chair squeaks against the ground. though he cringes a little at the sound ( he was really hoping to get away without being noticed ), amami seems to be the only one to take notice, and the conspiratorial grin curving his lips is reassuring.
under his breath and he barely ate, but it’d be rude to not say it anyway - “thanks for the meal.”
perfect.
he’ll go to his dorm, maybe get to work on that case study his uncle gave him on a case kirigiri kyouko from the class above solved. having someone with his same is nice, even if he knew about her already - and he’s only a little starstruck
finally a plan that goes off without a hitch.
“huuh? is my beloved saihara-chan running away?”
spoke too soon.
“were you intimidated by me? i might be an evil supreme leader, but i’m not gonna hurt you! just as long as you don’t get in the way of my plans?”
saihara forces a weak smile onto his face. he really isn’t in the mood to deal with ouma - there’s a headache blooming in his temples at the very thought - but he can’t really avoid it now.
it’s not so bad, anyway. ouma’s ( mostly ) well intentioned, and, beyond dumping glitter on iruma and being as unhelpful as humanly possible, he hasn’t done much to warrant any real dislike. sure, he probably gets away with more than he should because he’s cute, but -
“saihara-chan?” the dictator repeats, looking puzzled. “are you in there? cmon, talk to me! hey, hey! it’s no fun if you just stand there.”
laughing nervously, saihara tugs his hat a little further down his head, averting his gaze.
“sorry, i,” he looks urgently towards the dorms, “really need to be somewhere right now. do you mind?”
“huh. whatever you say.”
-
the fountain outside the academy is cold where saihara leans on it, water striking water with a satisfying splash.
the sun is still high in the sky, the days lengthened by spring and dyed pink with the cherry blossoms falling, like decaying snow, to the ground. it’s just past one in the afternoon, about when hinata arranged to meet - but it makes sense that he’d be later than saihara.
the reserve course’s classes are mandatory. the main course’s aren’t. already, a good few people have disappeared from regular attendance - amami’s in a new country every other day. shinguuji spends much of his time doing field research. when she isn’t following yumeno around like a puppy, chabashira’s time is mostly spent in the gym.
still, saihara is determined - he’ll try and spend at least some of his time in classes. he’s mostly working under the guidance of kirigiri kyouko from the 78th, who seems to have taken it upon herself to mother-hen him, and between the cold cases she gives him and the files his uncle mails over -
well, there’s an awful lot of free time.
there’s a part of him that likes having something to do. he’s never found it easy to simply relax - saihara likes to have something to keep himself occupied, and he can only reread a tale of two cities so many times.
it’s not that he likes the schoolwork, no; he’s glad that hope’s peak is so lax.
saihara isn’t used to having real friends. never like this, never where it comes so easily that -
“sorry i’m late.”
there’s a quiet, friendly smile on hinata’s face, hand raised in a loose greeting. almost instinctively, saihara feels himself relaxing - it’s odd, how he can feel calm around hinata despite them being so distant. maybe it’s the fact he doesn’t need to feel so talented.
hinata doesn’t have any reason to honour him, to idolise him like some god. it’s refreshing.
“ah, it’s okay. nice to see you again.”
hinata joins him at the fountain, a sort of pensive, uncertain expression on his face. it looks like he’s half-considering saying something, turning it over in his mind like a particularly tricky puzzle. saihara would ask, but it wouldn’t feel right being so informal around his upperclassman; reserve course or not, hinata is still older than him.
“is,” he pauses, hesitant, “everything okay, hinata-kun..?”
absentminded, a nod.
“yeah. you…haven’t met everyone from the other classes, have you?”
-
the classroom smells distinctly of paint, but nobody seems to mind.
yonaga stands by the blackboard, fingerpainting maple trees and red-crowned cranes onto the corners of desks and across walls. beside her, yumeno and gokuhara work as a team, with the magician perched on gokuhara’s shoulders and looking deeply invested in a lopsided depiction of a bunny rabbit. across, by the window, amami is aiding kiibo in taping up the glass, ready to be peeled off once their resident artist has had her way with the room.
there’s chalk on the desks and spread like snow across the floor where people have trod over it, acrylic paint clumped on fresh-ironed shirts and splattered over the windows.
“saihara-kun!” akamatsu calls, voice a comically conspiratorial whisper. startled, saihara turns to look at her, brow raised quizzically. “i have cleaning duty today,” she pleads, pale eyes wide. “can you help me? i think ouma-kun is s meant to help out too, but this is gonna take forever…”
oh,
he kind of can’t say no, can he?
a hesitant smile upturning the corners of his mouth, saihara nods, watching yonaga smear a rainbow of chalk across yumeno’s cheek. the magician sneezes.
“sure.”
akamatsu sighs in relief, slumping into her seat and burying her face into the desk.
-
“ah - no, i haven’t. why do you ask?”
hinata doesn’t reply.
there’s something about him - something in the set of his shoulders, in the shudder of his breath and the edge of his gaze - that unnerves saihara. it’s not that it’s hinata himself, really; he’s not suspicious at all, almost too plain to be realistic.
it’s being around him that’s so unsettling. every sigh that shakes his ribcage, every carefully-chosen word, the jaded distance to his gaze, unearths a deep-set paranoia in saihara’s gut.
of course, maybe he’s wrong.
he’s always been the anxious type, honestly - spending too much time around his classmates takes more energy out of him than he’d like to admit.
he’s definitely wrong.
“okay. good,” hinata murmurs, not meeting saihara’s eyes. something in his chest squirms uncomfortably. he ignores it. “you know the class above you?”
a nod.
if hinata didn’t feel off before, he does now - fingertips drum erratically against stone, built-up nervous energy released with all the grace of nuclear fission. the side of saihara that’s a detective - the one that urges him to ask questions, to know, to discover and to find the bitter truth, rears its ugly head, and he pushes it down. this isn’t the time.
“i might be wrong. they never bothered the reserve course, anyway. but,” his hands still, “there are a couple of people you should look out for, alright?”
-
“jeez.” akamatsu mutters, scrubbing at a thick layer of dried ink on sensei’s desk, “they couldn’t have at least put down newspaper..?”
ouma hums, inspecting his nails and making no effort to assist their ailing class rep. he’s sitting on top of one of the windowsills that amami had covered earlier in the day, picking off the tape remnants between jeers at saihara and akamatsu’s cleaning efforts. exhausted, the blonde runs a hand through her hair, waving vaguely at the door.
it’s clear that the break is earned - maybe guilt over roping saihara in to help, maybe because she has to account for all the work that the dictator isn’t doing. either way, when saihara’s eyes meet akamatsu’s, he gives her a nod, gesturing for her to go.
“hey, saihara-chan. my beloved . ”
ah.
“what is it..?”
ouma pushes himself off of the window ledge, landing with a flourish in a pile of chalk powder. the classroom is silent, dust floating through the air and settling like snow in the curves of his collarbones. the bright violet of ouma’s eyes stands out all the more, against pale skin and pale dust, and even as he blinks, saihara can’t help but stare.
there’s a pause.
the watery sunlight burns his retinas. ouma is haloed like a righteous angel, golden in the fragile day. akamatsu’s footsteps echo down the hall. no more than a few metres away.
“you should take off that hat. i think —,” the door clicks open again, “akamatsu-chan thinks you’d be cute without it.”
and presses a finger to his lips.
-
there’s no time to waste .
a new volume of ishikawa hanae’s is it wrong to start life in a new world as a magical girl part timer? just released, and the character designs are breathtaking. she has to get ahead of the crowd - if she starts now, the costumes will be ready before the big companies can start mass-producing them, and they’ll look better, too.
maybe she shouldn’t be reading in the halls, but she has to see every angle of this piece, and it’s more time efficient this way. she has a reputation to uphold, a title to defend; the longer she has to sew, the faster she can cosplay remiliaram, the main character’s love interest and most popular character in the series.
besides. nobody’s actually in the halls; hope’s peak students don’t need to attend class, and those who aren’t in algebra or english quite often aren’t at school at all.
yes, shirogane tsumugi decides, head buried in one of the greatest literary works ever released in weekly shoujo hello , this is a worthy cause. she can already imagine the cosplay coming together; the way the dress will flow and the fabric she’ll use, the way her shoes will click perfectly against the floor, as though they were made of pure glass -
shirogane stops. the footsteps don’t. a few more steps forward and
she lands hard on her knees like a queen facing the guillotine, hair spilling across her shoulders and pouring down the curve of her neck. she’s not necessarily uncomfortable - the surface that her face is pressed against isn’t so hard, and it smells pleasantly of fresh laundry and perfume she can’t afford.
soft, clean. like faux fur.
“oh my god, are you okay?”
startled, shirogane jerks away from the shoulder of the girl she just fell straight onto. this is nothing like the scenes in the manga she treasures - it isn’t romantic. it’s just awkward. sighing and sitting back on her heels, the cosplayer peeks through her hands at whoever she’ll have to apologise to today. hopefully they aren’t -
oh.
oh.
looking shirogane tsumugi in the eyes is the most beautiful girl she has ever seen.
fine, wavy hair runs down her back like rivers of ichor, like liquid gold, tied up into two thick twintails. her eyes are dollike, and, in the gap between where her circle lenses end and her pupil begins, shirogane catches a glimpse of red eyes as rich and sharp as fresh drawn blood. her skin is like porcelain, her face a work of art; she is perfectly proportioned, from small nose to soft red lips to eyelashes brushing her high cheekbones when she blinks. she is like helen of troy, like aphrodite, venus - except this girl is a thousand times more beautiful. she’s tall, legs long and slender. a small waist, sharp jaw.
she is perfect.
and she is looking directly at shirogane.
graceful as a doe in the winter haze, she stands up, pulling a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. her fingernails are the same carmine red as her real eyes.
she’s wearing heels more expensive than the reserve course tuition. they click as she walks over, crouches down.
“are you okay, hon?”
and extends her hand.
-
saihara frowns. this feels kind of ominous; almost like a scene from a video game. it’s kind of cliché.
“okay? i’m,” a pause, “listening.”
hinata’s sigh is that of someone carries the weight of the world on his slender shoulders.
-
shirogane reaches out to take it.
-
“there’s a girl - well, kind of two of them - in the 78th class that you should look out for. one of them is named ikusaba mukuro. she’s okay by herself, but,” he laughs, “she’s never really by herself. the other is,”
-
“i’m so sorry about that. i hope you’re not mad at me or anything! i’d be so upset if a pretty face like yours were to be ruined because of me…” the girl laments, clutching her pigtails as though they are a lifeline. “anyway! we’re friends now, okay?”
her smile is full of perfect white teeth.
( she thinks that shirogane is pretty )
she can’t help but smile back.
-
“her name is enoshima junko.”
-
“i’m enoshima junko! let’s be best friends from now on, okay?”
shirogane says yes.
of course she does.
-
“just - avoid her. she’s trouble. not someone you want to be hanging around.”
-
because she thinks she might be in love with the beautiful girl whose name is enoshima junko.
-
“hey, saihara-kun,” amami muses, tipping back and forth on his chair and staring at the empty desk in front of him, “have you seen shirogane-san lately?”
saihara sets down the book he’s reading tentatively, pursing his lips. now that amami mentions it, he hasn’t seen the cosplayer recently at all. he admittedly hadn’t thought much of it, not being the closest with her, and the cosplayer tended to skip class anyway. maybe she was sick, or working on a new project.
even still, it was odd.
“ah, no. i haven’t. why do you ask, amami-kun?”
as far as he knows, amami and shirogane aren’t close. the adventurer seems to hold everyone at arm’s length, but if saihara had to say that he was friends with anyone, it’d probably be akamatsu and ouma. shirogane, though -
is shirogane friends with anyone?
chabashira, yumeno and yonaga stick together when the aikidoka isn’t hanging out with the
upperclassmen.
harukawa, momota and saihara himself tend to be something of a trio, with the occasional additions of ouma, amami and akamatsu.
shinguuji and toujou seem friendly.
gokuhara is friends with everyone. hoshi is friends with gokuhara.
iruma and kiibo spend most of their time around each other, but often join ouma and gokuhara for lunch or group classes.
shirogane seems to stand out in that she fades far too greatly into the backdrop of everyday life. there are others who are far less present than she is, but make up for it; amami is charismatic where shirogane is quiet, shinguuji eloquent where she is all manga references and anime jokes.
the expression on the adventurer’s face is troubled.
“no reason. maybe i’ll check on her.”
-
“saihara-chan.”
ouma’s voice is quiet, as though strained from talking too much. he looks at saihara through a spiderweb of eyelashes.
“what is it?”
a hum. the sun is dragged down the horizon, red and pink smears of blood in its wake. stars freckle the evening sky.
there’s something oddly peaceful, this time of night. hope’s peak academy stands in the middle of the city, as though a statue to the ideals that it preaches; an unofficial athena parthenos in tokyo’s acropolis .
“nothing.”
warm violet eyes, looking directly into saihara’s. if he looks back he’ll go blind, the way you never stare at the sun during an eclipse.
he pulls ouma in and presses their lips together.
-
no matter how many times amami knocks, she’s not going to open the door. when will he get that message into his head? she thought he was the intelligent type, really. maybe he’s just a pretty boy.
determined to ignore him, shirogane covers her ears with her palms, closes her eyes. her room smells like acetone. it stings her skin.
“shirogane-chan,” comes enoshima’s voice, smooth and poisonous as viper venom, “it’s okay. he’s gone.”
shirogane takes enoshima’s right hand in hers, gently applying a coat of varnish to her nails. it clumps and congeals oddly, applying a streaky crimson and clumping on her brush like glue. but this is the colour that enoshima wanted, that signature perfect red, even if it’s drying all wrong and is more of a bronze rust than a red at all. she must be out of practice, or her hands are shaky, or the polish isn’t good.
“it’s just the two of us.”
-
TEXT (YOU TO HINATA-KUN) [3:12pm] : hinata-kun?
TEXT (YOU TO HINATA-KUN) [3:13pm] : are you okay?
[ message not delivered. tap to retry . ]
-
saihara remembers a time when shinguuji had just arrived back from a trip to greece. he had drawn them all close, regaling them all with stories of oracles and gods, of heroes and glorious battles.
he had told them the story of athens; how athena and poseidon had fought to become patron of the city, how poseidon had created horses and athena an olive tree as gifts to the people they would oversee. he told them of the rift the contest drove between them, of the worship and sacrifice offered unto athena by the city named for her, by the city won with an olive tree.
he told them of a beautiful statue, dedicated to the patroness of athens. its name was the athena parthenos , athena the virgin, a masterpiece of ivory and gold with victory herself in the goddess’s palm.
and he told them how it was melted down for materials; how the temple that once housed it was destroyed, how the ivory statue was scorched and how the marbles decorating the walls of the parthenon were ruined and stolen.
it’s just as he thought.
if hope’s peak academy is the athena parthenos of tokyo’s acropolis , then, saihara thinks, it is only a matter of time before it burns to the ground.
-
shirogane nods, delicately balancing enoshima’s artistic hand in her own clumsy one. the gyaru’s fingers are like fresh fallen snow, smooth skin and elegant, but there’s dark smears where the polish has dripped onto bare skin.
it’s shirogane’s fault, really. her hands are shaky as she paints another layer on.
shirogane’s hands are stained a deep, sticky brown.
-
TEXT (YOU TO HINATA-KUN) [12:17pm] : please answer me. i haven’t been able to get in touch.
[ the number you are contacting is not available. contact your service provider for more information. ]
-
she didn’t think that the bleeding would last so long.
enoshima’s knife is buried hilt-deep in shirogane’s arm, encrusted with dried blood and sapphires.
this is shirogane’s fault.
-
“shirogane-san?” comes amami’s voice from the other side of the door, soft and hesitant.
god, why is he so persistent?
why is he always here? they aren’t friends. amami never bothered to look at her. he’s probably only doing this to fulfill some sort of ego boost; if he checks on her, he can tell himself he’s a good person. he can say that he tried.
but it’s okay.
she doesn’t need them anymore. she has enoshima now. she doesn’t need her classmates who never cared about her, her classmates who were happy enough by themselves, her classmates who ignore her attempts at conversation and make fun of the clothes she makes and the shows she likes.
she has enoshima junko, and enoshima junko is the sun and the moon. she is the constellations that line the evening sky, cassiopeia and pegasus, the planets that rise above the horizon and the dying stars that explode into supernovae.
“look, we’re worried about you,” amami murmurs. “we don’t want to get sensei involved.”
enoshima junko is everything that matters.
-
“i don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
-
they never bothered to look her way.
no matter how grand the costumes she made were. no matter how hard she tried to be their friend. nobody ever bothered to look her way.
hours wasted picking out fabrics for something that might finally impress them. every pinprick from the sharp end of a needle, every sleepless night and every time someone called on her for convenience.
enoshima junko cares, though. she bothers to pay attention. she bothers to look someone as plain and pathetic as shirogane tsumugi in the eye.
-
saihara frowns, turning his head to face the girl with a hand on his shoulder. she’s undeniably beautiful, a living artpiece.
but he’s not really looking at her. he’s looking over her shoulder.
-
it doesn’t matter if her feelings are meaningless.
-
standing behind enoshima junko, as though a royal guard at the right hand of the queen, is hinata hajime.
-
it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t feel the same way.
-
or so saihara thinks. their facial structure is the same, the shape of their eyes. their height.
but this person is off.
his hair is black, fine as spider silk and so long that it almost trails along the floor. it veils his face in places, covering eyes that burn like hellfire and are just as red. he stands with a quiet self-assuredness that saihara doesn’t remember in hinata, and he’s markedly paler; the sort of ghostly pallor that one might expect from a corpse.
he doesn’t seem like hinata, not really,
but saihara doesn’t think the real hinata would ever spend this long around enoshima junko, the girl he warned saihara away from.
-
she will never stop. shirogane can’t just stop loving her.
-
the whole carriage seems to shudder a little as the train draws to a close at the platform. hinata grabs onto a handle beside him for stability, looking almost comically alarmed by the sudden stop.
“ah, hey,” he calls, voice hushed to avoid angering the woman still engrossed in her book, “this is our stop. it’s only a few minutes away if we get off here, and the exit closer to the school itself is too busy most days.”
saihara blinks in bemusement, but rises to stand beside hinata, waiting patiently for the doors to slide open. it’s kind of too warm in here for comfort.
-
enoshima junko is her god.
-
hope’s peak academy stands in the centre of tokyo like a statue, dedicated unto a long-dead god.