Chapter Text
They start dating in March. That makes it easy, once school starts; all they have to do is memorize the lengths of each other’s sleeves. He knows exactly where Peko’s cuffs hit her when she reaches her arms out to take something, or when she stretches them high over her head. He knows where her line is, and she knows the same for him. It’s basic geometry. Easy.
(Easy for people who aren’t stupid, anyway. Nobody can get around the big, round yellow hearts moms leave behind on cheeks and foreheads, but only dumbasses let their hormones get away with them during the school day. That’s how they find out Souda has been hooking up with some chick in the class below them, when he comes back from lunch with fluttery pink hearts all around his lips and chin and neck.)
The problem is: both their summer uniforms are short-sleeved, and June isn’t that far away.
They talk about it. They agree that they both prefer discretion. They’ve only been dating a couple of months, and it’s not anyone else’s business what they do. (And he likes it, having this thing just for them, tucked behind the rolled cuff of a dress shirt.)
There are options: his shoulders and her collarbones and both their knees, if she wears her tights while the weather is still cool in the mornings. All those options feel like too much, though. He thinks about how far he’d have to pull back the collar of her blouse, how many buttons he’d have to undo to make it work, and trips over his own tongue before he’s even done suggesting it. She goes beet red, eyes on her lap.
They agree: they can keep to themselves, at least during school hours.
The day before they’re supposed to change uniforms, they spend the afternoon studying together in the library. It empties out after an hour or two. They’re tucked at a table in one of the back corners, away from doors and windows. It’s not as risky as it could be, but it’s still riskier than he’s usually okay with, when he reaches for her arm.
It’s just, it’s the last day. It’s his last chance. He tugs her sleeve up, touches his lips to the inside of her wrist, and lingers there when the color blooms into her skin.
“Careful,” she warns softly.
Most marks teenagers leave on each other are like Souda’s: cute, pale pink ones that fade in an hour or less. The ones he and Peko leave on each other are rich, dark red. He had one on his elbow take almost an entire day to fully disappear.
(It’s something to talk about. He’s never had the guts to bring it up.)
“Do you not want me to?” he asks her.
She’s smiling at him, in her soft, muted sort of way. “It’s alright,” she says. “Just be careful.”
He hikes her sleeve up a little bit more. He presses another kiss higher on her forearm, and then another in between, and another, until he’s drawn a line up the whole length of her elbow. He’s getting them out of his system, he reasons. The last ones before summer.
(She has to wear a light cardigan, the next morning. No one else notices, except for him.)
Three weeks into the summer term, it’s already starting to drive him up the goddamn wall.
They agreed “during school hours,” but it isn’t like they’re drowning in opportunities outside of school, either. He still doesn’t want his parents to know. He’ll never hear the end of it if Natsumi finds out.
He tries, though. He sits near her when no one else is paying attention. They hold hands when no one else is in the room. He goes to her kendo matches and sits in the back row, whooping along with the rest of the class whenever she scores a point.
He just wishes he could do more.
There’s a big kendo tournament, late in July, before summer break. The only reason their school is on the board at all is because Peko has been carrying the team all year; she demolishes the competition, racks up point after point after point, and carries them through every match.
Halfway through, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. Two minutes later, he leaves to get some water. They bump into each other in the hallway outside the gym, not at all by accident.
“You’re doing real good out there,” he says, even though it’s obvious she is, because he wants to say something and can’t think of anything else. “Kickin’ ass and takin’ names.”
“Thank you,” she answers, polite and restrained, exactly how she should be in public. She’s better than him at this.
She turns to head back into the gym, and it strikes him: she has to wear her kendo uniform. The whole thing. She has a helmet, and padding, and gloves, and she keeps most of it on the whole day.
It’s risky.
“Wait,” he blurts.
She turns back to him, frowning.
The hall is empty. He doesn’t know how long it’ll stay that way. He doesn’t think about it: he scoops her hand into his, heart in his throat, and presses his mouth just behind her knuckles. She takes a sharp little breath. Her skin warms under his lips, and when he leans back, the mark has already faded in: dark red and unmistakable.
“Good luck,” he manages, breathless and not smooth at all. “For the- the second half.”
It’s worth it. She’s smiling, cheeks pink, when she presses her palm back into her glove.