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“Are you going?”
Thoma looks up from where he’s half-changed into his regular clothes from his sporting attire, eyebrows furrowed. “... Going for what? And why are you shirtless?”
If Itto hears the latter part of his question, he doesn’t make any indication of it. “The autumn festival, of course. Surely you’ve heard about it by now?” The teasing grin stretched wide on his lips signifies to Thoma that he doesn’t particularly need to hear the answer to know what it is—and the growing warmth on Thoma’s cheeks isn’t quite helping, either. “Aww, you’re blushing just at the thought of it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thoma denies, a huff following his words. “Let’s go. You know Coach will scold us if we loiter here for too long again.”
Itto doesn’t budge an inch. “Let’s go indeed!” he crows, and Thoma bites back a sigh. “To the festival.”
“You?” Ayato tosses Itto’s shirt at his face as he steps into the room, and Thoma smiles a little at his presence.
“Me,” Itto confirms, pulling the shirt over his head (albeit a little grudgingly). There is a pause as they exchange glances, and then Itto speaks. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
The corners of Ayato’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles, unfazed. “The festival is an elegant one, meant for those who can carry themselves well around others, like my sister. And Yoimiya.” He catches Thoma’s eyes. “And Thoma.”
Thoma sighs. He should’ve known better than to expect mercy from Ayato—the Kamisato has taken a liking to teasing him about his feelings towards a certain student, much like Itto (he swears they should stop hanging out so often, it’s beginning to rub off on Ayato). With the same student coincidentally being the co-organiser of the festival that Itto was talking about, he’s starting to wish that he hadn’t made any mention of his liking of her.
Although, in all fairness, he doesn’t think it’s much of a hidden fact anymore, spoken aloud or not.
(In the words of Arataki Itto: “dude, you’ve got a massive crush on her.”)
“Hey—” Itto’s indignant tone drags Thoma out of his thoughts. “—I can carry myself very well around others!”
Ayato pins him with a disbelieving stare, a small smile curling at the corners of his lips. “The last time we met, you came to my house just to throw a bug at my face.”
“That’s because it’s you!” Itto proclaims, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Ayato looks a little offended.
And now, Thoma decides, grabbing his sports bag in one hand and phone in the other, would be the perfect time to escape.
He’s halfway through the door when he hears Itto yelling his name, the latter’s voice loud enough that Thoma hopes no one else is around on campus this late at night. “We’re going to the festival, whether you like it or not!”
Fat chance, he thinks, shutting the door behind him as he prepares to head back to the university dorms. He’s not about to let Itto craft up some—potentially disastrous—plan to set him and his crush up, of all things.
And that’s how he finds himself standing under the glow of orange lantern lights two weeks later, a mask hiding the expression on his face and nervous footsteps across the trimmed campus grass betraying his uncertainty. He hadn’t expected Itto to actually go through with the plan—and he hadn’t expected the plan to actually succeed. How was he to know that Itto would somehow convince Ayato to ask his sister to invite him to the festival? He’s been friends with Ayaka since young, and with her being a co-organiser along with Yoimiya, it hadn’t felt right to refuse.
He lifts his head, searching the crowd in hopes of finding any form of familiarity. It is crowded, as expected of one of the more anticipated college events of the semester, and more times than one he has to dodge out of the way of couples or groups of friends moving about.
Thoma frowns. In the distance he spies Itto and Ayato, both of them unmistakable despite the masks they don, drinks in their hands and shoulders shaking with laughter.
Ayato said he’d be too busy to come. Liar.
The festival is just as crowded as he had been expecting, if not more, and he fights the urge to let out a groan of frustration under his breath as he narrowly avoids being shoved to the side by overexcited friends and couples alike. By the time he makes it to where Ayato and Itto had been standing previously, they’re nowhere in sight, and he has half a mind to think that they’re avoiding him on purpose.
Knowing them, they probably are. They’ve become annoyingly skilled at evading him, particularly when it comes to shirking clean-up duty after club activities. His eyebrows furrow as he scans the crowd—if that really is the case (which he’s almost fully convinced it is), he doesn’t think he’ll be finding them even if he tried.
Sighing, he surveys the throng of people around him, raising a hand to comb through his hair. He’s barely just arrived at the festival, and his hair is already a mess from the amount of stress-induced combing he’s been doing. There are still some people who he thinks he can recognise even with their masks on—he thinks that’s his junior club member, and the guy next to him may or may not be the student he helped tutor a year back.
For a moment, he considers walking over, his usual friendly smile wide on his face even with his mask on, but he stops before he’s halfway through the crowd. They’re all chatting with one another, laughter mixing with the chatter in the air, and he stills, eyebrows furrowing.
He should’ve forced Itto and Ayato to keep him company.
A final huff escaping past his lips in a half-sigh, half-hum, he turns away from the mass of festival-goers, opting to head for the stairs instead. The second floor looks arguably quieter than the first, where everyone is milling about observing the stalls set up in the campus courtyard, and he’s glad to see that his guess was right as he rounds the corner and climbs the stairs.
The second floor overlooking the courtyard is serene save for a few low murmurs here and there, and he has a few moments to himself as he leans against the railings, admiring the scenery before him, mask slipped free of his face and clipped to his side in the freeing part-solitude of the upper floor. The night is dark, with the moon half-hidden behind a deluge of cloud, but the masked mass of people are resplendent still in the hazy golden glow of lanterns strung up alongside festival stalls, and he feels his eyes softening as he takes it all in. It is rare to see the campus like this, free of worry, smiles incendiary in the warm of the night.
“The firework show will be starting soon, so do stay tuned for the event!” The loudspeaker crackles to life, and Thoma blinks, recognising the voice easily as Ayaka. His thoughts stray to Yoimiya only a moment after. It’s a well-known fact in school that her family runs one of the biggest fireworks businesses in Inazuma, and now that they’re seniors, the school has finally given her the green light to set off fireworks within the campus for the festival.
There’s the sound of more people coming up the stairs to watch the fireworks, but he doesn’t mind, shifting over to a quieter corner with his eyes fixated on the sky. The fireworks crackle to life, slowly at first, and then all at once, lighting the sky up in shades of electric red and shimmering marigold. The cheers of the student body are audible even amidst the loud crackling of the fireworks, and he smiles to himself as he cheers alongside them.
It’s the first time he’s seen fireworks from this up close, and the first time that he’s seen fireworks handled by Yoimiya herself. They’re breathtaking, star-flecked and exploding in colours across the night, and for a moment the world stops, time and space turned golden by firelight.
“I’m glad you made it.”
And just like that, time restarts itself on its axis, spinning round him slowly first, then faster, and breath leaves him in a rush as he registers the voice speaking to him. He had been too preoccupied with the fireworks to notice someone had walked up by him, and he turns, widened emerald eyes melting into sunset-orange.
He freezes immediately, the words bubbling against his tongue dying in his throat. He stands unmercifully rooted in place, staring across the dim firework-lit space at Yoimiya, attempting to speak but failing.
Good thing she does it for him.
“I noticed you don’t usually come to events like this!” Her voice is cheery as she continues speaking, seemingly unaware of the state of shock he’s currently in. “And I thought it was such a shame, you know? There’s not many chances for us to enjoy times like this with how stressful college life is. And you’re even on the sports team, aren’t you? It must be even harder for you to juggle your schedule. That’s why I asked Ayaka if she could recommend this festival to you—she’s close to you, and I thought it’d be a nice chance for you to unwind a little before winter break comes!”
His brain manages to process two things. One: the fact that Yoimiya is here next to him, talking to him over the din of the fireworks in the back. Two: it wasn’t Itto’s fault that he got persuaded to come to the festival after all.
“Oh,” he manages to get out, a little lamely. It’s not like him to act like this around anyone, ever, but he supposes things are a little different for the same girl he’s had an enormous crush on for close to a year now. “I mean—thank you.”
He manages a grin that’s maybe a fraction less confident than it usually is, but if Yoimiya notices, she doesn’t make any mention of it. Instead, she lets out a satisfied hum, leaning against the railings as she cranes her head to look at the fireworks.
This is the first time in a long time that he’s been so close to her, and as he trails his eyes across her face he realises all the things he never did before—the way the corner of her right lip curves up just a tiny bit higher than her left when she smiles, the way the fire splitting the dark of the night looks reflected in the dandelion-orange of her eyes, the way her laughter sounds when it’s ringing by his ear over the sound of the fireworks exploding in the sky.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Yoimiya murmurs, and he blinks.
“The fireworks?”
She chuckles, shooting him a teasing glance, and his cheeks flare red. He’s glad it’s not bright enough in the corridor for her to notice (or he hopes, at least). “Of course. What did you think I was talking about?”
“You,” he blurts.
There is a moment of silence that flits between the two of them, and then his eyes widen as he realises what he had said. The lights along the corridor on the second floor are dim, but this time the hues of red on their cheeks are unmistakable; Thoma slaps a hand over his mouth, groaning inwardly at his mistake, and a part of him begins wishing fervently for the ground to open up and swallow him whole if it could. Ayato and Itto would be laughing at him if they were here to witness this.
“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s all he can possibly say in that moment. He hadn’t planned for his confession to turn out like this. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t know if he had ever actually planned on confessing in the first place.
He flinches a little away from her, awaiting her response. She is uncharacteristically quiet, and his own usual confidence has been shed completely, replaced instead by a thudding heartbeat and cheeks the colour of a rose-kissed sky.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” she says, finally, and her voice is softer than usual, a note of something wistful lingering within. There is something gentle and timid and curious in her tone that hadn’t quite been there before, and Thoma finds himself holding his breath as he waits for her to continue speaking. “I would’ve said it to you, too, you know, if I were brave enough.”
The breath leaves him in a rush, and he feels a little as though someone had just punched him in the heart from the way it jumps in his chest. Not in a bad way, though. It’s never in a bad way when it’s with her.
“Huh?”
Yoimiya laughs again, filled part with mirth and part with something else that he can’t seem to place. “What I’m saying is—” She turns her head back to the festival-coloured sky, the firelight falling into the gold of her eyes like a million little stars, “—I like you, Thoma.”
His heart is racing wildly in his chest, and the rest of the world fades out around them, the murmurs of the students watching the fireworks nearby reduced to blurs of shadow in the dark of the corridor lights. He hears his heartbeat ringing in his ears, loud like the fireworks dancing across the sky.
“You—huh?” It is all that can escape from him at that moment, and he stares at Yoimiya dumbfounded, watching as she laughs, the sound crystallising like sugar in the space between them.
“I like you,” she says again, and in the bright of her gaze he finds nothing but the truth, shimmering in the warmth of the festival lights and looking a little something like a quiet confession, a vow, a promise of something better. “And I’m hoping that this means you feel the same way about me.”
His eyes are widened still, bearing into hers, but she never looks away, the orange of her eyes aglow in the darkened drapes of the night, quiet and waiting. “O-of course I do. I have for a long time now.” And then he cuts himself off, because he doesn’t know how much longer he can speak for before he starts rambling, partly out of nerves and partly out of joy.
And again, she is laughing, her eyes crinkling by the corners. And this time, he is laughing too, relief taking flight within his chest like a bird uncaged. Tonight they stand illuminated by firework light by the railings of the second floor, hair windswept by the festival breeze and eyes brimming with fluttering hearts. Tonight they peer out at the courtyard swathed incandescent with draping lanterns and masked festival-goers and marvel at how it all looks, so beautiful in the warm orange lights and so beautiful with them right by each other’s sides, so small in the crowd of faces, but it doesn’t matter.
There is nothing more beautiful than this.
Slowly, the sound of the fireworks fade from his hearing, and he lets out a shaky breath as he tilts his head to look at the sky. From next to him, Yoimiya smiles as if hearing his unasked question.
“There is one more set,” she says, tracing a pattern in the sky with a delicate hand, “and the last one is always the prettiest.”
And it is.
The clouds shift from their place in the sky, revealing the moon in its entirety, crowned carnation yellow in the firework light. The fireworks follow each other in sparks of colour, and explode in blooms of strawberry and gold, starlight falling in the places where the blaze of the fireworks do not reach, painting the tender earth in shades of angel-white.
“It is,” he agrees, and he turns back to face her only to find that she is already looking right at him.
There is a smile on her face, and her hand is warm and soft in his as she reaches out to pull him a little closer to the railing, pointing up and tracing the patterns of the fireworks like constellations with her fingers. He commits them to memory as best as he can, from their shades to the way they look turning to sparks in the night sky. And it is an easy task to do, just like everything else that involves her.
It is not a secret anymore, he thinks, a dizzying rush coming over him as he looks at their intertwined hands, at the laugh etched into the features of her face as she looks up at the sky and then to him. After all this time, the secret that he had kept in the corner of his heart has been revealed, spoken in a clumsy confession under the festival lights.
And now his heart is full, swelling with a kind of affection he’s not quite sure he has ever felt before, full enough that he thinks it might explode, like the fireworks, like the laughter bubbling in his throat that he’s trying so hard to contain from how hard he is smiling.
There is a moment of silence that falls between them as the last of the fireworks crackle across the sky, all brilliance and light and love, and he draws in a long, wavering breath, his hand tightening around Yoimiya’s.
He doesn’t think he’ll forget this night, no matter how much time has passed.
(And he hopes she won’t, either.)
“Thoma,” Yoimiya asks, so suddenly, breaking the quiet between them as she turns to face him, “can I kiss you?”
There is nothing he can do other than nod, his eyes meeting hers in the final light of the fireworks melting away into the night sky. And then Yoimiya’s arms are coming up around him, warmth brushing against the sides of his neck, and his fingers are cupping her cheeks, feeling them burn under his touch.
In the fading remnants of the festival lights their lips meet in a kiss and for that moment suspended in time the world stops where it is, blinking and blurring into a hazy blur of halo-gold and dappled rose. In that moment Yoimiya is all he knows and the taste of her lips against his are starting to taste a little like hope, like new beginnings, like forever. And his heart is soaring in his chest, lighter than it’s been in years, singing a little tune of maybe now and forevermore.
Tonight they live like they are in a dream, lantern light falling into their eyes like the stars, masks discarded and forgotten by their hips, and her arms are wrapped around him, her laughter light against his lips. Tonight they find something soft and sweet in the way they look at each other, in the way their lips twitch upwards and then widen into a smile that can’t seem to go away, in the way their hands find their way back to each other where their fingers stay intertwined, palm against warm palm.
“Yoimiya,” he starts, and this time he is much less nervous than the first time, the smile that never left sitting easier on his face now. “Thank you for tonight.”
(And she knows he’s not just talking about the firework show.)
She giggles, reaching up to plant a peck against his cheek, leaving a trail of heated dust-pink against pale skin in its wake. “I wouldn’t have traded it for the world,” she replies.
And there is something about the way she says it—soft and unwavering in the afterglow of the firework lights—that feels a little like faith, like falling, like forever and always.