Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do you ever think about being someone else?”

Mafuyu takes her time to respond, as she always does lately when it comes to them. If Mizuki is looking for a spirited conversation partner, she'd know to look elsewhere.

“I haven't. It seems counterproductive.”

Half a lie. If she were someone else, then maybe Mafuyu wouldn't need to exist to be found. She just doesn't know which is better or worse.

“Oh, it would be, for what you want, right?” Mizuki laughs. “I just… I don't know. It's just kind of been on my mind lately.”

Meiko looks between them, eyes oddly sharp. Mafuyu doesn't pay her any mind—if Meiko ever has something to say, she never says it. Mafuyu readjusts where she's sat cross-legged on the ground to smooth the creases in her skirt.

She counts a minute before breaking, curious. “Why?”

Mizuki blinks. “Huh?”

“Why do you want that?”

She doesn't insult Mafuyu by asking for any more clarification. “Just to… try? See how it'd be like if I could do everything differently.”

“You could do everything different right now,” Rin chimes in this time, sounding a bit impatient. Mafuyu had half-forgotten that she was even there. “What's the issue?”

“The issue is that it's difficult,” Miku answers softly, even as she tilts her head. “But why?”

“Mmm,” Mizuki ponders the questions seriously, resting her chin on her propped hand. Her pink manicured fingers drum restlessly on her chin as she thinks; they're adorned with tastefully small rhinestones. “Maybe that's not the right way to say it, then.”

Mizuki pauses long enough that Mafuyu thinks she might just drop the subject entirely, but then she shrugs, the tension falling like water off her shoulders, answers:

“It'd be… nice to have people expecting something different from me, I guess.”

One breath to the next, and Mafuyu is awake. Another, and she closes her eyes again.

It’s Sunday, which means it’s probably around 8 AM. She has cram school in two hours. In one hour, her mother will call her down for breakfast in intervals of a minute for as long as she doesn’t come. In half an hour, she'll need to clean up and get dressed, because there is something that bugs her about being at the breakfast table in her pyjamas.

But for now, she has some time.

It’s not the same kind of peace as being up late at night, the blue light of her computer transforming her room into something entirely different. But with her eyes shut, she doesn’t care to pinpoint the difference. Maybe this is something K would ask about, she thinks, before letting the idea fade away. Kanade pries enough as it is without Mafuyu's help.

…The thought is sharp. But it’s only 8 AM — she doesn’t bother with sharp thoughts in the morning. Something is off. There’s a faint smell of citrus. That’s wrong—none of the cleaners she uses are scented. The product she’s taken to sprinkling into the fish tank has a salty scent, if anything.

Mafuyu opens her eyes.

This is not her room.

She can almost forgive herself for not noticing immediately. The colours are wrong, and the furniture isn’t the same, but the room is still… similar. Clean wood and nothing on the walls, like a page from her mother’s magazines. Superficially appealing and perfectly boring — when she sits up to inspect further, there’s a nondescript plant sitting behind the headboard.

(Notable exception to the familiar, though, is the full length mirror taking up a substantial section of the wall.)

Sitting up also presents a different issue: that is, that this is not her body.

Again, familiar parts. The skin tone, the pale blue button-down pyjama set she surely has a near-identical copy of in her own closet. But the shirt sits flat against her chest, and the bangs at the corners of her vision are blonde. Not parts of her that could change so easily in a single night.

Mafuyu doesn't care for mirrors, but she appreciates it now as she gingerly pulls herself out of bed to stand in front of it.

She's… not sure what to think. Before her is a boy who must be around her age. Average height, athlete's build, and now that she's looking more closely, the blonde she noticed before edges orange-pink towards the ends. She blinks, and flat amber blinks back at her.

There's writing hand-stitched into the chest pocket of her— his shirt. She traces it, mouths the reversed kanji she can read through the mirror.

Tenma Tsukasa.

The conclusion dawns, certain and easy. Mafuyu is in someone else's body, someone with a life and existence outside her own.

Her first reaction is flooding, undeniable relief. What's the point of looking for her true feelings in this situation? This is finally her chance, to put everything behind her and just be someone else. Anyone else, where anyone happens to be this boy.

Her second reaction is a low, nagging feeling. Mizuki complained the other day, about coincidentally going to school on the one day there'd been a pop quiz. She'd said there was nothing worse than the sinking gut sensation of a test you didn't study for. Mafuyu has been prepared to perfection since before elementary school. She hadn't commented, because she didn't understand.

But the nagging feeling is there. She wonders, now, if this is what Mizuki had meant.

It strikes her that it's been at least fifteen minutes. Another fifteen, and she'll be in danger of ruining her morning routine. When is Tenma Tsukasa's morning supposed to start? At the same time?

An hour ago?

…Who does he listen to?

She feels locks of too-short hair slip from her fingers. Confused, she checks the mirror again, and finds her arms in the air, instinctively trying to tie her hair up.

It's important to present a neat appearance, Mafuyu. What does it say about you if it's just falling haphazardly everywhere?

Slowly, slowly, she lowers her hands. The blonde hair makes a clean enough shape around her face, unlike her own curls.

Okay.

Books on the floor, one open to a page with what appears to be a diagram of a fight. A standard-issue school-bag, hung neatly off the closet hook. On the desk shelves: various textbooks, children’s fantasy novels, theatre guides and whatever else, bookmarked in different places. And finally, on the desk, things of actual use — a planner and a charging smartphone.

She picks up the planner first, feels her lips purse flat together again at the feeling of almost-familiar undercut by the bright yellow cover. Flipping it open to the latest week, she freezes.

A post-it note, slapped over the pencilled events. Use the leftover sausages for Saki’s breakfast!!

Who is Saki? A pet? A person? Mafuyu has never cooked a breakfast before — has she? Maybe once, in middle school, and her mother had thanked her, then quickly assured her she wouldn’t have to again. It was an unsophisticated waste of her precious time, she’d been told. Oh, but what a lovely daughter she was for thinking of it, she’d been told.

She closes the planner.

The phone unlocks readily to her— to Tenma’s thumbprint, home screen lighting with a picture of a ferris wheel, and she quickly flicks open the music app. There, she pauses.

She doesn't know why she went for the music first. Another thing she'll blame on Kanade, she supposes. The current now playing is paused at the 0:01 time-stamp, a song without an album cover titled “The World Hasn't Even Started Yet.” One of those popular wordy titles that she doesn't usually use for Nightcord songs.

Mafuyu taps the play button.

...There's only silence.

Frowning, she clicks the volume up to max, fiddles with the scrubber to various points in the song, and still hears nothing. Disappointed in a way she can't explain, she swipes back up to the home screen.

Now what?

She indulges some idle googling to make sure she hasn't jumped worlds—her school exists, as does the writing competition she'd apparently placed third in a month ago. A quick glance over niconico shows her all of Nightcord's discography up to where she last remembers, and OWN's profile remains abandoned at the last song she wrote in their style.

The post-it sits innocuously where she'd discarded it. She pauses, staring. Her mother will have breakfast ready in fifteen minutes. A regular breakfast and thus a regular schedule separates the good from the great, she says. It's an important duty, she says. It is ready at the same time every Sunday without fail, because her mother does not fail.

So neither does Mafuyu. Even now, she can't bring herself to let it happen.

She may be in the body of a stranger, but the post-it says responsibility.

You want to start from the beginning of what you understand, she remembers herself saying to her classmates' pleading faces. Start reciting from what you know, and move quickly. Don't try to read up on anything until you need to fill a gap, otherwise you’ll spin in circles.

Tenma Tsukasa's closet is comfortingly close to the things Mafuyu usually wears. Soft fabrics and no-nonsense pastel tones. It makes it easy to discard the pyjamas and throw on a two-tone shirt and jeans, snatch up the jacket hung on the back of the desk chair.

Mafuyu gives herself two seconds to examine the boy briefly in the mirror. He looks presentable. Good.

She makes her way downstairs, gives the neat living room only a passing glance before focusing on the kitchen, and the task before her.

In the fridge, as promised, half a package of black pork sausage and a pitcher of miso soup. Bagged salad. An open and resealed bag of rice in a cupboard. Some pots and pans resting on the drying rack. Cooking chopsticks in a tall holder. Knives in their block.

Asahina Mafuyu is known for being able to do everything, and better than anyone else.

Move quickly.

For Saki's breakfast, it said. One other person aside from herself. She chops every sausage in the package up into slanted pieces, clicking on the stove like an afterthought. Dried wakame in water. Oil warms in a pan, soup in a pot. What next?

Don't pause too long.

She shakes out some of the salad, washes it, arranges it carefully in two identical bowls. Tucks a cherry tomato in each. What other bowls does she need — ah, she doesn't have enough time for rice.

Focus on the things you know.

The Tenma household has a stocked bread bin and butter at the ready. She tosses some pieces into the toaster — it'll have to do. The soup begins to bubble slightly — she brings it to a quiet simmer, then shakes out the chopping board full of seasoned sausage over the pan. The pieces sizzle sharply the moment they hit the oil, the smell startling as it fills her nostrils.

It smells different from when her mother makes it.

She puts the thought aside, giving the pan a hard shake to tumble the pieces around. Bread, sausages, salad, soup. Is she forgetting anything? She tries to picture her morning, the blend of flavours fading to sand on her tongue. What's in front of her, usually?

Sharp. Salt. Oil. Heat. ...Soft texture, apparently already mostly tasteless by nature. When her mother isn't looking, broken to tiny pieces over and over under her chopsticks. Tofu. She hasn't cut any tofu.

The soup is poured neatly into bowls, sprinkled cubes of tofu and seaweed swaying within. She's just scooping the sausage out on the side of the ready plates of toast when one of the doors bursts open.

“I'm going to be late!!” cries the girl who runs out, fingers combing frantically through long pigtails dipped pink. “I can't believe I forgot!”

Mafuyu slowly puts the emptied pan in the sink. The dining table is perfectly set for breakfast. One orange place setting. One pink.

One task to the next. “Late?” she echoes.

The other girl nods miserably, takes a deep breath as if to rant, then pauses, face somehow looking even more anguished. “You made sausages!”

She did. “I did,” Mafuyu agrees. “Among other things.”

The girl claps her hands together in apology, the shape of her mouth so exaggeratedly downturned it's confusing—she thinks there might be tears in her eyes. “You’re the best brother ever and I’m so sorry—”

Brother?

”—but I totally forgot we moved practice to the morning since Shiho's shifts got moved around and she couldn't make the afternoon anymore but Hona has work tomorrow so we couldn't move it to then but Shiho still wanted weekend practice because it's Shiho and I didnt wake up on time so—”

Mafuyu feels an oncoming headache. “You don't have time to eat?”

“I don't!” she says, but then she casts another longing look at the plates. “Ah, but maybe just—”

And before Mafuyu can say anything, the girl—Saki, she must be—picks up a piece of sausage with her fingers and pops it in her mouth.

Mafuyu is not— she is not stupid. Mizuki eats with her fingers. Ena moves and removes things over and over again for her photos. But there is something so deeply alien about it happening over a perfectly arranged breakfast table, in a perfectly arranged home. She can't even imagine what her mother would say, the idea too jarring to ever even be considered.

“Delicious!” Saki lights up, immediately going for another piece.

“That's good.” Mafuyu feels the mask settling on her face, tugging her lips up into a smile. It feels… somehow easier, in this body. Like smiling at Saki is the standard setting, rather than the unnatural effort she usually has to make. “Make sure you—”

”—wash my hands before I leave, I know.” Despite her exasperated tone, Saki's grin is obvious, like Ena replaying a familiar song.

Mafuyu blinks. The sausages continue to rapidly disappear from Saki's plate, and the chopsticks sit untouched right until she dashes off to the sink. Then, it's a graceless flurry of motion as she sinks down to grab her boots while trying to shake herself into her coat at the same time.

“Saki,” Mafuyu tests the name.

“I've got my hat and scarf in my bag for later!” Saki chirps back easily, right as she stands, at last ready. She smiles brightly back at her in the open doorway. “Then, I'm off!”

“Be safe,” Mafuyu offers automatically.

She thinks that'll be it, but then Saki pauses in the door, like the time pressure suddenly doesn't exist. She tilts her head in thought, like she might be waiting for something, but Mafuyu has no idea how to respond.

And then it doesn't matter, because Saki throws her arms around her shoulders, pressing their cheeks together for one tense, warm moment.

“If you've got time in the evening, let's watch a movie.” She grins once she's pulled back, turning with a cheerful wave.

“Sure,” Mafuyu smiles her usual smile back, feeling like she's missed something.

The door swings shut. There's no ensuing sound of a lock — like Saki's used to it being locked behind her. Mafuyu's never been on this side of things before.

The cool sweep of a breeze from the few seconds the door was open wraps softly around her. And then it's gone.

Everything is so… similar, but different. Familiar mixed with floods of new information. Saki is Tsukasa's younger sister. Saki has weekend practice for… something. Something that she can reschedule easily, alongside people she can address informally. She reminds Mafuyu a bit of Mizuki, if Mizuki truly was as open as she acted and didn't fade into silence every time she stopped talking.

Mizuki likes salty things, doesn't she? Maybe she would like the sausages too. Ena prefers sweets. Kanade says she doesn't care, but she always leans into Ena more when Ena has a dessert in front of her. Mafuyu still doesn't like anything in particular, but for some reason she has these things committed to memory, only slightly bitter about it.

She leans forward, over the table. Tsukasa's hair falls forward, disconcertingly pale compared to the dark frame she usually has around her vision. His fingers are long, nails trimmed as short as hers are for preventing the clacks on her synth keys. They reach forward and gingerly pluck a piece of sausage from her own plate.

(Saki hadn't even given them a considering look. But maybe she should have. She looked like she was enjoying them, and Mafuyu doesn't know if she'll ever be able to do the same.)

For a moment she just stands there, the piece poised between Tsukasa's fingers. Everything is quiet. This house is empty. Her mother did not set this table — Mafuyu did.

Mafuyu pops it in her mouth and chews — it tastes like salt and grease and nothing. But it's still warm.

She thinks that…

She feels…

…

‘If you can't say it, then write me some lyrics. I want to know you, Yuki. I want you to know you.’

There’s a song on the tip of her tongue. Thumbing a faint callus on his fingertip, she wonders if Tsukasa owns a piano.

.

.

Tsukasa watches Nene bite into a biscuit. She chews thoughtfully for a few moments, before popping the rest of it into her mouth all at once.

“These are pretty good,” she admits, her non-committal response at odds with the way she immediately reaches for another.

“Yeah?” Tsukasa grins. “Of course, of course! They’re the fruits of my labour, after all!”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling a little as she chews. “What’s got you baking, all of a sudden?”

“Ah— Well.” Tsukasa looks back down at the tupperware full of bite-size butter cookies. “Saki’s been having a busy few weeks, so I thought she might appreciate something sweet.”

“And she needed five tins worth?”

Tsukasa hums. “Well, I’d never made them before, so I tested a few different batches. There’s a little difference here and there—the box you’re eating from is a little sweeter, but this one is a little more crumbly—”

“Ah, I get it, I get it.” Nene raises an eyebrow. “Just like you to make a whole thing out of even something like this. You really don’t believe in half-measures, do you?”

He puts a hand to his chest in pride. “If a star takes something on, then the result needs to be star-quality!”

Nene wrinkles her nose and mumbles something unintelligible, turning away from him to bite into another biscuit.

Tsukasa tilts his head. “I didn’t catch that.”

“It was nothing,” Nene shrugs.

“I heard it!” Rin waves a hand cheerfully from where she’s popped up from behind Nene’s shoulder. “She said, ‘I guess you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t think that way’!”

“Wha— Rin!”

Tsukasa hums under his breath, ladling soup carefully into two bowls. It smells a bit different from the one at home—a different brand of paste, perhaps?

“Mafuyu, this really isn't necessary,” says the woman standing by him at the stove, hands awkwardly raised like she wants to intervene but doesn't know how.

“Maybe, but I wanted to do it!” Tsukasa smiles brightly at her, relinquishing his position. She's been fretting by his side for a while now, and it wouldn't do to distress his host. Besides, he's already finished. “It's only befitting for a st— ah, for me to offer help where I can,” he corrects himself hastily.

Tsukasa had woken up this morning in pale purple pyjamas and in the wrong body. He had first, obviously, sprung out of bed and shrieked in a voice several octaves too high. But from there, he believes he's adapted to this situation with the same admirable grace he applies to all parts of his life.

What is a body-swap, really, when one regularly engages in dimensional travel? Stressful, certainly! He'd spent the better part of an hour pacing circles and picking up anything he thought might help him — school books, a laptop, a planner, a cell-phone, the entire synth (albeit briefly once he realised what he was doing). But it was only a teenager's bedroom, in the end, and that of one — Asahina Mafuyu, as he'd learned from the covers of her notebooks — no older than he is. Not nearly as much reason to panic as waking up under a different sky with Mikudayo before him.

It got… more worrying, the longer into the morning it got without Miku jumping from a screen to admit her prank.

(Which it must be, surely.)

But as the time to prepare breakfast ticked closer with no sign of a rescue, both for himself and this Mafuyu's unintentionally hijacked life, he took matters into his own hands.

It would be unbecoming of a star to allow a stranger to be troubled by his SEKAI's issues, after all! And he is a guest in this house, even if Mafuyu's mother can't recognise him as such. It's only right for him to repay their hospitality.

And… making breakfast helps keep his mind off of Saki, who should also be waking around now. Their parents aren't home this weekend… will Saki remember to eat before running out? He'd almost texted her to ask, but he couldn't quite remember her phone number. Her sim card is close to brand new, a different subscription now that she's out of the hospital, and Tsukasa hadn't thought to memorise it…

Ah, wait. A text from an unknown number asking if she'd eaten breakfast was probably… not something Saki would want. Tsukasa feels his cheeks warm for even considering it.

“Really now,” Mafuyu's mother tuts, startling him out of his thoughts as she takes over, scooping steaming rice into three bowls. “I told you I would handle these things. It's important that you use your time efficiently.”

Tsukasa blinks. “Breakfast is an important thing,” he agrees.

“That I take care of,” she sighs, the sound indulgent. “You're a lovely daughter for thinking of it, but you know that your father and I would hate to take any time away from you. You're so careful in your studies, your connections — you can't afford to let any of it slip with a new hobby!”

She smiles at him, wide and proud. He smiles back, a little uncertain. A moment, as she continues to look at him, and he suddenly realises she's waiting for his response.

“I, um, understand.” He doesn't. “But I wouldn't call it a hobby as much as a responsibility!”

Mafuyu's mother looks taken aback, before nodding approvingly even as she says, “yes, well. It's not yours.”

Baffling. On weekends, he is either awake before his mother or she simply isn't there. She does cook for them most weekdays, but weekends have always been for him and Saki, his mother only ambling in when he's about to leave to press a sleepy kiss to his brow.

He always, always makes breakfast. It's odd to think of a mother who'd insist on this sort of thing, but then again, Tsukasa has only ever had the one.

“Thank you,” he decides on saying, troubled in a way he can't explain.

Mafuyu's mother beams at him, patting him on the shoulder. “Good,” she says, which makes something twist oddly in his stomach.

He steps away, and she turns her back on him entirely, shielding the counter's dishes from view. “You're in an awfully good mood today, aren't you? To be up so early, and take such bold initiatives?”

Tsukasa flinches, then breathes a sigh of relief. She isn't looking.

Usually, when he doesn't know what character he's supposed to be playing, it's because he and Nene are working through the more advanced improv exercises. But even then, the entire point is learning to accommodate each other, lead each other into the correct roles and allow minimal missteps. Here, he's been thrust onto a live stage with nothing but a name and costume.

He's picking up clues here and there. An organised person. Studious. Conscientious — her last sent message was to her mother the night before, reassuring her that she'd be home well before five pm. But none of it tells him anything about her personality. How wide does she smile? Does she use her hands to speak? Should she be laughing more? At least with the spatula in hand, he didn't have to consider these things. But now, standing awkwardly behind her bustling mother, he feels like he's holding every part of himself wrong.

Ah, but none of that is helpful!

Back to what he'd decided this morning, then: the easiest default. A similar character to Santa's apprentice from their Christmas show should be good. Someone easily kind and gentle, that the audience can like without too much effort. A main character who exists mostly just to be smiled at so that the brunt of the emotional focus can be carried by the orphan girl instead.

It feels… a bit rude, to ascribe it to a real person. But the entire point of the apprentice was to be someone that no one looked at too closely except to enjoy, and Tsukasa can't afford for anyone to scrutinise Asahina Mafuyu.

Besides, she must be a naturally kind person anyhow, seeing as her mother isn't remarking on much…

An awfully good mood, she'd said. So he needs to tone himself down then? And as for bold initiatives… He literally can't think of anything less bold than making breakfast in one's own house.

Well, no reason to dwell on the things he doesn't know! The first rule of improv is acceptance, allowance of elaboration, and he knows just how to apply it.

“I slept especially well last night,” he says, consciously pulling his voice down. “I woke up earlier than usual, and I thought it might be nice to make myself useful.”

“That's very good of you,” Mafuyu's mother nods, accepting this answer. She turns, finally, bowls in hand as she begins a series of efficient back and forth from the counter to the table to set out the placements.

Tsukasa wants to help, but the moment he approaches the woman turns to glance at him. There’s no real meaning in it—just a second of interruption in her movements—but when it happens again, then again, he’s forced to admit to himself it may be better to just back off and let her be.

It’s so odd—he’s used to eyes on him, but is it normal for a mother to stare this much? Weekday mornings, half the interactions between him and his mom go without even a passing look at each other, just a quiet acknowledgement and awareness right until she’s hugging him goodbye.

“You're our pride and joy, Mafuyu,” she says, voice warm as she puts down one last plate on the third place setting. “Your health is important to us.”

…Tsukasa’s not sure how to respond.

“Now sit down—your father will be in soon.”

It’s clear that the family gathering at breakfast is normal, because the conversation is minimal, just some casual inquiries of how did you sleep? or the weather’s looking gorgeous today isn’t it. They confirm the information he got from the planner — he’s apparently expected at a cram school, but after that his time is his own.

At least, he assumed, but then Mafuyu’s mother had started talking about afternoon teas and dinner and such, and suddenly he’s not so sure. Should he… say he won’t be back that early? Does he have a curfew?

“Ah,” he starts, a bit awkwardly. “I, um, have some plans today.”

Mafuyu’s mother is frowning before he even finishes. “Enough ums, Mafuyu, it’s unbecoming,” she reprimands, and then she starts, seeming to parse the rest. “Oh, with your classmates? Like last time?”

“Yes,” he decides, praying to himself. “Like last time.”

“Be back by seven, then.”

Tsukasa refrains from choking only barely. Seven is when rehearsal starts, sometimes, on weekdays when planning runs late. How does Mafuyu get anything done?

“Seven,” he agrees. As insane as it is.

In any case, breakfast passes without incident, and he’s shooed away from helping from the dishes even more firmly than he was from the cooking, so he retreats to her room to recalibrate.

He breathes a sigh of relief when the door shuts behind him, dropping the half-baked character instantly.

Mafuyu’s room is comforting. Unlike his own, it goes so silent even with others at home, and the careful decor combined with the gentle sway of the plants in the fish tank make for such a peaceful place. The tension drops from his shoulders, and he can think.

Firstly, he absolutely cannot go to this cram school. As much as it pains him to shirk Mafuyu’s responsibilities, he can’t. It wouldn’t reflect well on her. Mafuyu is, apparently, a star student at a prep school. His own grades certainly aren’t bad, but trying to mimic her performance at extracurricular study is unfortunately beyond him.

She most likely has the number in her phone, and it’s no issue to send a quick message notifying them of a commitment. But that means he still can’t stay here, because staying would mean explaining this to her parents, and…

Mafuyu’s mother reminds him a bit of Toya’s father, is the thing.

It’s an unfair thing to assume of anyone but… the look on her face, when she’d taken the rice cooker spoon from him. It brought back a memory of years ago, back when Toya was still learning the basics with him and Saki.

Saki, in her brand new Precure costume (an impulse purchase by their dad), had been too excited to concentrate on the lesson, so their mother compromised by teaching them how to play along to the theme song and letting them all dress up too. A truly wonderful time, ending with Toya’s stone-faced father picking him up with glitter still on his cheeks.

It’d been Toya’s last lesson with them. His father switched him to fully private tutoring the next week.

…In any case, Tsukasa can’t stay here. But where does he go? He can’t get into PXL without his employee ID, he can’t remember anyone’s number, and regardless of what he does he might cost Mafuyu more than he’s expecting.

Biting his lip, he opens Mafuyu’s phone, intent on getting at least one thing done, when he’s suddenly frozen at the sight of the name at the top of the contacts list.

Akiyama Mizuki.

He presses the call icon before he can even think.

One, two, then three dial tones, and he hears a click.

“Mafuyu!” Akiyama's blessedly familiar voice comes out of the speaker, groggy with sleep. “Morning, what’s up? You don’t call often. Or more like, you’ve literally never called.”

“Akiyama,” he breathes like a prayer, before he stops, the force of the entire morning suddenly hanging over his head. It strikes him that he has maybe, possibly, been a bit stressed. That this prank—

(That’s what it is, right? It has to be?)

—has been gnawing a hole in his gut since the moment he woke up, and it’s only now, with this punch of pure recognition that he’s become abruptly aware of it.

“...Is everything okay? Did I— You don’t usually, uh, call me th—.”

“Akiyama,” he says again, clearer this time, because there’s really only one thing he can ask after a revelation like that. “Can we meet?”

Chapter Text

“Do you keep any plants, Tsukasa-kun?”

Tsukasa blinks where he’s squatted down next to Rui by the school flowerbeds as he waits for him to finish up the last of his duties. He thinks of the fern in his room, the assorted plants in various locations around the house. “A few.”

Rui pauses briefly, watering can in hand. It had been an off-hand question, but Tsukasa has the sudden sense that his focus has fully shifted over to him. “But you don’t enjoy it.”

“I didn’t say that.” Tsukasa frowns. “I may not have as green of a thumb as you, but—”

“That’s not it,” Rui cuts in, and it’d be a bit annoying if his tone wasn’t uncertain. “I only meant…”

He pauses again, like he’s searching for the right words. Tsukasa waits.

“How long have you kept them?”

After a moment of consideration, Tsukasa lets the odd assumption rest in favour of answering the question. “Since middle school?” He ponders. “They’re all over the house, since they were my mother’s first, but with… with all that was going on at the time, she kept forgetting to water them, so I took over.”

Rui nods, still turned towards his flowers, but his can is frozen un-tilted in the air. “And now?”

Tsukasa shrugs. “It was easier to keep going. It’s just routine, at this point.”

It’s not that he doesn’t like them, but there’s nothing all that interesting about watering plants, especially the comparatively hands-off greenery he has at home. He barely even registers when he’s doing it, except for a few times when he was younger and had just hung up the phone, silence echoing through his ears and hands jittering so much after those conversations that he’d had to consciously make sure to only fill the watering can up halfway for fear of it all splashing to the floor—

Well. That’s not all that interesting either. 

He wonders if it bothers Rui, to have someone engaging in the same sort of hobby with only a fraction of the care. Tsukasa’s… not sure what he’d do if it did. The thought makes him feel a little guilty, a little defensive in equal measure. 

“Tsukasa-kun…” Rui starts, fingers drumming thoughtfully over the metal handle of the can.

 Tsukasa’s arms tighten around his own knees.

“Do you want me to rig something up for you?” The offer is delivered carelessly, but Rui’s face when he turns is only earnest. “It might save you some time.”

Tsukasa lets go of his breath, tightness in his chest giving way to something warm.

“That’s alright,” he declines gently nonetheless. “It’s my responsibility.”

“Morning, Tenma!” grins the security guard near the scanners. “As usual, an early start for the Wonder Stage, eh?”

“Of course, good morning!” Mafuyu smiles brightly back, matching his tone. 

What an entirely pointless interaction.

The scanners beep recognition of Tsukasa’s staff ID. Adjusting his bag over her shoulder, she quickly walks through and into the amusement park, cutting off any chance of further conversation. 

At 9:20 AM Tenma Tsukasa's phone had rang, vibrating violently on top of the grand piano. Mafuyu had initially just given it a baleful look, but the lit up contact name had given her pause. 

Otori Emu.

Or, well, not just the name. The name in combination with the contact image: a pink motion blur.

She'd clicked the green icon before she could think and as a result was subject to Otori's excited ramble, barely managing to pull out 10:30 at the stage from the mess of words before the girl hung up. Even more frustratingly, once she knew about the appointment, it itched like a rash on her brain until she moved to try and fulfil it. 

Mafuyu is a bit cursed herself, is what she's been realising lately. 

Acting like Tsukasa doesn't seem to be a suitable excuse for dodging these things either, considering the sheer number of names and references in his planner. Just her luck to end up in the body of someone also living to other's whims.

…Ah, Mafuyu's irritated. And therefore being a tad unfair. Whims is a hasty judgement. She wouldn't have caught that a few months ago, so she supposes that's progress. 

She comes to a halt some ways from the entrance. Suddenly, she realises that she has no idea where "the stage" is even supposed to be. 

What was it the security guard had said? The 'Wonder Stage?'

She doubles back to a posted park map, promptly finding the aforementioned stage, then takes the ten-minute walk over. She swipes away a bit of brush, and she's just caught sight of a clearing and an outdoor stage when she hears the squeal. 

"Tsukasa-kun!!"

A pink-haired, person-shaped missile collides head first into Mafuyu's waist, knocking the wind out of her in a heavy oof. She stumbles, but holds her ground, staring down at Otori's unflinching grin. 

Mafuyu's… irritated.

Mafuyu smiles indulgently. "Good morning."

Otori's smile drops off her face instantly. "Hweh?"

"You finally made it in." Behind her, a grey-haired girl in loose exercise clothes follows at a more sedate pace, shaking her head. "And you're always the one talking about not being late, too. What do you have to say for yourself?"

It is 10:27. Mafuyu doesn't voice this. "Sorry," she says easily, turning to smile towards her instead.

The girl blinks. "Huh?"

A crash resounds from somewhere in the direction of the stage, and a tall boy bursts out of the backstage door, soot streaked over his cheeks and bright look in his eyes. "Perfect timing, Tsukasa-kun! There's something I'd like you to see!"

From the lack of elaboration, clearly this is supposed to be self-explanatory. "What is it?" Mafuyu tries politely.

She's expecting it at this point, but the boy stops in his tracks. 

Three teenagers, all in various states of shock and confusion, stare at her. Mafuyu has been here for about forty seconds. 

"Tsukasa-kun?" asks the boy, though what he's asking is unclear.

"Yes?" Mafuyu keeps her voice pleasant, smiling genially. She doesn't know why, considering all the evidence telling her it's not working. Otori actually flinches a couple more inches away from her.

Nothing worse than a test you didn’t study for, Mizuki had said. 

What do her classmates do in these situations? Well, namely they ask Mafuyu for help, which clearly isn’t an option here. Her phone, something online? …No, also not options—she’s stuck with three sets of eyes on her, and she highly doubts Tenma Tsukasa mannerisms would appear on Google anyway—though she wonders how frazzled she is, that she considered it even for a moment. 

“What’s up with you?” The grey-haired girl seems to regain her composure first, brow creasing into a heavy frown as she crosses her arms; the fingers squeezing into her sleeve are tense. “Did you roll out of bed wrong this morning?”

The boy huffs a little laugh, though the motion seems more reflexive than anything—he tilts his head, expression troubled. Otori’s hands fiddle with the zipper of her hoodie, shoulders raising.

She doesn’t know how to fix this.

…What’s left, for Mafuyu?

“Yes,” Mafuyu answers. Honesty. But the next words stall in her mouth. 

A stupid part of her wishes Kanade were here, to try and speak for her and make wrong assumptions that she can correct rather than voice them herself. Or even Ena, to scoff and scold yet somehow speak clearly enough to ram into the root of the issue. 

Otori looks at her, worry plain on her face. Someone close to unknown, and an underclassman at that. But of the three gathered here, she’s the only one who’s even remotely familiar. She is not who Mafuyu wants, but she is what she has. 

“Otori-san,” she addresses, pulling her school self firmly back over her head like an old sweater. “If it wouldn’t trouble you, I’d like your help.”

"'Otori-san?'" the other girl echoes incredulously. "Since when do you—"

But the girl in question squeaks in surprised recognition, eyes going wide. "Asahina-senpai?"

Mafuyu stares—

—then takes it in stride. Otori's existence has always been a baffling one. Of course she was able to pick out someone stuck in a different body. Mafuyu would expect nothing less. 

She smiles again, and it’s somehow not as difficult this time. “That’s right.”

“Ohhh!” Otori’s shoulders drop suddenly in blatant relief, and she claps her hands together, grin back on her face. “It all makes sense now!”

Mafuyu laughs, light. “Does it?” In what world?

And yet, at her words, both the others seem to relax, like Otori’s clap shattered their tension.

“Emu,” the grey-haired girl cuts in, pulling a face in Mafuyu’s direction that looks thoroughly weirded out. “Explain, then. Why does Tsukasa look like someone knocked out the last of his brains? Did you guys plan something?”

The boy chuckles. “An impression, perhaps? Ah, did we miss our adlib cue?”

“For what prompt? Besides, who would take a cue from someone who showed up late to practice…”

“As harsh as ever. Well, it was a bit of a short-notice schedule change.” He shrugs theatrically, hands out and shaking his head in a rueful what can you do. “Perhaps this is our great leader’s recompense for his tardiness.”

“Ah, no!” Otori waves both her hands in a hurry. “Tsukasa-kun’s not himself.”

"I mean, yeah, that much is obvious," the girl says, raising an eyebrow. "So who's he supposed to be? Is 'Asahina-senpai' from something?"

"Nothing I've heard of." The boy’s smile is gentle. “Tsukasa-kun, it’s interesting acting, but not much of a performance, you know? It’s lacking a certain—” 

“Who’s gonna want a hero with a creepy smile like that?” mutters the girl, squinting at Mafuyu.

“—spark. Appeal. It’s a bit too everyday.” he decides, before his brows push together. “Then again…”

Nene tilts her head, frowning. “Toning things down too much has never really been his problem, has it?”

"Right you are, Nene.” He nods at her, before turning to address Mafuyu again. “You—”

“Ahhh, that’s not it!” Otori jumps up and down. “I meant to say—”

“—rather, he wouldn’t make a mistake like that. A different one, maybe, but not that one.”

The boy looks Mafuyu up and down, smile gone to leave behind a shrewd, evaluating look. “No, this isn’t Tsukasa-kun’s acting at all, is it. Who are you?”

Mafuyu only manages to blink.

Otori marches over to the boy, grips onto his hoodie, and smushes her head against the side of his arm.

"Oh." He blinks, looking down at her, before letting out a rueful laugh. "Sorry, Emu-kun. That's what you were getting at, wasn't it?"

Mafuyu watches the byplay in silence, feeling an odd curdle of exasperation and fascination. She would have expected this of Otori, but she somehow didn't expect her to come up with a whole group of people ready to suspend their disbelief on a pin drop. 

"Yeah, yeah!" Otori nods, put-out look disappearing in favour of insistence. "This is Asahina-senpai, definitely! She’s from school!"

The other girl begins to nod instinctively, frowns, looks at Mafuyu again, and stops. “And we know that… how?”

“She said so,” Otori says simply, and rather unreasonably. “And she’s got Asahina’s snow-sparkly stars floating everywhere!”

Snow-sparkly stars?

“Cold shine,” the boy murmurs to himself, just as nonsensical.

With the look of someone who’s long practised at being patient, the other girl presses on. “Okay, then why does she look like Tsukasa?”

Otori takes a breath, opening her mouth as if to answer, before stopping short, eyebrows suddenly knitting together. “Mmm… I don't know!”

As one, they all turn to her. The feeling is both familiar and unfamiliar.

“That’s the question I’d like answered, I'm afraid,” she says, barely remembering to gentle the sentence with another smile. 

It's truly an odd experience, having these smiles repeatedly backfire on her so much. The boy's nose wrinkles sharply, before his face smooths out a moment later. The girl doesn't control her own reaction nearly as much, wincing openly. 

Mafuyu’s not smiling any different from usual, and it's difficult to believe that these unknowns would see something in her in a minute that the people she actually tru— that the others on Nightcord couldn't over nearly a year. 

Not just difficult to believe—impossible, she decides. 

So it must come down to the face she's wearing. It must come down not to them reading her, but them reading Tenma Tsukasa. 

…What a disturbing thought, to be laid open by the body she's in. To be known even a little and know nothing in return. It's…

Mafuyu folds her hands in front of her with a light tilt of her head. “Shall we start with introductions?”

.

.

“Math or Classical Literature?”

“Literature.”

“Literature or Visual Arts?”

“Literature,” Mafuyu answers again without any hesitation.

Tonight’s another round for Kanade’s random lines of questioning as she attempts to scrounge even the barest insights about Mafuyu. Mafuyu’s never really minded these times, as Kanade’s usually only half-focused anyway, and she keeps the range of answers simple. 

“Math or Art?”

“Math.”

There’s a pause from the other end of the line. Mafuyu lets it rest for a while, figuring Kanade’s just absorbed in her work, before she calls out.

“K?”

“Ah.” Kanade sounds startled. “I was just thinking about— music.”

Mafuyu blinks, feels the corner of her lip twitch very slightly. Upwards? “Surprising.”

“And math,” she hurries to add, sounding a bit embarrassed. “My dad always talked about… the feeling of music. The intention of it. A lot of composition books, when I went through them, said that feeling was formula.”

Mafuyu doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t mute herself either, so Kanade continues. 

“A lot of modern… newer music is denser. Faster. It’s different to… It needs to be more careful about being noise versus music.”

“OWN’s composition was very dense,” Mafuyu says. 

If she’s surprised to hear Mafuyu push a late-night conversation of her own accord, Kanade doesn’t show it. “Yes. But the comments all say it resonated. It made a lot of people cry.”

Mafuyu’s not sure what to say to that.

“Our last song had a pretty high BPM. But Ena said it was soothing, still. So… The books are probably right, on that part. It’s about patterns and formulas to reach a feeling, and… well, it’s supposed to be about math. We— I have a digital mixer at home, that my dad didn’t really end up using, it didn’t really…”

She trails off. A part of Mafuyu wishes she could see her face, if only just to meet her eyes instead of guessing at a response.

“It didn’t really…?” she prompts after the moment stretches.

Kanade doesn’t quite answer. “The math is more obvious. Number displays everywhere, and it’s all about combinations… Have you ever worked with them?”

Mafuyu thinks about patterns, and composition falling into place. Lining up into the right spaces even as lyrics made a mess in her head. She goes so far as to google the machine, thinks about being able to see the visualisation of those spaces in the form of numbers laid out before her.

A squeeze of… want, in her chest. “No,” she says.

There’s another pause, something like… rustling? And then a sudden muted crashing, like piles of something dropping to a carpet.

“...K?”

“Sorry. My room’s… really messy,” says Kanade awkwardly. “But, Mochizuki-san comes by tomorrow. After, Yuki, do you maybe want…”

A second of hesitation. Mafuyu may be holding her breath. 

“To… try it? I think you’d enj— I think you’d be good at it. And… It was nice, having you here last time. Even with the circumstances.”

This time, Mafuyu thinks of different things. She thinks of the synth hidden under her bed. She thinks about how most of what Kanade told her she already knew, after looking into a brief background on musical therapy—music in medicine, so her parents know she isn’t being distracted from their goal. She thinks about how she’s prepared the words and has never delivered them, because part of her knows her mother will never be convinced. 

The synth is a small thing to hide. A small thing to eventually grieve. Kanade’s home, with its books and instruments and possibilities hidden in every nook and cranny… is not. 

“When I’m less busy,” Mafuyu tells her, because it’s the same as saying no. 

“Mafuyu!”

Tsukasa perks up at the call, looking over the row of family restaurant tables to find Akiyama waving him over. When he walks up to them, he finds two others at their table—a brown-haired girl resting her head face-down on her crossed arms, and a white-haired girl staring up at him with deep shadows under her eyes. 

“Hi,” Akiyama starts. There’s a slight crease in their brow, but their smile is as open as it ever is. “You sounded like… It sounded important when you talked to me on the phone, so I called the others over.”

At that the brown-haired girl looks up, eyes squinting at the light, and it becomes immediately apparent that despite what must be concealed circles, she’s just as exhausted as her friend. There’s also an odd familiarity to her face that he can’t place. 

“It better be important, considering I finished working at six,” she sighs with a vague glare in Tsukasa’s direction.  “Not all of us are morning people, you know?”

For a moment the sentences don’t make any sense together, before they finally click. “AM?” He blurts in horror.

She gives him a confused look, edging on suspicion. “Yeah? When else?”

God. And he thought Rui’s sleeping schedule was bad. He opens his mouth to say exactly that, when the other girl speaks up.

“Do you…” She tilts her head, long white hair falling off her shoulder. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

Ah, right! Tsukasa slides into the booth beside her, clasping his hands together on the table. 

It strikes him that he didn't prepare what he should say. He does know Akiyama, but the other two are mysteries. What capacity do they know Mafuyu? To come on a mere half-hour's notice, they must be her friends, but would it inconvenience her if he attempted to loop them in?

It feels like every turn he makes leads him to more questions. What a truly difficult situation.

He's half-expecting Akiyama to ask something first— he certainly would, if he got called out so suddenly (and so rudely!) on a Sunday morning—but to his surprise it's the white-haired girl who turns in her seat to face him.

"Mafuyu, has something changed?"

A strange opening, for sure, but functional.  He goes for the truth. "Yes, it has."

Her eyes widen, but rather than shock, they only look more intent for it. Her near-silent tone, combined with this quietly intense focus—she reminds him a bit of Nene.

"Seriously?" The bob-cut girl's eyebrows raise. "What happened?"

Tsukasa really wishes his troupe were here. He wouldn't have to deliberate at all over how to best say I am a different person in your Mafuyu's body to make them believe him. He's sure they'd simply accept it, poke fun at him, and brainstorm solutions like this were any other problem. 

What a splendidly fascinating occurrence, he imagines Rui saying. Your brain's finally melted, huh, Nene follows. It's wonder-fixing-hoy time! We'll solve this right away! is the Emu finish.

Re-energised, he breathes out a preparatory huff. 

"I am a different person in Mafuyu's body," he announces clearly. "Tenma Tsukasa—it's nice to meet you! Or in your case,” —he turns to face Akiyama with a smile— “see you again.”

Three sets of confused eyes fix on him.

"Mafuyu?" asks the one next to him. 

"What," says the flat voice from across him. 

"You know Tsukasa?" Akiyama looks thrown.

He decides to focus on this one. "Yes—no. I am him. But in here."

They continue to stare back at him blankly.

“Temporarily,” he adds, smile placating as he crosses his fingers under the table. "But in short, I’m not Asahina Mafuyu."

"Stop making that face," mutters the short-haired girl, looking disturbed. 

"You're…?" Akiyama trails off, gesturing helplessly towards their own skull with a jab of their finger. 

“I realise this may be difficult to accept!" He folds his hands together, squeezing them tightly. "And I know I'm your upperclassman, but… I'd really appreciate your help.”

"Well." Akiyama smiles back, more reflexive than genuine, and the laugh that trickles out of them is uneasy. “That’s definitely not something you'd normally say. But…”

“So you believe me!” He feels some of the tension drain away, smile stretching even wider. “I was hoping that you could—”

"That's really not what I meant—"

“Mizuki.” Brown-haired Girl cuts through them both, looking back and forth between them in suspicion. “What are you even talking about? Who’s ‘Tsukasa’?”

“I’m… also a bit lost,” says the other one. 

“Excuse my negligence!” he exclaims. It completely slipped his mind that strangers to him meant the same in reverse. “I’ve forgotten to introduce myself.”

He takes a deep breath in, relaxing and holding his shoulders back.

"Tenma, written as the soaring pegasus! Tsukasa, written as the ruler of the world! The grandest name, Tenma Tsukasa! For the most dazzling future star, Tenma Tsukasa!"

With one arm raised to the heavens and the other on his chest, he pauses for applause and gets it, albeit in the strangest form. Akiyama has their head on the family restaurant table, shoulders shaking as they bangs their fist repeatedly on the surface. The other two seem too stunned to react just yet, frozen in twin expressions of total shock.

The brown-haired girl recovers first, breaking out of her trance to give way to an expression that’s entirely fury. 

“What the fuck,” she yells, and he barely manages to dodge the salt packet she pitches at his face. “Where’s Mafuyu?!”

“I don’t—” He cuts off to duck as she throws another, then another, then another. “I—can you stop throwing things at me? I don’t know!”

“What do you mean you don’t know, body-snatcher?”

“What did you call me?” He pauses at that in disbelief, raising himself up once more. “I’m a victim here, I just woke up like this and—ow!” A ketchup packet manages to nail him in the cheek and, exasperated, he scoops as many of the table packs towards him as possible to drop her ammunition. “Seriously, cut it out!”

She looks just about ready to reach into the next booth. “Give those back! I can’t fucking believe—”

“N-no—” Akiyama coughs, barely managing to get the word out between continued fits of laughter. They don’t even raise their face, reaching out with one blind hand to smack the girl’s shoulder. “S-stop, i-it’s, probably the, the—”

“Mafuyu’s body got stolen?” says the other girl, looking worryingly pale. Her frown is less angry, but no less sharp.

“I didn’t steal it! This is very much unwilling!” Tsukasa protests. 

The rude girl narrows her eyes. “That’s what you want us to—”

“Ena,” Akiyama finally recovers, lifting their face from the table and running a hand through their ponytail as they let loose the last laugh in a sigh. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“Of course I am!” He hmphs , crossing his arms. “Why wouldn’t I?

At that, Akiyama smiles, that earlier tension gone from their face. It looks a bit fond, a bit relieved. Luckily for him the other two seem to take their cue from this smile, pulling back with reluctance.

“Tsukasa-senpai,” they say, no upward lilt for a follow-up—like they're just saying the name for the sake of saying it. 

“Yes!” He grins at them, because it’s nice to hear nonetheless.

Their mouth twitches, a quiet hah escaping their lips, both laughter and disbelief. “Yeah, okay. This is insane, but that’s definitely you in there."

His grin pulls his cheeks to the limit. "It's good to hear you say that!" he says, and gets a quirked lip from them in return.

"Thanks, by the way," they add like an afterthought. "That was the best thing I'll ever see in my life."

The white-haired girl beside Tsukasa makes a choked, disbelieving noise. 

“Who is you , anyway?” The rude girl—Ena?—grumbles, propping an elbow up on the table and resting her cheek against her hand. “How do you even know this guy, Mizuki?”

Tsukasa feels his brow twitch in irritation, but he fights it down. “I have the privilege of being Akiyama’s upperclassman at school,” he says, leaning back in the seat. “Why don't you introduce yourself in return?” Instead of being so rude, he doesn't add only thanks to his honed self-restraint.

She still squints at him suspiciously, but very, very reluctantly offers, “Shinonome Ena. You go to Kamikou?”

Shinonome… Shinonome?

He snaps his fingers in realisation, “so that’s why you look so familiar! You look a bit like Akito!”

The grimace she pulls at him is among the most disgusted he’s ever seen. “Can you not say gross things without warning?” 

“Wha—!”

“Yoisaki Kanade,” pipes the girl next to him. She still looks paler than what’s healthy, brows furrowed, but her stare is unerringly focused. “Then, you don’t know Mafuyu?”

“Not at all,” he admits. “I suppose there’s a chance she may know me from PXL? But I’ve never spoken to anyone who looks like,” —he gestures at his own face— “this.”

She nods, looking no more reassured. The intent look in her eyes, yet her near-silent volume… She reminds him a bit of Nene. 

“If you’re in her body, then where is she? Is she okay?”

Tsukasa grimaces—that's something he hasn't thought about. Which hurts a little to admit.

“...Unfortunately, I don’t—”

Akiyama cuts in with a long hum, fingers to their chin. “Maybe the better question would be, where’s your body?”

They all pause at that, blinking at them.

“Don’t you know, senpai?” They grin. “Body-swapping’s a pretty popular trope.”

It… honestly hadn’t occurred to him that his body would be anywhere other than exactly where he left it. It’s mildly unsettling to consider, but, if he’s in this body, why wouldn’t Mafuyu be in his own? And if he’s made a mess of her morning, who’s to say what she’s doing with his?

“Then,” he frowns, “how should we find her? Should I try calling my phone?”

Even as he speaks, he pulls out Mafuyu’s smartphone from where he’d hastily shoved it in her day-bag, when Akiyama suddenly stops him, their hand hovering over the screen. 

At his questioning look, they hum thoughtfully. “Were you planning to meet anyone today?"

"Ah, well…" He'd been trying not to think about it, but, "I'm supposed to be at PXL right now."

Their eyes spark with something that looks a tad amused. "...With Rui?"

"Yes?” He tilts his head. “Him and the others. Why?"

And right then, as if on cue, Akiyama’s phone rings from where they set it down on the table, and they snatch it up with a wide, victorious smile. 

.

.

“...The one three blocks off of the station? …Mm. Mhm. Thanks, Mizuki. We’ll be seeing you.”

Mafuyu watches Kamishiro hang up his phone, sliding it back into his jeans. 

“Tsukasa’s with your friends—as we thought, he really is in your body. We’ll be able to see him soon.” 

He smiles at them all, but Mafuyu  doesn’t miss the slightly strained set of his mouth, the way his gaze sweeps over her without lingering too long. 

Kusanagi sighs. “Easier than I thought it would be. I wouldn’t have put it past him to make this so much worse by running off alone.”

Otori giggles, latching onto one of her arms. “Aren’t we lucky? We found him so quickly! It’s wonder-fixing-hoy time!”

Mafuyu stays quiet, an easy smile still in place as they begin to make their way out of the park. 

She considers the thought—someone moving through her life without her. The gaps are filling, now that she is no longer alone in a brightly lit house and a standing piano before her. Things are beginning to feel less like a temporary dream, and more like…

She shuts her eyes for a long moment as they walk, a few paces behind so no one notices. When she opens her eyes, things are the same. She reaches into the inside of her sleeve, pinching sharply at the skin on her wrist. Things remain the same. 

Things remain the same.

 Eleven AM on Sunday. Four hours since she first woke up; time not slowing. 

Twelve more hours, and it’ll be night again. Less than twenty-four—something entirely different. 

Mafuyu takes a breath. It’s short. It catches.

Another. Still short. Not helping. She’s lagging behind, too. Where are they going again? …To see Mizuki, and everyone else. They’re waiting at the diner. 

(“I’m here, Mafuyu. I won’t ever let you be alone.”)

Another breath. Then another. And another, and another until it’s a little longer again.

The timer that'd come into being in her head, though—it remains, its silent countdown like a constant prod at the back of her brain.

Act.

“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me about…” She fumbles for a moment, chewing on the name to use before she simply decides, “Tsukasa, at school.”

Kusanagi looks startled at her request, Otori puzzled, whereas Kamishiro’s only visible reaction is the slight narrowing of his eyes. 

“Why?”

*

“It’s very possible that we won’t be able to solve this issue immediately, right?” Tsukasa points out. “Seeing as we don’t even know how it started.”

Shinonome looks like she’s swallowed something sour, and Yoisaki scrunches her nose, just a bit. He does understand— he’d certainly rather have this fixed as quickly as possible as well—but it’s no good to bet on something he can’t change under his own power. 

Mere moments ago this would have discouraged him, but now that he knows his troupe have found Mafuyu, that he’ll see them very soon—the knot in his stomach feels endlessly lighter.

(“It may not actually be that difficult. Not as long as we’re together.”)

It’s easier to think, refocus. The best thing to do here is direct his efforts towards something else that he can help.

“Well, I guess so,” Akiyama frowns. 

“Then it’d be irresponsible of me to not learn,” he nods decisively. “She has school tomorrow, after all, and I’ve already imposed on her by skipping her activities today. I need to—”

*

“—continue his life as normal,” Mafuyu says. 

The planner, so full of entries and day to day tasks that all need doing. That slightly lost look on Saki’s face, the three people tip-toeing around her. Failing something as basic as an interaction.

“It would be bad if I were to interfere in it, right?” She offers a slight smile, then a carefully self-deprecating laugh. “More than I have, I mean.”

Otori twitches back, face paling in that familiar way it always does around her. Mafuyu still doesn’t understand it, but it’s followed by a nod, so she figures it doesn’t really matter.

Kamishiro nods as well, quietly, with that same offput expression, that same line between his brows. “You’re a rather dutiful person, aren’t you?”

She tilts her head: a politely confused look. “Isn’t it natural to fulfil what’s expected of you?”

“Ah,” Kusanagi stares at her in surprise. “You’re—”

*

“—kind of like her, to be saying that sort of thing,” Shinonome remarks, tone dry but expression considering. “All about your commitments.”

“Mafuyu’s… conscious of the people around her,” Yoisaki agrees softly.

“All the more reason for me to match her consideration!” Tsukasa smiles, heartened. “The last thing I want to do is disrupt her daily life.”

The three of them trade glances.

“I mean, the problem is that none of us are around Mafuyu at school, though,” Akiyama sighs. “None of us actually go there.”

A surge of disappointment, though Tsukasa tries not to let it show on his face. “I see…”

Then Shinonome hesitates, before asking, “is that really an issue?”

Blinking, Akiyama tilts their head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I figured that at school she’s probably just…” She pauses, mouth open and hand waving vaguely in the air. “How Yuki was before , right?”

“Ah…”

Tsukasa frowns. “Sorry, but what do you mean by ‘Yuki’? Is that Mafuyu's preferred address?”

Once again, he finds himself at the receiving end of three surprised looks, like he's missed their expectations. It's fair, considering what he looks like right now, but. It's beginning to wear on him a bit.

“Ah—it’s a nickname." Akiyama waves their hands. "Mafuyu’s screen-name when we talk to her online.”

He burns with curiosity at the answer, wondering why Shinonome had felt the need to switch to it all of sudden, but Yoisaki moves onwards before he can ask. 

“That makes sense,” she says slowly, index finger gently tapping her own chin as she thinks. “She talks about some of it too. Here and there, when she gets home late. Since she’s—”

*

“—the sort of person who gets approached by others a lot, you know,” Kamishiro says lightly. 

Mafuyu nods. That will be familiar, even if it’s not necessarily for the same purpose. Familiarity in this situation is encouraging, because it means it's workable, and yet somehow… disappointing.

“Mmh,” Kusanagi sounds thoughtful even as her nose scrunches. “Irritatingly easy to picture.”

“But he’s known more by name than anything, so—”

*

“—I bet the number of people who’d actually know her personally is a lot lower.”

Shinonome sighs. “Yeah, no need to worry too much about getting caught out. I seriously doubt Yuki’s particularly close with anyone.”

“Enanan, you’re being mean.”

“It’s the truth!”

Tsukasa feels a bit bemused at the back and forth. On one hand it's a relief, on the other hand… something twinges in his chest.

“I think…” Yoisaki pushes in quietly, and both girls turn to her to let her speak. “Even still, people—”

*

“—around him would expect to be well-received, I believe.”

“Yeah!” Otori nods cheerfully in time with Kamishiro’s words. “Tsukasa’s reaaaaally welcoming! He always catches me when I one-two-slide-hop-jump at him!”

Mafuyu offers a breath of a laugh at that, though she doesn’t really understand the joke. 

“I don’t think that’s what Rui meant, Emu,” Kusanagi says, though there’s a quirk at the corner of her lips. “Though… he is on the committee. He’s probably used to—”

*

“—helping people out. Tutoring, club assistance, whichever. Unless it clashes with something she's already doing, she doesn't really tell people no, does she?”

“Accommodating, then.” Tsukasa nods to himself.

"Yes," Yoisaki agrees, but her expression is a bit troubled. 

"Thank you," he says earnestly. Likely it's still uncomfortable to talk about someone in third-person to their face. "This is all really helpful."

All three of them look startled, like he's yet again said something strange. 

"Sure," Shinonome nods slowly, eyes narrowed like she's waiting for a catch.

"If I could ask something else," he starts, then pauses for a second, looking for the right request to fill what he's missing. Why things like common courtesies seem to throw them so even though they’re perfectly in-line with everything they’ve said.  

“Could you tell me about her specific mannerisms in more detail?"

Yoisaki blinks. "Mannerisms?"

"How she speaks, her posture, any particular habits, where she puts her hands when she's standing or sitting, if she reacts differently to different kinds of people…" He counts them off on his fingers, relaxing more as he thinks through them. "That should be enough to start with, anyway."

She's staring at him, blue eyes wide. She opens her mouth, then presses her lips together for a moment before finally asking, "enough to start what?"

Tsukasa grins. "Building the role, of course!"

"You're an actor." She peers into his face, focused gaze running over his face in sudden, intent realisation. "You and Mafuyu, are you maybe the…?"

He tilts his head. "Are we what?"

Yoisaki's random burst of confidence falters, and she looks awkward again. "Ah… The… Do you both…" She shakes her head, looking away. "Never mind."

He’s minding it. Everyone at the table, despite all their helpfulness, holds him at an arm’s length. Part of that is on him, wearing their friend’s face when he’s… well, not. But it doesn’t sit right. 

He leans forward over the table to look up into Yoisaki’s face, trying to catch her eyes again. “Yoisaki, if you have any insights, we should hear them.”

“Ah.” Her eyebrows raise in surprise, like she didn’t expect to be looking at him. “It’s not really…”

“This situation is brand new,” Tsukasa presses. “So new we don’t even know what we need to know. Our greatest edge is that we're working together!”

The table goes quiet in the wake of his declaration. This isn’t an uncommon phenomenon, so he’d like to take it in stride, but it’s a different kind of silence than he’s usually met with. Yoisaki doesn’t look… un convinced, exactly, but she’s staring at him like he’s suddenly broken into French. The other two aren’t much better: Shinonome drops her gaze, glaring down at the diner table like it’s offended her, and Akiyama…

Akiyama’s smiling, rueful. It’s these moments where the similarities between them and Rui strike—that slight tilt to their heads, the pinch of their brows, this expression that says this hurts, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

“Even with all the similarities, you and Mafuyu really are different, huh?” they say, their tone as cheerful as their face is not. 

Tsukasa hates this look on Rui, and seeing it here is just as horrible.

He casts around for a solution, but honestly, there isn’t one. Tsukasa is sitting where Akiyama’s friend should be, and nothing will change that. The only thing he really has is…

“Sorry, Akiyama.” He reaches out to give their arm a light squeeze. “Don’t worry, I’ll—”

*

“—figure all of this out. But if you could tell me a little more about him…”

It’s a reasonable thing to ask, she thinks. She’s trying to recreate a song based on someone else’s off-tune humming—she needs every piece before she can begin to shape it together, and she doesn’t have anything even close to that. 

Knowing how other people approach Tsukasa is helpful, to be sure, but all it does is allow her to brace. It doesn’t tell her why her smile doesn’t sit well with his friends, or what kind of reaction Otori was expecting when she propelled herself directly into her gut. 

Why even now, they look at her like she’s still surprising, even though by this point they should know exactly who is standing before them. Or rather, who isn’t.

“Asahina-san,” Kamishiro says slowly, and even though he’s been the one meeting her eyes the least, he looks her square in the face now. “What do you mean by ‘all of this’?”

She blinks. Isn’t that obvious? “The swap.”

Kamishiro stares at her. “Do you know something about how it happened?”

She feels a sharp spike of something that might be frustration, but it disappears before it can touch her expression. “Clearly not.”

“Rui, that's not—” Kusanagi flushes slightly when all eyes turn to her. “Sorry, Asahina-san. He didn't mean to imply anything, he just means, um…” 

She stumbles again, before Otori reaches over to take her other hand as well, squeezing them both in a pose that looks like a nightmare for them to walk in. 

Even still, Kusanagi breathes in, carries on. “It’s one thing for you to try and act like him, help him keep things up, since… We can’t step in there. But figuring things out, that’s… That’s our place to help, isn’t it?” 

Mafuyu stares.

Kusanagi hesitates, but her gaze still sweeps over her in return, searching. “You know about as much as we do, right? So this isn’t just… up to you?”

*

“Listen,” Shinonome cuts in, quick enough to snap. “This sucks, but jury's still out on whether you have anything to be sorry for.”

Tsukasa blinks at her. “What?”

“You’re clearly lost,” she says, crossing her arms, glare lifting from the table to land squarely on him. “And you’re loud, but a good enough guy for Mizuki to like you. So, everything’s looking like it’s probably not your fault, so there’s no need to use words like sorry. Not yet, at least.”

“That… may be true, but—”

“And you know what?” She carries on, voice picking up strength as she hits her stride, raising a finger. “You’re not like Mafuyu. But you are like her in that you always think it’s all about you. Your thing, your problem. But unless you’re lying, you’re about as much to blame as we are. So if you weren't kidding about ‘working together,’” —she emphasises his words with a hard jab in his direction— “cut that shit out, Tenma.”

To be honest… Part of it doesn’t land. He’s the one with a SEKAI, he’s the one backed by a fantastical troupe of trouble-making virtual singers, and he’s the one currently in Mafuyu’s body. 

It’s not self-flagellation if it’s true, right?

But the look she has, insistent and a little furious, the complete about-face she’s made from throwing salt packets at him, and the way everyone else simply watches without argument, like Shinonome speaks for all of them… 

Tsukasa feels himself slump a little in the booth, and—

*

She’s not sure why, but she thinks she wants to smile.

Kusanagi is meeting her eyes openly where she’s been avoiding them up until now. She’s tense, just like everyone else in this circle. But Kamishiro doesn’t disagree with the way she spoke for him, and Otori nods enthusiastically along.

“I see,” Mafuyu says, gently. 

They’re still not who Mafuyu wants, 

*

and he doesn’t understand them, not really. There’s a distance they’re holding him at that he can’t seem to breach. The sensation of not-belonging blares like a siren in the back of his brain. 

*

But she looks between them, sees Kamishiro give her a rueful but real smile when her gaze lands on him, sees Otori let go of one of Kusanagi’s hands to clench her fist encouragingly in front of her chest,

*

sees Akiyama’s pained look fade for a more genuine smile, sees Yoisaki stare at him with a quiet but straightforward determination, Shinonome’s concession in the folding of her hands. And he thinks…

*

…she can make this work.

She takes a deep breath, feels it move easy through her lungs. And she wonders for a moment, as to what she can give in return, 

*

whether there’s words or a way to express the way he’s feeling. But ultimately,

*

the simplest thing to do in this situation is say,

*

“...Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Here is something Rui notices: 

Asahina Mafuyu walks with Tsukasa’s straight-backed posture. His relaxed shoulders, his level chin. But she walks one step behind them, and one step to the left. 

Her brows are smooth and her resting expression falls naturally into a smile that, despite Nene’s rather uncharitable review, would be perfectly lovely were it on any other face. But it’s not, because Tsukasa’s face doesn’t, in truth, rest in a smile. 

Tsukasa focuses with light frowns. Relaxes into raised eyebrows and a blank look. Rui has long concluded that his smiles are active choices—for when he has his eyes set on something. And they feel constant because this happens almost always. 

This is all a somewhat long-winded way to say: 

Rui struggles to look Asahina in the face—both because she avoids it, and also because he really, really doesn’t want to. 

"Rui."

There’s a rough tug on his sleeve which breaks him out of his thoughts. They’re almost at the station, now, but upon getting his attention Nene jerks her chin in a different direction. 

Following the line of her gaze, he sees what’s caught their concern—a child, slowly picking himself up from the ground and dusting off his palms, lips wobbling in telling fashion. And well, they may not be on duty—or even at the park, for that matter—but who would they be to ignore this?

It’s the usual pattern they use for the workplace—first is Emu. She detaches from Nene and bounds over, reaching out to the boy in a bright and friendly voice and doing her utmost to make him laugh. Once he relaxes a little, Nene approaches, asking the slightly tougher questions (“Are you alright? Where does it hurt?”)

Rui deviates a little, takes his time coming over, since he knows from experience that he doesn’t always cut the most non-threatening figure when he’s not wearing a bright purple coat. He instead runs an evaluating eye over the kid, and it catches on the scrapes on his knees. Fine and expected; he turns to…

Only then Rui stills. Because he knows what's supposed to come next, but it can't. Not right now. He opens his mouth, at a sudden loss, when—

"Shall we get you cleaned up?" 

Asahina steps forward and out from behind him, Tsukasa's unzipped mini first-aid kit out from her bag and held carefully in one hand. Rui blinks at her, but she doesn't look at him, only focused on the boy. In her other hand: a retrieved strip of large band-aids and packets of single-use disinfectant wipes. 

And Rui relaxes, at the same time as everyone else, when the boy gives a hesitant nod. 

Her consolations aren't the same—she doesn't keep the same steady stream of talking as she wipes at the boy's grazes in calm, efficient strokes. But she says this might hurt and there we are with all the same care, and leaves Emu to fill in the gaps. And when she finally smooths over the band-aid on his knee, she offers a reassuring smile. 

The expression's still not— right. But the boy certainly doesn't know any better, so it does its job. 

…It more than does the job. Her smile is kind. There’s a pressing awareness on Rui that tells him he’s being unfair, far more than Asahina deserves. But he can’t find it in himself to stop.

"Is that what you all do?" Asahina asks, watching as the boy bounds off. 

A bit of a vague question, but Rui thinks he knows what she's asking. "Our job is to make people smile," he says easily, as he has a thousand times before.

"Hmm," is all she gives in return, and the non-committal noise is grating in how off it sounds in Tsukasa's voice. 

He’s saved from the pressure of reacting when Emu bounds in with a bright, “Yeah! Like this, and on the stage with a lot of boom and whoosh, and then during the night show throughout the whole park like— Ah, wait, I can just show you!”

Asahina looks only politely interested, something Emu must see as well considering Rui knows for a fact that she far outstrips him in emotional intuition. But despite the signs, Emu persists. Once they’re on the train, she takes out her phone, scrolling through what must be a veritable library of recordings both official and salvaged from social media. And whether a result of her persistence or simply Asahina’s endless manners, the latter leans in a little to look at the screen. 

Rui keeps his distance, both satisfaction and unwillingness to join in. And Nene stays by him, watching the pair bent over the phone, expression thoughtful and discomforted in equal measure. 

He keeps silent as the train rumbles, waiting for her to voice her thoughts. He seems to be having rather… firm opinions, after all, and he doesn't want to step over her insights.

Finally, she beckons, and he takes the cue to lean down to hear her speak. 

“This is really fucking weird,” she says.

Startled, Rui coughs out a laugh. “Agreed.”

She almost smiles at him, but the press of her lips remains uneasy.

“...Do you also think it won’t be immediate? When we go see him?” 

Truthfully, Rui has no clue. Almost immediately after Asahina had introduced himself and before he’d called Mizuki, he’d subtly tried to check his phone. See if anyone from the SEKAI was listening in, whether this was all expected. But when he’d tried to find the beloved song, his music app had simply brought up a small alert.

Error: file locked or unplayable.

It doesn’t bode well. It doesn’t bode well at all. 

“I don’t think we can know until we get there,” he settles for saying gently. 

Nene wrinkles her nose, recognising a placation when she hears one. But she stays quiet for another few moments. 

“Emu’s uncomfortable,” she says. An open statement.

“I think we all are,” he agrees, opting for the safest response.

Another beat.

“She’s really a different person, huh?” she murmurs. She doesn’t need to specify who.

It should be a trivial statement, and Nene can clearly hear that, judging by the way she sinks a little, awkward. But her eyes remain on what should be Tsukasa, lingering not on his face, but on the gaps. The way Emu doesn’t lean into a shoulder or tap an elbow to catch notice, keeping them at least a half-foot apart at all times. 

So Rui understands.

He bumps Nene’s arm just a little in reassurance. “She is.”

Nene meets his eyes, and nods.

And they leave it at that, Rui turning back to look. Despite Emu’s valiant efforts, Asahina’s face hasn’t changed, remaining fixed in its politely attentive smile. But as Emu mouths silently along to what he recognises as Xiao’s reprise, he notices another thing: 

Even with her stiff expression, Asahina’s eyes move animatedly back and forth, following what’s on the screen with an unerring focus.

.

.

Mizuki digs through the napkin holder to pull out a liberal handful. 

"Here you go."

Across the table, a terrified-looking Kanade who’s holding earphones aloft as gingerly as she would a murder weapon. Next to her, Tsukasa sits swiping repeatedly at his eyes to no avail as he continues to cry like someone kicked out the dam on his tear ducts. 

“Thank you,” he says sheepishly as he dabs at his eyes. 

Somehow, with the conversation redirected away from Tsukasa’s focus on fixing everything, they’d all ended up explaining just how, exactly, they knew Mafuyu. After some heavy compliments on simply the idea of what they were doing, one thing had led to another, and they’d wound up pulling up their latest song for Tsukasa to listen to. He’d remained dead silent through the entire listen, eyes wide and glued to the screen until sometime around the final bridge, where they’d started pouring tears.

"It's wonderful," Tsukasa insists. "Absolutely wonderful."

“You’re exaggerating, senpai," Mizuki laughs.

"I'm not!" He shakes his head, looking adamantly insulted at the idea. "I'm definitely not. The level of production and care in this is just," he sighs deeply, "amazing. Truly amazing. The paired illustration spoke perfectly to the longing sensation of the song—"

Mizuki feels Ena perk on her right. "You think so?"

"Of course!" He affirms instantly. "The woman's expression, and then that… In the second half, it sort of—”

“—shifted,” Ena fills in.

"Exactly," he breathes, shutting his eyes tight for a brief moment as he puts a hand to his chest. "I think my heart skipped! Not to mention the visual effects that lead it into the chorus—"

"Huh," is all Ena says as he continues on, but the quirk of her pursed lips is clear to see. 

It’s cute of her, really. And this feels like it should be Mizuki’s cue. Maybe they should raise an excited hand and say something like oh, those were me, senpai! or nudge an amused elbow at Ena and say something like good for you, Enanan. But something holds the words in their mouth, and all they do is keep nodding, nodding, until the blinking light of the opening is finally barrelled over. 

"I felt like I didn't have enough eyes or ears to appreciate it all! And," he turns over to Kanade, who freezes up a little at the focus, "you said you were the composer, right? Can I ask, that pre-chorus—"

On he goes, and despite Kanade's clear misgivings, music is a topic she understands, and she begins to hesitantly respond enough that they're drawn into a back and forth. 

Mizuki watches, a smile on their face and a pit in their stomach.

Tsukasa’s always been open. Willing to speak his mind, at volumes the whole world can hear. Earnest with his concern, moved without reservation. They’re all reasons Mizuki likes him as a person, but right now, they can’t help but feel… 

Annoyed. 

It’s unfair. Mafuyu’s never cried in front of them before. She's never expressed herself like this, in so many words and constant animation. Mizuki has always respected that—they all have, interpreting her where she needs it and taking her steps forward for the precious things they are. 

It’s unfair that she’s getting this taken away from her. And it’s unfair to Tsukasa that Mizuki feels so annoyed about this, yet they can’t seem to stop. 

Good god. Mizuki’s supposed to be a people person—what’s the world coming to, to have them stew in silence as Kanade out-talks them?

A light kick against the side of their ankle. When they turn, Ena's raising a questioning eyebrow. 

“Need the bathroom?” they ask with a put-out look. “You can just ask me to scoot out so you can leave, you know.”

Ena’s eyes narrow. “You’re making a really horrible face.”

Mizuki lets out an amused huff. “I know you’re lying. I’m as cute as always.”

“And so modest about it,” Ena rolls her eyes, before conceding. “Fine. You’re not. But you still look like someone kicked sand at you.”

Humming, Mizuki shrugs. “Really? Doesn't feel much like it. Maybe they should take your example and try salt instead.”

“It was a normal reaction,” Ena huffs, before leaning in a little closer. “Basically the opposite of yours, you freak. Finding this funny ?”

It's a question as much as it is an admonishment. Mizuki chews a bit on the answer.

“Mm, well.” They slide down as well, lowering their voice to match. “It got old kinda fast.”

They both dart their eyes as one across the table, just to check. Tsukasa, despite the thin remaining sheen in his eyes, has Kanade’s earbuds in again as she plays a different video with an expression of great trepidation. 

“Feel that.” Ena snorts. “Figures the guy who snatched Mafuyu’s body would be an idiot . Both are just as tiring as the other.”

There’s many, many things Mizuki could choose to say about that sentence. They pick the safest one. "Thought you were enjoying the compliments?"

She humphs, arms crossing. "I’ll admit he's got a smidgen of taste—"

She'd probably like Tsukasa a lot more if they met normally, Mizuki thinks. Ena values honesty, and she likes when that honesty comes with straightforward appreciation. These aren't exactly plentiful traits in their little group, which is why Kanade, even beyond being their unofficial leader, gets her special treatment. 

But they don't voice that, because Ena doesn't like Tsukasa now, for obvious reasons. 

"'Unlike her,' right?" 

There's a few seconds of silence, but they're mere echoes of the ones from earlier. They all already had their moment, see. Their private grief over this not-Mafuyu who uses words like together. 

"Yeah, well," is Ena's eloquent grumble. 

"Angry just to be angry, huh?" Mizuki teases knowingly, trying to fall into their rhythm. "Is there a tsundere development incoming?"

Don't be gross , they expect to hear. Instead, Ena scrunches her nose and pins them with an evaluating look. 

"You could try it too, sometime," she says flatly. "Being angry. Instead of making weird faces at the menu."

A pause, and, "FYI: waiting, and all."

Ahh, really! Ena has such a way of pulling the wind from their sails at all the worst times. Mizuki sincerely hates and loves her for it. 

“The return of Serious Enanan, huh. Do you really want me to steal your thing that badly?"

"Mizuki—" She flushes in proper irritation, their name sharp on her tongue despite the infinite patience she's been gracing them with lately. And maybe it's that, or maybe it's the lingering echoes of Ena would understand that haven't stopped ringing in weeks, but Mizuki finally gives in.

"It's unfair," they say, smiling blankly. "It's unfair, Ena."

They're not even sure which part they're referring to. 

Ena blinks, outrage cut short as she processes for a second. And then she breathes out, eyes softening.

Under no cue, they look over again. Tsukasa's having a much more subdued reaction to a different song, now. The pink of the music video plays reflections in his eyes, a curve of a smile on his lips. Gentle, unthinking. It should be a welcome change from the near-constant furrow he’d held in his brow since he got here, yet it hits just as wrong.

Next to him, Kanade's own gaze is glued to Mafuyu's face. Wide-eyed, conflicted.

"Yeah, well," Ena says again, much quieter. "Anyone could tell you that."

Chapter Text

The moment Rui walks into the diner, he sees an unfamiliar girl stand up with a bright ooooi!, delight clear on her face as she waves him over like she hasn’t already caught the attention of everyone there.

Ah, Rui thinks. There you are.

.

.

Mizuki looks up as not-Tsukasa steps up next to their table and sweeps his gaze over them, his expression flat and perfectly unreadable yet with a near-imperceptible relaxing to his shoulders.

And Mizuki smiles.

.

.

Tsukasa doesn't wait. He has just enough presence of mind to offer Mafuyu's friends a brief nod, but then he's gone.

He crosses the length of the diner in sharp strides on the brink of running, because! There they are! Rui's gaze slowly filling with that familiar knowing, Emu's expression lighting up as she registers him, Nene peeking out from behind them both.

And then, himself. His body, crossing the space between at an unfaltering pace. Dressed and looking exactly as he does in the mirror every time he leaves for work. Eyes fixed beyond him. But inevitably they meet in the middle, and that’s when they both… pause.

It—She looks at him. He looks back at her, voice stolen from his throat.

It’s an interesting novelty to be looked down on by his own face—come to think of it, Tsukasa swears he had a dream like this once, involving Rui and a time machine and a lot of screaming. He kind of feels like screaming now, too.

She wets her lips. He bites his own.

What kind of opener is he supposed to pick here, exactly? He’s spent the last hour and a half learning everything about this girl, but none of it is connecting to the face in front of him.

That’s me, he thinks blankly. You’re me.

A greeting. He can at least do a greeting. He opens his mouth just a little for a hello, and his throat manages to punch out an uncommendable hh.

Asahina Mafuyu! He reminds himself furiously. A person! A fellow second-year! Miyajou! Archery! Come on, greet Asahina Mafuyu!

Mafuyu’s throat bobs in a swallow, head tilting just a little. She doesn’t seem to have words for him either.

Instead, she steps—more of a shuffle—just an inch to the side. A clear question and desire, one that he’s embarrassingly happy to follow in.

Because, you know, considering the way simply meeting her gaze rings against his spine, impact scattering through his nerves like a flubbed fall against the stage mats, he's okay with delaying this particular meeting. And he needs her to move, because behind her is the only thing that might actually make sense in this diner.

“Tsukasa-kun!” Emu is the first to yell.

The only one, rather, considering Nene has visibly clammed up and Rui’s face seems to have skipped manic to go straight for wordless.

“Emu!” He calls instinctively back, Mafuyu's voice ringing uncomfortably strong in his ears as he says it.

Emu stumbles a little, but she's still beaming as they meet halfway. Her hands reach towards him—

—then abruptly abort to swing up in front of her chest, fists clenching in an encouraging gesture. “Back-up has arrived, captain!”

Tsukasa blinks, his own hands feeling oddly bereft where he’d prepared them to be un-conscientiously grabbed. The readied retort falls lamely off his tongue.

But she’s still smiling, so it’s not that hard to recover, letting his hands go to his hips instead as he smiles back. “You have!”

Beside her, Rui’s gaze sweeps slowly over Tsukasa from head to toe, a mix of evaluating and something else Tsukasa can’t quite name. He continues to stare, no hint at his thoughts save the ease of tension from his shoulders, stares and stares until at last the edges of his lips begin to curl.

“You’ve gotten shorter,” he concludes.

Tsukasa gapes at him. “That’s all you have to say?!”

“At least he said something,” Nene’s squinting at him, nose a little wrinkled, as she steps in behind Emu. “What the hell was that?”

“I,” Tsukasa begins to protest with great dignity, raising an offended finger.

He doesn’t continue. That’s as much as he’s got.

“You,” Nene huffs in agreement, though conversely she looks a touch pleased to be saying it. “What was that, thirty seconds of silence? Should we put that down as a record?”

“Now, now,” Rui taps his chin consideringly. “It's not a record unless it's reproducible under non-exceptional circumstances. And it seems like we can at least cross off eye-contact as a possible solution, isn’t that nice?”

“And yet we still can’t cross off ‘makes a noise in her direction,’ huh.”

“Oh, notes!” Emu blinks, eyes wide. She turns down to dig through her sweater pocket before triumphantly holding up a mini spiral-notebook. “That can be my job!”

“A vital part of the scientific process,” Rui agrees with a little grin as he turns to her. “And it’s a rather convoluted experiment we’ve fallen into, isn’t it, Tsukasa-kun?”

A second passes. Rui’s smile falters when Tsukasa misses his cue.

“Tsukasa-kun?” he tries again, looking back towards him uncertainly.

Tsukasa swallows, meets his concerned gaze in full, and smiles. There’s a knot in his chest so warm he feels like he could burst.

“I’m really glad you guys are here,” he admits, blinking the heat out of his eyes as best as he can.

For a moment, no one responds, and he almost wonders if he’s said something completely different, from the way all three of them stare blankly at him.

But then Emu blinks, the picture of sudden realisation complete with a tilt of her pink head. She hesitates one more second, but then she reaches forward—this time definitively—and snatches his hands off his hips to clasp them in hers.

“Yeah.” She beams, hands tightening securely around his own. “Yeah! Same, same! It’s good to see Tsukasa-kun’s Tsukasa-kun’s Tsukasa-kun.”

“That’s one too many.” He scrunches his nose at her, more put-upon than anything else—there’s no way to suppress the giddiness in his chest or the way he relaxes into her hold. “But! It’s only natural that my star aura remains even now!”

“It’s some kind of aura, for sure.” Next is Nene, rolling her weight over to one side as she raises a brow. “Something’s definitely radiating.”

He squints at her. “You know, even when you’re not being rude it still feels like you’re being rude.”

“You know, that sounds like a personal problem.”

Tsukasa hears a snort, and looks up (and up, is this what Rui normally looks like to most people?!) to find Rui curling a knuckle over his smiling mouth.

And that’s— really nice. Tsukasa tries to shoot him an unimpressed look, but fighting his grin at hearing his friend laugh is sort of like trying to fight the ocean, and he predictably fails.

“I would second the aura,” Rui offers. “Very idiosyncratic.”

“Again! Neither of you make it sound like a compliment.”

“Wooww, a so-called star being this critical of his audience seems kind of…”

“Why are you my audience only when it suits you?!”

“You hold your fans to such high standards, Tsukasa-kun,” Rui sniffs, affecting a crestfallen tone. “Those of us with unique methods of expression simply fall behind. What should we do?”

“Ah—fans crying: star no-no!” Emu taps her pencil against her book. “We’re aiming for Tsukasa-kun plus plus, not minus!”

Despite the delivery, it’s a rather sobering reminder. Rui picks it up instantly, and the rest of them follow.

“Right as always, Emu-kun,” he says, knuckle dropping from his mouth to rest on his chin. “Shall we rule out some more basics?”

“Starting where?” Nene crosses her arms. “Touch?”

“We brushed by each other just now,” Tsukasa reminds her as Emu scribbles the information into her notebook.

“Skin-contact?”

Tsukasa tugs his hands out of Emu’s hold to hold up an arm and tap his bare forearm where he’s pushed up the sleeves, getting nods in return.

“Have any of you been in touch with… y’know?”

Rui shakes his head, holding out his empty hands. “It’s been radio silence all morning, I’m afraid. No entry, either.”

Tsukasa blinks at him, startled. “No entry?”

“Just an error. I couldn't tell you the cause, but it seems like we've been blocked off.” Rui pauses, a gauge of his reaction. “You think they're involved?”

“I… sort of thought it was their prank.”

Rui stares at him, his alarmingly serious face just as good as his smirk in making Tsukasa feel like an idiot.

But Nene grimaces. “…Meiko's always going on about being into 'drastically new experiences.'”

Swivelling, “there, see?” Tsukasa agrees, vindicated. “It's in-character!”

“Mmm…” Emu gives a troubled hum, screwing up her face as she smacks her notebook idly against her nose. “But it's mean.”

That gives them all pause.

Rui nods. “It's a fair bit more trouble than any of them would normally incite,” he agrees. “I don't believe they'd ever actually want you hurt.”

Tsukasa tilts his head. “I’m not hurt, though.”

Another moment where Rui simply stares at him again, face unreadable. Nene is not nearly as charitable, squinting at him in that unique way she has where it’s clear she’s questioning if he's ever had a single thing in his skull.

“Anyway,” she says.

Rui continues, “Have you checked if you can get in?”

Tsukasa thinks he should be offended? But he's not sure where to direct it, and so obliges in picking up the conversation. “I haven’t had my phone all morning,” he points out.

“Then we’ll start there,” Rui decides. “But following that, we’ll have to figure out what may need to be done if—”

“Dear customers,” cuts in an unfamiliar man’s voice. “If you will be dining with us today, I’ll have to insist that you sit down.”

All four of them startle at once and turn to find one of the diner waiters standing before them with a politely disapproving look. It’s confusing before he abruptly realises—they’ve been standing directly in the middle of the entryway.

“Ah!” Tsukasa exclaims, before immediately bowing with a profound, “please excuse us!”

“Sorry!” Emu follows his lead with her own hurried bow.

Nene’s face burns red as she sinks surreptitiously behind Rui, who only offers an easy, apologetic smile. “Of course. Sorry for getting in your way.”

Despite his words, Rui only moves them out of the door, leaning in a little closer to Tsukasa first.

“Shall we?” he asks in a quiet whisper. Careful. Are you ready?

Tsukasa feels a squeeze of affection, tugging his cheeks up into a smile that doesn’t dampen even at their broken moment. “Yeah,” he agrees.

So they do. Akiyama’s group is quiet in the way they talk to each other, but even still the hush that falls over them at their approach is far too obvious. Mafuyu immediately stands again, perhaps sensing the continuation of what they’d both temporarily escaped earlier.

And then once again, they face each other.

There remains something deeply uncomfortable about seeing your own face give you an evaluating look. It reminds Tsukasa of one of those old doppelganger horror movies, but that’s an unspeakably rude thought, so he doesn’t speak it.

Still. He’s only several or so inches shorter than Asahina-Mafuyu-slash-himself right now, but having her stare down at him like this makes it feel more like several feet.

“Tenma Tsukasa,” he finally says, and almost snorts when he sees Emu making a note out of the corner of his eye.

He skips the usual introduction to spare the dryness in his throat, but he gives Mafuyu as bright of a grin as he can muster nonetheless. “It’s nice to meet you!”

“Asahina Mafuyu.” She tilts her head very slightly, folding her hands over her front, and the stretch of her lips widens as well for a warm, close-mouthed smile. “Likewise.”

…Huh. It sort of does look like the smile he used for Santa’s helper. Who would have guessed?

More importantly, seconds continue to pass and nothing happens. He is still staring at his own face from below, and Mafuyu is staring back down at him, perfectly pleasant.

“You tied up my hair,” she says blankly.

“Was I not supposed to?” Tsukasa’s hand instinctively goes up to trace the deep orange scrunchie. The pile on her desk had caught his eye, the little gathering of colours the only thing that wasn’t carefully put away. “You have a wonderful collection.”

Asahina Mafuyu may just be a spacey person—she stares blankly at him a second too long before offering a reassuring smile. “That’s not it. I just don’t wear that one often, that’s all.”

He smiles again. “You’ve got a different favourite, then.”

She hums her response, too flat to sound like agreement.

There’s another few seconds of silence. Mafuyu’s wearing his own favourite jacket, and she’s brushed his hair out of the mess he knows from experience must have greeted her this morning. It relaxes him a little, seeing her obvious respect of his routine, but there’s one thing that’s still niggling at him.

“I hate to ask,” Tsukasa hedges, “but, this morning, did Saki—”

“I made breakfast,” says Mafuyu, immediate understanding.

“Oh.” He instantly feels his shoulders relax, and relief curves his lips wide. “Thank you! I did too, on my side, but it didn’t really accomplish the same thing, so…”

She blinks. “You… what?”

“Hm?”

“You made breakfast?” Mafuyu stares at him like he just admitted to taking a hammer to her stove.

Tsukasa pauses.

“To be up so early, and take such bold initiatives?”

“Yeah,” he admits, leftover morning awkwardness suddenly turning his stomach. “I insisted.”

“Insisted.”

Tsukasa goes to tell her his thoughts, that he was a guest, that he wanted to repay the inconvenience. Somehow, though, staring at his own disbelieving face, the words slip from his mouth in favour of something different.

“I really needed something to do,” he admits. “I didn't realise that…” He pauses, not sure how to say I didn't realise your mother is Aoyagi Harumichi without sounding both insane and insanely rude.

“I didn't realise,” he settles for saying.

“I see.”

Silence #3. You'd really think that two people standing in each other's bodies could find more to talk about, but Tsukasa has officially scraped the bottom of the barrel.

He casts around one more time, but finally just blurts,

“Could we swap phones?”

.

.

Mafuyu is at a loss.

First, with her circle. It is still before midday. Yet they are all here, and they all relaxed when they saw her. Mizuki asked what's the weather like up there. It's the same. When Mafuyu said this, Ena snorted.

Next, with Tenma Tsukasa. She can't seem to know him at all. He wears her face—but the smile stretches odd and different from her own. He keeps moving her eyebrows with every expression in a manner she can only imagine is exhausting. And something is wrong.

He doesn't make it obvious. But Mafuyu has checked her own expressions with mirrors and traces of her hands enough times to know her own face. And her face shows her a tight set to the mouth and drifting eyes.

Troubled—he's troubled.

…How silly of her. She needn't observe anything to know that. The reason is obvious, because it is the third thing Mafuyu is at a loss with.

Third—though she has her phone back in her hand, Composing the Future doesn't play. It's as good as the wiped track on Tsukasa's own phone, scrubber ticking silently forward only to irritate her. This was her only real guess at a means to end the whole affair, so now she is sitting frustratingly empty with seven people scrutinising her, four of them strangers.

It's an interesting seating arrangement, too—her three circle members on one side, the three she’d met that morning on the other, and herself and Tsukasa sitting on chairs at the same end.

While the booth their little group had gone for could, if pressed, squeeze three people on either side, four was an impossible goal. So Mizuki had opted to drag two chairs over for the remaining two to sit at the edge, only then there'd been an odd moment of pause as everyone contemplated the seats in question.

Mafuyu considered. If she sat down again next to Kanade, she'd be squeezed between her and one of the show troupe strangers. If she sat down next to Mizuki, it would be a little better, but still the thought of being pressed like that, now, in a body that still isn't hers—

She sat down in a chair.

Tsukasa had stepped a little closer, eyeing the empty seats. Her—his hands went to rest on the back of the chair, fingers gripping tight to the polished wood.

Did he feel the same as she did? Did the thought of the incorrect space he was filling being impressed on him from all sides fill him sick with nausea?

Even still, he didn't sit down.

…Was he being polite?

“Rui,” she heard Kusanagi murmur under her breath.

Kamishiro twitched, then shook himself, before decisively stepping up to Tsukasa and patting the back of his shoulder exactly once. In return, Tsukasa looked a little startled, but obligingly sat down.

That handled, Otori moved towards the spot next to Mizuki, only for Kusanagi to catch her by the wrist, pulling her back with an accompanying wah! Kamishiro finally looked to where Kanade sat alone, and tilted his head with a tight smile.

“Is it alright?” he asked, with no real indication of what he was asking.

Kanade, at least, seemed to understand just fine. Her eyes scanned slowly over Kamishiro’s face for a moment, before nodding and sliding herself out of the seat to sit down next to Mizuki. And at last, the show troupe squeezed in, Otori first and Kamishiro last.

Now here they all are, overly complicated rituals complete.

So far, the time has consisted of altogether inane conversation—

“Mafuyu, do you want to split some of the apple sorbet?” Kanade asks, staring straight at her like she sees no one else. “It seemed like you sort of enjoyed it last time.”

“Not yet,” Mafuyu says without thinking. “…But yes.”

Kanade nods. She has her hand on the table as if by habit, loosely unfurled in Mafuyu's direction. If Mafuyu wanted to touch, she'd barely have to reach at all.

Mafuyu does not want to touch, feels sick at the thought of touching, but it feels good that Kanade's hand is there.

—Aside from inane conversation, the table is full of staring. From her, at her.

Unsurprisingly, the hardest and easiest scrutiny to bear is Tsukasa’s. It’s hard because, well, it’s her face. It’s her face only so much looser, because even with the tension in his shoulders Tsukasa’s blank look of focus is so much more defenceless than she’d ever allow.

But it's also easy, because Mafuyu's looking right back. Catching his eye and triggering a rueful quirk of his lips, even as he turns again to chuckle distractedly as Otori asks him her questions.

Approachable, she considers. Committee member. Showcast troupe leader. Honest, even if not relaxed.

“Hmph,” Miles brandished an arm, triggering a swoop of his cape visible even with the shaking camera's distance. “Not amusing. Not amusing at all!”

Hm. She flexes one of her hands in an experimental gesture, fingers curling up like a magician might. His eyes follow it, his shoulders roll back.

Who are you? She thinks.

Why did you become me?

“In any case,” Kamishiro clears his throat. “Why don't we summarise what we've learned, then? Emu-kun?”

“Aye, sir!” Otori salutes him with a cheery flick of her wrist before opening up her notebook. “Mmm, yesterday Tsukasa-kun ate a lot of lamb curry for dinner—”

“Summarise,” Kusanagi reminds her, not unkindly.

“Nothing out of the ordinary in Tsukasa-kun's day yesterday!” Otori smoothly recalibrates. “Tentative conclusions: none! Solutions, also none!”

“Perfect,” Kamishiro offers a lazy salute in return. He has not stopped smiling even once since the conversation began. “And what of your side?”

The phrasing niggles at something inside of her, but she simply smiles indulgently. “Nothing odd happened to me yesterday, either.”

Kamishiro nods, clearly not having expected any different. “I see. In that case, we should aim for as wide a net of solutions as possible. If we can't identify…”

Under his business-like tone sounds the long buzz of her phone under her hand. She offers him a slightly apologetic smile, which he acknowledges easily with a nod as he continues to speak. Then, she taps twice on her screen to wake it up.

And freezes.

Change in plans, says her screen, words clear and no-nonsense. Be back by four, won’t you?

“…and one day isn't an unreasonable amount of time to pull out of routine, Tsukasa-kun,” Kamishiro is saying.

“I really don't know how I feel about skipping someone else's classes—”

“Live a little,” says Kusanagi. She doesn't roll her eyes despite her callous statement, and instead reaches around Kamishiro to poke her—Tsukasa's current body in a gesture that's all play and no exasperation. She might even be smiling. “Don't overthink this.”

The swipe of Tsukasa's hand at it, however, is all exasperation. “You of all people can’t give that advice.”

“I’m exactly who can give that advice.”

“School’s important!” Otori pipes up brightly, leaning over the diner table to look Tsukasa in the eyes. “But, but, right now Tsukasa-kun’s all bwagh, and that’s a lot more—”

Mafuyu drops the thread of the conversation, grasping for another.

“Yeah, seems like,” Ena’s saying to Mizuki. “What do you think, forum-hopping?”

“Sure—I’m better at that kinda stuff than you are, anyway.” Mizuki grins.

Ena breathes out a put-upon sigh. “Just because I don't look up haunted spots in my spare time—”

“You're missing out, for real,” Mizuki leans back to take a long sip of her drink. “Don't you think if they exist, other stuff could too?”

“…Don't make me think about that.”

“When else are you supposed to think about it if not in times like these?” She raises an eyebrow with a sly look. “We're about to go all in. Start crushing that cute side of yours, Enanan!”

“God, I hate when you have a point…”

Mafuyu drops that one too, exhaling and inhaling a little too quickly.

Skip. A day. All in.

“Mafuyu…?” Kanade murmurs.

“I can't,” breathes Mafuyu.

The conversation doesn't cut all at once. Focuses shift to her one by one, starting with Tsukasa.

“What was that?” He asks, looking confused.

“I need to… You need to go home.” Mafuyu says, rubbing her palms into the jeans she's wearing. “Before four. And you need to go to school tomorrow.”

And despite the way he's been defending this exact course of action to his friends, now is when he frowns. “Why?”

Kamishiro raises an eyebrow, all of their troupe silently echoing the question, but Ena's hand presses flat on the table, glare suddenly pointed at Mafuyu's phone.

And Mizuki smiles, that defeated smile Mafuyu hates most.

How does Mafuyu explain? How does she begin to speak about the careful rules that make her existence at home, the dance she follows around them? She needs to be at home before four, at least a half hour before, because she needs to show that the rule matters to her. She needs to go to school tomorrow, because though her mother understands sickness, will surely cluck her tongue and let her go back to sleep with only a few words of excuse, Mafuyu knows what she will surely also say—

“Really, Mafuyu, entertaining your friends when you’re already so busy! It’s no wonder you’ve fallen ill.”

—and Mafuyu can’t let that happen. She can’t. And she can’t skip without telling her mother first because her mother has always taken interest, and there's always a non-zero chance every evening that her homeroom teacher gets a call, a how is our darling Mafuyu? And though the answer will always start with she’s an absolute pleasure, she cannot let it finish with is she alright? It’s rather rare to see her fall ill because then her mother will know and—

Mafuyu stares into her own troubled eyes.

She ensures these things, normally. She ensures these things with her practised smile and poise, but she is not herself and she needs to be herself to ensure these things. So he needs to do it. She needs him to do it. To do this for her.

She doesn’t know him. He tied up her hair in the correct ponytail but he made breakfast and cancelled cram school. She doesn’t, can’t possibly trust him. But he is her, and she needs him to do this for her.

Mafuyu needs Tsukasa to do this for her.

“My mom texted.” She stretches a smile. “She wants you home before four.”

His brows shoot up in disbelief. “Four? How do you get anything done?”

She tilts her head, keeping the smile, and her skin feels like it strains under the dishonesty. “What do you mean?”

Mizuki offers a forced, breezy laugh, breaking into their exchange. “We should probably pick up the pace then, right?”

“Hold on,” Kamishiro puts a hand on the table as if to cut the flow in return. “We’re already in a bit of a time crunch. Surely exceptions can be made.”

“He needs to go—”

“We have no theories, let alone solutions. That’s every reason to work this until it’s done—and there’s certainly no point in him going to school when it would be the worst possible use of our time.”

“It’s fine, isn’t it?” Ena pushes in, crossing her arms. “If today passes, we can just meet again tomorrow afternoon.”

“Can we really guarantee that?” Kamishiro’s gaze is sharp. “We have no idea how this happened. Who’s to say it’s benign? Can we really discount the possibility of serious harm the longer it persists?”

Kusanagi twitches at that, her watchful expression tightening into worry. “That’s… true. I don’t feel comfortable just putting it aside either.”

Tsukasa blinks at her in question, and her eyes go soft.

“You’re already— Things are already… not great, after just one morning. A whole day of this seems… you know?”

Mafuyu’s fingers curl in her lap, jaw stiff to open. “That’s—”

“Exactly,” says Kamishiro grimly. “We should be aiming to be over with this as soon as possible, for safety if nothing else. Can you honestly say we have room to prioritise anything else right now?”

“Can you be any more pushy?” Ena draws herself up, lip curling. “Seriously, be a little more aware of people’s circumstances, won’t you?”

“Tsukasa-kun has commitments of his own, and yet we’re not insisting Asahina perform stunt theatre.”

She looks incredulous. “That’s not the same thing!”

“Circumstances aside, surely, if there was ever any time to push, it’d be—”

“Stop.”

It's said quietly, but the table hushes instantly. Everyone turns, surprised, to see Kanade, her brows furrowed and mouth half open like she'd run out of words for her breath.

“Kanade?” murmurs Mizuki.

“You're not—” Kanade's brow furrows deeper. “You keep… Mafuyu isn't your obstacle. Stop just… talking over her.”

Is Kanade… angry?

Mafuyu looks her over, takes in the pinch of her lips, her tensed fingers on the table, and the way she stares straight into Kamishiro's face.

They all say, yes, yes she is.

He seems to notice it too, judging by the way his mouth flattens into a line. Their posture mirrors each other's in a way that's almost disorientating—both their hands flex on the table in the same way, outstretched a little unnaturally, as if reaching for—

Mafuyu blinks. Recalibrates. Scans over Kanade's posture again, reading past the perpetually hunched shoulders to settle on the way she's tilting, like she wants to put Mafuyu behind her.

That's…

She doesn't dwell on it, instead drawing the thought to the conclusion of Kamishiro, across the table. The way he'd put his hands on Tsukasa's shoulders earlier, comfortably protective. It'd be funny if Mafuyu could find things funny right now—herself and Tsukasa, in each other's bodies, and yet the first pair here to make perfect mimicry of each other includes neither of them.

It's funny. It's not funny. “Kanade.”

Kanade scoots a little closer, casting a quick side glance at her, but otherwise keeps her focus fixed forward. “We’re supposed to be working things out,” she relents, still with that hard edge under her usual breathiness.

Mafuyu peeks to her right, because if her suspicion is correct—

Tsukasa's knuckles, knocking against Kamishiro’s elbow. His lips pursed tight, unintentionally coaxing Kamishiro closer to him. Of course, of course.

“I can handle it,” Tsukasa says into the silence—Mafuyu has never heard her own voice sound so decisive. “And… you guys can take care of the rest in the meantime?”

Kamishiro shuts his eyes. Then opens them.

“I— Yes. We can compromise.” His mouth is still stuck in an unhappy line. “That is, Asahina-san, you see why—”

“We're worried,” Kusanagi cuts in suddenly. “And we're sorry.”

Otori silently reaches a hand behind her to tangle her fingers into Kamishiro's sleeve.

“…Yes,” he confirms after a moment. “That.”

Ena’s eyeing all three of them suspiciously, but Kanade takes the words as they are with a quiet, “okay.” Mafuyu thinks that’s alright, considering it’s at least half true.

Taking her hand back from Kamishiro’s arm, Otori stands up with one palm flat on the table. “Then! Next comes our strategy! The rest of us will double the effort, right?”

“Sure,” Mizuki draws, pouncing on the mood shift with all her usual practice. “It’s not like I was planning on going to school anyway.”

“If this lasts into the evening, then I’ll do the same,” says Ena.

Tsukasa furrows his brow at the affirmative nods around the table. “Is that really all right? For the two of us to be the only ones unaffected?”

“Repeat the word ‘unaffected’ to me,” says Kusanagi.

“In fact, it will hurt—don't you know how seriously I take my attendance?” Kamishiro puts both hands to his chest like he's been wounded. “How can I live deprived of third period math?”

Otori’s expression falls crushed. All she says is, “Tsukasa-kun…”

“Alright! Alright, I get it, no need to look at me like that—”

At Mafuyu’s persistent stare at her own group, Ena huffs. She forgoes any similar theatrics to say simply, “seriously, Mafuyu, it’s fine. We’re not exactly honour students.”

Mafuyu startles at light fingertips brushing the back of her hand, attention snatched back by Kanade’s gentle expression.

“Focus on getting through,” she says softly. “We can handle the rest.”

“Right,” Mizuki says, flashing an o-sign at them with one hand as she moves the conversation onwards. “So I’m thinking on my side, there’s these forums I can check out…”

“Ah! I’ll ask around school for any stories—”

“I can try fiddling with the SE— into retracing our steps online from our work yesterday, you know.”

“There’s certainly some cracking to be done, and if that doesn’t pan out it shouldn’t take me too long to get a passable foothold in neuroscience.”

“No, that’s a little…”

The conversation once again sweeps on without her, but this time Mafuyu doesn’t feel any urgency to slow it. She considers instead the situation she’s wrestled, this promise to fill all of Tsukasa’s spaces with deception until she can safely be the sole protector of her own life again. Of forcing him into all the roles she’s been forced into.

She turns to her right to find Tsukasa blinking back at her. The both of them, unmoored.

I’m sorry, she thinks she wants to say.

His (her own) eyes rove over her (his own) face. He opens his mouth for a moment, frowning, and there is a sharp stab of worry. His questions, somehow, would be more intolerable than anything. She doesn’t want to know what he’s gleaned from his time under her dining room lights, she doesn't want another protest to send her spiralling.

But then, Tsukasa shakes his own head like he’s clearing the thoughts away.

“Excuse me,” he apologises. “Shall we compare notes for tomorrow?”