Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She’s kind of cute, he notices. Something compels him to talk to her more. Entertain her stupid little antics more. Reluctantly listen to her more. Tease her more. 

He even lets her cling onto him a few times, before it becomes bothersome and he has to shrug her off. 

He finds that he even enjoys her touch. 

Irie doesn’t even mind when she blabbers at the kitchen table, finds it entertaining until she starts talking about absolute bullshit, and then he becomes aware of himself, wonders why he’s even listening to Kotoko of all people. 

Still. Irie finds that when Kotoko talks less, she is not bad. She almost seems…normal when she’s quiet. 

That is, when she’s not sad. Kotoko is always quiet when she’s sad, almost mute. 

The only time she’s quiet and calm is when she’s asleep. Then, she’s very pretty. Extremely beautiful even, when she’s not making absurd facial expressions or crying or stuffing food in her mouth or coughing. 

Irie sees her fall asleep a whole lot. She sleeps everywhere and all the time, so often that he’s beginning to wonder if she has low iron or a sleep disorder. Her father just says that’s how she’s always been, but he himself falls asleep just as often as his daughter. 

Irie supposes genetics always prevails.

He doesn’t really care. 

Whatever it is, Kotoko is getting a whole lot more tolerable. 

Perhaps Irie is just getting used to her. That must be it.

No matter. He still suspects Kotoko has something to do with it, wonders if she’s adding aphrodisiacs in his drinks. 

Even that is too much for her, but Irie watches her carefully from then on, pays more attention to her.

She’s not entirely bad, Irie thinks, when she shows up in a new dress, something that he’s never seen her in before. It is nice on her. He enjoys the pleasant feeling in his chest for a moment or so, but when his mother claps her hands and asks him what he thinks of Kotoko’s outfit, he frowns at both of them, leaves the table. 

His mother’s meddling is maddening. It’s as if the entire mood of the situation relies on his approval. It is concerning, the amount of energy she expends into a relationship that doesn’t even exist. She’s probably the sole cause of Kotoko’s delusion. The thought makes Irie wonder if his mother is the reason why Kotoko can’t get over him. 

He would very much like Kotoko to get over him. He would like Kotoko to leave his house entirely. 

He leaves the house himself.

He sighs when he hears sandals slapping against the pavement of the driveway. He’s not even 3 meters away from the door. 

Of course, she’s gone to chase after him.

It’s Kotoko. He knows the sound of her running after him, has heard it plenty of times. Irie ignores her question, tries to forget about her silly purple dress. 

“Go back home,” he tells her. “I’m going for a walk.”

“I can walk with you,” she says, still smiling. “You’ll get lonely.”

“I’d rather be lonely, in all honesty.”

Kotoko says nothing. 

He is pleased to see that she’s not smiling at all anymore.

“Why are you still here? Are you waiting for me to do something? What are you waiting for?” Irie can’t help it, he takes a step closer to her, runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re not doing this to me again! You’ve got so much girls that like you — ”

“Like Yuuko Matsumoto?” A name drop of the new girl.

“Like Yuuko Matsumoto! I want you to stop messing with me,” Kotoko says, her voice lowering considerably. “It’s, it’s okay if you don’t like me — I know you don’t like me — but you don’t have to mess with me.” She pauses. “Why do you mess with me?”

Irie smiles. “Even the rich collect pennies, don’t they?”

He watches her leave, wonders if she’s crying. 

He keeps walking.

Chapter Text

Irie has decided that it was all in his mind. It never existed. He does not find Kotoko attractive in the slightest. That would be the worst insult in the world. 

Watching her now — an absolute clown, a literal buffoon, a failure at everything — he can’t possibly understand how he found her attractive.

The human condition is truly impressive.

Now, she’s got a red imprint all over her face, a swelling red thing, blotchy and almost two perfect sets of parallel lines. She looks like she’s been crying. Irie almost laughs as he walks by her table. The sight of her is so funny. 

Her friends glare at him as if he’s committed a grave sin, as if he’s the one who hurt her, as if her injury isn’t a direct result of her own incompetence.

Irie laughs harder, almost has to stop walking. A few people glance at him.

Chapter Text

When he’s invited to a dinner with his father — he only accepts because of his mother’s brutal threats — he finds himself disagreeing with quite a few things the men chat about. 

For one, they love to speak about women. Women that aren’t their wives. Irie deems it strange, but he stays quiet, following his father’s example. If this is the workplace culture, gossiping about sex — and it doesn’t matter what gender; men and women alike sprout this nonsense — Irie would rather not be affiliated. 

Sex. It’s all people care about. It is all silly to him, and while a small, very small part of Irie is intrigued, he is more so bored. Women of all ages embrace him, ask him out, and he supposes the attention is nice — everyone would feel flattered by this so it’s not his fault for enjoying the attention — it is also boring. 

He doesn’t really desire a physical relationship with anyone. He feels like he is reviewing the files of a covert pervert whenever he recalls his last year of high school. Kissing Kotoko like that, what was he thinking? 

He’d rather not think about it, rather not replay the kiss in his mind. It wasn’t a bad kiss, per se, no, in fact, it was quite pleasant, he would say…

Irie is half paying attention now, but his ears perk up when the conversation changes. A burly man stands, starts preaching to the men about abstinence.

Irie sighs. Classic. The man is drunk himself, trying to teach others about self-restraint. 

The burly man sits back down when the men jeer at him, tell him to shut it and get married already. Irie smiles, scratches the side of his nose, tries to hide his amusement. It is akin to getting booed off of a stage. How embarrassing.

Now that he gives it some thought, Irie agrees with the men. Marriage seems like a great solution for these types of men, though it is a lousy reason to get marriage. 

He, however, would never be as rash as they.

It turns out that the burly man is a devout Christian. Many of his personal beliefs stem from religion, and Irie is once again intrigued. He’d like to chat with this man after the dinner, actually.

Irie is quiet for a while as he observes the man, even stops eating just so he can allot his full, undivided attention. He just listens. 

Irie is again disappointed to learn that the burly man is an extremist, one of those who veer too far to either end of a spectrum, sees the world as black and white, right or wrong. There is no grey space in this man’s mind.

Irie decides that he will stop observing the burly man, but he finds that he can’t. Mainly because the man is constantly causing a ruckus, yelling, being too enthusiastic about something, or just being rude.

Though it must be a release of some sorts to the man, because he must be extremely restrictive. This is probably the only time he lets his guard down. 

Irie finally stops listening when the men start planning a Christmas party. It is months away. No sane, normal person would be thinking about Christmas at a time like this.

He brushes thoughts of Kotoko out of his mind — then again, it is right that he thought of her; she isn’t normal. Far from it.

Irie wonders what she’s doing right now. It is a cold evening. She is probably not outside. He hopes she isn’t, roaming the streets alone at night.

No. She’s probably eating dinner with Yuuki right now. Probably washing the dishes with his mother, giggling about something useless. 

Irie glances at his father, sees him laughing and clapping along. Father seems to be enjoying himself. That is good. 

Irie wipes his mouth with a napkin, folds it underneath his plate. There isn’t anyone to take it away from him, so he stands, walks over to the front of the room, asks where to put his empty plate. 

The short lady is all too glad to direct him, he is thankful for her help. 

When he returns to the table, the men grow quiet. Irie feels the same sense of doom he feels whenever he walks by Kotoko’s table at lunch; her friends always halt their conversations, stare at him. 

Irie glances around as he seats himself at the table. 

“Nao, we were just discussing what a well-rounded young man you are,” his father says, trying to diminish the awkwardness. “Everyone is very impressed.”

“There’s nothing impressive about me,” Irie replies, shaking his head. He forces a calm smile on his face. His eyes flicker to his father, though Irie is consciously putting in the effort to not to look at him. 

His father looks happy. 

Good. He has said the right thing. Unlike Mother, Papa will never outright tell you what he is thinking. It is much easier to read his face.

Irie decides to amp the humble act of his. If it means he can return home sooner…

“I’m more pleased to be in the company of such talented businessmen,” Irie continues, laying it thick. He pauses, raises his cup to his lips. “I’m sure there’s a lot I’ve got to learn.”

The men laugh. 

“No need for all that, Naoki, no need. We were betting on you, actually,” one man says, and Irie blinks, cup still poised in place. 

Perhaps the burly man isn’t the only one who's drunk. It seems everyone here is drunk, even Father.

“We were betting, we were betting to see which one of our daughters you’d be willing to date,” he continues, and Irie shuts his eyes, takes a slow sip. 

“You’re embarrassing him,” one lady chides. She’s one of the few women present. Irie wonders which drunk man is her husband. “Leave him alone.”

“Oh, Risa, don’t be like that,” the burly man says, and Irie is confused at the dynamic. Isn’t the Christian man single? Perhaps they drop the formalities after a few drinks. “You’d be more than happy to have a son-in-law like him. I know I would!”

“Are you married?” Irie cannot help but to ask, though the answer is obvious. Irie sets his glass down on the table, inadvertently revealing his face. “I don’t think that’s an appropriate dream of yours.”

“I’m just complimenting you,” the burly man says, laughing. Irie notices him glancing around at the people sitting around him, seeking validation. “Don’t take it so seriously.”

Risa has taken a particular interest in him, it seems. Irie turns to her when she calls his name, wonders when this first name basis began. Perhaps it is the culture here. “You’ve a high tolerance for someone so young,” she comments, smiling. “Do you go out drinking with your girlfriend often?”

Irie suspects that she does not care about his drinking habits at all. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, giving her what she wants. If it means Papa will be pleased…

The men howl. 

These men are not the same men they were at the start of this dinner. 

“When I was your age, I went through ‘bout a box a day,” one man says, almost slapping the table. “Just tearin’ them open every hour!”

His friend snorts. “You? Condoms?” 

The table erupts in laughter. 

Risa tries to speak, tries to get Irie’s attention, but he stares straight ahead, pretends to laugh along at the crude humor. When he hears his name for the 4th time, he finally turns to her. 

“So,” she says, when the table finally calms down to a moderate volume level. “Are you really single? There’s no one in your life?”

“You’re a married woman!” The burly man interrupts, shaking his head. He is so loud. “Wait ‘till I tell on you! Oooh, just wait ‘till you get snitched on!”

Irie thinks about his mother, realizes that she is, in fact, very wise. She’d always said marriage forces men out of their childish ways. 

He ignores how Mother’s comment (as well as a glare) was always directed at him.

Risa swirls her cup. There is not much left in it. “I’m not interested in him, goodness, no,” she says, but the burly man is still not convinced. 

“You’re shameless,” he tells her, and Irie can’t even being to guess how drunk this man is. Every time Irie tries to put his finger on it, the burly man acts more flippantly, skewing his conclusions entirely. Irie gives up. “The kid’s father is sitting right there!”

Papa is startled. “No, it’s fine,” he sputters, almost coughing from how suddenly he just spoke. “I’m sure Nao doesn’t mind at all.”

“That’s right,” Irie replies, automatically. “As I told you, I’m not dating anyone right now. I’m focusing on my studies.”

Risa nods. “That’s very admirable. I wish my daughter would be more like you,” she says,

and Irie smiles back at her, nodding politely. 

Irie can tell she would like to talk more about her daughter, can tell that she’s waiting for an invitation to talk about her daughter.

Irie does not ask about her daughter.

“Calm down,” the questionable condom man is saying to the burly man. “You’ve had too much.”

“I’m a man of God,” the burly man says, suddenly serious. Irie wishes he were home. “Nothing is too much for me.”

The burly man is escorted out by the condom man. It is an absurd pair. The two men quite literally have nothing in common, save for work. Irie wonders what they could possibly talk about. Perhaps the alcohol makes everything easier. 

Imagining a conversation between the two men — while they are sober — is hilarious. It is a rude thought, yes, Irie is willing to acknowledge that, but the absurdity is amusing.

He smiles into his glass, ignoring Risa’s gaze on him.

Dessert is wheeled out, and Risa asks what he would like, offers to plate food for him. Irie declines. The buffet style of this dinner isn’t meant to be served by others; it is a self-serve. Her question is stupid, but he doesn’t say anything other than a polite no.

“I’ll be busy getting food for my father,” he explains, nodding his way out of the conversation. 

As he plates the sweets, piling them mindlessly high, Irie considers bringing some home. There is nothing on his plate that he would be willing to eat. He is nauseous seeing the many slices of chocolate cake, so he settles for a small vanilla cookie instead. 

He frowns at the thought of Kotoko, knows this would be her heaven. Even Yuuki, who has a total sweet tooth, is no match for her. The two of them bickering over the amount of food the other has is a comforting, familiar thought. 

Irie fleetingly wonders how Kotoko allows herself to be bullied by such a small child. He’s replaying an argument of theirs in his head as he sets the larger plate down for his father. 

When Irie returns to his seat, he isn’t surprised to see Risa sitting in front of him. She’d purposefully moved seats. 

“Aren’t you going to eat more than that? These bakery goods are the best in the city,” she says, brushing a cookie crumb from her lip. 

“I’m on a diet,” Irie tells her, straight-faced.

Chapter Text

It is bad enough to be seen with Kotoko, but it is worse to have Kotoko see him. So, when he catches her skipping around the mall with her friends, Jinko and Satomi, Irie ducks into a nearby shop, acts like he’s trying on sunglasses. Flips through some magazines. It’s difficult to see through the large sunglasses he’s put on, but it’ll do. 

He realizes with alarming accuracy that this is a DVD store, one that primarily carries … vulgar media.

Getting caught at an indecent place like this is what he cannot afford. 

Still. It is better to look suspicious than to look like himself. 

And so, he stands, in place, acts busy.

Besides. The magazines don’t do anything to him. 

There is no appeal.

Bikini-clad women on every page, in various positions, wide eyed and just barely covered. He flips to another page, is slightly alarmed at how little the model is wearing, sheer clothing showing so much. 

He suspects she receives a hefty sum of money for her work.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, a timid, petite woman. “Sir,” she says, taking a step back. “You’ll have to purchase that to continue reading it.”

“I’ve decided to not buy it,” he tells her, putting it back on the rack. She almost looks relieved when he leaves the shop, promptly. 

Irie wonders if she’d thought of him as a pervert. He is nothing of the sort. 

He is more than happy to oblige though, more than happy to put the sunglasses away and leave.

All the hiding he’s done proves futile when he enters his house, sees Kotoko upon entering.

Irie watches Kotoko’s face a little more closely when she greets him, glances at her outfit a little too long. She’s wearing boring clothing, a sweater and shorts. An absurd combination; the top and bottom completely contradict each other.

Her clothes are nothing like the women in the magazine were, though the thought of Kotoko in a thong is more than amusing. 

She would look so out of place.

Irie smiles as he removes his shoes, smiles harder when Kotoko asks him why he’s so happy. 

He tells her that Yuuko Matsumoto is a very nice girl, and then heads to his room.

Irie deems the it a pass.

This simply proves he does not like Kotoko in the slightest bit. She is not attractive to him at all, in any way, shape, or form. In fact, it is nothing short of amusing. He almost giggles like a schoolgirl when he thinks about it again, c’mon, Kotoko? In a bright green G-string? 

Irie falls over in his chair. 

The laughing fit he’d had knocked the air out his lungs, and now that he’s laying on the floor, he really can’t breathe.

God, his ribs hurt. Irie supposes it’s from laughing so hard. He almost curses Kotoko when he can’t get up without wincing in pain. It is like sharp nails are reaching into his flesh, poking him.

He’s lucky his chair didn’t land on him, otherwise he’d be nursing a broken leg as well. 

All is good. He is fine. He is alright.

He gets up, shakily. Maybe he’ll go to sleep early today, even if it’s only evening. Extra sleep never hurts. 

A sharp knock at the door interrupts his train of thought.

He ignores it, hopes his mother will get the hint and leave. 

Of course, it’s not his mother, rather Kotoko at the door, her hand probably poised for another knock. 

She never gets the hint.

“Go away,” he tells her, ignoring her it’s just me! twice.

“I was just bringing you some tea Auntie made when I heard a loud noise,” Kotoko says, and Irie is beyond shocked to see that she invites herself in, opening his door wide.

“I never told you to come in,” he mutters, forcing himself to sit up straight. “You can put the tea on my desk. Don’t forget to close the door when you leave.”

“Why are you on the floor?”

Irie says nothing. 

“Are you injured? Is everything alright?”

“I dropped my pen,” Irie lies, watching her carefully. “Now leave me alone.”

“Your pencil-case isn’t open,” Kotoko says, glancing around the room.

Irie shuts his eyes.

“Yeah, well, I know how to clean up after myself,” he answers, sharply, and when she starts to lean forward a little too much, her eyes sweeping over his desk, Irie panics. “You’ll spill the tea like that, stop — listen, you’re going to spill it.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” She’s smiling at him, turning the plate in her hands. “I’m fine! I won’t spill a single drop. See?” More spins. Change of hands. Another spin. “I haven’t spilled anything!”

“That’s nice,” Irie deadpans. “Now set it down and leave.”

“You think it’s cool?”

“I don’t. Now leave,” Irie tells her, fed up. “I’m very busy. I don’t need you messing up my schedule.”

“Are you hiding something?” 

“What part of leave my room do you not — ”

“Usually you’re never this mean,” Kotoko comments, cutting him off entirely. “You must be hiding something,” she says, finally setting down the teacup and the small plate underneath it. “Is it porn?”

“…What is wrong with you?”

“I can understand if you’d rather not talk about these things with the door open,” Kotoko says, shutting the door behind her. “Is that why you’re on the floor? Maybe you felt the need to hide it. It’s okay!” She winks at him, giggles, and Irie suddenly feels like a cornered animal. “I’ll keep your secret for you, Irie-kun!”

Kotoko sits on the floor, crosses her legs. 

Irie is bewildered. 

She smiles at him, leans in.

“In return for keeping your secret, can you…tell me your type? What kind of girls do you like?”

Irie forces himself to stand. He needs his personal space back. She is much too close to him.  “I need you to get out of my room.”

“Are you feeling shy?”

“Get out of my room,” he says, making the mistake of rubbing his side. “Right now.”

“So you are hurt.” Kotoko is quiet for a moment. “Let me give you a massage! I’m very good at it,” she says, clapping her hands. “You can lay down on your bed. I’ll take care of you!”

Irie glares at her. “I think you’re the one reading pornography,” he tells her, bluntly. “What are you expecting?”

She falters. Irie had known her sudden confidence was all a front. Kotoko is a terrible actor. 

“I — It’s not like that, no, I don’t want anything from you,” she sputters. Kotoko looks down, sadly. “I just wanted to help you.”

“You’re making things worse for me,” Irie tells her bluntly. “Nothing you do helps me.”

She wrings her fingers in her lap once, twice, and then she nods. “Right. That’s true,” she admits, talking much too slowly, much too quietly. 

Irie watches her stand up slowly. 

Kotoko trudges to the door. 

“Wait,” he says, sighing at the way she turns around, much too quickly. “The tea.” Irie picks up the cup, sees Kotoko deflate. “It’s cold now. You cooled it down with all your dancing.”

He extends his arm, holding the porcelain plate steadily. “You can bring it back to me when it’s reheated. Or, you can drink it yourself, if you like it cold.”

When she doesn’t respond, Irie frowns. She’s obviously thinking about something else, probably lost in her own fantasy. 

He’ll never understand people like that.

Irie sighs. “Don’t try to make a deal with me,” he tells her as he sets the plate down on his desk. “I’ll just reheat it myself.”

He sits back down on his bed, itches his neck. “You can leave now. Goodbye.”

Kotoko is still there. “You really…weren’t reading a porn book, right?”

“And what if I was?” He turns to her, almost smiling. “Does that bother you?”

“I never thought you were interested in girls,” Kotoko admits. “It makes me feel a little better.”

The conversation has taken a sudden turn. Irie blinks. 

He almost feels uncomfortable. “I wasn’t,” he says, glaring at her. “I wasn’t reading that,” he clarifies, adds.

“You know, last year, everyone thought you were gay,” Kotoko continues, giggling. “I thought I had a hopeless crush on a gay guy!”

“Don’t remind me of that,” he says, almost biting down on his tongue. “Now leave my room. You aren’t welcome here.”

She stares at the wall, her gaze fond, reminiscent. “I was so depressed when I heard that rumor back then.”  Kotoko smiles now. “But now I know you like girls!” 

She is quiet, all of a sudden.

It’s like a revelation has been revealed to her. “So that means Irie-kun is just like any other guy,” Kotoko says, to herself.

Irie stares at her. “You really are brainless,” he says, turning away. “How could I have been gay when I kissed you? Or do you not consider yourself a girl?”

Irie gives her a once-over, pauses. “Though I’m not so sure you look like one,” he comments, eyeing her shorts again. “There really isn’t much.”

She leaves without a word, though the volume of his door slamming shut is loud and clear.

He falls asleep eventually, because she’d turned the light off as well. Irie dreams of strange things that night, dreams of long legs, magazines and juggling clowns.

Chapter Text

He gives Kotoko nothing for her birthday. Her birthday outfit looks nice, and she looks decent, not bad, pretty, even. 

That is all he tells her. 

She almost hugs him when he says so, and although he wouldn’t have pushed her away, she drops her arms back before they touch. 

Her friends watch on with wide eyes, gasp when he leaves the house, so suddenly. Only Kotoko doesn’t look after him; she’s too busy unwrapping a gift. He does not think she notices his absence, which is strange. 

Irie can’t say that he’s disappointed that Kotoko didn’t hug him, but he cannot say that he’s pleased, either.

The cool air of the evening clears his mind. He thinks about the future. 

Chapter Text

Tennis practice proves difficult. Sudo and his crude jokes about ‘hitting the balls’ make him internally wince and outwardly cringe. His teammates tell him to ‘chill out’, and ‘you don’t have to go that hard on us’, whenever he plays against them (though that’s just how he plays normally) and when one guy asks Irie ‘who peed in his breakfast cereal’, Irie almost quits the team right then and there. 

He frowns at the sight of Kotoko. She’s always in his way, though it is inevitable that he will pass by her; she’s always at the exit of the court, doing her ‘duty’.

She’s being ridiculous again; on her hands and knees, picking up and gathering tennis balls off the ground like chipmunks scrambling to prepare for hibernation. 

Just to spite her, Irie kicks a runaway ball hard, watches it roll far, far ahead of him. 

He’s amused to see her chase after it, but when she trips he finds himself running after her. Her skirt rides up and he’s can see that she’s wearing biker shorts underneath.

Her knees will probably hurt from the impact, seeing as her shorts are…incredibly short.

When Irie catches up to her, he asks if she is okay. He can already tell that Kotoko is not, knows her too well.

“You’ll be fine. I’ll walk you to the nurse,” he tells her, in a way he hopes is assuring, “she’ll recognize you right away.” 

“I’m fine,” Kotoko replies, shrugging out of his grasp. “It’s okay. Matsumoto can take me.”

Matsumoto?

“Since when are you friendly with Matsumoto?” His arms are still slightly outstretched, as if she might change her mind. “Don’t you want me to take you there?”

“You’re busy,” is all she says. 

Matsumoto approaches the two of them. She smiles at Irie, has a bit of small talk with him.

The whole time, he can’t stop glancing at Kotoko, wondering what exactly is wrong with her. She gets hurt once, maybe twice a week every time they practice, and each time, she clings onto Irie, crying on his shoulder. 

He’s gotten too used to it, and her denial now feels like a betrayal. 

Irie can’t understand it.

He leaves them alone, watches as they pass the lone tennis ball, watches as they cut the grass to enter the building behind the court. 

He starts walking only when they disappear, and when he nears the tennis ball that he kicked earlier, Irie kicks it again, kicks it behind him, not looking back to see where it ends up rolling.

Irie spends the rest of his time walking around aimlessly. 

Kotoko is still in a stupor when he gets back home. When she doesn’t show for dinner, Irie decides to call her up. Something is off.

He knocks on her room door, once, and then lets himself in. She’s wearing a thick pajama set, some pink, polka-dot thing that is far too cute for her sad face. Pajamas already? Was she planning on turning in, this early? 

“Are you alright?” Irie asks, standing at the door. “You scraped your knee, didn’t you?”

He walks in, blinking at the brightness of her room. He’ll never get used to it, Mama's decorations.

“Let me see,” he tells her, frowning at her reluctance. “Kotoko,” he says, crossing his arms. “I want to see.”

She sighs, a small puff of air leaving her. Irie ignores her imitation of him. 

When she rolls up her pant, he examines her leg. It doesn’t look too painful, just a scrape of the knee like he’d been suspecting. The bleeding’s long since stopped, but Irie knows it’ll sting for a while. 

“Do you mind taking this bandage off?” He asks, leaning in for a better look. A larger bandage would be ideal. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“This one is fine,” Kotoko says, not glancing up at him. “It’s okay, Irie-kun, really, I’m fine.”

“I’ll get a new one,” he tells her, pausing at her door. “Wait for me.”

She’s still forlorn when he comes back in her room, but the bandage is off her knee, folded up in the palm of her hand. 

“It’ll hurt a little bit,” Irie tells her as he presses the bandage to her knee, gently. “I’ll put it on loosely so you can still move your knee.”

Kotoko watches him, and he can tell she’s staring. When he glances up at her, she blinks away quickly. Her lip trembles.

“Crying?” Irie pauses. “Does it still hurt? Maybe you’ve got a bruise underneath there,” he says, and he starts to lift the bandage, thinks better of it. Bruises don’t usually form that quickly, especially from such a slight fall. 

Still. Kotoko is…more prone to injuries. He eyes her, takes in her teary eyes. Maybe there is a bruise, maybe she's got delicate, sensitive skin. 

“You’re being very nice today,” she says, looking up and away. Her eyes are shiny. “I’m not used to it.”

Irie says nothing. 

“I’ll try not to get hurt again,” Kotoko says. “Sorry to bother you.”

He’s about to stand up when he notices that the bandage is misaligned. That’ll be a problem. Irie resorts to peeling it off, delicately. If he presses too hard, with too much pressure, she’ll feel hurt. He tries to be gentle.

Kotoko seems to not care. “Matsumoto says she’s not giving up on you.”

Hm. The bandage almost sticks to itself and he has to pry it apart, being careful to not stretch it. He’s never seen a more stubborn bandage in his entire life. Perhaps he’ll need to tell his mother to purchase another brand.

“Thank you for helping me,” Kotoko says, after a while. 

“It’s my fault you fell, isn’t it?”

Kotoko’s eyebrows furrow together, slightly. He wants to reach out and smooth it, make the skin as smooth as her legs are. 

Irie looks away from her face, focusing on her carpet instead. 

The carpet…is…also…pink.

“Are you doing this because you feel bad for me?”

He’s absentmindedly stroking her knee with his thumb, but he doesn’t stop when she stares back at him, wide-eyed and hopeful. 

“No,” he answers, finally taking his hand off of her. “I did it because you need to walk down the stairs. Dinner’s ready.”

Irie stands, glances back at Kotoko. “You can walk now, right? I made sure of it.”

Chapter Text

“Nice sweater you got there,” Irie says to Kinnosuke, who’s got his arm around Kotoko. “I’m sure she’ll love smelling your sweat. Isn’t that why the fabric’s so dark around the armpits?”

He smiles — internally, of course — at Kotoko’s squeal as he passes by their lunch table. It’s a route for him now, a routine even. 

He glances back, sees Ikezawa’s arm still on Kotoko, frowns. He must be holding onto her tightly. Ikezawa’s fingers dangle just below Kotoko’s neck, dangerously close to her chest.

The image repeats itself in Irie’s mind as he continues on his way to the library.

Questions, thoughts, swarm his mind.

Why would Ikezawa touch Kotoko today of all days, when she’s wearing an off the shoulder top? Why today, when she’s got her hair in that cute bun and she’s even got a bit of lipstick on? Did she get dressed up just for Ikezawa? Did she swipe that lipstick on with him in mind? Why is Ikezawa so close to her today? Usually Jinko and that other girl, Satomi, would be crowding around Kotoko, so why aren’t they here today? What’s going on? What kind of conversation have the two of them — Kotoko and Ikezawa — been having prior to this public display of affection? What does Kotoko see in him? Why is she allowing this? What exactly is Ikezawa trying to prove? 

He pauses.

Who even cares?

Irie leaves the cafeteria, his appetite seemingly gone, the food tray in his hand feeling like a bag of boulders.

Chapter Text

Yuuki falls ill on Naoki’s birthday. Kotoko almost cries at the fact; but he can’t fathom the fact that she’s crying. 

Besides. Who is Kotoko even crying for? Irie cannot tell.

“I’m supposed to be the sad one,” he tells her, bending down to pick up a tissue off the small table. Irie thrusts it at her, scrunching up his face. “Stop crying so much.”

“But it’s so terrible,” Kotoko wheezes. “You can’t go out anywhere, and you can’t have fun, and Yuuki can’t celebrate with you and then he’ll be sad and then you’ll be — ”

Irie throws the tissue in her face, crosses his arms. Kotoko catches the tissues before it floats down on the ground, blows hard. 

Irie sighs, sits down on the couch next to her. “He’s asleep now,” he tells her, scooting away when she folds the tissue, blows in it again. “Try to keep it down.”

“Your parents will be coming back soon,” Kotoko says, quietly. “They’ll bring food for you, right?”

He scoffs. “I told them not to,” Irie admits, “but Mother wouldn’t have it. So I guess we’re celebrating.”

She smiles at him, through her teary eyes. “I’m glad we can still have a small celebration,” she says, leaning her head on his shoulder. He doesn’t shrug away, but he does bring his elbow to his knee, rests his chin on his hand. Kotoko’s head almost slides off his shoulder, but she manages to keep herself upright. 

“The people at school tomorrow will probably have lots of things for you,” she mumbles, sniffling. 

“Things?”

“Like gifts,” Kotoko explains, lifting her head off of Irie’s shoulder. “Presents. I know Matsumoto has something for you. Lots of other people will too.”

“I’ll stay home tomorrow then,” Irie decides, turning to glance at Kotoko. “I’d rather not have any more gifts.”

“You can’t do that! You’ll be missing too much school,” she says, reaching out for another tissue. Kotoko has to get up slightly just to reach the box. “You can’t stay home tomorrow, Irie-kun, you can’t!”

“Yuuki needs me,” Irie says, standing up. “I’ll go check on him.”

“I’ll go with you.” Kotoko snatches another tissue before scrambling after him, climbing the stairs. 

Irie sighs, waits for her to reach the top before he disappears down the hall, turning the doorknob to his room slowly. Irie leaves the light off, takes a few steps into his room.

“Don’t wake him up,” he tells Kotoko, but she’s already sitting on Irie’s bed, nodding.

Irie’s face scrunches up in disgust as she blows her nose, still sitting on his bed. He whisper-yells at her, hisses for her to get off his bed and to not, repeat not, let that tissue get anywhere near his belongings.

He frowns at Kotoko one last time before Irie bends down, reaches his hand out to feel Yuuki’s forehead. The fever’s just about broken; he can see a small shine of sweat on Yuuki’s forehead. Irie loosens Yuuki’s tight grip on his blanket, hopes he will feel less warm.

“Is he doing well?” Kotoko asks, suddenly right behind him. Irie jolts, almost falls down on Yuuki. He rights himself, turns around and fixes her with a glare. She backs away, sheepish.

“Sorry,” she whispers, going back to sit on his bed. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Get off my bed!” He hisses, stepping on a notebook thrown on the floor. Yuuki doesn’t clean up after himself. 

“But it’s your birthday,” Kotoko says, almost pouting. “You’re supposed to be happy.”

“Exactly, my birthday,” Irie tells her, crossing his arms. “And in honor of that, I wish that you would get out of my room. So go.”

“You’re not supposed to wish out loud,” Kotoko counters, smiling at him. “So that doesn’t count! I can always make your wish for you,” she starts and Irie almost grabs her by the arm and yanks her out the room. Almost.

Any more commotion and Yuuki is sure to wake up. Irie resorts to walking away from Yuuki’s bed. He picks up the fallen notebook, shelves it onto the bookshelf, the one on the opposite side of the room. She’ll follow him.

He is appalled when he turns around, sees that she’s returned to sitting on his bed.

“I can make a wish for you instead, Irie-kun,” Kotoko giggles, repeating herself.

“That’s not how it works!” 

Kotoko is still giggling at him. She’s not taking him seriously at all these days.

He feels his anger tenfold. “I’m the one making the wishes. Not you.” He turns to her, watches her fingers play with his sheets. Irie walks over to her, slowly, wonders if Kotoko can even see him. Perhaps she can sense him; Kotoko stops giggling.

“Besides,” Irie continues, leaning down. “I already know what you’d wish for,”

“No, you don’t,” Kotoko replies, looking away. “I haven’t told you.”

“You don’t need to tell me anything,” Irie says, lowly, his knee just barely sinking into the mattress, “I can see it on your face, Kotoko.”

“This…feels familiar,” she suddenly says, looking up at Irie.

“You’re wishing to be my present, aren’t you? Is that why you’re sitting on my bed? It’s the only thing I can think of, so it must be that.”

She flushes, made visible by the small sliver of light peeking into the room, from the barely open door. 

Irie smiles, backs away from her.  “I was right, wasn’t I?”

“No,” Kotoko says, getting off the bed as well. “I only wished for you to love me back,” she admits, fidgeting. 

Irie stares at her. “That’s what you always wish for,” he says, dismissively. He turns back to her, waiting. “Wish for something else this time.”

“You’ll let me make a wish for you?”

“No, I just want to hear what else you’d wish for.” 

“No, no, I can…be your gift if you want me to be, Irie-kun! You can take me on a date, if you’d like. And then you can buy me a dress, and we can watch the stars together, and you can call me whatever pet-name is your favorite too!”

Irie is quiet for a moment. Kotoko’s looking up at him like he’s the moon, the only thing shining bright in the dark sky. 

“Pass.”

Kotoko sputters, and Irie suppresses the urge to press his finger against her lip, suppresses the urge to shush her, maybe put his finger in her mouth so she’ll stay quiet. 

That train of thought is dangerous; he almost contemplated bringing his lips flush to hers, placating her with a kiss.

He opts to grab her hand instead, tug her out of the room.

“Your father will come home first,” he tells her, still holding her hand. It’s difficult to glance back while going down the stairs, but he manages. “It’s better that we’re here to greet him, instead of him coming home to a dark house.”

Apparently, Irie had spoken too soon. His mother’s at the door, shoes still on, scarf around her neck, and a small cake, a vanilla birthday cake, is on the floor.

She stares at the two of them, stares at Irie and Kotoko standing at the top of the stairs, holding hands.

He is positively irked the rest of the evening, telling his mother that absolutely nothing went on, explaining that there was no ‘special gifts’ exchanged.

Irie stops yelling at his mother when Kotoko gasps, stands up from the couch. 

“Yuuki’s awake!”

Yuuki trudges into the living room, rubbing his eye. He sits down on the chair heavily, groaning. 

Mother rushes over to Yuuki, worry etched all over her face. Irie can only hope that she’s forgotten about the previous ordeal. “Yuuki, what’s wrong? Are you hungry? Why are you awake? Are you feeling better?”

Yuuki shakes his head. “I’m just thirsty,” he says, “Naoki, can you get me a glass of water?”

Kotoko stands abruptly, smiling at Yuuki. “I’ll get it for you,” she says, enthusiastically. 

They all watch as she disappears into the kitchen. Irie sighs, wonders if he should head back in his room.

Mother turns back to Yuuki, asks if he would like a lemon slice in his cup. “It gets rid of germs,” she explains, and Yuuki sighs. 

“I know that, it’s an antioxidant. I learned it from Naoki’s old textbook,” Yuuki explains, smiling at his brother. “I’ve read it at least five times now.”

“Do you want tea? I can make lemon and ginger tea,” Kotoko says, peeking her head into the living room.

Irie laughs when Yuuki shakes his head rapidly. “Just water! You can’t mess up water,” Yuuki mutters, ignoring Mother’s glare.

“Did you sleep well, Yuuki? If you did, then you might be able to eat with us, if you’re feeling better!” Kotoko is still in the living room, smiling as she ignores Yuuki’s rudeness.

“How could I? You and Naoki were being too loud in my room,” Yuuki snaps, turning to his mother. “I couldn’t sleep at all because of them!”

The room is silent.

“Wha — too loud? What do you mean by that, Yuuki?” Mother is incredulous.

Irie leaves the house, doesn’t bother to zip his jacket up.

Perhaps, if he falls ill himself, he’ll finally get some time alone. Some peace and quiet.

Scratch that. 

As long as Kotoko is around, there will never be any peace. She’ll be too busy smothering him with her useless efforts, and his mother will only encourage it. 

He zips his jacket, stuffs his hands in his pocket.

Chapter Text

He’s on the subway when he catches a man watching him. Staring at him. He supposes it’s a drunk man. Maybe a drug abuser. Perhaps, someone who’s got a few screws loose. 

He can only see the neck-and-above of the stranger, so when the people disperse and get off at the next stop, Irie is surprised to see that this man is dressed cleanly. Suit and tie.

The man follows behind him when it’s Irie’s stop, and Irie lets himself be chased for a couple of minutes, before he turns around, raises an eyebrow at the man. 

“Is there something you need?”

The man is startled, but jumps into an introduction. Irie suspects it’s rehearsed, or either memorized. 

His thoughts are confirmed when he’s handed a business card, a shiny, small card with even tinier text printed on it.

“I’m a scout,” the man explains. “I think you’d be a perfect candidate for us. Modeling, that is.”

“I’m not interested,” Irie tells him, bluntly, handing the card back. “There’s plenty more people you can scout.”

The man waves his hands, not accepting rejection. 

Irie sighs.

“You’ll be paid well, and we’ve got a flexible schedule for students — you are in school right now, right?”

Irie glances around. “I am.”

“Are you interested? We’ve got weekends off — ”

“Weekends are the only time I’m free,” Irie tells him. “Sorry.” 

He’s not even apologetic in his delivery, but frankly, Irie does not care.

“Just give it a try,” the man tries, taking a step closer to Irie. “Anytime you’re available, we’re available. You’re the perfect candidate,” he repeats, and Irie pauses. 

“Actually, I heard that there’s a shortage for male models,” Irie says abruptly, peering at the card. “A very significant shortage.”

“Yes, well, that’s…true,” the man says, the tone of his voice is suspicious. Either he is suspicious or taken aback. Irie hopes it’s the latter. “We’re trying to counter that issue.”

“So you’re accepting any male who’s interested? That would resolve the issue.”

“Er…well, they’d have to fit the requirements, of course,” the man explains, adjusting his tie. “But we’re very open-minded.”

“I see,” Irie replies, turning the card over. He looks back up at the scout. “What exactly made you choose me? My height? My hair? Or because I’m a male?”

The man laughs. “You must be joking. You know you’re a good-looking guy, I don’t have to tell you that much. I’m sure the ladies are all over you.”

The man leans in, continues. “Listen. You’re perfect. You fit all our requirements. We’ll pay you upfront. We’ve got a flexible schedule. You’ll hit it big if you team with us. There’s nothing suspicious about us,” he says, laying it thick. The man points to the card, still in Irie’s hand. “Just give us a call — what’s your name?”

Irie pauses. “Ikezawa,” he says, for no reason at all. “Ikezawa Kinnosuke.”

“Perfect! I’ll tell them to direct the call over to me when Ikezawa calls. No further negotiation, no interview, nothing. Consider yourself hired!” 

Irie pauses to pocket the card, and then he shakes hands with the man, smiling. 

“You’re even better with that smile on your face,” the man tells him, and Irie laughs, feels like he’s around his father’s friends.

“Thank you,” Irie tells him, stops himself from adding a sir at the end of it.

“No problem,” the man replies, and then he pauses. “Before I forget, I need to ask you for a number. Home or personal, it doesn’t matter — I’ll put either one in my directory,” he says, pulling out a small notebook, littered with numbers. 

Irie stares at the book, blinks. 

“I’ll call you,” he tells the man, feeling his pockets for his phone, patting himself down. “Don’t have my phone on me right now,” Irie explains, and the man laughs.

Irie’s phone is in his bag, front pocket, where he always keeps it.

“Now that’s a believable excuse,” the man says, and Irie laughs along. 

The laughter dies down as the scout puts his small notebook back into his pant pocket. He squints at Irie.

“You don’t have your number memorized?”

“I got my phone number changed recently,” Irie says, glancing at the sidewalk. “I’d give you the old number, but it’s not mine anymore.”

The man nods his head, understanding. “That happens a lot these days. It’s happened to a friend of mine a couple of years ago, and still, to this day, people call his old number and ask for him! It’s a nuisance,” he says, glancing apologetically at Irie. 

“It really is. I don’t give my number out frequently though,” Irie tells him, and it’s the first true thing he’s said during this entire conversation. “I think that helps.”

“Probably does,” the man says, smiling. “I’ll enjoy working with you, Ikezawa! Call me by tomorrow afternoon,” he says, walking in the opposite direction. "I'll mark your number then."

Irie nods, says goodbye. He’s never felt this giddy in his entire life.

Chapter Text

He will take whatever he can get. Irie isn’t picky, though he can certainly afford to be picky.

His classmates are talking about transferring. Many of his classmates — those in advanced courses like he is — will switch schools eventually. They ask him what he’s got planned, ask him if he’s really going to stay. 

He is tired of telling them that he doesn’t know, that he’s not sure, that he’s still deciding. They mean well, Irie knows, but sometimes, having the same question directed at you every single day is tiring. He feels like a robot when he replies with I don’t know or I'm not too sure for the 7th time that morning. 

Irie decides to get lunch, decides to eat in the library, like he usually does. The librarian has strict policies concerning that, he knows, but Irie is willing to break the rules. 

Or, the librarian is willing to bend the rules for him.

He’s waiting to be confronted about it, actually, but he’s been doing it for half a year now and no one has spoken to him about the no food policy. Irie wonders if they’d kick him out if he brought Kotoko with him, told her to bring as much food as she wanted to. 

He could convince her to, if he really wanted.

The line is long today, and he shuffles to the end of it, bored out of his mind. A few girls in front of him are chatting and laughing loudly, the giggly couple sitting in the booth a ways away are feeding each other grapes, and the person behind him in the line is listening to music.

He doesn’t feel out of place, surprisingly.

The line speeds up considerably, and when he picks up his tray and thanks the server, he spots Ikezawa, pointedly ignores him. 

Irie walks by Kotoko’s table a little slower than he usually does, mainly because a classmate of his is waving hello to him, mainly because Ikezawa is also tailing him, having left the lunch line.

He catches Satomi’s eye as he passes by, and Irie blinks, glancing away. Kotoko’s friends have been watching him suspiciously these past few days. 

He pauses, stops walking when he hears Jinko? Satomi? talking about sex. 

Kotoko laughs, and Irie thinks she’s laughing at him, but she’s giggling at a frozen, slack-jawed Kinnosuke instead. 

Irie straightens, walks back to Ikezawa. “Are you alright?” He asks, leaning in, tray still in his hands. 

Ikezawa glares at him, shuts his mouth. “Why do you care?”

“I thought you were having a stroke,” Irie says, and he can hear Kotoko laughing. 

He smiles, before he remembers that she laughs at everything. 

He stops smiling.

“Leave me alone! Go back to the library or whatever,” Kinnosuke says, crossing his arms. 

“I thought there was a no-food policy at the library,” Kotoko says, wondering out loud, and Irie smiles at her, unable to help himself. Perfect opportunity, really. 

“There was,” he tells her, lowering his voice, “but they’ve lifted it. You should come eat there sometime. It’s a nice, quiet place.” Irie glances at Ikezawa, pointedly. 

“You’re not going to invite us?” Satomi. 

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Jinko.

“It’s ‘cuz he’s a pervert!” Kinnosuke says, loudly. 

Irie regrets turning around, shakes his head regretfully when he makes eye contact with a classmate who is watching the mess unfold from just two tables ahead. 

“You’re being too loud,” Irie warns, turning back to Ikezawa. “Besides. Only someone with that kind of mindset would think that way. I haven’t said a single thing implying that.”

Kinnosuke sputters. “Y-You’re trying to take Kokoto away from her friends! Just look at what you’re doing! Leading her away to the library, so you can do whatever you want with her! Despicable!”

“I have no reason to do anything like that at the library,” Irie says. “She lives with me, remember?”

Kinnosuke seats himself down at the table, starts blabbering ‘safety rules’ to Kotoko, ignoring her frequent it’s not like that! 

Irie leaves them, not before quelling the smug smile threatening to appear. After all, he’s all too aware of Satomi and Jinko’s stares. 

Still. He wonders what exactly they were discussing earlier, debates if he should ask Kotoko.

Irie decides against it — it’s nothing interesting, just a trivial conversation. He’s done enough meddling for today, and furthermore, it’s not like he cares. 

Chapter Text

He’s turning in an essay when Matsumoto lingers at the door, waiting for him. It’s English, a class they share. They share many classes. Irie is indifferent to her company. 

No. That is false. He doesn’t dislike her, no, not at all. He likes her. She’s very nice to have around. She’s good at a lot of things, she’s witty, and she’s athletic. 

She’s a little boastful, a little too competitive, a little too self-centered, but Irie doesn’t mind.

She is beautiful, yes, she is smart, yes, but Irie does not see himself attracted to her. He is not at all attracted to her, not like most people around him are. 

Of course, it is because he is not attracted to anyone. Matsumoto herself is not lacking anything. He supposes another man would be very happy to have a woman like her. 

She clings to his arm — the same way Kotoko used to — as they walk down the hallway, and Irie lets her, there isn’t any harm, really. She has nice perfume, he notes, a little heavy and a little sensual, nothing like Kotoko’s light and airy perfume. Kotoko’s is barely noticeable. 

There’s many differences between the two, he notes. It’s almost comical how different they are. 

“Are you getting along with Aihara?” He asks, and the sense of formality that he feels like he has to keep around Matsumoto creeps back up. “I’ve seen her with you a lot more often.”

Matsumoto sighs. “I’m stealing her away from you,” she says, and it’s dripping with sarcasm. Very like her. “She’s not entirely bad.”

Irie hums. Perhaps it’s an affirmative hum, perhaps it’s something to fill the silence. “It’s nice to see you two get along,” he says, eventually, and then they are back to being quiet for a while, until Matsumoto suddenly speaks.

“Do you like me?”

Irie stops walking. “I do,” he tells her. “You’re good company,” he tells her, and it’s true. Matsumoto is invaluable. He would be deeply saddened to lose her friendship. 

Irie dwells on the question, mainly because he feels like his own answer was insufficient. 

His thoughts are interrupted. 

“Better than Kotoko?”

Matsumoto is behaving strangely. First the questions, then the Kotoko; usually, she sticks to last names…something is off. Irie glances at her, wonders if she is unwell. 

“I don’t even consider Kotoko a friend,” Irie says, and it is the truth. He has never seen Kotoko as a friend. 

Never.

He…doesn’t…quite…know what she is to him. Kotoko is floating in the cusp of something, two boundaries of two relationships that Irie doesn’t know. 

Friend? 

Kotoko? His friend? 

The two words don’t go together at all. They leave a sour taste in his mouth. He feels like he’s sucking on a lemon. His eyes squint and water and his lips pucker up, visibly.

Irie is disturbed.

The hallway darkens, and Irie tries to see Matsumoto a little more clearly. Her hair, dark and wavy, bleeds into their surroundings, and it’s almost like…it’s almost like she’s melting away. 

Irie tries to seek her out with his eyes. There is a total darkness. 

He cannot even feel Matsumoto’s presence on his arm anymore.

Irie wakes up. He is in his bed. It is 4 in the morning. There is no school tomorrow.

He was dreaming. That is it. 

The dream is already fading from his mind, he can already feel it disappearing away from his conscious mind. He remembers fragments — Kotoko, perfume, Matsumoto — but that is it. 

Irie goes back to sleep, dreams of nothing but black and white. He tries to sleep, but all he sees is black when he closes his eyes and the dim white of his wall when he opens them back up.

Kotoko…his friend? What is she now? It has been a long time since she was just ‘the girl who moved in’. Now, what is she? 

She is simply Kotoko, Irie thinks, and that is that. Kotoko is Kotoko to him, and she will forever remain that way. 

He tries to think of Kotoko in the same light that he sees Matsumoto, a friend, but the idea makes him frown. The thought of Kotoko as his friend is unappealing. The thought of Kotoko as his close friend is even more annoying. 

He tries to think of Matsumoto in the same light that he sees Kotoko. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s thinking about anymore.

Irie thinks about Kotoko, thinks about her walking by his classes, thinks about her at the lunch table, thinks about her walking to the bathroom in the early morning with her messy hair and wrinkled pajamas. He thinks about the way she hums to herself as she washes the dishes, thinks about the gross way she chews on the end of her pen when she’s actually thinking about something, thinks about the way she tears up when she hears a sad story. 

He tries to think about the small things he’s noticed about Matsumoto. 

He can’t think of anything special he’s noticed about her. 

Perhaps it’s just because Kotoko is living with him. When Irie thinks about Matsumoto in the same way he thinks of the girl who moved in, his brain hurts. 

He doesn’t like thinking about Matsumoto in ways that he thinks about Kotoko. It feels wrong. Almost as if he’s…forcing himself to like Matsumoto.

He supposes that he does like Kotoko, has liked her for sometime now. Perhaps she can be his friend. Maybe she already considers herself his friend. 

Friends do like each other, right? And that is why he told Matsumoto that he likes her — friends like one another.

Still. He cannot see Kotoko as a friend, no, and not because she is unfriendly, no, quite the opposite. Irie cannot see Kotoko as just a friend, because that would be limiting his emotions, minimizing them. He cannot word it properly now, but, the term friend is not fitting. 

Friends don’t kiss each other.

His brain is too sleepy to remember any of this when he wakes up. 

He only remembers when he sees Kotoko the next morning, sees her standing at the bathroom door, rubbing her eye. Irie glances away from her when she mumbles ‘good morning’ to him, ignores her completely as he walks past her, keeping to the wall.

He decides she can stay ‘the girl who moved in’. It is better that way.

Chapter Text

His mother has been pestering him more lately. Papa does nothing to stop it. Irie considers telling Yuuki to tell Mother to leave him alone, maybe say something like, Mother, don’t you think Naoki is busy right now? We should leave him alone, you should stop bothering him, but he has never been one to use his younger brother for his own benefit. 

Besides. He can tell Mother that himself; he doesn’t need to involve Yuuki.

Irie doesn’t tell her anything, of course, but he would really, really like to when she starts babbling on how much she would love a grandchild, and how she’s getting old, and how she misses having a baby. 

She sends him to his room when he tells her to make another one herself, and Irie laughs as he walks up the stairs, laughs harder when Yuuki asks him what he meant by that. 

He tells Yuuki to forget about it, asks him about school instead. 

Chapter Text

Irie revisits the modelling issue. A part of him wishes he’d been honest; he’d be able to spend more time outside home. He’d also be able to have money of his own. Not that he needs money right now, no, but it would be nice. 

Irie thinks about asking his father for money. It’s a last resort, and there’d be suspicions, of course, but if he comes up with a plausible explanation, then?

He decides against it. His father already doesn’t worry about him — doesn’t breathe against his neck like his mother does — and he’d like to keep things that way. 

Except, it’s hard. His father keeps asking him attend conferences, keeps begging him to show up at dinners, and there’s only so many times that please, you just have to show your face will work. 

He tells his father no. It’s satisfying, telling his father no, especially when all Papa has grown used to is Irie’s silent compliance. Irie doesn’t even feel bad when he tells his father no, doesn’t even feel guilty — not like he used to — when he leaves his father speechless.

Irie leaves the house, takes a walk. A long walk. He rarely carries his phone with him, save for school, so he doesn’t even know the time. In fact, his phone is on his desk right now, probably off. 

He ends up at Aihara’s. A nice restaurant. Warm, traditional, and extremely professional. It feels better than home, if he’s honest. 

Kotoko’s father is a good man. Irie likes her father very much. He’s grateful when he’s served by Aihara himself, and he’s grateful when Kotoko’s father asks him no questions, grateful when he only asks him about the food. 

When Irie tries to pay, tries to cover the cost, Aihara refuses, holds up his hand. 

“Don’t worry about it, son. I’ll handle it,” he says, taking his plate.

Irie lays the money down regardless, shaking his head softly. “I insist.”

He spots Kinnosuke peeking out the curtain in the back, and Irie’s eyes widen. He’d forgotten about that. 

Though now that he revisits the memory of Ikezawa’s all-too-honest public confession to Kotoko back in high school, Irie wonders how it could have ever slipped his mind. Perhaps Kinnosuke is serious.

“Oh, Kinnosuke,” Aihara calls out, waving his hand. “Come and wipe Naoki’s spot down.”

Irie watches as Ikezawa swipes the table down once, twice, then disappears. They exchange no words; Irie likes that.

Aihara watches the two of them, sighs. “I sure hope things get better,” he says, to no one in particular. 

Irie leaves, not before thanking Aihara again, shrugs on his jacket. It is cold outside, but the cold is always nice, he supposes, because it grounds him. 

For the first time ever in his life, Irie doesn’t want to come back home.

Chapter Text

“That Irie’s got a lot of self restraint,” one guy comments, loudly, speaking to the shorter man walking alongside him.

Irie sighs, stares at the ground instead. There’s leaves on the ground, adding a hint of color to the pebbled entryway of the university. The trees are almost bare now; it was only last week when they were bright and vibrant with color. 

He glances up from the ground when he hears his name again, thrown in their conversation. He’s the main topic today, it seems. 

Nothing too out of the ordinary, but still. He cannot help but wonder. 

What are they even discussing?

From here, Irie cannot really see the first guy’s face. The man is wearing a mask. He’s got hairy eyebrows. Irie wonders if he’s got facial hair too, can almost imagine the guy’s face in his mind. 

He’d have a mustache, crumbs on his beard, possibly a build-up of spittle on the side of his chapped, bleeding lips. Dried snot from his nostril to his philtrum isn’t too far-fetched either.  

“Huh? What do you mean by that?” His friend says, or perhaps it is the guy’s classmate. 

Maybe they aren’t even students. They carry no bags, no jacket with the school’s name embroidered on it either. That alone raises questions in his mind.

How do they even know who he is? He’s never seen them before; the fact that he cannot put a name to a face is proof enough.

“Aihara’s been at his house for years now, it’s crazy,” the mask guys replies, and even though he’s at a distance, walking slowly, Irie can see his eyes flicker to meet his own.

“Yeah,” the guy’s friend replies, oblivious to the non-verbal exchange that just occurred. “I could never.”

Irie’s grip on his bag tightens, but he keeps his face neutral, not glancing their way until he’s passing right by the two.

“I’d rather you keep your degenerate thoughts to yourself,” he tells them. “I don’t like being spoken about.”

The two of them have the nerve to look surprised when confronted.

“We didn’t mean anything like that, c’mon now,” mask guy replies, but Irie is already walking away. 

He wonders how those guys are even aware of Kotoko, wonders if they’ve actually ever interacted with her. 

He hopes they haven’t, hopes they won’t. 

There are many more people interested in Kotoko than he’d initially thought. 

He’d never known she was this popular, decides they only like her because of her looks. People are shallow like that, only after looks and the like. If they’d known the real her, like he does, they’d never find an interest in her. 

After all, Irie is the only one that really knows her. 

Right?

Chapter Text

Matsumoto buys him a pair of shoes. They’re very nice, heavy and shiny. Well crafted. 

He is very thankful for them, more confused as to why. 

“I felt nice, rare as that may be,” she tells him, swinging her legs underneath the school’s bench. Irie nods, places the shoes back in their box, sets them next to his side.

“They’re great,” he tells her, slightly smiling. “You’ve got superb taste, though I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

“As I,” she replies, her smile nothing but a deep red, almost velvety lipstick. Her eyes twinkle as they crinkle slightly. 

Irie pauses. “Sorry?”

“What will you be getting me?”

“That again? Can’t you just accept my thanks?” He is half-joking, half-serious.

“I’d like to see the extent of how thankful you are,” Matsumoto says, still smiling. “You can show me this weekend.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Come to my house,” she says, suddenly serious. “I need a favor from you.”

Irie spends the rest of the day at Matsumoto’s apartment, a tall building, quite far from the school. 

Thankfully, her expectation of him does not extend to anything physical. He doesn’t think she’d ever resort to that, but Irie still plans an escape route just in case.

The conversation is pleasant with Matsumoto. She does not live with her parents, and her sister does not return home, even though it is quite late when Irie walks out of the building.

He learns that she’s like him, sparse in belongings, lover of neutral colors, and Irie learns that Matsumoto is currently looking for a job.

Chapter Text

He’s forced to babysit. His daylight hours are wasted.

Kotoko is sick, Yuuki has been sick, and Mother has a dentist appointment. Irie tells her that he will only take care of Yuuki, tells her that it is not his job to nurse Kotoko back to health. 

“You’re the one who’d always wanted a daughter,” he says, slumping onto the couch. “It’s your dream come true now.”

“I have to leave in less than an hour,” Mother replies, yanking on her socks. “Have some compassion, for once!”

Irie can’t help but to frown when Mother places her leg onto the living room table, adjusting and pulling up her knee length socks. It can’t be that cold now, can it? 

“And I have to stay home from school to play doctor,” he sighs, crossing his arms. “You should cancel your appointment too. Schedule it for another day. It’s only fair. I can’t take care of both of them at the same time.”

“Really, Naoki, I’d never expected you to be this selfish. I’ll be gone for only a couple of hours, you can handle it.”

He huffs, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not being selfish. I’m just tired.”

Mother glances up at him slowly, fingers still clutched to the sock’s elastic top. “…Are you sick as well?”

Irie frowns at her. “I’m not sick.” 

Besides,” he continues, squinting at his mother. “You knew Yuuki was sick already. He’s been sick for three days now! Kotoko has been sick since last night.”

Mother tilts her head. “Yes, I know that. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you planned this! You purposely had Kotoko stay near Yuuki this entire week, and when she conveniently falls sick, you leave the entire mess to me! Really, Mother, I’m tired of your antics.”

He can’t look her in the eye when he stops talking, opts to glare at the couch’s stitching instead, folds his arms tighter. “I’m taking care of Yuuki,” he adds. “Just him.”

Mother sighs, stands. “I can’t change your mind,” she starts, bringing her hand to her head, “but I’d never expect you to hate Kotoko this much.”

“Hate? Are you even hearing yourself? That’s what you get from everything I’ve said?”

He watches, somewhat shocked, as his mother laughs, watches as she brings her hand to her mouth. 

“What is so funny?” 

“Your words keep repeating in my head,” Mother says, still laughing. “I never planned for Kotoko to fall sick, why would I do that? That is such a terrible thing to think.”

“You’ve done worse things,” he mutters, glancing up to see his mother’s reaction. 

She ignores him, though she is no longer laughing.

“Besides! Kotoko gets sick all the time, really, you should know that by now.”

Irie sighs. She’s about to start a lecture. 

“And she was the one staying with Yuuki all day, everyday, taking care of him, while you were out of the house doing God knows what, our poor Kotoko sacrificed not only her time, but also her health, taking care of your brother! You should be ashamed of yourself, if anything.”

He is still quiet. Mother’s story doesn’t quite add up.

“What about you? What were you doing this entire time, while poor Kotoko was doing the devil’s work?”

Mother squints at him. “Cooking,” she replies, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re playing with me now, aren’t you? I don’t appreciate that.”

“And I don’t appreciate you playing matchmaker,” Irie replies, glancing at the clock. “I’m always suspicious of you now, because of that!”

She smiles, sits back down on the couch. “I’ve never done anything of the sort,” she says, giggling. “Matchmaker? No, I just want you two to get along! That’s all I’ve wanted!”

Irie closes his eyes. 

“Just try to be nicer to Kotoko, alright? That’s all I ask. Niceness,” Mother adds, waving a lone finger in the air. “Don’t forget it.”

“She’ll be fine with or without my kindness,” he says, arms still folded. “Kotoko isn’t that weak.”

“How can you possibly say that now? She’s practically bedridden.”

“That’s her physical state,” Irie replies, sighing at the amount of worry on his mother’s face. “It’s not the same.”

Mother shakes her head. “Wrong. Cute, positive, happy girls like Kotoko are naturally weaker. It’s human nature.”

“Yet another one of your theories.” Irie rolls his eyes.

“They’ve never been wrong. Listen! The more positive a person is, the more sensitive they are. You’ve got to remember that when it comes to dear Kotoko!”

“…She’s only like that because she’s too optimistic. It has nothing to do with her disposition.”

“Well, yes, that’s what I said.”

Irie pauses. 

“You’re not understanding me,” he says, trying to clarify himself. It feels like he’s cornered now, placed in an inescapable trap. “Kotoko is… too hopeful. She sees the ‘good’ in everything. That’s why she always ends up disappointed. Reality is never the same as how things are in her mind. It’s her own fault, really.”

Mother laughs. “That’s not always a bad thing. Kotoko’s managed to see the good in you, hasn’t she? I’d say that’s something extraordinary in itself.”

Irie sighs, uncrosses his arms. “Her reasonings are shallow. You’ve read her love letter, haven’t you?”

“That was such a long time ago,” Mother says. “I’m sure our Kotoko has developed a more…mature love towards you now.”

“So you agree, that it was immature.”

“It was heartfelt — ”

“Heartfelt and immature.”

“I can never win with you,” Mother sighs. “I’ve never been able to.”

“Stop all that,” Irie says, standing. He ignores the way her eyes widen as he gets up, passes over the round table.

She glances up at him when he pauses in front of her. “What’s this about?”

Irie reaches out his hand, helps his mother up from her seating, sighs. “Go and get ready. You’ll be late for your appointment.”

Chapter Text

It’s cold outside, colder than he’s ever remembered. Yuuki looks at him weird when he reminds Kotoko to zip her jacket up all the way, but he ignores the quizzical stare, heads out the door, his hands stuffed in his pocket. 

Yuuki’s stare is forgotten when he spots a lady on the street, stumbling slightly. When she glances at him, quickly, then snaps her head back, as if she’s ashamed, Irie frowns. 

Her lips were tinted blue. 

“Excuse me, how long have you been outside like this?” Irie asks her, sees her downcast eyes at his slightly loud tone. 

That stare. The woman reminds him of…Kotoko.

He can’t help but be loud, though Irie doesn’t quite know why he’s so concerned about a complete and total stranger. 

Irie leads the woman to a bench, gives her his gloves. “You’ll need these,” he tells her, watching her face. “Trying exercising in place as well,” Irie adds lightly, glancing around. “…If you don’t feel comfortable with that, there’s a restaurant a couple blocks from here. You can warm up there.”

The woman is barely audible, no louder than a breath. Irie has lean down, has to put his ear close to her lips just to hear. “I’m sorry, I, could you…?”

He nods. “I’ll take you there,” Irie says, ignoring the way she tugs on his arm, as if she cannot even hold herself up. Her grip is weak, faintly there, and her visible weakness is concerning, her fragility is frightening. 

When they arrive at Aihara’s, Uncle Shiego is more than happy to accommodate the woman, gives her a free meal even.

Irie knew Kotoko’s father was kind, kindred, but never to this extent. The exchange is slightly surprising, but Irie is even more surprised when Uncle Shiego extends his kindness to him.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” he replies, quickly, placing a cold hand in his pocket, can feel his almost frozen wallet heavy in his coat pocket. “I appreciate the thought, though, thank you.”

“Nonsense,” Aihara replies, an almost hearty sound. “I insist. Bring something home for Yuuki and your mother. There’s plenty to go around, plus it’s cold.” He’s heavy on the cold, rubbing both of his arms up and down, shivering. 

Irie pauses, turns slightly. He’s just about to head out. 

And besides. Plenty to go around? It’s just around noon; the time when reservations peak. He is sure that Uncle Shiego is more than overwhelmed right now, doesn’t have a single second to spare. 

“I’ll stop by later,” Irie says, promises. He means it, really, but when he spots the defeated look on Aihara’s face, he sighs out loud, sits down at the counter. 

“Not too much now, Uncle,” Irie says, half-joking, half-serious. “You’re always too generous with me.”

“Of course I am,” Uncle Shigeo replies, “I’ve always wanted a son. That’s what you are to me, have been since the very day you were born,” he explains, smiling that closed-eyed smile of his.

Irie smiles back, a small one, despite himself. It seems everyone in the Aihara family has contagious smiles. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Though he is reminded by Mother — her obvious desperation for a daughter — Irie feels calm. At ease. Aihara’s is nice and quiet. There’s never anything going wrong here, always neat tables, clean counters, small, quaint backrooms…even the garbage in the back is in clean bags!

Irie watches Uncle Shiego’s smile fade from his face quickly as he yells to one of his employee’s in the back. 

Kinnosuke? 

No, Ikezawa is at the school. The thought isn’t particularly calming, but like the remembrance of Mother, Irie brushes it clean away as well.

“No classes today?” Aihara asks, as if reading his mind. Irie had been staring at a singular spot of the counter, gaze unfocused, distracted. “It should be exam season soon, right?”

Irie laughs, takes the cup offered to him. It warms his hands, and the steam coming from it is aromatic. Wonderful. 

“Exam season was about a month ago,” Irie replies, slowly taking a sip. “But you’re close, it was very recent.”

Uncle Shigeo’s eyes widen. “A month ago? What?” He takes a step back from the counter, incredulous. “That can’t be! Kotoko told me it was — ”

Irie interrupts Aihara’s shock with laughter of his own, almost sputters into his drink, burns the tip of his tongue. 

Aihara is quiet, still watching him, albeit some of his shock has lessened, bled into confusion.

“My apologies,” Irie says, coughing. “She probably meant the retake window. It was all of last week.”

Aihara sighs, shakes his head. “That girl…sometimes I can’t believe she’s related to me,” he admits, waiting for Irie to say something. 

“She’s not…too similar to you,” Irie says, finally. There’s no good response to that one, really, but he’d be rude to ignore Uncle Shiego. “You’ve got an identical smile, though.”

Aihara laughs at that, smiles again. Irie can see Kotoko in his face, in a weird sort of way. She doesn’t look like her father at all, no, not at all, but in this light, he can see her. 

Irie blinks when he feels the warmth of the cup on his palm, still there. Uncle Shigeo is talking, quite seriously. 

“…I wasn’t too sure about saying yes to her,” Aihara admits, wringing his hands. A few calls from the kitchen behind him distract his train of thought; Irie waits as Uncle Shigeo makes his words match his thoughts. 

“A — Anyways, I told her yes, but ah, I’m regretting it now. Is there anyway you’d be able to tell her no?”

“The woman who came in the shop? I can pay for her meal,” Irie says, feeling the warmth deplete off of his hand when he pulls out his wallet, opens it. “I’ve got enough to cover her cost and mine.”

“What? No, no. I’m talking about Kotoko. I told her she could come…work here for me a little bit. I’m regretting it now. Could you tell her no for me? I know you’re…good at being honest, Naoki.”

“I’d have to hurt her feelings for that,” Irie replies, easily turning his wallet in his hands. “She’d probably cry.”

“Well, ah, you don’t have to be that blunt,” Uncle Shigeo says, “I’m sure she’s already aware of how awful her food is.”

Irie pauses, sets his wallet down on the counter. “You’d have her prepare the food? I’m sure Kotoko could wait tables,” he proposes, glancing up at Aihara. “There’s no way she could mess that up.”

Uncle Shigeo pauses. “…I didn’t think about that, actually. Great idea, Naoki! You’ve saved me.”

They both laugh about that, until Irie pauses, quiets. 

“What time were you thinking about starting her off?” Irie asks, just because. 

Uncle Shigeo brings a hand to his chin, hums. “Kotoko can’t get up early so that’s out of the question, and she’s got…all those exams to catch up on, so I was thinking the night shift’d be good for her. She can sleep in all morning and go to school in the afternoon…it’d work out. Don’t you think?”

Irie blinks.

Night shift?

“Unless there’s something else you got in mind?”

“No,” Irie says, looking up. “No, I think that’s a great idea.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Irie replies, pocketing his wallet. Uncle Shigeo’s eyes widen when Irie stands.

A green tea’s all he’ll have today. 

“Thank you for the meal, Uncle.”

“Ah, you’re welcome, Naoki, but that was hardly anything, I’ll give you some more — ”

Irie finds it hard to deny food from Uncle Shiego — especially when he prepares it personally, but in this case, he simply has to leave. 

The walk outside is cold, but his stomach is warm from the tea, though his hands remain cold.

Chapter Text

She’s looking quite different today, Irie thinks, glancing up at Kotoko from the breakfast table, leaning a hand against his cheek. 

His vision is a bit bleary, but only because it’s 6AM. Truthfully, he’s felt nothing but joy at the idea of sleeping in all day; college and its afternoon courses gave him that privilege. 

Today is different, Mother and Papa are heading out to visit Papa’s brother, who’s broken a leg. 

Naturally, Mother woke him up at the crack of dawn. 

Irie ignores the tap-tap-tap of his mother’s heels hitting the kitchen floor as she scrambles around, opening and shutting cabinets. Irie suspects she’s searching for painkillers; Papa is prone to headaches.

“They’re in the drawer on the left of the stove,” he says, motioning with his fork. “Underneath the oven mitts.”

Kotoko smiles when Mama digs the medicine out of the slim drawer. “You’re really a lifesaver, Irie-kun!”

He ignores her, continues chewing the scrambled eggs on his plate, moving the food around with his fork. 

“We’ll be back by evening,” Mama tells them, placing her purse on the counter, digging in it some more. “There’s a tailor-shop that we’ll be stopping by as well, so, Naoki, bring that your father’s old plaid shirt, the one that’s missing some buttons. And Kotoko, dear, if there’s anything of mine that you’d like resized, feel free to bring it now.”

“Papa’s red and black shirt?” Irie squints. “You’re using that as a rag now, don’t you remember?”

“That’s the checkered one, not the plaid. The one he insists on wearing to everywhere?”

Irie pauses, glances at Kotoko. 

“I didn’t cut up Uncle’s shirt,” she says hurriedly, her eyes darting everywhere. “I haven’t done anything!”

Mama looks confused. “No one but me even knows where the fabric scissors are — Naoki, stop implying things. Kotoko’s done nothing wrong.”

Kotoko looks away, doesn’t see Irie’s frown, aimed directly at her. 

“Oh,” Mama says, glancing at the figure coming near the door. “He’s wearing the shirt right now.”

“The car’s started up already, dear,” Papa says, barreling in through the open door. “We’ll live in a bit, I’ve just got to use the bathroom.”

Irie avoids Kotoko’s pointedly stare, stands from the table instead, plate in hand. “Just tell him to bring another shirt with him,” he says, placing the dish at the counter. “I’ll wake Yuuki up, he’ll be late for school.”

“Kotoko can do that,” Mama says, making her way to the door. “I want you to organize your father’s office for today, while he’s gone. Tidy it up a bit, Naoki, it’s not anything too much.”

He sighs. 

Mother huffs, crosses her arms. “Really, what is this attitude today? I’m expecting better from you.”

Kotoko giggles. “Irie-kun just isn’t a morning person,” she giggles, eyes twinkling. 

Irie ignores her. 

“Besides,” Mother continues, glancing away from Kotoko, “Naoki, you could learn a thing or two from your father’s business. Just get acquainted with it. There’s so many benefits that come with that career!”

“You know I’m not interested in that,” he replies, lowering his voice when he hears Papa coming down the stairs. 

Mama sighs, makes her way to the door instead. 

“Bus fare and any other spare change is upstairs in case you two have run out. Yuuki’s lunch is in the fridge and his backpack is on the stairs, check if everything’s in there. I trust you two to keep the house clean while we’re gone,” Mama says, pausing at the doorframe, smiling suddenly. “Make sure to keep each other company while we’re gone.”

“I’ll be leaving after I drop Yuuki at school,” Irie tells her, frowning, “I’ve got plans.”

“You’ll keep Kotoko company,” Mother counters, still smiling. “You aren’t allowed to leave the house today, until your 2PM class begins. Be good, Naoki!”

“Kotoko’s got a 12PM lecture,” he counters, “how will I keep her company while she’s away?”

“By walking her to class,” Mama replies, cooly. “I expect you to help her out and be a gentleman.”

Kokoto fidgets in place. “I can walk myself, Auntie, it’s not a problem — ”

“Nonsense,” Mama replies, waving a hand. “Anyways! We’re off,” she says, leading Papa out of the door, who’s been sitting in the living room, retying his shoes the whole time. 

“I’ll tell Uncle you’ve all wished him a speedy recovery,” Papa calls out, waving. “Make sure to pick up my call, Naoki.”

After what seems like another ten minutes of direction giving and farewells, the car finally pulls out of the driveway, disappears from the neighborhood. Irie stands at the window a bit longer before he yanks the blinds down, pulls the curtains shut. 

Kotoko stands a few feet near him, glancing around. “Yuuki doesn’t start class until 7:30, right?”

“That’s not entirely true,” he replies, all matter-of-factly, sitting down on the couch himself. His head spins a bit. “Middle school classes begin at 8, he’s only got to be there before that time.”

Irie glances at her, feels the corner of his lips curl up. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember that.”

“No — I just don’t think of middle school,” Kotoko stammers. “It’s been a while,” she continues, laughing. 

“Do you think of high school? Our high school days?”

“I consider myself to be future-focused,” Kotoko replies, glancing at him. She smiles. “I don’t think about the past.”

“I can tell,” Irie replies, bluntly. “You don’t seem to learn from your mistakes.”

He watches her facial expression change, from a small smile to a downcast expression. 

“You’ve got a bit of ketchup on your lip,” he tells her, cocking a head. “Have you run out of lipstick?”

“You shouldn’t care about what’s on my lip,” Kotoko says, turning away. He can tell she’s angry. “I’m going to go wake up Yuuki.”

Irie hums. “How will I kiss someone who’s got ketchup on their lips? Not very romantic, is it, Kotoko?”

He smiles when she pauses, turns around slightly. She must be wearing makeup, Irie thinks. Her eyelashes are darker than usual, giving her a sultry, sad look. 

“Did you put that makeup on for me?” Irie asks, leaning forwards on the couch. “Seeing how we’ll be alone together for the remainder of the day.”

Kotoko is still quiet, but her eyes widen when Irie stands, walks over to her. Her eyelashes frame her wide eyes, bringing them out, contrasting with the white of her sclera. His head feels a bit hazy, Irie realizes, as he looks into her eyes. Must be because it’s so early. 

Her eyes are a deep, warm, honey-brown color, but her lips are sharply reddened, puffy, pouty. Her hair’s all messy too, like it always is, curling at the sides of her head, bangs all out of order, strands falling into her face.

Unable to restrain himself, Irie tucks a strand behind her ear, gently. “You look nice,” he says, watching as her eyes grow glassy. 

He smiles, slightly amused, more confused. “That’s what makes you cry? Me, saying you look pretty?” 

Kotoko’s face flushes, and she fiddles with her hands, clasped in front of her, hanging lowly. “I’m not used to you being nice,” she admits, looking up at him. “I thought you’d say I looked like a clown.”

“You are one,” Irie replies, watching her eyebrows knit together. 

He steps away, lets her ponder that comment. Besides, he’d rather not be that close to her, inches away from her face, inches away from her lips. 

“You’ve got twenty minutes to wake up Yuuki,” Irie tells her, walking ahead of her upstairs. “I’m going back to bed.”