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One, two, three.
You’re sweeping the hall on the second floor and practicing a waltz with each step. You’re alone, everyone else has gone to bed; it’s not a late night for you, though, this is typical. You’ll get an early start tomorrow, too, around four or five in the morning. You don’t recall the last time you slept more than a few hours. You don’t think you need it.
The waltz is a simple, rhythmic dance. You suppose you’ve mastered it by now, really. Your usual dance partner is a bit less restricted, though. He likes to spin you, to be spun himself, to be dipped down low and to press close to you. At first it was a lot, almost too much, but you’ve come to love it. You’ve never had that much close contact with a person before, never in your life. It’s unsuitable for a maid. Perhaps it’s still unsuitable. You’ve forced yourself to loosen your own restrictions, for his sake.
The school is vast and cavernous. Sixteen people isn't enough to fill it. Now, in its emptiness, you’re the only one here. The moonlight shines in through the window and casts your shadow over the railing, down onto the first floor. Behind you is your talent lab, ahead of you is Gonta’s. You’ll clean his when you have permission. For now, you continue your quiet dance of sweeping.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
The hallway badly needs to be swept. This whole school is overrun with dust bunnies and patches of dirt. You’ve done what you can, and the first floor at least looks better than ever, but in the end you’ve only been here for a few weeks. There’s only so much you can do at once, as much as you hate to admit it. The others try to help, but they leave the hard work to you. That’s how you like it. You like the feeling of accomplishment that comes with finishing a hard task, even though acknowledging that accomplishment is unmaidly.
You’ll handle the third floor tomorrow night. For now you waltz in silence with your broomstick.
It’s comforting, the feeling of a dance. You don’t like unpredictability. It stresses you out, not knowing what’s going to happen next. Dancing is easy, even though your usual partner surpasses you in spontaneity. Rantaro is so unlike anyone you’ve ever met. He, too, thrives on routine in the same way you do, but he’s told you tales of his old life, of packing up and heading to a new country with few plans and fewer goodbyes. You can’t imagine living like that, but sometimes you fantasize about seeing the world with him. You could do it, you think, if he was there.
It’s a scary feeling, caring that much about someone. Especially someone you met in a killing game.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
The dust enters your dustpan, at least for the most part. Some of it is unruly and tries to skitter away, blown off by the air around your steps or the movement of your broom. One particularly difficult bundle of dirt catches itself on the edge of the balcony, and as you go to get it, it falls, tumbling down to the first floor.
When you look down, you see him there, and your heartbeat quickens to a new tempo — one, two, one, two, one, two.
“Rantaro?” you call.
He turns and looks up at you. The moon casts him in cool light, and he offers you a sleepy smile, one which warms your face.
“Kirumi,” he says. “You’re up late, huh?”
“I am always up this late.”
“Hm. Guess so.” Rantaro shifts his weight to lean on his left leg and puts his hands in his pockets. “What’re you up to?”
“Sweeping.” You don’t mention that you were practicing dancing with him, that you were imagining his arms around you. “What about yourself?”
“Mm.” He tilts his head. “Just can’t sleep. Going for a walk.”
You and he are frequently awake at the same odd hours. You wonder if he, too, needs so little sleep, or if he’s just ignoring his own exhaustion like your old employer accused you of doing.
“That sounds lovely,” you say. “Are you walking anywhere in particular?”
He shrugs. “No, just wandering.”
You gaze at each other for a moment. Your shadow stands beside him, tall, and it looks as though if you reached out your hand it could touch him.
“Do you wish to come up here?” you ask.
He smiles at you. “Will you wait for me?”
“Of course.”
“Maybe I will, then.” He doesn’t move, though, not yet. “You should really get some sleep, you know.”
“I am not tired.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” You nod. “‘Tired’ feels so heavy that I cannot move, so dizzy that I cannot see. I am not tired.”
“I think there are usually a few steps of ‘tired’ before you hit that point.”
You blink. “Are you certain?”
“Yeah.” He tilts his head. “You’re talking a little slower than usual. Tipped me off.”
You pause. You suppose your voice is soft and slow at the moment. You’d attributed it to the nighttime, to the quiet, to your hesitance to wake anybody even though they’re all in another building.
…Are you tired? Are you?
You don’t know.
You suppose he can see the confusion and sudden overwhelm on your face. He offers you a quiet smile, a gentle look that makes your knees a bit weak.
“I’ll come up,” he says. “I’ll help you finish sweeping, and then we’ll go to bed. Okay?”
“...Very well,” you say.
“Are you agreeing because you want to, or because you feel like you have to?”
You think about it for a moment. “I do not know.” A pause. “I think I want to.”
He hums. “Well, I’ll come help out.”
“Okay.”
He disappears, and for the moment, you are alone again.
You don’t like unpredictability, sudden changes to your routine. But this… This one might be okay.
When he gets to the top of the stairs, he comes and holds the dustpan for you while you finish sweeping. Once you’re done and everything has been disposed of, he looks at you with a sleepy, triumphant gaze.
“We did it,” he says. “Are you ready for bed?”
You definitely feel a bit heavier now than you did before. You suppose you really are tired.
“You’re tired too,” you say to him.
“Eh?”
“Your eyes,” you say. “They look a certain way when you’re tired. You’re tired too, right now.”
He pauses, then laughs softly. “Guess you’re right… I am a little sleepy.”
You both start down the stairs, but your steps stop once you reach the doors to the courtyard. He turns and looks at you, seeming puzzled.
“Mimi?” he asks.
“Will you dance with me?”
“Ah?”
“Here and now,” you say. “Before bed.”
He looks at you, then steps back from the door. He comes to wrap one arm around your waist, then uses the other to clasp your hand in his and bring you close. His forehead touches yours, and you feel soft and fluttery all over, like wisteria in the wind.
How beautiful it is to exist at the same time as him, you think.
You will get out of this game together. You resolve to do it at that very moment.
In several weeks, you’ll find yourself crying on this very floor. You’ll be frantic, shaking, willing to do the unthinkable to get this feeling back. You’ll scrub the floors and wail. You’ll never be washed clean of your sins. You’ll develop a fear of toothed fish and thorny plants that will follow you into the next life. The sight of water will turn your stomach.
But for now, you’re dancing with him, and things are okay. You’ll get out with him. You know you will. Someday.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.