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Osaragi is chatting with Tanabata. Chatting. Osaragi. Tanabata. Shishiba's head can't wrap itself around the idea, even though it is physically manifested right in front of him. Osaragi appears relatively bored, Tanabata's face reflecting that boredom with the addition of relaxed shoulders and long, shaggy hair beneath that floppy cap, looking more and more like the lazy rockstar persona he carries with pride like that guitar.
The guitar that he's showing off to Osaragi now.
He's holding it up, displaying the strings, the shiny color of the instrument glinting beneath the sunlight. Osaragi views it with vague interest that really may have been politeness, but Osaragi isn't exactly fond of such manners. Shishiba finds himself realizing that with an eerie dread pumping like ice through his veins.
Shishiba loiters by the door of the shop he's just left, plastic bag of goodies hanging from his right hand, watching the two of them settle in their cloistered lecture on the wonders of music and its long and rich history intertwined with the existence of the guitar. Or some such nonsense, probably.
They are standing on the sidewalk, meters away. Shishiba hadn't even been gone that long. When did Tanabata get here? Why was he here? Why was he talking to Osaragi? Did Shishiba have to go over there? Why is he talking to Osaragi–
Osaragi finally catches his eye. Not that he was trying to grab her attention. He just raises a cool brow, trying to convey his boredom – not impatience, certainly not irritation. She doesn't urge him to come over, implying this was probably just a casual conversation. Which only led to several different questions sprouting in Shishiba's mind.
Osaragi's eyes slide back to Tanabata, still devoting her full attention to Tanabata and whatever overly abstract musings he was bestowing upon her. She nods here and there, taking her sweet time in dismissing herself. Maybe Shishiba should have tapped his watch like an exasperated schoolteacher, but that would have come off as desperate, and why in hell would he need to be desperate?
Osaragi's eyebrows jump up once as Tanabata says something probably mildly amusing, considering his facial expression hasn't changed in the slightest. Shishiba is accustomed to the many quirks of Osaragi, so he definitely catches the minute twitch in her cheek, like she's holding back a smile. Shishiba grips the bag tighter, readies himself to march over there and demand Osaragi return to her duties–
Not demand. Suggest? Remind? Yes, that's it. That's the one. Remind. Firm, but unemotional. Exactly how he is feeling – or rather, not feeling. Just the natural conclusion to his completely objective observation of the scene before him.
Osaragi nods, opens her mouth – to excuse herself, to Shishiba's relief.
Not relief; he does not care.
She glides away, but not before Shishiba catches the way Tanabata's eyes follow after her, a crook to his mouth. Shishiba feels his stomach roil.
Then his eyes meet Tanabata's. Tanabata addresses him with a curt nod. Then he turns away, not even a word wasted on Shishiba. He shuffles away, head angled towards the sky, stuck in his own daze, like carefree musicians often are, Shishiba notes distastefully.
Osaragi reaches Shishiba, bringing with her an air of flowery perfume and quiet grace. She peers up at him curiously, like there's something on his face that he's not aware of. He frowns down at her. "What?" he asks gruffly with an affronted shrug of his shoulders.
"You seem tense, Shishiba-san," Osaragi answers innocently, not a hint of that simmering amusement she was trying to rein in around Tanabata.
Shishiba is starting to see a pattern here. There's Kamihate with his incessant pursuits of Osaragi, shooting down poetry scrolls from the heavens rambling about the pearl-bright sheen of Osaragi's skin and how the night sky shakes with envy at the ever-lovely darkness of Osaragi's features. There's Nagumo, with his frankly narcissistic attention towards Osaragi, considering the two of them look related in Shishiba's opinion; Nagumo nabbing any chance to push Osaragi's buttons, his head thrown back in a laugh as he dances out of reach, mocking Osaragi's failed attempt to slice his head clean off with a bold flash of his neck. Now there's Tanabata, with his boyish face and rockstar allure, flaunting his over-the-top weapon for Osaragi to fawn over like a empty-headed groupie.
The bottom line: Osaragi has had a fair share of male attention before. But never before has she entertained it the way she had with Tanabata just now. It leaves a scrambling in Shishiba's nerves and a pit in his gut and a calling for his hammer.
He blinks. Maybe Osaragi had a point. However, instead of admitting anything, he merely shakes his head. "I'm not," he dismisses, steering his attention to the street behind Osaragi. No one is around; it's just the two of them. Normally, this would bring a feeling of peace in Shishiba, sinking into the comfortable silence that travels with him and Osaragi from time to time. But right now, he can feel Osaragi's eyes probing the side of his face, a strange aura rolling off of her as she studies him. He flicks a glance at her. Her eyes are slightly hooded, like she's suspicious of something. He would look away again, but that feels like defeat. What the battle is, he isn't remotely sure.
"What is it, Osaragi?" he sighs, preferring to get this ordeal over with. He knows Osaragi is going to make a big deal out of this, and that's partially on him; he shouldn't have looked so irked, but he has chocolate in this bag in the balmy oncoming of summer. This is not the time to be flirting with rockstars.
(Not that it was flirting. But it certainly isn't the most farfetched assumption.)
"Why didn't you come over to talk with me and Tanabata-san?" she inquires, her calculating gaze piercing into his own forcefully nonchalant one.
Shishiba responds with a roll of his eyes. "What could I have contributed to the conversation?" The next sentence flies out of his mouth before he can stop it. "Besides, you looked like you didn't want to be disturbed."
It's stupid. It's presumptuous. It's glaringly desperate.
Shishiba doesn't follow up, keeps quiet like he didn't just indirectly accuse Osaragi of enjoying Tanabata's company beyond professional necessity, if there is such a thing. However, Osaragi does him the favor of speaking up first. "He was showing me his weapon," she explains. "I wanted to know how it worked."
Shishiba scoffs. "Flashy," he mutters.
"I think it possesses a certain intrigue," Osaragi retorts, like they're discussing a mysterious painting that makes one think of deep shit or whatever. Shishiba holds back another sigh.
"It's loud and obvious and makes a big mess." Shishiba pauses. "Never mind. Of course you don't see a problem there."
"Are you referring to my buzzsaw?"
"No, Osaragi, I was referring to your veil– Yes, obviously the buzzsaw."
"See? So tense." Osaragi frowns at him for a moment, then her eyes spark dangerously. "Are you jealous of me talking to another man, Shishiba-san?"
If Shishiba had been drinking something, he probably would have spat it right out; he's that shocked at the accusation. Why is she talking like they're anything but mentor and apprentice? This is what he gets for agreeing to this all that time ago. He knew the risks, even used them as excuses. He should have fought harder; then maybe he wouldn't be here, overcome by the urge to squirm under Osaragi's scrutinizing gaze.
"Don't be ridiculous," he snaps, raking a hand through his hair. "Why would I be?"
"Because he's younger and objectively cooler than you."
Okay, now Osaragi is just being mean on purpose. "Osaragi, if you're trying to get me to beef with Tanabata, save your efforts. I'm not jealous. Hell, you can go ask him to be your mentor since he's so cool." He tries to say it like it really doesn't matter to him, but the truth lies in him involving himself in the first place. He feels like he's back in high school, surrounded by a stifling aura of childish antics and petty tendencies.
"No, thank you," Osaragi brushes off, somehow managing to eye Shishiba down her nose a tad arrogantly. "Musicians are best without shackles."
That sounds like something Tanabata would say. "Well, at least you're aware of how you make me feel," he mutters sarcastically. The sentence falls off his lips with a weight he had not expected. How you make me feel. It sounds dangerous, exposing.
Osaragi cuts in before he can rectify his heinous error. "Are you calling me a burden, Shishiba-san?"
Osaragi is anything but. Perhaps initially, when they had constantly butted heads over how to execute missions, Osaragi's unusually difficult attitude stacking up the expenses of his grocery shopping and his dry cleaning bills. But eventually, before he could even catch himself, Osaragi had transformed from being an albeit exceptionally talented thorn in his side to a comrade he could trust. Even now, when she ruined his suits and pestered him to foot their meal bills, he did so without much complaint, slipping into a strange type of feeling that could really only be alluded to as fondness.
Osaragi hasn't been a burden for a long time, but saying this out loud feels physically impossible. It closes a vice around his throat. His skin prickles with discomfort. The words once again feel dangerous in a way he is not at all confident in facing.
"I mean," Shishiba grouses slowly. The bag in his hand comes to his attention, and he lifts it up. "Are you going to reimburse me for this?"
"Of course," Osaragi answers with the boldness of an experienced fibber. Then she adds, "If you answer my question."
"I did."
"No, you didn't."
Shishiba rummages around the bag, pulls out a chocolate bar, places it in Osaragi's already outstretched palm. It's answer enough.