Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wait, what?”

It’s Maki’s voice that rings out across the empty parking lot, and what follows is not quite silence — generator hum, moth wings fizzing about streetlights, cicadas in the bushes, that persistent chirping a separate conversation. But after what Nicholas just said, the whole world may as well have fallen still.

Meanwhile, Taki is in the throes of it. His mouth is wide open. Harua throws a french fry and only misses by a nose and a forehead. They’re sitting in a parking space behind the local &Burger, a haunt of theirs because of the relative privacy and intoxicating deep-fried aroma.

“They dated? How did I not know that?”

“Well,” Nico says, intriguingly. This is just the reaction he wanted. “It’s an open secret.”

“How can a secret be open?”

“Everybody knows, but nobody wants to be the one who says it out loud.”

“Mr. Kei,” Maki says out loud, “and Coach Fuma?” It’s like finding out that Jesus and Buddha dated, but somehow even less plausible. “They’re just so… different.”

“Taki, open your mouth wider.” Harua throws another fry.

“Why aren’t you freaking out about this, Harua?”

“I called it years ago and you all said I was nuts.”

“You really did sound nuts at the time though.” Taki bats a fry out of the air. “Stop throwing french fries at my face!”

“What are we talking about?” Yuma and Jo are walking toward them, Jo looking post-shift harried in his &Burger uniform. “We got fries.”

“Oh good,” says Harua, “Taki’s been hogging them all.”

“Mr. Kei,” Maki says, still staring at Nico, “and Coach Fuma?”

Nico, ankles crossed on the pavement, leans back coolly and shrugs like it’s yesterday’s news. Which it is, probably five-years yesterday’s news by now. Every time he sees them in their own routines, paths never crossing, it seems impossible that they even know each other. And maybe it’s better to forget, or else he would start remembering how things used to be, and Nico isn’t a sentimental person. (No, really.)

“Oh yeah,” says Yuma, “big blowout fight. You saw it all, right Nico?”

“Euijoo too.”

“Just you and him?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“What’s beside the point?” It’s Euijoo, materializing behind them like a jump scare. Nico doesn’t jump. “I got fries.”

“Thank God,” Yuma reaches for them, “Taki’s hogging them all.”

“I was just telling them about Kei and Fuma,” Nico says.

Euijoo kind of shoves him with his knees, like how one moves a heavy table. “Don’t gossip.”

“One, that’s sexist. Two, it’s useful information. What if someone mentioned Kei to Fuma or Fuma to Kei and pissed him off?”

“Why would someone do that?”

“I did,” says Taki.

“You did?” This they all say in unison.

“I saw a book in Coach Fuma’s bag. It was the same one I’d seen Mr. Kei reading a while ago, so I told him that.”

“What did he say?”

“He gave everyone fifty pushups.”

“See?” Nico says, to Euijoo, pointedly. “That wouldn’t have happened if the kids were educated.”

“What were they fighting about?” Maki asks. A truck pulls into the lot and they move to the next free space, and Harua adds: “Who won?”

“Neither of them won,” Jo mutters, “clearly.”

“There’s always a winner,” Yuma says with french fry tusks. “My mom says it’s the one who gets to keep the house.”

“I don’t know,” Nico says. “It was hard to follow. They were yelling and cutting each other off… and I couldn’t hear that well.” And then “Follow me,” because Euijoo’s face is turning red and Maki is about to point it out.

Kei’s house isn’t far, because nothing is far in Samidare Bay. The bar isn’t far from the church, the church isn’t far from the other church, and the rest of it isn’t far from sliding into the ocean. Sometimes it feels like they live as mountain goats, scaling perilous ledges. Maki lives in this neighbourhood too, doesn’t really know where they’re going, hasn’t really thought about it since Harua jumped on his back and went deadweight. They follow a back lane, tight-rope walk the faded yellow curb along the main road, and there it is — an old weather-worn brown, the yard decorated with plastic flamingos and a cacti garden.

Euijoo stays hidden behind a snowberry bush.

“Come on,” says Nico.

“Not if you paid me.”

His certainty draws Jo and Taki back behind the bush.

The rest look up at the house, imagining the man who lives inside. Triple threat — high school art teacher, Art History professor and crazy good artist himself, the most popular guy at any given parent-teacher conference. Harua looks back on the day he cried over his disaster of a water colour, and Mr. Kei conjured a tub of vanilla frosting and two spoons from his Mary Poppins bag, stayed late to help Harua with his technique. On his immediate right, Yuma recalls the time he confused Picasso for Braque and Kei told the whole class to point and laugh.

“They were about to move in together,” Nico says. Maki gasps softly. “Then it all just fell apart.”

Taki, feeling left out, joins them on the edge of the lawn. He hears the last bit and sees one lit-up window in the big dark house and feels his stomach sink like a rock in a coke bottle. It didn’t occur to him that someone like Mr. Kei could be anything but happy. People like him — teachers — all adults really — seem to live in a state of effortless control, almost like robots. A variation in the program, a sadness sequence, is somehow even more unsettling.

Euijoo is throwing snowberries at them, so they move past.

Fresh off the holiday season, the days are short and the sky is all pink-and-blue cotton candy ribbons. The old mill stands solid in the lapping water, great big silos and things that look like humps on a sea monster’s back. Wild rosemary and blackberry bushes grow on the cliff edge, houses peeking out over fences and bald lookouts where people can watch the one ferry slug back and forth across the horizon, back and forth.

Maki, teetering on the curb, asks, “Why do people fight? Why don’t they just, like. Work it out?”

“Because arguing is more fun,” Yuma says.

“Arguing is terrible!”

Harua, seeming even more authoritative with those big square glasses: “Guys, be real. It’s about sex.”

“Ew!” Taki screams. “What are you talking about!”

“You know I’m right. The human condition. If love was just logic, everything would be simple — but it’s not. It’s all about intimacy, and intimacy is a double-edged sword.”

Very worldly, Jo thinks, kicking a pebble. His ears are hot.

“Love should be simple though,” Maki says. “Love should make people want to stay together no matter what.”

"Love and attraction are separate things,” Yuma says. “It’s a power struggle. Love is kind yada-yada versus psychosexual mind games.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hey, I’m older than you. Trust me, good sex makes people go crazy.”

“Ew!” Taki screams.

“Let’s talk about,” Euijoo says gently, “not this.”

“Actually I agree,” says Nico. “Attraction makes everything complicated.”

Euijoo scoffs.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey Taki,” says Harua, “sex.”

Taki screams again.

In the heart of downtown — about a block and a half of tourist traps and hipster cafes — there’s an apartment block, balconies gazing out at the weird apparatus of the ferry terminal. String lights blink down at them, silhouetting the figure there, leaning over the railing with a glass of wine in hand. Nico didn’t know he would be there, making them scramble as he calls down.

“What are you doing out here?” With a stress on the you like everything about them is a dead giveaway, Yuma almost running into a mailbox, Jo turning his back as if he could become invisible, and Maki’s voice has leapt an octave: “Hi Coach!”

“On a weeknight? No, I don’t want to know. Just call if Jo starts to puke.”

Fuma used to drive Nicholas and Euijoo home after parties. More recently, he chauffeured Jo to urgent care after too much tequila turned him into a human vomit geyser. All this with a scowl and a lecture from the front seat, but he always answers on the first ring.

He’s standing over them now, scarily, like an angel of punishment; Taki almost springs reflexively into jumping jacks. Yuma, beside him, is thinking about all the times he’s walked by and seen Fuma on his balcony, hand molded around a wine glass, with a look that’s a little too serious, like he’s always watching a ship take on water. In PE, he’s unreadable, giving out electrolytes and liquid iron like candy, blowing his favourite whistle — he’s wearing it now — but on his balcony, something loosens. Yuma wonders if it has anything to do with the lawn chair folded, always empty, behind him…

At the same time a world away, Nico is saying, “No party tonight. Just getting in some gossip.” And ow as Euijoo kicks him.

“Oh yeah?” Fuma says. “Taki?”

“Just spending the Kei — uh, day — evening — together. Sir.” And Harua covers his mouth, segueing smoothly: “Plans tonight, Coach?”

His answer is most likely a lie. Harua has lived one floor above Fuma for years, and south of 5pm is Toni Braxton time. Now at least he understands all the unbreaking of hearts and uncrying of tears.

They continue, and Fuma’s balcony door slides shut.

Up the hill and into the old neighbourhood, the houses are built like small mansions, a bit saggy and sunken after so many years, but friendly and fences are rare. Euijoo, Yuma and Jo live in a row of three houses with one shared yard and a well-trodden path between basement windows, and Taki lives farther up the cul-de-sac, always five minutes late to everything.

“Let’s play video games,” Maki says, then Harua: “I get the pink controller!” and Maki is devastated though he was going to give Harua the pink controller anyway.

“Pass,” says Nico. “We’re studying. College stuff. Right, EJ?”

Euijoo meets his eyes and goes along with it, obviously. “Yeah. Studying.”

“Lame,” Yuma says, though he’s just started his first semester at the same college — the only college — and so has Jo, which is why he’s pulling books out of his backpack, saying: “Do you mind if I come too? If I study alone I just end up doodling.”

Nico and Euijoo both say with a similar flat tone, “Sure,” and without eye contact, leave with Jo to study. The screen door bangs, and Maki asks to play Minecraft.

“We’re not playing video games,” says Yuma.

“But I already texted my mom.”

“Oh no,” says Harua, the kind of intrigued oh no that’s about to go along with everything, no questions asked.

“What?” Taki is getting nothing from context clues and is physically beginning to panic. “What oh no, what?”

Yuma is rubbing his palms together.

This is about to change everything.

Chapter Text

The local community college is only one parking lot, an empty street, and a patch of maybe-stinging nettle away from Samidare High. Harua, Taki and Maki — the last remaining high schoolers of the inner circle — watch as Yuma sprints toward them, backpack swinging like a pendulum.

“What do you want?” Harua shivers. “My face is freezing off.”

“It’s about the Plan.” The Plan, capital P, that Yuma conceived of last night and woke up with no desire to abort. But the Team, capital T, is only as strong as their weakest link: “Taki, what was that text about?”

“It was an accident.” Taki knows he’s got to talk fast — to absolve himself. “It was for someone else.”

“How many Yumas do you know?”

“Two?”

“What are you talking about?” says Maki. “What text?”

“Last night Taki told me he was doubting the Plan.”

Maki gasps and Harua shoves him. “You said you were on board!”

“I was! I am!” But Mr. Kei is on his mind again. “I mean, it is meddling—”

“Meddling!” Yuma exclaims. “Were the twins from the Parent Trap meddling?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen it.”

“Well, you should have. Something something ethics, something something privacy, right? That’s the boring part, Taki — let’s skip to the part where they’re getting married and you’re the ring bearer.”

Taki does like the sound of that. “They’re not really our parents though…”

“You called Kei dad once.”

“Dad, Kei, they’re basically the same word—”

“Taki,” says Yuma, fixing him with that all-knowing gaze. “Say you’re not giving up on the Team.”

And Taki, with a squeaking laugh, bends like a twist tie. “Are you kidding? I’m on board! We’re getting them back together. We’re going to get Coach Fuma and Mr.—”

“Mr. Kei!”

Yuma’s hands are clasped over Taki’s mouth, and behind him Kei pushes through the door, a cigarette halfway into his mouth before he sees them and flings it away. He’s dressed in head-to-toe stripes, making him seem even more vertically glorious, and his handsome — slightly tired — features are furrowed in interest.

“What’s going on, boys?” he says.

“Nothing,” says Maki, “what’s going on with you?” And it comes off accusatory because of the cigarette and Kei clears his throat.

“Fair point. Yuma, I’m starting to think I hallucinated you graduating.”

“Can’t a guy visit his old stomping ground now and ag-ga-ga-gain—” Kei is pinching his cheeks. “Okay, okay!”

“An individual should always make time for his friends. I’m sure they miss you very much.”

“No, not really,” says Harua.

“Hi Mr. Kei,” says Taki, meaningfully. Kei pinches his cheek too.

“What’s up on Tuesday?” Yuma asks, referring to Art History, which is the only class he’s never skipped for an &Burger diversion, too afraid to invoke Kei’s disapproval. “And don’t say—”

“Andy Warhol, continued.”

“You’ve got to give Warhol a break.”

“What can I say, I’m a Warholic. You’re lying to yourselves if you think that wasn’t clever!”

They give him a polite round of applause.

As the bell rings, the three scramble inside and Yuma makes off across the lot in a sprint. Kei, holding the door, waits until the coast is clear, then picks up his cigarette, brushes it off, and tucks it into his pocket.

He may have been overdoing it lately. He’s had the strangest case of hiccups all day now.

Though Kei is a veritable geek, Art History can become rote — already written, literally. (And he knows his class is usually chosen just narrowly over Mathematics.) Days spent teaching at the high school are always more challenging and more joyful. Here, art is created, even if it’s unfinished or off-topic. Harua will look up at him with those eyes like bowls of liquid intrigue; Maki will get fed up with the assignment and forge his own course; and Taki — too keen to stay in his seat — will run supplies from the closet directly to Kei’s hands.

(Kei doesn’t pick favourites — his favourites pick him.)

Today, as the room empties out, Taki falls behind with that mop of dark hair and thought-in-progress expression, but runs out before Kei can ask what’s on his mind.

After cleaning the classroom floor-to-ceiling, Kei is ready for a bubble bath, garlic-stuffed olives, and falling asleep on the ergonomic heaven of the living room floor. He’s weaving through the faculty lot with his lighter in hand when Fuma passes through his periphery and Kei has to make the difficult decision between being the first to look up or not looking up at all. His cigarette is already burning and Fuma doesn’t stop or call out — he never does — so Kei keeps walking, slides behind the wheel, and drives away.

Fuma, halfway inside, watches silently from the doorway as Kei’s rusty old car fades up the road, and disappears.

Chapter Text

“Why did you tell them about Kei and Fuma.”

Euijoo, arms crossed, is half covered by an argyle blanket, frowning up at the ceiling. It’s a thought that has clearly been fermenting in the dark cupboard of his mind since Nico first brought it up. Euijoo has a special way of cracking the lid on these thoughts at just the right time and letting the odour-like presence fill the room.

Nico, subtly, sidesteps: “When are you going to move out?”

“When I feel like it.” But Nico knows it’s because he’s particular about his things, and he has a lot of them, in an intentional order. Nico likes to move a trinket or scrap by an inch and see how long it takes before that thing is moved invariably back into its place. Case in point: “Don’t touch that.”

Nico returns the cup of bookmarks to his bedside. “Looks funny.”

“When are you moving out?”

He doesn’t mention that he already has. “Weird they’re in a cup.”

“You’re always talking about ‘making it big.’ So? Are you going to the city or what?”

Sometimes Nico wishes he didn’t dream his dreams out loud, making vague declarations like “one day you’ll see” or “a bird’s gotta fly the coop.”

Nico tugs the blanket more to his side. Euijoo tugs it back.

“Getting your own place would make ‘studying’ a lot easier,” says Nico.

“You’re so self-centred.”

“What, it would!”

The bed creaks a bit as he turns away.

“Come on.”

“Don’t say come on.”

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Did you put away Brown Bear?”

The stuffed bear Euijoo keeps on his bed like a talisman. “Why’d you have to tell them about Kei and Fuma?”

“I don't know. What, it’s not taboo. Don’t you ever think about them?”

“Think about them how?”

“That one Valentine’s Day?”

Fuma had the whole gym class run through Kei’s art room, each with one red rose. It became a bouquet too big to hold in a single person’s arms. And Euijoo, fifteen, felt yearning for the first time, for a red rose of his own, even if it was just one.

“Not really,” he says now.

“So you just don’t give a shit.”

“And you do?”

“No.” But it’s such an egregious lie, it’s like caramel sticking to his teeth. “I don’t know! Don’t be all like that. Everything got worse after they broke up. Everything. Like the sun isn’t as warm. Sky, blue, water, wet. Okay? It just… sucks.”

Euijoo frowns. He pretends not to care because it’s impossible not to care. The day Kei and Fuma broke up was the same day that Euijoo kissed Nicholas for the first time, pushed him against the wall in the art room supply closet, causing an avalanche of paintbrushes and glue sticks. Sometimes he thinks everything leads back to that moment — him and Nico, listening to an argument spiral out of control while they hid, powerless to stop it. Him and Nico, who they are now, like the experience seeded a cynicism where something more tender might have grown instead. Even now, Euijoo trying to reach out is with cold feet and sharp toenails under the covers, making Nico squeak and retaliate with an elbow in his ribs.

They’re giggling and it feels good.

Nico decides to leave.

“What are you up to?” Euijoo says this leaning back against the headboard, an arm folded behind his head, and Nico focusses on turning his shirt right-side-out.

“I don’t know. Plans with the guys?”

“Not that I know of. I’ll text you, if I hear anything.”

“Sure. Me too. If I hear anything.” Nico feels stupid. Wanting to talk more, point out the way Euijoo arranges his pencils, grab the jittering shape of his foot through the blanket. So he decides to leave — again.

He sneaks out the back door, in case Jo is gazing out the window or Yuma is painting his nails on the stoop. The guys are a microcosm of the town as a whole — always watching, though Nico and Euijoo haven’t been caught yet. Taki’s birthday-drone incident was a close call. And there was the time Harua cornered them in the men’s room and talked for twenty minutes while Euijoo hunkered on the toilet and Nico quietly redressed. They keep it secret for obvious reasons. As long as it’s casual, why would they tell people anyway? Though sometimes defending the secret starts to feel like a chasm setting them apart, even from each other.

Or, Nico feels that way. He isn’t one to talk. The secrets have been piling up for him recently.

He cuts through town, past Harua’s apartment block, two different artisanal sandwich shops, the cafe where Yuma brews tiny coffees in tiny cups. Samidare Bay has two sides: downtown, where summertime tourists wander off the ferry and buzz around buying overpriced merch; and the Old Townsite, where the streets are a bit wider, a bit less busy, a bit dustier and potholed. And then there is the road connecting them, his route to school, to the beach, to Euijoo’s place. The beautiful houses high above became a sort of fantasy, a mural he could admire only in passing.

It still feels strange to open the door and step inside.

The secrets began, logically, at &Burger. Jo got him a job cleaning there, and after so many years waxing about “going to the city to make his dreams come true,” it pangs a bit. When he found a room to rent — in this house of all places — he kept it quiet. He still has his dreams, still has a shitty second-hand keyboard and a notebook of lyrics. But his life materialized in a less-than cinematic way and he found himself going along with it instead of forging ahead the way a dreamer maybe should.

His room is around the side, just big enough for a single bed and a few instruments and the rest is pretty much just clothes. It’s an old house, decorated richly in a half-derelict, shadowed and dusty kind of way, the perfect under-rock environment for a hermit to bury himself in. Nico calls in the front door but there’s no answer. He peeks into the living room and sees Kei passed out on the Persian rug, a documentary about the Renaissance still flashing on TV.

Secret part two, in the flesh.

It isn’t a tight secret, but Kei said keeping it quiet may be wise. There isn’t a clear code of conduct when it comes to renting a room in your teacher’s house — though he thinks it’s a perfect scenario. Kei is odd, entertaining and easy-going all at once, a chill uncle-level of interference, which is refreshing after a lifetime with Nico’s parents. Frankly, being housemates with Kei is a blast.

Most of the time.

There are times like this too, when Nico finds him passed out in the middle of the afternoon, or staring off the balcony like a war widow — or worst of all, locked in his painting room, unreachable until food is required or work draws him out looking like a depressed acrylic-covered Beetle Juice. The painting room is strictly off-limits. Nico never goes near it. Except for the time that he did, when Kei was out and the door was cracked open and Nico saw him — him — his smiling face staring back in soft, loving brushstrokes. It all fell into place for Nico just then.

He came up with a plan.

He’d just mention it, off-hand, and let the gears turn for themselves. Someone like puppet-master Harua or love-complex Yuma would take up the Cupid bit with minimal persuasion. And his involvement would be limited, given his perpetual failure in romance. His only experience is with Euijoo — though “romantic” used in reference to them is a misnomer so outrageous it should be illegal.

No, he’s never done anything but fuck up there.

When he looks at his phone, there’s a text from Yuma.

Kei and Fuma. We’re Parent-Trapping them. You in?

Nico smiles.

Across town in Yuma’s basement, the crosslegged members of the Team are gathered for their first official brainstorming session, and Yuma gets a text back from Nico.

“He’s in!” Yuma rolls his whiteboard into the middle of the room, biting off the cap of a marker. “We’ll tell EJ and Jo… eventually. Once we’ve made some progress. Agreed?”

The three say agreed. Harua is still deciding on a soundtrack. Yuma’s marker is squeaking across the whiteboard. Meet-cute-again. Accidental picnic. Tension via pottery. Meanwhile, Maki has a few suggestions of his own.

Taki scoots closer and says in a hushed voice, “Nico’s in on it now.”

“I know.”

“What’s going to happen. Right? Who even knows. Right?”

“Now we get them talking somehow.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yeah.” Maki glances up at Harua. Those big glasses sliding down his nose, the perfect rosy curl of his mouth, twisted in concentration. “One-hundred percent.”

Taki just gulps.

34 percent. Tops.

Chapter Text

Fuma has long solved the difficulty of life with one key concept: monotony.

He uses the word because the connotation is worse than reality. A routine of healthy, sustainable activities, rigidly timetabled, eliminates the stress of spontaneity and doubt of a tumultuous touch-and-go lifestyle. And in that rigidity is comfort like a freshly made bed.

Fuma’s mornings go like this.

Eyes open, administration. Email, bills, the grit of life knocked out before first light. The bathroom cycle is a purification, washing the crust and computer screen off his face with ice-cold water. The sun has risen by then, shining through the open balcony door as he stretches, preparing for his run. A jar of assorted fruit sweats on the counter; it will have thawed by the time he returns, morning oatmeal a nutritious essential.

The town is still rubbing sleep from its crevices and adjusting to the light, sandwich boards unfolding and mannequins posing in windows. He jogs along the water as far as the terminal fences allow, then turns up into the residential streets, blood pumping now.

His routine intersects with others — a man walking his dog, a woman leaving for work, squirrels rooting in the grass — and Euijoo, sitting on his front steps, staring down at his phone.

Slowing slightly, Fuma calls, “Problem, EJ?”

Euijoo, sporting a bowl cut and the gleaming eyes of a startled deer, says: “No, Coach. No problem here.”

Fuma lets him know he doesn’t buy it, and continues.

It’s a beat he’s fine-tuned over years. Duration, view, sidewalk integrity. Unnecessarily circuitous, yes — risk-conscious in every facet, so that there is as little chance as possible that he will see someone he doesn’t want to see. Though inevitable in a town this size — Fuma believes even the inevitable can be mitigated.

It really is only one person anyway.

Maki is ahead — his bike increasingly toy-like as he shoots up another inch every week — with a basket full of bound-up newspapers. Fuma runs backward with arms raised, shouting, “Show me something!”

Maki flings a paper expertly into Fuma’s hands, emitting a birdlike shriek of success, and Fuma keeps running.

On the other side of town is a fast food joint that Fuma has never stooped to eating at, but with its wrap-around drive-thru has become a key pivot in his route. As he turns the corner, a window slides open and a baggie of french fries dangles out.

“Made these special for you,” says Nicholas. He’s dipped in condiment colours, a beanie over a hairnet.

Fuma keeps his knees high. “When I eat here, you’ll know I’ve hit rock bottom.”

“You only live once, Coach.”

“No — you live every day.” Even if every day becomes slightly the same.

Running back in a wide intentional loop, pedestrians and cars are unloading from the early ferry. About a block from his apartment is the YukiaKafé, the only place he can get his hands on a ginger shot at 7am. He takes a hard right inside and the bell jingles. Yuma is behind the counter, blonde hair standing on end as if he emerged from a capsule of static energy.

“Right on schedule.” He passes a glass of yellow pulp over the counter. Fuma knocks it back and doesn’t wince. “You’ve got to tell me how to get buff like you.”

“Diet, exercise, discipline.”

“Sure, but is there like, a pill I could take?”

“Don’t take steroids, Yuma.”

“You’re no fun, you know that?”

Fuma jogs out and the door jingles, and Yuma texts the group chat. 7:05. Like clockwork.

For Fuma, the next morning is, blissfully, the same.

He stretches, leaves a jar of berries on the counter, runs along the oceanfront. The man with his dog nods from across the street, and a squirrel skitters away with full cheeks. In his wide front window, a bored Taki stares out into the distance, suddenly dropping out of sight as Fuma runs by. That kid is wound tighter than a bear trap. Fuma makes a mental note to pass along something calming, like chamomile, next time they meet in PE.

Across town, Jo is the one in the drive-thru, cleaning up a spilled garbage can. He’s a lanky kid with defeated eyes and a gift for throwing balls through hoops, and Fuma has never been able to be tough on him.

“Morning, Coach.”

“You look tired.”

“I was up late.”

“At the court?”

Sheepishly: “No. Drawing.”

Fuma sighs. Another artist.

He helps Jo with the trash can and continues into town. Yuma slides a ginger shot over the counter, saying, “Do you run on tracks or what?”

Fuma replies, “Stay in school,” and jingles out.

The next day starts off slightly different.

Harua is in the stairwell, typing rapidly on his phone until Fuma skips past. “There you are!”

“Here I am?”

“Game night next week?”

“You’re on. Be warned — I’ve got tricks up my sleeve.”

Harua’s smile is so delighted, it’s almost suspicious. “I do too.”

Farther along, Maki is sitting on the curb with his bike toppled next to him. Fuma calls, “Maki, you okay?”

“Oh!” He jumps up, grabbing his handlebars. “Yeah, just delivering papers.” His basket is empty. “And I’m done!” He takes off peddling. “See you!”

Stranger still is Taki, sitting in the &Burger parking lot with his phone in hand.

“Taki, what are you doing here at seven in the morning?”

“It’s not seven yet.” He shows his phone, then snatches it back like Fuma might take it from him.

“Remember to try that tea I gave you. It settles the nerves.”

Taki nods, “Yessir.”

Leaving the parking lot, Fuma comes to the same crossroads he always does, though circuitous and deliberately evasive, the well-known path home. Strangest of all these small anomalies — he takes a different route. Breathing in steady breaths, running along the ocean, the steep cliff and blackberry bushes, a view as familiar as a painting. The houses above glint in frosty sunlight.

He hasn’t always run in circles. This road used to take him everywhere. Downtown ginger shots, Old Townsite Fitness and basketball court, and then back home again, to that portly house with flamingos in the grass, succulents and snowberries, windows open to air the turpentine fumes.

Fuma keeps running.

The main road delivers him downtown as though he had never strayed from the course. His system is off-kilter, his form sloppy. He almost passes the cafe without going inside, but thinks better than disrupting the routine further. Fuel and rigidity: the anatomy of any solid machine.

He jingles into the cafe.

And sees Kei.

And jingles right back out.

Chapter Text

Yuma, in his mom’s sedan, skids to a stop halfway up the curb and the back door pops open.

Nico and Maki climb in, squeezing and buckling as Yuma peels off. Harua is riding shotgun, DJ dictator armed with the aux cord, and Taki is covering his ears. They’re all talking at once.

“What happened at the cafe?” says Nico. “Did Kei get there late?”

“Taki probably told him the wrong time,” says Maki.

“Nuh-uh! I said six-fifty-five to seven-oh-five, I even wrote it on my hand—”

“Yuma, that was a stop sign!”

It was a stop suggestion, Yuma decides. He would brake once they were out of town, hidden in big coastal trees where they wouldn’t be seen by any random local. He says, “Stop backseat driving. And Harua, turn off that music.”

“I’m sorry for providing a score.” Harua yanks out the cord.

“Yuma,” Nico says. “What happened?”

It’s been playing over and over again in Yuma’s mind. Their meticulous plan — days of noting Fuma’s routine, placing agents to watch their locations, feeding Kei some bull about a ten-minute sale on day-old pastries at the cafe — and finally, the moment of truth. The hazy morning light and coffee steam fogging the windows. Kei, slightly confused at the lack of promotion for the pastry sale, and Fuma, bounding in the door, same as every day. The instant recognition as he saw Kei there, his reflexes not fast enough to avoid collision.

They didn’t touch. But watching it felt like some kind of celestial event.

Yuma says, “The plan wasn’t good enough.”

There is a lull, silent except for the old car chugging. They’re out in the forest now, past the ferry terminal and Harua’s apartment block, where he had watched from his balcony as Fuma came running out of the cafe. Not jogging anymore, not that usual springy gait. An escape. And then Toni Braxton had come on, and Harua knew they were screwed.

They park crookedly on the empty road, hazards blinking. Harua feels his phone buzz — Euijoo texting the group chat, asking where everyone is.

“We should get back,” he says.

“Wait,” Maki leans forward between the seats. “We’re not giving up, right?”

Taki says, “Maybe it’s for the best—”

“No,” Nico snaps. “We can’t give up — they’re still in love with each other.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I do, okay? They can’t talk to each other because they’re too proud, too scared — they need a push. They need us.”

There’s a song stuck in Harua’s head. Say you’ll love me again…

He turns back over the seat, saying, “I still believe in love. Who’s with me?”

“Me!” Maki says too loud.

“Me,” Taki says, “I guess.”

“Yuma?”

He fills his lungs with dusty recycled air, and nods. He believes in love. He wants to, anyway.

About two miles back into town, Kei is on his second bowl of ice cream and sixth disintegrated cigarette.

Every window is open but the smell of paint is intense, even for him. He lit the room with candles to clear the air. And for aesthetics, piles of abandoned canvases and takeout containers a bit more romantic in the golden glow. The floor is his easel, his pants as good as a rag, bare hands and acrylics, some primal return to instinct and touch. His mind, completely focussed and completely vacant at once, has no concept of the shapes blossoming under his fingertips until the reds and whites give way to curling corners and a soft kiss-tender pink, smiling up at him and saying good morning.

There was no good morning earlier. Fuma took one look at him, and as usual, shut him out like a vice. How could Kei compete with that discipline? To look away, to close himself utterly to the possibility of looking more and longer, taking each other in? Meanwhile, every time they lock eyes, Kei comes home to paint his lifeless portraits and fill the hole in his chest with smoke and sugar.

It has been years, yet still it aches like a day-old bruise.

Chapter Text

If Jo wanted to draw the essence of Yuma, he’d speckle the page with interests and obsessions, light-bulb ideas swarming like seagulls, to convey that Yuma — for as long as Jo has known him, which is forever — is always consumed by something, and that’s the way he likes it.

Last year it was knitting, quilting, crafting, anything braided or made out of popsicle sticks, anything to keep his hands busy. The year before was holistic cat match-making, after witnessing an upsetting event take place on the fence outside his window. The year before was family history, 23andMe, astrology, trying to retroactively explain why his parents’ marriage was genetically or cosmically predetermined to fail.

This year has been strangely normal so far, yet Yuma isn’t getting antsy. And that makes Jo antsy.

They’re waiting in Art History when Jo brings it up: “Are you okay?”

“I dunno, my back hurts a bit.” He has both legs spread on the desk, notepad between them, his posture slightly bug-like and concave.

“You’ve been kind of…”

“Distracted?”

“No. Focussed.”

“Huh. You noticed. What are you, in love with me or something?”

“With you it’s harder not to notice.”

“Sorry, can’t tell you about it.”

Jo sighs and opens his book.

“You’re not even going to ask?”

“You just said you couldn’t tell me.”

“And I meant it, stop asking.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shh, Kei is here.”

Late, he scrambles in and wrestles with the projector screen at the front of the small room. Nico reminded him earlier that he had an afternoon class, but somewhere between spending an hour watching a deer nap in the backyard and receiving an email from his grandmother subtly requesting grandchildren — it flew out the window. Meanwhile Nico, in his usual seat next to Euijoo, tries not to comment internally in a disparaging parental tone, set an alarm next time, don’t stay up so late, the same stuff his mom says to him.

After a slideshow and a chapter of a Warhol biography read out loud, Kei throws his hands up and calls it. Even in the face of so many bored twenty-somethings — in a building that has not known colour since the 70s — he’s usually a bit more jolly than this. Yuma throws a look over his shoulder, and Nico nods.

He’s about to stand, but Euijoo asks him, “What are you doing later?”

“Later? As in later later, or…”

“Later as in… after this?”

Nico leans into his backpack, rifling for an excuse. “Maki asked for my help. Tying a tie.”

“You’re going over just to show him how to tie his tie?”

“I don’t know, the kid needs me. Why, did you want to… do something?”

“No.” Euijoo — having cleared his bed of stuffed animals and made sure that both his parents would be out of the house and purposely worn the cologne that Nico said he liked one time — lies vehemently. “I’ve got plans at the library. So another time, maybe.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

“Whatever.”

The rest of the class has funnelled out. Kei leaves with a nicotine-hungry look and Jo on his heels, eager questions about colour theory. Nico and Yuma fall into step, and then it’s just Euijoo in the empty classroom, banging his head on the desk.

Whatever.

Leaving Samidare Bay Community College behind, he walks through back lanes, dangling ivy and cracked concrete, all with his eyes glued to his phone. He’s been drafting an email for days and the sequence of words continues to sound less and less coherent. He only stops to pet a cat, thinking about someone specific when it turns its tail and struts away as though Euijoo doesn’t exist at all.

For most of his life, Euijoo has been fitfully in like with Nicholas. Even now at an age where his brain is mostly developed, there’s still some vestige of middle-schoolish codependency churning between them, gut-wrenching and utterly essential. Euijoo can admit that. Nico is essential. Like chapstick. Euijoo would crack without him.

Keeping this fact to himself, he’s decided, is Euijoo-like. Sensible. Safe. Whatever.

The library is probably the youngest building in town, with a revolving door that the neighbourhood kids like to abuse like playground equipment. Euijoo’s shift isn’t until later, but he’s suddenly free and free time makes his eczema flare up, so he stuffs his backpack behind the desk and plants himself in the new releases, skimming for misplaced books and making sure the plastic jackets aren’t wrinkled.

Euijoo’s love for libraries is no secret. That must have been why his aunt, a librarian, offered him a job and a place to live — with her family, in her city. The opportunity to start a life outside of Samidare Bay.

His parents act like it’s a Harvard scholarship and a room at the Ritz. Like his future is made. And he has to admit that it would work — staying with relatives, working in and among books, a selection of colleges probably better than the one he goes to now, with fancy things like campuses and functioning smoke detectors. In general, people his age only leave the Bay — his sister did, now a bank manager up the coast. And then there is Nico, his long-nurtured dream of a musical underdog story playing out against a cosmopolitan backdrop.

The blueprint is laid out in front of him. So why is there an email sitting in his drafts, pleading a case for his damp little hometown?

He’s editing now, a lull in library-goers giving him time to think. I don’t know if I’m ready… I don’t know if it’s right for me… I don’t know what I want… But he’s twenty-one, and more than that, he’s Euijoo. Shouldn’t he know what he wants by now?

A soft ding draws his head up. Mrs. Han, a nice, slightly confused older lady who pushes her dog around in a stroller, is waiting across the counter.

“Oh, sorry, Mrs. Han. What can I do for you?”

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to work the scanning machine again.”

“No problem, I can scan your books right here.”

“Thank you, Euijoo.” She piles her books on the counter, then a small paper bag with a grease stain. “I was at the cafe so I got you a chocolate chip cookie. You still like chocolate chip, don’t you?”

Euijoo’s heart grows a great big flower. He wishes he could explain this feeling, give it justice. AirDrop and convert to PDF and attach it to an email. A bigger library and nicer college won’t bring him a cookie on a random afternoon. The city won’t smell like home, like rain and salt and rancid sand. The city doesn’t have his friends. Doesn’t have Nico.

He closes his drafts and leaves the headache to another day.

Chapter Text

The guys say it’s Maki’s tone of voice that makes him incapable of lying successfully, no matter how much he enunciates or how loudly.

Kei is in the art room, a circle of easels and paint flecked across every surface. Their projects from earlier are spread on his desk, reds and pinks portraying the ‘visual essence of love.’ He looks up from one of the paintings as Maki runs in.

“Mr. Kei, we need you to—”

“Hold that thought and let me compliment you first.”

Maki forgets about the plan immediately, going closer.

Kei holds up his drawing of a dark room with only one window. It’s nothing special, just some scribbles, but Kei says, “Your depiction of love as a lonely place… it’s subversive. Moving.”

“Thanks.”

“Really. It speaks to me deeply.”

Maki feels weird then, like he’s looking through a one-way mirror that Kei doesn’t know about. He’s about to move on smoothly, but Kei is rummaging through his desk, finally unearthing what he’s looking for: a sheet of gold star stickers, a trick he used when they were younger — for incentive.

Maki groans. “Come on, dude. Sir.”

“Don’t tell me you’re too grown up.”

Except Maki has grown — he’s as tall as Kei now, no need to get up on his tiptoes as Kei presses the sticker to his backpack strap.

“Good work, Mr. Maki.”

Maki geeks a bit once Kei’s back is turned.

“So, any plans for the afternoon?” Kei asks.

“Nah, just &Burger or something— wait. No. I forgot. We need your help. Urgently.”

Kei looks at him like maybe it’s the beginning of a joke, then realizes he’s serious and follows him out into the halls. Maki holds the door open to the cold afternoon, the cracked concrete sparkling with ice. A car is sitting on the road ahead, Yuma, Taki and Harua standing there with one more person, stance wide, neon runners and sweats.

Kei almost stops walking.

“Mr. Kei? You okay?”

Looking at Maki, he carefully walks forward.

Yuma looks up with bright eyes as they approach. “Finally! We just need one more pair of hands to get this thing moving. The ignition’s shot somehow, silence, crickets.” Somewhere in the middle of this monologue, Fuma turns, sees Kei, and turns around again, scanning like he could jump through a manhole. Yuma is still talking: “If we just get it over this hill, I can roll straight down to the shop.”

“I’m still very willing,” Fuma says, “to call you a tow truck. I won’t tell your mom.”

“Come on, where would I be if I just called someone else to bail me out every time I ran into a problem?”

“You called me.”

“But I’m not paying you. So it’s different.” Yuma rubs his hands together. “Let’s do this, team!”

Kei and Fuma are standing at an obvious distance, looking in separate directions. Maki wonders if a loud sound would draw their attention, maybe initiate a greeting, but them acknowledging one another’s presence doesn’t exactly amount to success.

Suddenly Harua is beside him, gasping in disbelief. “No fair. Mr. Kei gave you a sticker.”

“How’s that not fair?”

“Coach made me do lunges with him and now my entire body hurts and you get a sticker?”

“You can have it. I mean, if you want.”

Harua gets up on his tiptoes, taking the star and pressing it to Maki’s chin, fingers resting gently on his jaw. Maki freezes and stares like a dumb idiot until Yuma calls, “You two, quit making out and help us!”

Maki kind of wants to kill him, but there are too many witnesses. They all gather at the trunk while Yuma keeps a hold on the wheel. Taki ends up between Fuma and Kei, observing the difference between their hands — Fuma, chalky and veined, and Kei, long and paint-stained, braced against the car as they slowly push forward. And once again Taki is involved, pushing a perfectly functional car up a hill just so that two people will share the same air space. Though when Yuma told him and his ethics to get lost, he couldn’t tear himself out of the storyline.

Fuma, the workhorse to the right, is reaffirming his atheism.

There is something in the air today. He smelled it as soon as he stepped out the door this morning. It’s the kind of day that makes him yearn for the excuse of a statutory holiday, global crisis, food poisoning, the only ways he can get a day off. Lying is not an option; a town like this demands information sharing, grocery store chats, cross-street salutations — and unfortunate meetings. It’s been happening a lot more lately.

The first and only time Fuma called in sick was because Kei cajoled him into it. Caught Fuma by the waist, dragged him down into the rumpled bed with a comment about letting his stubble grow in. Fuma, as a matter of course, bent to his whim and melted under his kiss, and they spent the day listening to radio and drinking mimosas on the deck. And, as a matter of course, Kei’s neighbour saw them vacationing and that tidbit found its way to the principal’s office. Not maliciously, but inevitably. That slap on the wrist still stung at times.

It’s just like Kei — pleasure first, thought second. Fuma rises above the pursuit of pleasure altogether.

It is… well, it’s fine.

Kei, labouring nearby, resolves not to stare at Fuma’s biceps.

His mind is an old smeared palette, far from the simplicity of plain old heartbreak or spite — and the years have been kind to Fuma, admittedly. At the moment he is bearing the brunt of a sedan and an incline, Kei and the kids likely not much help, but the wheels turn and the crest nears, and Fuma lets out a soft grunt of exertion that registers in Kei’s mind like a song he used to know by heart — and horribly, he stumbles and rolls his ankle.

Evading concern, he pushes on and his ankle begins to throb and the foolishness of it sinks in. Over the hump, the three skitter into Yuma’s car and wave as they roll down the hill with one final shove. And the two of them are left — Fuma, stretching those bands of muscle this way and that, and Kei, standing on one foot.

Fuma doesn’t face him as he says, “You all right?”

“Rolled my ankle.”

“You should get ice on that.”

“I know.” Why does such an uninteresting remark make him want to argue? “So there we go.”

Fuma brushes his hands clean of it and turns back toward the parking lot. Kei follows, obviously a pathetic hobble, because Fuma turns back and wordlessly supports him down the rest of the hill.

(The smell of his skin is a gut punch, ginger and coffee and something else that Kei remembers gathering to his nose and breathing from the fibres of his pillow.)

He opens Kei’s car and guides him in, a hand on his waist, another covering the frame so that Kei won’t knock his head. And then slams it and walks away.

Kei cannot cleanse himself of that lingering memory. It taunts him every time he takes a breath.

Chapter Text

Nico drops through the basement window, chucks his backpack and announces, “They made physical contact!”

Yuma, Maki and Harua burst into cheers while Taki plugs his ears. The whole car ride back they wouldn’t stop saying that they’d finally done something right — but Taki didn’t agree. (But he didn’t say that. And doesn’t say that now.)

Harua and Maki are dancing in a circle; Yuma is pressing for details. “What did you see?”

“Fuma helped him to his car, held him like this with an arm around his waist. Seriously, it was like a movie.”

“So romantic.” Harua twirls on socked feet. “There’s nothing like hurt-comfort.”

“Was Mr. Kei really hurt?” Taki asks. His palms are sweaty.

“Tweaked his ankle.” Nico pretends not to feel bad about it too. “Don’t worry, I’ll check in on him later. Hey, celebrate, come on. The Team actually brought them together! Harua, put on that weird circus music you like.”

“Accordion music is not weird.”

“Yes, it is. Yuma, what’s in the mini fridge?”

Yuma is rummaging through cans and bottles. “Strawberry milk, tonic, juice boxes… let’s go crazy, swamp water!”

Suddenly there’s a clatter, Euijoo opening the window and climbing inside. He pauses with wide eyes when he notices they’ve all gone silent. “Am I… interrupting?”

“Um, no.” Maki has his weird lying face on. “Just being good friends together.”

“EJ, we’re making swamp water.” Yuma kicks the fridge door shut. “Someone grab cups from upstairs. My mom and her date are up there and I don’t want to see his stupid face.”

Nico bounds up the stairs. The rest are doling out Wii controllers. Taki takes his backpack, heading for the window.

“Hey, you’re leaving?”

Harua is pouting up at him. He’s already standing on the back of the couch, half expecting nobody to notice his exit.

“Uh, yeah,” Taki says. “Leaving.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. A walk maybe.”

“See you tomorrow, Taki.” Euijoo waves. Taki gives the room in general a thumbs-up and climbs out the window, feeling like a liar. Secrets aren’t good for the friend group microbiome — but he doesn’t want to tell them what he’s doing, sensing an impending Taki, stay out of this.

He walks through a light drizzle, following the half-broken weather-chicken on the gas station roof. Taki usually comes by for the energy drinks that his mom (and everybody else) tells him not to drink, and maybe a popsicle in the dead of summer. He pays for a couple bags of ice and shoulders out awkwardly with one bag under each armpit. Mr. Kei’s house isn’t ten minutes away.

Taki doesn’t claim to be Kei’s favourite or to know him better than anybody else. It’s a widely accepted fact that he’s the best teacher in the world. But Taki, not obviously or anything, likes Mr. Kei more than normal. Instead of telling him to sit still and be quiet, he makes Taki his assistant, gives him excuses to get out of his chair, and lets him work in the classroom when no one else is there. He also has this way of pinching Taki’s cheeks that makes him feel like he was born for a reason, if that makes any sense.

There was also the incident when Taki’s family forgot him at home over the Christmas holiday, Home Alone style. And because they had just watched that movie the night before — and because Taki was twelve — he was pretty antsy in the house by himself. Kei found him in the grocery store picking up some cereal and potato chips and gently insisted that he stay with Taki until his family came back. It was only a day and a half, but in that short time, Kei made the best hot chocolate Taki had ever tasted, built him an igloo in the backyard, and let him watch TV till midnight. He even let Taki sleep in the living room with him, assuring him that there were no intruders in the house, and if there were, they would take care of them together.

His house is coming up now, still Christmas-lighted in late-January, a splash of colour among the other drabber houses. Taki presses the doorbell with the tip of his shoe. The meshy curtains flitter, then the door opens, revealing Kei in pyjamas and a white robe like they have in hotels. (His initials are stitched on the pocket, so cool.)

“Taki!” He’s laughing in a confused way. “That’s a lot of ice.”

It’s a bit melty where Taki is holding it. “I know you hurt your foot and I didn’t know if you had any. Ice, I mean, not feet.”

“You’re a good one, Taki. Get in here.” Kei ruffles his hair as he walks through. “You’re all rained-on. Give me the ice and get that jacket off. Hot chocolate?”

“Yes please.”

Taki leaves his jacket on a hook and his shoes in a cubby fashioned out of an old doll house. The living room is a bit medieval, though Taki is only casually familiar with the medieval aesthetic, mostly from video games. It’s something about the blazing stone fireplace, the plush sectional that could probably fit all his friends on it at once, and the earthy brown walls that make him feel like he’s crawling down into some kind of rodent den — in a good way.

Kei is limping. Taki asks if it hurts.

“Don’t worry about it. I just stepped wrong and” — he makes a fart sound with his mouth — “classic. None of you hurt yourselves, did you?”

“No. I don’t think I was doing anything, it was all… Coach Fuma.”

Taki winces. He didn’t mean to mention him. Kei doesn’t reply, clanking around in the kitchen. Taki can see him through the open doorway and lace-draped window, the sill piled with dishes to be washed. He sits on the couch and sees a bag of frozen peas on the carpet. Peas! He forgot about peas! But then Kei gives him a mug of his signature hot chocolate, thick as fudge, a pile of mini marshmallows floating at the surface.

Kei has his own mug too, and a bucket which he places his foot inside and then fills with ice, shivering and drawing a blanket around himself.

“Ooh, that’s bracing. So, what happened at the shop?”

Taki looks up. “Huh?”

“The shop.”

“What shop?”

“With Yuma’s car?”

“Oh, right. Well, I don’t know. Mechanical stuff is confusing, like close-up magic. Better not to think about it.” Taki shuts himself up, sipping his hot chocolate. “This reminds me of that Christmas.”

Kei grabs the material covering his heart, almost pained: “Cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Puppies do nothing for me anymore.”

“Must have been annoying though, taking care of some kid on Christmas. Missing whatever else you had planned.”

“What plans did I have?”

“With, um, family?”

“Well, I did. Then I didn’t.” Kei almost looks sad then, but smiling as he meets Taki’s eyes. “Which is why that Christmas with you was so special. I didn’t find you alone. The other way around, really. The Taki that saved Christmas.”

Taki — subconsciously aware of the dry-erase 'relationship timeline' on Yuma’s whiteboard — understands the significance of those one-and-a-half days even more then. And understands the sad look and rolled ankle and Mr. Kei sitting there on one side of a love seat, telling Taki something without really telling Taki anything.

Even though Taki has his doubts, maybe with the Team’s help, Kei won’t be so lonely next time Christmas comes around.

Chapter Text

Jo has a basketball hoop at home, but every time he uses it, Yuma comes running out in platform sneakers, sound-effects for every dribble and dunk, and Jo needs a little bit more calm today.

The high school gym has acoustics like a cathedral. Outside it’s raining and the baseball team — the Samidare High Werewolves — is practicing, Maki’s shrieking voice and Coach Fuma’s whistle ringing in through the skylights. The ball flies cleanly through the net, bounces and lands in his hands, then sails through again, a satisfying rhythm.

Jo was on the basketball team until he graduated, though he wouldn’t have stopped if he had the choice. It’s something he’s good at that doesn’t require deeper thought. Even when the ball hits the rim, his soul doesn’t ache like a broken bone; he just throws again.

The doors suddenly fly open and the baseball team comes bounding in from the rain. Maki passes with a vigorous double high-five, unaware of his own strength and nearly knocking Jo off his feet. Fuma follows after, shutting the doors with a resounding boom. As he sees Jo there with a ball in his hands, he sounds almost sentimental.

“Have you been practicing?”

“No, not really, Coach.”

“Show me what you’ve got.”

He’s a few steps back from the free throw line, but the ball flies straight through, the net dancing. Fuma catches and passes it back.

“You know, the school calls me ‘head of the PE department,’ as if it’s an actual department, not just me and the guy who turns on the sprinklers. I bet I could make up a position for you too — once you’re sure you’ve grown out of &Burger.”

Fuma has been saying this for a while. Jo thinks about escaping the deep-fryer fumes, Friday night drunks, covering for Nico every time he disappears with Euijoo on company hours — and then he really thinks about it. Making the commitment. &Burger is good for liminal periods, at least, paying him to flip burgers and spray Windex while he whiffle-whaffles over his future.

Fuma’s tone is serious now. “Something on your mind?”

“It’s dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

He passes the ball and Fuma catches it, doesn’t pass it back.

Jo swallows. “Coach… I want to be an artist.”

Fuma looks like he’s reconsidering his previous statement.

“I really appreciate everything you’ve taught me, but taking a job here, it just feels… wrong. Because I know what I want to spend my life doing and anything else would be a sham.”

“And now you’re figuring how you’re going to make money while pursuing art.”

“Not… exactly.” Jo slumps to the floor, his limbs suddenly feeling heavy. “I want to be an artist. But I don’t know if I’m good enough. Every time I start a new project, it’s such a rush — I feel like I’m good, like I’m real, like I understand, you know? But once it’s finished, I look back and realize that it was never much from the start. There’s this secret door to competence and I know that it’s close, but I can’t reach it. Do you know what that’s like?”

“No.”

“Ah. Okay.”

Fuma’s shoes squeak toward him, an awkward pat on the shoulder. Jo looks up.

“I’m sure you’re good at what you do. You’re never satisfied with yourself, and that’s a good thing. I just want you to know that I’ll always be here with a space open for you. Doesn’t matter if you’re Van Gogh — and hope to God you’re not — art is a difficult path. And artists are… a strange kind of people.”

Jo can guess who he’s alluding to. He says “Thanks, Coach” and takes his ball back, attempting a shot from the floor and missing horribly. Fuma gives him another pat and walks away.

Leaving the gym, Fuma makes a loop around the building and sneaks out via a gap in the bushes. He senses it coming like a cold snap at the crown of his head — Kei, somewhere nearby, their routines aligning again. Fuma doesn’t have the bandwidth to navigate yet another encounter today.

He tries not to feel defeated, as if Jo’s love for art signifies a loss in the ongoing, unspoken custody battle between them. Jo and Nicholas, despite being Fuma’s aces in their high school days, tilt into Kei’s court while Euijoo — with a natural discipline equalling Fuma’s — prefers a lap around the track, and Yuma has made a hobby of getting on Fuma’s nerves. (Since the lot of them graduated, he admits Kei will eventually gain the advantage simply via exposure.)

Then there are the kids. Taki has been Kei’s faithful companion since middle school, and Maki, always eager for a compliment, tends to split his attention, as good on the field as he is on canvas. And then there is Harua, with his Kyurem plushie, waiting outside Fuma’s door.

“Finally!” He skips inside, making a beeline for the sound system. “I’ve got to be home by seven, so that gives me two hours to crush you into dust. Can you make popcorn?”

“It’s not my cheat day.” Shutting his bedroom door, Fuma changes his clothes, leaving his whistle on the nightstand. In the living room, Harua is playing a brassy orchestral piece as a score for the upcoming battle. As with all of his music, somehow it works. “I’ve got almonds or rice puffs.”

Harua sighs dramatically and chooses almonds.

Fuma fills a bowl, pours two cans of seltzer and brings it all to the coffee table where Harua is shuffling the cards. Kyurem and several Eevees watch from the couch.

They flip a coin. Harua’s first move.

“So,” he says. “Was the little league terrible today?”

“They’re not so little anymore. And they’re not bad at all — Maki especially.” Fuma examines his hand, then says, “I found Jo in the gym.”

“Is that where he was? We were texting him from &Burger.”

“What is it with you and &Burger?”

“The day you try the fries is the day you understand.”

Fuma throws an almond into his mouth instead. “You like art, don’t you, Harua?”

He looks up, interested suddenly piqued. “I love art.”

“Are you planning to become an artist?”

“I don’t know. Drawing is fun, but so is Pokémon.”

“That makes absolute sense.”

“Are you taking an interest in art, Coach?”

“What? No. Just feels like half this town is made up of artists.”

“Must be annoying.”

“Why do you say so?”

Harua rearranges his cards with glittery painted nails, saying, “You and me are similar.”

“You and I are similar.”

“I’m glad you agree. Artists are emotional, they think with their hearts. Us though, we’re all about logic. Maybe that’s why opposites attract. Fire, ice, passion, practicality. The clash is intoxicating.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just echoing a friend of mine.”

“Does this friend have someone specific in mind?”

“Maybe.”

“A classmate? Someone on the baseball team—”

“God no, no one at school.” Fuma’s heart pangs for Maki. “I’m talking about fiery personalities, pride, tension. How do you make tenderness there. You know?”

Fuma thinks about it momentarily, then says, “I don’t know. But alcohol will be involved.” And as he smacks his card down on the table: “What do you think of that, smart ass?”

Harua’s eyes are sparkling. “Coach, you’re a genius.”

Chapter Text

Euijoo holds the basket while Nico fills it with vodka, orange, and a jug of soda. Even at twenty-one, shopping for alcohol has a thrill factor, like they’re getting away with something. The guy at the till, who they both went to high school with, is passed out with his head on the register.

“I just,” Euijoo says, and it’s his fifth nonstarter in this aisle alone. “I just don’t think it’s worth celebrating.” Nico drops two six-packs into the basket. “This much celebrating. Five months into the year— it’s not even an even number.”

“You’re the only one who’s thinking this much about it.”

“It just feels… random.”

Nico is wincing. He shoulders out of the walk-in. “So, you demand that fun makes sense. Guess you’re not drinking?”

“I don’t know. If I feel like it. You?”

“I’m paying for half — of course I am.”

Euijoo is smiling now. “Okay.”

“Okay, what okay?”

“Nico…”

“What?”

“Last time you drank, you got naked and tried to swim across the strait.”

“Fine, I probably wouldn’t have taken my clothes off if I wasn’t a bit buzzed, but I still think swimming the strait wouldn’t be as hard as everybody says it is.”

Nico is walking backward now, and Euijoo is looking at him, quietly amused. Nico’s back hits a shelf, bottles clattering. Euijoo moves on to the register, and Nico, pulling on his collar, follows.

Up the road and three floors off the ground, Maki’s legs are dangling off the end of Harua’s bed.

“This is going to be embarrassing,” he says. “Don’t you remember the New Year’s party? All those drunk college people? Let’s just skip it. Get &Burger!”

“Nope.” Harua has different shoes on each foot, standing in front of the mirror. “If Kei and Fuma even look at each other, I want to see it with my own eyes.”

“Even if both of them show up, they’re not going to just start drinking with us.”

“You mean with everybody but you.”

Maki frowns at the stars painted on the ceiling. “You and Taki too. I know you guys are pretty much legal, but not legally legal.”

“Whatever. I’m drinking tonight.”

“But… you’re not…”

“You’re a baby.”

Maki frowns again. Harua is stepping into chunky pink boots, tucking them under his bell-bottom jeans.

“You’re going to freeze your ass off out there,” says Maki.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah, and then you’re going to ask for my jacket.”

“No I won’t, promise.” But he definitely will, and Maki is definitely going to give it to him. “Fuma gave me the idea, you know. We were playing Pokémon—”

“That’s a lie—”

“Just ask him yourself!”

“I did — he said he didn’t even know what Pokémon was.”

“Ugh! Fine. I know it’s a stretch, but if we can get them in the same place at the same time and that place has free drinks and romantic lighting, I think there’s hope.”

“That’s what these are for?” Maki leans off the bed, pulling lights from a cardboard box. “The mood?”

“Perfect, right?” Harua clomps over, lifting the tangle of silvery lights over their heads. “How could you not fall in love under these lights?”

Maki kind of blacks out and next thing he knows Harua is across the room, changing his boots again. Maki slumps backward and suffocates himself with a pillow.

At the same moment, Yuma is bounding down the stairs with two totes of potato chips. This plan is about to take a bite out of both his and Nico’s wallets. If it doesn’t work out, at least they’ll have more than enough junk food to cope with their failure.

“Whoa, where are you going?”

His Mom is in the kitchen. Yuma stubs his feet into his shoes, saying, “Party on the beach. Don’t wait up.”

“Alcohol party?”

“Well, yes.”

“Be safe, dear. Last time I had too much to drink, nine months later you appeared.”

Yuma isn’t sure what he’s supposed to take from that anecdote. “Don’t worry, EJ will keep an eye on us. We’re doing a romantic ambush. Some friends who hate each other but love each other. You know the story.”

“Do I ever.” She’s in a housecoat and green face mud, watching a burrito slowly spin in the microwave. “Your dad and I hated and loved each other. I hope your friends have a bit more nuance.”

They do, Yuma thinks.

He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if they didn’t.

Chapter Text

Fuma grabs blindly for his phone, knocking a jar of vitamins off the nightstand before his hand meets the vibrating screen. Harua.

Fuma answers, croaking out, “Where are you?”

“The beach!” Which in this town is synonymous with drunk at a party. “Cooooooach! Do you think Pokémon get drunk? What if they’ve got an important battle? What if they have to pee really bad?”

“Harua, is there a point to this?”

“Hold on, I gotta pee.” Muffled thumping and scuffing and static, the phone stuffed into his pocket. Fuma rubs his eyes. It’s midnight. He fell asleep wine-cozy with a book on his chest three hours ago. His room is absolute black via custom blinds, the hum of an air purifier, his Eevees watching over him. It’s the kind of night that fuels him through the rest of the week.

Harua is back: “Hello?”

“Hello?”

“Coach, is that you?”

“Harua, for God’s sake, are you in trouble?”

“Oh yeah. Big trouble. Too much vodka and orange. And it’s really chilly. Pick me up please?”

Fuma sighs and throws off the blanket.

Dressed and invigorated with a quick cold water splash, he heads to the first floor where Mrs. Han lives. She’s getting on in age and agreed to let Fuma use her car whenever he needed as long as he drove her to various appointments in the nearby Saikou City. Besides being financially and environmentally viable, he doesn’t mind the company. Even at the late hour, she opens the door right away, calls him dear and places the keys in his palm along with a strawberry-flavoured candy.

The beach isn’t too far a drive, hidden behind a small muddy clearing and a towering battlement of blackberry bushes. The car lurches and sinks in the fresh rain slop and Fuma almost starts the engine again, worried he’s just gotten himself stuck. But a pair of headlights sweep off the road and flicker out across the clearing.

As Fuma steps out, so does Kei.

As if responding to so many aggregate encounters at once, Kei quite literally points and says “you.” Fuma has his next words chosen and very ill-advised, but in the sudden silence there’s laughter and voices and the thrum of music, reminding him why he came. Without speaking, they both march toward the gap in the blackberries, leaving a wide buffer like that of two people with absolutely nothing to say, and then some.

Down the beach, the kids are gathered by the massive fallen tree trunk, puffy-coated bodies dotted with red cups. String lights are wound around the tree and along the forest skirt of spiky, winter-bare shrubbery. Skipping lopsidedly toward them is Harua, flushed, wearing a jacket double his size.

“Coach! You came!” He slaps his hands over his mouth. “Mr. Kei is here too!”

But Kei only gives him a pat on the head before continuing into the scattering of twenty-somethings. Harua, pouting, says, “Someone must have called Mr. Kei at the same time that I called you. We should go see who—”

“Harua, sit down, you’re a seventy-degree angle.”

“C’mon, we have to find the others.”

“What? Didn’t you want me to drive you—”

“Maaaaaki!” Harua is pulling Fuma deeper into the fray where Maki is rising from a piece of driftwood, jacket-less and rubbing his arms.

“Maki, have you been drinking?” Fuma hands over his coat.

“Don’t worry, I’m not having any fun.”

“You’re still a baby.” Harua is hugging him like a small wobbly vise, and Maki mutters I’m not a baby. “JuJu, Nico! Where are you going!”

Shoeless and half wet, Nicholas is draped over Euijoo’s back, a curtain of hair obscuring his face. Euijoo says straightly, “We’re leaving.”

“I can” — Nico almost lifts one hand — “can keep the morning… bumping till party…”

“Need a ride?” Fuma asks.

“No, thanks. A walk will clear my head.”

“Have you been drinking too?”

“I had as much as he did.”

“Jack” — Nico hiccups — “dick…”

“You have to stay,” Harua begs. “Coach Fuma is going to prove to all of you that we play Pokémon all the time and I’m not a liar.”

“That’s why called me here?” says Fuma. “To prove a point?”

“Nuh-uh! Well, yes. But they’ve been bugging me about it a lot.” His eyes are booze-bright, yet somehow calculating. “Besides, aren’t the lights romantic?”

Farther down the beach, Yuma shouts, “Who called the narcs!”

But Kei’s presence does not dissuade any drinking for longer than a slap on the arm or a hey, teach! Nearby there’s a bustling table of snacks, great big jugs of soda and liquor, and Kei might have grabbed a cup for himself if he wasn’t wearing his chaperone pants. Yuma, Jo and Taki are sitting on the sand, each with a red cup, though Jo disclaims right away that it’s just soda.

“Mine is not,” Yuma says, overtly, as if he wants Kei to be appalled. “Vodka, orange, whatever came out of that guy’s flask, and a splash of seawater. The Yuma special.”

“Taki?” The Taki in question freezes as Kei says his name. “Do you still need a ride?”

“You’re the one who called him!” Yuma gasps.

Taki extends a long look in Yuma’s direction before staring down into his cup: “No… I just kinda… missed you.”

Kei sighs. He had thought the call was strange — by drunk standards, by Taki standards, never mind drunk Taki standards. The lie is the strangest part. When did Taki become evasive like that?

“Well,” says Yuma, “on that note. You’re here. Might as well stay. I’ll grab you a drink. I wonder where Harua is…”

Kei, again, might have done so, since Taki is clearly out of his element, and Nico is likely somewhere nearby taking off his clothes, unless he’s already flung himself into the ocean. But with a glance over his shoulder, he sees Fuma retreating, leaving behind the conversation buzz and halo of light. Of course he wouldn’t hang out at a college party. He probably thinks Kei has nothing to do at thirty years old but goof off with his students. Which he doesn’t, but the assumption chafes anyway.

“Yeah,” says Kei, feeling almost guilty. “It’s a no tonight. I can still drive someone home. Taki?”

He’s lying flat on the sand, flushed all the way to his ears. “I’ma’kay.”

“Come on, man.” Yuma gestures about like look what you’re missing.

“Sorry.” Kei takes his cup and knocks back what’s left of it. It tastes like the coagulated juices at the bottom of a garbage bag but Kei swallows it down and says, “Got things to do.”

After a brief check-in with a chagrined-looking Maki and Harua, he rushes up the beach toward the break in the blackberries. He wants Fuma to see him leaving, and he’s willing to do a little speeding to make sure that information is received. As he steps through the bushes, Fuma’s car is still there, headlights glaring, engine revving. Kei skips into his car, as if leaving first would score him a few extra points. (On the unofficial scoreboard, that would mean he’s in the lead.)

Fuma’s engine continues to growl, wheels turning in the soupy mud.

Well shit. Kei almost peels off right then. Almost skips this whole thing.

Nearby, Fuma, after a few minutes of throwing his weight against the steering wheel, goes still at a knock on his window.

He turns the crank and Kei is there, offering to drive him home. Out of everyone who could have ended up in the passenger seat tonight, was it really going to be Fuma? With a little more patience and a little less curiosity, he might have kept his window shut and made the hike himself.

To quote Harua — it is chilly out, and Fuma gave away his jacket.

Kei’s piece-of-shit car is still a piece of shit, the door sticking for several yanks before Kei jiggles the lock. Inside it smells like cigarettes and so many cups of coffee spilled at the same unexpected pothole, and he has to pump the gas twice before the thing thrums to life.

“Still haven’t got a new car,” Fuma says, attempting a conversational segue.

“This one works fine.” He said the same thing five years ago when the muffler fell off the first time. “I didn’t know you even had a car.”

“I share it with Mrs. Han. It’s useful for this sort of thing at least.”

Kei says the following in dismembered parts, perhaps trying to make it sound less like a co-parent’s lament: “They’ve grown up. Haven’t they?”

“Harua and Taki will be next.”

“Don’t remind me. I want to keep them in a brooder and feed them little pellets.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“I know.” An arch smile. “I remember your first time at the beach.”

“I’m sure.” He should be glad most of their generation have moved away; Kei is probably the last person in town who remembers Fuma’s first drink and less-than-sensible behaviour afterward. “I’m surprised you didn’t stick with the kids back there for old times’ sake.”

Which doesn’t have the intended effect. Kei loses his smile.

They have pulled up in front of Fuma’s building anyway. It really isn’t that far from the beach. Fuma feels stupid.

“Well,” Kei says. “Goodnight.”

“Thanks. I’ll probably see you back down there.”

Kei’s hand is still on the wheel, signalling that he could be on his way by now but isn’t.

Fuma pulls the door handle but the damn thing is sticking again. He yanks hard, feeling more desperate by the second, until Kei reaches over, arm cutting across Fuma’s chest, jiggling the lock. He pulls back as there’s a click and Fuma steps out, slamming the door behind him.

Kei takes off like a getaway.

And Fuma stands in the lobby, clutching his aching chest.

Chapter Text

Euijoo wakes up in a familiar position, Nico’s sleeping body flush against his own.

The night before comes back to him one-to-one hundred in a matter of seconds. Friends and classmates mingling on the beach, bottles popping and soda fizzing. Him and Nico drinking from the same cup, cold ocean air losing its bite. Blurriness, leaving to make out against a shack that they would later realize was an outhouse, arguing over where to crash and eventually landing on Yuma’s porch, neither willing to face their own parents. And now, in an equally familiar gesture, he shoves Nico away, as far as the small bed will allow, which is not far at all. Taki is there next to him.

All seven of them are packed into Yuma’s bedroom. Jo on a yoga mat, arms-crossed like a corpse, and Maki curled up in a nest of clothes. Harua and Yuma are entwined on stolen couch cushions. Euijoo remembers now, the lot of them filing inside to chug water from the sink, receive a brief lecture from Ms. Nakakita, and then passing out like drunk sardines. Yuma’s room is chock-full of plushies, paraphernalia, accessories and accumulated obsessions, and smells like hangovers and beach stink still crusted on their pant legs.

Taki starts to stir. There’s a candy wrapper stuck to his cheek. “Am I… alive?”

Nico groans. “Taki, stop yelling.”

Jo is rolling up the yoga mat. “That wasn’t a bad sleep, actually.”

And Maki is stretching: “I feel good too.”

“Sure, rub it in our faces.” Harua spits a lock of Yuma’s hair out of his mouth. “Yuma, wake up.”

Yuma moans like an ancient shipwreck.

Euijoo is shimmying to the end of the bed, straightening his shirt and pulling on a pair of someone’s socks. “I should go apologize to your mom.”

“Go what to my what?”

“I’m supposed to be the Euijoo in those situations. I don’t know why I let myself drink so much.” But he does — the culprit’s feet are pressed to Euijoo’s back.

“Wait,” says Nico, “what happened yesterday? What happened with the—”

Harua coughs into his fist. Nico is lucid enough to take this as a shut up.

“Who knows,” says Yuma. His hair a static time bomb waiting to snap. “Who knows what happened to the… chips and soda.”

“Maybe nothing,” Harua mutters. “Maybe nothing happened at all.”

“Or maybe something did happen and we just weren’t there to see.”

Jo looks confused. “I think all the chips and stuff are still on the beach.”

“I call cleanup crew!” Maki shouts.

Harua rolls onto the nice cool floor, remembering the hazy image of Fuma walking up the beach, disappearing into the blackberry bushes, and Kei following a moment later. He could have sworn he tasted success last night. Maybe that was just the Yuma special kicking back up into his mouth.

Taki looks like a clay recreation of his normal self. “Please… someone kill me…” Nico reaches for his neck. “Kidding, kidding, kidding!”

“You know what I want right now,” says Yuma, lust in his voice: “&Burger.”

“The Team eats &Burger a lot. Does that make us… the Burger Team?”

“Burger Team. &Burger&Team. &Team. No… Team&Burger.” Yuma snaps his fingers. “That’s it, found it.”

Euijoo walks out, practicing his apology under this breath, and Jo follows, annoyingly fresh-faced. The rest drag themselves out of the room, then it’s just Maki and Harua on the floor, surrounded by pillows and tossed clothes.

Maki says he’s sorry that the capitol-P Plan didn’t work out again.

Harua is rubbing at a headache. “At least it was a good party.” He realizes he’s wearing Maki’s jacket. “Oh. This is yours. Whose are you wearing?”

“Right, Fuma gave me his last night.”

“That’s Fuma’s jacket.” Harua slowly scoots closer. “Is there… anything in the pockets?”

Their eyes lock for a moment, a wall of ethics slowly crumbling.

Maki empties the pockets on the floor. Crumpled receipts, beach glass, a pocket knife (so cool). And a copper key, which Harua takes and holds to the light as if it’s, well, the key they’ve been looking for.

“This isn’t Fuma’s key,” he says.

“Whose is it?”

Harua pulls on his crazy boots and says, “Let’s find out.”

Chapter Text

Harua, Taki and Maki circle the block three times before gathering the courage to approach Kei’s front door.

Taki is sweating, practically doing jumping jacks. “Wait wait, what if he’s in there?”

“I told you he’s not.” Harua is rummaging through his pockets. “Yuma’s going to text when he finishes his class. Maki, stand guard.”

Maki positions himself obediently on the stairs, watching the street for nosy neighbours. Harua’s hand touches a sharp copper edge and he pulls Fuma’s key from his pocket. Taki gulps audibly.

The key slides right into the lock.

“Holy shit,” Harua whispers. “It’s a match.”

Maki shrieks “yes!” and Taki says thank God, dragging them both away at full speed.

The house far behind, they walk past a boat rental place and a fish ’n’ chip shack, waves crashing on the seawall. Taki is asking what the next step is and whether he should be frightened.

“We know now,” Harua says, “that Fuma keeps a key to Kei’s house. Nico said they were about to move in together, maybe Kei had already given him a key.”

“What would that be like,” says Maki. “I mean, them living together? They’re pretty different. Imagine them throwing a dinner party. Would Fuma even show up for that?”

“He would if Kei asked him to.”

“Do you write fan fiction about them in your head?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Harua looks back and forth between them. “No? Anyway, the key is big. It means Fuma is still holding on to something. But we can’t actually use it for the plan. Fuma will know if it’s missing, Kei will ask too many questions — no, it’s too risky. Whatever we do next has got to be subtle.”

They’re silent for a moment, thinking.

“What if we told Kei,” Taki says, “in a whisper that Fuma kept the key—”

“Taki, this is a stealth mission! Are you sure you’re cut out for this?”

“I am — I promise! I think they’re sad without each other. And I don’t want Kei to be sad. Or Fuma. Neither of them! I wish they could just talk. Or, I don’t know, write a letter or something.”

Maki stops in his tracks. “Taki, you’re a genius!”

“Oh no, what did I say?”

“What’s today’s date?”

Harua takes out his phone. “February tenth?”

“What commercial holiday involving love and love letters is going down in exactly four days?”

And all together in a scream:

“Valentine’s Day!”

Elsewhere, Fuma’s arms are cold.

He misplaced his jacket and cannot recall where — or rather, he drowned the answer in three weekends’ worth of wine and his faculties are still somewhat pickled. He ran by the beach this morning and found it scrubbed of all evidence. Unless a beach comber saw the value of a deflated puffer jacket with a broken zipper, or a seagull carried it off to make a home of it — that leaves one option.

He left it in Kei’s car.

This needles him, for numerous reasons. Having suffered the backslide of a trip in Kei’s coffee-cigarette car, it’s easy to say he never should have gotten in at all. He remembers his instincts screaming abort as though he were climbing into the barrel of a cannon. Why he would take off his jacket is a mystery he has not been able to solve, despite thinking about it. Compulsively. Showering, jogging, while sleeping, wakefulness. Worse yet is the thought that Kei might consider, wonder, assume that it was left there on purpose. To create an opening.

An inanimate object should not be allowed to speak so much on his behalf.

After Gym, face tight from blowing rage into his whistle, he marches through the faculty lot. Kei will be teaching Art History across the street about now, and his car is parked where it always is. Fuma peers through the frosty glass at every dark spot and stain on the seats, until he’s forced to accept that the jacket is not there after all. Maybe it never was.

Or maybe Kei took it with him.

Found it in the car and brought it inside, or into class — to return to Fuma. Logically that would be the reason, not to simply have or keep close, not because it carried some vestige of a scent that carried some vestige of a memory, the same way the knit cardigan at the back of Fuma’s closet does, or it did the last time he dug it out so that he could push it into his face and inhale.

Fuma has more to think about now.

He’s home now, unable to change his clothes or settle into routine. The place is in ruins from his earlier search, and he picks through the mess once more with no results, and still one of the three hooks by the door is empty, the absence like a gnawing accusation.

It isn’t too late. At a brisk pace, he could be at Kei’s house in five minutes, explaining this away.

There’s a knock at the door that stops his heart. Moving in a tragic half-bent hobble, he clears away the contents of drawers and cupboards tossed on the floor, then grabs for the doorknob.

Harua is there with the jacket folded in his arms.

“Uh, you okay, Coach Fuma?”

“Where did you get that?”

He hands it over, a careful extension. “You gave it to Maki last night. He asked me to give it back and say thanks.”

That makes no sense. Or rather it makes perfect sense and Fuma is an idiot.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Fuma says yes, shuts the door, and hangs the jacket on the hook. The episode is already behind him.

Not too far away, automatic lights flicker away, leaving the library in shadow.

Nico whispers “spooky.” Euijoo, preoccupied with school and work and a lingering headache, let the Valentine’s Day display slip out of his schedule. It took him all afternoon to collect books with a similar romantic colour palette and craft functional paper heart chains, a not-so-useless skill he learned from Kei. And then closing time came and so did Nico, rambling about a six-month-old blockbuster that’s finally playing in their little local theatre.

Nico doesn’t even complain about Euijoo breaking their plans. Maybe his anxiety is flashing on his face. Apart from tardiness and late nights, he got an email from his aunt today, reminding him that he still has a job in the city if he wants it, though his period for indecision will not be open forever.

His drafts folder is like an anvil constantly brushing the top of his head.

He tries to push it aside, focussing on the empty shelf in front of him, using his phone as a flashlight. Nico wanders over, placing his hands on the shelf and his chin on his hands.

“You look serious.”

“I’m. Focussed.”

He looks around the open room, new releases and magazines and a stack of newspapers that Maki dropped off this morning. “Crazy. We could just take whatever books we want, bring them back later, nobody would know.”

“It’s a library. You don’t have to steal the books.”

“Not steal, borrow.”

“In other words, a library.”

“You know what I mean.” He finds the centre of the room again. “Good acoustics. I should practice here.”

Practice what, singing, acting, any number of instruments, Euijoo doesn’t know. Nico probably wants to do it all and simultaneously. Euijoo asks in a tone that says I don’t care what the answer is though he definitely does: “Still dreaming of Saikou City?”

“Oh yeah.” Nico’s voice hits the ceiling and wavers back. “That’s the dream.”

Euijoo shouldn’t care. It’s Nico’s life. It isn’t a rejection if his world is too big for Euijoo to fill. A bit of that ambition would do Euijoo good. Settle some parental inquiries. Clear out his drafts folder.

Despite logic, expectations, dreams — Euijoo only feels loss.

Across from him, covertly watching the expressions pass over Euijoo’s face, Nico feels it too.

Chapter Text

They find Kei in the art room among fresh paper and clean brushes, though today they won’t be working with acrylics. On his desk are stacks of card stock, envelopes, colour pencils, and best of all, glitter. Every year he gives out extra credit for making and distributing as many cards as possible. (Part of the ‘platonic love’ bastardization of Valentine’s Day, in Harua’s opinion.)

Kei wags his finger at them as soon as they come in. “If you three think you’re going to get extra chocolate just because you show up early” — he holds open an industrial-size bag of individually-wrapped chocolates — “for God’s sake don’t tell the others. And don’t come back with puppy-dog eyes asking for more — whatever’s left here is my dinner.”

They take one each, Taki and Maki devouring theirs immediately while Harua says, “We have a proposal, actually. We thought this year we could make cards for all the school staff, instead of just friends and family. The three of us are promising one card per person, nobody left un-greeted.”

“That’s an amazing idea! I’m floored!”

“It was Taki’s idea,” says Maki.

Taki flicks his hand like pshaw, but eagerly accepts a second chocolate from Kei.

“We were wondering,” Harua says, “if you wanted to do it with us.”

“Of course I do!” He jumps up toward the supply closet. “Now I’m worried — I don’t know if I have enough cards to go around.”

“No problem” — they step aside to reveal a wagon full of stationery — “we thought ahead.”

Kei slaps his desk. “We’re in business, boys!”

On their lunch break, they meet Yuma by the parking lot fence and tell him they’re in business.

“He wasn’t suspicious? Didn’t hesitate at all? This is good, this is very good…” After the last Team effort, Yuma could use a win.

Maki says, “This is going to be a lot of work, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever written more than six cards per year.”

“Nico and I didn’t complain when we had to buy that insane amount of alcohol and snacks,” Yuma says. “We go broke, you get carpal tunnel, that’s called equality.”

“Who has carpal tunnel?” Jo is there, not so much suddenly as quietly.

“Shit,” Yuma clutches his heart. “Gotta put a bell on you or something.”

“How much of that did you hear?” Harua asks nervously.

“Something about writing cards?”

“For Valentine’s,” says Maki with unusual urgency. “We’re doing it for the school staff and it’s not weird.”

“That doesn’t sound weird. That sounds nice.”

“Especially because it’s spontaneous and we have no ulterior motive—”

“That’s the bell,” Yuma cuts him off, turning Jo by the shoulders. “Learning awaits, check in later!”

The three take off, and Jo, unsuspicious, walks with Yuma to the squat building across the street, a sign reading Samidare Bay Community College crooked above the doorway. Shaking off their coats under fluorescent lights, Yuma can hear their Abnormal Psych class congregating somewhere off the hallway.

“Were the cards your idea?” Jo asks.

“It was… a team effort.”

“Maybe we could join them later.”

“You know, I would — I don’t know if I’ve got the time.”

Jo’s angel face is curious. “You must have something that you’re doing these days. You just seem so… single-minded.”

“I disagree. In fact I’m so bored, I wrote you a haiku.”

Yuma gives him a card, which he opens, reading aloud: Jo is tall and Yu / Ma is scrappy that makes us / tall and scrappy boys.

Jo smiles. “I love it.”

“I don’t exercise my gift for just anyone, exclusively future husbands.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“Maybe that was just in my head. Anyway, if you’re ever forty and single, you know where I live.”

“I made a card for you too, actually.” Jo hands him an envelope that reads simply Happy Valentine’s Day. Inside is a sketch of Yuma’s face, every detail captured — braces, cheek-shine, ever-present frizz — the lines so atomically small, it’s like a fairy drew it with lead particles.

Jo is saying, “I know it’s not that good. I wanted to try again but I ran out of time, so…”

“It’s not not good. I mean, it’s better than not good. I mean, it’s…” Yuma’s throat feels like a plastic straw pinched at the bendy bit. And Jo has stopped talking, so neither of them are talking, and then they’re in their seats next to Nico and Euijoo, a lecture unfolding around them, but Yuma is still staring at Jo’s drawing under the table.

Later, standing and packing their things, Nico says to Yuma, “Saw you talking to the kids. What’s going on with them?”

Yuma doesn’t answer quickly enough and Jo says, “They’re doing a Valentine’s project for the school staff.”

Euijoo lights up. “Really? That’s so sweet.”

“Have you gotten any cards today, Euijoo?”

“Oh. A few.”

“What?” says Nico. “From who?”

“I don’t know, people around here.”

“Who around here?”

“Nico,” says Yuma, because he’s laying an egg and it isn’t subtle. “You were asking about the kids and their project.”

“Right. The project. Is it working out?”

Yuma lifts his eyebrows. “I’m sure it already has.”

“I think Kei’s class is in the afternoon though,” Jo says.

“Never mind.” But he and Nico fist-bump discreetly behind their backs.

For Kei, the realization doesn’t hit until it’s too late.

The rest of the class is gone, just him and the three drawing up endless personalized Valentine’s Day cards for every teacher, custodian and school board member. Maki contemplates while Taki decorates with stickers and Harua labours over supplementary doodles. Kei’s hand is cramping, his tongue numb to adhesive, and only now with half his peers signed, creased and licked does he remember a certain head of PE whom he has to greet on heart-covered stationery.

He stares at the blank card until the idea of simply forgetting Fuma’s name becomes wickedly tempting. Then again, he doubts any oversight would make it past Harua’s discerning gaze. Are these three old enough to know the truth, to understand, let him off the hook? Even his explanation is humiliating — childish, even among children. And Fuma, on the receiving end of their Valentine’s Day gratitude, a card from Kei glaringly absent — in that moment, he’ll know that Kei didn’t even have the courage to address him.

Against instinct, Kei writes a letter — sign, crease, lick — and throws it into the pile.

With a wagon full of envelopes, the three wave goodbye on their delivery mission, leaving Kei feeling accomplished in some way, freed. He wasn’t rash, didn’t choke, didn’t scratch down anything bitchy, directly or indirectly. He doesn’t even wonder what Fuma will think or play the words over in his mind like a stuck record. He sweeps up pencil shavings, recycles empty sticker sheets, and leaves the art room neat for the next morning, a fresh start.

He steps out the door and stops immediately, catching a glimpse of a neon puffer over moisture-wicking fabric. Fuma, down the hallway, standing there with a card in his hand. Kei watches from the doorway, heart suddenly pounding. Body suddenly alive.

Fuma turns the envelope over, as if to rip the seal.

Then drops it into a trash can and walks out.

Chapter Text

Kei, needing a break from the Bay, decides to take a trip to the nearest hub of interest and bustle — Saikou City. Nicholas invites himself along.

He crams his electric keyboard into the trunk and then swings into the passenger seat, telling Kei to “punch it.” It’s a rainy morning, fog cascading down the hill, so Kei does not punch it, instead cruising leisurely down Main and observing the crack-of-dawn activity. Yuma reporting for duty at the cafe; Euijoo sweeping the sidewalk outside the library. Luckily, all there is to be seen while passing by one particular apartment building is Harua on his balcony, hanging out several stuffed animals to dry.

Gesturing to his outfit, chains and a racing jacket over mesh, Nico says, “So, what do you think?”

“Very stylish. Will you be cold though?”

“I’ve got a jacket — come on, you sound like my mom.”

“I have a puffer in the backseat. Grab it if you get chilly. Son.” Nico gives him the finger. Smiling, Kei continues: “So what, got a catwalk in the city?”

“All the greats start out singing on a street corner, that’s the real shit. So that’s what I’m doing.”

“That’s very brave.”

“Brave? Not like I’m putting my life in danger. Not like someone’s going to pour coffee on my keyboard and stomp on my head, right?”

“I just said it was brave, Nico.”

“Yeah, well. Anyway, I don’t need another jacket.”

“Do your friends know you’re busking? I bet that’s something they’d like to see.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Nico doesn’t put on shows for his friends anymore. Not because of anything they’ve done. And not because of the blender between his tonsils and the acid pool in his stomach. It’s not stage fright. He’s just… creating an air of mystery. All part of the performance.

Or because: “They don’t even know I live in your house.”

“Oh Nico, when I said we should keep you living downstairs on the down-low, I meant from the school board — in case they think it’s a conflict of interest.”

One look at Nico’s scores in Art History would settle that concern. “We’ve all got secrets.” And when Kei doesn’t reply: “What do you have going on in the city?”

“Lunch with my folks. So, not quite as fun. I don’t mind the nostalgia though. I was a starving artist for a while.”

“Were you really starving?”

“No. I’d just ask my parents to order me takeout.” As they’re flung out onto the highway, the shining, angular spectacle of Saikou City appears on the horizon. “You’ll see eventually. The Bay’s got everything you need.”

Nico flicks on a pair of sunglasses. “For you, maybe.”

Kei deserves that.

Fresh out of Samidare Bay, any city would feel like a metropolis. They move sluggishly through traffic, Nico’s face pressed to the glass, staring up at the towering blue-grey buildings. Kei has begun to gnaw on the dread of a meetup with his parents. His jeans are haphazardly patched and paint-stiff, his car missing some of the finer accessories like one of four hubcaps. Visiting the city without visiting his parents seems morally unconscionable or just too good to be true, plus, he and fate have been on the outs recently. An unfortunate encounter seems almost inevitable.

He drops Nico off at a busy corner, leaving him and his keyboard behind. Kei wonders if that’s what he looked like back in the day, small among his dreams and the city hubbub. Someone once told him he was in the outfield when he was supposed to be breaking for home, a reference Kei didn’t bother trying to understand. But he had to admit, that person was right. He did his time in Saikou, walking among strangers, feeling lonely in a crowd. That wasn’t what Kei wanted, not anymore.

Kei gently refused his parent’s offer to treat him to brunch at the country club, so instead they meet here, a bougie vegetarian restaurant that’s only exclusive in an implicit way. They’ve already grabbed a table in the middle of the room, the sort of table a lead in a stage show would prefer. That may be one way in which Kei and his parents overlap — they don’t mind starring in the scene.

They chat over spinach-wrapped tofu chunks, how cold it’s been, warming up now, wind still with a nasty bite. Something about the gravity of the main course changes the topic of conversation. Mom lifts a handkerchief to her cherry-red lips and says, “Darling. A friend of a friend was telling me about a university up the coast that’s searching for a new face in the Art History Department.”

“Or just plain old History,” Dad offers, “for that matter. Not your field, I know, but it’s never too late to go in for seconds. Knowledge is a buffet!”

“It’s a nice campus too. Very pretty grounds. I hope you know there’s more out there. The Bay can become rather stifling.”

They had chosen the Bay out of a dozen other sleepy towns, hoping to raise their young family away from the dark crevices of the city. Grown up now, less susceptible to the lure of night life and addictive substances — except of course the acceptable ones — Kei supposes society and academic accomplishment should have become his priority.

The waiter delivers a fruit trifle to the table and Kei serves himself a large portion. “You two better take some of this or I’m going to give myself a very bad tummy ache.”

“Yudai.” Mom’s eyes, those fine lines, beg him. “I worry.”

“About what, me? I’m fine.”

“You’ve been saying that for years. It’s like you have no wants anymore. Our friends ask about you and we have nothing new to tell them.”

“What do I have to want?”

“A family.”

“You guys are just chopped liver then?”

“Marriage. Children. Like Yohei has now.” Kei’s older brother, successful husband and procreator. “You’ve always said you wanted children, even when you were a child yourself.”

“No, I haven’t done the marriage and kids bit, but I’ve got a community behind me. That’s what a small town is good for, isn’t it? Besides, I work with kids all day every day. Have I told you about Taki—”

“Yes, yes, we’ve heard all about Taki.” Mom’s patience is flagging, so Dad taps in.

“In the end, your mom and I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m good where I am.”

“But are you happy? Because to us, you don’t seem to be. No, not for a while.”

Kei delays his reply with a mouthful of trifle. It’s the ‘for a while’ that itches. He’s not a subtle kind of person, he knows this. But even his parents, who require a generous buffer, know he is not happy. And hasn’t been. ‘For a while.’

After lunch, since Nico hasn’t called to be picked up, Kei takes a drive down memory lane, which happens to lead to his favourite shopping mall. With levels upon levels of department store goods and a wealth of cafes and eateries, Kei could have become a mouse and lived comfortably in the walls. It is a microcosm of city life, loud and fast and convenient, just the odd hidden corner to hunker down and order a sugary drink. (Or a green tea. Not in his case.)

He works his way through the building top to bottom, his arms gradually becoming heavy with totes. Sour candies, mason jars, shampoo — some things are just more fun to buy in bulk and smuggle out of the city. As he’s packing the car, he finally gets a call from Nico.

“How’d the busking go?” Kei asks.

“Didn’t do it.”

“What, why?”

“Keyboard died. I’m ready to head out when you are.” His voice conveys something slightly more urgent.

“I was going to grab a drink, but I can skip it if—”

“No. I’m fine. Just… a little cold.”

“Oh Nico.”

“Ready when you are. All I’m saying.”

Kei squeezes through the perpetual crush until he sees a cafe sign on the horizon, fluorescent and inviting. Puffs, tarts and cake balls, the menu is miles wide, but Kei has his order locked: three shots of espresso, half-and-half, with whipped cream and a caramel drizzle. It’s what got him through university. Just the smell of this place makes him feel twenty again, and slightly unnerved, as if he would turn and see—

Fuma.

Sitting at a table, a book open in front of him. At the very moment that Kei stops to stare, a voice at the pickup counter calls his name and order — green tea, of course — and he meets Kei’s eyes, his face a mirror image, shock and dismay, like the pivotal moment in a horror movie.

Kei bursts out accusatorially, “What are you doing here?” As if this is all part of some grand plan. Until he looked up, Fuma’s day was going exceptionally well — traffic jams and waiting rooms notwithstanding. He stands to grab his teapot from the counter, then slides back into his seat and says by way of explanation, “Tea.”

“No, no, no.” Kei is standing there, his cardigan pilled in frustration. “Why are you here, in the city?”

Expanding the question beyond this one tiny cafe is probably a good thing. The answer is that Fuma comes here every time he’s in the city. Because it’s the only place he knows, but also because the kitschy weirdness and memories take him out of his own head, give him a break from the indomitable present. Why he’s in the city though, he can answer: “I drive Mrs. Han to her appointments.”

“And that just happened to be today?”

“Well, yes. Visiting your parents?”

“Yes.”

“Both fine reasons to be in the city.” Fuma lifts his book. “Coincidence then.”

Kei looks at him, then raises one finger and pokes the air in Fuma’s direction: “Screw you.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, actually, excuse me. That was harsh and I shouldn’t have said it. But you—” He throws his hands up. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Enjoy your tea.”

“Kei—”

“One triple-shot espresso with whipped cream and caramel drizzle for Kei.”

Kei sticks his chin out and takes his drink. He has almost fully removed himself before turning back and saying, “You threw my card in the garbage.”

Fuma has no words but: “What?”

“The kids gave you my Valentine’s card, didn’t they? And you just tossed it out without even reading it.”

“How do you know that?”

“What does it matter how I know that — I’m asking you a question.”

“The question being?”

“How could you!”

“I’m still not hearing a question.”

“You could have read it.” Kei says this so seriously, like Fuma had lit his card on fire and beaten the ashes with a stick, which he might have done given a match and a stick. “Before you threw it away.”

Fuma’s answer: “I didn’t want to know what it said.”

Kei doesn’t react. Turns again and walks away, disappearing around the corner before shortly reappearing.

“It said to have a happy Valentine’s. That’s all it said. So there.”

And he leaves again. For good this time. And Fuma bears the interested looks from neighbouring tables and wishes he never got that fucking letter.

Or that he’d read it, at least, before tossing it out.

Chapter Text

Harua hammers down a shot of espresso with a probiotic yogurt chaser.

Across the counter, Yuma is almost through with his crack-of-dawn shift at the cafe. The rest of his day will be a continuation of their parent-trap scheming to the sound of academic white noise. These days there’s little else that’s worthy of occupying Yuma’s mind, for example, schoolwork, worldly crises, and currently, whether the espresso machine is hot.

With his hand in a cup of ice, he leans on the counter, saying, “I think we’re moving too fast.”

Harua’s pupils are vibrating. “I have never disagreed with anything more in my life.”

“Think about it, aside from the Valentine’s cards, all we’ve done is lure them to the same place.”

“How else are we supposed to get them talking?”

“Have we actually gotten them talking though? We’re not seeing results. Time to change tack.”

“I still think a human-sized glue trap is viable.”

“I’m not paying for all that glue.”

“Fine.” Harua shoves his tiny mug over the counter. “Hit me.”

“You’ve had enough — can you focus? We’ve tried drawing them to one place, but it’s not that simple. How can we get them thinking about about other? Is there a book or a movie we could recommend about middle-aged men who secretly pine for each other?”

“I don’t know if they’re middle-aged yet. I think they’re millennials actually.”

“Same difference. Hey, you’re always writing fan fiction, what if we printed it out with the names changed?”

“First of all, I create complex internal scenarios, not fan fiction — I’m not that weird. Second, assuming they’d read it, it’s still way too obvious what we’re doing.”

“Shit.” Yuma breathes in the overwhelming scent of bacon and coffee grinds and summons an epiphany: “What if the story was, I don’t know, about you? What if you told them there’s someone you’re into but you’re fighting and you can’t say how you really feel?”

“Wait, why do I have to do it?”

“I can’t do it — who would believe me and Jo are fighting?”

“Who said anything about Jo?”

“You brought him up.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Whatever, look, hearing their own story in someone else’s mouth will give them a new perspective. They’ll think about you and your love fuck-ups and they’ll empathize — with each other too. You’ve got to give it a shot, please…”

Harua bats away Yuma’s prayerful hands, saying, “Okay, okay. But if I have to do this, I don’t want the rest to know.”

“You mean lying to the Team?”

“Not lying. Just not telling. Okay?”

Harua ignores Yuma’s dubious look. Yes, Harua is the romance expert among them, raised on love stories and rom coms and too many short-lived crushes to count, but this flies a bit too close to home. He can sense Nico’s teasing and Taki’s meaningful glances, wondering how much of it might be true.

He doesn’t even know how Maki would react. Strange to think about it.

Meanwhile, afternoon now and across town, Art History has emptied out and the door softly snapped shut, and Euijoo pushes Nicholas against a desk and kisses him a bit too hard.

The table kind of wobbles, throwing them both off. Their teeth clack. His apology is a garbled sound, Nico with handfuls of his hair and a leg thrown around his waist, until the door opens and Euijoo is halfway across the room and Nico is pretending to tie his shoe.

Leaving the building, Euijoo says, “Let’s go to your place.”

“Can’t. Your place.”

“It’s not five yet, your parents won’t be home — plus it’s closer.”

“Well, yeah, but…” But they’d already turned Nico’s bedroom into a walk-in pantry. “But Dad caught a cold so he took the day off.”

“My mom’s going to be home too.”

“At least your bedroom is upstairs.”

“Would you split a motel?”

“No way in hell.”

Euijoo can’t let it be without a punctuating sigh. Nico doesn’t bring him back to his bedroom anymore. To ‘study,’ to actually study, just to hang out, nothing. Euijoo isn’t obsessed with his room or anything like that. It’s always messy and crammed with instruments, clothes pouring out of every drawer and flung on every available surface. There’s just something about it that makes Euijoo feel like his special entry badge has been revoked and he doesn’t know why.

There is the usual sneaking inside, hoping that Yuma or Jo won’t catch them on the way in, sidling politely past the kitchen where Euijoo’s mom is working through a potato field with one mandolin. She calls upstairs something about a message from his aunt, and Euijoo shouts Thanks, studying now, and shuts his door.

Nico asks why his aunt is calling him, but Euijoo shoves him toward the bed and tells him to shut up. And he does shut up, thank God. Euijoo needs this. Perilously, like breaking the surface, like filling his lungs. Whose room it is, the square-footage, decor, what kinds of stories they have to tell to get here — none of that matters as Nico pushes up into him with that stubborn chin and starts working at his clothes. Euijoo doesn’t have to fight it. Just breathe in.

With years of experience in the art of sneaking around, they’ve both honed their ability to disengage quickly, though this time when the door opens and Maki barges in, their state of engagement is a bit harder to play off.

“JuJu, I got an A-plus on my what the fuck—”

Euijoo is scrambling for his shirt while Nico has launched himself backward off the side of the bed. Euijoo’s mom calls up: “Is everything all right?” Euijoo shouts back that they’re fine before frantically whispering at Maki to close the freaking door.

Slam. Maki, in his baseball uniform, still clutching his paper, looks pale, like he walked in on something occult. Nico, having taken half the bedspread with him, is buttoning his pants. Euijoo says, blushing hot, “Knock next time. Please.”

“You said to come over right after practice.”

Euijoo does remember saying something like that. Today’s test was the culmination of a week’s worth of tutoring. But then Nico started drawing circles on his knee under the desk and Euijoo’s brain became an unhelpful mass of endorphins and purple prose.

Nico is looking at him now, gesturing. Euijoo’s shirt is backward. He fixes it.

“So,” Maki says, more curiously now that everybody is wearing clothes. “You guys are, what. Secret boyfriends?”

In unison, “No,” making Maki flinch.

“Not dating,” Nico elaborates. He has moved into the desk chair, hoping the open window will cool him off. “We just, sometimes, you know. Casually.”

“Oh, like friends with benefits.”

“What?”

“It’s a trope Harua likes.” Though it does imply there’s such a thing as friends without benefits, which Maki finds confusing. He thinks all friendship is beneficial. “Oh, that’s why you guys are always looking at each other like that.”

Which they both want to dispute, but after accidentally locking eyes, there’s a notable silence.

Maki’s expression has gone serious. He takes off his ball cap. “If you don’t mind me asking—”

“Probably do mind.”

“How did it first happen?”

While looking opposite directions, Nico and Euijoo are both thinking about it. All the firsts. That kiss in the art room supply closet. A random weeknight with animal crossing muted in the background. Graduation day, tearing each other’s robes off in Nico’s cramped single bed. Some Tuesday in November, the first time Euijoo woke up with Nico in his arms, the aftermath of several consecutive all-nighters. Nico, fully clothed, smelling like cheese puffs and warm skin, and Euijoo with nothing to do but breathe in the nape of his neck, realizing again what he already knew: I’m completely fucked.

Nico is talking: “Don’t know. Just happened.”

“But how did you confess?”

“There was no confessing — we’re not dating.”

“But maybe you said something that made Euijoo really want to kiss you—”

“Hey, how do know I didn’t kiss him first?”

Maki doesn’t answer that, because he’s been working on not saying the blunt truth at the wrong time and Nico already seems cheesed off.

“Maki,” says Euijoo, “is there something you’re getting at?”

Maki figures sharing a secret of his own would only be fair. He sinks to the floor crosslegged, saying, “I don’t think I’ve said this to anyone but Taki and my dog, but… I have a crush on Harua.”

In unison, “We know.”

“What? Who told?”

“You’re just kind of” — Nico gestures broadly — “you about it.”

“Are you thinking of telling him?” Euijoo asks. “Harua?”

“I don’t know. Because of you guys, I thought maybe there’s a trick to it. Wooing someone.”

“Again,” says Nico, “not dating. Not wooing.”

“It would be so much easier if I said the right thing or wore the right thing and then he just kissed me instead of making me do it out loud.”

Euijoo has moved to the edge of the bed, wearing his tutoring face now, firm but gentle. “I know telling the truth is hard. But I also know that doing things out loud is a Maki specialty.” And then, like a disclaimer: “But I don’t know if we’re the right people to ask when it comes to something like… this.”

Maki agrees. Clearly it’s a weird situation that Maki has blundered in on here. But it does give him an idea of what to do next. And maybe give the parent trap a nudge in the right direction at the same time.

Meanwhile, next door, Yuma and Harua bolt down the stairs into the basement where Yuma’s whiteboard is hidden beneath a sheet. Tearing it off, he writes in squeaky letters: The Team Gets Psychological, colon, Harua’s Solo Mission, semi-colon, TOP SECRET.

“The Valentine’s cards are a perfect jumping-off point,” says Yuma. “Kei and Fuma must be thinking about each other at least a little. Let’s go for something big next, like the beach party double-call fake-out but bigger. Sex and violence and intrigue, that’s what this story needs.”

“I have never agreed with anything so much in my life,” says Harua.

They high-five. A voice comes from behind them: “Um? Hello?”

Jo is sitting on the couch. Has been the whole time.

Shit.

“Gotta put a bell on you,” says Yuma.

Chapter Text

As usual, when Taki skids to a stop in the &Burger parking lot, everybody is already there.

Yuma and Nico, their voices fighting for dominance, Harua covering his ears, and Maki, looking dazed in pyjamas and a parka. Jo is in the middle of it, his face even more stern than that time Taki put away his colour pencils in the wrong order.

“Just let Jo talk,” Nico is saying—

“We need to explain before he makes any wild assumptions,” Yuma is saying—

“Why are we here” — Maki, in the end, will always shout best — “at one in the morning?!”

“I’m here, I’m here!” Taki yanks off his helmet, joining the circle. “What did I miss?”

“Jo overheard us talking about the plan,” says Yuma.

“What! What plan! Hey, let’s grab some fries—”

“The secret’s out, Taki.” Yuma’s hair is an Einstein-like chaos, his eyes locked on Jo. “Just let us explain, all right?”

“I’m pretty sure I understand.” Jo is wearing his &Burger uniform, night-shift dishevelled, and his voice is a lullaby, even when he’s pissed. “You’re meddling in Kei and Fuma’s personal lives.”

“We’re not meddling in their personal lives, we’re just… gently nudging from a remote location. Not to get biblical, but angels are known to intervene in—”

Nico covers his mouth. “We’re just trying to help them.”

“How can you possibly know you’re helping?” says Jo. “You could be causing them trouble when all they’re trying to do is move on.”

“That’s the thing!” Harua’s eyes glint with passion — or his glasses refract the fluorescent burger sign above them, or both. “Moving on is stupid and they shouldn’t be trying! Don’t do that thing with your face — how could they not be in love if they’re still ‘moving on’ after five years?”

“I’m not saying they’re not…” Jo’s ears are red. “That’s their business. It’s that you’re lying — to everybody, Fuma, Kei, me.”

“And Euijoo,” says Taki. They all look at him. “Sorry.”

“We were going to tell you,” Nico says, “both of you, once we figured out what we were doing. I know it’s hard to trust me with no real evidence—” Unless he could somehow explain how he saw Fuma’s portrait in Kei’s house while keeping the Pandora’s Box of his living situation firmly shut. “But I know for a fact that Kei isn’t over Fuma.”

“And vice versa,” says Maki, thinking of the key to Kei’s house, still in Fuma’s pocket after all this time. “With everything we know, I’d feel worse if we didn’t try to help.”

“The Team could always use a new member,” Yuma says.

Jo blinks. “Are you trying to recruit me?”

Nico covers Yuma’s mouth again. “We’re asking you not to try to stop us.”

Behind a veil of restraint, there is something like rebellion on Jo’s face. He says, “Tell Euijoo. Soon.” And he falls out of the circle, walking away with a mumbled see you. Yuma follows, jumping through the bushes.

Taki says, “That went… well?”

“Makes me nervous to tell JuJu,” says Maki.

“Forget that,” Nico says. He wishes he could. “We’ve got to get back to planning.”

“Yuma and I have been planning all week,” says Harua, “where have you been?”

Maki’s eyes go wide. Nico internally implores him to shut up.

“Recently?” he says. “Went to Saikou. With Kei.”

They all lean closer. “What? Did he tell you anything?”

“No. Nothing really.” Not that Nicholas badgered him too much. The whole trip was so far removed from Fuma and the Bay that every segue felt gauche. Even when Kei picked him up with a crushed coffee cup and a palpably irritated tap tap tap on the steering wheel, Nico didn’t ask, assuming it had to do with his parents, which was a depth of intimacy that Nico was unprepared for. After hours of shivering and plinking at his keyboard in the solitude of an &Burger parking lot — in fast food chains there is comfort — he didn’t much feel like talking anyway.

“How did that even happen?” Taki says. “Did he, like, invite you or…?”

“I don’t know, I guess I’m just his favourite.”

“Ha, good one, Kei doesn’t have favourites.” Taki’s smile drops. “Did he say that to you?”

“If Kei saw his parents,” says Harua, “chances are they nagged him for being thirty and unmarried, and that plays to the Team’s advantage.”

“Did you and Yuma come up with anything good?” Nico asks.

“Still in the early stages.” Though Harua’s own plan is fast materializing, even with the Jo hiccup. And even if he doesn’t make any progress, these guys don’t have to know about it.

Across from him, Maki is thinking the same thing.

Meanwhile, Yuma catches up to Jo on the road home, falling into step — though their steps are very different, long slow treads versus awkward waddling in his mom’s old Crocs.

“Welcome to the Team, by the way,” Yuma says. “Samidare Bay’s most exclusive club. Sexy, right?”

Jo doesn’t say anything.

“You know, your connection to the basketball team could be useful. Not to mention out of everybody, I can see Kei or Fuma confiding in you most of all. Why do you have such a gift with adults? Is it the gentle giant thing? Got to say, it works on me too.”

Jo doesn’t say anything.

“Our latest, I don’t want to call it a trap… endeavour was Valentine’s Day. You probably figured that out yourself. Harua’s got his own thing he’s doing but he doesn’t want the guys to know. If you’ve got any ideas just jot it down on the whiteboard—”

“Can’t you tell I’m mad at you?” Jo stops, flicking off his mustard-yellow ball cap and rubbing his eyes. “This whole time I had a feeling you were into something new. I thought, maybe you’re just keeping it safe for now, maybe it’s something you’re not good at yet, something embarrassing, I don’t know, like DJ-ing.”

“Man, I was just thinking about learning how to DJ — you know me so well.”

“Yuma.”

“Look, I’m sorry for lying. I am! I didn’t want to, but we agreed that you might think it was…”

“But you went ahead with it anyway. And every time I asked, you lied to my face.”

“Are you mad because you think it’s wrong, or because I lied?”

“I don’t know. Both. All of it. I’m mad I even have to think about this.”

“They need our help.”

“No, they don’t.” Jo swallows. “What they need is the truth.”

And Jo walks away, leaving Yuma in the streetlight glow, the enormity of this screw-up just starting to dawn on him.

Chapter Text

While jogging along the ocean road — as Fuma tends to do on days where his curiosity wins out — he sees Kei in his front yard, watering cacti in a housecoat, and Fuma turns around and runs the opposite direction.

His form is subpar after that. It isn’t an excuse, but Kei is not usually awake so early, and actually doing yard work is out of character. Back then, neither of them cared for gardening, but Mr. Kihara at the gas station wrangled a deal on an unconscionable amount of succulents and was struggling to get rid of them. So many shrivelled green buttons in their small plastic pots, and Kei has a soft spot for cute things that need his help, so, for a discounted price, the front yard became a cactus garden, and most days it was Fuma on maintenance while Kei painted the blooming fruits of it.

Good, he thinks, that they’re still alive.

Late now because of his lapse in routine, he trudges up the stairs. Harua is waiting by his door.

“Coach, I need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait?” He has a twinge now, his lower back muscles contorted into the vague shape of a K.

“I was hoping to talk to you now.” The kid is quite literally batting his eyelashes. He’s got his too-small-to-be practical leather backpack, painted nails, pushing up those large, observant glasses. Fuma lets him inside, because in the end he and Kei have that particular soft spot in common.

Harua pulls up a stool at the kitchen island while Fuma dumps a jar of fruit into his oatmeal pot and lights a burner. Harua isn’t talking, moving his jaw like he’s chewing on the words, which leads Fuma to believe he truly is nervous, a rare look on him.

“So? What’s on your mind?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing. Something I can’t say to my parents.”

“Okay, out with it.”

Harua pulls a deep breath. “So… there’s someone that I like.”

“Okay.”

“And we’ve been close for a long time.”

“Okay.”

“But we got into a fight, and we barely speak anymore. The thing is, I still like them, and I want to be with them, but I’m just so mad that my stubbornness gets in the way. So instead I’m just miserable all the time.”

“I never would have guessed you and this person were fighting.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know them.” Fuma's heart, as always, pangs for Maki. “So? What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

Fuma, having turned his back to rinse a bowl in the sink, works through a diplomatic answer. It is exceedingly bland and probably acceptable advice based on guidelines provided by the school board, and coming from Fuma, thoroughly hypocritical. By the end of it, Harua’s lip is crinkled. He says, “Is that it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Sounds like PR.”

“Sometimes the obvious answer is… the correct one.”

Harua leaves with a monotone Thanks Coach, which tells Fuma he’s been successful in some way, resisting the urge to say what first came to mind. Stand your ground. Let the other party apologize first. And if that day never comes, settle into misery.

Fuma, alone now, turns red in embarrassment.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Harua is struggling over the hurdle of his own ego. They’re too similar, the two of them. And whatever this argument is about, Fuma will bet money that the sum of it is stupid. All of his and Kei’s fights were stupid too. Childhood squabbles over toys and whose parents liked him better. High school, immature ideological spats, sleepover pranks gone wrong. And out of college, caught in the fever of love and sex, there was always an inkling that they might come out of this hating each other someday.

Something akin to hate, at least. Something unable to forgive.

Leaving for work now, he’s still mulling over the nonsense he told Harua. It’s beautiful, in some unrealistic way, like a verse from the bible or catching the back half of a children’s movie on cable, the idea that true love could triumph over two people’s stubborn foibles. For Harua, who is like Fuma in many ways and also different in his art, his expression, his potential — Fuma hopes that it’s true. That love is able to forgive.

He wonders if he has time to grab Harua before the next period begins, reiterate his point using better words in a more encouraging tone. But as he cuts through the faculty lot, Kei is just emerging from his car, and for the second time today, Fuma skirts past like a burglar evading capture, just barely making it through unnoticed.

Meanwhile, Kei watches Fuma sprint full-speed into the building and disappear, the same as he did earlier this morning.

He takes it as a terrible sign, and from then on avoids cracks in the pavement, giving his old wooden desk a good rap. He isn’t superstitious beyond a pinch of salt at the front and back doors, but in the face of a cold universe, believing in some divine scoreboard eases his indigestion.

Kei’s classroom is disorderly from the day before. He had decided to leave the task of cleaning to a more capable future version of himself, a version which is not present, but he muddles through, starting a catch-all recycling pile and pushing the rest into the closet. A better Kei at a better moment will deal with it.

His first class done, Kei realizes he forgot to pack himself lunch. (After watering so many cacti and watching that mile-wide back skitter back up the hill, Kei threw away the rest of his morning to a laced brownie and an evocative Klimt-inspired dream.) He’s got time to run home and fix himself something from the barren planes of his refrigerator, but there’s a knock on his door and Maki is there, tee shirt and cargo shorts, a Samidare Bay Werewolves ball cap complete with fuzzy ears and fangs. He asks if he can come in.

“Come in, Mr. Maki. What can I do for you?”

He drags a chair up to the desk, which makes Kei regret inviting him in with such abandon. Kei’s stomach may have to take a back burner if Maki gets himself talking.

“Kei. I mean, sir. I need to ask you a question about love.”

Please God no, Kei thinks.

“Shoot,” he says out loud.

“Well, I've got a crush on someone, and I have for a long time. As long as I can remember, actually. I’m not sure if he likes me back, or if he’d never date me in a million years, but… I guess what I’m asking is, how do you woo someone?”

Kei suppresses a squeak at this. The kid is bigger than Kei himself, but Kei would pick him up and twirl him given the chance.

“Woo?” says Kei.

“Yeah, woo.”

“I don’t think I’m an authority.”

“Come on, you’re saying you’ve never wooed or… been wooed?”

Too many instances flood Kei’s mind to process.

“I suppose,” Kei says, “wooing a person is about showing that you take them into account. Remembering special dates, planning ahead, little details, big gestures, everything. That kind of thing just makes me — you — anyone — crazy with love and tingles.”

Maki seems mostly satisfied with that answer, though he turns back in the doorway and says, “But if I was trying to woo someone visually too…”

“A pair of cool shades always worked on me.”

Maki slaps the doorframe and runs out.

With only ten minutes left until his next class, Kei runs out to the convenience store and grabs cereal, a small carton of milk, and a cup from the coffee station as a makeshift bowl. He is grateful that Maki did not ask for firsthand examples, because they would have ended up here in the fluorescent aisles of Samidare Bay Convenience, Fuma suddenly down on one knee, proposing with a candy ring. Proposing what and why, Kei isn’t entirely sure. But even a lifetime later, his heart still kicks up a horrible fuss.

As he looks up, all he sees is a head of black hair, sleek sunglasses and a shining whistle through two aisles of inventory, and this time it’s Kei’s turn to flee.

Done now with classes, just as Kei turns out into the hallway, Harua appears in front of him.

“Oh! Harua, you scared me.”

“Sorry — I thought I might have missed you.”

“What’s up?” Kei keeps walking, hoping to find time for a smoke before crossing the street, switching into professor mode, but Harua falls into step, saying, “I’ve got a romance question.”

Kei almost flies out with If I had a nickel — then realizes it may not entirely be a coincidence.

“So I’ve got this friend who I like, but we’re fighting and I don’t want to admit my feelings because that would feel like losing the argument, you know what I mean?”

Does he ever.

“So… any advice?”

They reach Kei’s car, Harua loitering with his hand on the hood as though Kei would attempt to peel away. If Fuma pops up again, Kei may not be able to contain a word or two that should not be heard by young ears.

“Be the bigger person,” says Kei. “The truth is the most important thing. Don’t do drugs. Brush your teeth. Did I get all of it?”

“But that’s not the advice I want, you know? It’s like I just can’t take the hint…”

Kei blinks.

Harua takes a deep breath and says, “Never mind. Have a good one, Mr. Kei.”

He walks away, and Kei swings into his car, smoke filling the gaps in his brain. It gives him time to rethink his terrible advice. Maki could be out there planning a flash mob, meanwhile Harua is nursing this precious grudge, the opposite of what a square like Kei would tell him to do. What Harua needs is commiseration, and who better than Kei to compare grudges? (Well, he can think of one other person.)

He wonders if a gesture from Maki could somehow fix this. If an outpouring of love could be enough to trump principle and pigheadedness.

He hopes so.

For Harua.

He stubs out his cigarette.

Out on the field, Fuma stops the game with a piercing cry of his whistle. He’s not the only one having an off day, clearly. He has the league line up and stretch. In the end the weather will decide if the game continues or not; the clouds above are dark and bloated, taunting.

“Hey, Coach?” Maki, covered in dust and once again in need of a uniform one size bigger, asks to talk.

“You can’t talk and stretch?”

Maki bends this way and that. “Sorry I couldn’t steal home.”

“You can’t win them all. I think today was a bust from minute one.”

“Because of the rain?”

“Sure.”

“So, I wanted to talk to you about something. It’s kind of important so—”

Fuma blows his whistle. “You back there, you’re not touching your toes!”

Maki is rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry, Maki, you were saying something.”

“Yeah. Look, it’s about love. And I won’t get into it too much, but I’ve got a crush on someone and—”

“You want to tell him how you feel.”

Maki nods. Fuma plants both hands on his shoulders, telling him to listen closely.

“Whatever the issue is, make it right. Whatever you have to say, say it. Compromise everything. Put your face on the ground and lick the dirt. Otherwise you will lose him, and you will be miserable for the rest of your life. Do you hear me?”

Maki’s mouth is hanging open.

Fuma thumps his arm and shouts, “That’s enough! Quit your flapping, get back out there!”

With comedic timing, there’s a crack of thunder and flecks of cold rain drizzle down. Fuma sends the league off without even blowing his whistle, too defeated for that small joy.

He stands in the rain for a moment, face turned up to the sky, until an itch makes him turn toward the old wooden bleachers, half expecting Harua or Maki to be there, waiting to ask him more harrowing questions.

Instead, it’s Kei watching from the sidelines.

Their eyes are locked for a moment, until Kei turns and walks away, and Fuma, content in his misery, lets him go.

Chapter Text

Euijoo is aware this could get him in hot water.

It doesn’t stop him — in fact, Euijoo doesn’t care. For all the taunts and obscenities that Nico inflicts upon him, it’s only fair that he get his punches in too. Nico tends to make a musical out of a molehill. Whatever the reason for Euijoo’s banishment from Nico’s bedroom, he would rather know and ask for forgiveness than continue not knowing and gradually build up resentment. Euijoo knows the cycle by now.

Leaving the library, he follows the road to the Old Townsite, past the bar, movie theatre, Samidare Bay Auto Repair, the &Burger generator rumbling throughout the neighbourhood. Nico’s parents’ house is perfectly presentable behind a white picket fence; his mom is out in the yard now, scattering seeds in the damp soil.

Euijoo pushes through the gate. “Hello, Mrs. Wang.”

“Oh, Euijoo, it’s been forever since you came by! I think I stole one of your mum’s pans, do you mind if I send it back with you?”

Euijoo nibbles on apple bread while Mrs. Wang searches the kitchen. There are pictures of Nico everywhere, graduation, junior badminton championship, basketball playoffs in Saikou City. None taken recently. His parents don’t really get his music. Sometimes Nico says, with a shell of resolve around a softer, sadder centre: one day they’ll get it.

“Ah, found it.” She gives Euijoo the baking dish that his mother has been muttering about losing for months. “And take some bread for your folks.”

“Thank you. Can I bring some to Nico too?”

“Are you going to see him now?”

“Um, yes. That’s why I came.”

She tilts her head like there’s a flaw in his logic.

“Is he… not here right now?”

“Oh no, most of the time I have to go to &Burger just to see him — especially since he moved out.” Euijoo’s expression compels her to say, “You knew he moved out, didn’t you?”

“Sorry… when did that happen?”

“A month ago or so. Mr. Koga happened to be renting out his spare room.”

“Mr. Kei?”

“That part is a bit of a secret. As if Kei would give anybody special treatment. Well, maybe he would.” She squeezes Euijoo’s shoulder. “I hope you’re not too put out with him for keeping this from you.”

Euijoo rearranges his face. “I’m just surprised.” And a bit put out.

“You know Yixiang. He wants to be a star.” A dubious flick of her eyes. “But he’s still here. It must sting to admit.”

Euijoo leaves with a pan of apple bread and a head full of steam, hot and cold and spinning. What his mom said makes perfect sense. If Nico was going to move somewhere, it would be the city.

But he’s still here.

Euijoo wonders if the Bay could become the glamorous backdrop that Nico wants, or an adequate substitute. If he could be happy with that. With Euijoo there too.

Terribly, the thought is enough to give him hope.

Across town, the basketball hoop above Jo’s garage door jangles loudly. Mindful of the neighbours, Jo usually stops playing by eight. Now it’s eight-o’-three, and feeling fed up, he takes another shot, the sound of his defiance echoing through the neighbourhood. Then he puts the ball away and calls it a night.

Knowing his bad mood will be noticed, he slumps onto the curb, his old high school jersey sticking to his back. It’s a chilly night, the ocean obscured by a layer of fog. Yuma’s window next door, high and bright, feels like an eye staring at him. Jo refuses to talk to Yuma — not because he’s petty, but because every time he tries, Yuma just begs him not to tell their secret. Considering how persuasive he can be, Jo doesn’t want to hear anything that might confuse his decision.

In the end, Jo doesn’t know what is right.

Yesterday in Art History, Kei gave a lecture on the Mona Lisa, describing the elusive emotion behind her eyes, the lush original colours and dull results of aging varnish, how it revolutionized portraiture of the Renaissance, and Jo was left with goosebumps, fascinated and awed. Later on in the high school gym, Fuma’s whistle was held suspended between his teeth, his eyes scary-focussed as he watched the young basketball team flit about the court. He called a foul that Jo had missed entirely, and caught a kid mid-air about two seconds before concussion. Jo didn’t even watch the ball; Fuma’s performance was closer to martial art than coaching.

Seeing them in their elements, Jo can’t imagine them needing outside help to fix their lives. Both of them are constant and solid, together or not.

Jo decides in an instant. Jumping up from the curb — and after calling inside to his parents that he would be home late — he heads straight for Kei’s house.

If he respects them at all, he’ll tell the truth.

He walks along the empty road, the only sound a ferry’s deep bellowing. The windows are aglow, people moving about in silhouette, but Kei’s house is dark, the always-shining castle-like spectacle of it a bit dreary tonight, dunked in fog and without even the moon to refract. If Kei is out, Jo could still drop by Fuma’s apartment building, though Jo’s feet stutter when he pictures Fuma’s reaction, that cool disappointment. Jo hasn’t even kept the secret for forty-eight hours but he’s terrified to be taken as an accomplice.

As he crosses the lawn, he’s startled by someone laying in the grass, long limbs splayed up to the heavens. Jo inches closer, then says, “Mr. Kei?”

His head shoots up though the rest of his body is stationary. Strange, wobbly eyes meet Jo’s. He’s drunk.

“Jo, is that you? You can’t be here — they’re serving alcohol.”

“Mr. Kei, I’m twenty. And we’re in your front yard.”

Kei looks around, slowly finding an upright position and hanging his head in his hands. “Must’ve gotten carried away at trivia night.” He makes a sound of anguish. “But the sky! Jo, it’s so beautiful. You’ve got to see it.”

“There are ants…”

“There are ants everywhere — get down here!”

Gingerly, Jo sits next to him in the grass and looks up. The stars are hardly out, the streetlights eat them up. But Kei has tears in his eyes.

“Oh. Um. Mr. Kei.”

“So what if I cry?” He wipes his face in the crook of his elbow. “I’m a man, Dad, but I’m also human.”

“I’m Jo.”

“Ah… so you are. I’m sorry, Jo, my screw isn’t head on right.”

“Maybe I can open your door for you.”

“No, let me stay. The ants are my friends.” He smacks his neck. “Oh God, they don’t bite, do they?”

Jo takes his hands, and when that doesn’t really work, drags Kei by the armpits. They make it to the steps and Kei lolls sideways, falling listlessly like it’s a chaise lounge in a painting.

“No,” he murmurs, “I can’t move anymore. It’s too painful.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“My heart.”

“Is it… angina…?”

“No, not my chest — my heart.” He grabs on to Jo’s pant leg. “When will it stop hurting…?”

Jo sinks down on the steps. He feels like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t. Kei smells like he’s been soaking in booze with a tobacco bath bomb.

Jo can’t tell him anything in this state.

“Jo,” he says. “Do you draw Yuma?”

Which stops Jo momentarily. “Um.”

“Any of your friends — do you draw them?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

“That’s nice. Hold on to that. The face of someone you love…” He holds Jo’s leg tighter. “I’ll never stop painting you.”

“Me?”

“Oh, Jo, you’re here.”

“I think you need water, Mr. Kei.”

“We were going to move in together, you know. Fuma and me.”

Which stops Jo again.

“Six years, we were us. Or maybe five. He was the reason I came back to the Bay. One of a few reasons, but the main one. This is the house I grew up in. I’m still paying it off. Oh God, never buy a house… today’s economy is not for you, Taki…”

Jo doesn’t correct him this time.

“He lived half his life here, with me. He was happy… I think. Do you know what it was about, the argument? Our last argument?”

“I… don’t really want to—”

“I don’t know either! He didn’t like the way I washed the dishes, he always said that, but he cleans like he’s living in a temple. Who does dishes every day? And he always told me to quit smoking, my favourite hobby, and I did quit — many times! And he would still get mad and tell me not to kiss him… Do you know the worst part?”

He knows Kei will tell him anyway.

“I paint him, still. Every time I do some boring shit like a bowl of fruit, it just kills me, but painting him… knowing him, like I used to, admitting to nobody… I still do…”

Jo wants to ask him, why then? Why can’t you be together? But Kei has fallen into a stubborn drowsiness, which sort of answers Jo’s question. Kei overindulged at trivia night and passed out in his front yard. He barely even knows who he’s been talking to.

Jo isn’t sure if he knows who Kei is either.

He wonders if Fuma is the same. If everyone in the world is. A mask of control while on the inside they’re sad, hurt, destructive, ant-bitten, shut tight. Jo drags him inside and leaves him on the couch with water and a bucket. The next day in class, it’s as if nothing happened, concluding thoughts on Mona Lisa’s inscrutable stare, and now Jo sees it: the flesh behind the facade.

Yuma is next to him, stealing glances. Jo gives him a small shake of the head, to say without saying, I didn’t tell.

He won’t tell.

Yuma’s answering smile is one Jo has drawn many times, committed to paper and to memory.

Chapter Text

“Zippy Beer? Today of all days?”

Zippy Beer, a mildly intoxicating fermented ginger beer only sold at the Jyuugoya Byaakery, is a strange choice in a cold snap. Within the cavernous hallways of the always-empty indoor market, it feels temperate at least, and Harua and Taki get a to-go cup each despite Kei’s raised eyebrow.

Kei springs for a hot coffee, knowing the limits of his ancient shiver-prone body. With cups in hand, they push out onto the cracked sidewalk, several church bells chiming noon, the ocean wind carving a whistling path.

Kei thanks them for the treat.

“You have to deal with us all the time. The least we can do is buy you coffee once in a while.” That’s what Harua said this morning too when they knocked on Kei’s front door. Harua had worried that Kei would hiss and swipe at the threat to his lazy Sunday, but he seemed eager to get bundled up and brave the weather, leaving a chattering TV behind in his empty house.

“What did I do in a past life to deserve students like you? I must have saved lives. A whole busload, nuns, orphans. Good for me.”

“All you have to do is be you, Mr. Kei.” Harua skips forward, he can’t help it. His stomach is fizzy and his ears are frozen numb.

“You’re in a good mood,” Kei observes. “Has anything wonderful or fantastic or revelatory happened since we last spoke?”

Harua’s cheeks tinge red, Taki notes, but he’s mainly focussed on Kei at the moment: “Mr. Kei, what are you doing tomorrow? Anything fun? Watching any movies? I love movies.”

“Oh, very fun. Apparently it’s tax season, so I’ve got a meeting with my accountant. You could always tag along, Taki.”

“Uh. Nah.”

Kei pinches his cheek. “One day you suckers will have taxes to do as well.”

“Next year will be my first,” says Harua pluckily. “I’m getting into the habit of collecting all my receipts and keeping track of everything I sell online.”

“Are you still selling bootleg shoes?” Taki says.

“No — I’m selling designer-ish goods at a reasonable price.”

“That’s wrong in so many ways.”

“Resourceful,” says Kei. “Sometimes a little trick isn’t so bad.”

Harua couldn’t agree more.

Meanwhile, about two blocks ahead in Samidare Bay Fitness, Fuma is considering calling this whole thing off.

Yuma and Maki are standing in front of him, both in hoodies with the sleeves cut off. Yesterday they caught him after PE and asked him to guide them in their fitness journey. But instead of starting with Tai chi in the park like he suggested, they’re intent on hitting the gym, specifically the weights. They’re like kids running for the monkey bars. Fuma tells them to hold it: “We’re stretching first.”

“We’re not doing yoga, Coach,” Yuma tells him. “We’re trying to drill the iron, you know, pound stupid gains.”

“We’ll get to that. Stretching first.”

“Fine. I have to pee though.”

Locked in the stall, Yuma texts the group chat: Not in place yet. Take Kei around the block. Harua sends a thumbs-up in response.

Back in the open among the work-out equipment and, say, strong oder, Maki and Fuma are on the floor with their legs in a painful diamond shape, Maki making his trying-not-to-scream face.

“I get why you’re here, Yuma,” Fuma is saying, “but Maki, I didn’t know you were interested in working out.”

“I’m good in PE, aren’t I?”

“I always figured that was more of a sugar high.”

Maki does tend to eat jam straight from the jar. “I’m working on my stamina. Hey, we should have a pre-workout ritual. Coach, punch me in the stomach.”

“Why would I ever do that?”

“Yuma?”

Yuma cracks his knuckles. Fuma says, “I think that’s enough stretching. Let’s get started.”

As a matter of imperative, the weight room is at the mercy of a long street-level window, open viewing for any random or not-so-random pedestrians who happen to walk by. Maki sees Yuma fire off a quick text while Fuma takes two sets of small pink dumbbells and holds them out.

“This is getting insulting,” says Yuma.

“Weight-lifting requires practice.”

“But it’s okay for Maki to carry me around whenever he wants?”

Maki demonstrates, throwing Yuma over his shoulders and doing a few squats.

Fuma, with glorious biceps crossed over glorious pectorals, says, “And vice versa?”

Hesitating now would make Yuma look like a jackass. Maki jumps trustingly into his arms.

“See?” says Yuma. “Piece of — of — good God fuck shit Maki get down.”

“All right, enough,” says Fuma. “We go from here. Okay?”

The two finally accept the small dumbbells, lifting them up and down in sync.

“This is boring,” says Yuma.

“Embrace monotony,” Fuma tells him, correcting his form with a poke in the back.

“Monotony?” Maki says, frowning. “Sounds… monotonous.”

Fuma thinks, you have no idea.

“Coach.” Yuma is starting to sweat from every porous inch of his body. “Would you show us? How to lift a heavy one? So that we know how to do it safely?”

Fuma raises an eyebrow, but turns and heads for the chalk.

Outside the window and half a block away, Harua is walking on his tiptoes.

“What’s the rush, Harua?” Kei is a master at strolling without purpose. Getting around the block felt like an eternity.

“I’m just… really excited for your next class!”

“Oh, you should be. On Monday we dive into the folds of the exquisite corpse. That’s a play on words, because the paper is folded.”

“You’re so smart,” Taki says glowingly.

“Thank you, Taki. You know what, bathroom break. Mind if we turn back?”

Instead of shouting out no, Harua says, “Of course. Why would we.”

Yuma feels a ding in his back pocket. He checks quickly while Fuma’s back is turned and shrieks out, “Wait!”

Fuma looks back at them, the barbell sitting at his feet.

“Before you show us… I think we’re ready for some more weight.”

Fuma, tired of arguing maybe, grabs two pairs of slightly bigger dumbbells, saying to Yuma, “You’re a bit red there, Yuma.”

“The… sign of a good work-out?”

“And you, Maki?”

Maki has been doing lunges too, annoyingly good at this with his unexplainable post-puberty strength. “It’s pretty fun actually. Like I’m arm-wrestling the sky and winning.”

“I think that all the time,” says Fuma. “Well? Is it too heavy for you?”

If Yuma is arm-wrestling the sky, he’s definitely not winning.

“When did you get into fitness, Coach?” Maki asks conversationally, because the window is still empty.

“I started meditating in high school. The rest came naturally.”

“Crazy that you went to the same schools that we do. Was it different back then?”

“Very different.” Fuma stops the slow agonizing flapping motion of their arms, heading for the exit. “Take it easy. I’ll grab some water.”

“No, wait. You were going to show us how to lift a heavy one.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

Yuma’s arms are now purely decorative, but he nods. Fuma stands over the weight, and with dusty white hands clasped around the bar, drops into a squat, and suddenly his arms are straight over his head. The gleaming midday light makes him look like a figure carved from marble, lean bands of muscle and razor-sharp eyes like some ancient sculptor’s idea of the peak human form.

Just behind him out the window, Kei appears.

Harua follows, unable to stop himself from peering through the window. It is impressively reminiscent of the diagram that Harua drew on the whiteboard yesterday, from the timing to the lighting to the modern-day Hercules through the glass. All that’s missing are the soft notes of an angel’s choir and Kei’s eyes ballooning out of his head like a cartoon.

But Kei walks past without even glancing inside.

Harua stutters out, “Um, Mr. Kei!”

He turns. “Yes?”

“Let’s go back this way, so we can… see if Mrs. Kuriyama’s cat is out!”

Kei snaps his fingers. “That’s a fantastic idea!” And he walks back past the window where Fuma, though no longer holding the barbell, is flexing at Yuma’s subtle request. Without a single glance, Kei suddenly stops and says, “Are you okay, Harua?”

“Um, why?”

“Your expression.”

Fuma is doing squats now. “No, just… looking around… with my eyes… in all directions…”

Taki is on his knees, silently throwing his arms toward the window. Kei makes a knowing face and says, “Slow down, Harua. Smell the flowers. Life will pass you by without you even noticing.”

On the other side of the window, Yuma and Maki watch as Kei disappears from sight, the others following helplessly behind. Fuma straightens out and, seeing the looks on their faces, checks over his shoulder. “What? What happened?”

Yuma slumps to the floor. Maki says, “Um. Nothing. I guess.”

Chapter Text

At Jo’s repeated request, the Team gathers to tell Euijoo the truth.

It’s a tense atmosphere in Yuma’s basement. The whiteboard is covered with a sheet out of respect for Jo’s anti-parent-trap sentiments, also because they currently don’t have any plans to implement or fine-tune. There’s a sturdy armoire on top of which Yuma likes to sit like a cat at the highest point of a scratching post; Harua climbs up and shimmies in next to him, observing the room.

“Pretty high up,” Harua says.

“The change in altitude must be shocking for you.”

“No, you don’t get to make short jokes.”

Yuma sighs and crosses his arms, makes a painful sound, and vows never to touch a dumbbell again. “You nervous about this too?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always thought EJ might be more of a romantic than he lets on.” Harua tilts his head. “But I’m not the one telling him.”

Nico is making Yuma do the explaining since the plan was technically his idea. (An idea he never would have come up with if Nico hadn’t taken them on the saddest walking tour in history, but whatever.) Harua says, “Even if EJ gets mad, what’s the worst he could do? Frown and shake his head?”

“I’m afraid of another Jo situation.”

“What’s a Jo situation?”

“Oh right. I guess I didn’t tell you that he threatened to out all of us to Kei and Fuma.”

“What?”

“But he didn’t! And he won’t.”

“He told you that?”

“He gesticulated it.”

“Is that why he’s been a bit more… Jo lately?”

Yuma looks up and meets Jo’s eyes across the room. They both look away.

Jo, on the leather love seat, is trying hard not to feel watched with those two whispering and monitoring the room like guards high on a battlement. Maki is sitting by the wiry mess of the TV stand, sorting games one by one, a repetitious clack slide clack slide. What is Jo doing here? Taki drops down on the couch before Jo can come up with an answer.

“Just so you know,” Taki says, “I’m not totally on board with this either.”

“You’re not?”

“Yeah. Like, if the Team was a shady secret syndicate, I’m like the guy outside the door who answers the phone sometimes.”

“The secretary.”

“Yes! I’m the secretary.”

“I don’t like any of this. I don’t even want to be the guy who works in the same building and knows about the syndicate but does nothing to fight back against it. I don’t even want to be in the building.”

“You lost me.”

Jo shrugs. Euijoo is late. The sky is darkening through the hopper window above. “I never thought Kei was someone who needed help.”

If Taki had floppy ears, they would have drooped. “Yeah. I know.” But those invisible ears perk up again. “Maybe we can help him — both of them — some other way. Our own way.”

Jo is listening.

Meanwhile, Maki is almost done reorganizing Yuma’s game shelf. Now all the titles are facing outward, stacked cleanly instead of just tossed in wherever. Nico is just getting back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn, dropping down with his back against Maki’s like he’s a chair.

“Are you nervous?” Maki asks.

“About what?”

“Telling JuJu about the Team?”

“I’m not the one who has to tell him.” Nico throws a piece of popcorn in the air, missing his mouth completely. “As long as he doesn’t think it was my idea.”

“Why does that matter?”

“I don’t know. Because.”

“Are you guys still… uh…”

“Be cool, Maki.”

“I’m cool. I’m super cool.”

“Is that what the shades are about? How cool you are?”

Maki has been wearing sunglasses lately, which have not yet made Harua spontaneously fall in love with him, but Maki still has faith in Kei’s advice (and faith in himself to totally pull it off, even indoors and at night).

Suddenly, scaring everyone out of their separate collusions, Euijoo is climbing through the open window from shelf to end table to floor, with cold-flushed cheeks and a post-library glow. He says, “Sorry I’m late, Ms. Chiba had a radical idea to move the audiobooks into the back corner and move the sitting area closer to Periodicals — anyway, it was a wild afternoon.”

The room is strangely quiet, but Euijoo has grown accustomed to stifled conversations when he enters. Harua scampers over and tells him to sit, which is when he starts to worry. Jo and Taki move to make room for him and Yuma is taking centre stage and Maki is wearing sunglasses for some reason. Nico is spread out on the carpet with a bowl of popcorn, seeming too relaxed for his own good.

“What’s going on?” Euijoo asks.

“We called you here today,” Yuma is saying, “because…” And after a lengthy pause: “Nico has something to say.”

Nico stops chewing and looks up at Yuma. A heated exchange takes place only in subtle jerks and bobs of their heads, and the rest avert their eyes, leaving Nico on his own. He stands and brushes off his hands, saying, “Look, this is crazy. It’s probably going to piss you off for a minute. Then you’re going to realize that, hey, everybody’s hearts are in the right place, and it was always the plan to tell you eventually and—”

“Nico, Nico.” Euijoo, relieved, stands and takes Nico by the shoulders. “I already know.”

“You… do?”

“Yeah. And I was mad, but only for a minute — only because you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

Suddenly Yuma says, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Euijoo had forgotten that they weren’t alone. He takes his hands back. “What do you mean?”

“How did you know already? Did Jo tell you?”

“I didn’t tell him,” says Jo.

“Taki?”

Taki throws his hands up. “Not me!”

“Wait,” Euijoo says, “did everybody know except for me?”

“Jo only found out last week,” Maki explains. “And obviously Kei and Fuma don’t know.”

“Kei doesn’t know that Nico is living in his house?”

“He’s what?” Yuma bursts out. The focus is square on Nico now, who has frozen like a burglar under a flashlight. “Since when?”

“You didn’t know?” Euijoo’s voice is shrinking. “Then… what have we been talking about?”

“Our sneaky plan to get Kei and Fuma back together,” says Yuma, “but now I’m more interested in Nico’s thing!”

“You’re trying to get Kei and Fuma back together?”

“I’m not,” Jo says. “To be clear.”

“I’m also just a secretary,” says Taki.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Yuma declares.

“You just called it a ‘sneaky plan.’” Euijoo looks at Nico. “Is this what you were going to tell me?”

“Look, I think the real question here is…” Nico holds the ‘real question’ in his mouth for a moment, then says, “Why is Maki wearing sunglasses?”

Maki stutters out, “Because they’re cool!”

“I assumed you had pinkeye or something,” says Harua.

Maki takes them off quick.

“Nico,” says Yuma, “when were you going to tell us?”

Nico looks back and forth between them and snaps out, “I live in his basement, okay? It’s exactly as boring as it sounds and I forgot to tell you. Sue me.” He shoves through the huddle, grabbing his backpack. “You guys fill him in, I have a headache.”

“Where are you going?” Maki says, which earns him a pointed glare before Nico climbs out the window and disappears.

“That guy is crazy,” says Yuma. “If he had special access why didn’t he—”

Jo shuts him up with a poke in the side. “He’s embarrassed. He’s always wanted to move to the city.”

But Euijoo isn’t sure that’s true anymore. He tells them, “I’ll talk to Nico. You all finish explaining later.”

“They’re going to beg you not to tell now,” says Jo.

“No, we’re not!” Harua turns on his tiptoes toward Euijoo. “But if you could not tell anybody that would be— okay, see you tomorrow! Bye, EJ! Love you, EJ!”

He’s already out the window. Harua turns back to what’s left of the Team and says, “I think that went well.”

Out in the evening chill, Euijoo finally catches up to Nico. He says, panting, “You walk fast.”

“I don’t want to do this right now.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I fucking am — you just outed me in front of everybody!”

Euijoo scoffs out, “Well, I mean, shit, I’m mad too. You’re insane for going along with this, you’re screwing around in Kei and Fuma’s lives.”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“Does that make it better somehow?”

“Just so you know.”

Euijoo grabs his arm. “You couldn’t have told me? That you moved? Just me? I get that it’s not what you planned but—”

“Shit, I’m sorry! Okay? I’m sorry.”

It’s blunt but genuine, but Euijoo doesn’t want a sorry, not from Nico. He’d rather Nico be obtuse and stick to his guns than roll over as though that hollow word could fix whatever it is that’s wrong with them. That wrong thing makes the backs of Euijoo’s knees sweat and he doesn’t want to fix it.

“You’re insane,” Euijoo says. “Want to get &Burger?”

Nico says, pouting, “You’re paying for it.”

Yeah. Euijoo will pay for it.

Chapter Text

There are two accountants in Samidare Bay, and after the breakup — decided with rock paper scissors — Kei got the grumpy one.

His office is full of boring landscapes and objective realism, which does not help Kei’s ability to focus on something important regarding the registered savings something. He has never been one for finances and all its plentiful acronyms. (Fuma is better at it. They used to share the nice accountant, but Kei pulled paper like a fucking idiot, so he has no choice but to take his tote of loose receipts and tax slips across the hall.)

“Mr. Koga? Are you listening?”

He has been listening deeply to the breaths and lip-smacking between words while staring into the 2D mediocrity of some stuffy retiree’s empty field at midday.

“As I was saying, you’ve clearly pulled it together since last season. I can even almost read your handwriting.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Next year try to get your affairs in order before the final warning, okay? Take an admin day. Lots of time to paint when you’re retired. Next!”

Kei gladly shuffles out into the small waiting room. There are a few chairs, a water cooler, more terrible paintings, and as the door across the hall opens, Fuma is in front of him, as he perpetually seems to be these days.

“Hello there, Kei!” Ms. Noriko calls, ever enthused, a gorgeous Rousseau on her wall.

With the greeting game out of the way, he and Fuma both inch toward the elevator. The exit becomes a sort of chess match; the stairs are in an eternal state of water damage and yellow tape, meanwhile the windows are without fire escape or lattice to escape down. Even the elevator is a rickety thing, fitfully carting people up and down since before Kei was born. If he could avoid this confined encounter with a well-timed pee break, he would slip away now, but the bathroom door has yellow tape on it too.

The doors slide shut. Fuma hits the button.

“How is Ms. Noriko?” Kei asks. His hand unconsciously becomes a rock in his pocket.

“Fine. I brought a basket of that charcuterie stuff, since I was a little disorganized this year. I didn’t get myself sorted out till last month.”

If it’s a veiled shot at Kei’s “chronic lateness” in all areas of his life, it hits the intended target and Kei chews on his tongue.

“Is this thing moving?” Fuma punches the button again and the old metal box rumbles, lurches, and slides downward. “They should condemn this place.”

“Then no one would get their taxes in on time.”

“I was joking.”

“I was too.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Kei prays for the doors to open. He feels like a fool for drinking himself silly over this man, dreaming strange lucid dreams about him. His subconscious always betrays him. His conscious isn’t much of an ally either.

“Why isn’t this thing working?” Fuma is abusing the button again.

“Relax, you’re confusing it.”

“It’s a machine, it doesn’t get confused.”

“You said that about my microwave but it didn’t survive your hot water bottle routine.”

“You should have thrown that piece of shit out ages ago — why isn’t this working?”

“Are you pressing the open button?”

“No, I’ve been purposely pressing the wrong button this whole time. If this thing doesn’t open right now—”

But it does open, a gap of about three inches, revealing both the first and second floors and the grungy concrete innards between.

“What the fuck?” Kei tries to pry the doors open, finds his arms not up to snuff. “This is not happening. Wait, what are you doing?”

Fuma holds up one finger, phone pressed to his ear, saying Mr. Atsuko? Of course he has the landlord’s number. Kei doesn’t even have his phone on him.

Mr. Atsuko appears in the bottom half of the gap, letting out a slow whistle. “You two okay in there? Isn’t this a pickle.”

They both crowd too close to the gap and flinch back.

“Did you call the fire department?” Fuma says.

“Oh yeah, gave them a call. They’re just heading to the bar for a bite. It’s noon, you know, little past even.”

“Yes, right, but we’re trapped in here.”

“I mentioned that, but with this piece of junk, it was really only a matter of time. The boys’ll be along, don’t you worry.”

“I am worried.” Kei is on his hands and knees, meeting the old man’s eyes. “It’s a little cramped in here.”

“Oh I understand, believe me. Once my ex wife and I got snowed in at the cabin — I was bouncing off the walls! This was before the divorce though, so we put the time to use, if you know what I mean, wink.”

Kei considers forcing his body through the two-inch gap and letting his health insurance handle the rest.

“Hang tight,” Mr. Atsuko tells them. “I’ll grab you two some eats in the meantime.”

He leaves them with bottled water, a pepperoni stick, a cucumber, whatever will pass through the vertical gap. Fuma is facing the wall, face held in one hand. The truth is, he had high hopes for the day. The Shigetas sent over a whole chicken as a thank you for inviting their son for Pokémon night, as if Harua was the lonely hermetic geek with no friends in his own age bracket. The chicken is in the oven right now.

Kei is sitting with his body bent toward the narrow exit like the oxygen is thinning already.

“You haven’t tried prying the doors open yet,” he says to Fuma.

“I’m not superman.”

He mumbles something.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just saying, I’d rather not be trapped at the accountant’s office.” Subtext is heavy.

“Are you kidding? I was going to make soup, bring it to the Shigetas, maybe take a book to the beach—”

“Give me a break.”

“Sorry?”

“Brag, brag, brag.”

Fuma almost laughs. “I’m not bragging.”

“Oh ho hum, I was just planning to bake bread for the needy, ponder the meaning of life, maybe help a family of ducks cross a busy road.”

“You’re ridiculous. What were your plans, gazing out the window?”

“Gazing at the TV, actually.”

“And I’m bragging.”

“How is that a brag? That is the opposite of bragging.”

“You have a gift for romanticizing your own dysfunction.”

Kei’s jaw is jutting so far out it should pop off his skull completely. He turns his face into the gap. “Don’t talk to me.”

“No comeback?”

He turns, sticks his tongue out, and turns again.

“Classic, love that one. You could paint this. ‘Getting stuck on elevator after bringing in my taxes late’—”

“I knew you were thinking that” — throwing his hands up — “I can’t do this. I can’t be around you.”

“Then why are you always around me? Or staring from a distance—”

“You! You, not me!”

“I’m tired of this.”

“You started it.”

“How and when the hell did I start—”

“The day you were born?”

Fuma has no response for that. It’s so utterly unfair that he can’t even be properly offended. He slides down the wall into a half-crumpled position. It’s been twenty minutes. He’s not hearing any sirens. He’s not getting home to his chicken. (In all honesty, he was planning to eat it whole with a fork and knife, if not his bare hands.) When he looks up, Kei is similarly positioned, biting at a pepperoni stick.

“Thanks for leaving me the cucumber,” Fuma says.

“Like you’d eat processed meat.”

He can’t argue with that. He rips the plastic wrap around the cucumber.

Kei is half smiling.

“What?” says Fuma.

“Nothing.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“What, smile?”

“Say nothing when it’s not nothing—”

“Christ, it was nothing! Seriously. A student asked me for love advice the other day. I was just picturing him and his friend fighting about the same shit we always do.”

Fuma could get hung up on the love or the always or the we, but it’s another word that comes flying out of his mouth: “Harua?”

Kei looks up. “Yes. How did you know?”

“He came to me too.”

“Ah. Here I was feeling special.” Kei’s legs are stretched out, nearly spanning the width of the elevator, invading Fuma’s side. “So, what did you tell him?”

“What you’re supposed to. Compromise, make up.” Fuma’s legs, comparatively short, are still curled to his chest. “What did you tell him?”

“Well. Same thing, actually.”

A bloated silence.

Finally Kei pops it: “Any chance Maki came to you too?”

“Shit, did those two plan it?”

Kei’s smile is sugary. “It’s spring. Love is in the air.”

“They’re not even twenty yet — hormones are in the air.”

“You’re a grump.”

“Who knows what they want when they’re eighteen?” But he did, now that he thinks about it. “Harua didn’t seem too interested in reconciliation.”

“Maybe they need someone to help them along. Lure them together, one plate of spaghetti, one long noodle…”

“Wildly inappropriate.”

“I know you’re a romantic, Fuma. I know you’ve got Toni Braxton on vinyl.”

He rolls his eyes, trying not to smile. “It’s too bad they aren’t stuck in an elevator instead of us.”

Which is a half-baked thought that is thankfully interrupted before it has the chance to detonate. The fire department has arrived; Kei and Fuma climb through a hatch in the ceiling and are delivered safely to the ground in the cramped firetruck bucket. A crowd of spectators has formed on the sidewalk, any excuse to leave their shops unattended and the kids waiting in the car. Kei maneuvers toward the parking lot; Fuma’s apartment happens to be in the same direction. As he walks past — mind now refocused on the chicken in his oven instead of Kei, Kei, Kei — Kei calls out.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s standing halfway into his car, a beleaguered look as if Fuma forced the apology out of him.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” The firetruck is pulling away, the crowd applauding. “For all of it, I suppose.”

It is simple in that moment for Fuma to say I’m sorry too and mean it, living briefly by his own advice.

It’s when Kei drives away that the heartache begins, nothing angry to cushion the crash.

His chicken is burnt to a crisp.

Chapter Text

&Burger doesn’t have the best acoustics, but Nicholas sings anyway.

As long as there are no customers — there seldom are — and the guys are out for a smoke break or a post-smoke break puff. Nico scrubs sticky congealed root beer spills and special &Sauce from formica, the high falsetto hopes of Dancing Queen bouncing weirdly off the ceiling.

When he turns, Jo is listening from across the maze of empty tables and chairs. Nico’s voice sucks back into chest.

“Shit. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” says Jo, smiling innocently. “You sounded pretty.”

Nico says thanks, I guess and spritzes a table with disinfectant. The sun is up now, shining over the distant silhouette of some neighbouring island, sparkling in the parking lot gas puddles. Meanwhile Nico, who can’t stand the graveyard shift, has to watch Jo leave before him, a morning of endless potential ahead, no hairnets or polos in primary colours.

“How is it?” Jo asks. “Living with Mr. Kei?”

Nico almost forgot — everybody knows now. “Fine. He doesn’t mind me playing my instruments. So yeah, it’s fine.”

“It must be hard to put your dream on hold. You’re always talking about Saikou City. Though, I don’t know, the city can be kind of scary.”

“Yeah, well.” He throws his rag into the dirty bucket. “Not to me.”

“I know. If Saikou was my dream, I’d probably go there too, even if it was scary.”

“Right. Dreams, huh?”

They both breathe a weary, grease-thick breath. Jo can’t completely smother the spark of envy inside him. Nico is good at so many things — it’s like he was born knowing whatever he tried could eventually become his bread and butter. All Jo has is drawing, and he’s not even sure he’s very good at that.

“Any plans?” Nico is on hands and knees to retrieve a tossed bag of nuggets from under a table.

“I’m going to Taki’s place.” Jo brings the trash can closer. “We’re going to bake for Kei and Fuma.”

“Did Yuma actually talk you into joining the Team?”

“No — this is just me and Taki. No scheming, just letting them know we care.”

Nico adjusts his beanie, his hands held like claws, probably sticky with something. “Doesn’t baking require… knowing how to bake?”

“Well, Taki said he found a good recipe. As long as he has a clue what we’re doing, I’ll follow along.”

Nico gives him a dubious good luck and scuttles away to wash his hands.

Jo breathes in the fresh morning air, cutting down back lanes of dangling lilacs and clematis weaving through chainlink, primordial oaks towering overhead. The weather is warming up lately, tee shirts and flannel instead of puffers and gloves. He walks up the cul-de-sac to Taki’s house, overrun with long grasses and long-abandoned toys on the front lawn. Taki throws open the door before he can even knock.

“You’re here!” Taki drags him into the kitchen. “Look, I got everything ready — scale, whisk, baking tray, whatever that spatula thing is called.”

Jo rolls up his sleeves, washing his hands before he touches the equipment Taki has set out on the counter. “You said you found the perfect recipe.”

“It’s completely perfect.” Taki is wearing his mom's apron, his hair a shiny black tree poking out the top of his head. “They’re called ‘everything muffins’ and they’ve got whole wheat flour and apple sauce and protein, all that healthy stuff for Fuma, and pretzels and chocolate chips and cookie dough chunks for Kei.”

“Cookie dough chunks?”

“Yeah, everything!”

“Then let’s get started.”

The oven is preheating, turning the kitchen into a green house. Jo can see flour particles floating in the sun. Beside him, Taki is popping liners into the tray.

“When are we making the delivery?” Jo asks. “After school today?”

“Sorry, can’t today. I have to practice getting punched in the face.”

“Um. What?”

“For the next Team thing. Maki and I are staging a fight.”

Jo rolls his eyes. “Did Yuma come up with that?”

“I don’t know, ideas just show up on the whiteboard.” Taki nudges Jo with his butt. “I think our plan is way better.”

Jo smiles. A muffin is definitely better than deceit. Maybe the Team — particularly Yuma — could learn a thing or two from them.

A block away, Yuma struggles to pull a hoodie over his head. He's talking so fast that the words slide and crash into a mess of lisping consonants and expletives. His phone screen is split into two boxes, Harua on top, dotting his face with fake freckles, and Maki below, waiting by the toaster for his waffles to pop.

“And the fire department took a whole hour to get there,” Yuma is saying. “Someone else said it was two hours! I’m telling you, God is on our side.”

“One of my sources,” Harua says, probably referring to someone from the nerd novelty store next to the accounting firm, “said the lights malfunctioned too. Imagine, two hours in the darkness, alone, cuddling for warmth…”

“I don’t think the heating malfunctioned.” Maki is assembling a waffle sandwich with raspberry jam and maple syrup. “My dad said he didn’t even see Kei or Fuma leave the building, and he was right there in the crowd.”

“Half the people I talked to swore it happened on Sunday, not Monday,” Yuma says. “One guy said it was an anarchist conspiracy to scare people out of doing their taxes. Point is, everybody in this town is insane.”

“Including my dad?”

“Including us,” says Harua, self-aware at least. He’s surrounded by sky now, walking to school. “Where’s Taki?”

“Him and Jo are baking a cake or something, I don’t know.” Since the elevator news, Yuma has been single-minded. When he keeps talking it’s midway through Maki’s sentence, You look really cool today, Haru— “Remember rehearsals later. Snacks will be provided.”

Harua hangs up, and Maki, jam on his chin, hangs up too. Yuma pockets his phone and runs out of his bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. The day will be a slog until they begin fight scene coordination (and script drafting, at Harua’s request). They survived breaking the news to EJ — in fact, EJ hasn’t said a word about it to Yuma at all — and now it’s about maintaining momentum. Stepping up their game.

He lands at the bottom of the stairs. His mom, sitting on the couch, flinches and jumps up, wiping at red cheeks.

“Mom, are you crying—”

“No, of course not. You — you haven’t eaten, you little shit. Wait a second, let me fry something up.”

She shuffles into the kitchen, leaving something weird on the couch, one of those vintage Y2K whatchamacallits. Judging by the spongy wire headphones, it’s a music player. A piece of tape on the plastic display dedicates it to snookums, from honey bear. It must be a gift from Yuma’s dad.

And Mom was crying, listening to it.

Yuma wonders, not for the first time, if he had paid a bit more attention, or pulled a few more schemes, or prayed to God for an elevator to malfunction — if his parents could have been tricked into happiness too.

Yuma won’t drop the ball a second time.

Chapter Text

That morning, Kei eats breakfast — an actual breakfast, eggs, toast, instead of a handful of cereal — and leaves the house feeling strange. Good.

The house is spic-and-span after a spontaneous fit of cleaning and organization. Maybe it has to do with the incident the other day, delighted that life is bigger than an elevator, or maybe it’s the satisfaction of completing his tax return, or maybe the detritus that stuck to the bottoms of his socks became too noticeable even for him. Most likely it has everything to do with his older brother’s plans to visit in the coming week, but Kei isn’t thinking about that. In departmentalization, at least, he is a precise person.

Before his first class, he tackles caked paint in easel crevices, splays the windows wide open, welcoming the briny air, and takes a month’s worth of cloudy glasses and stiff brushes to soak in the teachers’ lounge sink. It’s during lunch that Taki and Jo knock, intrigue all about them.

“Taki! Jo, look at you, back in the neighbourhood. Is the cafeteria food really that good?”

Jo shakes his head seriously. “Taki and I have something to give you — a gift.”

“See, I had a feeling today was going to be a good day.”

Taki is jumping up on his toes. “Close your eyes!”

Kei does so, and a generous weight settles in his hands. A muffin, mountainous and bursting out of the liner with white marshmallow chunks and enough chocolate to kill a dog. It is slightly… foreboding. And seemingly overbaked.

Taki and Jo are looking at him expectantly.

“What… is this now?”

“We aren’t that good at baking yet, but we were thinking of you and how great you are and… yeah.” Jo’s ears have turned red.

Kei pretends to wipe a tear. “So thoughtful, and for little old me.”

“Are you going to try it?” Taki is fidgeting with excess energy. He’s too precious to disappoint with the I already ate excuse, so Kei takes a bite and a few more when those expectant looks persist.

“How is it?” Taki asks.

“It’s… hearty. What’s in this?”

“Lots of stuff. It’s called an ‘everything muffin.’”

“I see that. What do you two think of it?”

“I’m trying not to eat white flour,” Jo admits. “But Taki said he liked them.”

“Chocolate and cookie dough,” Taki says, “how can you go wrong?”

Somewhere between the sandy texture, pockets of flour and bursts of baking soda is approximately where things went wrong, but Kei gladly puts it away to preserve those ecstatic smiles.

It is not long after that the muffin begins to mutiny.

A well-salted brick would have landed better. At the earliest opportunity, he absconds to the men’s room and slaps himself for all that talk of finally a good day, as if the divine comedian upstairs would allow him such a thing.

Throwing a paper towel in the bin, he moves to leave before he’s late to his own class. But the door opens and, naturally, Fuma is behind it.

“Oh,” Fuma says. “Good morning.”

It’s one in the afternoon. “Morning. How are you?”

“Fine.” Why they are small-talking, he doesn’t know, post-elevator grace or the extra kick of awkwardness provided by the location. “Lilacs are out.”

“Yes. Amazing. Best time of year.”

“Well. Have a good one. Just washing my hands.”

But there is a rumbling that’s hard to ignore.

Fuma clears his throat. “Excuse me.”

“Oh Lord, did Jo and Taki come to see you too?”

Confusion and irony in quick succession, and then an unexpected laugh: “I should have known. I wouldn’t trust those two to make ice.”

“I just couldn’t say no! It’d be like kicking a puppy — worse, kicking a Taki. Next time I’ll fake a gluten allergy, those are all the rage these days, aren’t they?”

Fuma says, “Kei.”

Kei gets the hint and ducks out.

The rest of the day is spent in reflection and aversion to even a glimpse of food. After his last class there is more to clean and air out and let soak, but his constitution has changed since this morning, so he packs his bag instead.

There’s a knock at his door. He imagines Taki and Jo there with a doggy bag and hopeful expressions, and braces himself. But instead it’s Fuma, with a mug in his hands.

“Oh. Good morning. Afternoon, whatever. Come in.”

Fuma sets the mug on the edge of Kei’s desk then backs up several steps. “Ginger tea. Settles the…” He gestures discreetly, then stuffs his hands into the pockets of his grey hoodie. “Thought we were in the same boat, so anyway, there you go, if you want it.”

Calmly, Kei says thank you. Then, once he’s sure Fuma is well away, crumbles into his desk, smiling, smiling, smiling.

Meanwhile, down on the beach, Pandy chases the same stick for the hundredth time.

The tide is all the way out, revealing the slimy fishy-smelling sand fermenting underneath. Harua is drawing with a stick of his own, a squiggly heart that looks more like a triangle as the waves lap at it.

“You’ve got to be confident,” Harua is saying. “No one’s going to take you seriously if you’re half-assing all your punches.”

Pandy drops the stick at Maki’s feet, bounding and leaping as he chucks it once again. “I’m afraid I’ll hit Taki for real — accidentally.”

“You won’t. Even if you do, a little realism couldn’t hurt.”

“It could hurt Taki.”

“Maybe you just need more practice.” Harua leaves his stick in the sand, raises his face. “Hit me.”

“I can’t hit you.”

“You can’t even pretend?”

It’s one thing with Taki. Taki is quick. Harua is… well, bedazzled, for one thing, small gemstones under his eyes. And the height differential has become more noticeable recently, even to Maki, though Harua has a skill for carrying himself as though he’s the tallest in the room.

Maki lifts one fist — and puts it back down, shaking his head.

“You’re such a baby! We’re not just doing this for Fuma and Kei — we have to make sure everybody believes it.” With the entire cafeteria as an audience, it’s probably the largest-scale operation the Team has attempted. Harua doesn’t want anyone to accuse them of staging the fight, or worse yet, putting on a subpar performance.

“It’s harder than you think,” Maki says.

“I could fake-punch you.”

“Oh yeah?” Maki gestures at his face like have at it.

So Harua steps closer. And from this angle there is something disarming about it, Maki’s big puppy face suddenly awkward in the most obvious way possible. Worried, maybe, that he’s about to be punched, but he should know better than that. Harua’s fist swings past with a cautious margin for safety, probably too cautious, but the point is the swing anyway — to sell it. And if Maki was taking this seriously he would have flailed and fell, but instead he’s still standing there stiffly.

“You were supposed to dive.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you promise to fake-punch Taki for real tomorrow?”

“I’ll… try.”

Pandy barks, running around their legs. Maki and Harua both bend down to pick up the stick, but knock heads in the middle and stumble backward. Why were they so close in the first place?

Pandy sprints after the stick.

Harua says, “She must love that stick, chasing it over and over again.”

Maki says, looking at Harua, “Yeah. She must.”

Chapter Text

The cafeteria at Samidare High is nothing special, a couple dozen plastic tables, a wide window with a view of the numerous crude words graffitied on the gymnasium wall directly across. An air of conspiracy gets Harua’s chest fluttering, nerves and excitement. This isn’t the kind of plan they can dust off and try again tomorrow.

Maki and Taki are sitting across from him, Taki still examining the script, until Harua snatches it out of his hands.

“Always memorize your lines before you show up on set.”

Taki already looks guilty. “I still don’t think it sounds like something we’d fight about. I’ve never gotten crumbs in Maki’s bed before.”

“Didn’t Maki lose his mind last time you spilled something on his shirt?”

“That’s different.”

“Well, kind of,” says Maki. He’s eating a fruit salad that he’s drowned in cranberry juice, like a sour fructose cereal, not even wincing.

“You’re just stalling.” Harua tells them to get up and into position. “Lights, camera…”

Taki stuffs one more meatball into his mouth, stepping over the bench. Maki stands up as well, glancing down at Harua, who mouths, Action.

“You know what,” Taki says, suddenly loud and gesturing dramatically, “I’m getting sick of your fussy bull-crap, Maki.”

“You’re sick of it?!” Maki, as expected, is a champ at yelling: “I’m sick of you treating my bed like a charcuterie board!”

“Stop fighting!” Harua jumps out of his seat. “It doesn’t solve anything when you… fight…”

The din of conversation and cutlery does not lull, like everyone in the room is actively tuning them out.

“Phase two,” Harua says, then returns to shouting: “Taki, calm down! You’re too hot!”

“Next time I’m hungry,” Taki says, putting his finger in Maki’s face, “I’m going to your bed, and I’m eating crackers!”

This is the part where Maki is supposed to punch him. He gulps and looks at Harua. “I told you I couldn’t do it.”

“One of you, do something!”

Taki looks around, grabs Maki’s fruit salad and flings it all over him.

Maki stares at him, dripping purple, mouth wide open. “Taki. What the fuck.”

“Now your shirt matches your sheets, um, bitch!”

Heads are turning now, phones turned toward them. Harua shouts “Don’t fight!” while subtly backing away to find a teacher, or two specific teachers. Maki is pretty much pissed for real and doesn’t care who sees.

“Taki, this is completely going to stain!”

“Just put it in the washing machine!”

“A regular wash won’t do anything — I’m going to have to bleach this!”

“Sometimes stuff just happens, okay? Get off my ass!”

The crowd is hollering and chanting — Riki, Riki, Riki! — not entirely clear which side they’re rooting for. Harua breaks through just as Taki throws out, “Go home and cry in your crumby sheets about it!”

“Cut it out, Taki, I’m serious! I’m actually mad at you.”

“You’re the one who said you couldn’t—” He throws his hands up. “You’re always getting mad at me for stupid stuff!”

“Well, you’re always doing stupid stuff!”

“Harua told me to do something!”

“Don’t just do whatever he tells you to — have a mind of your own!”

“Me? I should have a mind of my own? When you’re the one who goes along with all this Team shit just because you’re obsessed with—”

Taki shuts his mouth. Harua is blinking, confused.

Maki does the first thing he can think of and throws a meatball.

When Taki retaliates with a handful of spaghetti, the crowd takes this as permission to make the situation a hundred times worse. Sauce flying, fruit salad raining down, ground beef everywhere.

This is when Mr. Kei and Coach Fuma come running in.

Kei sprints into the battlefield, grabbing the clump of noodles out of Taki’s hand, and Fuma — desperately blowing his whistle — yanks Maki back by the scruff of his shirt. It’s not what they were aiming for in rehearsals. The plan veered off-track about seventeen lines of dialogue ago, and not even Harua, as director, can pull the scene together.

Maki and Taki plod to the principal’s office side by side.

Out in the hallway after a slap on the wrist, Maki says, “That got out of hand.”

“Yeah. We sold it though.” A little too well.

“Sorry for throwing the meatball,” Maki says.

“That’s okay. Sorry I almost said out loud about your crush on—”

But Maki smacks him as Harua walks up, Jello in his coif.

“I can’t say the plan was successful, but it was very funny to watch.”

“Wasn’t any fun for me.” Maki is holding out the front of his white-and-purple shirt. “It’s almost dry. I don’t think I’ll be able to salvage it now.”

“Such a baby.” Harua reaches up to ruffle his hair. “Let’s find Yuma and give him an update. Taki?”

Taki decides to pass. He’s pretty much done for today and he has tomato sauce in his shoes.

He marches back to the cafeteria, thinking there must be someone there to listen to him apologize, hopefully Mr. Kei. Taki is at least partially to blame for what happened today, in the flinging and splattering sense, though there’s a catharsis in chucking food at Maki’s precious shirt that’s still resonating now.

He’s about to walk into the cafeteria, but jumps back behind the door.

Kei and Fuma are mopping — and talking.

“They should be doing this,” Fuma says. “You throw it, you clean it. That’s life.”

“I don’t think forced labour would improve the situation.” As opposed to Fuma’s efficient push-pull mess-localizing, Kei is turning in carefree circles with his mop. “Those two need to work it out on their own time, and we can’t help in that department, much as I’d like to. Oh, don’t tell me you had better plans for the afternoon.”

“I’m not ashamed of my boring life. Any more cheap shots you want to take while you’re at it?”

Kei throws a meatball, and Fuma lets it happen, saying defeatedly, “Good shot.”

Kei’s laughter echoes against the high ceiling.

Hidden behind the door, Taki is staring with wide eyes. He nearly breaks into a sprint, frantic, scrambling to share the news — but stops as he realizes that’s exactly what’s expected of him. What’s the point when all it will do is encourage more schemes, more stupid stunts like this?

Besides, even in plain sight, among other teachers, it feels like a private moment, just for the two of them.

Meanwhile, across town, Nico finally lets Euijoo see his new room. His first apartment in Samidare Bay. And not in Saikou City.

Euijoo tries to glean what he can, stepping stones, ivy curling through the fence, a door under a weather-beaten awning. The interior is a hungry glance around a small dark room before Nico has Euijoo’s back against the wall, distracting him, somewhat successfully, though he can’t help imagining the colour of the wall behind him, if there’s a lamp nearby that Nico is choosing not to turn on, what the bedspread looks like — floral, argyle, second-hand, bought new, who knows. And then Nico is on top of him, removing him from his brain, though that doesn’t last long either.

A knock on the door. Nico doesn’t say a word — except for a curse — as he pushes himself off, turning on the light and opening the door to Kei’s face and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

“I saw you and Euijoo walk up, so I popped these out of the freezer.” At this point Euijoo has collected himself and is sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. Unsuspicious, Kei waves through the narrow gap. “Hey, EJ. Assignment’s due Monday, by the way.”

They both wave and say thank you and Nico shuts the door. “At least he knocks.”

“Right.”

They both take a cookie from the pile, and Euijoo has a chance to look around in the light. It’s not big, single bed, kitchenette, clothing racks, keyboard and guitar, one dull overhead light. Euijoo leans over the bed to look at the one decoration he can find — sheet music taped to the wall, songs from Fame, a movie musical that Euijoo has always refused to watch with him.

Nico is sitting at his keyboard now, poking at a melody. He’s wearing a dark tee shirt and a silver necklace, the chain and clip pooling over the nape of his neck. Pulling his eyes away, Euijoo picks up the guitar, perches on a small windowsill, and plays a song (the only song he knows). Nico listens for a moment, then enters in with a harmonizing change of key. Thanks to him, Euijoo’s plucking sounds sort of decent, though Nico says his keyboard is a piece of shit. He's been saving up for a new one. Euijoo wonders if that money is paying rent now instead.

Nico, next to him, prays that this isn’t inspiring too many questions.

He invited Euijoo over because — for one thing, he wouldn’t stop asking in a roundabout Euijoo way. And it was a relief to go somewhere and not have to worry about parents or friends barging in on them (though Kei quickly disabused them of that fantasy). So far Euijoo hasn’t asked him anything about the moving in, why he moved in, why not the city, is he finally abandoning his useless dreams, which he realizes is more of a parental cadence of conversation. All his shoes are stuffed into a suitcase and his cutlery is plastic; he’s hoping that Euijoo, in his careful inspection, noted these facts.

Euijoo suddenly stops playing, shaking his hand out. “Cramp.”

“You sound good.”

“Ha ha.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh.” He looks down, pressing his fingers to the strings again. “I don’t know why it sounds stilted.”

“You’re too rigid.” He takes Euijoo’s hand and rubs it between his own. “Loosen up.”

He takes his hand back, blushing maybe, or it could be the lighting. He’s all soft reds and browns, skin and hair, flannel and khaki. He starts playing, hand like a piece of wood, then gives up again, getting redder.

“Keep practicing. You could play onstage someday.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” With a smirk, “You could be my opening act.”

“Well… maybe a small stage. At the cafe, just in the background while people drink coffee and study. That would be kind of nice.”

Nico doesn’t know how they arrived at background music at the YukiaKafé, but he knows it’s time to abort.

“Way to make it boring. I meant a concert, something more, you know, epic.”

“You wouldn’t want to, I don’t know… entertain the Bay?”

“Hell no.”

Euijoo is staring at him, which Nico is not prepared for, plinking back and forth between two awkward notes instead. Euijoo sets the guitar on its stand (a box of bubblewrap) and says, “My aunt offered me a job.”

“Oh. Cool. Wait, where?”

“Inland. Koegawari City. It’s not as big as Saikou. Bigger than the Bay though.”

“Oh.” Now Nico is the one with too many questions. “So… what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

Euijoo shrugs.

Nico doesn’t know what to say. He always assumed Euijoo would stay in the Bay. Maybe it was stupid of him, thinking Euijoo didn’t have opportunities or dreams of his own, places far away to run off to, like Nico.

Thinking he would always be here, waiting.

Chapter Text

A book says a lot about the person who borrows it. Euijoo, unintentionally, has been collecting data for years.

He knows every time a local club begins a new book when a particular title suddenly has ten new holds. He knows Mrs. Han’s kids are visiting because she’ll come in looking for the same recipe book dedicated to popular modern desserts. He knows when Harua has finished his homework early because he’ll make a beeline for the DVD section and come back with the same five romantic comedies he’s checked out a hundred times before. Euijoo wonders if there’s anyone who notices his patterns, how many times he’s borrowed a book of poetry but hardly made it past the first few pages.

Fuma, stepping up to the scanner now, often checks out new lifestyle and health books with the occasional, specific exception. Today is the exception.

“Pride and Prejudice is out?” he says with a self-aware firmness to his jaw.

Euijoo shoves his book of poetry into the returns bin, tapping the space bar to rouse the ancient computer. “I think you’re right… and it was supposed to be back by now.” He clicks his tongue. “Not good.”

“EJ? Did you just get angry?”

“Sorry you had to see that. Tardiness just really gets me going.” He wonders what Nico would have to say about that. “I’ll put that on hold for you.”

Fuma thanks him and walks out through the revolving door. Euijoo watches him until he’s out of sight, then looks back at the computer, seeing that the tardy book-borrower is in fact Koga-comma-Yudai, which is information the Team might like to have, but Euijoo has no obligation to tell them.

Pride and Prejudice. Maybe Euijoo should read it.

The next day, he and Maki sit in the field behind Samidare High, textbooks and laptops spread out around them, their weekly tutoring date. Meanwhile Yuma, uninvited, is pacing in circles around them.

“I read your paragraph, Maki,” Euijoo says. “On metacognition. The grammar is good, but I noticed your concluding sentence isn’t anything like your topic sentence.”

“Yeah, I don’t get that part.”

“What don’t you get?”

“You know what I don’t get?” Yuma’s pant legs are dragging through the grass like two damp denim trains. “We’ve tried about seven billion ways to get Kei and Fuma talking and a broken elevator outsmarts us.”

“I wouldn’t say outsmart,” Maki says. “We were never going to literally force them together against their will.”

“Well, there was Harua’s glue trap idea—”

“I’m sure you won’t have to resort to that in the future.” Euijoo uses this as punctuation, then continues: “The point of the assignment was to learn how literary paragraphs like this are written.”

“Man, I wrote it. I even learned what metacognition was. This is why academia lacks beauty — you wouldn’t have to repeat yourself so much if you could just get the message across the first time.”

“Well…”

“Jo is still giving me the cold shoulder,” Yuma says. “He really can hold a grudge. I’m sorry I love love! Guess I’ll just walk into the strait with rocks in my pockets.”

“Jo has his own pace,” Euijoo says. “Give him time to forgive you and see where you’re coming from.”

“So you’re saying he should forgive me and it’s unreasonable that he hasn’t yet.”

“Yuma, we’re working here.” Yuma raises his hands, and Euijoo turns back to Maki. “Look, I understand it feels repetitive, but this is just the way things go. Like etiquette. Why is it custom to shake someone’s hand when you meet them?”

“I don’t get that either. Seems unhygienic.”

“All you had to do was punch Taki in the face!” At least Yuma has stopped pacing, lying legs and arms spread in the grass. “Is that really so hard! What’s a food fight good for? Kei and Fuma were supposed to rip you two off each other, co-mediate the situation. I’m starting to think this might just end up tearing the Team apart instead. Me and Jo, you and Taki—”

“Me and Taki aren’t fighting,” Maki says. “I mean, even though he started it…”

“Exactly! EJ, I hope to God you and Nico aren’t fighting.”

“I’m not fighting with Nico, why would you think I’m fighting with Nico?”

Yuma rolls up on his elbow. “I was kidding, but now I think I’ve hit on something…”

“Are you really fighting, JuJu?” Maki’s cheeks are suddenly plump with secrets.

Euijoo holds out both hands, one please shut up for each of them. No, he and Nico are not fighting. Not more than usual. Though it’s hard to maintain armistice when Euijoo feels bruised every time he meets Nico’s eyes. It’s his own fault really. He let himself hope that Nico’s ambitions had changed, his grand plans become a little smaller, more to the size of Samidare Bay, more to the size of Euijoo. Now he’s thinking his own ambitions are dangerously lacking in magnitude.

He has all these words in his mouth, whittling them down to a brief no, back to work. But Maki says a name, one of two names in the world that could kill a conversation with such efficiency:

“Is that Mr. Kei?”

Yuma springs to his feet. On the other side of the chainlink fence, Kei is walking down the long winding street into town. He’s got an umbrella and a woven basket on his arm — and a man walking beside him.

“Who is that?” Yuma is staring through the fence, nose in the chainlink. “Why don’t I know who that is?”

And Maki has joined him. “He must be from out of town. He’s handsome.”

“Guys,” Euijoo says, sensing he’s losing his audience. “We’re in the middle of—”

“If Kei is on a date with this guy,” Yuma says, “I’m going to walk into the strait with rocks in my pockets.”

“Maybe they’re just friends,” Maki says.

“Who walks with a friend with a basket?” Yuma grabs onto the fence, towing himself up. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Follow them!”

“Now wait.” Euijoo tries to say this with authority but does sound slightly panicked, and Maki and Yuma are already over the fence. Euijoo throws everything into his backpack, books and laptop and studying blanket, and runs after them.

It’s sunny today, a cold kind of brightness, and as usual, wet. They avoid snails making pilgrimage from lawn to boulevard, hide behind hawthorns and lilacs. Euijoo feels a responsibility as the oldest to oversee — and micromanage, as Nico says is his specialty — and frankly, if he was around to find out who this man is and why Kei is with him… Euijoo’s bruised self wouldn’t mind the relief.

They follow at a safe distance into town, and then down the twisty road down to the ferry terminal. There are more walk-ons than cars today, everybody headed to the Saturday morning market on Suki Dasi Island. Kei and his friend sit on a bench near Berth One (the only berth) and Euijoo, Yuma and Maki hide behind the ticket booth.

“I don’t like this,” Yuma says. “The Suki Dasi Market is romantic as hell.”

“Not always,” Maki says. “Remember that time the wind blew over all the outhouses?”

“If only miracles happened twice.”

Euijoo can barely get a word in. “I think if we headed back now we could talk a bit about next week’s assignment before lunch.”

“We’re not going back.” Yuma is rifling through his wallet.

“Yuma, you’re not serious.”

“If Kei is interested in this random hot stranger then the Team’s efforts will have to be reoriented, Harua will have to completely rework his playlist—”

“What, you’re going to ruin Kei’s relationship with this guy?”

“Whoa whoa, I just want to know more about him — Kei’s never even mentioned him once.”

“Why would he? We’re his students, not his parents — not even his friends.”

“That’s not very found-family of you.”

“Yuma.”

“Euijoo.” Yuma hands his debit card to Maki. “Maki?”

“Maki!” says Euijoo.

“Sorry, JuJu.” Maki sneaks over to the ticket booth window.

“I know you’re more on the Jo side of things,” Yuma says, sliding on a pair of sunglasses, “when it comes to parent-trapping. You can bail. I’m not judging.”

Euijoo looks out at Kei and the mystery man, Kei speaking energetically, making wild gestures with his hands. And then thinks of Fuma, a supply closet, one hundred red roses, big city dreams, Nico’s eyes looking up at him, Pride and Prejudice.

Spineless doesn’t cut it.

Meanwhile, on a bench nearby, Kei is talking so much that he’s long surpassed run-on sentences and physically cannot shut himself up.

The ferry chugs slowly closer from the blue-grey distance, hulking machinery covered in barnacles and fifty years of high tide, and Kei — quite a few locals, the entire daycare class — plus his older brother, Yohei, stand and wait to be ushered onboard.

“That is,” Kei says, “I think every kind of succulent in my garden. The ones that look like a frontal lobe are called lithops. Sounds like a fancy shoe brand. Anyway, I’m not much of a gardener. Plants are okay in paintings, too finicky in 3D. Instead I nurse bad habits. Do you still smoke?”

His brother answers, succinctly, no. He is a man of few words which leaves Kei to mind the rest of them. He’s neatly over-dressed in a suit fit for a wedding reception, the jacket thrown over one shoulder. He’s got Kei’s facial features, though he makes better use of them, settling on one stoic expression and rarely deviating. Kei is indeed the counterfeit that loses all the subtlety of the original.

Finally boarding, Kei uses a question from his reserve: “How is family life?”

“Oh, much worse with two instead of one. You know how kids are.”

“There is a bit of difference between teens and toddlers.”

“I imagine it’s all the same after a few hours of complaining. At least you get to send them away once school is over.”

Kei cannot come up with a reply.

“And your life?” Yohei says then. “How is it… going?”

They’re on the snout of the boat now, wind rushing through them. Kei can see the market in full swing across the water, smudged spring colours and balloons floating away.

“Life in the Bay is always good,” says Kei.

“Weather is still… damp as ever.”

“Don’t you love the smell of rain?”

“Too humid.” He’s eyeing the somewhat flimsy railing with a wrinkled nose. “Air isn’t water in the city.”

“Well, to each their own.”

“Weren’t you looking at a job up the coast?”

“No? I don’t think so?”

His brother squints inconspicuously into the horizon.

“You mean the job that Mom and Dad were talking about? They were the ones who brought it up! Christ, what else did they tell you?”

“They worry out loud sometimes. Ask me how you are, as if you tell me anything.”

“I’m fine, you know. Whatever they’ve been telling you, just remember how they are.”

“So you’re not a male spinster living in his childhood house in the dullest town in the world?”

Kei has no retort except for, “Your language is very negative.”

“Listen, I won’t pretend to understand art. It just confuses me why you haven’t tried to do something with it. Everybody and their dog has a gallery these days. Have you even considered it?”

“Of course I have.” Sometimes he stares into empty shop windows and imagines. He even has a painting of it, collecting dust in his closet. “Suppose I’m not ambitious like that. So sue me.”

His brother gives him a look that is distinctly older and makes Kei feel distinctly younger. He is ready to mention his Masters in Art History, an accomplishment his family often seems to forget, but there is movement in his periphery and he turns to see… nothing. Strange. Yohei is already walking away.

The party is in full swing as they alight on Suki Dasi Island. Tables of knitted animals, candles in various shapes, custom lip balm cases, all useless and happy-making doodads and etcetera, and then there is the food. Under homemade buntings and banners are raspberries and goji berries and great stalks of rhubarb, baked into pies, crumbles, tarts, preserved in glass jars with little gingham hats. Kei starts loading his basket.

“How do you eat the way you do,” Yohei says, “and still look like one of those stick bugs?”

“The trick is to do it very fast.” He is dumping his change purse onto the tablecloth.

“You’re like a self-destructing machine.” Which Kei has heard before. Yohei then takes a sharp turn, picking up on a dangling thread: “You could at least get married.”

“Oh come on.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it. Mom and Dad became a lot less insufferable after I got it over with.”

“I don’t think that’s reason enough for me.”

They’re browsing a booth of small felted hearts. His brother says, like a taunt he knows Kei won’t be able to resist: “I bet you haven’t had a single date since you moved back to the Bay.”

“Yes I have!”

“Oh yeah, who with?”

Kei had, with a sad sort of ease, forgotten to mention his relationship with Fuma. For ten years. Because he didn’t want marriage questions complicating an already tentative harmony, and then simply because no one cared to get the truth out of him.

“Murata Fuma,” he says matter-of-factly.

“The kid from the Old Townsite?”

That being the detail to stick in his brother’s mind is staggering to Kei. “Why are you surprised — we were always friends.”

“If that’s what you call it.”

“We bickered sometimes.”

“That kid had a real chip on his shoulder.”

“You just don’t like him because he punched your lights out.” That was a good day.

Yohei refrains from commenting, saying instead, “Well, anyone else?”

Kei has to admit there aren’t many options in town, unless he was interested in seriously altering someone’s marriage.

“Exactly. You’re not going to find someone in the Bay. Not someone under sixty. And not someone from… that side of town, anyway.”

Kei doesn’t understand this delineation and is about to question him further. But another flash of movement draws his eyes to a mini donut truck nearby and the three figures standing in front of it — Euijoo, Yuma, and Maki, a shifty look to them, as though they’re breaking parole. Thankful for the distraction and familiar faces, Kei rushes over, calling out, “You three! I was wondering if I’d meet you here.”

“Oh hi Mr. Kei how are you today good?” Euijoo seems slightly harried, but he does have that air most of the time.

Yuma, however, is leaning against the truck like he owns it. “Hey, Mr. Kei. Just getting some donuts.”

“You’re a few short. Where are the rest?”

“Not here,” Maki says, “who’s that guy you’re with?”

Euijoo drops his face into his hands.

“Oh, right,” Kei says, gesturing Yohei over. “You wouldn’t have met my brother, would you?”

“Your brother?” says Yuma.

“Yohei, meet Euijoo, Yuma, and Mr. Maki, star students of mine. Star students of mine, meet my brother, Yo—”

“Your brother!” Yuma exclaims. “That’s why you’re both so good-looking!”

“Excuse me?” says Yohei, but Yuma is shaking his hand vigorously, saying, “It’s so fucking great to meet you, seriously! Your brother’s a real good guy, seriously, the best—”

Euijoo separates them, saying goodbye and dragging the younger boys away without even waiting for their donuts.

“They must be playing hooky,” Kei says. “Adorable, isn’t it?”

Yohei, rolling his wrist, says nothing and continues browsing. Kei wishes he could have run off with them.

Hours later, in the womb-like safety of his library, Euijoo’s heart still hasn’t settled.

This morning came uncomfortably close to stalking and espionage. Yuma and Maki spent the ferry ride home high-fiving while Euijoo buried his head in his backpack. It was too close. Too reckless, too real. He kept thinking about Fuma, reading at home while Kei was out with another guy. (His brother. But they didn’t know that at the time.) It was like a book that sucked Euijoo in, made his heart ache for a loss that wasn’t his own, like they were one minor wrinkle away from a world where it was Euijoo, clueless, still living his small life while Nico and somebody else…

Something akin to seasickness curls in his stomach.

He dives into work instead. Sends so many emails, reminders and last warnings that his eyes start to glaze over, until he focusses on a name. He hasn’t sent Kei a notice about his overdue book, hoping to give him some grace. But now it’s thirty minutes to closing and Euijoo is the only one who knows, who can erase this minor offence, the only one standing between Kei and a whopping fee of a dollar-fifty. Euijoo rubs his palms on his pants. And texts Kei instead.

Then, promptly, writes another message — to Fuma.

Not long after, Kei runs through the revolving door and slams the book down on the counter, saying, “Am I too late?”

“Not too late.”

“You’re a life-saver, EJ. I swear I had it in my backseat to drop off. Am I going to get you into trouble?”

“It’s no problem, don’t thank me. Please. But… would you mind putting this on the holds shelf? It’ll be in the M’s.”

“Sure thing. Nice to see you at the market, by the way. You three seem like you get up to all kinds of mischief.”

Euijoo laughs weakly, and Kei walks away to stand in front of the holds and mouth M, M, M… The door whooshes again, Fuma, walking steadfastly toward the holds, nodding his head at Euijoo. And it’s back, the guilt, because this is on purpose — Euijoo meddled on purpose — and now he’s craning over the counter, watching as Fuma and Kei’s eyes finally meet.

“Oh,” says Fuma. “Hello.”

“Hi. Just putting this away for Euijoo.”

They both look back at him. He busies himself, clacking gibberish into the computer.

“Right,” Fuma says. “I was just picking up a book.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be…”

Kei holds out the book, reluctantly, like it’s a gauche assumption.

“Ah.” Fuma clears his throat. “I’m always hearing about it, so I thought, why not? You know. Get Harua off my back.”

“Well… I can vouch for it.”

They make the hand off, the heavy book passing between their hands.

Fuma clears his throat again. “Are you walking that way or…?”

Kei, like Euijoo, can’t fully hide the shock of this. He says, “Yeah. Heading home.”

“Me too.”

“After you then.”

They both pass the front counter, saying goodnight. Euijoo waves and watches over his computer monitor, the two of them walking up the sidewalk in step. Not close.

But together.

Chapter Text

Fuma still keeps one of Kei’s paintings in the back of his closet.

About the size of his hand, the canvas is cracking, unvarnished paint slightly dull and dusty. Fuma holds it to the lamplight, the glow touching the old memory like autumn sun on splotchy white stucco. A weedy sidewalk, overgrown yard behind chainlink fence, a screen door that cackled like a witch when slammed. Moss in the eaves, windows with messages drawn in the steam. Fuma could smell and hear and feel it too: gas stove, supper’s ready, socks on hardwood, the cat pawing at his pant leg.

That’s where they met. In autumn, in front of Fuma’s house.

He grew up in the Old Townsite, in a small house with a small yard, though the square-footage didn’t cross his mind at the time. Back then the Bay was delineated more sharply; it meant something, which side a person was from. Fuma had grown conscious of the dividing lines and the side on which he stood. That was because of Kei, his house — big, two storeys — and his parents, who could afford to keep the yard neat, meanwhile in Fuma’s family, there was always something more deserving of cookie jar money.

Those lines told stories about Fuma that he couldn’t fully comprehend or combat, and his house became the heart of it. The place where he became ashamed, where he lay awake wishing he had an upstairs and a lawn with green grass, and where he punched Koga Yohei for saying something he feared was true.

Kei had painted Fuma’s house from memory after his parents sold it. A keepsake, he supposed. Fuma did like it, in an objective way, the detail, the accuracy, the tautness of the canvas, or something. Every time he finds it buried in his closet — it is painful. The sight of it, bodily. Not because of the house, but the house by Kei. In his hand, through his eyes, from his memory. It was Fuma’s heart, and Kei knew it, enough to create it anew.

Fuma leaves it there, grabs his basketball, and shuts the closet door, tight.

There is a small court behind the old abandoned mill. Waves lap at the retaining wall, riled up by the evening ferry’s passage, the smell of tartar sauce and fried batter wafting over from the nearby fish ’n’ chips shack. Fuma and Jo play a cramped game, aiming for the rusty bald hoop, the net having been stolen before even Fuma can remember.

Despite being “out of practice,” Jo takes an easy victory, and Fuma, feeling his age, sits down.

“If I had played like you,” he says between breaths, “back then, I would’ve gone straight to some national association and retired by the age I am now.”

Jo sips from the cap of his water bottle, hunkering down crosslegged. “To be honest, I can’t imagine you retired.”

Fuma tilts his head in concession.

“One more game?”

“Sorry, Jo.” Fuma pushes himself off the ground. “That was enough cardio for a while.”

Jo’s eyes are suddenly wide. “Oh. Uh. Maybe we can. Um.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have plans to eat dinner, Coach?”

“I do plan… to eat dinner.”

“Alone?”

The same as every night. “I believe so.”

“Can I join you?”

“You’re not meeting up with your friends?”

Jo doesn’t know if there are plans he’s missing out on, and he doesn’t care. Fuma seemed pleased, covertly, when Jo asked him for a one-on-one game, and now he has the same restrained look, telling Jo sure, if you want to, and then talking him through the menu, saying he’ll make his most decadent salad with kidney beans and alfalfa sprouts. Jo can’t wait to tell Taki.

Fuma slaps his wall and the lights come on. His apartment is classy, organized, like an interior design magazine, though more practical than chic. The balcony doors are open, letting in a nice breeze. Fuma tells Jo to sit at the kitchen island and gives him a knife, cutting board and an avocado. Jo doesn’t like where this is going.

“So,” Fuma says. He’s checking each lettuce leaf for slugs, sorting them into equal piles. “Your vocation crisis. Solved it yet?”

“Ah. No. I’m still a bit stuck.”

“Have you asked your friends for advice?”

“I did talk to Nico recently… it’s different. He’s so talented at so many things.”

“You’re talented too.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. I’m about the least art-savvy person in the world. If I can see that you’re good, you’re good.”

Jo looks around. Fuma doesn’t have much art on his walls. Doesn’t have any, actually.

“You can ask.” Fuma is grating a beet dangerously close to the serrations. “You can ask the question.”

“Oh. No. That’s okay.”

Fuma smiles, though it falls a little when he sees what Jo has done to his avocado.

“Sorry…”

“No, no, it’ll be mashed up anyway.”

Jo, blushing, slides the cutting board across the island. Just then the door behind him is suddenly thrown open, Harua barging in without knocking.

“Are you ready to get your ass handed to — Jo?”

He’s looking back and forth between them with furrowed eyebrows.

“Shit,” says Fuma. “Harua. I completely forgot. Jo asked for a game.”

“And now you’re having dinner.” Harua’s slightly frightening stare is pinned on Jo. There’s a toy in his hands, one of those Pokémons that he collects and keeps on a bookshelf instead of books.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Fuma says, grabbing another bowl. “We’re having salad.”

“Salad, huh?” Harua takes the seat directly next to Jo, setting his furry dragon on the counter. “Sure. I’ll stick around for that.”

“He’s red as a barn, Harua, why are you staring at him like that?” Fuma gives them each a handful of radishes to chop.

“I just didn’t expect to see him here.” Then to Fuma: “Let’s play tomorrow instead.”

“Play what?” says Jo. “Wait, Pokémon? Coach, do you actually—”

“It’s a… pastime.”

Harua says, “Do you want to see his Eeveelutions?”

Jo can tell by the way Fuma’s eyes widen ever so slightly that he is supposed to say yes. Fuma leaves his meticulous shredding and runs into his bedroom, and Harua turns in his seat.

“You’re suspicious, Asakura Jo.”

“I’m not doing anything, I’m just sitting here.”

“Nico told me you and Taki had some kind of scheme.”

“It’s not a scheme. We’re not playing at anything. We just try to brighten their day — like friends do, instead of meddling.”

“I guess Taki is at Kei’s house right now?”

“Well, yes.”

“Do they know why you’re hanging out with them?”

“Well… no.”

“Sounds like a scheme to me.”

Jo’s rebuttal is stuck to the roof of his mouth. Then there’s a rumbling, rattling, the entire kitchen shaking. An earthquake. It’s over in seconds, leaving the overhead light swinging and Jo and Harua clinging to the countertop.

Harua smoothes his hair back into place. “See? Mother nature agrees with me.”

“I don’t know if that was an agreement…”

But then Fuma is back with two massive armfuls of stuffed animals and neither of them have a chance to speak for a while.

Harua, contrary to Jo’s obvious assumptions, didn’t come on behalf of the Team. He and the others are still workshopping their next idea after the fake fight flopped (or more accurately, splattered). They’re focussed primarily on low-risk schemes, Taki pushing for low input and Yuma for low cost. Harua, unbeknownst to them, has plans of his own that he will be implementing — soon, but not today.

Fuma gives them each a large bowl of leafy greens, chicken breast, several kinds of beans and shredded root vegetables, sprinkled with some kind of health powder on top. Harua takes his vitamins, but this is beyond him. Fuma seems pleased though, saying, “Great avocado, Jo.”

“You cut an avocado?” Harua says.

“I don’t think I did it right.”

“You did fine.” Fuma grabs three cups from the cabinet. “Water? You know what, we’re going big anyway — carbonated.”

He fills the cups with fizzy water, and they toast to “realizing your dreams.” Fuma says, with a strange sheepish look directed downward into his bowl, “I suppose I’ve got two of the Bay’s aspiring artists here, don’t I?”

“Jo is the artist,” Harua says.

“You — he — Harua is good too.” Jo is blushing again, maybe he never stopped. “Everyone is really good.”

“Since you know what you’re talking about, I’ll ask you something. What is art… supposed to make you feel?”

Usually when Fuma asks a question like this it’s allegorical, like a lesson in disguise. But this seems genuine. Harua doesn’t quite know how to answer; luckily Jo does.

“Art isn’t supposed to make you feel anything. It’s how you feel that tells you about yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not that I’m, er, an art teacher or anything. But art can make you feel anything, sad, happy, moved, because you’re seeing yourself reflected in it. Like it’s speaking to you, telling you about yourself, but without any lying or sugarcoating.”

Fuma’s hands are fidgeting on the counter. “What if a painting scares you?”

Jo’s mouth falls open. Harua says, “Is it a scary painting?”

“No… no, it’s not.” Fuma starts collecting their dishes. “Forget it. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“It doesn’t have to be scary,” Jo says. “Maybe what’s scary is what it’s telling you.”

Fuma’s jaw is clenched. He nods, then turns away to the sink.

Harua doesn’t know exactly what just happened.

But it feels big, in some small way.

Chapter Text

It’s too late — Nico is already in the room when he realizes that he’s walked in on Kei and Taki’s arts-and-crafts date.

They’re sitting around the coffee table, painting rocks with wire-thin brushes. It’s not school-related — just sheer enthusiasm and a smidge of strategy. They’ve already got a small quarry painted, plants, patterns, inscribed with impossibly small words. They too are speckled in paint, surrounded by newspapers, working in the glow of an old movie playing on TV.

Taki notices Nico in his attempt to back quietly out of the room and points like he’s seeing a celebrity. “Hey, what are you doing here!”

Nico can’t believe he’s got to say it again: “I live here.”

“Oh, right. Man, if I’d known Kei had an empty room, I would’ve fought you for it.”

“And rent?” says Kei.

Taki poses cutely. “What about it?”

“You think I’m falling for that one?” But he’s reaching all the way over the coffee table just to pinch Taki’s cheek and mess up his hair. “What’s up, Nico?”

He was going use Kei’s microwave, but admitting that he has to come upstairs just for a damn burrito is not an option. He stuffs it into the front of his hoodie and says, “Nothing. Just saying goodnight.”

Kei furrows his eyebrows. Nico doesn’t really just say goodnight. Then Taki says, “It’s only eight, what are you going to bed for?”

“Sleep?”

“As if. Paint rocks with us.”

“Yeah… nah.”

“Come on, Nico.” Kei slides a pile of newspapers toward him. “Imagine how much a Wang-Nicholas-Yixiang-original could go for once you’re famous.”

Nico, not sure how to reject that statement, sits on the arm of the couch and picks up a rock.

Taki is peering into a woven basket that’s now nearing empty: “I should go grab some more rocks before we’re completely out.”

“You’re a fountain of inspiration tonight,” Kei observes.

“You have no idea. Imagine a rock, painted like a rock. Like a meta statement.”

“Well, I’m not a fan of realism, but I am a fan of Taki.”

Taki runs out and the front door slams, distant footsteps and squeaky stairs.

“Taki suggested rock painting out of the blue,” Kei says. “I would have invited you if I thought you had any interest whatsoever.”

“That’s fair,” says Nico.

Kei is swirling a brush across his palette, sounding coy as he says, “Euijoo’s been coming around a lot.”

“Yeah, he won’t go away.”

“As the adult of the house — as wrong as that statement may sound — I feel like I should have some sort of clarifying conversation with you about safe s—”

“Christ, Kei, Jesus Christ.”

“I’m not trying to embarrass you. I don’t know how your parents handled this sort of thing, but as long as you’re under my roof, you’re free to enjoy — responsibly.”

Enjoy responsibly is about as far from his parents’ motto as linguistically possible. Nico is wiping his hands with the classifieds, keeping his eyes down.

“How do you know that him and I—”

“Oh Nico.”

This time a diplomatic fair is a bit harder to reach. He makes a play instead. “I should have known my life would become a TV show to you. You don’t have any guests of your own, do you?”

“Have you heard of intentional nonreligious celibacy?”

Nico snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Suddenly there’s a vibration through the floor, windows rattling, picture frames swinging. It’s over in seconds.

“Whoa,” says Nico. “That was an earthquake.”

“Must be a good sign.”

“For what, your celibacy?”

“Your and Euijoo’s blossoming exploration of—”

And Nico leaves, mid-sentence, meeting Taki out on the porch. The front of his shirt is full of smooth stones, probably stolen from the neighbour’s new rock garden.

“Where are you going?” Taki says.

“Good luck with your plan.”

“Well, it’s not a plan, not a scheming parent-trap kind of plan — but thanks.”

Inside, Taki dumps the rocks into the basket. Credits are rolling on the TV screen, leaving the room darker than before. Taki sits and grabs a couple tubes of black and white.

“I think there was an earthquake,” he says. “Must be a good sign.”

“I agree completely.” Kei is nibbling from a pile of trail mix that may have materialized from nothing. Kei’s house is like that. “Thank you for suggesting this, Taki.”

“Well, sure. Thanks for dinner and everything. Oh no, you’re not kicking me out yet, are you?”

“No, just saying that I can drive you home when you get tired.”

“Trust me, I’m fully awake. Total night owl.”

But Taki starts fading around nine-thirty, head lolling against the couch. Resisting the urge to draw a moustache or balance something on his forehead, Kei shakes his shoulder until he groggily accepts a ride home. He’s mumbling something about extracurricular activities that have been keeping him up late, though he “can’t say anything more.” Kei wonders which new video game has earned the title of extracurricular activities.

When Kei returns home, the TV is off, and Nico isn’t plucking at his guitar or warbling a tune. Real quiet. Kei leaves the crumbs and scattered rocks and crinkled paint tubes until tomorrow and shuts himself in the upstairs bathroom, turning on the CD player that he keeps loaded with early-aughts funk to ward off the after-dark doldrums.

The old pipes shriek and groan, gushing to fill the clawfoot tub, not nearly fast enough. He wraps himself in a bathrobe and lights a candle, warming his palms on the little flame. He’s got a basket of half-nibbled chocolate that he sets on the bath tray, along with a novel which will probably see him doze off before he’s even reached the dedication.

He sheds his robe and dips one toe into the water, realizing quickly that it’s fucking freezing, like an ice bath one might use to communicate with the dead.

He remembers then that an earthquake will trigger the safety mechanism on his hot water tank. Shivering, he marches down two flights of stairs to the basement, stone floor and silver-tubed ceiling, insulation lining the walls. He and his brother used to call it the basement of horrors, though since housekeeping brings him down here more than he would like, he started to call it the basement of bliss instead, trying to deceive himself into positive association.

Turning the hot water back on is the tricky part. Back in the day, he didn’t have to do it alone. Now he considers asking Nico for help, but fearing serious injury — for them both — decides not to get him involved. Going to his next-door neighbour is feasible but embarrassing, given the mess in the living room, and the mess in the kitchen, and the entrance — every room really. (Not to mention the rocks that Taki probably stole from their yard.) And the basement of horrors, which is something that the rest of his neighbours have probably long-repaired in their own houses, dug up, retiled, wallpapered.

If he isn’t willing to bare his insulation, who is there that has already seen it all?

He’s already dialling the number.

It’s past ten now and Kei has to work tomorrow. A bath is a necessity. He would also prefer to fix this before Nico comes raging in tomorrow calling Kei his landlord, a word that feels increasingly derogatory. Kei slips into his clothes and his excuses: caution, efficiency — he wants to take a bath. More and more recently, since the elevator, the ginger tea, that half-block walk from the library to his lobby, Kei wants—

To take a bath.

Fuma sounds unruffled on the phone, and he appears five minutes later in front of Kei’s house, knocking as if Kei wouldn’t be waiting. (Would he be?) Loud raps, five of them. Kei pulls his robe around himself, dressed now, feeling exposed anyway.

Fuma looks up as Kei opens the door. He’s wearing grey sweats, a hoodie. There is a chance he got a haircut.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi. Cold out there?”

“No. I ran here. Jogged, I mean. So, can I…?”

“Right, come in.” Kei leads the way as though Fuma doesn’t know the layout. The basement stairs squeak under their footsteps.

“Must have been the earthquake.” Fuma is crouching down to fiddle with a metal thingy on the tank. “I heard it was a five-point-one.”

Kei was about to say that; now he’s got nothing. “It sure is something.”

“At least you know the shut-off is working.”

“And I’m still too squeamish to do it alone.”

“That’s just wise.”

“And, you know. Didn’t want to bother the neighbours.”

“Right.” Fuma turns a knob. “You got the lighter?”

Kei takes his barbecue lighter and inserts it into the cave at the base of the tank; Fuma handles the valve up top. A blue flame bursts to life, and Fuma keeps his thumb on the button. He really may have gotten a haircut. Kei can see his face better now.

“So,” Kei says, “did your building shake?”

“Oh yeah. Mrs. Han’s tank went too. She was about to give her dog a bath.”

“I was going to take a bath myself.”

He’s talking to the air again. “I see that.”

Kei pulls his robe closed.

Upstairs in the living room, Kei can see Fuma’s eyes flitting about the room, even as he moves toward the door. Kei and Taki’s rock project is still spread on the floor and couch and coffee table.

“Taki was over.”

“Sorry?”

“Here, earlier — Taki came over. We painted all that. So, if you see beautiful rocks around town, you know where they came from.”

Fuma, leaning over the couch, looks closer at the still-sticky rocks. Kei mostly painted flowers, cacti. It’s been a while since Fuma saw his art. Looked at it. Kei doesn’t know how to wait in moments like this. He grinds his teeth and curls his toes.

Fuma straightens out, saying, “I was with Jo earlier.”

“Oh.”

“We played basketball though.”

“That sounds… fun.”

"It was."

Kei shouldn’t have hoped for commentary. A ‘huh’ or ‘cool’ or ‘that sure is something.’ Fuma never had much to say about art. Kei’s or otherwise.

Fuma continues toward the door and Kei follows.

“I saw the flame burning.” He kept his shoes on and he has no coat; there is no reason to stall in the entrance. “I hope it takes.”

“Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

Fuma clears his throat. It’s Kei’s job now to say goodnight and shut the door. But as he’s doing that, Fuma’s hand shoots out, holding it open.

He says, “I like your rocks back there.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Makes me feel… like I like it.” And he bobs his head as if to dismiss himself. “Okay.”

He jogs, or maybe runs, down the path and up the road.

And Kei does believe it’s the first time he’s felt alive in years.

Chapter Text

For his eighteenth birthday, Taki wants to go all out. At least, that’s the concept they’re going for.

The Team holds a meeting in Maki’s bedroom, the whiteboard crammed in with his baseball gear and a laundry rack and a foosball table also used as a laundry rack. Harua, with a satisfying squeak, completes the blueprint for their next plan and caps his marker. They all admire it for a moment, until Taki says, “Why couldn’t we have done this for your birthday?”

“Too late now.”

“It was yesterday.”

But that was exactly what gave him the idea. Harua’s perfect birthday party is all about the playlist and attendees being forced to listen to it, a funny mix of classmates and neighbours and visiting family mingling to the eclectic cauldron of Harua’s taste.

At someone else’s party, there is no escaping the music or the guest list. Or, for example, a mandatory game.

“You used to throw big parties every year, Taki.” Maki is lying sideways in the king-sized dog bed, giving Pandy an ear massage. “I don’t know why you stopped.”

Taki likes parties. It’s the only time everybody else even approaches his frequency. But after fifteen years of pre-birthday freak-outs, several times locking himself in the bathroom and once punching a clown in the groin, he realized parties in his honour tend to stress him out.

“You don’t have to do anything,” says Harua, using a pair of Maki’s socks to wipe Taki’s name off the board. “It really is your birthday after all. Just show up and we’ll do the rest. Low input is your gift.”

“I guess that’s worth something,” Taki grumbles.

“Did Yuma tell you what he’s doing today?” Maki asks.

“No clue,” says Harua. “One of his Yuma-things. Just said to go ahead without him and give him Coles notes later.” Harua taps the board with his marker. “We now have T-minus three days to spread the word, make sure Fuma and Kei can make it, and gather supplies. Any questions?”

Maki raises his hand.

“Yes, Maki?”

“You’re really cool when you lead the meetings.”

Taki rolls his eyes.

“Er, thanks, but technically that wasn’t a question.” Taki puts his hand up, and Harua says, “Yes, you in the first row.”

“You know Jo and I have our own thing going on, not meddling or anything but — anyway, we both noticed that Kei and Fuma seem like they’re doing okay on their own.”

“Why, what did you see?”

“Nothing.” Taki gulps. “Just a hunch.”

Harua is sure Taki and Jo are satisfied with sitting back and hoping for the best, but the Team has to be more proactive than that. Harua, especially, is nothing if not completely in control of everything at all times.

He’s got his own plan too. Icing on the birthday cake.

Meanwhile, Yuma is very delicately flipping a grilled cheese sandwich.

He called in sick so that he could reallocate his signature Yuma-focus into making today’s lunch as perfect as possible. He stopped off at the grocery store, bought the good melting cheese and two jugs of tomato soup, then swept the floor and worked through the backlog of dishes. He even prepared the table with a daisy-print tablecloth and three sets of everything.

His dad is coming to town. Their first family meal in nine years, three months and seventeen days. No big deal.

Yuma called his dad up the other day, suggesting lunch and an afternoon in the Bay. Apropos of nothing, Yuma said, but he had been toying with the idea for a while. What’s one more trap if he’s planning to step fully into his role as the Bay’s primary romantic meddler? Like it says in the bible — double or quits. Clearly there’s no shortage of broken hearts to mend through benevolent interference.

Mom runs down the stairs, checking herself out in the magnetic mirror on the fridge. She’s more dolled up than she was at his graduation ceremony. Makes sense, seeings as dad couldn’t make it that day. (Which doesn’t bother Yuma — just an observation.)

She says, “That smells amazing, Yuma.”

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup — what you ordered on your first date with Dad at the YukiaKafé.”

“Christ, I’d forgotten all about that. Did you do all this? Where did you get a tablecloth?”

“I borrowed it from EJ’s house.” She’s still scrubbing at her bob and popping her red lips. “I can be your wingman, you know.”

“My what?”

“Talk you up in front of Dad.”

“Your father is the last person on earth that I care about impressing.”

“Seriously?”

She straightens her dress. “This is purely out of spite.”

The phone rings. Yuma is posted at the stove, so his mom picks up, curling the twisty cord around her finger as she says Dad’s name. Then the smile drops off her face.

“Oh. I see. Well, that’s not surprising. Good luck crunching your numbers, I know that’s what’s really important here.”

She slams the phone down. Yuma says, “What the hell was that?”

“Your father isn’t coming. Stuck at work. Says hi though.” With every word she’s farther away, storming up the stairs with her clunky heels in one hand.

Yuma kills the flame, slumping into a chair.

He shouldn’t be disappointed. Yuma and his dad are too much alike, always immersed in something. Work, specifically, in his dad’s case. Though there was the time Yuma’s birthday fell on a ten-percent-off sale at BigBigBigBigMart — but that’s understandable. You can’t miss out on those kind of deals.

Sometimes Yuma wonders if there’s a deeper reason. Dad didn’t say anything but ‘sure’ when Yuma asked to have lunch at home, his mom’s unspoken presence like a shift in expression that Yuma could feel through the phone, across so many miles.

What kind of love is so all-consuming that two people can hardly be in the same room together?

Yuma eats lunch alone, thinking about it.

Then he gets back to planning.

Across town in Kei’s classroom, Harua drops an invitation on his desk.

“What’s this?” Kei shimmies the card out. It’s just folded printer paper, Taki’s Eighteenth Birthday Bash, a date and location written in Harua’s excellent cursive. He’s only drawn up two cards — the other is in his bag with Fuma’s name on it.

“Taki’s having a party this year and he really wants you to come. He was afraid you might forget…”

“How could I ever forget a Taki birthday bash?” He waves the envelope and drops it in his bag. “This is going on my bathroom mirror where I’m sure to see it.”

“Great. He’ll be thrilled.” But Harua doesn’t leave.

Kei looks up. “Is there… something else, Harua? School-related?”

“Remember when I said I was fighting with the person I like?”

“I do remember that.”

Harua pulls up a chair. “Well, I thought you’d like to know that I made a decision.”

“Oh?”

“I thought hard on your advice — be the bigger person, forgive and forget, etcetera — but in the end, I realized how important it is to have dignity. I have to be able to look in the mirror and know I didn’t betray myself for somebody else, you know what I mean?”

“Oh…”

“I decided to cut all ties. Break it off clean. Cold turkey.”

Kei is wincing. “Oh, Harua.”

“I know, it’s great!” Harua ticks off his fingers: “I can spend more time on my hobbies, I can free up some space in the ‘friendship’ section of my scrapbook, plus I can practice discipline. No matter how horrible I feel, no matter if I feel like I’m going to die of heartbreak — I’ve already decided. No contact. Like an ascetic but with happiness. And best of all, I didn’t compromise at all, not even one little bit.”

Now Kei looks vaguely horrified. He folds his hands on the desk, taking on a harmonious tone of voice. “Harua… I know you’ve already made a decision, but I want you to think — is your pride really more important than your person?”

“They had their chance to be my person, but clearly they don’t care enough to set aside their ego.”

“That’s what you’re doing too.”

“No, when I do it, it’s dignity. It’s different.”

“This makes me worried, Harua, that you’ll both be worse off without each other.”

“I’ll get over it eventually. Maybe it’ll take a while — months, years, decades — maybe I’ll never truly move on. But that’s what it takes, right? I don’t even know if they ever loved me at all!”

“Of course Maki loves you.”

Harua takes a breath and chokes on it, both his lungs suddenly the size of raisins: “What?”

“You two have been two peas since I met you — that’s ten years, more. Whether it’s romantic or not, you can’t lose that kind of relationship.”

“Okay, sure, but what did you say about Maki?”

Kei cranes to look out into the hallway, then leans closer. “He’s completely infatuated, Harua. Everyone can see it. I understand having an argument, but you can’t start doubting that he cares for you.”

“I’m not talking about Maki. When did I say the person I like is Maki?”

Kei tilts his head. “Harua…”

Harua jumps out of his chair. “I’m serious. This is not about Maki. Maki doesn’t have a crush on me, that’s insane!”

“So this has all been about someone else. Who then?”

“I… don’t want to say.”

Kei leans back, raising his hands like whatever you say.

“This is not about Maki.”

“Okay.”

“Maki and I are just friends — I’m serious!”

“Okay.”

“Maki doesn’t like me. That would make no sense, whatsoever.”

And he storms out, but not before Kei calls out, “I didn’t say like.”

“What?”

“I didn’t say he likes you. I said he was one-hundred-and-one percent madly head-over-ass in love with you.” Kei shrugs. “But do whatever you have to do for your dignity. It’s none of my business.”

Harua, mouth open uselessly, resumes his storming out. Kei giving him honest-to-God romantic advice is hypocritical at best. Harua would know if Maki was in love with him. He knows Maki inside and out — how could he not, after seventeen years of that goofy smile and those sweet wide eyes, looking at him like…

No.

No sense.

Whatsoever.

Chapter Text

Fuma is hovering by the snack table, unaware of the seven pairs of eyes watching him from afar.

They’re tucked behind the staircase, among tangled hoses and piles of firewood, each with a lookout through the mossy wood slats. (Except for Jo, who stands nearby with crossed arms and a disapproving expression.) The Team spent the last two days planning Taki’s birthday party, and now it has come alive, snacks and balloons and special buntings in the crook of the cul-de-sac.

Mrs. Takayama comes down the stairs with a pitcher of punch, obstructing their view for a moment. Maki says, “Shouldn’t Kei have gotten here by now?”

“Of course he’ll be here,” Harua says. He’s perched on Nico’s shoulders for a better vantage. “I gave him the invitation — he said he’d put it on his mirror.”

“He could have forgotten and slept in,” Nico says. “He’s not Mr. time management.”

“I’m sure Kei will be here.” Euijoo flicks his eyes toward Taki, who is looking more and more nervous by the minute.

“He’ll show up, Taki.” Jo says this to be encouraging, though Kei’s absence would render the Team’s newest plan moot and Jo doesn’t think that’s a bad thing.

Yuma sneezes. “He’ll be here. I’ll go wake him up myself if I have to-to—” He sneezes again explosively and wails at the sky.

Harua ducks down. “Yuma, shut up — Fuma just looked this way.”

Euijoo is pulling a pack of tissues out of his backpack. “Yuma, are you sure you want to be out here?”

“We worked hard on this plan, I can’t just go lie around in bed.” His face is pale, and between the stuffed nose and braces, he’s a bit short of intelligible. They’re all leaning in, until he sneezes again and they jump back.

“Maybe you caught something from your dad,” Euijoo says, giving him more tissues. “City germs.”

“Yeah. No.” Yuma sniffs. “He couldn’t make it.”

“He didn’t come?” says Jo. “Again?”

“You didn’t tell us your dad was even coming,” says Taki.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t, so whatever.” Yuma peeks through the stairs again. “Mom was pretty broken up about it though.”

“Isn’t your mom seeing Mr. Yoneda from the sports goods store?” says Maki.

“People will do a lot to distract themselves from who they really want. Case in point, Kei and— Kei, you came!”

They all jump as Kei appears, peeking into their hideout. “What are you doing back there?”

Harua scrambles off Nico’s shoulders. “Waiting for you of course!”

“I’m sorry I’m late, my stupid printer jammed right when I was supposed to leave. Speaking of—” He hands an envelope to Taki, which he rips open on the spot. It’s a certificate that reads, A donation has been made in your name to the Wolf Preservation Society.

“Thanks, Mr. Kei.” Taki has perked up now that Kei is here. “Let’s serve up the cake!”

“I like your style.”

“Wait,” says Yuma, “games come first. Right, Taki?”

Taki slumps his shoulders and agrees.

“Yuma, you’re still sick,” Kei says. “You should be resting.”

“And miss Taki’s birthday party?” Yuma plucks the tissues out of his nose, leading the way out. “Not for all the happiness in heaven.”

It’s a warm day, the first in the coming mudslide into summer. In the middle of the lawn they have a podium that’s actually two end tables nailed together, on top of it a wrapped gift. Harua calls the mingling neighbours and school faces to gather around, explaining with giddy confidence, “For our first game, players will spin in a circle until they’re good and dizzy, then try to reach the gift on the podium before anyone else does. Any volunteers?”

They let a few extras (as Harua calls them) take the first turn, so that their attention doesn’t seem too narrowly focussed. The gifts are all from the dollar store, a timer, a lint roller, an internal temperature gage — goody bag things, though Maki thought they should be useful too.

Euijoo stands next to Maki, watching people spin and stumble around for the podium. “I don’t think I know this game.”

“The guys came up with it on the spot. It could be real though — looks fun, right?”

Nico is crawling hands-and-knees on the grass. Maki hopes he can appreciate a lint roller.

“Do I want to know,” Euijoo says, “what the goal is here?”

“Harua calls it tension through physical contact. We’re hoping they’ll bump into each other, accidentally hold hands, or if we’re really lucky, fall on top of each other. Right, Harua?”

He’s walking by with more dollar store gifts in his arms. “What?”

“On top of each other.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The plan — JuJu is asking about the plan.”

Harua has gone red. “Say it better next time.” And he skitters off.

“Is he okay?” Euijoo asks.

“I might have messed up on the gifts.” Though Maki has a feeling that it’s something else. The only thing worse than doing something wrong is not knowing what you did wrong and therefore being unable to apologize for it.

“I don’t know,” says Euijoo. Harua has just picked Fuma and Kei ‘at random’ to play a round with Yuma and Taki. “Do you actually think this is going to work?”

Euijoo doesn’t sound sure, which only echoes Maki’s own unsureness. It’s a game of fate. Short of shoving those two into each other’s arms, there isn’t much he can do.

On Harua’s command, they start spinning.

It starts off smoothly. Taki is veering all over the place while Kei literally looks like a spinning top, and Fuma is rather slow yet seems the most dizzy. The onlookers are giggling at the weird spectacle of it, then Harua calls out go! and they disperse, swerving, stumbling, Kei and Fuma moving blindly toward each other like a slow-motion train wreck. Maki holds his breath.

Then Yuma crashes into the podium, sprawling out wildly on the brown grass. Jo is the first to reach him, helping him sit up, the rest gathering around.

“Are you okay?”

Yuma’s face is screwed up in frustration and dizziness. “I messed up the game… let’s go again…”

Fuma sticks a hand under his bangs. “You’re burning hot, Yuma.”

“That’s what I keep trying to tell you people. Hey, I’m fine. Watch me stand up.” But he doesn’t stand up, just lurches slightly and then sags back into Jo’s arms.

“Take it easy,” says Kei. “Taki won’t mind if you miss his party.” He elbows Taki, who says, “Oh yeah. For sure. Take it easy.”

They dig out Taki’s old wagon from the basement, and Yuma — still mumbling about being fine — folds up inside, shivering with a blanket wrapped around him. Jo tows him up the street, leaving the party a bit deflated. Fuma is talking to a neighbour now, and Kei has pulled Taki away to admire some preschool artwork on the side of the house. Harua turns toward what’s left of the Team and says, “What do we do now?”

“Enjoy Taki’s party?” Euijoo says.

“How often are Kei and Fuma in the same place voluntarily? Yuma would have wanted us to take this opportunity.”

“He’s not dead.”

“You don’t know that!” Harua rubs his temples with painted nails. His perfect face is a perfect twist of anxiety. “Everybody, think…”

A tense silence falls. Maki really wanted this plan to work. Were they too careless, relying on fate to push those two closer together? A game like that is full of variables. A better game would bring them together, give them something to work for, to want…

It hits him like a cannonball.

“I got it!” Maki shouts. “Nico, can you drive us somewhere?”

Nico clears his throat. “I haven’t gotten my…”

“Seriously?” says Euijoo.

“I’m fucking busy, okay?”

“JuJu, can you drive us to my house?” Maki, for once, is the one leading the way. “I’m going to need everybody’s help.”

Meanwhile, Taki watches his friends take off up the street.

“Now where are they going?” Kei says. “To check on Yuma?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Taki mutters. Last year they all went to a midnight showing at the movie theatre, then to &Burger for ice cream cake. But that was before all this. The parent-trapping.

“Taki?” Kei says, tilting down to get a look at Taki’s face. “How’s your birthday going?”

“Oh! Uh, good. You’re here, and… the weather is nice…”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“My mom said an eighteen-year-old shouldn’t want a bouncy castle, so there’s no bouncy castle, but that’s okay.”

“Is a bouncy castle your greatest wish?”

“I wish… everybody was happy.”

Kei smiles, putting his arm around Taki’s shoulders. “You know what makes me happy? Cake. Let’s see what we can do about that, huh?”

Taki agrees wholeheartedly, and since it’s his birthday, the cake is cut right away. He and Kei sit in the grass to people-watch. Taki’s parents are passing around baby pictures, the neighbours telling embarrassing stories about stray soccer balls and overpriced lemonade stands. Fuma is across the yard on the stairs, nursing a cup of punch alone. Taki almost suggests inviting him over, but doubts himself once again. Is it just because Fuma looks lonely, or has Harua’s ‘seize the opportunity’ shit gotten to Taki’s head?

Kei asks him what’s wrong.

“Well… I was just wondering… maybe we could invite—”

“Look, your friends are back!”

Taki turns to see Euijoo’s mom’s car, the trunk open, Nico and Maki lifting out a freaking foosball table and setting it in the grass. Kei gets up to meet them, so Taki does too.

“Look at that thing!” says Kei.

Harua says, by way of explanation, “The spinning game didn’t really work out. Up for a match with me and Taki?”

“Of course I am. Let’s see if I’m any good at this sober.”

“With you on Taki’s team, I need an ace… Coach Fuma! Come play with us!”

Fuma does come over, accessing the situation — glancing quickly at Kei — and finally landing on Taki, thumping him on the shoulder. “Lot’s of excitement, huh?”

Taki nods solemnly.

“What do you say?” Suddenly Kei pulls Taki close, saying to Fuma, “You think you can beat us?”

Fuma is sort of squinting, his mouth doing something weird. Smiling, almost. He moves to Harua’s side and says, “We’ll see.”

There’s an air of mystique and awe like a miracle is taking place before them. Kei and Fuma take the offence while Harua and Taki take defence, and Euijoo naturally steps into the role of referee, dropping the ball through the hole. It’s intense. The table is shaking and Kei is shouting and Fuma doesn’t make a sound or expression until he scores. Then he smiles.

“Sorry,” Taki says to Kei.

“No Taki, it's okay. It’s just a game.” He looks at Fuma. “Right?”

And Fuma says, “Right.”

And Kei says, “Right.”

By the third round, Taki and Harua have been phased out, just Fuma and Kei yelling and leaning and laughing.

In the end, Taki thinks it’s a pretty good birthday gift.

Chapter Text

“So you didn’t know that Maki was in love with you?”

Harua is blowing angrily on a spoonful of mochi soup, sitting at Yuma’s bedside. “No, I didn’t. I just thought he was being… Maki. Like he always is. Say ahh.”

Yuma opens his mouth for a bite. He’s half-reclined, a dozen pillows built up under his back, wrapped in a quilt he made himself during his quilting phase. On the tail end of this stupid random cold, the sun outside his window is like a big middle finger. Harua probably came just to talk about his own thing, but didn’t say no when Yuma asked — jokingly — if he would feed him. Yuma isn’t going to refuse.

“Maki is Maki,” Harua says. “He’s like a big puppy that can talk and ride a bike and do human things but is mainly just a puppy.”

“Maki is Maki,” Yuma agrees. “But he’s two-hundred percent Maki with you.”

Harua puts down the bowl to throw himself over Yuma’s legs and moan.

“Isn’t this just like that thing you like?” Yuma says. “Friends to lovers?”

“But it’s Maki! I might consider Jo or Nico — even you I can imagine.”

“Sorry, I don’t date short guys.” Harua smacks him with a stuffed animal. “Ow! I can’t fight back, you monster!”

“This is no good.” Harua is pacing on Yuma’s braided rug — from his rug-making phase. “I can’t even look him in the eyes.”

Very normal reaction, Yuma thinks. Why is everyone so bad at romance except for him?

“Okay, I’ve got it. I’m going to make him fall out of love with me. I’ll take him out and show him my bad sides.” He catches his reflection in the mirror. “God, this is going to be hard.”

“You’re going to take him out? Where?”

“I don’t know, Le Loup?”

“The fancy place downtown?”

“Somewhere you guys won’t interrupt? Yes.” He grabs his tiny backpack and turns to the door. “Oh wait, do you want more soup?”

“Nah, I got it.” He sits upright and picks up the bowl himself. “Thanks for feeding me though.”

Harua throws one more stuffed animal and leaves.

Yuma sinks down under the covers, finally able to blow his nose. He knows from extensive research (in sitcoms) that the friend group always eventually couples up. Obstacles are necessary — maybe Harua’s bad date scheme is just one of those obstacles. Yuma might get more involved once he feels less like a sack of phlegm and achy bones.

There’s a knock on his door. He wipes his nose one more time and calls come in. Speaking of the Bay’s most romantically challenged — Fuma comes through, taking a long look around Yuma’s room. If he knew he would be receiving guests at his sickbed, he would have at least folded his clothes before leaving them on the floor, mitigated his checkered past. As it is, his walls are covered in astral charts, dinosaur posters, a severed — plastic — head, an interest in cosmetology that never sprouted past one terrible haircut.

Fuma’s eyes land on Yuma. He holds out a paper bag. “You look horrible. How are you feeling?”

“Horrible. What’s this?”

“Care package.”

“Please tell me you got me those sativa lozenges.”

“No, stop asking. There’s electrolytes, a candle and nose spray in there. And I know how you like to destroy your body with inedible garbage, so—”

“You got me &Burger!” Yuma sticks his head into the bag and inhales as best he can. “Oh, that’s good.”

Fuma pulls up a chair. “How are you feeling?”

“You already asked that.”

“I don’t mean physically.”

Yuma knows what he means, though he’s not ready to give a straight answer. “Wish I was out there in the sun, you know? I’m a FOMO guy. Do you know what that means?”

“I don’t want to know. Maki told me about your dad.”

That loudmouth schnook. “He had work.”

“Still. It sucks.”

“Why does everybody want me to shit on my dad? You sound like Jo. Hasn’t your dad ever missed a lunch date?”

“My father was a sperm donor.”

“Okay, so, once or twice.”

Fuma stands up, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing an old-man sweater over grey slacks. It’s a bit flashy for him. Yuma wonders why the good mood. “You know you can talk to me — in or out of school.”

“If this is your way of saying you want to legally adopt me, I’m going to need to know more about your income.”

Fuma nods as if to convey that he understands it’s a joke and doesn’t care for it. He leaves. Yuma isn’t in the mood for &Burger anymore… but he’ll eat it anyway.

There’s another knock. He wipes his mouth and says to come in.

It’s Jo. He ducks under Yuma’s pull up bar and scans his face. Yuma is the first to break eye contact.

“You’re the only person who’s visited me today,” he says. “That’s kind of romantic.”

“I saw Fuma leaving.” Jo is folding clothes, leaving them on the foot of the bed. For a slow-moving, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly kind of guy, Yuma is reminded that Jo carried him all the way upstairs the other day, princess-carry, like in the movies. “How are you?”

“Better, now that you’re talking to me again.”

“When was I not talking to you?”

“After you found out about the plan and my soft moral backbone.”

Jo’s mouth is a flat line. He sits on the bed and throws a book on Yuma’s stomach. “Das doppelte Lottchen.”

“Bless you?"

“The book The Parent Trap was based on. Maybe you can read it while you’re laid up. Did you know that the original doesn’t involve any ‘parent-trapping’ at all? It’s about mending broken relationships — by spending quality time together.”

Yuma purses his lips, setting it on the stack of unread books that’s grown taller than his nightstand itself. “Our plan worked out pretty well last time, you have to admit. They played foosball for a full hour until Mrs. Takayama told them to leave. I don’t remember the last time I saw Fuma smile like that. All because of a scheme. In the business we call that nuance.”

Jo knows — he was there. They had sat in the grass and eaten cake and watched like it was live television. He says, “It was sweet.”

“I knew you were going to say that. Wait, did you say it was sweet?”

“I admit it. They looked happy together. That’s all Taki and I really want in the end.”

“Maybe there’s a chance for collaboration between our teams, what do you think?”

Jo just takes a tissue, wiping the french fry salt from Yuma’s mouth. And Yuma doesn’t have a comeback for that, so they’re quiet for a moment, until Jo says, “Call me if you need anything.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

Jo leaves, shutting the door gently behind him. Yuma touches his lips.

That might have been romantic, if it happened to someone else.

Chapter Text

“I bet you’re curious why I need a suit so bad,” says Maki.

In reality, Jo isn’t curious, assuming it’s Kei-Fuma-related based on the out-of-the-blue urgency of Maki texting DO YOU HAVE A TUX SUIT I CAN BORROW????? As Maki continues his story, turns out that Jo is half right — because Harua is at the centre of it.

“Out of nowhere, Harua asks me out to dinner at Le Loup. Not even lunch — dinner. Not going to lie, I crapped my pants. Not literally.” Maki turns in circles in front of the mirror, every angle inspected. “I mean, Le Loup is so fancy. That’s where you go for a date, not just a casual meal with a friend. Wait, did you know I kind of have a thing for Harua?”

Jo is aware of all his friends’ romantic interests. As a quiet person, people tend to be more loose with their secrets around him. Jo doesn’t meddle. If anyone knew his secrets, he would expect the same courtesy.

“Anyway, I was going to wear my suit from the fall fling last year, but I put it on and the whole back exploded. I guess I’ve grown, I must have — yours fits like a glove. Thanks a lot, JoJo. You’ve got to wear a suit at Le Loup.”

Jo will take his word for it. “You look great, Maki.”

“I’m trying not to get my hopes up. Like Kei says: low expectations are always exceeded. I’ve been trying to be more, I don’t know, alluring and mysterious. Hm, the pants are a bit creased… it’s okay, I can still iron them.” He swings off the jacket, revealing a tee shirt that says Saikou City Aquarium. “Harua has been kind of weird recently. I’m hoping it’s just stress because of the plan, constantly trying to one-up ourselves — oh sorry, I know you’re anti-team.”

Jo, at his desk where he’s been silently sketching Maki in the mirror reflection, smiles. “That’s okay.”

“Thanks again, I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”

Maki is about to run out, but Jo says wait, making him freeze in the doorway. “Good luck on your date.”

Maki craps his pants again. Not literally.

He’s ready an hour before Harua said to meet him outside of Le Loup. Refusing to wrinkle his pants unnecessarily, he walks around the block and watches the evening ferry leave the terminal. Jo’s suit is midnight black with two buttons and a bowtie, classic look. The back squeezes a bit, but a good kind of squeeze. Comforting, like a hug. Maki needs that — to remain nonchalant.

Harua meets him under the Le Loup awning, apologizing for being late. He’s wearing a pinkish lip gloss that shimmers when he talks and Maki is staring, but then thankfully they’re being ushered inside. The lights are dim, each table with its own personal chandelier. They get a booth because booths are best, and the waiter leaves them with menus like thin books bound in leather.

“Sorry again for being late,” Harua says. “I’m not very punctual. It’s an inadequacy.”

“That’s okay. It’s warm out there. What are you thinking? I was kind of hoping they’d have steak tartare. I’m too afraid to make it myself.”

“Really, it’s rude to be late. And my building is thirty seconds away. I’ve got no excuse.”

“No problem, seriously. I was here like an hour early anyway.” Maki stuffs his face into the menu, cringing. “Maybe I’ll just get the soup.”

Across the table, Harua too is hiding in his menu.

Once they order, there’s nowhere to hide. Harua is wearing a cropped hoodie and baggie jean shorts, not a bad outfit on its own, but at Le Loup, tacky at best. Maki hasn’t even seemed to notice, which means Harua is humiliating himself for no reason.

Harua can do this. He can be unappealing.

“That took me a long time to order,” he says. “Guess I’m indecisive.”

“I don’t blame you, everything is interesting here.” Maki is looking for the waiter that hates them already. “Now I regret not getting the pasta.”

Harua takes a long sip of water from a wine glass. “So, how’s that assignment going?”

“Oh man, thanks to JuJu, now I at least understand the point, but I still think the school system is kind of fundamentally biffed—”

“You know, I started a new TV show — oh, sorry, I interrupted you. I’m always doing that.”

“That’s okay, it was boring anyway.” Literally leaning over the table: “What’s the show about?”

Harua wants to grab him and shake him, why are you so nice? Every appalling behaviour Harua exhibits sails straight over his head. Either Maki is too forgiving or Harua has been getting lax with his manners. (Maybe a bit of both.)

Harua hesitates, then says gingerly, “Watch this.” He clamps his palms together and makes rude noises, noises not suited for Le Loup.

But Maki says, “Whoa, you’re good at that! Do it louder.”

“What? No, I’m being uncouth.”

“Watch, watch.” Maki dips his finger in his glass and runs it along the rim. It squeaks. “Hold on, I can do it, hold on.”

He takes Harua’s glass too. Harua watches his impromptu one-man cup orchestra. And then he’s laughing.

“Seriously, I can do it,” Maki says, “I’ve been practicing. What’s so funny?”

You, Harua wants to say, in his pressed tux, playing cups in a fancy restaurant. “People are looking.”

“So?” He starts making circles again. “You’re on percussion.”

They play the world’s most unpleasant song until the waiter brings their food and they both stow their hands politely under the table, trying not to giggle. Maki sips his soup and Harua slurps his oysters. For a moment it feels normal, like neither of them have secret feelings or secret agendas. Harua peeks up at him and wonders what he thought when Harua asked him out.

Not ask out. Not a date. Shit, does he think this is a date? Is this a date?

“You know,” Maki says, crumbling a saltine into his bowl. “I was worried you were mad at me.”

“Mad, why?”

“I don’t know, around Taki’s birthday you seemed kind of… stressed.”

Harua considers denying it, pretending nothing has changed. He also considers coming out with it, what he knows, what Kei told him. Keeping it inside feels like a balloon slowly expanding between his tonsils. But hurting Maki’s feelings is the last thing in the world he wants to do.

Harua supposes he’ll be hurting Maki no matter what he does.

“Maki… look, Kei told me something—”

“Kei.”

“Yeah, he told me that—”

“No, look — Kei is right there!”

Out the big wide window, Kei is standing there with grocery bags on his arms and phone pressed to his ear. Harua’s eyes go wide.

“This is fate,” Maki shrieks in a whisper. “Why is he just standing around outside Le Loup? Let’s call Fuma. Your building is so close, if he comes out now they’ll totally bump into each other.”

“I mean, we could call him. Whatever. I don’t really follow through with things.”

Maki wrinkles his eyebrows, but he’s mostly focussed on his phone, dialling Fuma’s number. Harua chews his nail and then breaks in at the last second, “Tell him there’s a Buizel on the corner by the mailbox.”

“What?”

“Just trust me.”

They both wait for Fuma to pick up. But for the first time ever, his machine gets it.

Maki lowers his phone. “Okay. Now I think Fuma might be kidnapped or stuck under a barbell or something.”

“You don’t think…”

They both look out the window. Kei is still on the phone.

No fucking way.

Rewinding about five minutes, Kei strides out of the deli with enough goods to sink a cargo ship. On the way back to his car, he walks past the barber and gift shop, YukiaKafé and Le Loup, long glass storefronts like television screens to watch for an instant as he passes.

And then stumbles back.

Squinting through the dim lighting, he sees a tuxedoed Maki and a more casual Harua sitting together in a booth. Kei’s heart beats wildly, as if this is the only success he’s ever known. After the last time they spoke, he doubted Harua would be able to put himself out there. Conquer his own pride.

There’s only one person Kei wants to share this development with.

(There may have been many things he wanted to share, this being the first instance he has an excuse to do it.)

Fuma’s sleepy voice rasps through the phone: “Hello?”

“Are you in bed already?”

“Kei?”

“Oh right. Yes, hello, I’m calling you, it’s normal.”

“Are you okay?”

“Better than that. You will not believe what I’m seeing — Harua and Maki at Le Loup. Together!”

There’s a click and rustling, lamp turned on, bedsheets thrown aside. “Are you spying on them?”

“No, of course not, I was just walking by. You’ve got to come down, it’s the cutest thing you’ll ever see in your life.”

“You’re saying I should come all the way there to peek in on their date.”

“Well, taking pictures is a bit much.”

“Mm, respectful of you.”

Kei laughs. Fuma’s grumbly voice feels good in his ear. Kei is about to drag this out as long as he can, ask what Fuma ate for dinner maybe, if he remembers the lobster bisque they used to share — and then he sees that Harua and Maki have disappeared from their table.

“Shit,” he says. “Where’d they go?”

“Use your binoculars.”

“Ha ha. What if they saw me? I don’t want to give them the wrong idea.”

“About what?”

“I may have given some advice. Said the quiet part out loud. Harua needed to hear it — don’t sigh like that.”

“I didn’t sigh, I breathed.”

“Oh stop it.” Then Kei sees them pass the host’s table on the way to the door. “Shit.”

As Harua and Maki push out onto the sidewalk, they see Kei speed-walking up the street, hobbling with lumpy tote bags on one arm and phone still stuck to his ear. They follow him, trying to be stealthy but Harua’s belt buckle keeps clanking and Maki’s dress shoes sound like tap shoes.

“Where is he going?” Maki whispers. “His house is the other way.”

“We just have to get close enough to hear what he’s saying.” It’s weak reasoning. Harua has only one desire and it’s to know who’s on the other end of that phone call. “Why is he going so fast?”

“Maybe he saw us.”

“Then why is he running—”

“Look out—” As Kei turns, Maki grabs Harua’s hand. It’s like slow motion. Harua’s back is against a storefront window, Maki’s body covering him, somehow surrounding and encompassing him like a human wall. Maki is… tall. Harua is staring at his lips. Not just because they’re eye-level.

Maki steps backward. His cheeks are dark. “Sorry.”

Harua wants to say It’s okay. Kind of wants to say Do it again.

Fuck his fucking life.

As Kei checks over his shoulder, the sidewalk behind him is clear. But in front of him, apparently not. He crashes into a sturdy presence, Fuma in a sleep shirt and pyjama bottoms, arms out as if Kei were on a path of destruction. Kei skirts under the awning where there’s more cover, pulling Fuma with him.

“Seriously? You ran?” Fuma pockets his phone.

“Can you see them?”

“I don’t think so. You’re sure it was those two? Le Loup is a bold choice for a first date.”

“Certainly gets the message across, doesn’t it? Besides, it’s Le Loup.”

“Remember the bisque?”

They both sigh longingly.

Fuma, stretching his shoulder, asks with caution, “What’s in the bags?”

“Oh — cheese, cold cuts, charcuterie. I splurged and got this tiny jar of capers, look how small. I could swallow this in one. Your plans tonight? Right, you were already…”

“I’m extremely boring.”

“No, come on. You’re rested. Hydrated. You look like you’ve had an actual meal today, which is less than I can say for myself.”

“I suppose we’re all stuck in our ways.” Tipping his head toward the restaurant: “Except some of us.”

“Right. Good for them.”

“Good for them. Anyway” — he’s backing up the stairs, silhouetted in lobby light — “keep me updated if you spy anything else. Enjoy your… cheese and things.”

More than one person could enjoy these ‘cheese and things.’ Those are the words that almost come flying out of his mouth. But a question like that isn’t just sharing charcuterie, and Fuma is already disappearing behind the elevator doors.

Kei, still biting his tongue, takes himself home.

Chapter Text

Since Euijoo’s announcement, Nico hasn’t left him alone.

It was another night in the &Burger parking lot, a couple orders of fries split among them. The cicadas were out. Half the guys were talking about the parent trap, the other half begging to talk about anything else. After a while hesitating, words held sugar-light between his teeth, Euijoo told them he was planning to take a day-trip to the city. The guys didn’t blink, but Nico locked on with knife-fine eyes like he was trying to carve a hole in Euijoo’s forehead.

Now they’re in Euijoo’s room, studying — actually studying — or they would be if Nico stopped talking.

“A day in Saikou City is so random. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“I did tell you about it.”

“You told everyone about it.” Nico is fidgeting with his hoodie string, using his textbook as a pillow. “I think you’re lying. Your face gets huge when you lie.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know, you’re a big-faced liar.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Okay, liar.”

“So what if I lied? You lied about Kei’s basement.”

“So where are you going?”

Euijoo admits to curiosity, wondering how Nico will react. Dropping this truth is sort of like dropping something made of glass, not sure whether it will crack or shatter. “I am going to the city. My aunt’s city. Koegawari.”

“Because you might move there.”

“I haven’t been since I was a kid. She offered to show me around. The house, the college, the library.”

Nico is squinting at his phone now, scrolling through pictures of the dull sprawl of ‘Koegawari City.’ “You should tell the guys soon if you’re going to break up the friend group.”

“You’re leaving too.” Euijoo’s eyes flicker up from the paragraph he’s been diligently rereading. “Right?”

“Yep.” Nico realizes he’s been using his hoodie string as a small tourniquet and his finger is bulging and purple. He sits up and says, “I’m coming with you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Any chance to get out of the Bay, I’m there. Maybe I’ll bring my keyboard too.”

Euijoo frowns, but it’s not his rejection frown. Nico can tell he has no idea what he’s getting himself into. Koegawari City is nothing. Too small for awe and too big for personality. As soon as his feet touch the ground he’ll realize how good the Bay is, why it makes no sense to leave. For someone like him.

Nico goes to his parents’ house that night, feeling like something home-cooked after a solid week of microwave dinners. Walking in the door is like falling into a soft bed of aroma. He calls “It’s me” and Mom shouts something back from the kitchen where the blender is going and a pot on the stove is nearly boiling over. Dad is chopping vegetables at the table so Nico sits and joins him.

“How is it at Mr. Koga’s house?” Dad asks.

“Pretty good. For now.”

“That’s one responsible man.” Mom drops a puck of noodles into the water. “He built his entire life in the Bay and he’s perfectly content.”

Nico doesn’t laugh out loud at that, saying instead, “Me and Euijoo are taking a trip on Saturday.”

“What trip, where?”

“Koegawari. We’re just checking it out. He might move there, I don’t think he’s serious about it though.”

“God I hope not. I don’t know why anyone moves away from the Bay. He must have gotten that idea from you.”

“The guy likes libraries, I don’t know. And I’m not trying to convert anyone. You know, sometimes parents support their kids’ dreams, crazy, I know, but true.”

“We support you, Yixiang. We just think entertainment is a useless dream to have, the city is a terrible dangerous place, and you should want something else.”

Dad nods. Nico says, “Okay, be more blunt.”

“What’d you chop these so fancy for?” Mom takes his cutting board and knife away. “What do you think this is, a Michelin-star restaurant?”

Dad shakes his head.

Nico remembers once again the comfort of his quiet microwave dinners.

On Saturday morning, Euijoo arrives unconscionably early — nine-thirty. He has a folding paper map and a backpack that may be empty, meanwhile Nico is carrying his keyboard on his back and a bag of essentials in each hand. The days have been getting hotter and finally Nico can wear his designer-brand tank tops and Calvins peeking out over grey sweats. Euijoo says he looks ridiculous, and that’s all the proof he needs to know he’s put together something special.

“We’re not even staying overnight,” Euijoo says. Nico seems to have packed his entire apartment. What does he need his keyboard for, an impromptu song? God, Euijoo hopes not.

“These are essentials, and you didn’t bring shit, you should be thanking me.” Nico unbuckles, craning back between the seats, his ass obscuring Euijoo’s periphery and focus. He pulls a tote into his lap and rips open a bag of Cheese Fangs. The tantalizing smell of fake cheddar fills the car. “Only time I’m ever going to feed you — eyes on the road.”

Euijoo opens his mouth and Nico pops one in. He can’t even complain; he’d completely forgotten about snacks.

“Tell me about this aunt,” Nico says through a mouthful. They’re on the highway now, making progress. “Have I met her?”

“I don’t know — I don’t even remember the last time she visited. She’s pretty committed to her job. Mom says she’s always been type A. Kind of a fussbudget.”

“And you’re related?”

“Shut up.”

Nico sticks another Fang into his mouth. Pacified, Euijoo continues: “She’s got kids. Guess they’d be eleven and thirteen now?”

“Those are fun ages.”

“I think they’ve got a lot of cats too.”

“Damn, this place is perfect for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying.”

Euijoo fixes his hands on the wheel, ten-and-two — or is it nine-and-three? “Why are you in a good mood?”

“Is a reason required?” Nico is licking his neon orange fingers. “Any day away from the Bay is a good one.”

It’s hard to argue. With the windows open and the sunroof back, the air is dry and dusty, the Bay’s sea salt and dew far behind. They pass by the silvery mass of Saikou City, driving alongside big rigs and delivery trucks, going fifty miles per hour — five under the limit, but still. Nico leans out the window and howls. Euijoo does too, though not quite as loud, feeling a bit wild himself.

After four hours in the car, the bag of Cheese Fangs is long gone. Nico, getting antsy, stretches his legs out the window, aggravates Euijoo for sport, and yet his good mood hasn’t slipped. A tight-ass aunt, annoying kids and a ridiculous number of cats? Things only look worse as they drive past a sign that says You are now entering Koegawari: the town that never stops growing. The road narrows and buildings spring up, five stories too short or too tall. Even the city bustle is off-key like a teen’s squeaky voice.

“Look at that,” Nico says. “So much… potential.”

Euijoo swallows.

They stop near a row of fake brownstones, across from a park that seems to have been overtaken by ducks, shit-covered and dusted with feathers, clumps of them rolling around like tumbleweeds. Euijoo shakes his shoe and knocks on the front door, telling Nico not to say anything weird. Nico rolls his eyes, then pulls his pants up over his waistband.

A lady answers the door with an explosive hello. Nico thinks for a moment she might be the nanny, but is proven wrong, not just by Euijoo calling her Aunt Eunji but the gene pool too: same doe eyes, same industrial-strength smile. She doesn’t look like a tight ass. Younger than expected too.

Euijoo gestures down at Nico. “This is my friend Nicholas. He’s here for some reason.”

“I remember you,” she says, shaking Nico’s hand. “Two-thousand-and-something, that year we came out for Christmas. Are you still into music?”

“Uh, yeah, I am.”

“Good for you! Very stylish by the way, love the earrings. Come in!”

They do, taking off their shoes while his aunt calls inside, cousin Euijoo is here! Nico leans in to whisper, “Your aunt’s kind of hot.”

An unsavoury word is already hissing out between those polite lips, but suddenly two kids run up and throw their arms around him like he’s their father returned from war.

“You two be gentle! Your visit is all they’ve been talking about. Come on, I’ve got snacks. And don’t mind the cats, they’re rescues but they’re friendly.”

The kids scatter, but he and Nico have to move slowly through the cats purring and weaving around their legs.

“You must be loving this,” Nico says.

“What do you mean, I like cats.”

“No you don’t. Seriously?”

Euijoo just brushes past him. Nico shouldn’t have wasted all his patience in the car. But seriously, when did Euijoo start liking cats?

After some snacks and a tour of the house which is fine and quaint, they head out to see the many sights Koegawari City has to offer. The buildings are either boxy and contemporary or old and unkempt, and Nico would say it was tacky and uninteresting if it wasn’t slightly charming on foot. They walk by a glass storefront that reads Primal Instincts Cafe, a board game cafe that offers unlimited tea refills for solitaire players, which gets Euijoo excited but sounds like a nerd thing to Nico.

The college is like the broad shoulders an otherwise gangly city is particularly proud of. A big blue-glass building, banners saying something about educating the next generation, as if this was Saikou, somewhere people go to make something of themselves. No one moves to Koegawari to fulfill their dreams, and no one stays because they belong — not the way someone like Euijoo belongs in the Bay. There must have been something laced in the bricks of this place, for anyone to cash in their one non-refundable life somewhere so… unfabulous.

Their final destination is, of course, the library. Nico rolls his eyes as Euijoo gasps out loud. It’s got to be three times the size of the library back home, an atrium in the middle with a large steel sculpture that Euijoo doesn’t understand but finds pretty. Returns pass through silver slots, guided tenderly into bins via small intersecting slides, and there are digital maps capable of searching by title, author name and publishing house. Several people browse the aisles at once, an unprecedented level of bustle by Samidare Bay standards, and the acoustics make Euijoo want to cry.

“Thought it’d be cooler,” Nico mutters.

“Well, we’re no big city, that’s for sure.” Aunt Eunji leads them into the centre of the room where they can see the computers, magazines, self-scanners, poster boards advertising book clubs, author signings and story time for kids. “What do you think, Euijoo?”

He takes a deep breath of that library smell, wishing he could wear it like cologne. “It’s wonderful.”

“I thought you might say that. You know, you took so long getting back to me, I figured you were nervous to step out of the Bay. But seeing it in person… really makes it real, huh?”

He nods speechlessly.

“Why don’t you two explore. I’ve got a couple things to straighten out, then we can grab the kids and suss out a late lunch. Sound good?”

They both say yes and she disappears up the stairs marked staff only. Euijoo gravitates toward the new releases, the springtime display like something out of a Renaissance tableau.

“Sometimes I get burnt out living with Kei,” Nico says. “Imagine two preteens around all the time.”

“I like them.”

“I don’t not like them. I’m just saying. What happened to solitude?”

“That’s what the board game cafe is for.” Euijoo says this absently, reading the inside of a book so crisp it isn’t even on the order list back home.

“Why’s it have to be so big though? It’s too many… books.”

Euijoo looks at him, blinking.

Nico throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be over there.” And he walks off, rubbing his arm, into the stacks.

Euijoo shakes him off and carefully returns the book to its stand. Maybe this city is a bit rough around the edges, a bit unsure of itself. Past the jackhammer hum and smell of bird poop, there are places like this, which won’t interest everyone, but Euijoo — well, he feels like he could stay here forever.

“Excuse me?” Euijoo looks up to see a cart of books and a guy about his age pushing it. “Mind if I squeeze through?”

“Sorry.” Euijoo steps back, but can’t help asking, “You work here, right? Is it as perfect as it seems?”

“No, it’s not.” Utterly serious: “It’s better.”

Euijoo laughs, a hand on his heart. “You scared me. Why am I even asking — how could a library not be perfect?”

“I know right?” The guy has shaggy hair, wire-framed glasses and a palpable excitement for each new sentence: “No one gets what I mean when I say there’s a library smell.”

“I know! My friend says it’s just dust, but it’s something else, almost sweet, like—”

And in unison, “Almonds,” startling them both into awed laughter.

“Hey, you should apply here. There’s a spot open — I can put in the good word.”

Euijoo is about to say that if he gets a job here it’ll be because of nepotism, but suddenly there’s an arm slung around his neck, making him hunch slightly. Nico, saying, “Something’s really funny over here, huh?”

The guy behind the cart says, “What?”

“I always thought libraries had a hush-hush policy, guess it’s different over here. We’re visiting from Samidare Bay.”

“Oh. That’s… far.”

“Yeah, pretty far. Anyway, just looking around, scanners are that way, we’ve got it from here, see you.”

Nico drags Euijoo away. The cart guy stares after them with a confounded expression.

Euijoo jerks out his arm in the References section: “What just happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s what I said.” Nico slides a book out from the high wall of shelves. “What is this, an encyclopedia?”

There’s something about him, an intensity that’s as restrained as it is obvious. Euijoo hasn’t seen Nico like this since a server at &Burger slipped a phone number into Euijoo’s fries.

“Were you jealous back there?”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were.”

“I saw that guy annoying you and wasting your time so I helped you out. This is a research trip, you should, shit, research. Look, this is References, over there is Braille—”

Euijoo catches his wrist. “You thought that cute guy was annoying me?”

“You think he’s cute?”

“See, you’re jealous—”

“No, I’m judging your taste in guys, there’s a difference.”

“Fuck, Nico.” He backs Nico into a shelf. Doesn’t even check if they’re alone, and Nico doesn’t resist, saying with his chin turned up, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Go find your cute nerd if you’re looking for someone to shove around—”

“Shut up, for God’s sake, this is a library.”

There is so little space left. Nico’s hands brush over his waist, as if he wants Euijoo closer, but instead he turns, pushing Euijoo away with his elbow.

“You’ve got to move here.”

Euijoo stares. “What?”

“It’s like an Euijoo paradise. Books, board game cafe — everybody at that campus looked like you in different glasses. What else do you need, a sign from God?”

“You think I should move here?”

“I think you’re an idiot if you don’t.”

Euijoo takes a conscious step back. Yes, wanting to stay in the Bay is idiotic. No, hesitating isn’t very Euijoo-like.

Wanting Nico, wanting him and wanting him, isn’t very Euijoo-like.

There has to be some semblance of free will still alive in his weak mind. He can choose — to be himself.

That’s got to feel better than an elbow in the ribs.

Chapter Text

Harua maneuvers out with two bright green drinks in his hands, explaining, “Mom threw out my margarita mix, so I kind of eyed it. Just give it a minute to dissolve.”

Yuma stirs the thick layer of white at the bottom of his cup and takes a sip anyway. It’s the first heat dome of the season, Harua’s skinny little balcony the best spot in town to roast in cut-offs and a thick layer of sunscreen. He crosses his ankles on the railing. “You should get a mini fridge for your bedroom.”

“I’ve considered that. My own shower would be nice too, but getting the plumbing done is a whole thing.” Harua pushes the prescription shades up his nose. “My tastes are too expensive for this town.”

“Man, you have one dinner at Le Loup.”

Harua chokes on a clump of salt. He puts his drink down, turning in his folding chair. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you actually.”

“About what happened with Maki, or are you going to keep changing the subject every time I bring it up?”

“Yes.”

“Yes you’ll tell me, or yes you’re changing the—”

“About prom.” Harua runs into his room and returns with a clipboard, blocking Yuma’s sunbathing. It’s all themes, dress codes and to-do lists. “I’m heading the student planning committee.”

“It’s months away, there’s already a committee?”

“The principal came to me personally.” Harua has shown pluck and determination in planning every school dance since that one fling in sixth grade when the theme was ‘Old West Hoedown.’ It’s one of Harua’s favourite outlets of obsessive control, school pride, either or. “It’s up to me to put together a committee.”

“Oh no. No way.”

“I didn’t even ask yet.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“Be my committee?”

“No.”

“Yuma.”

“Maybe if you say please.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Harua ughs, shoving Yuma’s feet off the railing. “Come on, you’re my best collaborator. You’re efficient, you see my vision, and you don’t get mad when I yell at you.”

“I’m a college student now, you wouldn’t understand the amount of stress I’m under.” He sips his margarita through a metal straw. “Besides, I’ve got my extra curricular this year.”

“Like parent-trapping takes up that much time.”

“Kei and Fuma aren’t my only case. My own parents for example. Doesn’t get more helpless than that. Unless you want some help with Maki—”

“I’m busy too, you know. I’m about to graduate. My entire life is being dumped at my feet. Where am I going to further my education? There are so many options!”

“Where are you thinking?”

“I don’t know, I’ll probably just go here, but my point still applies.” Harua grabs his clipboard but Yuma grabs it back.

“Spring as a theme? Isn’t this happening late July?”

“It’s better than plain old prom. Besides, it may be summer, but it’s the spring of our lives.”

“Whatever you say.”

Harua sticks his chin out. Then, while reaching for his drink, suddenly jumps out of his chair, shouting Coach! off the balcony.

Yuma stands too. On the street below, Fuma is looking up at them, a hand out to block the sun. He’s wearing a breezy button-up shirt and khaki shorts. He calls up, “What are you two doing?”

“Day-drinking and talking about our feelings!”

“Then goodbye.” Fuma unlocks Mrs. Han’s old jalopy.

“Where are you going on a beautiful day like this?”

“Airport.” He pauses as if he could just leave it at that. “My moms are coming to stay for a few days.”

“Your moms?” Harua is starstruck. “You mean the people who raised you from nothing? Who birthed you into this world?”

“Yes, that’s them.”

“Will you introduce us?”

Fuma ducks into the car. “Enjoy the sun.”

“Coach! Coooach!”

They’re wailing as Fuma drives away, unable to fight off a smile. Introducing those kids to his mothers, and reintroducing his mothers to the Bay, is a strange concept. This town is like a minefield of unwanted encounters lately. The kids seem to understand that Fuma has a life beyond what they know, his history divulged only in purposeful bite-sized pieces — from his own mouth, hopefully. Gossip, details shared like guilty pleasure, is a well-known road of anxiety, no exit on either side.

You can take the boy out of the Old Townsite, etcetera.

He’s been preparing, mentally and compulsively for days now. Stocking up on their favourite foods, planning activities outside of town, hiding his poor Eevees in the closet. They don’t often visit since moving to a retirement paradise dangling off the belt of the equator. Fuma usually drives down sometime in the summer months, but this time they insisted on coming out to the Bay instead.

His mothers don’t judge, but they do worry. All of the sudden his cabinets seem bare, his free time void of adventure, his social circle not just lacking but flat.

Though everyone in town knows his name and face, he takes care not to foster any friendships or otherwise co-dependant bonds. Mrs. Han shares her car and occasionally makes him dinner, a warm relationship, not a deep one. Harua is almost fifteen years younger than him and only comes over to play a card game for kids. If Fuma conceded to calling him his closest friend, he feared he would need to reevaluate his life, genuinely.

Through a maze of roundabouts, he drives down the long road to the airport, ducking as a plane blasts off overhead. He hates flying, the indomitability of everything involved, propulsion, machinery, open sky. Last time he came to a stop under the arrivals sign, Kei had taken a trip with his family to a ski resort. Fuma remembers his dishevelled look as he walked through the sliding glass doors, frail arms wrapped tight around Fuma, saying into his hair, I wish my family was like yours.

Fuma’s head snaps up as a voice squeals his name, his moms with their neck pillows and rolling carry-ons, ducking under the railing. He meets them halfway. Running. It’s not in his control. They’re the only people he trusts more than he trusts himself. It turns him into a kid.

“Right behind us on the plane was a young mother and her baby,” Mom says, holding his hand on the way to the baggage claim. She still wears all the same clothes she did when he was little, corduroys patched with denim and sun-faded blouses, salt-and-pepper hair up in a scrunchy. “Hardly one year old, couldn’t be older than that. Poor thing was having a tough time, crying, stinking up the place real good too — get that bag for me, will you, darling?”

Fuma lugs a suitcase marked with a large MURATA PROPERTY tag off the carousel. “See yours, Coach?”

His other mother, for clarity, is Coach. He supposes he’s the second in the Samidare Bay PE dynasty, granted without the implied luxury of the word. She’s grey and half his height, but her whistle is louder and shinier. “Mine is black and square," she says. "I’ll know when I see it.”

“Is that one yours?”

“No no, that one’s oblong. Mine is square, black and square.”

“Folks were giving the young mum all these dirty looks,” Mom says, sitting on her luggage now, pushing herself in circles. “I mean, can you imagine, getting angry at an infant for crying on a plane? It’s an upsetting sound, I grant you, but come on, the poor mum can’t do anything about that!”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you what, I got out of my seat and told her to ignore all the unkind looks and let herself breathe. We’re stuck together anyway, and people need compassion, you know what I mean? I can’t believe it, I mean really, mad at a little baby. I’ll give you something to be mad about, I tell you.”

Coach pulls a black, square suitcase off the carousel. “Let’s roll.”

They load up the car and head off toward the ocean and distant sun-soaked islands. Mom is in the passenger seat folding a jacket for lumbar support, Coach in the back with all their carry-ons, one of which houses their ancient cat Tiny Mei Myeong who does nothing but sleep and occasionally yawn.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” Mom says. “And we’ve got so much time! We’ve got to go see what they’ve done with the house. The school is a must too, and I’ve been dying to go to &Burger.”

“Mum, that’s a dump.”

“So? It makes me happy. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, when we get back it’s lunch, resting up, getting settled. From there, I don’t know, Saikou City, Suki Dasi Island…”

“Those are some big plans,” says Coach. “What about the Bay?”

“What… about it?”

“Never mind all that,” Mom says. “Will Kei be joining us?”

Fuma swallows. “I don’t know. Not sure.”

“Shame they found black mold in Kei’s guest room — that can be really dangerous! Otherwise we could’ve stayed all together like last time, what a blast that was.”

Tiny Mei Myeong meows.

Coach pinches Fuma’s cheek. “You okay? You look pale.”

“No. Yeah.” He smiles in the rearview. “Just happy that you’re here.”

Mom launches into a story about her packing checklist, all the photo albums they’ve got to look through, how much they’ve missed the Bay. Fuma’s jaw is locked in place. That was a chance just now, one he wasted, to tell them the truth. With his luck recently, he can’t afford to miss another opening, otherwise they’re going to find out on their own.

Fuma never did have the guts, or the heart, to tell them that he and Kei broke up. It hasn’t exactly made a difference until now.

He’ll tell them.

Soon.

Chapter Text

It’s dead at the local &Burger, which is good for Taki because he has to talk to Jo — right now.

Jo looks up, squirrelling away his sketchbook as Taki busts through the doors. He ran here in the heat all the way from Yuma’s house, feeling like a snitch before he’s even snitched. The fry oil is old today, a smell like wasted potential, and the cook and drive-thru operator are lighting up by the soft serve machine. Jo asks him what’s wrong.

“The Team.” Taki grabs a bottle of water and chugs it in one continuous gulp, then collapses on the counter. “Fuma. Moms. Plan. Moms.”

“The Team is trying to recruit Fuma’s moms for their next plan?”

“Yeah, how’d you get all that from what I said?”

Jo drags his hands over his cap and hairnet, which he isn’t allowed to remove. “That’s too much. Getting his family involved? Yuma is really…” Yuma. Jo sighs.

“I mean, I get it. If Fuma’s moms are as worried about Kei and Fuma as we are…”

“No way are his moms going to help the Team manipulate their own son. All this is going to do is ruin their visit.”

“Should we do something? To stop them? I didn’t speak up at the meeting because I, well…” Because Harua is scary these days. And Yuma talks as though they’re all tuned into a shared telepathic channel except Taki doesn’t know the frequency. Meanwhile Maki steals every opening as if someone is handing out gold stars for talking most and loudest. When Taki left they were still gathered around the whiteboard like witches around a cauldron.

“We have to change their minds,” says Jo. “But what can we say that won’t just make them want to do it more?”

“We could pretend we don’t care. Like reverse psychology.”

“But I do care!” The amount of caring Jo does is starting to feel like its own kind of over-interference.

Taki frowns, taking napkins to tuck under his bangs. Maybe if the Team never got Fuma’s moms alone, if Jo and Taki were their round-the-clock bodyguards — but that’s impossible. There’s no way to protect them and keep them clueless at the same time…

Taki says, “What if we just told them? His moms?”

“Told them what?”

“That our friends cooked up this crazy scheme we’re sorry and don’t be too offended. And make it clear we’re not part of it.”

Jo is slumped on the counter with a resigned expression. “I guess that’s the best plan we have. When though? I don’t feel comfortable… seeking them out.”

“Hey, maybe they’ll come to &Burger for dinner.”

Jo smiles dubiously. The bell behind them chimes and two older ladies walk in, looking around with wide eyes.

Taki turns, jaw dropped. “Did I do that?”

Jo shrugs quickly then dons his customer service face as the women approach the counter. The taller one is smiling, suntanned and willowy, while the smaller one, in a worn tracksuit, scans the menu with robot-like laser focus, long wrinkly eyes and sharp pursed lips.

“Hello, welcome to &Burger, how can I make your meal &-tastic today?”

“Hi there darling, we’ll have two burgers, one with extra cheese, and two sides of fries — that’s to go, please.”

“No problem, we’ll get right on that.” Jo sets out to wake up the cook from under a table.

In the meantime, Taki says, “Excuse me? There’s no way you guys are Coach Fuma’s moms, are you?”

“He must have announced our trip all over town!” They introduce themselves as Mom and Coach, and Taki can see the resemblance now, in both of them really — precision and warmth. “What’s your name, sweet?”

“I’m Taki, and that’s Jo.”

“Jo,” says Mrs. Coach, “you’re a whiz at basketball. Fuma mentions you lots.”

Jo’s ears are immediately red.

“Does he mention me?” Taki asks.

“Of course, Taki! Have you tried that chamomile tea yet?”

“Have I tried what?”

“So, how has your visit been so far?” Jo asks.

“Our visit has barely begun. We unpacked and played board games all afternoon — this is our first outing. Do you boys have any suggestions for activities around the Bay?”

“Staying home,” Taki says. “Indoors, mostly.”

They exchange looks, then find a table where they wait for their order. Taki and Jo slip behind the counter, crouching on the sticky floor.

“That was freaky,” Taki says, examining his own hands. “Should I ask for something else? World peace? Invisibility?”

“Maybe we should tell them now.” Jo peeks over the counter. “They’re just sitting there. Shit, this is a terrible way to start a vacation.”

“No, no, this is good. The universe led them right to us. Obviously we’re on a good track. Fate is on our side!”

Jo gulps, feeling his voice dry up already.

Once their order pops through the window, Jo and Taki deliver it to their table. Mrs. Mom says, “What amazing service. Here, for your trouble.”

Jo waves away the folded-up bill in her hand. “No trouble, really.”

“Taki?”

“Oh, I don’t work here, he’s just my buddy.”

“Well, I’ll leave this here and then someone will find it eventually.” She winks and leaves the tip under a salt shaker and they both stand up.

“Oh, wait, Mrs., er, Fuma’s moms, before you go, we have to tell you something.”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“We’re sorry,” Jo says. “You just got here and I’m sure you were really looking forward to it and now your food is getting cold—”

“Out with it,” Coach says. “No need to preamble.”

Taking over Jo’s nervous rambling, Taki says, “You guys probably know that everybody around here loves Coach Fuma. He’s a great guy, really nice and cool and reliable… and we all love Mr. Kei a lot too.”

“We adore Kei!” Mrs. Mom says.

“Right! Of course you do. Well, our friends — he might have mentioned them too — love Kei and Fuma so much and want them to be happy more than anything in the world, and they… well, they’re parent-trapping them.”

Both moms lean in like they didn’t hear right. “Pardon?”

“You know, like the movie, The Parent Trap?”

“We’re not familiar.”

“It’s like a plan or a strategy to get two people together after they’ve, you know, called it quits. I swear their hearts are in the right place, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s meddling and it’s wrong. Me and Jo just wanted to warn you that they might ask you to get involved, and if they do, don’t be too shocked and just tell them to get lost. And… maybe don’t tell Fuma, if possible?”

Taki can’t help adding on that last part. Jo elbows him.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Mom says, “did I hear you right when you said Fuma and Kei have… separated?”

“Um. Yes?”

“When?”

“Like five years ago, I think?”

The moms are staring at each other now, communicating telepathically.

“You didn’t…” Jo’s heart freezes over. “Oh no.”

Mrs. Coach takes their bag, takes her wife’s hand, and says, “You two have a good night.” And they leave &Burger and Taki and Jo, frozen under the fluorescents.

Taki rubs the back of his neck. “I see what we did wrong there.”

“Yeah,” says Jo. “Me too.”

On the opposite side of town, Fuma has toasted the croutons and massaged the kale, table all set with no one to sit at it.

He’s folding laundry on the couch, his bed for the next few days, sorting his shirts into ‘Pokémon’ and ‘acceptable.’ His moms are set on &Burger for supper, which Fuma protested on theological grounds, though ever since he bought an &Meal for Yuma, the smell has worked its way into the fibres of his memory. He decides he is suggestive. A certain unrepentant hedonist has been on his mind as well.

Fuma throws everything in the basket as his door opens, his mothers returned with a paper takeout bag. It isn’t too long of a walk, but they seem worn, something changed from earlier. Fuma is nervous.

“You guys sit down. Did you get what you wanted? You can have some of this too if you want a side, I made enough for the three of us.”

They’re still taking off their shoes. Tiny Mei Myeong is watching sleepy-eyed on top of Fuma’s folded laundry.

“We took the long route back,” Coach says.

“I really can drive you anywhere. Mrs. Han doesn’t mind.”

“That’s all right, darling.” Mom is beside him, petting his arm. It feels conciliatory. He is nervous, nervous, nervous.

“What happened out there? Run into… anyone?”

“Some students of yours.”

“Oh. Good. I hope they didn’t talk your ear off. Or say anything, I don’t know. Strange.”

They are looking at each other, speaking in that way they do, their psychic link. Fuma considers shouting it out, the thing he has’t said yet. The silence is a string so tight, he can’t just let it go loose; he has to swing the knife.

He breathes in, but Mom beats him to it.

“The boys were lovely. They didn’t say anything strange at all.”

“Really?”

“Nothing at all.”

Fuma clears his throat. Occupies himself with hunting down his salad tossers. “Well, good. They’ve got rich inner lives, that’s for sure. Half of them aren’t in my class anymore, but I’ve heard — Kei’s told me — he tells me they’re the same. Eases my worries, you know. Things changing, what’s the use in that?”

He’s talking too much, he knows. But then they’re hugging him, thin arms around his middle, like their psychic link picked up whatever it was he was sending out.

Tiny Mei Myeong meows.

Chapter Text

As the classroom empties out, only Euijoo is left.

Despite his recent success in advice-giving, Kei braces himself. A sensible kid like Euijoo deserves better tidbits and morsels than someone like Kei has to offer. Maybe if Kei absents himself quickly, Euijoo will go to Fuma instead. They seem to share a pool of pensive young adults seeking guidance.

Kei is just about to flee when Euijoo stands over his desk. “Mr. Kei, can I talk to you?”

Kei sinks back into his chair. “Love troubles, EJ?”

“Oh, um, no. You left the Bay when you were my age, right? I was wondering if you have any tips for curing homesickness.”

“Curing homesickness? I don’t know about that. But studying helped, really throwing myself into it. And drinking with friends, or you know, whoever was next to me at the bar.”

“So… distraction?”

“Yes.” But he just told a twenty-one-year-old to drink copiously as stress management. “Maybe you should take this to Fuma.”

“Fuma?”

“He tends to give better advice than I do.”

“But he’s never left the Bay.”

“Well. He tends to make better decisions than I do too.”

Euijoo blinks at him with brown bubble eyes, then hikes up his backpack and says, “Okay. Maybe I’ll ask him when he’s back at work.”

“Is he sick?”

“Mrs. Han told me his moms are visiting.”

Kei sits up so fast, his neck cracks. “Sorry, what?”

“His… moms are visiting?”

Kei pulls himself together. “Right. Right, right, right. Cool.”

Euijoo leaves, and Kei, with vacant footsteps, follows. He saw the baseball team leave early today, assuming they’d won the game or run out of balls or whatever happens at the end of practice. He hadn’t seen Mom and Coach (and Tiny Mei Myeong) since their stay at his house years ago. For a couple of days there were a different set of parents in his childhood home — guests of his, though they knew him better than that, younger than that. Coach installed fly screens in every window while Mom taught him how to sort his compostables. They ruffled his hair and called him darling.

When he lost Fuma, he lost them too.

This morning he spurned his chores in favour of an extra long bath. Now he has to bounce between the familiar aisles in the grocery store while overly focussed on the bottle of stress management he keeps under the sink.

As he steps out of his car, he sees the Muratas across the parking lot, selecting a cart from the corral.

Kei decides rationally that his chores can wait another day, and throws himself back into his car.

Meanwhile, stumbling through the blackberry bushes, Euijoo sees Nico crouched at the edge of the beach, drawing his fingers through the soft waves.

He looks back at Euijoo, through strands of black hair and a folded beanie, and he straightens up. Flicks his hands dry. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Euijoo stands next to him — or stands next to the space next to him — looking out at the bobbing docks speckled with shrieking seagulls. “Thinking?”

“Not really.”

“You’re not really thinking?”

Nico takes out his phone, showing him a group chat named Team Communications Hub. “We figure Fuma and his family must be out somewhere. Harua’s at the gas station, Maki’s at the ice cream shop, Yuma’s got the grocery store. If someone spots them, we converge.”

“What, is Taki waiting outside his door?”

“Taki’s MIA, no one’s heard from him since yesterday.”

“I wasn’t being serious. You’re all insane.”

“Yeah, well. Yuma talked me into it.”

They both kick at stones for a minute.

Euijoo says, “I’m moving to Koegawari.”

Nico kicks a rock way out into the water.

“Okay,” he says.

“That’s it? Okay?”

“You want applause?”

Euijoo’s fists clench. He imagines getting a handful of that grey tank, or the hair at the crown of Nico’s head, though he’s not sure what he would do from there.

Nico’s phone buzzes. He says, “They’re at the grocery store.”

“Better hurry before they get away.”

Suddenly Nico smacks the side of Euijoo’s neck. Euijoo bats him away, but he’s already turned, saying in monotone mosquito and marching away through the gap in the bushes.

Euijoo rubs his neck. The bite stings already.

Inside and away from the mosquitos, Yuma, Harua and Maki browse the produce section, waiting to be noticed. Fuma and his moms are a funny mix of heights and expressions, very seriously selecting the perfect avocado. Yuma spent an hour watching people waft in and scan out; seeing the Muratas in the flesh felt like a hallucination. Now all that’s left to do is make introductions.

Nico sidles up. “Are we doing this or what?”

“They’ll see us eventually.” Harua sniffs a mango. “Love is subtlety.”

“And a lot of waiting around.”

“It was your idea,” says Yuma.

Nico is tapping his shoe.

“You’re getting sand everywhere,” says Maki. “That’s a whole piece of seaweed on your pants.”

“I was at the beach.” Nico drops his head back, groaning, “Enough with the subtlety — yo Fuma!”

All three look up. Nico runs over, pulling Fuma away into the cereal aisle for some reason he hasn’t thought of yet. Meanwhile, the Team rush to the avocados.

“Hi, I’m Yuma, the big one is Maki and the little one is Harua. We’re all students of your son’s.”

“Oh really.” Coach is looking at them like they’re already acquainted.

“We’re more than friends actually — we’re in business, but not for profit. Our only bottom line is the happiness of your—”

“You’re the Parent-Snatchers.”

“Er, snatchers?”

“No need for the speech, sweet.” Mom pulls out a little book, scribbles something and tears out the page. “That’s our phone number. Tell us where to meet you and we’ll be there.”

“Really?” says Maki. “Just like that?”

The women’s arms are linked, gold bands on sun-freckled fingers. Yuma feels a pang. That’s real love — adornment. His own parents never wore rings.

“Our bottom line,” Coach says, “is the same as yours.”

Fuma is returning with Nico on his heels. His moms have already moved past on their way to the register, but Fuma hangs back, giving the Team a discerning look.

“Do I want to know what you’re up to?”

“Nothing going on here,” Yuma says. “Just introductions.”

The torn page is clutched in his palm.

Chapter Text

“Have to be honest — we didn’t expect you two to be so open to sneaking around.”

The Team didn’t expect catering either. Fuma’s moms show up with mini donuts and juice boxes which is a good boost to morale. Now they’re sitting in Yuma’s basement, an uncanny sight after a fatigue of the same faces, meeting after meeting. Plus, they brought their cat, Tiny Mei Myeong, who parks her sturdy self in Harua’s lap and purrs.

“We’re a bit surprised too.” Mom speaks for both of them, as they often do, like their mouths are attached to a single pool of thoughts. Coach is studying the whiteboard while the Team is crosslegged on the carpet, in order to stay close to the snacks and the cat.

“It seemed like you already knew what we were planning to ask you,” says Harua.

“We may have been briefed beforehand.”

They all look at Taki, who looks over his shoulder at something diverting across the room, wishing Jo was here to share in the stink eye.

“At first we were shocked,” Mom says. “Our Fuma has always tried to put on a brave face. But separating from a partner is such a heart-wrenching thing. It’s horrible knowing that he’s been suffering alone.” Then her face is wistful. “Never mind their spats, I thought Fuma had found his person in Kei. We really thought so.”

Harua smooths his hands over the fluffy white expanse of Tiny Mei Myeong’s back. Knowing Fuma kept his broken heart from his family is, well, heartbreaking. Though Harua also understands in a way, thinking about his own parents and his own inner dilemmas. He glances over at Maki, on his second juice box, tongue stained purple, and thinks the secret-keeping pretty much logical.

“This is some good formatting,” Coach says, leaving the board to sit on the old deep couch. “Organized, well-spaced, good handwriting.”

“Thank you.” Yuma shines his shoulder. “I got really into calligraphy once.”

“Fuma was creative like that too. He’d plan out his day with crayons — lunch at noon, homework at one, play outside at four. Like his own personal organized artwork.”

“Fuma says he’s not good at art,” Harua says.

“He would say that. What happened was he started comparing himself to Kei. Kei has got himself a beautiful talent, but there are many ways to be good at something. Fuma though, he became rigid — I know I know, just like his mother.”

Mom nods in agreement. This jab must have been so well known that she didn’t even have to say it herself anymore.

“Do you have some idea,” Maki asks, “why they broke up?”

“We wouldn’t want to speculate.” But it’s clear they’ve been asking themselves the same question. “They did fight an awful lot. That didn’t change when things became romantic between them. When you’re fighting over what napkins to use at supper…”

“They’d fight about dumb stuff like that?” says Taki.

“There’s always an emotional undercurrent,” Harua explains. “What do the napkins represent?”

“Can’t napkins just be napkins?” says Yuma. “What happened to fiery love affairs?”

“Must be tiring,” says Maki. “Always being pissed at the one you love.”

There’s a lull. The cat stretches and meows.

“Anyway,” says Yuma. “Let’s get started. Game plan. Who’s with me?”

The moms seem less sure than they were at the beginning of the night. Yuma barrels onward, taking a marker to gesture at the first bullet point on the whiteboard.

“As you can see, our latest plan was very successful. They played foosball, talked and made eye contact and everything. They also may have been talking on the phone, but that is conjecture and cannot be confirmed.”

Harua and Maki shift.

“For our next plan, first you’ve got the happenstance run-in, simple, low risk, but also low yield. Then you’ve got the emergency that makes them work together, harder to orchestrate, but we’ve had some success with this before. Having you guys onboard really opens things up, since Fuma will go wherever you go, all we have to do is take care of the Kei side of things.”

“Oh no,” Mom says. “We can’t see Kei.”

“Why not?”

“Fuma will be humiliated! Unless we pretend to be clueless, and neither of us are very good at that, he’ll know right away that we found out about the breakup — what an awful feeling that would be.”

“Maybe he’s been trying to figure out a way to tell you guys,” says Maki.

“Fuma should be the one to decide when to tell us.” Coach scoops up Tiny Mei Myeong, who had climbed up to the window above the couch, pawing at the glass. “Frankly, I don’t think the two of us are cut out for this parent-snatching.”

“Parent-trapping.”

“Exactly. He’s our child. No matter how much we wish he was still with Kei—”

“And believe us, we do—”

“We want to protect him. And the way we do that isn’t going to be by trapping or snatching or what have you.”

Harua is now overwhelmingly tired after staying up all night brainstorming mom-oriented plans. “Do you both feel that way?”

Their hands meet, reflexively, and Coach says, “We came to an accord. We won’t be able to celebrate his birthday with him on the day, so tonight we’re going to take him out for supper. Sing happy birthday, give him some presents. That’s as far as our scheming will go.”

But with a soft look, Mom amends, “Don’t take that as a condemnation. Our Fuma tends to think he’s alone. You kids are proof that he isn’t.”

It leaves them feeling fuzzy, except for Yuma, who is itchy, not just because of the cat. He shows the moms to the door. The sun is setting, a golden squinting heat. But he stops them on the stairs.

“Do you think… fiery romance, opposites attract, that kind of thing… do you think that kind of love can last?”

They look at Yuma like they can feel the blue-whale-sized weight behind the question. They tell him that it depends, that a couple will always fight, but what matters more is resolution. Yuma decides he shouldn’t have asked at all. They’re too good together, reading each other’s minds and borrowing each other’s thoughts. That’s too perfect for Yuma. More and more he thinks love is just the crossroads between chemistry and animosity. Do imperfect people get a happy ending?

Maybe if they’re stubborn enough.

Across town, Kei hears the front door creak and slam. Nico walks in, dressed casually, a rare sight, and passes through to the kitchen. Kei has been immersed in grading today’s assignments, the impossibility of it, cursing numbers and letters for their unforgiving judgement. Too immersed to notice the time.

He calls, “If you’re looking for dinner, I’ve got bad news.”

Nico throws a fuck into the heaven-like cleanliness of the refrigerator. “What happened?”

“I didn’t get to grocery shopping yesterday.” And then when he tried today, he saw the two of them walking past his house and decided it wasn’t his week.

Nico is rummaging in the cupboards now. If he goes to bed with a belly of crackers and sunflower seeds, Kei will never forgive himself. He picks up the phone and says, “I’ll get takeout. Any requests?”

Nico leans on the back of the couch, one corner of his lip twisting up. “Le Loup?”

Of course he picks a restaurant five doors down from Fuma’s building. Then Kei thinks about the bisque… “Fine. You pick it up.”

“Can’t drive.”

“You still haven’t taken the test?”

“Compromise — you get the takeout, I’ll start buying my own groceries.”

Kei frowns, telling him setting the table is compensation enough. If Nico didn’t come up to shop in his kitchen, Kei might as well be living alone again. The number of reliable faces he sees every day would drop to one, though maybe his own shouldn’t count.

A weeknight during a hot spell makes Main Street look like a ghost town, but the long Le Loup windows are glowing with a soft light. Kei waits in his car for a call back, so that he’s not wandering around in someone else’s territory. He can see the apartment building from where he’s parked. A night like this and a cold drink on that balcony was something special. Kei wonders if there’s any chance a night like that could be recreated. In a friendly way. Considering the old adage, never get back with your ex, that should be all he hopes for.

His order is ready. Kei shuffles across the street with his credit card ready. Inside it’s warm and tangy with a shot of sea air from the open door. Someone is singing happy birthday.

His eyes meet Fuma’s.

The three of them are sitting at a table, his mothers facing away, thank God, and Fuma is wearing a hat shaped like a birthday cake, complete with frosting and candles. He looks back at Kei, which is enough to stir Kei’s hope. Maybe he’s been overthinking this. Maybe a hello is okay. Maybe they can be friendly.

But Fuma’s eyes tighten, almost imperceptibly, his jaw locks.

It is a plea, conveyed with no words at all.

Kei takes his dinner and goes.

Chapter Text

Fuma takes his usual run that morning before his mothers have even woken up. The heat lifted last night, left the sky grey without that stinking haze, hot asphalt and marine corpses baking on the shore. The air is fresh and wet now. He breathes it in systematically, though it does not quite reach his lungs.

Last night they celebrated his birthday three months early, a frivolity that was hard for him to accept. (The hat was worse.) And by the end of the meal he felt older, the familiar melancholy of another lost year, another wrinkle, another unexplainable pain. For all he tries to preserve his health and vigour, age he does, and it does not bring perspective. Old enough to ache but too young for wisdom — what’s there to celebrate?

He’s going to tell them about Kei. This morning. As soon as he gets back.

Instead of a jog, it becomes a sprint. He’s practicing the words, realizing how seldom he’s said them out loud, still a shocking finality. Is this the last step he’s never surrendered to taking? Is this the step that’s kept him standing still, balancing on one foot? He bursts into the apartment, out of breath, finding his moms up and shuffling about in housecoats and slippers.

“I have to tell you something.”

But Mom, with a horrible anxious look, tells him, “Tiny Mei Myeong escaped. She’s gone.”

And his first thought is Thank God.

At a similar moment, Kei has got his phone out, flashlight shining, stinging his eyes in the black-out dark. A fitful sleep rumpled his sheets, scrunched all the feathers to one side of his pillow. The small canvas in his hand is one of many that he keeps in his closet, a painting of Fuma’s childhood home, the view from the backyard, the window that overlooked the sink. There are two murky figures through the glass, standing close; Kei wonders even now what they’re doing, sharing a joke, laughter, or a kiss after a long day, or a plea contained within one look, telling him not to come any closer.

His room smells like bisque, takeout containers still on his bedside.

He drops the painting in the empty spot next to him. Drawing his body painfully upright, he opens the curtains and the black-outs too, and the sun is up already. His day isn’t hectic, though the clutter in his brain lends that impression. He hobbles to the bathroom, turning the water on cold. A shock is what he needs. Then his day will unfurl from a euphoric state, or something.

He hears a faint ring through the spraying water.

He rushes downstairs, unconcerned with his ratty tee shirt and boxers. There’s a song of raindrops and gutter percussion, otherwise a quiet morning. Like a manifestation of Kei’s brooding, Fuma is outside his door, and Kei cannot help the way his heart leaps toward him. But just looking at his face, Kei knows something is wrong.

“Tiny Mei Myeong is missing.”

“What?”

Fuma is looking over Kei’s shoulder into the house. “You don’t have her in there?”

“No. Sorry.” Kei tries to collect himself. “You thought she’d be here?”

“I don’t know, we stayed here last time, maybe she remembered the way.” He patters down the steps. “I’m checking around the side.”

Kei looks quickly up and down the street and follows after him. Fuma is bent halfway over, checking the dry bushes along the fence, moving the old wooden lattice away from the crawl space and crouching into the mysterious hole, making kissy sounds.

“How old is she now?” Kei asks.

“Fourteen, I think. Christ, I don’t remember. I didn’t think she did anything anymore, never mind Houdini vanishing acts.”

“Where else have you looked?”

“I came right here.” He brushes off his knees. “My moms are going around town with treats now. They’re leaving tomorrow. I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen if we can’t find this cat.”

“You would’ve gotten her when you were still in high school.”

Fuma sighs as though the years press on his organs.

“Maybe she went home. To the old house.”

She was raised in that house, a tiny bungling kitten on wood floors, spending her days sleeping in sunlight and batting at slugs on the sidewalk. Fuma almost takes off running, but Kei tells him to wait.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Why?”

“In case she doesn’t want to be caught. Someone herds, someone grabs. Let me get some pants on. Or should I not…”

Fuma doesn’t have to be convinced, and Kei is speedy, rushing out of the house in jeans and a sweater, hair still bed-messy, face pillow-creased. They don’t run but walk hurriedly up into the Townsite calmness, unintentionally finding themselves on the same route they used to take to school. There is the retaining wall that Fuma used to walk like a miles-high tight rope, but he doesn’t now.

“So,” says Kei, “how has it been? The trip? Aside from this, I mean.”

“Well, relaxing. They came with so many plans, but all we’ve done is sit around, play games and go grocery shopping. Maybe they’re becoming more like me in their old age.”

“Sounds nice to me.”

“I’m not the best host.” He gestures somewhat in Kei’s direction. “You got us that tour of the mill.”

“That was boring.”

“They didn’t think so. The guide was—”

“A blowhard.”

“I was going to say ill-informed. But that was good, the adventure. I didn’t even take them out for supper.”

“They took you out.”

And there it is. Fuma sets his jaw, and Kei has straightened out to his full, stark height. The old house is coming up anyway, so they quicken their pace and bear the silence for another half-block.

Since a new family moved in, the Murata signs have been fading. The paint is new, sagging stairs fixed, lined with flower pots. There used to be a leaky hose that lay there in the yard, at once a problem and a reminder to fix the problem, and Tiny Mei Myeong would curl up in the centre like it was a nest for her keen-eyed neighbourly observations.

Now she’s sitting dejectedly outside the gate. Fuma releases a huge breath. She doesn’t even try to run as he lifts her into his arms. She must be tired from her pilgrimage.

Kei is looking up at the house.

“I don’t really come this way,” he says.

“I don’t either.”

Kei folds down onto the curb, long legs stretched out. His bedhead has settled into an unintentional coif that doesn’t look silly but pensive, like the artist that he is.

“I really tried not to bump into you,” he says. “I want you to know that.”

It’s embarrassing. Avoiding each other is one thing, but his parents too, people who have known them longer than they’ve been fighting, seeing only a fraction of town because of their territorial dispute. They hadn’t even come to see the house together.

“I hope it hasn’t been too awkward,” Kei says, “for them. I know it can be hard for in-laws, not that we were — anyway, I assumed staying away would be the right thing to do, so that’s what I did.”

Fuma sits on the curb next to him. The sun is reaching out over roofs and distant island curves, and Tiny Mei Myeong is half asleep in his arms. Fuma says, “I’m sorry. For the look I gave you in the restaurant.”

He was hoping Kei would be confused, say what look, but he just nods as though he understands.

“I don’t want to make them uncomfortable,” says Kei.

“You wouldn’t be making them—”

“They’ve got to have thoughts. About us, about me. It’s natural. And it was a long time ago, but… why shouldn’t they hate me for that?”

“Yudai…”

He shuts his eyes. “I know. Not your problem.”

“I never told them. About us breaking up.”

Kei loses height at that, like a skein unfurling from the inside. He looks at Fuma now, really. “Why not?”

Because I didn’t want it to be real.

Fuma doesn’t reply.

Kei stands then with crossed arms, the morning light on his face, warmth on a cold expression. “Christ.”

“You know how I am,” says Fuma.

“You don’t lie to your moms.”

“I don’t like to fail.”

“Fail?”

“You didn’t even tell your parents we were together.”

“No, what do you mean by that? I’m serious.”

The flick of Fuma’s chin somehow encompasses so much more than just the small distance between them.

“So you think we failed? That we were just a worthless mistake and disappointment?”

“Kei—”

“That’s a really fucking strange way to think about us.”

“Yeah, what do you think then?” Kei can recognize the look of Fuma shutting down, going cold. Sitting there with a cat in his arms, his voice like a brick wall between them.

“We did not fail. I don’t know what the fuck happened to us — but it was not worthless. And I don’t want to say to hell with it all because I was happy back then, okay? So stop all that shit.”

Fuma is frowning, muscles shifting in his jaw. He says down to the concrete, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. I know. I’m sorry too.”

“Don’t apologize—”

“I’ll apologize if I fucking want to.”

Fuma looks at him. His lip twitches up. Kei suppresses a smile, breathing out, palming his face. That’s one way to feel young again.

Tiny Mei Myeong stretches out, yawning.

“They don’t hate you, you know,” Fuma says. “They could never hate you. Really, they keep asking about you, what you’re up to.”

“That’s… nice.” Kei chews on his lip for a moment: “I could’ve pretended. If you let me in on it — played along, so it wouldn’t be awkward.”

“Are you serious?”

Kei shrugs, but they both know it would be plenty awkward. Fuma doesn’t want to lie anymore. He’s going to tell them the truth. Really this time.

When he finally gets the words out, they tell him they already know.

They’re in the car on the way to the airport, Mom driving, Coach riding in shotgun. Fuma is craning between the seats, speechless for a moment.

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since a little while. Take this next turn, dear.”

“I don’t understand.” Thank God he’s in the backseat. His face is probably red and grimacing. “How? Did someone tell you?”

“We guessed.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“Well, no, we were waiting for you to say it first. How insensitive do you think we are?” Mom winks in the rearview.

“What’s with all these roundabouts?” says Coach. “It’s like godforsaken bumper cars.”

“Aren’t you…?” And Fuma’s tone says the rest, the same tone he used when he spilled grape juice on the couch, or when he punched Koga Yohei in the mouth.

Coach turns constructively over her shoulder. “We aren’t angry, Fuma. Whatever you do to protect your heart is fine by us.”

“Kei and I….”

They wait for him to continue, but he starts over again.

“I don’t understand how you do it. You never fight. I’ve never even seen you annoyed. You set an impossible example. Not to blame you. But it’s impossible.”

He can see them both smiling in the reflection. Mom says, “You thinking we don’t fight means we did a good job hiding it. Let’s pat ourselves on the back. Well done us.”

“So you do fight.”

“Everybody fights.”

“When, what about?”

“Maybe we’re a bit more sparing than you and Kei were when it comes to bickering, but we have our irritants. When she complains about everything, for example.”

“And when she gets going on one of her righteous crusades,” says Coach.

“Oh yes, we’ve been rehashing that one for a while now.”

Fuma doesn’t know what to do with this. Of course his mothers fight. Of course they wouldn’t let him see it.

They are parked outside the departures now, unloading things from the trunk. Mom stops him, reaching up to brace her hands on his shoulders.

“Fuma, a person can’t hurt you if you don’t care. Underneath all that other nonsense, all that’s left is love, don’t you think?”

He blames his weeping on the emotional whirlpool of the departures gate. Mom’s crinkly eyes, Coach’s neck pillow.

Tiny Mei Myeong is asleep in her carrier.

Chapter Text

Euijoo decides he should get his announcement over in one go, so Yuma works it into the Team’s agenda.

They meet at the bleachers that overlook the baseball diamond. Jo is there, reluctantly, because Euijoo asked him to be. If they met at &Burger they could have at least gotten fries, Taki is thinking, and Nico regrets coming at all. Harua, under a parasol held by Maki, works with lightning-fast fingers to keep minutes as Yuma lays out the plot.

“Collaborating with the Murata moms didn’t really pan out, which sucks because we’re back to where we started, though now we know that Fuma never told them about the breakup. We could psychoanalyze that for hours—”

“Please don’t,” says Taki.

“But the simple fact of it speaks louder than words. As for next steps, the folk music festival is a good excuse to get them together somehow, though really I doubt either of them give a shit about folk considering that it sucks.”

“I like folk music,” says Euijoo.

Nico mutters, “You would.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“But there will be food stands,” Yuma continues, “which could draw Kei out of his house, and Fuma lives in the middle of it, so there’s a slight chance there too. For future plans, we’re workshopping a plan involving my neighbours’ one-year-old—”

“You’re bringing a baby into this?” Jo says, as though they’re discussing a ritual sacrifice.

“Calm down, you don’t trust Kei and Fuma to look after a baby? Real supportive, Jo.”

“I think the festival is a good opportunity,” says Harua. “I’ll try to figure out if Fuma is planning to go, and Nico can take care of Kei, right Nico?”

He is staring at the back of Euijoo’s head and answers with a monotone sure.

“His moms said something about taking him out for a birthday dinner,” Maki says. His arm is aching but he’s not putting down the parasol. “I wonder if that plan made any progress.”

“As if a plan that simple could bring them together.” Yuma checks the agenda. “I think that concludes Team business. The stage is yours, EJ.”

Taking it literally, Euijoo stands on the old wood-and-silver bleachers. “I’ve got an announcement.”

“Did your parents get the hint about the car you’ve been wanting?” says Maki.

“Well, no.”

“Did you reorganize the library again?” says Taki.

“No.”

“Will you finally let me do your nails?” Harua is rummaging in his backpack already.

“No, I’m making the announcement now—”

“Everybody shut up,” says Yuma, “he’s making the announcement now.”

Euijoo tugs at his sweater vest. His hair is an unusual type of round, Maki notes, like he combed it too much. Even under the sun, his skin is a bit pale, lips chewed-on and cracking. He says, “I wanted to tell all of you together that I… I’m planning to go somewhere.”

“&Burger?”

“No.” He takes a breath. “Koegawari City.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s a few hours away. My aunt lives there. She’s going to get me a job at the library and let me stay with her. For six months. Approximately.”

Taki’s jaw is hanging open. The nail polish falls out of Harua’s hand.

“You’re kidding.” Yuma laughs and then abruptly stops. “You’re kidding, right?”

Jo’s face is red, boiling emotion. Nico stares hard into the imperceptible distance.

“No,” Taki says. “You can’t go. You can’t break us up!”

“This is a fake-out.” Harua is holding Euijoo’s pant leg. “Set up for the airport-run — it’s just for tension!”

“Whatever.” Yuma leans back with his arms folded under his head. He’s all lisp and choking consonants, mouth full of metal, throat tied like a sailor’s knot. “Everybody leaves the Bay. Everybody leaves, period. The friend group never stays together.”

“Would you stop saying that?” says Euijoo. “Why is this all on me, what about Nico, he’s moving to Saikou—”

“He’s not doing that!” Taki shrieks. “He can’t even drive!”

“Hey,” Nico bites out, “I am so moving to Saikou! I’m the one breaking up the friend group, not him!”

“But you love the Bay,” Maki says, the biggest wettest eyes Euijoo has ever seen. “You love us. You love…”

Euijoo clears his throat and says, “Of course I love you guys, just put yourself in my shoes — it’s the perfect opportunity. I’d be an idiot to turn it down.”

Nico looks away again.

“We understand, Euijoo,” says Jo. “That sounds amazing. You shouldn’t be worrying about us.”

Harua releases his hold on Euijoo’s pant leg.

“Well,” Yuma says. “Anyone else have any announcements to make?”

“No.” Nico gets up. “Going home.”

Jo and Harua grab their bags too. The bleachers rattle and shake as they climb down, heading in separate directions. Maki runs after Nico.

“Hey, wait.” Maki stands in his path. “Did you know JuJu was moving away?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not trying to stop him?”

“Why would I try to do that?”

“He’s your best friend. Isn’t he?”

Nico gives him that scary look like a cat when your hand gets too close to its tummy. He brushes past, and Maki watches his friends scatter through the field. Only Taki is left on the bleachers, chewing on his hoodie string.

“This is bad,” he says. “This is really bad.”

Maki slumps down next to him. “I know.”

“What if Nico really does move away? We’ll be divided. Long-distance friendship. We’ll have to get &Burger on Zoom or something. Who’s next? Jo? Yuma? You?”

“I’m not leaving the Bay. I mean, unless Harua…”

Taki should have seen that coming. “Kei moved away once. I bet he regrets going to the trouble. What happened to us? We used to say we were going to live in one big house together for the rest of our lives.”

“I think that was mostly you.”

“You know, everybody’s trying to fix their romances, but who’s going to fix this relationship, huh? Who’s going to fix all this?”

“What would you even call that? Friend-trapping?”

Taki spits the string out of his mouth.

A friend trap.

But can he pull it off?

Chapter Text

Kei finds a certain kind of discipline in his art. The concentration of his body, leaning imperially over the defenceless canvas, every stroke quasi-mathematical in precision. When Fuma knocks on his door, Kei blinks up from that focussed state, the end-of-day mess as a backdrop.

“Hey,” says Kei.

“Hi. My moms made it home safely. Just so you know.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yeah.” Fuma wants to say I told them about us but doesn’t know how the conversation will unfold from there. Instead he says, “The folk music festival. They’re already setting up on Main.”

“I saw that too.”

“Are you going?”

Kei turns now, still holding his brush at a sixty-degree angle. “I might wander a bit. What about you?”

“I don’t know, I thought I’d watch from my balcony.”

“Ah. I’ll wave if I see you then.”

“I’ll wave back.”

Kei smiles, and Fuma taps the doorframe and leaves, wincing into his palms. ‘I’ll wave back’? Could he have said something more stupid?

Suddenly Harua is walking beside him. “Hi Coach!”

“Shit, where did you come from?”

“Going somewhere?”

“Baseball practice. Why aren’t you home?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the festival.”

Even a little bit of activity downtown is enough to fuel conversation a week in advance. As they pass through the gymnasium, Fuma grabs a cooler and Harua takes up the other side of it.

“I didn’t expect you to be a fan of folk music,” Fuma says.

“I don’t limit my musical horizons. We could go together, you know, get a lemonade, peruse the crowd.”

“No. Just watching for me.” As long as Kei is planning to wave. “You should go with Maki.”

“Maki, why would I go with Maki?” Harua curses himself internally. Now it sounds like they are going together, or like Harua is upset that they’re not. “Yeah, Maki will be there, everybody will be there. The point is, if you change your mind, I’ll be your buddy.”

They drop the cooler at the edge of the field where the league in their little sports outfits are in the middle of a game. Maki is, in a word, noticeable, his furry baseball cap several inches above the rest. There’s a loud crack and a ball launches into the sky, and below the players scramble and hop between bases, Maki sprinting out into the field. As the ball plummets like a meteorite and hits his glove, his body crashes into a chainlink fence, the velocity and steely wham making Harua panic and fumble for his phone, about to call an ambulance. But Maki just rolls his shoulder and flings the ball back across the field.

“Very good, Maki!” Fuma calls. Maki smiles, waving like he didn’t just do a superhero thing in front of their eyes. “Harua? You okay?”

Harua doesn’t admit that his heart is beating, in case Fuma will take that the wrong way too.

Meanwhile, leaning as close as he can to the fresh air, Jo mans the drive-thru window. No one has come through except a few raccoons, and now Nicholas, a box of condiment packets in his arms.

“Delivery truck just left. Me and the guys got it all into the walk-in. Need to stock up?”

Jo gathers a couple of handfuls and sorts them into red and yellow. “Thanks. How are you doing? Have you been thinking about it?”

“You know, even if it’s folk music, it’s still a festival — we don’t get many of those around here.”

Jo was talking about Euijoo’s announcement. “Right. The festival.”

“I wrote a few new acoustic songs. I’m thinking I’ll bring my guitar and find somewhere to play. Who says you have to be on the main stage?”

“Wow. That’s brave.”

Nico is leaning on the window sill, his rings clinking together. He looks kind of shy, though there’s bravado in his voice: “At some point an artist can’t keep creating in a vacuum. He’s got to get out there, so there’s no doubt that this is what he’s meant to do. You know what I mean?”

Jo hasn’t thought of it that way. He began drawing the very first day of high school, his first time in Kei’s class. Back then it was just a hobby, like basketball or video games. Then, slowly, it became the one thing in his life that that everything else revolved around. For years he’s tried to improve, wishing he could open his sketchbook and feel proud, and for years he’s doubted his abilities, poring over drawings that are never quite up to snuff.

An unbiased opinion. That’s what Jo needs, to settle this never-ending question.

He knows just where to get it.

Chapter Text

Taki manages to gather all his friends for the festival, but as soon as they arrive Yuma says, “Okay, let’s split up.”

Taki shouts “What?” over the crowd bustle and a banjo being plucked over an amplifier. Main Street is all dressed up with colourful tents and flags, the smell of overheating machines and fried dough in the air. There are headliners and a main stage, but there are buskers too, Nico notes, people with nothing but guitars, harmonicas and gusto, just like him.

“Everybody has their phones, right?” says Yuma. He’s wearing a cut-off hoodie and swim trunks, his bleached hair nearly transparent in the sun. “If anyone sees Kei or Fuma, text and we’ll try to steer them together.”

“Or,” Taki says, “we could get some food and listen to music?”

“Can’t,” Nico says, throwing a thumb back at his guitar. “I’m playing.”

“Oh, let’s all go watch Nico play!”

But Nico is already walking away, calling over his shoulder, “Catch you later.”

“I heard there are informational plaques scattered around with fun folk music facts,” Euijoo says, unfolding a brochure. “I’m going to find all of them.”

Taki says Jo’s name in a pleading tone and looks up with pleading eyes. Really, Jo did come looking for Kei — though not for duplicitous reasons. And while Jo appreciates Taki’s effort to bring the seven of them together, he doesn’t believe a trap-related issue can be solved with a trap-based solution. Eventually someone has to open the cage.

“I was thinking of getting something to drink,” says Harua, who looks vaguely rustic in overalls, a crop top and so many keychains. Maki says, “Hey, I’ll come with you,” at which Harua seems to develop a hairball and hastily walks away. Maki, who brought enough money for two lemonades, leaves the change in his pocket and decides Harua maybe just didn’t hear him.

“Taki,” says Yuma. “Are you not on board with this plan?”

“I just think it could be more… together.”

“We’ll cover more ground if we split up. All we’ve got to do is get them together, the romantic sound of — I don’t know, whatever that terrible sound is — will do the rest. Okay, Team, move out.”

They all disperse, leaving Taki calling, “Guys, wait! We could get a lemonade with seven straws! Come back!” But they don’t. When he turns around, only Euijoo is left.

“Want to look for fun folk music facts with me, Taki? If we find all of them we get a free guitar pick.”

Taki follows along, anxiously watching for Kei or Fuma or any familiar faces in the crowd. Even with all this excitement, they don’t talk about anything but the stupid parent trap. Even if they did have a moment of peace, all of them in harmony like the old days, Taki wouldn’t be able to enjoy it. Euijoo is moving away, no matter what Taki does, who they bring together, how many straws he’s got in his lemonade.

“Look at this,” says Euijoo, “this says the word ‘folk’ comes from the German word ‘volk,’ meaning ‘people.’”

“Will you at least come back on weekends?” Taki asks.

Euijoo looks at him, panicking slightly as he sees the despair on Taki’s face. “Nothing is going to change, Taki.”

“Nothing? Who’s going to read the instructions when we play board games? Who’s going to laugh at my jokes even when they’re bad? Who’s going to keep us in check?”

“Okay… some things are going to change. But it’s just for six months.”

“Unless you like it there and you want to stay forever. And I know that would be a good thing, that would mean you were happy there, but… life without you is only ninety-percent life, you know?”

Euijoo winces down at the boring plaque he’s pretending to read. He isn’t the bad guy here, but he sure feels like it. Is he making a mistake? Is he breaking up the friend group? He wishes he could tell them, I don’t want this either. But once he’s admitted it — to them, to himself — he isn’t sure what he would do from there.

“If you're going to move somewhere,” says Taki, “move to Saikou City with Nico. Then you’d be closer and you could visit together.”

“Nico,” Euijoo says, but doesn’t know how to continue. “He has his own dreams.”

“You can’t… co-dream?”

“I don’t think Nico’s dreams have any room for me.”

Nearby on a similarly busy corner, Nico’s heart is a single harsh beat plucked over and over again.

The spot in front of him is empty, high traffic, far enough from the stage that the music is unobtrusive. He can imagine sitting on the curb, one leg flat, the other bent to support his guitar, his calluses finding the corresponding chords, the deep sound strumming through him. It’s a good spot. But he just stands and imagines without getting any closer.

“Do you see him?” Yuma asks, suddenly behind Nico. “Fuma? Kei?”

Nico tugs on his guitar strap. “No. Just looking for somewhere to sit.”

“That spot looks good.” Yuma squints in the sun and points to some sort of electrical box up the street. “Or you could sit on that thing, get up high.”

He would definitely attract attention from up there. “I… don’t know.”

“What are you waiting for, an invitation on stage?”

“I just want a really good spot.”

“Cold feet?”

Nico repeats him in falsetto and marches away. Yuma is shouting watch out for you-know-who when he catches a glimpse of Kei — jeans, white button-up shirt, unconscionably tall, instantly recognizable. Yuma squeezes through the crowd, stupid tourists blocking his path, making him turn in circles.

Reorienting, Yuma sees his mom. Ruler-straight bob, the sundress she was modelling in the kitchen this morning — and her man-friend, Mr. Yoneda from the sports goods store, with that tackle-covered vest and a fishy air about him. They’re sharing an ice cream and giggling.

Yuma turns, heading the opposite direction. He lost Kei anyway.

Meanwhile, Maki is asking, “Do you think Harua is mad at me?”

He and Jo have stopped in a bit of awning shade, each with a fried pickle on a stick, observing the currents of food truck queues and bodies swaying to twangy melodies.

“I thought him asking me to Le Loup was proof that everything is okay, but something… awkward happened. I mean, it was weird, as in, crazy. I mean, it was awesome, but it might have been awkward for him. If he’s being weird around me because somehow he knows I…” Maki winces. It’s horrible because it’s possible. Reportedly he isn’t a whizz at keeping his emotions on the down-low. “It’s like Nico and JuJu.”

“How’s that?”

“Harua’s gone somewhere. And I feel like I’m being left behind.”

Jo turns, meeting Maki’s eyes. “Talk to him.”

Maki knows he should. But he’s afraid that if he asks the scary question, he’ll get a scary answer.

“Anyway,” says Maki. “I haven’t seen Kei yet. You probably wouldn’t say even if you did see him, huh, JoJo?”

“No, probably not. But I’m looking for Kei too, actually.”

“What for?”

“It’s kind of personal.” Jo feels the massive weight of his sketchbook in his backpack. “To be honest… I’m going to ask him to critique my drawings. My, er, portfolio. I assumed he had nothing to say because, well, he’s only ever said nice things. But maybe he has a lot of things to say.” Maybe one of them will give Jo the confidence to claim his dreams, just like Nico.

“Wow,” says Maki. “That takes some guts, asking Kei for the honest truth.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Kei is just such a great artist. And he sure can give constructive criticism — to me, at least. If you were asking for it…”

Jo swallows. Kei is the best artist he’s ever known. If Jo gave him something and he hated it and thought it was terrible and worthless, Jo might as well just get on the next ferry and disappear forever.

Maybe all of Yuma’s scheming is getting to his head. As he sees Harua stomping through the crowd, Jo works out a plan.

Harua, meanwhile, with no sightings of Kei or Fuma, tries looking one last place. Unfortunately it pays off.

Fuma is sitting on his balcony, face expressionless under the shade of a visor. Harua calls up from the sidewalk, “Coach! What are you doing?”

Fuma looks down over the railing. “Enjoying the festival, what are you doing?”

Such a homebody. “Come get a lemonade with me.”

“Where are your friends?”

“I don’t know, I lost them.” Maki seems to be everywhere he looks, a baseball cap over shiny black hair, pouting with those stupid gorgeous soft-looking lips what the fuck is wrong with him? “You really don’t want to look around?”

“I’m fine up here.” Fuma has a seltzer on the rocks, an unsullied personal space, and a perfect view of the crowd. He could even watch the stage if he wanted to, a couple herby-looking twenty-somethings swaying with string instruments, though he doesn’t. Just searches the crowd and waits. “Go find your friends. I saw Nico heading that way toward the beach. I think I saw Maki nearby too.”

Harua frowns and loiters like a lost kid. Fuma doesn’t know exactly what he’s thinking, but can appreciate the slightly wretched air to his hesitation. Fuma calls down, “You can come up, if you get tired of it down there.”

“Well… I did forget to wear sunscreen.”

Harua appears a moment later through Fuma’s front door, grabbing a seltzer from the fridge. He unfolds the second chair, and Fuma hands him the sunscreen, saying, “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” Harua leans forward on the railing, arms crossed under his chin. “Not yet.”

Kei, standing on the street below, sees Harua there on Fuma’s balcony, and decides not to wave after all.

He falls back in the crowd, looking for something spiked or sugary to drink. It’s a hot day, sun like a spotlight following his every step. Kei could have said hi to both of them. The thing is, he had been toying with the idea of saying more than just hi, and Harua being there made Kei somewhat shy.

He was probably getting carried away anyway.

Turning a corner, Kei sees Taki sitting by himself on the curb. He’s a sight for sore eyes, a frazzle of black hair, chewing on a baggie of cinnamon-sugar donut holes. Kei sits next to him, stealing the dough ball out of his hand.

“Oh — uh — Mr. Kei.”

“Good turn-out, huh? Birds are singing, everybody looks happy. Where are the others?”

“I don’t know. Yuma went kind of that way, and Euijoo went home early…”

Now that Kei is paying attention, Taki doesn’t look all that cheerful — wilted, floppy-eared. Kei asks what happened.

“Euijoo is going away later this summer. Maybe forever. And…” Taki looks up at Kei, knowing he can’t say everything, but unable to stop himself: “I just wish nothing good ever had to end. You know?”

Kei knows. He ruffles Taki’s hair and suggests browsing food trucks. He is low on advice, already disillusioned without dwelling on Taki’s young life, all the grief he’ll experience, all the ways it will alter him, harden him. Kei has a few more losses under his belt. He knows when to let something be lost.

He also knows when he’s not willing to let go.

The festival is over then; Fuma can hear the squealing feedback and generators fading, the quiet blissful and suddenly very… quiet. He sits on the couch, Harua gone now, seltzer buzz worn off. He waited out there for hours. It might not feel so foolish if he had in fact been waiting for something. Something beneficial or integral or life-altering. In the end, he finds himself on this couch either way.

There is a knock on the door. It’s Kei.

“Hi,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve got other plans, but I was wondering if you wanted to hang out and pretend it’s not awkward again?”

“Oh. Yes. Sure. Do you want to…?”

“Walk?”

“Okay.” And Fuma grabs his keys.

The sun is setting. The street has cleared except for volunteers gathering cords and sandwich boards. Fuma says, “I didn’t see you today.” Which is unsalvageable once it’s out, try as he may: “Though I was only out watching for a little while. People-watching, I mean.”

“I came late.”

“Ah.”

“Then I saw you with Harua and I didn’t want to interrupt. Maybe he was telling you something interesting, an update in the Haru-Maki saga.”

Fuma walks easier with the change in topic. “Not sure how they would feel knowing you’ve made them into a portmanteau. And anyway, I don’t think they’ve worked things out yet. Harua seemed… unsettled.”

“Oh God, what happened now? I’m starting to doubt my own eyes. Were they really at Le Loup or was I snooping on some random young couple?”

“These things are complicated.”

“Well yes, we know that, don’t we?”

Fuma looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Is that something we do now? Offhand references?”

“I suppose so. Ice cream?”

They’re outside the shop. Fuma says no, of course, so Kei comes back out with one cone, a fruity sticky mess, already melting. He licks his wrist. “Want a bite?”

Fuma says, “No.”

The air is warm and salty. The evening ferry is just leaving as they walk along the wall of blackberry bushes. Kei says absently, “They should just get it over with. They could still have a summer romance.”

“Is the season important to romance?”

“It’s a formative thing. They’ll never forget these years, not in their bones.”

“People our age—”

“I don’t like this already.”

“We can’t live vicariously through them. You never did have a summer romance.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Did you?”

“Well, no. Touché. Thank you for reining me in. And anyway, I got to live vicariously through my brother. When I was twelve he took out some girl from his class, brought her chocolates. I thought that was the most romantic thing in the world back then.”

Fuma doesn’t respond, the mention of Koga Yohei hardening over his chest. They’re at the beach now, stepping through the brambly gap, but a sound makes them both stop. A folksy tune played on well-worn guitar strings, a dry percussion like a boot on driftwood. Lyrics, half mumbled, unaware of their presence.

They both peek around the bush. Nicholas is playing there alone, singing to the seaweed and sand hoppers.

They back away, Kei saying, “Euijoo is leaving this summer. Imagine wanting so badly to try your luck in the city, then your best friend ends up moving away first.”

“Can’t help that Nico is from the Townsite.”

Kei tilts his head as though he doesn’t see the correlation. Fuma swallows his preaching: Would Nico still be living in the Bay if he was born with money to spare? Skills, spunk, style — isn’t capital all he’s missing?

Fuma knows what it feels like.

An idea takes shape.