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Tokyo has always been relentless, its rhythm fast, unyielding.
Cars blur by in narrow lanes, headlights smearing across slick asphalt as horns bleat somewhere in the distance. The air smells faintly of exhaust and vending machine coffee.
Ayanokouji adjusts the strap of his bag, shifting it higher onto his shoulder as he weaves through the crowd. Neon signage flickers overhead. Businessmen brush past with murmured apologies, students chatter nearby in bursts of laughter, and the low hum of the city settles into his bones.
He doesn't rush.
There's no need to.
The winter chill threads through the gaps in his coat, numbing his fingers. He flexes them once, more out of habit than discomfort.
The station clock reads 4:21 PM when he finally reaches the meeting spot.
She's already there.
"You're late," Horikita says, arms crossed, her breath forming a faint cloud in the air. Her voice hasn't changed, still crisp, still measured, but there's less bite in it now. Less expectations of disappointment.
He supposes that it has to count for something.
Ayanokouji lifts his hand in a loose wave. "Traffic."
"You don't drive."
"I never said I did."
She gives him a dry look from behind her scarf.
Her coat's darker this time—black, lined with silver zippers. A subtle change. He notices the way she stands, a little less guarded than she used to be.
"You cut your hair," he says.
She glances at him, brushing a strand behind her ear. "It's been this length for a while."
"Still new to me."
That earns him a look, one of those faintly exasperated ones that never quite reach irritation.
Technically, it was an obvious statement. But he's never been above stating the obvious, especially when it serves a purpose. Or even when it doesn't..
They fall into step without discussing where they're going. The silence between them is comfortable, filled with the quiet clatter of footsteps and the low thrum of the city around them.
"You came earlier than I expected," Ayanokouji says eventually, eyes still fixed forward. "Didn't think you'd bother."
He doesn't look at her, but he can already imagine the slight narrowing of her eyes. The one that says try me without ever needing the words.
Still, she doesn't bite.
Yet...
"Karuizawa organized it. She said the whole group would be there."
"So you were guilt-tripped," he murmurs, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
He continues avoiding eye contact, which was a smart move on his part.
Anything more expressive and she'd have every right to verbally incinerate him on the spot.
He also resists the urge to say, And you caved? How very un-Horikita of you.
He knows better than to court death via commentary.
Despite all these years, the very image of that spiked disciplinary committee moral compass still manages to haunt some neglected corner of his nightmares.
Horikita may have relaxed her posture over time, but he's never been deluded enough to think the blade got dull.
"She used the phrase 'social obligation,'" Horikita says, glancing at him like she's waiting to see if he'll flinch. "I imagine that resonates with you."
Ayanokouji's mouth tilts—not quite a smile, but something faintly sardonic.
He hums, low and noncommittal. "In a way. But I wouldn't have come if I didn't want to."
She scoffs lightly, "You wanted to come to a reunion? You?" She raises an eyebrow. "Don't think I've already forgotten what happened last year."
"Well," he says, hands slipping into his coat pockets, "maybe this time I was curious how everyone turned out."
She gives him a look.
"Or," he continues, "maybe I just didn't have anything better to do."
Both were true.
Neither were the full truth.
But it was enough to move the conversation forward.
Horikita raises a perfectly skeptical eyebrow. "So we're Plan B."
"You're being generous," he replies dryly. "More like Plan C."
That earns him the trademark Ice Princess deadpan, polished, practiced, and approximately 3% warmer than it used to be.
He wonders, idly, if she knows that.
As they turn the corner, the familiar glow of the café spills out onto the sidewalk. The windows are fogged with heat and the blurred silhouettes of people inside. There's a hum of conversation that leaks into the street when Ayanokouji opens the door.
He holds it for Horikita. She pauses, arching a brow at him, not quite surprised, but visibly weighing whether to interpret it as sarcasm, politeness, or a third option she hasn't named yet.
He doesn't clarify.
She steps in first. The warm air catches in her hair, softens the edges of her expression as she shrugs off the cold.
Inside, the café is already loud.
Too loud.
Not in volume, necessarily, but in the way the sound scatters. Overlapping conversations, chairs scraping against old tile, the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter.
It's the same kind of noise from school days, the kind that fills rooms faster than thought, makes people speak just a little too loudly in an effort to matter.
Karuizawa's voice rises over the others, already too animated, her laughter tumbling over itself. Ichinose is mid-sentence, grinning as she gestures wildly with a half-finished matcha latte. Sudo is loudly claiming something about "back in first year," pounding the table for emphasis while Hirata, ever the diplomat, politely tries to redirect the conversation into calmer territory. Kushida's voice floats over all of it, smooth, honeyed, unbothered, as she chats with someone near the back.
Horikita pauses for a moment just past the doorway, taking in the scene. Ayanokouji watches her, just long enough to catch the subtle shift in her posture—a hesitation she masks quickly, as always.
She still doesn't like crowds.
He can relate.
Then, somewhere in the background, someone calls out, Sudo, probably, loud and half-joking:
"Oi! Took you two long enough! What, get lost on the way?"
Karuizawa turns at the sound, her eyes lighting up when she spots them. "Horikita! Ayanokouji! Over here!" She waves with both hands, exaggerated and cheerful. "We saved seats!"
He steps in behind Horikita, tucking his hands in his coat pockets again, offering the faintest nod in response, enough to acknowledge, not enough to invite more.
He slides into the nearest open seat without fuss, settling in like he's done this a thousand times. Horikita lingers just a moment longer, scanning the table, faces she knows, conversations she remembers, dynamics that haven't shifted as much as they probably should've.
Some people really do just revert to type the second they sit around a table again.
Then she sits beside him, her coat brushing against his sleeve before she neatly folds it across her lap. The proximity is incidental, she's always precise with space, but he notices the way her elbow hovers just far enough not to touch his.
The lighting is soft, dim gold spilling from low-hanging bulbs above, catching on the sheen of ceramic cups and glass jars behind the counter. The air smells like cinnamon, coffee beans, and faint traces of vanilla syrup.
Someone's drink is steaming on the table, untouched. Probably Ichinose's—she talks too much to remember to drink anything before it cools.
Horikita shifts beside him, crossing one leg over the other. "This was your idea of curiosity?" she murmurs, voice low enough for only him to hear.
"It's like a field observation," he replies without looking at her. "Habits, behavior, small talk...I'm collecting data."
She gives him a look. "You're not funny."
"I wasn't trying to be."
Kushida notices them then. Her eyes flick toward Ayanokouji with a smile that doesn't quite reach her lashes. "It's been a while, Ayanokouji-kun," she says, tilting her head. "I almost forgot how quiet you are."
"I didn't," Horikita mutters.
Laughter bubbles from Karuizawa's side of the table again, this time from Ichinose, who greets them both like nothing's changed. And maybe, in some odd way, it hasn't.
"We all already ordered," Karuizawa says brightly, cheeks flushed with warmth or caffeine; it's hard to tell. "You two can get yours now, and then we'll set off!"
"Set off?" Ayanokouji echoes, eyebrow raised.
"For shopping," Karuizawa says, as if it's obvious. "Then we'll go to the shrine, remember? It's New Year's Eve."
"Shopping before the shrine?" Horikita asks, frowning. "That's the reverse of how it's usually done."
"Tradition's flexible," Ichinose chimes in with a grin. "Besides, this way we get to avoid the post-midnight rush at the shops that happened last year."
Ayanokouji nods as if that's reasonable, mostly because it spares him the effort of disagreeing.
"Should I order something?" Horikita asks from beside him, her tone flat, neutral.
He glances at the overhead menu. "Up to you. But I'd recommend something warm. It's only going to get colder outside."
Horikita huffs, unimpressed by the suggestion. "I'm aware," she mutters, stepping toward the register with the same measured stride she uses for everything. Her eyes scan the chalkboard menu above, narrowing in on the most efficient, least fussy option. Her expression is taut, lips pressed into something dangerously close to a frown.
He stays behind, hands in his coat pockets, gaze idly drifting over the others.
They're laughing. Loudly. Faces flushed from the cold and conversation, cheeks tinged pink either from winter or sentiment.
It's strange, he thinks, how these outings serve no real purpose, not in the technical sense. No goal, no advantage. Just people, foolish, warm, unguarded, trying to recapture something they never had the words for when it was right in front of them.
And yet, something about it, about sitting there, the cold creeping past his sleeves, the low murmur of memory reanimating in real time, feels less irrelevant than it should.
Maybe that's the point, he thinks.
To feel something pointless.
To remember how.
That's when someone calls out.
"Ayanokouji! Man, it is you." Sudo's voice barrels in, too loud for the space. He claps a hand on Ayanokouji's shoulder like they're teammates who've kept in touch. "Didn't think you'd show up. What, finally crawling out of that lone-wolf act?"
Ayanokouji offers a noncommittal shrug. "Something like that."
Not technically wrong. It did involve a certain amount of crawling.
"It's weird, right?" Ichinose cuts in, walking over with her drink in one hand and a knit beanie in the other. "Seeing everyone like this again. Kinda feels like a school trip."
"Without the exams afterward," Karuizawa adds, sidling up beside Ichinose with a grin. "Thank God."
Hirata chuckles softly, standing just behind them. "It's nice, though. Catching up. We don't get chances like this often."
Ayanokouji nods faintly, letting their words pass through him like background noise.
Chances, he thinks.
People talk about them like they’re freely given. Like time is something that waits, like people will always be around when you’re ready. They say things like we should catch up more or let’s not wait so long next time.
They’re lucky, he thinks, not with bitterness but as a simple fact.
"Hey, is that Kanzaki? You made it?"
Sure enough, Kanzaki walks in, slightly windblown from the cold, his coat neat and collar crisp.
From another table, Shibata waves over, already in the middle of a too-loud story involving track practice, Sudo, and a snowball mishap he may or may not be embellishing. Hashimoto laughs at the punchline even though it isn't funny.
"Man, I still remember when we thought you were some kind of silent genius," he says to Ayanokouji, grin sharp, familiar in its half-mocking, half-intrigued tone. "Guess that turned out to be true."
"You say that like it's past tense," Hiyori says as she walks over with a small smile and a book still tucked under her arm, like she came straight from a quiet bookstore somewhere. "He's probably still ten steps ahead of us. Isn't that right, Ayanokouji-kun?"
Ayanokouji tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking toward her.
"Doubt it," he says, voice even. "I haven't been counting lately."
It's the kind of answer that sounds humble, maybe even self-deprecating.
Hashimoto smirks, leaning back in his chair. "See? That's exactly what I mean. Guy talks like he's just here for the ride, but everyone knows better."
"Speak for yourself," Kamuro mutters from the edge of the group, arms folded tightly over her jacket as she nurses a drink. She's not looking at anyone directly, but her voice carries just enough disinterest to register as deliberate.
Ayanokouji looks out the foggy window.
Outside, the city is a blur of frost and passing headlights, snowflakes clinging to the glass like a slow, silent reminder of time moving forward. Of asking what was next, of answering everyone's goals and intentions that they had for this new year.
Did he have anything to look forward to this year?
This spring?
Summer?
Fall?
Would next winter look any different from this one?
He doesn't have an answer.
Not one that matters.
Sakayanagi doesn't show, of course.
Kamuro is seated on the periphery, sipping something hot and looking vaguely uncomfortable, like she doesn't know why she agreed to come. Ichika Amasawa breezes by the group, throws a wink in Ayanokouji's direction, and then disappears into a different conversation entirely.
"Honestly, I'm surprised we're all in the same room without someone starting a rivalry again," Ishizaki says as he leans against the wall. "Feels like someone should be plotting something."
A friend laughs, nudging him. "Old habits die hard."
Someone mentions Ryuen, and there's immediate speculation about whether he was invited at all. A few people glance toward the door, half expecting him to kick it open.
He doesn't show either.
Nagumo's name floats around briefly; someone saw him in a magazine recently. Student Council President turned corporate intern prodigy. A few chuckles, a few eye rolls.
None of it really touches Ayanokouji. He stands among them but still slightly apart, listening, cataloging, letting the noise wrap around him like a loose scarf.
He almost forgets Horikita's ordering until she returns, shoulders squared, two drinks in hand, one of which she sets in front of him without a word.
He looks down at it. "You ordered for me?"
"You were busy," she says simply, sliding into her seat. "I assumed you'd get the same thing as before."
From when they were in school?
He hadn't thought she'd remember.
"I didn't know you noticed."
"Don't act like you're special."
But she looks out the window after she says it, and there's something a little softer in the line of her expression.
Ayanokouji lifts the cup to his lips.
It's warm.
Around him, the din of conversation swells and dips like waves. Matsushita is recounting something about a university club mixer, her voice animated, while Hashimoto interjects with dry commentary. Sakayanagi's name comes up again—someone heard she's overseas now, in some elite grad program, and everyone makes varying noises of interest or disbelief.
They're older, Ayanokouji thinks, not dramatically, but in the way laughter is quieter, smiles sit longer, and even old rivalries dull around the edges. Like time has softened the corners of who they used to be.
More conversation comes up with what each of them was doing.
Karuizawa was pursuing fashion marketing now, something she says with a half-laugh and a roll of her eyes like she's daring anyone to judge her. Ichinose is working in community outreach, the kind of job that still reflects the same stubborn optimism she once wore like armor.
"I'm working part-time at a law firm," Horikita says eventually. It's casual, but it earns a few surprised glances.
"Didn't think you'd go that route," someone says.
Horikita's gaze stays steady. "It's practical."
Ayanokouji hums into his drink, something low and inaudible.
Practical.
He remembers her saying that about study groups, back when she wouldn't admit they were friends. Back when they met at that cramped café outside school grounds to talk about final exams over cheap coffee neither of them liked. He remembers how she always ordered for herself, and, after a while, for him too. No questions asked. Just two cups, one always sliding across the table with the same subtle gesture she used tonight.
Maybe it wasn't surprising that she remembered.
Maybe it was surprising he did.
He glances sideways.
Resolutions are shared next, soft promises made aloud as if voicing them will make them last:
Hirata wants to slow down.
Hashimoto jokes he's going to give up caffeine.
Kamuro mutters something about finally learning how to sleep before 2 AM.
Resolutions that were most likely prone to fall apart by next week.
Nevertheless, there's an earnestness to it all. An unspoken thread of something they're all trying to hold on to—connection, maybe. A sense of direction. Or simply the right to want something more, even if the shape of that "more" keeps shifting.
And it feels...
He doesn't finish the thought.
The group slowly trickles out of the café, spilling onto the sidewalk in pairs and small clusters. The sun is already beginning to dip lower, casting a soft amber light across the pavement.
Breath fogs in the cold.
They split off naturally, old habits, old friendships.
Kei's arm links with Ibuki's in a way that's too practiced to be recent, and she pulls Horikita with her, talking about a winter coat store nearby that's doing a clearance sale. Horikita hesitates, just slightly, before being pulled along.
Her expression is unreadable, but she follows.
Ichinose walks with Chihiro, both of them laughing at something Kamuro mutters behind them. Hashimoto slings a hand into his pockets, strolling just far enough behind them that it looks intentional.
Ayanokouji ends up beside Yukimura, an old classmate and friend, who launches into a recount of his job in finance, "absurd hierarchy," "paper pushing," "middle management politics," as they navigate the crosswalk. Ayanokouji listens with half an ear, nodding at the right beats, but his eyes drift.
"...and my manager still doesn't know how to forward an email thread," Yukimura mutters, pushing open the door to a small shop tucked just off the main street.
A bell chimes as they enter.
The shop is warm, filled with soft light and the faint scent of cedar and fabric softener. Shelves display folded scarves, mugs with minimalist designs, stationery sets, and canvas bags with abstract prints. It's a quiet kind of store, seasonal, curated.
"Figured I'd pick up something for my sister," Yukimura says, already veering toward a shelf of candles. "You'd think after all these years I'd know what she wants, but..."
Ayanokouji hums, noncommittal, letting the words fade behind him.
He walks around, browsing displays half-heartedly, seasonal shelves of planners, novelty pens, curated books with hollow promises about self-improvement and "finding yourself this year."
His hand brushes the edge of a notebook, linen cover, pale gray-blue. The kind Horikita might use. Clean lines, no frills. Practical. Focused.
He flips through it absently, pretending to read the pages while his thoughts spiral elsewhere.
Resolutions.
Goals.
A better version of yourself.
They're all just iterations of control, aren't they?
He wonders what Horikita wrote in hers, if anything.
He wonders if she still uses one at all.
'...I'd pick up something for my sister.'
He pauses briefly.
Did people buy gifts for others for New Year's?
He supposed it was common enough. A gesture of gratitude.
He never had much reason to.
He closed the notebook as he looked around.
His gaze drifts to a display of gloves. Simple. Elegant. He can almost picture a certain someone frowning at the idea, claiming they has perfectly serviceable ones already.
He sets the notebook down, still listening to Yukimura's voice vaguely in the background.
A woman behind the counter gives him a practiced retail smile. "Looking for a gift?"
"Something like that," he replies.
He doesn't elaborate.
She glances at the gloves he's eyeing. "That style's unisex. Lined with cashmere."
He nods, filing the information away, but doesn't reach for them. Instead, he turns back toward the other side of the store, running a thumb along a shelf of pens and fine-line markers.
Behind him, the murmur of Yukimura and someone from Class C continues—something about year-end bonuses and asinine office party etiquette. Ayanokouji lets it fade into the ambient hum of the store, quiet jazz, and the soft rustle of coats being tried on, shelves being restocked.
In his head, he hears it: the shape of a conversation that hasn't happened yet, but probably will.
"They have cashmere gloves."
"I have gloves."
"Right," he'd say. "But do they have cashmere?"
"They're decent," she would mutter.
"High praise," he'd reply.
"I didn't say I was buying them."
"No," he would agree. "You didn't."
There would be a beat after that. The kind that feels like someone walked past and left a draft behind. And then, maybe, she'd reach for them anyway. Or maybe not. Either way, she wouldn't expect him to.
So he does the most logical thing.
He buys them.
Just a simple fold of the packaging into the rest of his items, some fine-line pens, a warm drink packet, and a sleek notebook.
By the time he's done, the others are filtering out of the shop in twos and threes again, some arguing about which street leads fastest to the shrine, others stopping to pose for a quick photo beneath the glowing winter display in the window.
Ayanokouji slips the small bag containing the glove into his coat pocket while he carries the other things he bought in another.
Cold weather.
That's all, he tells himself.
He leaves the store quietly, glancing up at the sky as pale flakes begin to drift down again. The city is a blur of snow-dusted awnings and muted holiday lights. Cars and bicycles begin to thin from the streets, people retreating indoors.
Yukimura says something—half-laughing, half-complaining about the wind and how it always finds the gap in your scarf, but Ayanokouji doesn't fully catch it. His gaze lingers on the streak of lights reflecting in the puddles, the flicker of red from a passing bus, and the way the noise of the street seems to fall away, just slightly, under the hush of falling snow.
When they all meet again near a plaza, he spots her immediately from the crowd they were quickly forming in the middle of the street.
Horikita has two bags in hand, neutral-toned, clean designs. Her brows are slightly furrowed, not at anyone, just at the weight of having made choices.
"Impulse buys?" Ayanokouji asks as she approaches.
"They were on sale."
He takes one of the bags from her without asking. The motion is so casual that it doesn't register right away. She watches, the furrow of her brow shifting into something closer to suspicion, or maybe confusion.
Then she says nothing.
"Let's all head to the shrine before it gets too crowded!" Ichinose calls out from nearby, her voice light and insistent, breath puffing in the cold. She's already a few steps ahead, bundled in a thick scarf, hand raised as if to rally the others.
"Ah, but a photo next to the lantern display first! We do one every year!" someone, likely Shibata, calls after her, phone already in hand, camera app open.
There's a ripple of protest and laughter.
Kushida claps her hands together, mock-pleading. "Come on, just one! It's tradition!"
"Doesn't it take something like twenty years before it qualifies as a tradition?" someone muttered.
"Details, details," Ibuki cut in, suddenly appearing beside Horikita with a paper bag of roasted chestnuts in hand. "Cultural continuity starts somewhere."
The group began drifting toward the lanterns, corralling each other into a loose cluster. Voices overlapped in teasing complaints and overcomplicated arguments about angles, light, and who should stand where.
"Don't forget to make a silly face this time," Kei grinned at Hirata, nudging him with her elbow.
"Do I ever?" Hirata replied as he blew warm air into his stiff fingers. His smile hadn't changed, still gentle, still easy.
Ayanokouji lingered a few steps behind, his hands in his pockets. Horikita remained beside him, equally still.
"You know you could join them," he said, watching her sidelong. His tone was mild, almost indifferent.
Horikita didn't look at him. "I could," she replied. "The question is whether I should."
Ayanokouji considered that. "Profound," he murmured. "Very Nietzsche. Or was it Schopenhauer?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't be insufferable."
Ibuki popped up again, munching on a chestnut. "Don't overthink it, princess," she drawled, elbowing Horikita lightly. "It's a photo, not a marriage proposal."
"At the rate you're all arguing," Horikita shoots back, though it breaks her normally cool expression for a moment, "it might take that long anyway."
A few chuckles followed. Even Kei snorted.
Eventually, they settle into a somewhat lopsided formation in front of the lanterns. Ayanokouji ends up near the edge, next to Horikita, who reluctantly moves into place beside him.
He holds up a hand, half-raising it as if to wave, or maybe to keep the camera from catching too much of him.
Still, he was fairly confident the picture would turn out fine this time.
He'd had practice since those early high school days, those lifeless yearbook shots where he looked like someone had dragged him from a sleep study mid-REM cycle. Back then, Horikita had commented on his resemblance to a ghost haunting the school cafeteria.
He'd get it right this time.
"Try not to look like you're being held hostage," Horikita mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to catch.
Caught off guard, Ayanokouji blinks.
Click.
When Kushida—who had propped up her phone on a little stand she apparently carries everywhere—ran up to check the photo, she frowned. "Hey, Ayanokouji, why did you blink!?"
That earned a round of groans and half-hearted complaints from the group.
Hirata winced. Ibuki rolled her eyes.
Ayanokouji stared at the phone screen in silence.
"..."
Then, dryly, "That wasn't fair."
Horikita tilts her head slightly toward him.
"I didn't tell you to blink."
There was a faint curl at the corner of her mouth. Almost a smile.
Right.
.
.
.
The shrine is lit with warm lanterns that flicker in the snow. Beneath their feet, the steps are half-frozen, a slick mosaic of gravel, ice, and bad footing. Breath clouds rise in puffs as they exhale.
Ayanokouji had read up on the shrine customs the night before. Not because he was particularly invested in tradition, but because social camouflage tended to work better when you didn't bow at the wrong time.
Bow twice. Clap twice. Make a wish. Bow once more. Elementary pattern recognition.
He'd never actually been to a shrine for New Year's—or celebrated the day in any real sense. A waste of time, he would've called it a few years ago.
A place brimming with statistically insignificant hopes.
He still kind of thought that. But now here he was, standing in line among classmates with cold toes and unremarkable aspirations, pretending not to overthink the placement of his hands.
They wait in lines of twos, shifting from foot to foot to keep warm, hands tucked into coat pockets or hidden under scarves. Somewhere ahead, the muffled thump of a ceremonial drum pulses through the air, barely audible beneath the murmurs of the crowd and the soft hiss of wind pushing through pine branches.
"It's colder than last year," Shibata mutters, rubbing his hands together. His breath curls upward like lazy smoke.
"Maybe you just forgot how winter works," Ibuki replies, flatly, tearing open another bag of roasted chestnuts with all the delicacy of a wild raccoon. She doesn't offer to share. Of course.
Horikita stands just ahead, eyes on the shrine steps, posture straight despite the cold.
When it's finally his turn, Ayanokouji moves forward, offering the coin and going through the motions. He doesn't hesitate, not even for a second. Two bows. Two claps. One more bow. Crisp, efficient. Flawless execution.
If someone were grading it, he'd get full marks. Maybe even a bonus point for posture.
Horikita is still there when he opens his eyes, lingering longer than the average visitor. She stands a little off-center, breath fogging in faint intervals, eyes lowered just enough to suggest introspection, but not enough to confirm it.
He approaches her quietly.
"Did you wish for student council power again?" His voice carries a faint lilt of irony, nearly buried beneath his usual monotone.
Horikita shoots him a sideways glance, her breath curling faintly in the cold. "Do you take me for a child?"
"You were standing there long enough," he replies. "I figured you added a backup wish. Or two."
She exhales through her nose, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Not everything is as shallow as you think it is."
Ayanokouji tilts his head, eyes scanning the side of her face. His expression doesn't shift. "No," he says mildly. "Just most things."
A pause follows. The shrine bell rings again in the distance, low and resonant, briefly louder than the murmur of visitors, the occasional crunch of snow underfoot.
They stand there for a few moments longer, the hush between them more companionable than cold.
Then he notices.
"Your hands are red," Ayanokouji says mildly.
Horikita blinks, caught off guard, before shoving them into her coat pockets. "They're fine."
"Right," he says dryly. "And I'm Santa Claus."
She huffs and turns slightly, looking toward Shibata and Ibuki, who are now arguing over their omikuji results, both of them inexplicably thrilled about receiving "small blessings," like that was some kind of win.
"Ayanokouji, you are honestly—"
"Here."
She turns back to him, blinking again.
The scene felt oddly familiar.
"Hm?"
His expression remains unreadable, somewhere between bored and vaguely inconvenienced. But his hand is raised, holding out a small paper bag with neatly folded handles.
Horikita's eyes flick between it and his outstretched hand.
She narrows her eyes slightly. "You bought something for me?"
He tilts his head, sighing—just barely. "You sound as if I handed you a severed head."
She scoffs, arms still stiff at her sides. "You're not exactly the gift-giving type."
"And yet here we are," he replies, deadpan, holding the bag a little higher like it's some sort of exhibit.
She eyes him for a second longer, as if searching for the catch, but takes the bag anyway, unrolling the top and peeking inside.
Her fingers brush something soft.
She pulls out the gloves.
"Cashmere?" she asks, slightly incredulous.
"I spotted them when we were all shopping. Figured you'd be too stubborn to buy them for yourself."
She's silent for a beat, the gloves still in her hands.
Then: "So your idea of generosity is stealth-preempting my poor decisions?"
"That, or I just got tired of watching you freeze to death out of pride."
"When you give a gift," she mutters, sliding one glove halfway on, "you're not supposed to insult the recipient in the same breath."
Ayanokouji shrugs. "I tried. No refunds."
He watches her quietly, noting how she pauses, briefly inspecting the stitching, pressing the fabric between her fingers like she's testing its sincerity.
Ah. Maybe he should've bought the gray ones instead. Less chance of her overanalyzing the choice.
But then, she pulls them on fully. Flexes her fingers once. Then twice. Testing the give of the lining, the way the fabric settles.
"They're not bad," she says at last.
It's faint praise. Minimalist, even. But from Horikita, that might as well be a standing ovation.
And for some reason, the tension he hadn't even realized had lodged itself in his chest, some vague, annoying pressure just under the sternum, eases.
Just a little.
Who knew gift-giving, even now, was still this complicated?
It had been easier back when they were in school.
"That's a relief," he replies, tone light, expression unchanged.
They begin walking again as the last of their group finishes at the shrine. The crowd flows gradually down the hill like molasses in winter, slow, dense, occasionally bumping into each other with polite murmurs and poorly concealed frustration.
Ahead, a few students decide now is the perfect time to open their omikuji sticks while walking, nearly tripping over a stone lantern in the process.
Ayanokouji watches them with mild detachment, half-expecting a twisted ankle or divine punishment in real time.
"I got 'great blessing'!" Ichika beams, holding her fortune up like a trophy.
"Regular blessing for me," Karuizawa mutters, unimpressed. "Figures."
"Statistically, it might be the most honest option," Ayanokouji mutters, mostly to himself.
Yukimura frowns down at his. "This one says 'mixed curse.' Is that even real?"
Ayanokouji quietly folds his own fortune and slips it into his pocket before anyone can ask.
Horikita doesn't open hers right away.
He notices.
"You don't want to know?" he asks.
"I don't think I need a slip of paper to tell me how my year's going to go," she says flatly.
He watches her for a moment, snow catching in the edges of her hair like stray thoughts she hadn't bothered to shake off.
"Then what's the point of coming here?"
"...Maybe just to remind myself how far I've come."
Simple. Unembellished. The kind of answer you couldn't really argue with, even if you wanted to.
Ayanokouji is about to respond, something half-thought, maybe a joke about self-reflection being an elective, but then he spots Sudo and Hondo waving him over from a few paces ahead, their faces already flushed from too much walking and not enough insulation between their brains and the weather.
He complies, adjusting his pace just enough to fall behind Horikita and let her keep walking ahead, alone.
"Ayanokouji-kun!" Sudo grins, breath puffing visibly in the cold. "You disappeared on us for a while, man. Were you off buying omamori or secretly planning world domination?"
"Or for true love," Hondo adds, elbowing him with the kind of subtlety found only in slapstick comedies. "It is New Year's, right?"
Ayanokouji blinks, expression unreadable. "You caught me. I lit three candles and wished for world peace and a girlfriend."
Sudo snorts. "Liar. You'd never waste a wish like that."
"Correct," Ayanokouji nods. "I'd save it for something practical. Like unlimited frozen yogurt."
They both laugh—genuine, loud, slightly off-key.
Their boots crunch over the packed snow as they fall into step down the stone path, the lanterns ahead bobbing like low stars.
"Hey, speaking of—" Hondo glances between him and Horikita's retreating figure, "—what's up with you two, anyway?"
Sudo leans in, eyeing him. "Yeah, seriously, what's up? You've been walking together all night."
Ayanokouji raises a brow. "You make it sound like I handed her a ring."
"I'm just saying," Sudo shrugs. "You two weren't exactly chill for a while. Did you fix things after... y'know, last year? You kinda dropped off the radar after graduation."
Ayanokouji shrugs again, slipping his hands deeper into his coat pockets, as if the answer might be buried somewhere in the lining.
"Just living."
Hondo whistles. "Cryptic."
"Vaguely philosophical," Ayanokouji corrects.
"Suspicious," Sudo concludes.
They all laugh again—casual, warm, fading into the shuffle of the larger crowd.
But his eyes drift ahead for a moment, to where Horikita walks a few meters in front of them, shoulders straight, gloved hands at her sides, fortune still tucked unopened in one hand—like it means nothing. Like it might mean too much.
He watches her for a moment.
Quietly.
Her eyes are still the same. Still sharp, still searching.
He doesn't think she realizes how much she gives away when she's not speaking.
The same eyes beneath the spring sakura trees.
The same ones turned toward him in the rain—when she'd asked him to meet again.
It's snowing now.
Just like it had back then.
A clean loop. A quiet echo.
He wonders if she's still waiting for something.
Or—was he the one waiting?
Chance.
Luck.
Resolutions.
A wish.
All flimsy things. Easily broken.
He stares ahead.
Her hair is still long, just trimmed at the edges. It's nearly the same length it was during the end of their second year. He remembers because she had once mentioned, half to herself, that she didn't like it getting in the way.
Functional, she'd said. Practical.
It falls differently now. Curling slightly at the ends, where the snow has dampened it. The strands catch the lantern light now and then, gold where it used to be shadow.
She still wears it neat, pulled back just enough to stay out of her eyes. But there's something softer about it now.
Maybe it's not the hair.
Maybe it's the way she walks now, a little slower when she doesn't think anyone's watching.
Or the way she listens before responding. Or the way she doesn't always feel the need to be right, just understood.
Or the way her voice softens, ever so slightly, when she talks about something that matters.
When she thinks no one will interrupt.
He doesn't know when he started noticing things like that.
Or maybe he always had.
Maybe that's the point.
And maybe, just maybe, that's why he bothered at all to attend in the first place.
Why he came to the reunion.
Why he followed them to the shrine.
Why he waited until she finished her prayer.
Why he—
He pauses, blinking, as the girl in front of him offers her hand out slightly.
Ayanokouji looks at it, then up at her.
"Yes?" he offers.
"Your coffee," she says plainly.
He glances down at his other hand.
Right. The cup. He hadn't even realized he'd finished it.
Wordlessly, he hands the empty cup to her. She takes it and walks over to the trash can they were passing, slipping it in without ceremony.
When she returns to his side, she doesn't say anything.
Neither does he.
They just keep walking.
Snow falls a little harder now, clinging to their coats and melting on the tips of their scarves.
After a minute, she says, "You could've thrown it away yourself."
"I could have," he agrees.
A pause.
"But you held out your hand."
Horikita gives him a sidelong glance. Her expression is unreadable, which usually means she's either judging him or fighting the urge to.
"You looked distracted."
"Did I?"
"Would you like me to reenact the moment?" she deadpans. "I could wave my hand dramatically and stare at you like you've gone vacant again. Maybe sigh for added effect."
She glances up at him, then, the wind tossing her hair slightly across her face as snow catches in the strands, fine and glimmering in the snow.
He considers it.
"I appreciate the offer. But I'll pass..."
.
.
.
She does open her stick in the end.
It reads: steady luck.
She folds it once, slips it into her pocket without a word.
The group disperses eventually—some toward trains, others debating the economics of calling taxis versus freezing for another fifteen minutes. Everyone's a little red in the face, either from the cold, the sweet rice wine, or the existential pressure of having survived adolescence. It's hard to tell. Maybe all three. One can only hope the wine is winning.
Eventually, it's just the two of them again, walking a little slower now. The air, quieter as they reached the station.
Horikita tugs her scarf up until it nearly covers her nose. She looks vaguely like a turtle preparing for emotional combat. "You didn't say what you wished for."
"I didn't wish for anything," he says, which is true. Omitting the half-hearted moment he stared at the prayer plaque and considered writing something down just to see if the gods were real.
She glances at him, expectant.
...
"I thought about wishing for something," he amends.
A pause.
"...And?"
He turns his head. Snow is catching along the shoulder seam of his coat. The wind is mild, but insistent, like a cat pawing at a closed door.
"I figured," he says, "if I make a wish, I'll start expecting something. And I don't want to be disappointed."
There's a pause, long, but not uncomfortable. The kind that lets your breath frost the air in slow intervals. Behind them, someone's laughter drifts through the wind, far enough that it might be a memory.
Finally, Horikita murmurs, "That sounds like you."
He glances over. "Is that a compliment?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself."
They reach the train station just as the sun begins to sink behind the buildings, casting the platforms in soft amber light. The sky, now streaked with shades of violet and gold, seems quieter than before.
He hands Horikita the bags he's spent the day carrying.
Horikita exhales sharply through her scarf as she takes it. "I suppose steady luck isn't the worst I could've gotten."
"Mm. Could've drawn 'great blessing,' gotten your hopes up, and spent the year spiraling in disappointment."
"That's an awful way to think."
"Statistically sound, though."
She shakes her head. "You should've made a wish. You might be more tolerable with a little divine intervention."
"Or more dangerous."
"God wouldn't help you with that."
"That's fair."
The announcement board above them hums with quiet authority, flashing departure times like the steady snowfall.
They come to a full stop by the platform entrance. And then—something shifts.
Not dramatically. No orchestral swell, no shadow crossing her face. But the air between them pauses, just slightly, like pressure settling before a storm. It's not in her posture, which remains composed, nor her expression, which holds the same mild severity she uses when judging group project contributions.
Still. He feels it. Horikita's presence.
More concentrated. Heavier, in the way gravity gets heavier when someone's about to say something meaningful. Or menacing.
She's either waiting for something, or upset about something.
And neither option bodes well for him.
He had quite a history of facing her wrath.
And her compass.
He wouldn't be entirely surprised if she had secretly brought it along and decided this was the moment he had finally exhausted her patience.
"Horikita?" he tries.
No response.
Which could mean several things: she didn't hear him; she did hear him and is ignoring him; or she's waiting for him to keep talking so she can judge his word choice.
Or...
Did he... forget something?
He frowns. Unlikely. His memory doesn't lapse like that. Photographic recall. Near-total retention. He can recite the school evacuation plan from memory but somehow feels like he's about to fail a test he was never told existed.
Did he miss a signal?
Some invisible emotional landmark he was supposed to acknowledge?
Unclear.
The anniversary of something? A conversation he was meant to follow up on?
He mentally scrolls through his calendar.
No, not that either.
He runs a silent diagnostic like a computer with too many tabs open: emotional input normal, social obligations cleared, sarcasm levels within acceptable range. Still, the vague sense of doom persists.
This leaves him with only one option.
The worst one.
He's going to have to ask.
He inwardly sighs. This is what things have come to. Social recursion.
He turns slightly. "Did I—"
Something gets shoved directly into his face.
He doesn't flinch, but he does blink. Once, twice. Standard protocol for unexpected object detection.
It's a bag.
Small. Light. Flat.
He blinked again, because blinking is free and buys time.
"Take it," she says.
"...What's this?" he asks, voice even.
Horikita's gaze is steady. "Open it."
Not you can open it, not if you want—just a flat imperative. He half expects her to pull out a clipboard and make him sign something.
He takes the bag.
He unfolds the paper inside it with the caution of someone disarming a very well-wrapped explosive.
Inside: a slim black box.
Inside that—
A wristwatch.
Minimalist. Matte. His style, almost to an eerie degree.
He stares at it for a moment. Then up at her.
"I figured," she says, arms folded, "if you're going to keep showing up late and pretending it's intentional, you might as well lose the excuse."
A beat. He hums, somewhere between acknowledgment and resignation.
He glances at the gloves.
"So now we're even?"
"That depends," she replies. "Are you going to wear it?"
He lifts it from the box, weighs it in his palm. "If I say no, are you going to reenact your dramatic hand gesture again?"
Horikita gives him a flat look. "Try me."
He slips it onto his wrist.
It fits.
Perfectly.
"I guess I'm out of excuses now."
She says nothing. But there's a flicker of something at the corner of her mouth—a faint satisfaction, tightly controlled, like a well-timed checkmate.
The train pulls in with a low rush of wind and snow. The doors hiss open. A few passengers step out, quiet, layered, heads ducked. Their footsteps dissolve into the whiteness on the platform.
Ayanokouji looks down at the watch, then up at the schedule board. Five minutes early.
"Horikita, your train—"
"I know."
And yet she still stands there.
Ayanokouji glances at her, only briefly.
She's composed, as always. Spine straight, coat buttoned to the collar, eyes fixed ahead.
Ayanokouji briefly wonders if she was hesitating.
Something in the air, perhaps, barely there, feels different. Like tension strung too tightly between two points, waiting to snap or hold.
Maybe it was the way her hands stayed buried in her pockets. Or the way she hadn't said anything after giving him the watch. Or maybe it was just intuition. The kind you develop after sitting next to someone long enough to notice when the pauses between their words shift, even slightly.
He wonders...
If some part of her was afraid—
That he might disappear again.
Just like before.
No warning. No explanation.
He shifts slightly. The cold settles against his shoulders, indifferent.
He opens his mouth to say something—noncommittal, maybe half-clever. Something that could pass for light, for harmless, for meaningless.
"Horikita, if you're planning to stand here until spring, I feel obligated to remind you trains aren't migratory—"
But before the words finish, she steps toward him while her fingers hook into the lapel of his coat.
A firm tug.
She rises slightly.
And then—
Warmth.
A quiet press to his forehead.
Soft. Quick. Intentional.
He blinks.
Not quite a kiss, not quite not.
His breath stutters just slightly, barely a hitch, but it's there.
A beat of silence stretches. His hand half-lifts, instinctively—too late.
Before he can lift a hand, or tilt his head, or say a single thing—
She's already turned and gone.
Running lightly across the platform, slipping through the train doors just before they slide shut behind her.
She glances back through the window—
Her breath fogs the glass.
Her eyes catch his.
Still unreadable, but softer somehow.
And something else.
Maybe a question. Maybe a dare.
He stares after her, hand half-raised, coat still tugged slightly from where she'd held it.
Expression neutral, and yet—
Through the train window, fogged at the edges, she turns just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for him to see.
She mouths something.
Simple. Quick. Her breath clouds the glass just after, like punctuation.
"Then wait until summer."
His eyes narrow—not in annoyance, but in something adjacent to surprise. A faint, near-invisible shift.
Of course she would get the last word.
Even through reinforced glass. Even over the rising hum of the train.
The doors close fully.
The platform shudders faintly as the train begins to move.
The train hums, then pulls away with the soft screech of metal and motion, carrying her off into the orange-streaked dusk.
He doesn't move right away.
Snow drifts down around him.
His forehead was still faintly warm.
It takes a moment before he exhales and mutters to no one in particular—
"...How unfair."
The words linger in the cold air, dissolving like his breath in the snow. He doesn't move. Doesn't blink.
Unfair.
Unfair that he'd called this outing pointless and showed up anyway. Unfair that he'd claimed there was no strategic gain, even as he spent the afternoon in the cold for hours, watching the sky bleed into gray. Unfair that someone like him, who didn't believe in sentiment, or wishes, or the luxury of irrational decisions, had come anyway, just in case.
And now—
Here he was.
Standing on a freezing platform, forehead warm, hand raised to no one, watching a train vanish into the fading dusk.
And most unfair of all—
He'd let her.
Had seen it coming in the way her fingers tightened on his coat, in the determined set of her shoulders that always preceded her most reckless decisions. Had time to stop her, to step away.
He'd done none of the above.
She got away.
A tactical retreat. A surrender. A victory.
Maybe all three.
He exhales again, more steadily this time.
Flexes his fingers in his coat pockets. The watch on his wrist feels heavier than it should.
He supposed it was only fair after all.
This is the same girl who once stabbed him with a compass for lying.
Who'd dragged him through every exam, every scheme, every quiet café conversation that somehow ended up meaning more than any victory.
Who'd stood in the rain and demanded promises he hadn't known how to keep.
A kind of payback, maybe, for last time.
His phone buzzes a second later.
A quiet vibration in his coat pocket.
He slips it out, expecting some irrelevant update—train delays, or a group chat message from someone still tipsy.
But the screen lights up.
From: Horikita
He opens it.
Just a single text.
Horikita: Don't be late next time.
He stares at the words.
They're short. Blunt. Familiar.
But something about them makes him pause.
He supposed his New Year's plans won't be so blank after all.
He slips the phone back into his pocket, gaze drifting to the horizon where her train disappeared.
From the inner lining of his coat, a small slip of paper escapes and flutters loose.
He catches it before it hits the ground.
His omikuji. The one he never opened.
Steady luck, it reads.
He stares at it for a moment, then folds it again.
The snow keeps falling.
𓆩︎︎𓆪
Somewhere behind the vending machines near the platform, poorly hidden by a precarious stack of travel brochures—
"I knew it!"
"Keep your voice down, idiot," Hashimoto muttered, shoving Sudo's head lower behind the machine. "Do you want them to see us?"
"I told you he came because of her this time. There's no way he shows up to a reunion unless she's involved. I was right."
“His ears are red,” Sudo snorted.
"They're impossible," Hashimoto muttered, peering over the top of the vending machine like he was observing a rare psychological phenomenon.
Kushida, crouched beside them and somehow still managing to look composed, cast a glance toward the others.
She shrugged.
"Oh, come on. We all knew it was going to happen eventually."