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The door to Jirou’s Costume Emporium opened with a jingle.
Twelve boys poured into the shop like a travelling circus, brushing past racks of corsets, powdered wigs, and one very startled mannequin in a plague doctor mask. Behind the counter, Jirou- san , Makochi’s sprightliest seventy-five-year-old, looked delighted.
“My boys!” he called, arms open as if welcoming his long-lost grandsons. “Back again! Let me guess—ghost play? Sci-fi romance? Vampire prom?”
“British murder mystery,” Hiragi said faintly, already clutching his Gas-Kun like a rosary. “It’s for charity.”
“He means Konoha- senpai’s cursed script,” muttered Momose, eyeing a rack labelled “Gentlemen’s Gothic Gowns”. “It’s got nobles, secret lovers, and at least three murders.”
“Only one murder, technically,” corrected Kiryu, gentle voice ever-calm. “Two disappearances. One tragic love confession. And many monologues."
“I’m the one giving a monologue,” sighed Sakura, who was already being fitted into a morning coat that made him look like he’d come to collect rent from peasants.
“Ah, Henry Globstone,” cooed Tsubaki, beaming at him from a perch atop a trunk of Victorian lingerie. “My betrothed.”
Sakura blushed, immediately pulling at his cravat like it was trying to strangle him. “Can you not say things like that when I’m—when there are—when we’re in public?”
Tsubaki tilted his head. “But Eloise’s devotion demands public declaration.”
“Can Eloise wait until I can breathe in this suit?”
“No.”
Across the shop, Umemiya emerged from behind a curtain, pulling on a crisp white shirt and shaking back his hair. He didn’t even need the costume; he already looked like a scandal waiting to happen.
Tsubaki’s eyes sparkled. “Pete.”
Umemiya gave him the faintest of smirks. “Runaway bride.”
Hiragi popped another Gas-Kun.
“Right,” said Suo, clipboard balanced effortlessly in one hand. “Costume team, to your stations.”
Nirei scrambled to unroll the measuring tape from around his neck, nearly knocking over a stack of brocade jackets. “Momose- san , you’re up. Detective Fairwell gets a waistcoat, slacks, and a hat—”
Momose looked very close to giving up.
Meanwhile, Mizuki stormed out of the dressing room in a horrific moss-green gown that clashed violently with his entire aura.
“Someone explain why I’m playing Vivianne Globstone,” he snapped. “I hate art. I hate music. I should’ve skipped rehearsal and gone to math class like a normal person.”
“You’re Henry’s mother,” said Suo, unbothered. “Poised. Tragic. Probably buried a secret lover in the garden.”
“I’ll bury you in the garden.”
“You’ll do great,” Nirei said, patting his arm as he reached for the shawl.
At the wig station, Seiryu held up a bright red cascade of curls and grinned. “Guess who’s Dora, Lord Globstone’s redheaded mistress?”
“I’m regretting casting you already,” Hiragi mumbled.
Next to him, Uryu held up a brunette bob, examining it with a slight frown before setting it down with visible resignation.
"You're Lida," said Tsubaki cheerfully. "You pine after Henry for six years. You get one letter and a dramatic solo. I cry every time."
Uryu gave Sakura a long, flat stare, then deliberately turned away and picked up the wig again with all the enthusiasm of someone handling wet laundry.
Sakura made a noise like a kettle boiling.
“Anyway,” Seiryu added brightly, “these wigs are finally going to help people tell us apart. Also, I get to slap Mizuki in Act Two. This is the role of a lifetime.”
Tsubaki watched the others with sparkly-eyed joy. “Everyone’s so beautiful,” he sighed. “Dressing up is so romantic. I’d have joined the costume crew if I wasn’t playing Eloise.”
Suo said dryly, “You’ve memorized everyone’s lines, three alternate endings, and brought your own corset.”
“It’s for accuracy!”
Hiragi fished out his wallet with shaking fingers and whispered, “How much is all this going to cost?”
Jirou- san clapped him on the back. “For the Bofurin boys? Discounted. You’ll just owe me tickets, autographs, and maybe a bouquet from Eloise.”
In the middle of it all, Umemiya walked over to Sakura, who was still trying to wrangle his cravat. With quiet efficiency, he adjusted the knot, smoothing it down. “There.”
“Oh. Thanks,” Sakura said, startled. “I couldn’t really… breathe.”
“Yeah,” Umemiya said. “I noticed.”
Tsubaki, watching from across the room, turned to Nirei with a dreamy sigh. “Do you think if I die on stage he’ll hold me like Juliet?”
“You don’t have death scenes, Tsubaki- san ,” Nirei said, worried.
“What a shame,” Tsubaki dramatically sighs.
"Eloise," Hiragi read aloud from the script, massaging his temples, "is described as the most beautiful woman in all of London. With fair hair and the most beautiful blue eyes."
All heads turned automatically to Tsubaki.
"I mean," Nirei said, peering at him. "You do have the eyes already."
Tsubaki, who had been flipping through a lookbook of period dresses with all the intensity of a final exam, blinked up. "You think so?"
"Your eyes do have a certain... luminous quality," Suo observed with perfect sincerity. "I'm sure the audience will find them quite captivating."
So began the quest for the perfect wig.
After three trips, two minor arguments about curl types, and one allergic reaction ("WHO puts lavender in a wig cap?"), they found it. A golden blonde piece, luminous under every type of light, styled in soft ringlets like spun sugar.
Tsubaki clasped it to his chest like it was a small endangered animal. "No one touch her."
"She's not alive," Kiryu noted.
"She is to me."
The accessories followed—a tiara encrusted with faux diamonds, two sets of earrings, and a delicate necklace Suo handpicked from the antique drawer. But Tsubaki's hands were swatted away before he could try them on.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Suo said with a gentle smile, folding the necklace into a velvet pouch with careful precision. "These pieces require... proper timing for maximum impact."
"That's so cruel," Tsubaki whispered.
"I prefer to think of it as cultivating anticipation," Suo replied, his tone as smooth as silk. "Good things come to those who wait, after all."
Then came the gown. And the meltdown.
The costume shop's dresses were, to quote Tsubaki, "about as exciting as cold cabbage." Which led to a field trip to Makochi's local bridal rental, where the selection made everyone gasp—even Hiragi, who hadn't gasped since middle school.
The search was long. Tsubaki was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and extremely determined not to look like a lampshade. The saleswoman, a fast-talking lady with an eye for drama and a deep respect for collarbones, finally presented The One: a flared wedding gown with a wide sweetheart neckline and structured boning.
"Oh my god," Sakura murmured, stunned.
Tsubaki hadn't even put it on yet. It was just on the hanger.
"How remarkably fitting," Suo said, his smile warming with genuine appreciation. "It's as though it was waiting for exactly the right person to bring it to life."
"Brides have it so good," Sakura sighed. "Why is menswear so boring?"
"You could always dabble in womenswear," Kiryu said, not looking up from his phone.
"You have to come with me shopping next time!" Tsubaki said, pointing at Sakura with the righteous energy of a prophet. "We'll do coordinated looks! You, in deep crimson!"
Sakura's face went as red as the colour Tsubaki had just suggested.
The shop owner, positively glowing, gave them a fat discount and made Tsubaki promise—swear on his honour as a bride—to come back and buy from her when he got married.
"I don't care who it is," the lady said. "Just give me that wedding."
When Tsubaki disappeared behind the curtain to try on the wedding gown, Seiryu sprang into action. He clapped his hands once, all business.
“I think we should help Hiragi with the props,” Seiryu announced, his voice pleasant as ever but just a touch too smooth.
Nirei wrinkled his nose. “Do all of us have to go? I wanted to see Tsubaki- san dressed up.”
Seiryu turned to him with a serene smile that somehow made Nirei feel like he was moments away from being slapped with a silk glove. “Of course. We should save time. And save Hiragi- san from gastroenteritis.”
Sakura arched an eyebrow. “Ohhh,” he said, catching on. He took Nirei by one arm. Suo, ever composed, took the other. “Let’s leave them be,” he murmured, polite as ever, but firm.
Before Nirei could protest, he was whisked away.
Seiryu gave Umemiya a final, meaningful glance.
“Someone’s gotta help Tsubaki- chan ,” he said lightly, before following the others out.
Tsubaki stood in the changing room, deep in concentration. The gown was beautiful—ivory satin with a flared skirt and a wide sweetheart neckline. It clung to him in all the right places, but the back zipper stubbornly resisted his attempts to reach it. His long hair, usually loose and dramatic, was pinned up in a careful twist so it wouldn’t catch in the zipper.
“Seiryu! Come help me zip this dress up!” he called.
From beyond the curtain came Umemiya’s voice. “He isn’t here.”
Tsubaki blinked. “Huh? Where’d he go?”
“They all went to get the other costumes and props,” Umemiya said, genuinely unaware of the trap he’d just entered. “Want me to come over?”
There was a pause. Tsubaki’s heart lurched.
“…S-sure! No probs!”
He immediately began to panic.
Behind the curtain, Tsubaki was dying on the inside. His hands were shaking, his stomach was doing backflips, and he was standing in the middle of the tiny changing stall in a flared, wide-neck wedding gown bare-backed. He hadn’t expected to be half-naked in front of anyone, least of all Umemiya. Least of all today.
The curtain rustled. Umemiya stepped in.
And then, Umemiya’s brain short-circuited.
Until now, he had never truly understood what physical attraction meant. Not really. He had gone on dates with girls before. He’d liked them, sometimes even loved them—he thought. He liked their company, liked talking to them, liked watching them laugh.
But he had never felt anything. Not in the way people described. He always assumed the physical part was a myth—an exaggeration for books, movies, or manga.
And yet here he was. At the ripe old age of eighteen years. In a bridal rental changing room, barely wider than a closet. Staring at the curve of Tsubaki’s nape and back, smooth and pale under the overhead light—paler than any of them had ever been, protected by the curtain of dark hair. Umemiya’s hands were cold, but his face was burning. The delicate lace of the gown's bodice traced patterns against skin that looked almost luminous in the small space.
His mouth was dry. His eyes kept flitting up and down like they’d been possessed—from the graceful slope of Tsubaki's shoulder blades to the curve where his neck met his shoulders, then down to where the open zipper revealed the gentle dip of his spine.
He stepped closer, trying not to stumble over the gown's hem pooling around Tsubaki’s feet. The changing room felt impossibly small, the air thick with proximity and the faint scent of Tsubaki's shampoo.
“You good?” Tsubaki asked, not turning around but feeling the absence of any movement from Umemiya.
"Yeah," Umemiya croaked, the word scraping against his dry throat. "Yeah. Just—uh. Stuck."
It wasn’t that he hadn’t known Tsubaki was beautiful. That had been obvious from the moment they met eight years ago.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen skin, especially Tsubaki’s—Tsubaki wore short skirts and thigh-high boots like he was born wearing them.
But this was different, in a way that made Umemiya's chest tight with something he couldn't name.
It wasn’t the usual Tsubaki, grinning and swatting playfully at Umemiya. It wasn’t Tsubaki yelling at someone on the street, or flashing peace signs at the camera. Or spinning in circles to show off a new outfit. This was something more delicate—Tsubaki with his guard down, trusting Umemiya to help him into something as precious as a wedding dress.
He had never seen this part of Tsubaki. The quiet stillness of him waiting. The trust in the way he stood perfectly motionless. Never been this close to this version of him, soft and unguarded in the small, enclosed space.
Umemiya grabbed the zipper with shaky hands. His fingers brushed against Tsubaki’s back. Tsubaki’s skin was warm. Umemiya startled a little, his hand jerking back. Then he steadied himself and moved to try again.
"Sorry," he mumbled, though Tsubaki hadn't complained.
He forced his fingers to behave. The zipper caught on the delicate lace trim, and he had to lean closer, his breath ghosting across Tsubaki's back as he carefully worked it free. He could see the fine downy hairs of Tsubaki’s skin, could trace the elegant line of his spine with his eyes, and could feel the warmth radiating from skin that had never been exposed to the harsh sun.
The zipper finally, mercifully, cooperated.
"There," Umemiya managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
At that moment, Umemiya wasn’t Bofurin’s leader or the ever-reliable Makochi’s pillar. He wasn’t the calm, gentle voice everyone leaned on.
He was just a person—barely more than a boy—discovering feelings he never knew he had.
Tsubaki felt every inch of it.
Tsubaki feels it too—just differently. The warmth of Umemiya’s fingers as they graze his skin makes him stiffen. There’s a heat radiating from Umemiya’s body—palpable, almost feverish. It’s something others have commented on before, but Tsubaki’s never felt it quite like this. The zipper slowly rises. The pause. The quiet exhale behind him.
He didn’t know what was happening inside Umemiya’s head, but it didn’t matter. Because in his chest, everything ached.
He had long accepted that Umemiya would never return his feelings. It wasn’t bitterness—it was grief, soft and resigned, like a song you keep humming even after the lyrics stop mattering.
So being this close, with Umemiya touching him, without knowing or understanding what it meant—it hurt. Every inch of skin Umemiya touched felt like it burned. But not from hope.
From the unbearable, beautiful pain of being near someone you could never have.
Finally, the zipper reached the top with a faint click.
Tsubaki exhaled slowly, then turned to face the mirror. Umemiya stepped back, unsure what to do with his hands.
Their eyes met in the glass.
Tsubaki managed a smile, soft and wry. “Thanks.”
“You…” Umemiya hesitated. “You look really good.”
Tsubaki nodded. “Thanks,” he said again.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Umemiya didn’t notice.
Not yet.
Nirei was pacing.
“This is taking too long,” he whispered, already halfway to the changing room before Seiryu even noticed.
“I thought you wanted to be surprised,” Suo teased, trailing behind him.
“I did! I do! But I also want to see him in the dress .”
“God, you’re all hopeless,” Seiryu muttered, but he followed anyway.
By the time they barged in, Tsubaki was fully zipped up and standing by the mirror, glowing like a spotlight had chosen him.
“Oh—!” Nirei clutched his heart and stopped in his tracks. “You look beautiful , Tsubaki- san !”
Tsubaki lit up. He spun on his heel and twirled, the hem of the gown flaring like a bell.
“You flatter me,” he said, holding his skirt and bowing dramatically. “But don’t stop.”
Sakura clapped politely. Momose gave a little whistle. Tsugeura snapped a selfie with him, beaming like he'd just been blessed. Matsumoto pointed and groaned, “Henry is so unlucky.”
“Poor, poor Henry,” Kiryu added, grinning.
Nirei wiped his eyes. “You should wear a dress like this at your wedding,” he said, voice wobbling.
Tsubaki smiled—bright and tight—but his throat burned. His hands tightened on the folds of the gown. The idea of marriage, of standing beside the one person he loved most, of being seen like this in public, with full celebration—it felt like getting the moon. Something he could look at, wish on, but never reach.
Seiryu’s eyes flicked to him, just for a second. Then Uryu’s. Neither said anything.
But Sakura—poor awkward Sakura—cleared his throat and stammered, “You, uh. You look really good. Like, actually... amazing.”
He hadn’t meant to say anything at first. Compliments weren’t his thing, especially not in front of an audience. But something in Tsubaki’s expression—just a flicker, a quick dip in the corners of his eyes—made something twist in Sakura’s gut. L
Tsubaki blinked. Then he smiled—this time real—and fluttered his lashes. “You trying to steal me from Pete, Henry?”
Sakura went pink. “I—what—no—!”
The others cackled. Even Suo snorted.
Hiragi leaned against the doorframe, nursing a soda and a growing headache, when he noticed something peculiar.
Umemiya stood to the side, not laughing, not reacting. Not even watching Tsubaki twirl. He was staring into the floorboards like they might whisper the secrets of the universe.
That's weird , Hiragi thought.
Because Umemiya was many things—friendly, foolish, loyal, reckless—but contemplating in emotional turmoil? Half the time, Hiragi wasn’t convinced Umemiya had an internal monologue at all.
But right now? He looked like someone halfway through discovering the fire was hot.
And that was concerning. Or... promising?
Hiragi wasn’t sure yet.
The sun was low when they left the costume store, arms full of garment bags, faux jewellery, a collapsible parasol sword, and what looked suspiciously like a taxidermied ferret (Seiryu’s new prop—don’t ask).
Hiragi walked slightly ahead of the group, holding the receipts like a cursed scroll. He was mouthing numbers to himself and looking increasingly unwell.
“We might’ve… maybe… gone over budget?” he muttered.
“You definitely went over budget,” Mizuki replied. “That tiara cost more than my gaming PC.”
“It’s rhinestones!” Hiragi snapped. “ Fake stones! How does fake royalty cost real money?!”
Around them, the rest of the group had settled into an animated discussion about the upcoming performance. Sakura shifted his suit bag nervously from shoulder to shoulder.
"The whole town's coming, right?" he asked, voice pitched higher than usual. "Just Makochi people?"
"Oh no," Mizuki said with grim satisfaction. "Hiragi invited Keisei District too. And Shishitoren."
Sakura went pale. "Shishitoren?"
"Togame- san was very enthusiastic when we told him about the play," Nirei added helpfully. "He started asking about the plot structure and whether Konoha- senpai drew inspiration from classical murder mysteries. Then he made Tomiyama- san promise to attend."
"I think I'm going to be sick," Sakura mumbled.
"You'll be fine," Suo said with his usual serene smile. "Stage fright is perfectly natural."
“We need to take promotional pictures,” Tsugeura said. “In full costume. Dramatic lighting. Maybe with flower petals.”
Seiryu nodded enthusiastically beside him, pulling out his phone and miming dramatic poses. He struck a back-to-back stance with Uryu, chin lifted like he was on the cover of a soap opera.
Kiryu blinked. “But their characters aren’t even related.”
“They could be,” Tsugeura said. “We’ll just change the script a little.”
From the front, Hiragi turned around so fast he nearly tripped over a cobblestone. “ No script changes! ”
“Breathe, king,” Momose said, patting him on the shoulder.
Mizuki groaned at the commotion, then leaned in to whisper to Suo, Nirei, and Sakura, “By the way, you know, Konoha was a total madman. Once staged a three-hour musical where the lead was a lampshade.”
“He’s a genius,” Momose added. “But also might be on a PSIA watchlist.”
“Is he the one who put a live chicken on stage?” Nirei asked.
“Yup. Called it ‘symbolism.’”
Throughout this entire exchange, Umemiya remained unusually quiet, his gaze distant as he stared down the street. His costume bag hung loosely from one hand, forgotten, while his thoughts seemed to drift somewhere far from promotional pictures and budget concerns.
Tsubaki noticed first, as he always did. He drifted closer with that particular brand of gentle concern that made Umemiya's newly confused heart do uncomfortable things.
"Ume- chan ?" Tsubaki tilted his head, studying him with those impossibly blue eyes. "You're being very mysterious."
Umemiya found himself stepping back slightly—an instinctive retreat that felt both necessary and wrong. Usually, he and Tsubaki walked shoulder to shoulder with Hiragi, Mizuki, and Momose, their comfortable group dynamic as natural as breathing. But now Tsubaki's closeness made him feel exposed, like he was carrying something fragile that might shatter if examined too closely.
"Just thinking about the play," Umemiya said, offering a smile that felt more like a mask.
Tsubaki's expression flickered with something unreadable—a shadow that passed too quickly to interpret. He'd grown used to the careful distance Umemiya sometimes kept, the way his affection was always generous but never quite what Tsubaki hoped for. The heartbreak had become a familiar companion, manageable in its predictability.
But this felt different. This wasn't Umemiya's usual gentle deflection; this was confusion, maybe even distress.
"Is everything alright?" Tsubaki asked softly, genuine worry replacing his usual playful concern.
Umemiya's smile became more genuine, touched with gratitude for Tsubaki's perceptiveness even as it made his chest tighten with emotions he couldn't untangle. "Yeah. Everything's fine."