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Tomioka Giyuu was many things.
He was observant. He was logical. He was painfully earnest in a way that suggested he took everything—everything—at face value and then examined it from multiple angles, cross-referenced it against past experiences, briefly considered whether he was overthinking, decided he wasn’t, and then filed it away in his pretty little brain.
Unfortunately, he was also catastrophically bad at reading social situations involving himself. This would not have been so bad if he had been aware of it. He was not. Truly, very unfortunate.
Which meant that when Giyuu reached a conclusion, it was not impulsive. It was not shallow. It was the result of careful observation and at least three separate internal debates.
So when Sabito and Sanemi kept ending up at odds in situations that somehow included him, the only reasonable conclusion was:
They are in love with each other.
It became apparent on day one.
The seating chart changed.
This, in theory, should not have been a problem. Giyuu had sat in the same corner seat since the beginning of the semester. But today, their homeroom teacher had decided to “encourage collaboration,” which Giyuu suspected was code for forcing extroversion upon the unwilling.
“New seats, everyone,” the teacher announced, tapping the board with her marker. “Middle row.”
Giyuu followed the instructions with his usual diligence, locating his name and taking the assigned chair in the center row.
He sat down.
Immediately, Sabito slid into the chair to his left.
Not sat. Slid.
The movement was smooth, almost too smooth, accompanied by a chair scrape.
Giyuu blinked once. Sabito smiled at him—bright, friendly, completely normal between the two of them.
Then—
Sanemi appeared on his right.
Appeared was the only word for it.
One moment, the seat was empty, the next, Sanemi was there, dragging the chair closer with his foot, claiming territory. The legs screeched against the floor loud enough that the teacher paused mid-sentence.
Giyuu stiffened.
Sanemi leaned back, one arm slung over the back of his chair, knee angled outward. His shoulder brushed Giyuu’s.
Sabito noticed immediately.
He squinted. Slowly, like a cat.
“You want to sit here so bad,” Sabito said.
Sanemi didn’t look at him. “Well, it is my seat.”
“I saw you exchange with Kyojuro.”
“So?”
“Pretty sure that defies the assigned seating arrangement.” Sabito pressed further.
“He has bad eyesight, and I so graciously offer. This would have happened later, so I took the liberty and saved all of us time.” Sanemi talked back, finally looking at the other.
Their shoulders brushed Giyuu again.
On both sides.
Giyuu inhaled very carefully.
He subtly scooted his chair back an inch.
Neither of them moved.
They adjusted instead. Sabito leaning forward, Sanemi leaning back, maintaining the exact same distance.
I see, Giyuu thought, nodding internally. They’re crowding me because they want to be closer to each other.
Giyuu, did not, in fact, see shit.
The teacher cleared her throat sharply. “Gentlemen.”
Sabito and Sanemi froze.
Sanemi muttered under his breath, “Told you to back off.”
Sabito’s smile sharpened. “You didn’t say please.”
Giyuu stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the whiteboard.
This was delicate. Very delicate.
Clearly, neither of them wanted to openly acknowledge their feelings, and Giyuu, as their friend, should be considerate and not force the issue. For now.
He should simply… remove himself from the scene.
Unfortunately, the desk was narrow, and moving again would require touching at least one of them.
Unacceptable.
So Giyuu did the only logical thing.
He endured.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Sanemi’s foot nudged Sabito’s chair leg.
Sabito nudged back.
Their knees knocked under the desk.
Giyuu flinched.
Sanemi clicked his tongue. “Watch it.”
“Maybe don’t sprawl like you own the place. It’s already cramp enough as it is.”
“I was here first.”
“You literally weren’t.”
Giyuu’s pen paused mid-note.
They are really close with each other, he observed.
When Sabito leaned across Giyuu to grab a pencil—his pencil, from Giyuu’s side of the desk—Sanemi bristled immediately.
“Stop invading his space,” Sanemi growls.
Sabito smirks. “You gonna make me?”
Their knees knock under the desk. Which means their knees both knock Giyuu’s knees. For the nth time in the past half hour.
“You couldn’t ask?” Sanemi snapped.
Sabito’s grin was innocent. Too innocent. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re always interrupting.”
“Only when you’re being unreasonable.”
Their faces were suddenly far too close to both sides of Giyuu’s face.
He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second.
Ah, he thought. Tension.
He scooted further back to his chair, quietly, trying not to breathe too loudly and accidentally disturb his seatmates… staring contest.
This was not his business.
This was their emotionally repressed, poorly communicated, and aggressively flirtatious ways.
He would survive this class. He always did.
Still, as Sanemi’s elbow bumped his arm for the third time and Sabito leaned in to whisper something that made Sanemi scowl harder, Giyuu couldn’t help but think:
They really should just confess already.
It would make seating arrangements much simpler.
Giyuu sat down at his usual lunch spot, a narrow wooden bench tucked at the back of the school grounds.
From here, the bustle of the cafeteria felt like a distant hum. Before him stretched the school garden: neat rows of azaleas, the soft green of freshly watered grass, and a small koi pond glinting in the sunlight. The gentle rustle of leaves and faint chirping of birds offered a contrast to the chaos of the classrooms. The perfect place for eating alone.
He set his convenience store bag down carefully.
Inside were his bare essentials: two convenience-store onigiri—tuna mayo and salmon—a raisin bread, and a bottle of café au lait.
Tsutako was out of town this week, which meant he had to make do with whatever nutritious options the store had available until she returned from her trip.
Giyuu did not exactly consider it a problem. Food is food, and it would sustain him until dinner.
He unwrapped one of the onigiri and took a bite.
“Wow.”
Sabito plopped down beside him, dropping his own lunch bag onto the bench; the thud it made sounded like it weighed a ton. “That’s it?” he asked, peering shamelessly into Giyuu’s bag.
Giyuu nodded. “Yes.”
“That’s… bleak,” Sabito said, clearly unimpressed.
Before Giyuu could respond, the other side of the bench scraped loudly.
Sanemi sat down, thudding his bag onto the table with unnecessary force. He glared at Giyuu’s lunch. “…Is that all you brought?”
“Yes,” Giyuu said evenly. “Tsutako nee-san is out of town.”
That should have explained everything. Apparently, it explained nothing.
Sabito frowned. “You didn’t even get rice?”
“I bought what was available,” Giyuu replied.
Sanemi clicked his tongue. “That’s not enough.”
Giyuu took another bite of his onigiri. It tasted fine.
Sabito opened his bag. He took the lid off, placed it in front of Giyuu, and slid a piece of tamagoyaki, wrapped neatly in paper. “Here. Have this.”
Giyuu paused mid-chew.
Sanemi immediately unwrapped his bag. “Oi. Don’t just give him that.” He pulled out a piece of karaage and set it down in front of Giyuu in a similar manner. “Eat this instead.”
“…You don’t have to,” Giyuu said.
“It’s fine,” Sabito said.
“You need real food,” Sanemi insisted.
“I’m not particularly hungry today,” Giyuu replied.
They both knew it was a lie. Tomioka Giyuu is always hungry; it was a universal truth.
They ignored him.
Sabito added rice from his bento. Sanemi added vegetables. Sabito added fruit. Sanemi added an ohagi.
They leaned in at the same time, eyes on him, waiting.
Giyuu stared at the now very full lids in front of him.
I see, he thought calmly. They must have wanted to share food with each other, but needed an excuse.
Tsutako did once said, “A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” How very cliché yet sweet of them.
Giyuu decided he would do them the favor as thanks for sharing their lunch with him, even as a means.
He picked up his chopsticks.
“Try the egg,” Sabito said.
“Eat the chicken first,” Sanemi said.
Giyuu hesitated, then picked up the tamagoyaki and held it in front of Sanemi’s mouth.
Sanemi flushed instantly. “What—?”
“Try it,” Giyuu said as he pressed the tamagoyaki closer to Sanemi’s lips.
Sanemi barely hesitated. His mouth opened on instinct—automatic, unthinking—because Giyuu was holding the food in front of his mouth and that alone apparently short-circuited several survival instincts. He leaned in—
—and then nearly choked.
Because the second the egg brushed his lips, Giyuu bit the other half and ate it himself.
Sanemi froze mid-chew, eyes going wide, jaw still half-open like his brain had failed to issue the close mouth command. He swallowed too fast, coughed once, and slammed a fist against the table.
“What the hell was that?!” Sanemi snapped.
Giyuu tilted his head slightly. “You tried it.”
“I tried—” Sanemi cut himself off, spluttering. His ears were visibly red now, which only made him angrier. “That wasn’t trying it! You— you forced me!”
Across the table, Sabito was already laughing, shoulders shaking as he watched Sanemi spiral. “Wow,” he said, grinning. “Didn’t know you were so eager to try my eggs.”
“Shut up,” Sanemi hissed.
Giyuu, apparently deciding this was a successful exchange, picked up a piece of karaage. He turned to Sabito with the same expression, the same angle of his wrist.
“Try it,” he said again.
Sabito didn’t even pause. He leaned forward, mouth opening easily—confident, relaxed, eyes never leaving Giyuu’s face.
Sabito bit down, chewing slowly, deliberately, as if savoring not just the food but the moment itself. When he swallowed, his grin widened.
“Tastes good.”
Sanemi stared.
He stared at Sabito. He stared at Giyuu. He stared at the karaage from his lunch box, betrayal written into every line of his posture.
“That was for you,” Sanemi demanded.
Giyuu considered this. “I will have the rest.”
“But—”
Sabito leaned back, smug now, clearly enjoying himself. “Sharing is caring, Sanemi.”
“That’s still not how this should work,” Sanemi said.
Giyuu chewed the rest of the karaage and chewed slowly. “…It’s good,” he said, face lighting up.
Sanemi visibly brightened. He shoved another piece of karaage forward. “Then eat this.”
Sabito pushed the fruit closer. “Balance your diet.”
“Stop hovering,” Giyuu muttered when the two pressed in closer.
“Stop crowding him,” they said in unison.
Giyuu swallowed. This was escalating rather quickly.
He set down his chopsticks. “I’m finished,” he said.
Sanemi stared. “You should eat more.”
“I don’t want to interfere,” Giyuu said, standing and carefully repacking his bag.
“With what?” Sabito asked, baffled.
Giyuu looked at them, shook his head, and moved a few meters behind a tree to hide.
Giyuu glanced at the two and shook his head. Perfect. Now they can have some alone time together.
Sabito blinked, looking at Giyuu, who was perfectly visible from where he was crouched behind the said tree. “…We are definitely the problem.”
Sanemi dragged a hand down his face, glaring at the karaage Giyuu refused to have. “I’m never feeding him again.”
“Liar,” Sabito muttered.
The next day, when Giyuu found two bentos waiting for him, he thought to himself that the two must have had a really good time together.
The sport for P.E. was basketball.
Unfortunately for Giyuu, he had sprained his wrist during kendo practice earlier that morning. Which meant he was restricted to bench duty, observing rather than participating. He didn’t mind—mostly. He was perfectly content to watch.
Of course, that didn’t make it any less dramatic.
Inside the court, Sanemi and Sabito were… behaving as if the game was for nationals. Far too serious for a practice match between classes. Especially when neither of them is actually on their school’s basketball team.
Sanemi guarded Sabito like a hawk, every pivot, every step, every glance.
Sabito, meanwhile, was grinning, knowing exactly which buttons to push. He dribbled, faked, spun, and occasionally did the sort of ridiculous behind-the-back maneuvers that Giyuu does not even know where he learned.
“Are you always this intense, or am I special?” Sabito teased mid-dribble, eyebrows raised.
“Shut up,” Sanemi snapped, yanking the ball away in a movement so swift it could only be described as predatory.
Sanemi charged down the court, perfect form, flawless shot, spins around to glare at Sabito.
Sabito laughs. Of course he does. He snatches the rebound and attempts a flashy layup, because why not, it’s already a spectacle.
Sanemi leaps to block it—but trips slightly in the process, nearly hitting the floor, arms flailing.
It was dramatic. Too dramatic.
A teammate yells from the sidelines: “Wait… you guys are on the same team! Why are you acting like enemies?!”
Sabito smirks, obviously enjoying the chaos. “Teammates? Pfft. Details.”
Sanemi growls, recovers the ball, makes a perfect shot this time, and mutters lowly, “Shut up, Sabito.”
Giyuu is watching this, and his brain is on fire.
Because no matter how hard he thinks,s about it, it’s all too clear. The way they move. The way they look at each other. The smile. The occasional accidental bump that lasts a second too long.
They are obviously—obviously—flirting.
The game continues in the same vein: fast breaks, dramatic steals, exaggerated flops, Sabito teasing Sanemi mid-dribble with comments like, “Careful, you almost broke a sweat.” How sweet of him.
Sanemi snaps back every single time. Every time. Loudly. With a subtle, unmistakable look of love in Sabito’s direction.
Eventually, the bell rings, signaling a break.
Sabito jogs over to him, panting dramatically. “Hey… can I borrow your water bottle? I left mine in the classroom.”
Giyuu reaches to hand it over—and then Sanemi swoops fast. Snatches Giyuu’s bottle mid-hand, then hands Sabito his own water bottle.
“Here,” Sanemi says, flatly.
Sabito laughs, catching the bottle. “Thanks,” he teases, taking a sip.
Giyuu freezes. Heart rate spikes. Mind. Racing.
Wait. What just happened?
Sanemi… handed Sabito his own bottle.
Oh… Sanemi is possessive of Sabito. Giyuu concludes.
Sabito raises an eyebrow, says nothing, and continues drinking like he’s perfectly comfortable with the indirect kiss.
It’s mutual. Their feelings are reciprocated.
Giyuu leans back.
Maybe he should help the two get together.
Giyuu decides to be helpful.
In retrospect, this was his greatest mistake.
It seemed like the only rational course of action.
Clearly, Sabito and Sanemi were failing at a very basic form of communication. Spectacularly, even. And since Giyuu had, through careful observation and entirely sound reasoning, concluded that they were “in love with each other,” it followed naturally that someone should intervene.
Someone rational.
Someone logical.
Someone who understood the rules of human interaction.
Giyuu, obviously. The “someone” who had never once considered that this might not be him.
Giyuu found Shinobu in the clinic during free period, sleeves rolled up as she stood on a stool, rearranging the medicine cabinet, looking like she very much enjoyed putting things in order. Personally, he could never.
He stopped just inside the doorway and waited.
After a few seconds, Shinobu spoke without turning around. “If you’re here because you’re bleeding, sit down. If you’re here because someone else is bleeding, tell them to stop.”
“I’m not bleeding,” Giyuu said.
“That’s unfortunate,” she replied absently, sliding a row of neatly labeled bottles into place.
He watched for a moment longer, considering how to phrase his next words. This was a big deal after all. Human emotions were involved, not just any other human, but his friends. And so he had decided to seek expert advice just to be sure.
“They don’t actually hate each other,” he said quietly.
Shinobu’s hand stilled.
Giyuu continued, undeterred. “They’re just bad at expressing affection.”
The silence stretched.
Slowly, Shinobu turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder. Her smile was still there, fixed carefully in place, but something behind her eyes had gone very still.
“…Giyuu.”
He met her gaze calmly, encouraged by her attention.
“Yes?” he prompted, unbothered. The answer was obvious. She would understand.
Shinobu stared at him for a long moment. Then she sighed.
“Could you maybe start with who we’re talking about,” she said, “because right now I think this is about you, and if that’s the case—please seek professional help.”
“Sorry,” Giyuu said, stepping toward one of the clinic beds and sitting down. “But this time, it’s really not about me.”
That did not reassure her.
Shinobu crossed her arms and looked at him expectantly. “Alright. Enlighten me.”
“Sabito and Sanemi.”
“…What about them?”
Giyuu hesitated, choosing his words once more. “I think—no. I am quite sure they are in love with each other.”
Shinobu blinked once. Twice.
Then, slowly, “You are trying to say… Sabito and Sanemi are in love with each other?”
“Yes,” Giyuu said, nodding. “I believe I have spent more than enough time with them to know.”
Her eye twitched.
“Okay,” Shinobu said, tone painfully calm. “Let’s say you’re right. Which, just for the record, I am extremely confident you’re not. What exactly do you want me to do about this?”
“What do you mean I’m wrong?” Giyuu asked, brows knitting together in genuine confusion and effectively diverting the topic of their conversation.
“They despise each other, well, I’m sure Sanemi does, but Sabito is in denial,” she said right off the bat, speaking slowly, like she was explaining to a preschooler rather than a high schooler about to enter university the next semester.
“They wouldn’t be that emotional if that were true,” Giyuu replied evenly, as if that settled the matter.
Shinobu blinked at him. “Mind telling me which emotions you’re talking about?”
Giyuu nodded, entirely unbothered by her skepticism. “I have been observing them for weeks. They are constantly trying to get close to each other. Unfortunately, I always end up between them, so they have to squeeze me just to get a little closer. They often smile at each other too—big grins. Sanemi even gets red when Sabito talks to him.”
“…You’re saying that constant arguing is a romantic signal?” Shinobu asked, tone somewhere between incredulous and mildly alarmed.
“Yes,” Giyuu confirmed. “And no, I wouldn’t call them arguments. Rather, I think that’s how they court each other. Like peacocks.”
Shinobu pinched the bridge of her nose. “Peacocks… I… I don’t think I have ever met anyone who interprets insults and elbowing each other as signs of affection.”
“What do you mean?”
Shinobu stared. “Okay, let’s test this. Name one instance of the ‘affection’ you speak of. Give me concrete evidence.”
Giyuu leaned against the edge of the clinic bed. “During lunch yesterday, in the library… they were holding hands.”
Shinobu blinked. “…Excuse me?”
“Yes,” he said, voice even. “I was searching for a book when it happened.”
Shinobu stared, trying to suppress both laughter and horror. “You’re… sure about that?”
“I was there myself. As I was reaching for a book on the top shelf, the entire shelf wobbled ominously. Before I could react, Sanemi and Sabito appeared on each of my sides, and they were pressing hands against the shelf. I am most definitely sure it was intertwined. Their hands overlapped.”
Shinobu looked at him with pure disbelief in her eyes. “You had me on the first half.”
“I’m telling you, they are just trying to keep it low-key,” Giyuu said, entirely unfazed. “But the gestures, the timing, even the frequency of their verbal exchanges seem… romantic.”
“…You are impossible.”
“I would like your advice.” Giyuu finally said to revert to his original intention.
Shinobu raised an eyebrow, giving up on Giyuu entirely. “On what, exactly?”
“How to get them to communicate their… feelings. Preferably, without them realizing I am actually doing something. So, they can get together.”
Shinobu blinked once. Twice. Her eyes are really starting to hurt. She let out a long, incredulous sigh. “You’re asking me… how to play matchmaker for two people who actively hate each other.”
“I told you. They do not hate each other,” Giyuu corrected, eyes narrowing slightly. “Both of them are important to me. As a friend, I feel like it is my duty to help them get their happy ending.”
Shinobu just stared. For a long time. Then she shook her head. “I really don’t know what to make of you.”
Giyuu tilted his head, entirely unbothered by the comment. “Thank you. I take that as approval.”
She pinched her lips together. “…Fine. What exactly do you have in mind?”
Giyuu smiled faintly. “I was thinking maybe we can set them up for a ‘double date’. Then we leave them. Maybe somewhere with a lot of people, so we can easily sneak out… But then Sanemi might not agree to it if it’s too crowded.”
Shinobu raised an eyebrow. “If you’re the one who asked him out, he will agree within a heartbeat.”
“You sure? Then you can ask Sabito if he’s free. Shall we do this weekend?”
“Fine,” Shinobu said, already mentally preparing for the disaster this could become. “I need to talk to him about this, anyway.”
“Great. Lunch is almost over. I should leave.” Giyuu was about to stand when Shinobu shoved him back into the chair.
“That’s all you have for the plan? Are you serious?”
“No. I will message you the rest of the details later. Trust me.”
Shinobu let out an indescribable sound somewhere between a groan, a snort, and a cry for help. She shook her head. Let him be. Just let him be.
Before the clinic door even closed, she could hear the chaos already beginning: the unmistakable sounds of Sabito and Sanemi flanking Giyuu. Voices overlapping, half-shouts, half-laughs. She can name who’s who without looking.
Shinobu pinched the bridge of her nose again.
Seriously. She will never understand how Giyuu’s brain works. Or if it even works at all.
Sanemi arrived at the amusement park thirty minutes early.
He told himself it was because he hated being late and did not want to keep Giyuu waiting, of course. That was true—but not entirely.
He was far too restless that even standing still felt like a chore. He lingered near the entrance gates, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched.
He had tried on far too many outfits for this day.
At one point, in a lapse of judgment, he would deny ever having, he had even dragged out his old man’s suit. He stood in front of the mirror, coat stiff on his shoulders, adjusting the tie like maybe—maybe—-the aesthetics would kick in like the models in his sister’s magazines..
It did not.
Sumi took one look at him and told him he looked like a door-to-door scammer who sold frying pans and disappeared the moment you paid, without ever receiving the pan.
Genya laughed. Loudly.
Sanemi changed immediately.
Eventually, Teiko decided to step in. She surveyed the growing pile of discarded clothes, sighed as a woman witnessing a fashion disaster, and handed him the blue denim jacket instead. The white shirt followed. Then the black jeans—the ripped ones, but “deliciously ripped,” as she insisted, which was not a phrase Sanemi wanted to examine too closely.
She paused, then grabbed a black bandana and shoved it at him. “Your hair,” she said flatly. “Do something with it.”
So he did.
He tied the bandana back, pushing his hair out of his face, the ends sticking up no matter what he did. He added the chain necklace without thinking—then thought about it too much—and slipped a ring onto his finger because his hands felt strangely empty without something there.
Teiko stepped back and nodded once. “There. You finally look like your age.”
This was how he ended up here now—blue jacket loose over his shoulders, white shirt clean, black jeans torn at the knees, boots laced tight. Bandana tied back, chain cool against his collarbone, ring catching the light every time he flexed his fingers. It was far too cold for this outfit, he later realized, but who cares? His body temperature usually runs hot anyway.
As far as Sanemi was concerned, this was a date.
Sanemi had replayed that moment more times than he cared to admit.
Giyuu had been… vague.
Which, coming from Giyuu, either meant something or nothing at all. But he had been very clear about one thing.
It was a date.
The text still felt unreal.
Do you want to go with me this weekend?
Sanemi had turned off his phone and turned it back on again, just to be sure it was not a glitch. He had stared at the screen until his eyes hurt.
He even called Giyuu, just in case—because maybe Giyuu had gotten hacked, or lost his phone, or accidentally sent the message while unconscious. When he heard Giyuu’s voice on the other end, calm and unmistakably real, Sanemi hung up immediately.
Still, it was not enough. He had gone on a ten-kilometer run and checked again mid-sweat. The message was still there.
At some point, he had asked Genya to punch him.
Genya, alarmed, had refused immediately.
So Sanemi had compromised and asked him to check if the message was real.
Genya had sighed, taken the phone, scrolled once, and said, “Yeah. That’s real.”
So really—who was Shinazugawa Sanemi to say no to Tomioka Giyuu?
He exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the crowd again.
Any minute now.
Sanemi felt like being splashed with cold water when the sight of Sabito approaching from the opposite direction came into view.
Sabito slowed too, his brows knitting together in open confusion. They stopped a few feet apart, staring at each other like neither quite believed the other was real.
“…What are you doing here?” Sabito asked.
Sanemi scowled. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Sabito hesitated. “Shinobu told me to meet her here.”
Sanemi’s stomach dropped.
“…Giyuu told me to come,” he muttered.
They stared at each other.
The implication settled between them, heavy and unwelcome.
Before either of them could voice it—before Sanemi could decide whether to punch something or scream—two familiar figures emerged from the crowd.
Giyuu walked beside Shinobu, who looked… far too amused.
Giyuu stopped when he saw them. His gaze flicked from Sanemi to Sabito, then back again. He nodded once and smiled.
“You’re both early,” he said, oblivious of the dilemma he had caused.
Sanemi opened his mouth.
So did Sabito.
Neither of them got the chance to speak.
Because Giyuu’s stomach growled.
Far too loudly to be ignored.
“…Sorry, can we eat first?” Giyuu said, cheeks slightly flushed. “It’s difficult to enjoy rides when you’re hungry.”
Shinobu clapped her hands together with suspicious enthusiasm. “Yes! Food first. Conversations later.”
And just like that, the moment to clarify slipped away.
They ended up at an outdoor food court, the kind that smelled perpetually of fried dough and sugary drinks, with children weaving unpredictably between tables and mascots in oversized costumes waving with unsettling enthusiasm.
Somehow—without discussion, negotiation, or even a mild argument—Sanemi and Sabito gravitated toward Giyuu. It was natural.
Sanemi slid into the seat on one side, and Sabito plopped down on the other side.
Shinobu, sitting alone across the table, tilted her head, amused. Oh, this is free entertainment.
Sanemi pushed his tray toward Giyuu with minimal grace. “Eat,” he said, tone clipped.
Sabito immediately leaned over and plopped fries on Giyuu’s plate. “That’s not enough,” he said, eyes narrowed.
Sanemi’s glare could have melted the ice cream they ordered alone. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not deciding,” Sabito shot back, “I’m compensating.”
“For what?”
“For your terrible judgment,” Sabito said, his gaze sweeping the overflowing tray in front of Giyuu. “Clearly, that’s not enough. This is Giyuu we’re talking about.”
Giyuu, of course, continued to eat, oblivious and undisturbed.
Shinobu crossed her arms, hiding her laughter behind a sigh. The ticket she paid for would be worth it even without the rides.
Then it happened.
A smear of sauce, bright red ketchup, appeared at the corner of Giyuu’s mouth.
Sanemi noticed instantly.
He didn’t think. He just reached out, thumb brushing Giyuu’s skin, wiping it away—and before anyone could process it, licked it off his finger.
The table froze.
Sabito choked on his drink. Half of it went up his nose.
Shinobu made a sound that was equal parts disbelief and pain, somewhere between a sigh, a squeak.
Giyuu blinked once. “Thank you.”
Sanemi’s face heated up to a shade that’s even redder than the ketchup he wiped off. “You’re messy.”
Giyuu’s mouth moved. Words struggled through the food. He pouted. “I am not,” it seemed to say.
Shinobu stood so fast her chair made a high-pitched screech. “Excuse me,” she said, voice tight, “I need to go to the bathroom.” Which, in context, was clearly code for: come with me.
She grabbed Giyuu’s wrist and dragged him a few steps away.
“Giyuu,” she hissed, low and urgent. “This is what you call being in love with each other?”
“Yes.”
“I expected this. But really. I cannot believe I am actually pitying Shinazugawa-san right now.”
“Huh?”
“…Do you understand how that entire exchange looks?”
Giyuu considered this. “I think it’s sweet that they were trying to pay for each other. They even paid for our food too.”
Shinobu stared at him, defeated. “…I’m done.”
The roller coaster came next.
It was loud, towering, and the perfect place to get two people together.
Giyuu stared up at the twisting metal tracks, then at Sanemi and Sabito standing on either side of him. If his observations had taught him anything, it was that proximity encouraged understanding. Possibly bonding. Possibly romance.
“You should sit together,” Giyuu said, already nudging Sanemi toward Sabito.
Sabito recoiled instantly, hands up. “Absolutely not. I will vomit. On you. On myself. On the general public.”
Sanemi scoffed. “Coward.”
“Say that again when you’re the one dealing with the aftermath,” Sabito shot back. He turned pointedly to Giyuu and waved him forward. “You ride with him.”
Giyuu blinked. “Oh.”
Sanemi froze. “Wait—”
Too late.
The attendant ushered them in, the restraints came down, and suddenly Sanemi was buckled in beside Giyuu, knees brushing, shoulders pressed close in a way that sent an unexpected jolt straight through his spine.
The car lurched forward.
Sanemi braced himself, jaw clenched.
The first drop hit fast.
His hand found Giyuu’s without meaning to.
Wind tore past them as the car plummeted, screams echoing around them. Sanemi laughed—sharp, startled, and utterly unguarded. It ripped out of him before he could stop it, and Giyuu felt it bloom warm and steady in his chest.
Sanemi’s grip tightened during every twist and turn, fingers interlaced now. For some reason, Giyuu felt like he did not need to pull away. Instead, he squeezed back almost unconsciously.
When the ride finally slowed, metal screeching and adrenaline buzzing in their veins, Sanemi still did not let go.
But neither did Giyuu.
They sat there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing in sync, until the attendant cleared their throat pointedly.
Nearby, Shinobu watched everything with keen interest before smoothly intercepting Sabito near the snack stand.
“He thinks you’re in love with Sanemi,” she said flatly, sipping her drink.
Sabito nearly dropped his pretzel. “Who thinks what?”
“Giyuu,” Shinobu deadpanned.
Sabito stared at her. “…But why?”
“It gets worse,” she continued. “He also thinks Sanemi likes you.”
Sabito’s mouth opened. Closed. Then he let out a single, dawning, “Oh.”
Shinobu sighed, already tired. “So. Care to explain why you’ve been antagonizing Sanemi?”
Sabito shrugged. “His reactions are fun. And maybe a little payback for how he treated Giyuu before.”
“You’re incredibly petty.”
“I guess I am,” Sabito said lightly. “Also, we’re letting this continue. Until Sanemi realizes exactly how Giyuu’s been seeing everything.”
Shinobu grinned. “I approve.”
Unfortunately for the two, Sanemi skipped the step they were hoping he would take and went straight to the finale.
The carousel glowed as dusk painted the sky in streaks of pink and orange. Sanemi came to an abrupt halt and grabbed Giyuu’s wrist, leaving Shinobu and Sabito to wander further ahead.
“You. Come here. Ride this”
Before Giyuu could respond, Sanemi pulled him onto a horse, standing close enough that Giyuu could feel the heat radiating from him. The world suddenly felt smaller, quieter, despite the spinning lights and buzzing people around them.
Giyuu blinked once, then nodded. “Is this about Sabito?”
Sanemi looked like he might actually combust on the spot.
“No,” he snapped. “It’s about you.”
The carousel beside them creaked to life, painted horses rising and falling as cheerful music filled the air, entirely at odds with the tension curling between them. Sanemi dragged a hand down his face, inhaled sharply, then froze.
“Wait—what?” he said. “Why the hell is Sabito involved?”
Giyuu tilted his head. “You don’t have to deny it, Sanemi. I know how you feel about Sabito.”
Sanemi stared at him.
“You… know?”
“Yes.” Giyuu nodded with grave sincerity. “I support you. Your feelings are valid, and there’s nothing wrong with them.”
Sanemi’s brain short-circuited.
“…Then how do you feel about me?” he asked slowly.
Giyuu thought for a moment. “I think you’re a good person. And I think you deserve all the love you receive.”
Sanemi’s heart leapt. “Then—will you be my boyfriend?”
“You and Sabito will make a great couple.”
They spoke at the exact same time.
The carousel continued to spin. The world absolutely did not.
“Huh?”
“Huh?”
“You think I like Sabito?” Sanemi demanded.
“You like me?” Giyuu echoed.
Sanemi sucked in a breath, visibly wrestling with himself. “You seriously think I like Sabito,” he said, enunciating every word, “when we were constantly at each other’s throats?”
“I thought that was just how you flirt,” Giyuu replied earnestly. “It seemed… romantic.”
Sanemi stared at him in disbelief.
“Every damn time one of us got close to you,” Sanemi said, voice rising, “we stopped each other. What did that look like to you?”
“I thought it was your roundabout way of physical affection.”
“…I was jealous,” Sanemi burst out. “Fucking jealous. And all this time, you thought I was in love with him?”
Giyuu winced. “Sorry. I just… I observed you both for a long time. There was the water bottle, the hand-hold—”
“Since when did we—” Sanemi stopped himself, exhaled sharply, then shook his head. “No. Forget it. I’m not in love with Sabito. I don’t like him romantically. I tolerate him because he’s your friend. That’s it.”
He stepped closer, eyes locked onto Giyuu’s.
“I like you,” Sanemi said quietly, fiercely. “You’re the one I think about. The one I want to hold hands with. Share my lunch with. Spend time with. Hell, I want to kiss you right now just to shut that pretty mouth before it spouts more bullshit.”
Giyuu’s mind stalled completely.
He had been wrong. Spectacularly, catastrophically wrong. His so-called careful observations and conclusions—none of them had mattered or were right, for that matter.
Sanemi likes him.
Oh.
Sanemi likes him.
“I know this is a lot,” Sanemi continued, voice softer now. “So let me be clear, in case you misunderstand again. From now on, everything I do will have romantic intent.”
He hesitated, then added, almost pleading, “Please let me court you, Giyuu.”
Giyuu’s face burned red.
Words failed him entirely, leaving only a small, quiet hum of agreement as the carousel slowed to a stop.
Sanemi’s entire demeanor changed instantly.
He grinned, offered his hand, and helped Giyuu down from the painted horse like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When they finally found their abandoned friends, Giyuu walked straight up to Sabito.
“Sabito,” he said seriously. “Do you like Sanemi?”
Sabito choked on his drink. “Wow. I thought I was over it, but this really took me out.”
Giyuu stared at him, unblinking. Sanemi felt his blood pressure spike.
“No, dummy,” Sabito said, ruffling Giyuu’s hair. “Absolutely not.”
“That’s good,” Giyuu said calmly. “Because Sanemi is courting me now.”
Sanemi turned bright red.
Sabito laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I like him for you.”
Giyuu probably should have been logical enough to ask them directly in the first place.
But, really—what goes around comes around.