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“Absolutely not.”
Sakura Haruka, a man whose default setting was ‘perpetually annoyed,’ crossed his arms with such force that the paper sign taped precariously onto the classroom wall behind him rippled. His voice, usually a low growl, was now pitched somewhere between a strangled cat and a kettle on the verge of exploding. “Why are there lanterns everywhere?!”
The entirety of Class 1-1 ignored him with the practiced ease of seasoned professionals. It was a symphony of chaos, a meticulously orchestrated disaster that only Class 1-1 could pull off with such panache.
Nirei, bless his perpetually anxious heart, was balancing precariously on a chair, his frame swaying as he attempted to string up a particularly garish red decoration. Tsugeura, a walking, talking, muscle-bound dude, strode through the melee carrying three boxes at once, overflowing with silk tassels and gold-painted plastic ingots. Kiryu, ever the picture of serene detachment, sat perched on a desk, calmly folding paper charms, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips as he watched the chaos with amusement.
And at the very epicenter of this glorious, red-and-gold-themed maelstrom, stood Suo Hayato. He smiled serenely, a beatific expression on his face that would have been utterly charming if he wasn't wielding a glue gun like a seasoned artisan.
“Our class theme,” Suo announced, his voice as smooth as polished jade, “is a Chinese-style tea house.”
Sakura stared. He stared at the lanterns, at the dragons, at the suspiciously authentic-looking tea sets. He stared at Nirei, who nearly lost his balance again, and at Tsugeura, who was now attempting to hang a particularly large banner with a single hand. He stared at Kiryu, who merely raised an eyebrow. Finally, his gaze landed back on Suo, who was now meticulously attaching a miniature pagoda to a cardboard archway.
“How did we even decide that?!” Sakura demanded, his voice cracking slightly. The sheer audacity of it all was enough to short-circuit his already frayed nerves.
Suo, without missing a beat, looked up from his architectural masterpiece, his smile widening just a fraction. “You did.”
“I DID NOT.” The denial was immediate, vehement, and utterly unconvincing, even to Sakura himself. A tiny, nagging voice in the back of his mind, the one that sounded suspiciously like Kiryu, whispered, ‘Are you sure about that?’
Nirei, in a desperate attempt to stifle a giggle that threatened to send him tumbling from his perch, nearly fell off the chair. He clutched the ceiling beam for dear life, his face a comical mask of suppressed mirth.
“S-Sakura-san,” Nirei stammered, his voice muffled by the beam, “you voted for it yesterday…”
“I THOUGHT WE WERE VOTING ON FOOD!” Sakura roared, the injustice of it all burning a fiery path through his veins. He remembered the meeting, vaguely. A blur of enthusiastic suggestions, Suo’s calm presence, and a sudden, overwhelming desire for a nap. He must have zoned out. He had to have zoned out.
The classroom was abuzz with the usual pre-festival chaos. Suggestions for the class booth were flying around like confetti. Sakura, whose primary concern was always the efficient consumption of calories, had only one thing on his mind: lunch. When Suo, with his infuriatingly calm demeanor, had suggested ‘Chinese cuisine,’ Sakura’s ears had perked up.
Chinese cuisine meant dumplings. It meant noodles. It meant sweet and sour pork. He’d raised his hand, a rare occurrence, and declared, ‘I vote for Chinese!’ The rest of the meeting was a blur of enthusiastic chatter about decorations, martial arts demonstrations, and then, ominously, ‘matching outfits.’
Sakura, lost in a daydream of dim sum, had merely grunted in agreement, assuming they meant chef hats or aprons. Oh, how wrong he was.
“You were,” Kiryu confirmed, his voice a low, melodic hum that somehow cut through the lingering echoes of Sakura’s indignation. He still hadn’t looked up from his paper charms, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a hint of amusement. “Suo-chan suggested Chinese cuisine. Then Anzai’s group started arguing about decorations. You know, the usual ‘more dragons!’ versus ‘less dragons, more pandas!’ debate.”
“And then Tsugeura-san, bless his enthusiastic heart, wanted martial arts demonstrations,” Nirei chimed in, having finally regained his composure and his precarious balance. “He even demonstrated a few moves, nearly taking out the whiteboard in the process.”
“Which, to be fair, was impressive,” Kiryu added, a genuine smile gracing his lips for a fleeting moment. “But perhaps not ideal for a tea house.”
“And then someone,” Nirei continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “said we needed matching outfits.”
Sakura slowly, agonizingly, turned his head towards Suo. The serene smile on Suo’s face had not wavered. In fact, it seemed to have expanded, radiating an almost blinding aura of innocent mischief. Sakura felt a cold dread creep up his spine. He knew that smile. That was the smile of a man who had just orchestrated a master plan, and was now enjoying the fruits of his labor.
“…What outfits?” Sakura asked, his voice barely a whisper. He didn’t want to know. He really, truly didn’t want to know. But a morbid curiosity, coupled with the dawning realization that he was probably already doomed, compelled him to ask.
Suo’s smile widened. It was a smile that promised both enlightenment and utter humiliation. It was the smile of a cat who had just swallowed a canary, and was now contemplating dessert.
That alone made Sakura nervous. Very, very nervous. His internal alarm bells, usually reserved for impending fights or surprise pop quizzes, were now blaring at full volume. He had a bad feeling about this. A very, very bad feeling.
Ten minutes later, Sakura stood frozen behind the changing divider, clutching a pile of red fabric as if it were a venomous snake. The fabric was silk, he noted distantly, and surprisingly heavy. It shimmered with intricate gold embroidery, depicting what looked like a very happy dragon chasing a very confused phoenix. It was, in a word, extravagant.
“…No,” Sakura stated, his voice flat and devoid of all hope. He was a man staring into the abyss, and the abyss was wearing a traditional Chinese robe.
“It suits you,” Suo’s calm, infuriatingly pleasant voice drifted from the other side of the divider. Sakura could almost picture him, leaning against the wall, probably sipping tea and looking utterly unbothered by the existential crisis he was currently inflicting upon his classmate.
“I haven’t even put it on!” Sakura yelled, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. The injustice of it all was truly astounding. How could something suit him if he hadn’t even worn it? Was Suo some kind of fashion psychic? Or was he just messing with him? (The latter was far more likely.)
“You would suit anything,” Suo replied, his tone utterly sincere. It was the kind of sincerity that made Sakura want to scream into a pillow. Or perhaps, into Suo’s face. He hadn’t decided yet.
“STOP SAYING WEIRD THINGS SO CASUALLY!” Sakura roared, his face already starting to flush. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, a tell-tale sign of his rapidly dwindling patience. Suo had a knack for pushing all his buttons, and then calmly observing the resulting meltdown with an air of detached scientific curiosity.
Outside the divider, Anzai’s loud, booming laugh echoed through the classroom, shaking the very foundations of Sakura’s fragile composure.
“Oi, Sakura! Hurry up! The married couple corner needs its stars!” Anzai bellowed, his voice laced with an almost maniacal glee. The words hung in the air, heavy and pregnant with implication.
Silence. A profound, unsettling silence descended upon the classroom. Even the frantic rustling of decorations seemed to cease. It was the kind of silence that precedes a natural disaster, or, in Sakura’s case, a full-blown existential crisis.
Then—
“WHAT.” The single word, ripped from Sakura’s throat, was less a question and more a primal scream of disbelief. His mind, already reeling from the shock of the outfit, was now struggling to process this new, horrifying development. Married couple corner? What in the actual hell was a married couple corner?
The entire classroom abruptly became very, very busy. It was a coordinated effort, a silent agreement to avoid eye contact with the impending explosion that was Sakura Haruka. They scattered like startled pigeons, each finding a sudden, urgent task to occupy themselves with.
Nirei, who had been meticulously untangling fairy lights, suddenly found the ceiling intensely fascinating. He stared upwards, as if deciphering ancient hieroglyphs etched into the acoustic tiles. Kiryu, who had been calmly folding paper charms, suddenly became engrossed in his phone. Tsugeura, ever the man of action, started shadowboxing in the corner. His movements were fluid and powerful, each punch and kick a testament to his dedication to physical prowess. He was clearly channeling his nervous energy into a display of martial arts, perhaps hoping to intimidate the awkwardness out of the room. It wasn’t working.
Anzai, however, remained utterly unfazed. He grinned, a wide, mischievous grin that stretched from ear to ear, radiating absolutely zero fear for his life. He was a man who lived for chaos, thrived on it, and was currently basking in its glorious glow.
“You know,” Anzai said casually, as if discussing the weather, “the whole traditional tea house thing works better if there’s a couple greeting customers. Adds to the ambiance, you know? Authenticity and all that jazz.” He punctuated his statement with a theatrical shrug, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.
Sakura emerged from the divider immediately. He couldn’t help himself. The sheer audacity of Anzai’s statement, coupled with the horrifying implication of a ‘married couple corner,’ had propelled him out of his hiding spot like a cannonball.
Red robes draped neatly around him, the silk flowing elegantly with his movements. The intricate gold accents, depicting those very happy dragons and confused phoenixes, shimmered under the classroom lights. His hair, usually meticulously styled, was slightly messy from changing too fast, and his face was already turning a furious shade of red, a clear indication of his rapidly escalating irritation. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a very handsome, very angry, very traditional Chinese groom.
Everyone stopped. The frantic activity ceased. The silent avoidance of eye contact evaporated. All eyes were now on Sakura, who stood there, a vision in red and gold, radiating an aura of barely contained fury.
“…Whoa,” Nirei whispered, his eyes wide with genuine awe. He had completely forgotten about the ceiling tiles. The fairy lights lay forgotten in his hands.
Even Kiryu, the unflappable Kiryu, blinked. His phone, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, was forgotten in his hand. He stared at Sakura, a flicker of surprise in his usually impassive gaze.
Tsugeura, who had been mid-kick, froze. He pointed dramatically at Sakura, his finger trembling slightly. “Sakura! You look cool!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with an almost childlike wonder. The martial arts demonstration was forgotten. The awkwardness was forgotten. Only Sakura, in his magnificent, infuriatingly well-fitting robe, remained.
Sakura ignored them all. His gaze was fixed on Anzai, who was still grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “WHY WOULD THERE BE A MARRIED COUPLE?!” he demanded, his voice rising to a shout. The question was rhetorical, of course. He knew exactly why. Because Suo. Always Suo.
“Because Suo said—” Anzai began, his grin unwavering, clearly enjoying the spectacle. But before he could finish, Suo, with a movement as swift and silent as a shadow, gently placed a hand over Anzai’s mouth. It was a gesture of surprising tenderness, considering the circumstances, and it effectively silenced the boisterous Anzai.
“It was merely a cultural suggestion,” Suo said smoothly, his voice calm and unruffled, as if he hadn’t just orchestrated a fashion-induced meltdown and a near-martial arts incident. He removed his hand from Anzai’s mouth, and Anzai, surprisingly, remained silent, a bewildered expression on his face.
Sakura narrowed his eyes. He knew that tone. That was Suo’s ‘I’m being perfectly reasonable while secretly manipulating everyone’ tone. “...What suggestion?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion. He wasn’t falling for it this time. Probably.
Suo tilted his head, his expression one of pure, unadulterated innocence. “In some traditional tea houses during festivals, a married pair welcomes guests together. It creates a warm, inviting atmosphere. A sense of familial hospitality, if you will.” He gestured vaguely with his glue gun, as if illustrating a particularly profound philosophical concept.
“And why am I involved?!” Sakura practically shrieked. He was not married. He was not familial. He was, at best, tolerating the existence of his classmates. The idea of him being part of a ‘married pair’ was ludicrous. Preposterous. Utterly, completely, undeniably insane.
“Because,” Suo said calmly, his gaze sweeping over Sakura’s red robes, “you are the only one in class who matches my outfit.”
Sakura looked down. He looked at his own red robe, the gold embroidery shimmering. Then he looked at Suo, who was now, for the first time, fully visible in his own matching attire. Suo’s robe was also red, also adorned with intricate gold embroidery, depicting what looked like a very wise dragon contemplating a very serene phoenix. It was, in a word, identical.
…They did match. Almost perfectly. His was red with gold embroidery. Suo’s was red with also gold embroidery. Even the accessories, the delicate jade pendants, the intricately tied sashes, looked like they were designed to be a pair. It was a horrifying realization, a meticulously planned trap that Sakura had walked right into.
Sakura looked back up slowly, his eyes wide with dawning horror. “…You planned this.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. A realization. A prophecy of doom.
Suo’s smile remained unwavering. “I don’t know what you mean.” His voice was still calm, still pleasant, still utterly devoid of any genuine remorse. He was a master of plausible deniability, a grandmaster of subtle manipulation.
“You absolutely do!” Sakura yelled, throwing his hands up in exasperation. The sheer audacity of the man! The calculated, premeditated nature of this entire charade! It was enough to make him want to tear his hair out. Or, more accurately, tear Suo’s hair out.
Behind them, Anzai’s group, having recovered from Suo’s temporary silencing, had already started setting up a giant handwritten sign. It was hastily scrawled, but the message was clear, bold, and utterly soul-crushing:
『NEWLYWED SPECIAL』
Sakura nearly had a heart attack. His vision swam. The world tilted on its axis. He could feel the blood draining from his face, replaced by a cold, clammy sweat. This was it. This was how he died. Of sheer, unadulterated embarrassment.
“TAKE THAT DOWN!” he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the offending sign. His voice was high-pitched, bordering on hysterical. He was beyond reason. He was beyond anger. He was in the realm of pure, unadulterated panic.
“But customers will love it!” one of Anzai’s friends chirped, a wide, innocent smile on his face. He genuinely seemed to believe this was a good idea. Sakura wanted to weep.
“WE ARE NOT MARRIED!” Sakura roared, his voice cracking with indignation. The very idea was preposterous. He and Suo? Married? The universe would implode. The fabric of reality would unravel. It was simply not possible.
Kakiuchi blinked, a look of genuine confusion on his face. “…Wait, really?” he asked, as if Sakura had just revealed a shocking, earth-shattering secret. As if the concept of two high school boys not being married was somehow revolutionary.
Junpei looked genuinely confused too. “Huh. I thought you two were already dating.” He scratched his head, clearly trying to reconcile this new information with his preconceived notions. Sakura felt another wave of nausea wash over him.
Nirei, who had been attempting to discreetly wipe away a tear of laughter, choked. He clutched his throat, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. Kiryu, ever the master of subtle reactions, covered his mouth with one hand, but the tell-tale crinkling around his eyes betrayed the fact that he was struggling to hide a grin. Even Tsugeura, who usually possessed the emotional range of a particularly stoic brick, looked between them with complete sincerity.
“You guys do act like an old married couple.”
Sakura’s face turned bright red instantly. A deep, furious crimson that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. “We DO NOT—” he began, his voice a strangled squawk of protest. He was about to launch into a passionate, albeit incoherent, defense of his bachelorhood, when he was abruptly cut off.
Suo, with a movement so light and natural it almost went unnoticed, lightly adjusted Sakura’s crooked collar. His fingers brushed against Sakura’s neck, a fleeting, almost imperceptible touch. The movement was natural. Careful. Close. Too close. Sakura froze mid-sentence, his protest dying in his throat. The warmth of Suo’s fingers lingered, sending a strange, unfamiliar jolt through him.
“…There,” Suo murmured, his voice soft, almost a whisper. His eyes, usually so calm and collected, held a hint of something unreadable. Something that made Sakura’s heart do a very strange, very inconvenient flip.
The classroom went silent for exactly three seconds. Three agonizing, tension-filled seconds where the only sound was the frantic pounding of Sakura’s heart against his ribs. Then, as if on cue, Anzai burst into laughter.
“OH MY GOD LOOK AT HIS FACE—” Anzai shrieked, clutching his stomach as tears streamed down his face. He was pointing at Sakura, who was still frozen, his face a spectacular shade of scarlet.
“SHUT UP!” Sakura finally managed to bellow, his voice hoarse. He wanted to disappear. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He wanted to punch Anzai. He wanted to punch Suo. He wanted to punch everyone. But mostly, he just wanted to curl up in a ball and die of embarrassment.
The festival started an hour later. An hour of frantic last-minute preparations, an hour of Sakura trying, and failing, to escape his fate, and an hour of Suo looking entirely too pleased with himself. The classroom, now transformed into the ‘Class 1-1 Serene Dragon Tea House’ (a name Sakura had vehemently protested, only to be overruled by a unanimous vote), was a riot of red and gold. Lanterns glowed softly, casting intricate shadows on the walls. The scent of jasmine tea mingled with the faint aroma of freshly baked pastries. It was, despite Sakura’s best efforts, undeniably charming.
Unfortunately for Sakura, the “newlywed tea house” concept had become wildly popular. Word, it seemed, traveled fast. Faster than Sakura could run, certainly. Students from other classes, teachers, and even a few bewildered parents, flocked to their booth, drawn in by the promise of delicious tea and, more importantly, the spectacle of the ‘newlywed couple.’
Mostly because Anzai, bless his utterly shameless heart, kept shouting things like:
“WELCOME! COME SEE OUR CLASS PRESIDENT AND HIS BEAUTIFUL WIFE!” He’d cup his hands around his mouth, his voice booming across the crowded hallway, drawing even more attention to Sakura’s rapidly escalating misery.
“I’M NOT THE WIFE!” Sakura would retort, his voice strained, his face a permanent shade of puce. He’d glare at Anzai, who would merely wink back, completely unrepentant.
“You admitted there’s a husband then!” Anzai would cleverly counter his logic, while infuriating, undeniably sound. Sakura would then sputter, unable to form a coherent argument, his brain short-circuiting from the sheer audacity of it all.
“THAT’S NOT WHAT I—” Sakura would try to explain, but his words would get lost in the general hubbub, or, more often, be interrupted by Suo.
Suo smoothly handed a cup of tea to a customer. “Please forgive my husband. He’s shy.”
Sakura stopped functioning. His brain, already overloaded with embarrassment and indignation, simply shut down. He stood there, frozen, a deer in the headlights, his mouth agape. The words echoed in his ears: ‘my husband.’ He could feel his soul slowly, agonizingly, exiting his body.
The girls visiting from nearby schools squealed loudly. Nirei had to sit down because he was laughing too hard. Kiryu was recording everything.
“Suo…” Sakura said dangerously.
“Yes?”
“…I’m going to kill you.”
Suo smiled into his sleeve. “And yet you continue standing beside me all day.”
“…Tch.”
Because every time Sakura tried walking away, someone dragged him back for “couple photos.”
At some point, even Kaji, Enomoto and Kusumi, took one look at them, and Kaji immediately turned around while muttering:
“Nope. Not dealing with whatever this is.”
"HEY KAJI THAT'S YOUR JUNIORS—"
Kusumi waved excitedly at them.
Near sunset, the festival finally slowed down.
The classroom glowed softly under hanging lanterns, now quieter without the crowd yelling outside.
Sakura sat behind the counter with his arms crossed, exhausted.
“…This was stupid.”
“Did you dislike it?”
Suo sat beside him, calm as always.
Sakura opened his mouth to complain—
Then paused.
The classroom actually looked… nice.
Everyone had worked hard.
Anzai’s gang was arguing while cleaning tables.
Nirei looked half-dead.
Kiryu was still teasing Tsugeura over something.
And beside him, Suo sat comfortably in matching red clothes like this entire ridiculous situation was completely normal.
“…It wasn’t terrible,” Sakura muttered.
Suo’s eyes softened slightly.
“I’m relieved.”
“…But if anyone says we’re married again, I’m fighting them.”
“Understood.”
A beat passed.
Then Suo added thoughtfully—
“Though we did receive the highest customer ratings as a couple.”
Sakura slammed his forehead onto the table.
From across the room, Anzai yelled:
“THAT SOUNDS LIKE ACCEPTANCE TO ME!”
Sakura’s head remained firmly planted on the table. He was defeated. Utterly, completely, irrevocably defeated. The Class 1-1 Serene Dragon Tea House, and its infuriatingly popular ‘newlywed couple,’ had won. And Sakura Haruka, the perpetually annoyed, fight-loving delinquent, had, against all odds, been charmed.
He would never admit it, of course. But deep down, in a tiny, well-guarded corner of his heart, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth flickered. A warmth that smelled faintly of jasmine tea and the lingering scent of red silk. And maybe, just maybe, a hint of something resembling… affection.
But he would rather die than admit that to Suo. Or Anzai. Or anyone, for that matter. The fight, it seemed, was far from over. It had merely shifted from physical altercations to a battle of wills, a comedic dance between a master manipulator and his perpetually flustered victim. And Sakura, much to his chagrin, was always the victim.
Always. The end. Victim. He groaned again, a muffled sound of despair against the cool wood of the table. This was going to be a long year. A very, very long, and very, very embarrassing year. And he had a sneaking suspicion that Suo Hayato was going to enjoy every single minute of it. Every single, humiliating, utterly charming minute. The end. For real this time. Probably. Maybe. Just kidding. Or am I? The end. For real this time. Unless…