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“The Thomas Theorem: Reality is as you prescribe.”
‘T’ for Thomas and for Theorem. Reali-T. Tea has caffeine in it, and caffeine is a drug. Drugs are prescribed. A tea theorem that prescribes reali-tea. Tea. Tea… Tee…. Fee…. Feed…..
Matsumura’s stomach let out an angry squelch– a sound he knew too well these days. He dropped his arms flat against his desk, squashing the flashcard under a clenched fist. His head hit the table next.
'Feed me.’
No. Dinner was two hours ago.
Dark eyes fluttered but dared not close. They still had 14 cards to burn into their retinas.
‘Food. Now.’
I prescribe that I’m not hungry. I’m not hungry. I’m not hungry.
His eyelashes hated him. Why were they so heavy? Maybe just two minutes.
Not hungry. Not hungry. Not hungry. Not hungr–
‘I DEMAND SUSTENANCE, YOU UNFILIAL VASSAL!’
Matsumura let out a lengthy groan in place of his stomach. It was truly a demanding lord. He had fed its greed all his life, and his only rewards were weeds on his chin and a gravelly, croak-like voice.
Equivalent exchange, my ass.
He stretched his arm outwards, ignoring the tautness of his sleeves. He had accepted the constant risk of rippage long ago. He was getting new clothes soon anyways.
With a huff, he pushed himself up off of the table and made his way downstairs, accompanied by the shriek of floorboards under his weight.
Stepping into the kitchen, he flailed his arms around, transforming his phone’s lockscreen into some kind of light stick. Last time he made an evening run, he had slammed his thighs into the bar table. This time, he knew better than to go in blind.
With his phone guiding the way, he crouched carefully before the fridge. Although it would have been convenient to find leftovers, the Matsumura of dinner past had been purely selfish. Screw him.
Mouth drawn into a line, Matsumura yanked the handle back. The sudden give of the door helped him remember that he had biceps now, and he gasped, just managing to catch himself from toppling backwards.
He sighed, eyes trailing across the few options available before him. Eggs. Raw vegetable. Raw vegetable. Tupperware. Tupperware!
He leaned forward, reaching into the back of the fridge. Tonight’s savior would be…!
… Candied anchovies.
The fridge buzzed, a low hum of judgment. He swallowed dryly, salivating against his will like Pavlov’s human dog. This had to be rock bottom.
'FEED!!!'
Scrunching his nose, he pulled back sharply and–
BANG.
“Ow– FUCK!”
—
“And he’s like, so polite and responsible.”
“He so totally is!” A barrage of loud smacks reverberated through the room. Hands against desk, a girl with braids against Matsumura’s peace of mind. “Even Tanaka-sensei relies on him. I saw him carrying a whole box of papers to the staff room last week.”
“That’s like really heavy, isn’t it? Hehehe… Matsumura-kun is so strong…”
Matsumura shifted in his seat and pulled his flashcards closer to his face. He wasn’t even going to spare them a glance. Not when their shrill voices begged for his attention like that.
‘Cluster B Personality Disorders. Erratic.’
“Why can’t the other guys in class be more like Matsumura-kun?”
‘Antisocial: Having a lack of empathy.’ Like Tanaka-sensei. Stupid boxes.
“Ugh, I know! I wish I went to elementary school with him. Could you imagine him as a cute little baby?”
We were in the same class last year. You said I looked like a frog.
‘Histrionic: Excessive attention-seeking through acted roles.’ Like these annoying girls.
“Matsumura-kun? Little? No way. He was born exactly like this. Like… a prince who stepped straight out of a fairytale!”
You voted to cast me as a tree in our elementary school play.
‘Narcissistic: Grandiosity and a need for admiration.’ Like all the short guys in my class.
“Right? Total ikeman. I bet his walls are up for everyone except his true princess love!”
And why would it have to be a princess?
"Do you think he’d let her call him a cute nickname like ‘Kou-chan~?’”
Matsumura whipped his head around, eyes boring into the girls. His bangs jittered at the edges of his vision with each thump in his chest. Heat radiated through his spine and down to his hands, leaving his cards crumpled.
In return, he received a cloyingly sweet smile and a kiss blown in his direction.
He looked away. Put the cards down. Stood up. Then bolted straight for the door.
“Huh? What's his issue?”
“Dunno. Wait, maybe he got embarrassed. Did you see his ears?”
“Oh, true! He's so cute. If only he ditched those glasses…”
…
Ten minutes before the bell. Matsumura dug his nails into his palms, each of his steps clacking against the hardwood floor.
A sigh of relief left his throat upon recognizing a row of sinks. Although they were too low to use comfortably, at least they were tucked in a corner, out of sight from the hallway.
Matsumura thrust his fingers under the faucet, letting the water run down and loosen his fists. His joints ached enough as it was. Why'd he have to clench up like that?
Eventually, he couldn’t stay hunched any longer, unless he wanted his singular ache to turn into two. His chilled fingers fumbled to twist the water valve off and he arched his back upwards, defying the tightness that had built up.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the mirror on the wall beside him. The figure in it glimpsed back at him and he flinched, averting his gaze.
Five minutes until class. Probably.
He snuck a second glance.
Most likely. He was good with estimates.
He snuck a third.
Leaning closer, Matsumura watched his hand wander up towards the reflective surface and trace the sharp angle of the figure’s jaw. His jaw.
The girls at school melted over the unfamiliar definition. His mom, on the other hand, insisted that his new cheekbones were the product of malnutrition. As if he didn’t stuff his face with candied anchovies last night.
Slowly, he slid his glasses up, past his dense eyebrows and over his limp bangs. His mom was wrong. Even he could see it.
This was a beautiful face.
This was a beautiful face, right?
Was it a beautiful face?
He frowned, narrowing in on his features one-by-one. Perfectly even. Then, why?
Was it his expression? It had to be that. Why else would he look like a frog? His eyes were striking, but they had a vacant, glossy sheen. His lips were full, but locked in a naïve pout.
What was it the girls said? That he looked like a prince? What kind of expression would a prince even make? Hm... A prince was someone confident and kind, responsible and virtuous…
Would he wink?
Matsumura tilted his head. Yes… yes. He would wink. And so, he winked.
No. Not like that.
He tried again, this time forcing his left eye to stay open with a finger.
No, Kousei. You’re too stiff.
Again and again, he winked. And yet something was off. Shouldn’t he be getting better? Practice makes perfect. Practice. Makes. Perfect. So why did he still look like that?!
“Ah–”
Matsumura froze.
Warily, he shifted his gaze off of his own reflection to look behind him. A light, chestnut colored blob stood at the bend of the corridor.
And then a roar of laughter exploded from it.
Matsumura’s head threatened to pop with the amount of blood that rushed to his cheeks. The cool sink as his anchor, he whirled around, equipping his glasses to better see his adversary.
“Were you just winking at yourself?!” A short, brown-haired boy cackled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. Rosy warmth bloomed across his slightly tan skin, mirroring Matsumura’s own flush.
Only, Matsumura couldn't help but notice that his was exponentially more flattering. His laugh, too. It was a booming sound, but nothing like the grating titter Matsumura's own throat produced.
He felt something squirm in his stomach. He couldn't let someone like this laugh at him.
Clearing his throat, he smiled politely, holding up a hand. “Oh, no. Just an eyelash in my eye. It's out, though.”
The brunet raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Mhm, sure. But I wouldn’t blame you if you were practicing to be an idol or something.” He invaded the sink directly next to Matsumura’s before shooting him a small thumbs-up. “I can see it.”
Matsumura swallowed. Now he was commenting on his appearance. Could it be to knock him down a peg? Force him into humility? He opened his mouth to respond, only to find the other boy already drenching his face with water.
He wasn’t paying attention anymore.
One minute.
Biting his cheek, Matsumura opted to toe the wall, creeping around the boy. His fingers started to throb again, but he had to get back to class. At the last second, he gave a slight bow then fled before the boy could react.
No more clenching his fists. No more coming to this sink station.
And definitely no more winking.
—
Milk was the best. Subjectively and objectively. As the product of passion, milk embodied both a cow’s love for her calves and the honest work of a farmer’s calloused hands. Savory, velvety, goodness that always soothed the parasite deep inside.
Matsumura set the empty carton down and stared at his desk, masking a tiny hiccup with a cough. His body still felt sore from the panic of earlier, but it was a good kind of ache. Like a toasty hug.
Luckily, no one bothered him during lunch. Well, who would spend those precious 15 minutes gossiping or groveling anyways? Maybe their silence reflected their own indulgence in Mother Nature’s creamy ambrosia. If so, they had good taste.
The warm September breeze blew against his face from the window and, instinctively, he turned towards the sun. Ah. He could take a scenic route home today, maybe. What was for dinner? Maybe after dinner, he could practice his laugh. His laugh bugged him. He wanted it to sound charming and cool, like… the brown blob from earlier had…
“Pfft– ahahaha–!”
Yeah… like that. Wait.
Was that blob in his class?!
Matsumura twisted in his seat to confirm his suspicions. That blob was in his class.
He had a friend, too. But his friend looked like a blob even with Matsumura's glasses on. Tch.
He narrowed his eyes as the nerdy blob sitting next to the main blob joined in on the howling. His stomach twisted again. What could be so funny for them to crack up like that? Normal people didn’t laugh like a pack of hyenas.
Not unless they were laughing at something utterly ridiculous. Or someone utterly ridiculous.
… Were they laughing at him?
Oh. He should’ve known… It’s not like he expected secrecy! Hello, Matsumura? This was middle school! Obviously it was going to spread that a lumbering, gangly yeti had been gaslighting himself into feeling like a prince!
But, still. To make fun of him while he was sitting right there– four rows in front of them? ‘Blobish’ wasn’t the worst word on his mind.
He blinked through a dry ache in his eyes, but when he snapped them open again, he realized it had become a two-way observation.
The brunet matched his glare with a grin. Then, he waved him over. What?
What?
What?
What.
“It’s you! I ran into you in the hallway earlier, remember?” The smaller boy beamed, craning his neck to look up at Matsumura from his seat.
“Ah. Right. What a coincidence.” Matsumura smiled tensely with a slight bow. “Nice to meet you. My name’s Matsumura Kousei.”
“I’m Hirose Aiki!” The boy sprang up with a pep that left Matsumura envious. “But you can just call me Aiki.”
Matsumura’s jaw tightened. First name basis? Already? “Um… I see. Matsumura is fine, then.”
“Sounds good, Matsumura!” Hirose nodded, after which he redirected his attention to the other blob– er– boy.
“And I’m Oomori Tsukasa. Nice to meet you, Matsumura-kun. Hirose-kun and I went to elementary school together. Please take care of me.”
Matsumura shifted, his long fingers picking at the hem of his shirt. “Likewise, Oomori-kun.” He trailed off, taking in the other boy’s appearance up close. The glare on his glasses almost completely hid his eyes. Was he not bothered by them?
“Matsumura, Matsumura! You’ve actually got kind of a rep back here, did y’know?” Hirose chirped, abruptly kicking a chair in the taller boy’s direction as he plopped back on his own.
“Sorry..? A rep?” Once seated, Matsumura folded his hands over his lap. Instant regret. He could feel the sweat seeping through his pants.
Hirose was going to bring up the mirror incident. 100%. He swallowed, trying to clear the phlegm from his throat so he could at least defend himself.
“Yeah! You’re always locked in on studying, aren’t you? You’re like a model student or something!”
“Hirose-kun even started calling you the class' ‘Flashcard King.’”
“Hahaha, that’s true! But if you say it like that, it sounds kinda stupid…”
A strange noise slipped out of Matsumura’s nose. He shoved the back of his hand over his face to stifle it.
“‘F-flashcard King?’” He wheezed into his knuckles. “That’s… interesting.”
“See? It is stupid, huh?” Hirose rubbed his neck.
Matsumura bit the inside of his cheek. Should he..? Could he..?
“... Not really.”
These boys had no right to his private life. Matsumura knew he didn’t have to offer up any more ammunition to them. But... if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to make flashcards.
Hirose and Oomori watched Matsumura leap towards his own desk, where he whipped out four decks and paraded them to the back of the class.
“Here. This one’s for vocab. This one, math formulas. English.” Then, he placed the largest stack in the center. “And this… this is for psychology.” He scratched his chin sheepishly. “I just think it’s interesting.”
For a moment, the two boys looked down at the desk. Then at each other. Then at Matsumura. They repeated the process. Hirose’s mouth fell open.
“M-Matsumura, you made all of these?” He sputtered. His hair somehow rose up with the pitch of his voice. “You’re not aiming for a college-prep school, are you?”
Matsumura opened his mouth to reply. He hadn't even thought that far ahead, and-
“No, he definitely is.” Oomori held up a finger. “I can’t believe he was keeping more than one stack in his desk. That’s our Flashcard King!”
Hirose shook his head in disbelief, sliding his arm into his desk. “The only thing I keep in my desk are these.” He dumped a pile of colorful animal erasers onto the table. One ricocheted off the wooden surface and onto Matsumura's loafer.
He bent down to pick it up. It was a bright yellow mound with a shiba design, reminiscent of its owner. Tiny. Bold.
“Pfft, haha… This is cute, though, Hirose-kun.”
“You think so?” A thoughtful expression crossed his face. “Oh, hey. Matsumura. When’s your birthday?”
Hirose’s solemn tone tore Matsumura’s attention off the eraser. “Uh… September 14th. Next week, actually. Why?”
The brunet’s eyes, already round, grew to an alarming size as he clapped his hands together. “Wait, you can have that then!” He jabbed at the clump between Matsumura’s fingers. “Happy early birthday! And you’ve gotta let me treat you to some soda, 'kay?”
Oomori’s face fell as he looked at Hirose with distress. “H-Hirose-kun, what about me? I want the turtle one!”
“Nope, get your own! It’s not your birthday, is it? Plus, shouldn't you be thinking about what to give Matsumura?” Hirose stuck his tongue out, scowling at his friend.
Oomori flushed, turning humbly to the taller boy. “S-sorry, he's right, Matsumura-kun. I didn’t bring anything with me today. But, I have some flashcards at home…”
It was Matsumura’s turn to blush. What was up with these guys? “That’s– that’s alright. You don’t have to give me anything.”
“You're sure? I really do have a lot.”
“I'm... uh... I'm sure."
Around them, the other students began shuffling towards the supply closets in the back of the room. Matsumura slid the eraser into his pocket and gingerly picked his decks back up.
“We should probably help out. I’m gonna go put these away.” Standing up, he peered down at Hirose one more time. He really was small from this angle. “Thanks for the eraser.”
“Sure. See ya, Matsumura!”
“Bye, Matsumura-kun.”
Matsumura turned and walked stiffly back to his desk, his eyes glued to the blackboard at the front of the room. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered why his cheeks felt so sore.
—
That night, by pure impulse, Matsumura stuck his head out of an open window. The cicadas buzzed in harmony with the fluttering in his stomach. He sighed. Both he and the insects were pleased by the cool evening air.
In one hand, he held the last flashcard of the night. In the other, he gently caressed the eraser that Hirose gave him.
“The Thomas Theorem: Reality is as you prescribe.”
With a soft rustle, Matsumura pulled the window shut and set the card on his desk. His stomach faintly rumbled in the background, but he refused to serve that tyrant anymore.
Hirose Aiki.
In the window pane, he locked eyes with his reflection again. Hard to believe that was him. Did he really look that tender?
What a beautiful expression.
Still, the girls from class had it all wrong. Matsumura wasn't a prince.
Princes were charming. Princes were confident. Princes didn’t mind laughing with frogs and blobs. Princes were completely and undeniably virtuous.
Hirose Aiki was a prince.
The world plunged into darkness as Matsumura switched his lamp off.
And in the darkness, his prince’s gift kept him warm.