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His name is Nakamura Okuto. He is 16 years old, newly promoted to his second year of high school, painfully shy, hopelessly gay, and currently being dragged out of the best dream of his life by his little sister trying to break down his bedroom door.
“Oi, you pathetic excuse for an older brother!” Kana shouts, punctuating every few words with another fist against the wood. “Get up! You’re going to be late on the first day! Not that I care. I’d actually prefer it if you embarrassed yourself and had to transfer schools.”
Nakamura groans into his pillow.
A moment ago, he had been sitting beside Hirose in a dark movie theatre. Their shoulders had been touching. Hirose had leaned close enough to whisper into his ear, his breath warm, his voice soft beneath the triumphant final chorus of Aqua Pet’s new song. Then, as the screen filled with credits and the light in the cinema slowly brightens, Hirose had reached for Nakamura’s hand—
Except that part had not happened.
The movie had happened, though.
The new Aqua Pet song had happened.
Hirose sitting beside him for nearly two whole hours had happened.
Nakamura’s eyes snap open.
He lifts his head from the pillow, hair sticking out in every possible direction.
“That wasn’t a dream,” he whispers.
The spring break movie outing had been real. Hirose had invited him. They had bought popcorn together. They really had watched a movie together and then went home together afterwards and…
They had even exchanged LINE IDs.
And since then, Hirose had messaged him almost every day.
Nakamura throws off his blanket with enough force to send it flying onto the floor.
“I can’t believe I’ve gotten this lucky!” he yells, scrambling out of bed. “This is it! Hirose and I really are destined to be together! It’s fate! It really is!”
From downstairs, Kana’s voice immediately rises above the morning news.
“Mom! He’s being weird again!”
“I can hear you!” Nakamura shouts back.
“That’s the point!”
Nakamura catches his foot in the blanket and falls face-first onto the floor. The universe, apparently embarrassed by his optimism, has decided to correct him.
Still, not even carpet burn can ruin today.
It is the first day of a new school year. A clean beginning. A whole year of possibilities stretching before him.
And somewhere in those possibilities is Hirose Aiki.
That thought alone gets Nakamura dressed, fed, and out of the house faster than anything his mother or sister could have threatened him with.
His bicycle tires hum against the road as he pedals beneath rows of cherry trees. The blossoms are not at full bloom yet, but pale petals have begun to gather along the branches, softening the grey morning sky. A few loosen in the breeze and spiral past his face.
His phone buzzes inside his school bag.
Nakamura brakes so abruptly that the bicycle wobbles beneath him.
A salaryman walking behind him swerves with an annoyed noise.
“S-sorry!” Nakamura calls, dragging the bicycle onto the pavement before fumbling for his phone.
There is one new LINE notification.
Hirose Aiki:
Good morning, Nakamura! Can’t believe it’s the new semester already! See you at school today!
That is all.
One sentence. Exactly three exclamation marks. A cheerful character sticker waving at him in the chat room that is so Hirose Aiki it’s actually insane.
It is enough to make Nakamura’s heart start pounding so hard that he has to press a hand against his chest.
Six months ago, he could not have imagined possessing Hirose’s LINE ID. Six months ago, speaking to Hirose without dissolving into incoherent noises had qualified as a major personal achievement. Now they send messages about movies, homework, television shows, snacks, weather, and whatever random fun fact Hirose has discovered at two in the morning.
Sometimes Hirose sends him a picture simply because he thinks Nakamura will like it.
The first time that happened, Nakamura had spent 40 minutes deciding whether replying with a heart sticker would seem too romantic. He eventually sent a thumbs-up and then regretted it for the rest of the night. He really should have said something more intelligent and charming that would blow Hirose’s socks off.
Now he stares at the greeting, warmth spreading through him.
Good morning! See you soon, Hirose.
He types it.
Deletes it.
Good morning, Hirose. Looking forward to seeing you.
Deletes that too. Too formal. Too intense. It sounds like a business meeting between secret lovers.
Morning! I’m on my way.
That seems normal. Friendly. Exactly the sort of message one school friend sends another school friend while privately imagining their spring wedding.
He sends it before he can destroy it through further analysis.
Then he puts his phone away and pedals faster.
The faster he reaches school, the sooner he sees Hirose.
It would be nice if they were placed in the same class again. More than nice. Miraculous. Life-changing. Potentially fatal.
Nakamura glances up at the sky.
“I’m not asking for it,” he tells the gods carefully. “I’m just saying it would be nice. Please oh please understand the difference. I’m grateful for everything you’ve already done. Please don’t punish me for being greedy.”
A crow on a telephone wire caws at him. Nakamura chooses to interpret this as divine acknowledgement.
Being Hirose’s friend is already more than enough. He can see him during breaks. They can eat lunch together sometimes. They can talk on LINE. There is no reason to demand more.
He repeats this sensible conclusion all the way to school.
Then he sees the class lists.
No way.
No way, no way, no way.
Nakamura stands before the notice board, surrounded by excited voices and shuffling shoes, staring at the paper as if the characters might rearrange themselves when he blinks.
They do not.
Second Year, Class Three.
Nakamura Okuto.
Hirose Aiki.
The same class.
Again.
His brain refuses to process it at first. Then understanding strikes all at once, sending a rush through his body so powerful he nearly grips the shoulder of the student beside him for support.
The gods have answered him.
The crow was a messenger.
His chest feels too tight. His hands feel restless. His feet seem in danger of leaving the ground entirely. He is going to float into the atmosphere and become a warning to other teenagers about the dangers of romantic fulfillment.
“Oh, good morning, Nakamura!”
Nakamura spins around.
Hirose stands several steps away, one hand lifted in greeting.
Morning sunlight spills across him, catching at the edges of his brown hair and warming his already bright smile. He looks as though he has arrived with his own professionally arranged lighting. Nakamura has seen idols in magazines presented with less care.
“G-good morning, Hirose.”
Only one stutter. Excellent. Good job, Nakamura. Go for it, Nakamura.
Hirose walks over, his smile widening. “You got here early.”
“So did you.”
That is how time works, Nakamura thinks immediately. What an incredible observation. No wonder Hirose likes talking to you.
“Have you checked your class yet?” he asks quickly, desperate to recover.
“Not yet. I only just arrived.” Hirose steps up beside him. “Did you find yours?”
“Y-yeah.”
Nakamura shifts enough to give him a clearer view of the list. Hirose leans closer, scanning the names, and Nakamura becomes acutely aware of everything at once: the faint brush of their sleeves, the warmth of Hirose’s shoulder, the soft scent of soap and something unfamiliar beneath it.
Cologne.
Hirose is wearing cologne.
This is an escalation Nakamura has not prepared for.
His lungs stop working while Hirose’s eyes travel down the paper.
“Oh!” Hirose turns to him, delighted. “We’re in the same class again!”
“Y-yeah.” Nakamura hopes his expression resembles a normal smile and not the face of someone witnessing a prophecy fulfilled. “Looks like it.”
“That’s great.” Hirose gives his arm a quick, excited nudge. “Guess luck’s on our side today, huh?”
If only he knew.
While Hirose scans the rest of the list for familiar names, Nakamura allows himself to look at him properly.
Hirose seems different after spring break. A little taller, perhaps, though Nakamura might only be noticing because he has spent several weeks thinking about how the top of Hirose’s head would fit beneath his chin. His hair has grown out slightly, the soft ends shifting whenever he moves. The new cologne is subtle but devastating.
Then Nakamura notices his wrist.
A silver watch circles it, sleek and understated. It is much more refined than the sporty one Hirose used to wear. The clean face flashes beneath the morning light when he lifts his hand.
“Is that new?” Nakamura asks before his fear can stop him.
Hirose glances at him, then follows his gaze. “This?” He raises his wrist. “I got it for Christmas. I kept forgetting to wear it, so I thought I’d try it today.”
He tilts it toward Nakamura with a grin.
“Looks cool, right?”
“Yeah.” Nakamura rubs the back of his neck. The honest answer escapes before he can bury it beneath something safer. “It makes you look stylish. More mature, too. It really suits you.”
Hirose freezes. A flush creeps over his cheeks.
“O-oh.” He laughs, but suddenly he cannot seem to meet Nakamura’s eyes. “I didn’t expect you to say it that directly. That’s kind of embarrassing.”
Nakamura’s soul leaves his body.
He has made Hirose blush.
He has complimented Hirose and Hirose has blushed because of it.
Somewhere in the distance, wedding bells ring.
Actually, that is probably the warning bell.
Hirose looks down as he adjusts the watch, and his gaze catches on Nakamura’s school bag.
The octopus keychain Hirose gave him during their Yokohama trip hangs from the zipper. Nakamura had considered leaving it at home on the first day because he worried carrying it constantly might appear overly sentimental. Then he remembered it was a gift from Hirose and nearly slapped himself for such cowardice.
Hirose reaches out and nudges the little octopus with one finger.
“You’re still using it.”
Nakamura looks at the crab keychain hanging from Hirose’s bag—the matching one Hirose kept for himself.
“So are you,” he says.
Their eyes meet.
Hirose’s expression softens into a small, quiet smile that feels different from the bright one he gives everyone else. It is gentler. Almost shy.
“Of course,” he says.
The warning bell rings again, louder this time.
Around them, students begin rushing toward the entrance.
Nakamura clears his throat. “We should go.”
“Right.” Hirose seems to startle out of something. “We should.”
They walk toward the school side by side.
Nakamura keeps his gaze fixed ahead because looking at Hirose now might cause his body to combust.
It is a shame.
If he looked back even once, he would see Hirose watching him with the same thoughtful softness, one hand resting against the crab keychain at his side.
“Nakamura-kun! Hirose-kun!”
Kawamura’s voice reaches them the moment they enter the classroom.
She waves from the centre of the room, as bright and immediate as ever. “We’re together again! Looks like this year won’t be boring after all.”
Nakamura flinches at being addressed so loudly. His shoulders rise by instinct, but he forces them down before the familiar panic can take hold.
“U-um, yeah. Good morning, Kawamura-san.”
It is not a graceful reply, but it is a reply. Last year, he might have pretended not to hear her.
Kawamura blinks once, then beams as if he has handed her a prize. “Good morning!”
His eyes dart around the classroom. Familiar faces emerge from the crowd: Oomori near the front, Takeuchi arguing with someone over a desk, several students he spoke to during the class trip.
Then he sees Hana.
Hirose’s former girlfriend is arranging books at a desk across the room.
Nakamura glances carefully at Hirose, expecting some sign of discomfort, but Hirose is busy scanning the empty seats. If he has noticed Hana, he doesn’t show it.
“Where should we sit?” Hirose murmurs. “Somewhere near the back would be nice. Ah!”
He points toward the windows, where two empty desks sit beside each other beneath the spring sunlight.
“Those are open.” Then he turns to Nakamura. “Do you want to sit next to me this year?”
Fireworks detonate inside Nakamura’s rib cage.
Not pretty little festival fireworks either. Military-grade explosives. The entire structure of his body is being demolished from within.
“Um.” His voice cracks. He coughs and tries again. “Y-yeah. Sounds good.”
“Awesome.”
Hirose catches his hand and pulls him toward the desks.
Nakamura nearly dies on the spot.
Hirose is holding his hand.
In public.
In front of witnesses.
Kawamura watches them pass with an expression far too knowing for Nakamura’s comfort, but he cannot spare the energy to fear her. His entire consciousness has narrowed to the warmth of Hirose’s fingers around his own.
By the time they reach the windows, every muscle in Nakamura’s body has gone stiff.
Hirose releases him so they can set down their bags.
The loss of contact is immediate and terrible.
Nakamura lowers himself into his seat with the solemn care of a man disarming a bomb. Hirose sits beside him, close enough that their elbows will almost certainly touch whenever either of them writes.
This arrangement is dangerous.
This arrangement should require written parental consent.
“I wonder who our homeroom teacher will be,” Hirose says, leaning back in his chair. “I hope it’s somebody we know. I never memorized half the teachers last year.”
“Yeah,” Nakamura answers faintly. “Me too.”
Hirose is so close.
He can see the neat stitching at the cuff of Hirose’s uniform. He can smell that new cologne again. He can hear Hirose humming beneath his breath while he organizes his pencils.
Nakamura focuses on breathing.
In for four counts. Hold. Out for four counts.
He recites every calming mantra he knows. He mentally reviews the entire Aqua Pet discography in chronological order. By the time he reaches their latest album, the classroom door slides open.
“Morning, everyone.”
Otogiri strolls inside with one hand in his pocket and a stack of papers tucked under his other arm. He looks far too relaxed for a teacher facing thirty teenagers on the first day of term.
“I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year,” he announces. “I already see several familiar faces, so to those unfortunate students, my condolences. To everyone else, nice to meet you.”
A few students laugh.
“Nice,” Hirose whispers, grinning at Nakamura. “One more familiar face.”
“Yeah.” Nakamura looks around at the classroom, at the sunlight and the people he recognizes, at Hirose sitting close enough for their sleeves to touch. “It feels like not much has changed.”
But even as he says it, he knows that is not true.
Something has changed.
Maybe it is him.
The morning passes in a blur of introductions, schedules, forms, and Otogiri’s half-serious warnings about behaviour. Nakamura speaks to Hirose in the small spaces between announcements. Nothing important—whether they brought the right textbooks, what they did during the final week of spring break, whether the cafeteria still sells the bread Hirose likes—but each easy exchange feels miraculous.
Last year, Nakamura used to rehearse a sentence until the moment to say it disappeared.
Now Hirose asks him a question and he answers.
Sometimes he even asks one back.
It should not feel like such an achievement, but it does.
During the first break, Hirose is immediately surrounded by old friends. Takeuchi drapes an arm across the back of his chair. Two boys from another class lean through the doorway to greet him. Hirose laughs and answers everyone with the same open warmth he always carries.
Nakamura expects the familiar loneliness to settle over him.
Instead, Kawamura stops beside his desk.
“Did you read the new Love-ben’s volume over the break?” she asks.
Nakamura stares at her.
“You still like it, right?” Kawamura smiles. “The new volume released last month. Did you manage to read it?”
“O-oh. Yeah.” He swallows. “I read it.”
“Was it any good?”
The correct response is probably a simple yes.
Nakamura, however, has opinions.
“The first half was,” he says cautiously. “But the second half didn’t really make sense emotionally. I think the arc was rushed for the sake of the relationship development.”
Kawamura blinks.
Nakamura’s stomach drops.
Too much. He has said too much. He has become the strange Love-ben critic everyone avoids at social events.
Then Kawamura drags an empty chair toward him.
“Explain,” she demands.
By the time the bell rings, Oomori has joined them, and Nakamura has drawn a rough diagram of the the manga characters’ relationship structure on the back of a timetable.
Hirose returns to his seat, glances at the diagram, and laughs.
“Is that the BL manga you like? You made more people read it, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t make them,” Nakamura mutters.
“He absolutely did,” Kawamura says. “I think he might have converted Oomori-kun.”
“Wow, one more victim huh?” Hirose says.
“He should be grateful I introduced him to peak,” Nakamura mutters.
The conversation is small. Silly, even. Yet when Kawamura returns to her desk and Oomori promises to borrow the series from his cousin, Nakamura realizes his hands are not shaking.
He looks around the classroom again.
At Kawamura. Oomori. The others from last year.
They are his classmates, certainly. But perhaps some of them are also his friends. Perhaps they have been waiting for him to notice.
His fingers curl into a loose fist on his desk.
This year, he decides, he will try.
Not only with Hirose.
With everyone.
The decision feels enormous, even though nobody else can see it.
At lunch, Nakamura is opening his bento when a shadow falls across his desk.
He looks up.
Hana stands in front of him.
Nakamura jolts so hard his knees strike the underside of the desk.
“H-huh?!”
Beside Hana, Kawamura winces in sympathy. Two other girls hover behind them, curious but friendly.
“Sorry,” Hana says quickly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Nakamura grips the edge of his desk. Hirose’s ex-girlfriend is speaking to him. Directly. With witnesses.
This is a social situation of the highest difficulty.
“I wanted to introduce myself properly,” Hana continues. “You’re Nakamura-kun, right?”
“U-um. Yes.”
“I thought so.” She brightens. “I recognized you from last term. You’re usually with Aiki-kun.”
His spine goes rigid.
Of course she remembers him. She dated Hirose. She probably noticed every strange person orbiting him. Does she know Nakamura was aware of their breakup? Does she think he intruded? Does she know about his feelings? Is it visible? Is there a sign over his head reading HOMOSEXUAL WITH TERRIBLE TIMING?
“Don’t look like you’re about to be arrested,” Kawamura says. “Hana-chan wants to eat lunch with us.”
“Friends,” one of the girls supplies cheerfully. “We’re trying to make friends.”
“F-friends,” Nakamura repeats.
The word still surprises him whenever anyone uses it in connection with him.
Hana glances at the octopus keychain on his bag. “I remember that too. You had an octopus pen before, didn’t you?”
Nakamura’s breath catches.
The pen. The ridiculous little object that started everything. The confession he never managed to give. Hirose’s breakup. The lockers. Every humiliating, precious moment seems to rush back at once.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts.
Hana blinks. “For what?”
“I just—back then—you and Hirose were—and I was there, and—”
His words collapse into each other.
Hana’s expression changes. Not with anger or embarrassment, but understanding.
“Hey,” she says softly.
Nakamura forces himself to look at her.
“You don’t need to apologize. Aiki-kun and I are fine. It didn’t work out, but nobody did anything wrong.” She smiles, a little ruefully. “We were probably better at being friends anyway.”
“Oh.”
“And besides, I’ve wanted to talk to you.”
“M-me?”
“You seem important to him.”
The classroom vanishes.
The voices around him dull into meaningless noise.
Important.
He seems important to Hirose.
“I do?” he asks, so quietly he nearly cannot hear himself.
Hana nods. “He talks about you differently.”
“How?” Kawamura asks at once, leaning closer.
Hana laughs. “I’m not explaining it in front of Nakamura-kun. He already looks like he might faint.”
“I’m fine,” Nakamura lies.
Kawamura nudges his shoulder. “See? You’re not as invisible as you think.”
The other girls pull desks closer. They make room for him in the conversation without demanding that he fill every silence. They ask about his lunch, the movie he saw over break, and the octopus keychain. Nakamura answers awkwardly at first, then a little more easily.
When Hana asks whether he is joining the class camping trip at the end of May, he says yes before fear can answer for him.
“Good,” she says. “Then let’s all be in the same activity group.”
“O-okay.”
Something inside Nakamura loosens.
Maybe he can do this.
Maybe friendship is not a door everyone else knows how to open. Maybe it is only a door he has been too afraid to push.
From the hallway, Hirose watches them.
He came back because he left his wallet inside his desk. That is the only reason he stops near the doorway.
Nakamura sits among Hana and the others, listening with his usual serious concentration. Then Kawamura says something that makes him laugh—small and startled, as if the sound escaped without permission.
Warmth spreads through Hirose’s chest.
Nakamura is trying.
Hirose has watched him freeze when spoken to, watched him hide behind his hair, watched him retreat before anyone can decide whether they want him. Seeing him now, surrounded by people and slowly relaxing, fills Hirose with an almost ridiculous pride.
This is what he wanted for him.
It is.
Then Hana leans closer to show Nakamura something on her phone.
Nakamura looks at her and smiles.
A strange pain catches beneath Hirose’s ribs.
A brief tug, sharp enough to make him frown. He doesn’t understand it.
Nakamura is making friends. Hana is being included. Both are good things.
There is no reason for him to dislike the easy way the space between them is narrowing.
Hirose looks away.
By the time he retrieves his wallet, his smile is back in place.
He tells himself the feeling means nothing.
By the final bell, Nakamura is exhausted in the peculiar way that comes from surviving several hours of ordinary human interaction.
It has been a good day. An impossibly good day. He is in Hirose’s class. He sits beside him. He has spoken to Kawamura, Oomori, Hana, and three people whose names he is already terrified he might have remembered incorrectly.
He has also promised to join a camping activity group despite possessing no outdoor survival skills beyond knowing that bears are dangerous.
Progress, he thinks, comes at a cost.
Hirose has cleanup duty, so Nakamura packs his bag alone. He is trying to work out whether saying goodbye would interrupt Hirose’s conversation with Takeuchi when something vibrates insistently against his thigh.
He ignores it.
The vibration stops.
Then begins again.
Nakamura frowns and slowly reaches into his pocket.
Someone is calling him.
He stares at the phone as if it contains a live insect.
Nobody calls him. His mother texts. Kana barges into his room. Hirose uses LINE because he once asked whether Nakamura dislikes phone calls and Nakamura, caught off guard by the consideration, admitted that he does.
The screen displays an unknown number.
Nakamura’s stomach sinks.
A scammer. The police. The hospital. Perhaps a criminal organization has selected him for recruitment because they value his ability to remain unnoticed. Perhaps his family has been kidnapped and the caller will demand a ransom Nakamura cannot afford.
The phone keeps buzzing.
He answers with a hand that has begun to sweat.
“H-hello?”
“What took you so long?” an annoyed voice snaps through the speaker. “Did you forget how phones work?”
Nakamura freezes.
“M-Matsumura?”
“Obviously.”
“How did you get my number?” Nakamura whispers, looking around as though Matsumura might be hiding in the classroom. “I never gave it to you. I specifically remember never giving it to you.”
“I got it from Hirose.” Matsumura sounds offended that this required explanation. “Are you done with school?”
“Yes?”
“Good. Let’s hang out.”
Nakamura blinks.
His gaze drifts toward the windows. The late afternoon sky looks calm. No lightning. No blood-red moon. No winged livestock passing overhead.
“Huh?”
“What? You don’t want to?”
“That’s not the problem!” Nakamura hisses, lowering his voice when two students glance his way. “You want to hang out with me?”
“Yes. That is what I just said.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” Matsumura replies. “I asked Hirose first, but he has cleanup duty. I’m bored, you’re available, and I already stole your number. Everything worked out.”
Nakamura pinches the bridge of his nose.
“We aren’t friends.”
A pause follows.
Then Matsumura gives a long, theatrical sigh.
“Nakamura,” he says with sudden gravity, “do you want to be friends with me?”
Nakamura’s mouth falls open.
“What kind of—”
“Excellent. I’m glad we agree.”
“We don’t!”
“I’ll send you the address. Be there in 15 minutes.”
“15 min—”
“Don’t be late.”
The call ends.
Nakamura lowers the phone and stares at it.
A message arrives immediately with the location of a café near the shopping street.
For several seconds, he considers pretending he never received it.
Then he remembers the decision he made that morning.
Try.
He sighs so deeply that his entire body seems to deflate.
“Fine,” he tells the empty classroom. “But if this is a murder plot, I’m haunting Matsumura for seven generations.”
The café is warm, crowded, and decorated with so many artificial flowers that Nakamura suspects it was designed specifically to make people on dates feel inadequate.
Matsumura waits outside, leaning against the wall in casual clothes while scrolling through his phone. He looks infuriatingly comfortable. Nakamura, still wearing his school uniform and carrying an overstuffed bag, feels as if he has arrived for an interview.
“Y-yo,” he says, raising one hand.
Matsumura looks up. “You made it.”
“You threatened me.”
“I invited you.”
“You gave me 15 minutes and hung up.”
“It’s an efficient invitation.” Matsumura pockets his phone. “Come on. I’m freezing.”
He walks inside without waiting.
Nakamura stands on the pavement for a beat.
Then he remembers he has willingly come all this way and follows.
They are seated beside a corner window overlooking a small park. The afternoon light turns the glass gold, and early cherry blossoms move gently beyond it. It would be peaceful if Nakamura were not trapped across from one of the most confusing people he has ever met.
He grips the menu with both hands.
Matsumura barely glances at his before addressing the waitress.
“I’ll have a coffee, the large fruit parfait, the custard pastry, and that strawberry cake.” He points at a photograph. “Is the seasonal tart good?”
“It’s very popular,” the waitress says.
“Then that too.”
Nakamura lowers his menu. “Are you feeding an entire club?”
“I skipped lunch.”
“That doesn’t explain this.”
Matsumura ignores him. “What are you getting?”
The waitress turns to Nakamura.
His mind empties.
“Um. One banana chocolate milkshake, please.”
“Anything to eat?”
“No, thank you.”
Matsumura waits until she leaves before staring at him. “That’s all?”
“I ate lunch like a normal person.”
“I had student council work.” Matsumura leans back with the smugness of someone revealing a prestigious title. “I’m part of it now.”
Nakamura blinks. “You?”
“What is that tone supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m just imagining you handling public funds.”
“I’ll have you know I’m extremely responsible.” Matsumura pats his chest. “Aren’t I amazing?”
Nakamura clicks his tongue. Unfortunately, he cannot deny that joining the student council is impressive.
“So you brought me here to brag.”
“I’m allowed to be proud of my achievements.” Matsumura points at him. “What have you achieved this year?”
“It’s the first day.”
“Excuses already.”
Nakamura straightens, stung into answering. “I became friends with Hirose last year. We went to a movie during spring break, we talk almost every day, and now we sit beside each other.”
He realizes too late how pathetic that might sound to anyone who does not know how impossible it once seemed.
Matsumura, however, only nods.
“You should be proud of that.”
Nakamura stares.
“What?”
“You’re basically a social hermit, and Hirose is great. Becoming his friend is an accomplishment for you.”
The insult restores balance to the universe, but the sincerity beneath it remains unsettling.
“Are you dying?” Nakamura asks. “Is that why you’re being nice?”
Matsumura’s expression goes flat. “I’ll kill you.”
Nakamura exhales in relief. “There you are.”
Their drinks arrive first. Nakamura takes a careful sip of his milkshake and has to stop himself from reacting. It is excellent. Matsumura notices anyway.
“You like it.”
“It’s fine.”
“You looked moved.”
“I did not.”
“You almost cried.”
“I hope your parfait collapses.”
It arrives seconds later, towering above the table in layers of fruit, cream, ice cream, jelly, and cake. Matsumura places both hands around the glass protectively.
“Don’t curse my food.”
“I thought you weren’t sharing.”
“I’m not. That doesn’t mean you can attack it.”
The pastries and cakes follow until the table seems prepared for a celebration. Matsumura begins eating with focused delight while Nakamura watches in horrified fascination.
“No, seriously,” Nakamura says after Matsumura finishes half a slice of cake in three bites. “Why did you invite me?”
“I told you. Hirose was busy.”
“That explains why he isn’t here. It doesn’t explain why I am.” Nakamura tightens his fingers around his glass. “Before today, we weren’t friends.”
Matsumura rolls his eyes. “You’re still stuck on that?”
“You can’t declare friendship like you’re annexing territory.”
“We’re friends now. Accept the new government.”
Nakamura gives him a long look.
Matsumura sighs and puts down his spoon. “Fine. I wanted to know more about you.”
“Why?”
The question comes out sharper than Nakamura intends. He is not used to people expressing curiosity about him. It usually feels safer to assume they have mistaken him for someone else.
“Because you’re friends with Hirose,” Matsumura says. “And Hirose likes having you around.”
Nakamura’s grip tightens slightly.
Matsumura looks through the window for a moment. When he speaks again, the usual theatrical confidence has quieted.
“We’ve known each other since middle school. I call us friends, but if Hirose can avoid spending time alone with me, he usually does.”
“That might be because you follow him around like a creep.”
Matsumura points his spoon at him. “Do you want the explanation or not?”
Nakamura falls silent.
“Hirose is friendly,” Matsumura continues. “He gets along with almost anybody. But most of it stays on the surface. He laughs, listens, remembers what people like. Then the conversation ends and you realize he didn’t say anything real about himself.”
Nakamura hesitates.
He has noticed.
Not at first. Hirose’s openness dazzled him too much. But after the school trip, after Hirose admitted how difficult it was to say what he truly felt, Nakamura began seeing the distance beneath his easy smile.
Hirose can fill a silence without revealing himself. He can make someone feel heard while gently redirecting every question about his own heart.
“Yeah,” Nakamura admits. “Sometimes.”
“But he isn’t like that with you.”
Nakamura looks up.
Matsumura takes another casual bite of parfait, as if he has not just said something capable of destroying Nakamura’s nervous system.
“What do you mean?”
“The few times I’ve seen you together, he looks different.”
“Different how?”
“Relaxed.” Matsumura frowns, apparently irritated by the observation. “Like he isn’t performing being cheerful. He looks genuinely happy.”
Nakamura’s heart stutters.
“Happy,” he repeats. “With me?”
“Yes, with you. Try to keep up.”
Nakamura lowers his eyes to the table.
The idea is too large to hold comfortably. He has spent so long being grateful that Hirose tolerates him, then grateful that Hirose calls him a friend. He has never considered that his presence might give Hirose something in return.
“Why does that annoy you?” he asks quietly.
Matsumura pauses.
“What?”
“You looked annoyed when you said it.”
“I always look like this.”
“No, you don’t.” Nakamura studies him. “You’re jealous.”
Matsumura nearly chokes on a strawberry.
“I am not.”
“You are.” Nakamura, slowly, realizes that he’s feeling smug about this.
“I invited you here to understand why Hirose likes you. But ugh…” Matsumura sets down his spoon with great dignity. “Maybe I’m a little annoyed.”
Nakamura waits.
Matsumura scowls at the remains of his parfait. “We’ve known each other longer. I thought that should count for something. Then you appear with your mushroom haircut and your tragic posture, and suddenly Hirose is going to movies with you.”
“My posture isn’t tragic.”
“Uh huh. You can keep believing that.”
Nakamura starts to argue, then stops. “You could ask him to hang out more.”
“I do. He’s always busy or with somebody else.”
“You called him today.”
“And he said he had cleanup duty.” Matsumura drags a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem when it comes to him. Nothing he does is openly rejecting me. He just never lets me get closer.”
There is no anger in the confession, only frustration and something lonelier beneath it.
Nakamura understands more than he wants to.
For years, he watched Hirose from a distance and mistook knowing details about him for knowing him. Favourite foods. Favourite shows. The rhythm of his laugh. None of it gave Nakamura access to the private places Hirose guarded.
He had only reached one of them because, for once, he stopped imagining the perfect thing to say and listened.
“You can’t force him,” Nakamura says.
Matsumura gives him a look. “Wow, how insightful.”
“I’m serious. If he thinks you’re trying to pull something out of him, he’ll avoid it.” Nakamura turns the straw between his fingers. “You have to let him talk when he wants to. And maybe tell him something real first.”
Matsumura’s expression shifts.
“Something real?”
“You want him to trust you, but you hide behind jokes too.”
Silence.
Nakamura realizes what he has said and immediately wants to crawl under the table.
“S-sorry. That was rude.”
Matsumura keeps staring at him.
Then he laughs once, without much humour. “You really are earnest.”
“Is that an insult?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He returns to his food, but some of the tension has left his shoulders.
After a while, he asks, “What’s your plan for this year?”
Nakamura blinks at the sudden question. “Our class has a camping trip at the end of May.”
“That’s the school’s plan.”
“There’s the sports festival in October and the cultural festival in November—”
“Nakamura.” Matsumura raises a hand. “Your plan. Is there something you want?”
The question settles between them.
Nakamura looks at the condensation beneath his glass.
Until recently, school was something that happened around him. He attended classes, went home, and dreamed about Hirose. Wanting things felt dangerous because wanting required action, and action created opportunities for humiliation.
Today, however, he spoke to people. He said yes to a trip. He chose a desk beside Hirose instead of waiting to be invited twice.
“I want to use those things,” he says slowly. “The trips and festivals.”
“To do what?”
“To know people better.” He glances toward the window. “Kawamura, Oomori, Hana, everyone else. I’ve been around them for a year, but I don’t know them. Not really.”
Matsumura listens without interrupting.
“I think I want to try harder,” Nakamura continues. “I don’t want Hirose to be the only person I can talk to.”
The words feel disloyal for half a second. Then he remembers Hirose’s happiness when Nakamura spoke to Kawamura that morning.
“I still want to be close to him,” he adds quickly. “Obviously. More than anyone. But maybe I can be someone who has friends instead of someone who only has Hirose.”
Matsumura nods once. “That’s not bad.”
“It isn’t?”
“It’s painfully normal.”
“Normal is…good, right?”
“You’re late to the concept, but yes.” Matsumura takes a sip of coffee. “I can see why Hirose likes you so much.”
Nakamura’s face heats. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps annoying me.”
“Why?”
“You’re sincere about everything. Even when you’re being pathetic, you’re sincere about it.”
“I don’t think that’s a compliment.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” Matsumura cuts a piece from the custard pastry. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
Nakamura opens his mouth to answer.
Matsumura shoves the pastry into it.
“Mmph!”
“Eat.”
Nakamura jerks back, chewing in outrage. “Stop doing that!”
“You ordered nothing.”
“I ordered a milkshake!”
“That’s a beverage, not a meal.” Matsumura spears another piece. “Open.”
“No.”
“Open your mouth.”
“I’m not a child!”
“Then feed yourself.”
Nakamura reaches for the plate. Matsumura immediately pulls it away.
“I thought you told me to eat!”
“I changed my mind.”
“You’re horrible.”
“And yet you’re my friend.”
“I never agreed to that!”
They argue until the waitress asks them, with strained politeness, to keep their voices down.
Nakamura sinks into his seat, mortified.
Matsumura waits until she leaves, then whispers, “You’re paying the bill if we get banned.”
Nakamura kicks him beneath the table.
Back at school, Hirose has been sweeping the same patch of floor for nearly ten minutes.
“Oooi, Hirose.” Takeuchi leans through the classroom doorway with two other boys behind him. “We’re going to karaoke. You coming?”
Hirose moves the broom in another slow, pointless stroke. “Nah. I still have cleanup duty.”
“The room already looks clean.”
“I’m just being thorough.”
Takeuchi studies him, then shrugs. “Suit yourself. Don’t complain tomorrow when everyone else knows the new song and you don’t.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Your loss. See you!”
The classroom door slides shut, and the hallway noise gradually recedes.
Hirose exhales.
The room is quiet except for the bristles scraping against tile.
“You’ve been sweeping the same spot long enough to erase it from the building.”
Hirose closes his eyes.
“Sensei, if you’re going to sit there and criticize me, you could help.” He looks toward the teacher’s desk. “Otogiri-sensei.”
Otogiri lounges against it with his arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “And interfere with such dedication? I would never.”
He pushes himself upright anyway and crosses the room. Before Hirose can protest, Otogiri takes the broom from his hands and leans it against the wall.
“The floor is innocent,” he says. “Let it go.”
Hirose folds his arms. “I’m not finished.”
“You are. Go home.”
“I don’t feel like it yet.”
The admission slips out too quickly.
Otogiri’s eyebrows lift, but he does not press. He gestures toward the nearest desks instead. “Fine. Sit. We’ll both neglect our responsibilities until you recover from whatever dramatic crisis has befallen you.”
Hirose drops into a chair. “You’re lucky I think you’re cool.”
“Truly a tragic weakness in your character.”
Otogiri sits on the desk opposite him, one leg swinging idly. In the empty classroom, with his jacket unbuttoned and his expression relaxed, he seems less like a teacher than an older student who wandered into the wrong room.
That is probably why talking to him feels possible.
“So,” Otogiri says, “first day of the new year. Did you survive?”
“Barely. You gave us too many forms.”
“I didn’t design the system, unfortunately.”
Hirose snorts.
“What about you?” he asks. “Excited to deal with us again?”
“I might be, if you promise not to create as much paperwork as last year.”
“We’ll try to behave,” Hirose says solemnly.
“That is the least reassuring promise a teenager can make.”
Their laughter fades into a comfortable silence.
Outside, the sky has turned orange, laying long bands of light across the desks. Hirose looks through the window toward the school gates. Most of the bicycles are gone now.
He should go home.
Instead, he thinks of Nakamura at lunch.
Nakamura smiling at Hana.
Nakamura agreeing to be in a group with other people.
Nakamura becoming, little by little, someone who will no longer need Hirose to pull him into every conversation.
The ache beneath Hirose’s ribs returns.
“Something on your mind?” Otogiri asks.
Hirose turns. “What?”
“You have the expression of someone whose brain is chewing on a problem and refusing to swallow.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Am I wrong?”
Hirose tries to smile. It feels thin. “As expected of sensei. I can’t hide anything from you.”
“It’s my job to notice when students spend ten minutes assaulting clean floors.” Otogiri’s tone softens. “What happened?”
Hirose taps his fingers against the desk.
“Nothing happened.”
“Are you sure?”
Hirose looks away again.
“There’s Nakamura,” he says at last.
“Nakamura,” Otogiri repeats, searching his memory. “Ah…now I remember. Quiet boy. Mushroom haircut.”
“Hey.” Hirose’s head snaps around. “Don’t call him that.”
Otogiri raises both hands. “A neutral description.”
“It’s rude.”
“Duly noted.” His mouth twitches. “I didn’t realize you two were close.”
“We got closer during last year’s field trip.”
“Ah. You were in the same group.” Otogiri nods. “So what about him?”
Hirose gathers his thoughts.
“I think he decided to change something,” he says. “He talked to more people today. He’s still shy, but he’s trying. Kawamura asked him about Love-ben and he talked to her for almost the whole break.”
“That sounds positive.”
“It is.” Hirose answers too quickly. “I’m happy for him. Really. At lunch, he talked to Hana-chan because she still seemed a little left out. That was kind of him, right?”
“Very.”
“And he agreed to join their camping group.”
“Also good.”
“Yeah.”
Otogiri waits.
Hirose hates how effective silence can be.
“I feel lonely,” he confesses.
The word lands heavily in the empty room.
Otogiri does not laugh. He does not tell Hirose the feeling makes no sense.
“Lonely,” he repeats.
Hirose nods, staring at his hands. “It’s stupid.”
“Probably,” Otogiri says. “Most feelings are, if you examine them harshly enough. That doesn’t stop them from existing.”
Hirose lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m not stupid.”
“I said the feeling might be. You remain under review.”
“Sensei.”
Otogiri smiles, then grows thoughtful. “You got used to being his safe place.”
Hirose stills.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” Otogiri’s voice is gentle. “Someone who struggles with everyone else looks for you first. Talks to you first. Trusts you in a way he doesn’t trust other people. You notice that.”
Hirose’s fingers curl against the desk.
“It felt special,” he admits.
“And now he’s looking at other people.”
“Which is good.”
“Of course.”
“I know it is.” Hirose looks up, frustrated by the need to defend himself. “I wanted him to have more friends. I hated seeing him alone.”
“But now you have to share the place you occupied by yourself.”
Hirose’s chest tightens.
“That’s exactly it,” he says.
Otogiri hums. “So you’re jealous.”
The word makes Hirose recoil.
“I’m not jealous.”
“Are you sure?” Otogiri asks. “It’s okay if you are. I think it’s perfectly normal.”
Hirose laughs. “Being jealous of your friend making other friends is normal?” He groans and covers his face. “It just makes me sound like an awful person.”
“A little dramatic, perhaps.” Otogiri nudges his shoe against Hirose’s. “You can be proud of someone and afraid of losing them at the same time. People are capable of holding more than one feeling. It’s inconvenient, but common.”
Hirose lowers his hands.
“Am I losing him?”
The question comes out smaller than he wants.
Otogiri’s expression softens.
“I don’t know Nakamura well enough to promise what he’ll do. But people don’t usually grow away from the person who made growth feel safe.”
Hirose blinks.
“If he’s reaching out now,” Otogiri continues, “it may be because someone taught him that reaching can end well.”
Hirose thinks of Nakamura at the notice board, smiling before he could hide it. Nakamura’s octopus keychain. Nakamura sitting beside him without having to be persuaded.
“You think I helped?”
“I think you know you did.”
Warmth presses against the ache in his chest.
Otogiri leans back on his hands. “The question is why his attention matters so much to you.”
Hirose looks at him.
“What do you mean?”
“You have plenty of friends. Takeuchi invited you out ten minutes ago. Yet one quiet boy speaks to someone else and you stay behind to punish the floor.”
Hirose opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Otogiri gives him a knowing look, but mercifully does not finish the thought for him.
“You don’t have to understand it tonight,” he says. “Just don’t make Nakamura feel guilty for doing what you wanted him to do.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
Hirose exhales and leans back.
The ache remains, but it no longer feels shapeless. Jealousy. Fear. Something else beneath both that he is not ready to name.
“I should go home,” he says.
“Probably.”
Hirose stands and shoulders his bag. At the door, he pauses.
“Sensei?”
“Mm?”
“Thanks.”
Otogiri waves him away. “Leave before I remember you actually had cleanup duty.”
Hirose laughs and steps into the hallway.
As he walks toward the stairs, he takes out his phone. There are no new messages from Nakamura.
He tells himself that is normal.
Then he checks again before reaching the first floor.
By the time Nakamura and Matsumura leave the café, the afternoon has deepened toward evening.
“I’m stuffed,” Matsumura announces, stretching both arms above his head.
“You ate enough for four people,” Nakamura says. “I’m surprised you can still walk.”
“Time passes quickly when you’re with someone as charming as me.” Matsumura pats his stomach with satisfaction. “Aren’t you glad we became friends?”
“I’m reconsidering every choice that brought me here.”
The park across the street has emptied. Streetlamps flicker awake beneath a violet sky, and the cold edge of the spring evening settles against Nakamura’s face. He had not realized they were inside for so long.
His mother is going to ask where he has been.
Kana is going to decide he has a secret girlfriend and torment him until graduation.
“I should go,” he says. “It’s late.”
“Same. I have student council work tomorrow.” Matsumura says this with enough pride to suggest he personally governs the school. “Where are you going?”
“Home. Where else?”
Matsumura smirks. “Right. Your grand resolution to make new friends is still in development.”
“Shut up.”
Nakamura turns toward the bicycle parking area, but Matsumura catches the strap of his bag.
“Wait.”
“What?”
Matsumura takes out his phone. “Is your LINE account connected to this number?”
Nakamura stares. “Why?”
“So I can add you.”
“You already have my phone number.”
“I don’t call or text unless I need something. LINE is easier.”
“That sounds like you intend to contact me socially.”
“We’re friends. That’s what friends do.”
“You keep saying that like it’s true.”
Matsumura rolls his eyes as he taps at his screen. “That’s because it is, you dumbass. God, you really are a social hermit.”
A notification appears on Nakamura’s phone.
Matsumura’s profile picture is a carefully angled photograph of himself looking toward the sea, which is exactly as self-important as Nakamura would expect.
“You chose that picture yourself, didn’t you?”
“Obviously. I look amazing.”
“You look like you’re pretending not to know someone is photographing you.”
“That’s called composition. A new concept to you, I’m sure.”
Nakamura accepts the request before he can think too hard about it.
The new contact appears beneath Hirose’s name.
Matsumura leans over to inspect his screen. “Why is your profile picture an octopus?”
“Because I like octopuses.”
“That is disappointingly predictable.”
“And yours is your own face.”
“A much better choice than an octopus, I’ll have you know.”
Nakamura opens his mouth to insult him when a familiar voice calls from behind them.
“Nakamura?”
His entire body reacts before his mind does.
He turns so quickly that the strap of his bag slips from his shoulder.
Hirose stands several metres away with his bicycle beside him. His hair is slightly mussed from the evening wind, and the strap of his school bag crosses his chest. Surprise brightens his face.
Then his gaze moves from Nakamura to Matsumura.
To the phones in their hands.
To Matsumura standing close enough to look over Nakamura’s shoulder.
Something flickers in Hirose’s expression.
It vanishes almost immediately beneath a smile.
“What are you two doing here?” he asks.
“Nakamura and I went on a date,” Matsumura says.
Nakamura chokes. “We did not!”
Hirose’s smile goes still.
Matsumura glances between them, far too pleased with himself. “A friendship date.”
“That isn’t what you said!” Nakamura grabs the sleeve of his jacket. “Correct yourself faster!”
“We had dessert. We exchanged LINE IDs. You kicked me under the table. It was intimate.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“See? Passion.”
Hirose laughs, but the sound is a little delayed. “You exchanged LINE IDs?”
Nakamura releases Matsumura and nods. “He called me after school. Apparently he got my number from you.”
“Oh.” Hirose shifts one hand on his bicycle handle. “Right. He asked me for it. Is that okay? You said it was when I asked last month whether I could give it to friends.”
Nakamura searches his memory and finds, to his irritation and embarrassment, that Hirose is correct.
“I didn’t know you meant him.”
“Rude,” Matsumura says.
Hirose smiles again. This time it reaches his eyes, but the strange tightness in his chest has not disappeared.
Nakamura and Matsumura have spent hours together. They have inside jokes now, apparently. Nakamura, who once struggled to say hello, has gone to a café with someone without Hirose there to bridge the silence.
It is good.
He repeats that firmly.
It is exactly what he wanted.
Then Matsumura holds up his phone. “I’m Nakamura’s second official friend.”
“I have more than two friends,” Nakamura protests.
“Name them.”
“Hirose, Kawamura, Oomori—”
“You hesitated.”
“I was organizing them alphabetically!”
Hirose feels the ache sharpen again, ridiculous and hot beneath his ribs.
Second official friend.
The phrase should reassure him. Instead, he dislikes Matsumura placing himself inside a category that once seemed to belong only to Hirose.
Matsumura’s gaze lands on him. For one brief second, his expression turns perceptive.
Then he smiles like a cat discovering an unattended meal.
“I should get going,” he says brightly. “Nakamura, message me when you get home.”
“Why?”
“To prove you weren’t abducted after leaving my protection.”
“You’re the person most likely to abduct me.”
“Still. Message me.” Matsumura waves at Hirose. “Bye bye, Hirose! I’ll see you around.”
Hirose’s hand tightens around the bicycle handle but he manages a smile in response.
Nakamura watches him go. “He’s exhausting.”
“Did you have fun?” Hirose asks.
Nakamura looks at him. “Huh?”
“At the café.” Hirose tries to keep his tone light. “You were there a while, right?”
“I guess.” Nakamura rubs the back of his neck. “It was strange. He ordered half the menu and declared us friends without permission.”
“But you added him on LINE.”
The words sound petulant even to Hirose.
Nakamura blinks.
Hirose looks away at once. “I mean, that’s good. You wanted to talk to more people.”
“Yeah.” Nakamura studies him with unusual care. “Are you upset?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast. Hirose hears Otogiri’s voice in his head: Don’t make Nakamura feel guilty.
He exhales.
“I’m not upset with you,” he corrects. “Today just felt strange.”
Nakamura waits.
The patience in his expression makes honesty difficult to avoid.
“You talked to a lot of people,” Hirose says. “Then I found you with Matsumura. I think I got used to being the person you spent time with.”
Nakamura’s eyes widen.
Hirose laughs nervously. “That sounds selfish.”
“No.” Nakamura’s answer is immediate. “I mean, maybe a little. But not in a bad way.”
“There’s a good way to be selfish?”
“I hope so.” Nakamura looks down at the pavement. “Because I don’t want you to stop spending time with other people either. I just want you to spend the most time with me.”
The confession hangs between them.
Nakamura’s face turns scarlet.
“I mean…because we’re friends,” he adds frantically. “Close friends. Not because I think I own your schedule or anything. That would be controlling. I respect your independence.”
Hirose stares at him.
Then warmth spreads through his chest so quickly that the ache has nowhere left to remain.
“The most time?” he asks.
Nakamura covers half his face with one hand. “Please forget I said it.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“That wasn’t permission to remember it.”
Hirose laughs, genuinely this time.
The tension between them loosens. Nakamura peeks at him through his fingers, and Hirose is struck by a sudden, tender certainty: Nakamura speaking to other people has not changed the way he looks at Hirose.
If anything, he is looking more directly than before.
“Are you going home?” Hirose asks.
“Yeah. My bicycle is over there.” Nakamura points toward the parking area. “What about you?”
“Same direction.”
They retrieve Nakamura’s bicycle and begin walking side by side. Hirose’s own bicycle has developed a flat tire; he noticed it only after leaving school and has been guiding it toward a repair shop that is already closed.
Nakamura crouches to inspect the wheel.
“You can’t ride this.”
“I figured that out.”
“You could leave it at the shop and pick it up tomorrow.”
“Probably.” Hirose glances at the dark storefront. “But then I have to walk home. I think it’s fine, though. My house isn’t too far from here and the road is flat.”
Nakamura looks at his bicycle.
Then at Hirose.
Then back at the bicycle.
His imagination immediately produces an image of Hirose seated behind him, arms wrapped around Nakamura’s waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades as cherry petals fall around them.
Nakamura nearly walks into a signpost.
“Are you okay?” Hirose asks.
“Yes.” His voice emerges an octave too high. “You can ride with me.”
Hirose brightens. “Really?”
“If you don’t mind sitting on the back.”
“I don’t mind.”
This is how Nakamura finds himself wheeling his bicycle onto the road with Hirose balanced on the rear rack.
The arrangement is immediately more dangerous than he imagined.
Hirose does not sit astride the rack as Nakamura expected. He sits sideways, knees together, one hand resting lightly against Nakamura’s back for balance.
Like a princess.
A beautiful spring princess being carried away beneath the cherry blossoms.
Nakamura grips the handlebars.
“Ready?” he asks, though he is the one who is not ready.
“Ready.”
He pushes off.
For the first few metres, the bicycle wobbles alarmingly.
“Whoa.” Hirose laughs and catches Nakamura’s waist.
Nakamura almost steers them into a hedge.
“S-sorry!”
“You’re fine. I moved suddenly.”
Hirose adjusts his position. His hand slides from Nakamura’s waist to his thigh, gripping just above the knee as the bicycle turns.
Nakamura’s vision goes white.
Hirose is touching his thigh.
Hirose is sitting like a princess and touching his thigh.
This is not a bicycle ride. This is a trial sent by the gods to see whether Nakamura deserves happiness.
“Nakamura?”
“Y-yes?”
“You’re pedaling really fast.”
He looks down and realizes they are flying along the empty road.
“S-sorry!” He slows so abruptly that Hirose tightens his grip. “Sorry again!”
Hirose laughs behind him. “Relax. I trust you.”
That sentence is somehow worse than the hand.
Nakamura focuses fiercely on the road.
Cherry trees line the river path ahead, their branches reaching over the pavement. Evening wind loosens pale petals, sending them through the glow of the streetlamps. They catch in Hirose’s hair and brush across Nakamura’s shoulders.
For several minutes, neither speaks.
The silence is easy. The bicycle hums beneath them. Hirose’s hand remains warm against Nakamura’s thigh, steadying himself whenever they turn.
Nakamura knows he will remember every second of this until he dies.
“This is nice,” Hirose says.
Nakamura’s heart lifts. “The weather?”
“The ride.” Hirose leans slightly closer so Nakamura can hear him over the wind. “Being with you.”
Nakamura misses a pedal.
The bicycle jerks.
Hirose grabs his waist with both arms.
“Careful!”
“Sorry!”
“You apologize a lot when you’re driving.”
“You keep saying dangerous things.”
Hirose laughs. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.”
The answer is too quick, but Hirose lets him escape.
The path curves beside the river, and Nakamura lets the bicycle coast for a moment. The water below catches the last light in trembling strips of gold. Hirose’s sleeve brushes his back whenever the wheels pass over an uneven seam in the pavement.
“You know,” Hirose says, “I was surprised when I saw you with Matsumura.”
Nakamura glances over his shoulder before remembering that looking away from the road is dangerous. “Because we usually argue?”
“Partly.” Hirose’s voice turns thoughtful. “You looked comfortable.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You were yelling at him in public.”
“That’s more of self-defence.”
Hirose laughs, the sound warm near Nakamura’s ear. “You don’t yell at people you’re afraid of.”
Nakamura considers that. Matsumura is annoying, invasive, and entirely too pleased with himself, but Nakamura had not spent the afternoon wondering whether every awkward sentence would make him disappear. Somewhere between the insults and stolen pastry, he had assumed Matsumura would remain.
Maybe that is comfort after all.
“I think he was trying to become a better friend to you,” Nakamura says.
“To me?”
“He asked why you seem more relaxed around me.” Nakamura’s face warms. “I told him he should stop pushing and let you speak when you’re ready.”
Hirose is quiet.
Nakamura worries he has revealed too much. Then Hirose’s fingers tighten gently against his leg.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For understanding that.”
The simple gratitude settles deeply inside Nakamura. He wants to tell Hirose that understanding him feels less like work than privilege. He wants to say that every truth Hirose offers is something Nakamura would protect with both hands. Instead, he says, “Matsumura cares about you. He’s just terrible at acting like a person.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“And he was jealous.”
Hirose makes a startled noise. “Of you?”
“Apparently.”
A small pause follows. Then Hirose asks, almost too casually, “Did that make you happy?”
Nakamura nearly loses control of the bicycle again.
“A little,” he admits.
Hirose’s hand stays on his thigh. Nakamura cannot see his expression, but he hears the smile in his voice.
“Good.”
For some reason, the answer makes the evening feel softer, as though the blossoms overhead have opened wider tonight.
They reach a quieter stretch where the cherry trees are fuller. Petals have gathered in soft drifts beside the path, and several families are spreading sheets beneath the branches in preparation for the weekend.
Hanami season.
Nakamura slows.
He has imagined asking Hirose to see the blossoms with him at least 20 times. In every fantasy, he speaks calmly. Hirose smiles. They share food beneath a perfect tree. At sunset, their hands meet on the blanket.
In reality, Nakamura’s tongue feels too large for his mouth.
He should ask now.
This is the moment.
They are already beneath the blossoms. Hirose is holding him. The universe could not create a clearer opportunity without dropping a banner from the sky.
Behind him, Hirose draws a breath.
“Nakamura—”
“Hirose—”
They speak at the same time.
The bicycle wobbles again.
“Sorry,” Hirose says. “You first.”
“No, you.”
“I interrupted.”
“So did I.”
They fall silent, both suddenly aware of each other in a new way.
Nakamura brings the bicycle to a stop beneath a tree heavy with pale blossoms. Hirose steps down from the rack, but he stays close, one hand resting on the seat.
Petals drift between them.
Nakamura takes a breath.
“Hirose, would you like to see the cherry blossoms with me this weekend?”
At the exact same moment, Hirose says, “Nakamura, do you want to go to hanami together?”
They stare at each other.
Then Hirose’s face breaks into a brilliant smile.
“I guess we both wanted the same thing.”
Nakamura’s heart swells until he can barely breathe. “Y-yeah.”
“Then it’s a date,” Hirose says.
Nakamura stops functioning.
Hirose flushes. “A friendship date! I meant—unless—well, we can decide what kind later.”
A petal lands in his hair. Nakamura reaches out before fear catches him and gently lifts it away.
“Later,” he agrees.
They begin walking again beneath the cherry trees, pushing the bicycle between them. Their hands brush once against the handlebar. Neither moves away.