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Tobi Otogiri was strong. This was an indisputable fact. Years of fighting Zingai had honed his physical strength to its peak. Jumping over the tops of buildings, swinging a giant backpack around, and performing acrobatics that could rival Olympic athletes was proof of this.
Tobi, if told this information, would deny it. He would brush it off with statements like his stamina wasn’t so great, his punches lacked force, or his sense of aim was terrible. Fuchi, being the twig that he was, was shocked by these responses. To a Zingai, maybe Tobi was weak, but by human standards he outperformed nearly everybody. Fuchi could list a dozen examples of his physical prowess off the top of his head.
First there was that time Tobi had opened the most tightly sealed jam jar in the world in less than a second. Then there was the day their party had gone to an arcade, found a boxing machine, and gave it their best punch—Fuchi was hopeless, Mahiru was decent from his tennis practice, and Tobi had wiped the floor and gotten a new record (then later donated his wealth of tickets to Fuchi). There was no leaving out perhaps his greatest feat of all, picking up a couch without so much as breaking a sweat. Needless to say, he had made an excellent worker the day they had been cleaning Fuchi’s apartment.
Strength was a quality anyone could admire—especially during summertime, as Fuchi was learning. Summer was Fuchi’s least favorite season for countless reasons. He had to wear long sleeves to hide his arms, his roommate’s air conditioning unit loved to either break or eat all his money in bill payments, and everyone skipped around with a cheerful energy he just couldn’t seem to share. This summer had one benefit: for some reason, he found himself really noticing and really admiring Tobi’s strength.
The first time he noticed this new development, summer was starting to reach its peak in temperature, much to his dismay. As a result, Tobi had changed up his wardrobe—rather than his typical turtlenecks or plain black T-shirts, he had gone with a tank top. This particular one highlighted all of his best features. Fuchi couldn’t help the path his eyes followed—he swore they moved on their own accord. First, they watched the drop of sweat that ran over the bump of Tobi’s throat and pooled in the dip of his collarbones. Next, they swept over the broad expanse of his shoulders and traced the curve of his toned, rippling muscles. Finally, they slid across the narrow waist that his tank top clung to—and if the fabric was just a little tighter, Fuchi probably could have seen the outline of a six-pack.
What surprised him the most was that at first glance, Tobi’s muscles seemed deceptively average. Fuchi had seen photos of bodybuilders with jacked-up, steroid-filled, vein-covered forearms bulging so large they looked like they could pop. Tobi was none of that. Instead of being brawny and bulky, he was lithe and lean. Oddly enough, Fuchi was given the impression of a snake—slender but strong, senses sharp and movements graceful, and ready to strike at any moment.
Evidence of Tobi’s work showed through on his body, not just through a good physique. Scars criss-crossed his skin. Some were small and pale, others large and red; a few were standalone, jagged slashes, while others came in sets of straight claw marks. There were the occasional band-aids here and there, followed by the rare roll of gauze. His skin was a map of all his battles, the raised bump of every scar like a mountain with its own story. Fuchi studied it intently, memorizing each detail.
At some point, Tobi’s arms rose to stretch behind his back, and Fuchi was given a view of biceps, triceps, quadriceps, and whatever else was packed into those things. They all flexed the same way, and it should not have been as hypnotizing as it was.
“…looked different, have you ever seen that one before?” Tobi said, except it was the last half of his sentence and Fuchi had missed all the context.
“Uh,” Fuchi offered helplessly. He was heating up, and it was not just because he was wearing long sleeves.
Tobi studied him for a moment. “Let’s get somewhere with air conditioning first,” he said, probably having assumed that Fuchi was suffering from heat stroke.
Before they went off to their next destination, Tobi had chucked a can of soda into the nearest trash can. True to his previous statements, his aim was somewhat off—despite that, the can still slammed into its target with deadly force. It could be heard ricocheting around the inside of the can several times with a metallic ding, then clattering to the bottom. Tobi casually continued walking like he hadn’t just completely annihilated that trash can.
Strength was a quality anyone could admire, Fuchi reminded himself as he stared after Tobi, red rushing over his cheeks.
(He later learned that Tobi had been talking to him about ducks—one of his greatest fascinations—and that was when Fuchi knew he was too far gone.)
From there, the examples went on endlessly. One in particular stood out. After a long hike where the sun had relentlessly beaten down on him, Fuchi immediately collapsed onto Tobi’s couch. When he eventually went to get off, however, he stood up too fast. It was a fatal mistake.
The feeling of being horizontal and then suddenly vertical was unpleasant, to say the least—the world spun, colorful stars burst across your vision, and you began to sway in place. It was made a hundred times worse when you were malnourished, sleep-deprived, and both exhausted and dehydrated from a long walk where the sun had boiled you alive. A combination of these variables sentenced Fuchi to his doom.
The moment he was standing, all the blood drained from his head. He realized his mistake too late. Suddenly, he was collapsing to the ground. He braced himself for impact—except impact never came.
When the blood gradually flowed back up his body, the world was still spinning and fireworks were being set off over his vision. Despite how muddled his brain currently was, he knew something was off. He was not lying on the floor—no, he was being held up. Soft black fabric brushed against his cheek. The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. His face was pressed against something hard. Weird—something was cradling him, it seemed.
That something, or more accurately, someone, became apparent when his blood pressure fully readjusted itself. Looking up, he met Tobi’s eyes. Tobi was cradling him. That smell was his body odor, that fabric was his shirt, and that hard wall was his chest.
“You really need to drink something,” Tobi said, sighing.
Fuchi stared up at him, tongue-tied. There was a long pause in which he processed the situation—he was being lifted up like he was nothing but a piece of paper, his face was flush against Tobi’s rock-solid abs, and he was being wrapped up by Tobi’s firm, solid, impossibly strong arms.
Time finally caught up to him. “Sorry,” Fuchi stammered, red exploding over his cheeks. He tried to squirm out of Tobi’s hold but was denied his freedom.
“Don’t,” Tobi said, clutching him tighter.
Escape was futile as Fuchi was transported to the kitchen like a piece of cargo, unloaded into a seat, and then forced to sit as he was given some much-needed fluid. As one could imagine, from then on Fuchi stayed well-hydrated under Tobi’s watchful eye.
After seeing Tobi’s strength in action again, Fuchi’s brain chemistry had been permanently altered. Before, his admiration for Tobi had been nothing more than a few quick glances and unspoken compliments. It went along the lines of “huh, he’s actually pretty strong,” or “wow, that was impressive.” Now, Fuchi had gone from acknowledging Tobi’s power to obsessing over it. It was a rapid escalation that started with “I wish I could feel his arms,” went to “I want him to lift me up again,” and reached its peak with “I wonder what he would look like without a shirt.” All of these thoughts were decidedly non-platonic—especially that last one—so he shoved them to the back of his head and forgot about it.
Forgetting was difficult, however. The fantasies did not fade away as he had hoped—no, quite the opposite. They only became stronger. It was like a stubborn plant in the crack of a sidewalk. You could stomp on it, rip it into shreds, spray pesticides over it, but all to no avail—it would always keep growing in places it didn’t belong. Such was the existence of the sidewalk plant, and also the existence of his less-than-virtous thoughts. They ambushed him in innocent, ordinary hangouts, haunted his dreams with images of rippling muscles, and killed all his focus during work. There was no escape.
Would Fuchi ever stop admiring those muscles from a safe distance? Would his dreams ever be realized? Would his fantasies come to life? The answer was clear: absolutely not! Risking a several-year-long, deeply meaningful, and highly important friendship for one touch of Tobi’s arms was objectively a bad decision. Nobody could disagree with that.
Except Mahiru.
The story went as follows. Their party of five—Monika, Mahiru, Tobi, Ryuuko, and himself—had gone out to play tennis, as per Mahiru’s request. Halfway through the first round, Fuchi was already tuckered out. He did the walk of shame over to the nearest patch of shade and collapsed there. Shortly afterwards, Monika had joined him, bringing Ryuuko in tow. The result had been a heated one-versus-one between Tobi and Mahiru.
What Tobi lacked in aim he made up for in sheer force. Each swing of his racket sent the ball hurtling, and despite all of Mahiru’s practice, nobody could be prepared for the speed of Tobi’s hits. The banter on the field was fierce. Mahiru egged on Tobi with insults; Tobi responded with silent fury, sending the ball flying forward like he had fired a bullet. Several times a foul was called as Baku’s tongue swung out to swallow the tennis ball. Fuchi’s eyes were glued to Tobi the entire game.
Tobi soared through the air gracefully, leaping and spinning like a ballerina. His agility was incredible, but more so was the fact he had worn his tank top again. Fuchi noticed this with barely-hidden fascination. Sweat glistened over Tobi’s muscles, which flexed and rippled with every swing of the racket. If he jumped too quickly or raised his arms, his shirt would hike up, revealing a sliver of his sculpted torso. Fuchi felt as if he were committing a crime by seeing it, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Occasionally, Tobi would pause to get a sip of water, and the spilled drops would run down his lips and splash onto his chest. Fuchi followed the path of every one.
While Tobi and Mahiru were playing tennis, Fuchi was playing a high-stakes game of look away before they spot you. During breaks or between rounds, Mahiru would say a word to his audience, grinning and waving like he was a pro tennis player talking to his fans; Tobi would randomly glance their way, silent and with much less gusto. Fuchi was careful to appear normal and not glance towards Tobi too often. There was also Ryuuko and Monika to contend with, but fortunately the two kept each other busy—Monika played with Ryuuko’s hair and Ryuuko blabbered on endlessly.
He thought he had done a good job until the end. After Tobi finished annihilating Mahiru, the group gathered under the shade. The picnic box Fuchi had been guarding was put to good use.
“You’re pretty good, short brat,” Mahiru sighed dramatically to Tobi, dumping the last water in his bottle over his face. He rummaged around the basket and plucked out some candy, popping them into his mouth. “Even though you were obviously trying to kill me. That’s against the rules, so this match doesn’t count.”
Ryuuko scurried over to stake her claim on the food, but not before scolding Mahiru. “Bad dog!” she said, stabbing her finger at him accusingly. “You didn’t win!”
Monika huffed out a laugh. “She was betting on you since I told her you played tennis.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Mahiru said, bowing deeply to Ryuuko. “I hope you will forgive me.”
“Never!” Ryuuko hissed, baring her teeth.
Tobi ignored the three and walked towards Fuchi. Along the way, he stretched his neck, his legs, and finally his arms, unknowingly testing Fuchi’s focus. As if to challenge him further, he sat down right next to Fuchi, one hand flat on the ground to prop him in place. The side effect of this was that his fingers brushed near Fuchi’s leg. Fuchi shrunk further into himself.
Tobi extended his bottle of water. “Are you thirsty? You can have some of this.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Fuchi stuttered. He tried to keep his eyes on the ground, but they kept pulling free to look at Tobi, who was a powerful magnet. To make matters worse, the thought of an indirect kiss had done no good for the temperature of his face.
Tobi’s gaze burned a hole into his side. He was silent.
Fuchi scrambled for something to say. “Uh, good job, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Tobi said. “If you’re too hot, you should grab one of the ice packs in the basket.” Having said that, he chugged the rest of his water and made a beeline for the picnic basket, joining Ryuuko’s feast.
Fuchi let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. If an ice pack solved his issue of uncontrollable blushing, fantasizing, and gawking, he would take one.
Eventually, the group settled into their own conversations—Tobi, Monika, and Ryuuko clustered together, while Mahiru plopped himself right beside Fuchi. Fuchi slowly nibbled the three slices of apples he had taken for his lunch, lost in thought.
“So, Tobi, eh?” Mahiru said casually, chewing on a lollipop.
Fuchi was torn out of his reverie. He flinched—then immediately froze, feeling as if he’d been caught red-handed.
Mahiru gave him a sly grin upon seeing his reaction. “Yeah. You were reeeal invested in that match.”
“Uh, yeah. It was… interesting,” Fuchi said, feeling his cheeks heat up—did his face always have to betray him at the worst moment?
“It’s true. I was incredible,” Mahiru said smugly, then leaned in conspiratorally. “Tell you what. You wanna touch his biceps, yeah?”
“What!?” Fuchi whisper-screamed, looking at Mahiru as if he had just lost his mind (which he obviously had, of course, because come on).
“Thought so,” Mahiru snickered. “I know how you can do it. You just gotta take my word for it. Capiche?”
Fuchi did not say anything, but his silence spoke volumes.
“Capiche,” Mahiru filled in for him, nodding solemnly. His smile dropped; it was time for some serious advice. “Now, I’m a master at pick-up lines, but they aren’t gonna work on a guy like him.” He made an emphatic chopping gesture for his last sentence, punctuating every syllable. “You. Have. To. Be. Upfront.”
Fuchi listened to Mahiru simply because he was an effective teacher, not at all because he was invested in the content of this lesson.
“At first, go in casually,” Mahiru continued. “Start off with something like ‘you were pretty good out there, you’re really strong.’ That way he knows why you’re asking. From there it’s simple: just ask if you can feel his arms.”
Fuchi’s eyes widened in shock. No way that was happening.
Mahiru picked up on his discomfort. “I’m telling you, it’s gonna be straightforward,” he said reassuringly. “I know what I’m talking about. You just have to be smooth with it.” He held up two fingers. “Smooth and upfront. Easy!”
Fuchi gulped, glancing towards Tobi. His friend was staring at both of them with an unreadable expression—not a good sign. He immediately ripped his eyes away, adrenaline spiking.
Mahiru followed his gaze, sighing. “Uh-oh. Looks like the brat’s got his eye on us,” he said, rising to his feet. Before he turned away, he gave Fuchi a parting word of advice. “Remember: confidence, Sunao. Confidence.”
With that, Mahiru strolled away, sitting next to Monika and Ryuuko and entering their conversation with an ease that Fuchi would never possess. Of course it was easy for Mahiru, the man who brought a new woman home practically every night. For Fuchi, his advice was easier said than done.
Still. Fuchi believed it when Mahiru said he knew what he was talking about. It could be worth a try. Right…? He thought about it a little harder and decided nope, he was too cowardly for such a thing.
Or so he thought, until Tobi saw Fuchi sitting alone and took it upon himself to come over.
Tobi smoothly dropped into a cross-legged seating position, eyes fixed to Fuchi’s face. “Was he being annoying?”
Fuchi’s eyes shot open. “No,” he said, far too high-pitched than what was normal. “We were just talking about, uh… tennis.” He winced internally. Seriously, he was terrible at lying…
“Remember my offer,” Tobi said.
“Huh?” Fuchi’s brows furrowed in confusion.
“I would punch him for you,” Tobi said, completely expressionless. Fuchi knew that Tobi did not joke around, which made that sentence all the more terrifying.
“No!” Fuchi sputtered. “Don’t do that.”
“If you say so.” Tobi began to chow down on his sandwich, finishing it off in mere minutes.
Fuchi’s gaze slowly drifted off-target, drawn to his object of fascination: Tobi’s arms. His eyes lingered there unconsciously before he realized he was staring, again, who could have known? He tore his eyes away, but it got him thinking. On second thought, Mahiru’s advice did seem trustworthy. Maybe Fuchi had a chance. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.
He would just ask. Casually. Nonchalantly. Naturally. Then his curiosity would be satisfied, his incessant thoughts would finally be put to an end, and everything would go back to the way it was. It was just admiration, nothing more.
A specific kind of stupid, reckless hope compelled Fuchi to make a move.
“You were, um, really good out there,” he began, voice trembling. “I didn’t know you could be that strong.”
Tobi was wordless; his eyes simply slid over to Fuchi’s, making for a thoroughly intimidating stare.
Fuchi gathered all his strength. “I was wondering if I could…” Confidence, came Mahiru’s words of advice. He swallowed thickly. “If I could feel your arms, maybe…?”
He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Hearing them be spoken aloud made it glaringly obvious how stupid that question was. Tobi jerked upright, his eyes widening imperceptibly—a rare expression of shock, Fuchi realized, and quite a lot of it at that.
“Sorry!” Fuchi squeaked. “I don’t know, I was just thinking, I thought it was impressive, it’s super dumb though, so just forget about it!” The words spilled out of his mouth, stumbling over each other—none of them could make up for his mistake. Fuchi wished the ground would swallow him up whole right there and then.
Tobi pushed out a long sigh through flared nostrils, one hand dragging over his face. His lips contorted into a half-scowl. He glanced towards the other group—Mahiru, Monika, and Ryuuko, who were all engaged in lively conversation—then towards Fuchi again. From there, his eyes settled on Fuchi’s face, not budging once. It looked like Tobi was deeply considering something—either that, or he was ready to attack. Fuchi would have bet on the latter. It was menacing all the same.
Fuchi suddenly decided to look at the material of the tennis court beneath him, studying every little crack, the texture of the grit, the microscopic ants crawling over it, since it was just so interesting, so fascinating, so holy shit he’s gonna kill me, isn’t he?
After a very extended pause in which Fuchi nearly died of cardiac arrest, Tobi finally spoke. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about?” he said flatly.
Fuchi made a weird, strangled noise that hopefully sufficed as a question, since he was too afraid to use words.
Tobi’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been kind of distracted lately.”
“Oh! Yeah. That.” Fuchi gulped. “Yeah, it’s because of that…”
“And you’re not asking because Mahiru told you to?”
“No. I…” I wanted to, Fuchi thought of saying, but that was too humiliating. “Not because of him,” he clarified.
Tobi let out a strained grumble. There was another beat of silence in which Fuchi awaited his imminent demise. Tobi shuffled closer, probably to put Fuchi in a rightful choke-hold or, also justifiably, yell into his ear.
Fuchi felt like a deer in headlights. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. Idiot, idiot, idiot, he chanted in his head, vehemently repeating the mantra as if it would save him from his fate.
“Here,” Tobi grunted, snatching Fuchi’s hand and placing it over his closest shoulder.
Fuchi froze. What? How? Why?
His hand twitched. Dense, rigid muscle flexed beneath his fingers. Tobi inhaled sharply and looked away.
This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be—but against all odds, here they were. Fuchi started to make sense of the situation. Tobi had given him his answer. Then he had positioned himself directly in the line of sight of their other three companions, blocking the view of where his hand lay.
Fuchi knew what he had to do.
Full permission had been given, but he moved with the utmost caution. Inch by tiny inch, his hand slid around Tobi’s shoulder, fingers pressing indents into the skin. It was rock-solid. Fuchi studied it with child-like wonder, mouth parted. He gained more confidence as time passed on, movements becoming bolder. His palms curved over the bumps of each muscle. He poked and prodded each one like he was a doctor giving an examination.
Tobi’s shoulders rose higher, muscles tightening. He tilted his head down, sandy-colored hair falling over his face in a straight line, while his eyes focused on a point somewhere past Fuchi. His hands dug into the fabric of his shorts, gripping them like he would die if he let go.
Fuchi explored the hills and valleys of Tobi’s arm, hands traveling more eagerly. They dipped down to the bend at his elbow, then slid back up to the junction where shoulder blended into chest. The tension between them was as hot and sweltering as the weather. Every time his hands moved, Fuchi thought he would chicken out, but he just kept going. Something about this felt forbidden, yet he didn’t want to stop.
Out of nowhere, one of Tobi’s hands flew forward, peeling Fuchi’s off his shoulder and dropping it just as fast. Fuchi froze—too far?—but he soon realized the reason for it.
Ryuuko came bounding over, silver hair billowing behind her like a cloak. “I’m still hungry!” she whined, skidding to a halt before Tobi. “But the basket is empty!”
“You’ll have to wait,” Tobi chided her. His voice was shaky—something Fuchi picked up on, but he doubted Ryuuko would.
Ryuuko tossed her head back haughtily, horns gleaming in the sun like a golden crown. “Now!” she demanded, voice shrill.
“Later,” Tobi snapped back.
“Hmph. Why is your face so red?”
Tobi’s voice hardened at that. “Go back to Monika.”
Ryuuko scowled at him but trotted away, leaving the two of them alone. Fuchi, meanwhile, burned alive. He could list a million words for how he was feeling right now, but awkward described it best. Currently dying of embarrassment also fit quite well. Can we go back to what we were doing pretty please was certainly an interesting one.
Tobi had nothing to say—he simply bowed his head and let out a long, pained sigh.
“Sorry,” Fuchi said, a word that was basically instinct to him.
Tobi tipped his head up just enough to look at Fuchi. “Don’t apologize,” he muttered, then slumped back down again.
Fuchi was considering his next move when a second distraction came in the form of a bright, pink-haired boy sauntering over. Mahiru casually whistled a tune to himself, kneeling down beside Fuchi.
“Hey!” he said cheerfully. “Feeling tired yet? We can always head back to our place.”
Fuchi frowned. Why would he be tired if he hadn’t even played tennis? Mahiru, upon seeing his confusion, made a small gesture. He pointed his thumb at Tobi, then tilted his head.
The realization hit Fuchi like a slap to the face, causing his cheeks to redden—Mahiru had seen what happened, and was handing him a get out of jail free card. How much he had seen was the more pressing question, and the one Fuchi did not know the answer to.
“Oh!” Fuchi yelped. “Yeah, I think I’d like that…”
“Alrighty then!” Mahiru hopped to his feet, a spring in his step. “Let’s get going!”
Fuchi glanced at Tobi, who had seemingly recovered and was now looking at Mahiru. His expression was empty, which made reading his intentions difficult—and rather scary, because when Tobi was really angry, he showed nothing on his face. Nothing on his face also happened to be his default look, though, so Fuchi could only hope for the best.
“Bye, Tobi,” Fuchi said with a nervous smile.
Tobi kept staring at Mahiru for a moment before his eyes darted to Fuchi. “See you,” he said, voice completely monotone. Fuchi did not know what to make of that.
“Bye-bye!” Mahiru said, waving goodbye to everyone. He strolled out of the tennis court, nodding for Fuchi to come along.
Fuchi shuffled after him, one question locked and loaded on the tip of his tongue. He just needed a single condition to be fulfilled before he fired it off—they had to be out of earshot. The two walked down the sidewalk until a corner was turned.
Mahiru had the same idea, apparently. Once nobody could hear them, a wide grin broke over his face. “What did I say, Sunao?” he crowed.
Fuchi was so mortified that he almost tripped with how fast he stopped. “You saw?” he gasped.
Mahiru beamed. “Nope! But I can assume what happened,” he said, pointing a finger at his brain. “Did you see how Tobi looked after all of that? Dead giveaway—even Ryuuko pointed it out to me. And now you’ve helped prove my point, too.”
Fuchi gaped at him like a fish out of water.
“Good for you! Shooting your shot early,” Mahiru exclaimed, slinging an arm around Fuchi’s shoulder. “Confidence goes a long way, am I right?”
Crimson burst over Fuchi’s face. He pushed his roommate’s arm off of him and began speed-walking back to their apartment. Hiding in his bed was now his number one priority.
“You can thank me later.” Mahiru grinned and skipped after him.
That was how Fuchi learned summertime was not just his least favorite season, but one that he hated, loathed, and absolutely despised. There were zero upsides. Tennis, too, would forever bring bad memories. On that day, the world was terrible.
The next day, Tobi’s text flipped his world upside-down.
Fuchi glanced at his phone and nearly had a heart attack. Popping up into his notifications center was a message from Tobi: We were interrupted. Want to try again?
Strength was a quality anyone could admire, Fuchi thought as he typed out his response with a giddy smile.