Work Text:
There are a lot of things you can do in a garden, you know? Most of ‘em don’t even involve gardening. Not that Mondo doesn’t like gardening, working the earth, playing in the dirt, all that shit, but there are other, cooler things to do in a garden.
Like fix the bike.
Chihiro’s perched on the table next to the toolshed, skirts flared out, laptop on. How Chihiro’s overclocked the tiny laptop speakers to play soft, classic J-Rock like it’s part of the atmosphere, Mondo will never know, but Chihiro has, and every time Mondo turns off the engine or finishes scraping a cement block into place, there’s the music.
He looks up. Chihiro smiles at him, a little sheepish, a lot cute. Mondo feels his cheeks getting hot and his teeth grinding and, uh, goes back to work. Yeah. On the bike. That he’s fixing.
He gets so absorbed in it that he doesn’t notice Chihiro standing on the other side of the bike until Chihiro speaks, just a little “Um,” and he looks up.
“Yeah?” It took way too long to say that.
“N--nothing really,” Chihiro says, all scuffing feet and a little bit of a blush and Mondo can’t help feeling that same kind of heat all the way up to his ears. “I just wanted to see what you were doing. I, um, brought up a couple of schematics on the laptop. I think I found the base model for your bike but I don’t know what other modifications you’ve done and I wanted to see if I could help, and I thought making an inventory of the parts would be useful...”
Chihiro’s the best. Mondo almost says so aloud, but his mouth opens and nothing comes out and his jaw just hangs there like laundry.
“I remember you said when we were riding that you’d upgraded the engine even if you kept the original frame,” Chihiro goes on, “but I couldn’t remember the brand. I would have asked a few minutes ago but you seemed so busy. So I thought I’d come over and look for myself.”
“No,” Mondo says, and the corrects, “I mean, yeah, but that’s nothing, you know? Since you’re sticking your neck out for me and all. Not that I don’t trust you around her or anything. I mean, it’s you. You can be in my pit crew anytime.” Oh fuck, he really just said that, it sounds so stupid, like something out of Fukawa’s books or Yamada’s ecchi or--
Chihiro beams. “Thank you! I’d be honored! I just want to help as much as I can. And I liked the ride. It was, um, it was really...thank you.” That blush gets a little brighter. So does Mondo’s, probably.
Wait. No. No it doesn’t, he doesn’t fucking blush. He turns away and coughs into his fist, tugs his collar looser. “You find anything yet? Anything good?”
“Yes! I found a couple of things. Um, do any of them look right?” Chihiro looks awkwardly at the laptop, over one shoulder. “I can’t really see from where I’m sitting.”
“Oh. Right, gotcha.” It really is getting hot in here, and fuck just tugging at his collar, Mondo undoes it on the way over to the laptop. He’s about to put his fingers on the trackpad when he remembers they’re covered in grease, shit, and backs off -- right into Chihiro.
Chihiro stammers something like um and sorry and are you but Mondo can’t hear it too well because his pulse is gunning like an engine in his ears. Even the tip of Chihiro’s nose is a little pink and it’s cute like a button or a strawberry on some girly dessert and this is starting to sound really fucking dumb even in Mondo’s head.
But then Chihiro holds on to Mondo’s hips, like when they were riding, and he can almost feel the wind in his hair, soft breath on his back--
--and the sprinkler system spitting on his head.
“Fuck,” he shouts, and a whole lot of other things.
“Oh no,” Chihiro says, scrambling to close the laptop, “I haven’t backed this up, I haven’t backed this up--”
“Fuck, where’s the damn tarp, I know I took it out of the shed--”
“Oowada-kun, your bike!”
“Forget the bike, I’m gonna fix the bike, I’ve been fixing the bike, get the laptop out of here!”
They run out of there, Chihiro’s laptop bundled up safe in Mondo’s jacket. The mostly clean side of Mondo’s jacket. A little WD-40 never killed a laptop, right? He thinks. He hopes.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t think the sprinklers would go on at all!”
“Me neither.”
“7:30 AM, right? They’re supposed to go on in the morning.”
“Beats me,” Mondo sighs. And if those fucking sprinklers do anything to his bike, he’ll rip them out of the damn ceiling.
***
Half an hour into The Great Yoshihisa and the Case of the Radio Tower, Naegi and Kirigiri are the only ones left in the rec room. Celes told them to call her when they finally found a body, but Naegi doesn’t think she meant it literally. He hopes not, at least. The couch is more comfortable when only two people are sitting on it, and Kirigiri takes up much less space than Celes does, anyway. Kirigiri doesn’t wear petticoats, which helps, but she also sits straighter, her knees together, her hands on her thighs.
The camera pans over a heap of scattered glass at the base of the stairs, and Kirigiri’s hands strain a little. Did she figure something out? The Great Yoshihisa stares wide-eyed at something offscreen like he has. Then again, Kirigiri’s the real thing, not an actor -- she probably pieced the mystery together before the opening credits finished rolling.
But she’s still here, even if she knows how the movie’s going to go. That’s something, right?
Naegi looks over at her, tries to catch her eyes. The way they’re sitting, the movie’s reflected in them. Her eyes are pretty even without that, so big and pale and striking, and then she’s looking at him, head tilted a little to the side.
“Are you bored, Naegi-kun?”
“Me? No! No, not at all.”
She nods, accepts that, and goes back to watching. The Great Yoshihisa is explaining to this movie’s sidekick just what’s wrong with the shards of glass on the floor. There are definitely too many. Naegi’s glad that it’s a plot point and not a set-dressing error or a red herring.
The couch cushion dips. Kirigiri might be sitting closer than she was a minute ago.
Technically, Naegi reasons with himself, the distance between their hands isn’t far at all. He barely has to slide his off his lap for it to cover hers. He swallows. Just a few centimeters. He could probably make it look like his hand slipped, if he had to. ...maybe he couldn’t, he’d end up leaving too many clues behind to count. Clues like the sweat on his palms, the flush on the back of his neck.
Someone in the movie screams, and the Great Yoshihisa and his sidekick bolt up the spiral stairs.
Was that his moment? No, Kirigiri isn’t the kind of girl who jumps at loud noises in movies. But her hands do look more tense, with her fingers tented up just above her knees. Maybe he should let her hold his hand, instead. What if he acts scared? Would she do it?
No. He’s got to do this himself.
Naegi takes a deep breath and wrenches his hand out of his lap, scoots it closer and closer to Kirigiri’s, a hair’s breadth at a time. He’s close. His hand hovers over hers, the way The Great Yoshihisa’s hand hovers over the doorknob, ready to turn it.
There is a flash of chartreuse, even though the rest of the film is still black and white, and a clown is dying melodramatically in some European language while a woman dressed as a porcupine holds him and sobs.
What.
“That’s unexpected,” Kirigiri says.
The porcupine-lady (who looks a little like Junko, but that might just be the editing), raises her fist to the sky. One match cut later, she’s holding a bouquet of flowers and skipping through a warzone while the sides of the screen pulse in and out. The soundtrack sounds like a cross between enka and an ice cream truck.
“I don’t think this is the right movie,” Naegi says slowly, as the camera cuts to a runny egg dripping down the side of a kitchen counter. “I didn’t know you could record over DVDs...”
Without even shrugging, Kirigiri gets up from the couch and checks the player. Well, so much for that plan. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Naegi won’t give up hope, of course, but next time he’ll double-check the DVD player.
Or he could ask her out to dinner. He wonders if he can deduce her favorite foods if he pays attention for a week.
***
“All school assignments must be typed in twelve-point font! Therefore we should keep this consistent in all materials produced for school purposes, including schedules!”
“I think that might break the layout...”
“But it would no longer comply with school policy!” Ishimaru slams his hands onto the desk, which rattles the keyboard. Chihiro flinches. “We must be exemplars for the other students, and show them that we can make websites that are both aesthetically appropriate and compliant!”
“Um, are you sure this is in the school handbook?”
Ishimaru curls his fist and points his finger, all ready to say of course!. About halfway there he realizes he’s not entirely sure. And he said so just a moment ago.
Chihiro looks up at him, smiling faintly, legs dangling off the edge of the desk. Whether or not sitting on desks is a violation of the school rules is a matter of individual teacher policy, as Ishimaru learned when Mondo insisted on resting his feet on Ishimaru’s desk during their first week in school. And as there are no teachers present now, and the Communications teacher has a stated policy of permitting desk-perching as long as class is not in session, Ishimaru doesn’t find Chihiro’s actions inappropriate.
The length of Chihiro’s skirt is also not inappropriate. Nor are Chihiro’s bare knees peeping out from under it. Nevertheless, Ishimaru averts his eyes. Ogling is inappropriate. And vulgar. Um.
“I think I can keep most of the copy at that size,” Chihiro says. “But maybe the section headers should be a little larger. That way, anyone checking the schedule on their phones will have an easier time scrolling down.”
“I hadn’t considered that accessibility issue,” Ishimaru admits. “To think that your talents as a programmer extend that far!”
“It’s not that big a deal, really...” Chihiro trails off, glances over one shoulder at the computer screen. “Um, web design isn’t my specialty, but I’ve learned a couple of things.”
“But they’re important things to take into consideration! And I had not considered them! Your cooperation has made this process much smoother. And, I hope,” he adds, and feels his pulse drum harder than usual, “it has been mutually beneficial.”
“Oh! Yes,” Chihiro says, and slides off the edge of the desk, skirt fluttering. The top of Chihiro’s head barely peeks over the row of computer monitors before them. Ishimaru’s not sure what to make of this observation except to wonder just where Chihiro’s body would fit against his. “I...I like helping. And everyone’s been so helpful to me.”
You’re welcome is the appropriate response to that, isn’t it? But instead of delivering it, Ishimaru coughs. “It’s our duty as classmates,” he says. It had much more conviction in his head than it does when he says it.
Chihiro doesn’t remark on it. “Let me pull up the code for the page -- I don’t think I’ll have to modify it very much.” When Ishimaru nods, Chihiro sidles closer and reaches over Ishimaru’s shoulder to get at the keyboard. Ishimaru doesn’t feel at all displaced, but the cuffs of Chihiro’s sweater brush against Ishimaru’s hands where they’re hovering, and just when it occurs to Ishimaru that he should maybe pull them a little farther away one of Chihiro’s fingers slides along his. His palms are sweating. Chihiro’s are warm too, and aren’t pulling away, so Ishimaru doesn’t either --
Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down --
Every monitor in the computer lab has turned on, as have all their attached speakers, and a blond white man with a neat pompadour and a somewhat flashy suit dances and sings in English.
The tune is strangely mesmerizing.
Chihiro spends at least as long blinking at the monitors as Ishimaru does, before saying, “But that’s such an old meme.”
***
“...one hundred seventy-seven, one hundred seventy-eight, one hundred seventy-nine...” The last few squats are always the hardest, but that’s no reason to give up! “...one-hundred eighty!”
“Well done, Asahina!” Sakura says. Sakura doesn’t usually count out loud the way Aoi does, but she must have done at least as many presses just now. It’s amazing. Sakura’s body is amazing. Sakura is amazing.
But there’s no sense in standing around looking when there’s more toning to be done! So Aoi just smiles and tells Sakura “You’ve done great too,” and scoots over to the edge of the mat to grab a quick drink. It’s her third protein shake today, and she’s starting to see why Sakura likes them so much. They make her feel like she could jump in the pool and swim a thousand laps. (And maybe after she did that, it would be okay to have a donut or two, just as a reward. Right?)
When Aoi sets the shake back down, her shoulder cracks, and all the muscles around it twitch.
“Asahina, are you all right?”
Aoi smiles at her. Well, it feels more like a grimace. “I’m okay! I must’ve overextended my shoulder. But it’ll be all right.”
Sakura’s at her side almost immediately. “Please permit me to attend you. Muscle strain can be dangerous, and you would not want it to cut your regimen short.”
That sounds like a lot of sense, so Aoi nods.
Sakura sets her hands on Aoi’s shoulders. Her thumbs knead powerfully but not sharply, and Aoi finds herself rocking gently to the slow, careful rhythm Sakura sets. Every time she breathes, some of the tightness goes with it, and Sakura puts all the right kind of pressure on the thickest knots, never presses too hard on the bone. Mm, Aoi could even drift off like this, it almost feels like she’s floating.
“You’re so good at this, Sakura-chan!”
“I have taken care of my own muscles for several years,” she says, soft and close and deep. “But it is easier to attend someone else’s.”
Aoi sighs, sinking back into Sakura’s hands. The really stubborn knots at the base of her neck start to uncoil, and her spine’s tingling from it, and it’s spreading all the way down to her toes. “Then can I help you stretch when you’re done, Sakura-chan?”
“If you wish it, then certainly.”
Aoi beams, leans back. Sakura’s breath ruffles her hair. “Are you sore anywhere?”
“I confess, I feel some strain in my quadriceps,” Sakura says.
“Oh, that’s all right! I know lots of good leg stretches.” Aoi takes one last deep breath and wrings a final crack out of her shoulders, but a good one this time, like breaking a fizzing tablet somewhere in her skeleton. Sakura’s hands are wonderful like that. “Lie down on the bench, okay?”
Sakura nods, and does. The bench is barely big enough, but she braces her legs, and Aoi notices that she’s favoring the left, so she’ll start there.
“Okay, start with a forward lift, and --” Aoi catches Sakura’s leg on the way up, and helps her guide it toward her chest, “--you’re doing great! Wow, you’re really flexible, Sakura-chan!”
Sakura smiles, faintly, and breathes evenly. “One must be.”
Aoi’s aware of her own breath steadying too, like an easy freestyle pattern. She supports some of Sakura’s leg with her hip, and leans in to lengthen the stretch. It takes a lot of strength to hold Sakura in place, but she can definitely do it, and the way the sinews of Sakura’s muscles move makes Aoi want to get in even closer.
“I really like your body, Sakura-chan,” Aoi says. A bead of sweat rolls down her cheek, drips onto Sakura’s chin.
It’s very hot in here.
She presses down just a little harder, and Sakura sighs, and her muscles shift and flex under her skin, and it’s so slick and warm, and Aoi wants to slide her hands up higher even if she can’t support the stretch properly that way.
The door blasts open, and the entire decathalon team charges through, cheering and counting off and waving flags. Junko yells into a bullhorn, “I don’t know, but I’ve been told!”
“I don’t know, but I’ve been told!”
“Happiness is getting old!”
“Happiness is getting old!”
“I don’t know, but it’s been said!”
“I don’t know, but it’s been said!”
“You’ll be happy when you’re dead!”
“You’ll be happy when you’re dead!”
A curl of dust rolls in their wake, and settles on the exercise equipment.
“Wow,” Aoi says. “The decathalon team’s training is intense!”
Sakura tilts her head. “I do not recall this school having a decathalon team. By its very nature, isn’t it impossible to be a Super High School Level Decathlete?”
“...you’re right,” Aoi says, and pounds her fist into her palm. “Besides, they never asked me to join!”
***
Mondo slams down his fifth can and starts chugging the next one. That will not do at all. Ishimaru must catch up! True, most reputable doctors recommend that one’s daily soda intake not exceed two-hundred forty milliliters, but that’s a recommendation, not a regulation. And sometimes recommendations must be dispensed with, in circumstances such as this!
Mondo belches and grimaces at Ishimaru over his can, wiping flecks of froth from his lips. “I still say we shoulda used beer.”
“If you find the conditions of the concept unacceptable, Oowada-kun, you are free to withdraw at any time!”
“Withdraw my ass,” Mondo snarls, and drains the rest of the can. Ishimaru would reprimand him for his language, but his own mouth is full of soda at the moment, and speaking when drinking is also uncouth behavior. Additionally, he’s finding it increasingly difficult to feel his cheeks, which further complicates his attempts to speak.
But Mondo is still ahead of him, cracking his seventh can, and Ishimaru will not allow him to gain any more of a lead! He pries the tab off the next can and guzzles it so fast he’s not sure of the flavor. It might be celery. That numbness in his cheeks has spread to his tongue. There, seven each --
No. Mondo laughs raucously and crushes the eighth can against his pompadour.
“Oowada-kun,” Ishimaru says, and attempts to level his finger at Mondo, which proves to be difficult because the more he tries to hold his hand still, the more it shakes. “That’s destruction of school property!”
“‘Snotdestroyed,” Mondo retorts in one breath. “‘S’trash. Went’n -- ‘n smashed’t.” He attempts to demonstrate by smacking his fist against his palm, but misses.
“Oh. Well, that’s -- that’s -- improper disposal of recyclable materials and you should be ashamed of yourself for not participating in Hope’s Peak’s Green Initiative because the student council has made it one of the foremost items on their agenda this year and that requires all of us to commit to sustainable -- ”
Ishimaru’s mouth dries out, so he swallows the rest of the can’s contents to compensate. --although now he seems to recall that caffeine is a diuretic, which will in fact make his thirst worse, but that might also inspire him to drink even more!
His cheeks are bright, his eyes brighter, and perspiration is dripping down his cheeks like tears. Wait. Are those tears? Ishimaru squints, but staring too closely at anything makes his head hurt fiercely.
Upon further consideration, he suspects his head hurts fiercely because it has just struck the floor.
“Shit!” There’s a crash somewhere above him, but Ishimaru doesn’t have time to reprimand Mondo for overturning school furniture. Or whatever else he did. Ishimaru has never felt his teeth buzz quite like this, and it’s distracting.
“Hey, Ishimaru! Ishimaru!” Mondo hauls him up by the shoulders and shakes him, although Ishimaru’s doing quite well at shaking on his own. He tries to tell Mondo as much, but his tongue and teeth and lips refuse to move together as they should.
“C’mon, don’t have a heart attack on me, I don’t know shit about first aid...”
Ishimaru cannot remember whether heart attacks are among the things doctors warned for when they made their recommendations about literage. But other than that lapse in memory, he’s fine! He insists! “This contest is far from over!” he says, and grabs for the edge of the cafeteria table to prove it. “Don’t you dare claim victory, Oowada-kun!”
“Don’t try to get up, shit, you’re probably concussed or some shit --”
“That is merely an excuse! Let go and give me the next can!”
“I’m gonna give it to you upside your head!”
“Then I will claim victory by default, as you have prevented me from obtaining the next -- the next -- the next --” The word is on the tip of his tongue. “Foul play! Infractions! Cheating! Yes!”
“Quit hollering in my damn ear!”
“Then let me up!”
Either Mondo says no way or literally tries to bite Ishimaru’s head off. That would explain why their mouths are crushed together right now.
Wait.
Oh. This qualifies as a kiss, doesn’t it. It’s...not unpleasant, even though Ishimaru’s tongue is still somewhat numb and his teeth are chattering, but then, so are Mondo’s. He supposes this was an accident of some sort but holds on to Mondo’s collar because it would be impolite to inform him in the middle of a kiss, if this is a kiss, that the cafeteria floor is an unhygenic environment to neck on the surface of, even if the necking feels quite good and Mondo tastes like heat and fake black cherry.
A distinct crash causes Ishimaru’s and Mondo’s foreheads to slam together, not only their mouths, and another crash very close to Ishimaru’s ear makes them spring apart.
“Duck!” Mondo shouts, as another cafeteria window shatters and three cylindrical objects fly through in quick succession right at Ishimaru’s --
-- head.
“I said duck!”
Mondo grabs Ishimaru’s arm and yanks him underneath the nearest table, just as the cylinder strikes. Whatever was inside sprays out, and Ishimaru can’t get his arms up in time to prevent his face from getting drenched in...something rather sweet, actually.
“Red Bear? What the hell is this crap?” Mondo has salvaged the remains of the can and is glowering at it, apparently ready to throw it back where it came from. He must be prevented from littering! Ishimaru attempts to stand up, but the top of his skull collides with the table and perhaps standing isn’t advisable right now.
“What do you think, guys?” someone chirps from outside. “We’re sure to get super-duper-extra-special-ultimate-first place in the Red Bear Cannon contest!”
Mondo looks out the window. Ishimaru can’t quite see, but Mondo is taller, so perhaps he can.
“Cut it out, assholes!”
And Ishimaru yells, at about the same time, “Firing potato cannons on the school grounds is a major infraction and I must institute disciplinary action!”
“But they’re not potato cannons. The rules don’t say anything about Red Bear Triple-Action Deluxe Gatling 8000 Cannons, do they?”
Ishimaru is forced to concede the point.
“Pull!’ the club leader outside -- who sounds suspiciously like Junko -- yells, and a succession of blasts thrill the air.
“Shit,” Mondo says. “I gotta pee.”
***
There is a truly remarkable wealth of Bo-Ko art on pixiv today! Of course, this resurgence is in commemoration of lead animator and storyboardist Furubeni Yasunori’s untimely death from carpal tunnel syndrome, which is a tragedy, but the loyal and prolific fans of Mochi-Mochi Princess can always be counted on to celebrate the work of its beloved creators, and Yamada is no different.
In celebration, he uploads a series of sketches and a preview for his next volume of Royal Panic!, including the dedication page, which he has revised in light of this tragedy.
He then proceeds to unbutton his pants and browse the R-18 section.
Like many doujinka, Yamada has unpretentiously particular tastes regarding other artists’ representation of his beloved heroine, Bo-Ko. She must look her canon age (or only a very little younger, though he insists that such leeway is appropriate and not creepy because he himself is only sixteen). She may be wearing cat or fox ears, but not dog ears. Tentacles are acceptable but only if she is resisting their siren appeal. Luckily for Yamada, many of his favorites have recently updated, and his own tastes as conveyed in his many volumes of doujinshi and standalone art have influenced the fandom, so it is not difficult at all to find suitable incentive material.
He finds a short comic involving Bo-Ko and an anonymous mister, and she is wearing fox ears, and he shoves a hand down his pants.
The reflection of a bulldozer crashing through the wall appears on all of his monitors a split-second before a piece of debris hits him on the head.
The bulldozer is three-dimensional. So is the debris. So is the construction worker wearing a bear-eared hard hat over her pigtails who informs him, “Whoops, sorry! I got the controls mixed up!”
There is no further pleasure to be had this day.
***
“How’s this?” Leon asks, and strikes a pose right out of BERUSAI, microphone stand between his legs like a hot chick on the dance floor.
Sayaka, in the front row, is unimpressed. “You’re not going to be able to sing like that,” she says.
“Sure I am! Kassu does it all the time!”
“Only when he lip-synchs,” she says, and comes to the foot of the stage. “Until you make it, you’ll actually have to sing. So you should keep your posture as centered as possible.”
“But this is sexier.”
“Kuwata-kun, do you want me to help or not?”
He stops choking up on the mic stand, scratches behind his ear. “Well. Yeah.”
“Then stop worrying about whether you’re sexy and start worrying about how you sound.” She comes around the lip of the stage, talking as she goes and looking as graceful as a high fly ball right to center field and twice as pretty. “Your image can come later. It’s just like with baseball, I think. You have to play tee-ball first.”
“Hey, I skipped straight to hardball.”
She smiles, but no matter how sweet the words sound, they’re still tough. “Well, you can’t now. You don’t have a natural singing talent.”
Well, that was a fastball to the groin. Leon tries not to wince too much. “But there’s stuff like autotune, right? And I don’t know, you’ve heard these guys, most of them just growl a lot...”
“Autotune is for recordings. You’ll have to sing live. And even growling take good posture and vocal technique.”
“Yeah, like you know how to growl.”
She takes the mic out of his hands, beams at him, and demonstrates a riff from am0r0sa’s Beat Your Heart, classic angry-girl rock that soars through the auditorium speakers and sounds like it’s come out of a woman twice Sayaka’s size.
Leon has to whistle at that. “Damn, Maizono. You’re an animal.”
She clasps the microphone in her hands and giggles. “I’ve had to study a lot of techniques, all right?”
“I never said it was a bad thing!”
“If it’s not bad, then you can trust me, all right?” She hands him the microphone again and stands behind him, like she’s about to adjust his batting stance. “So trust me.”
And then, strange as it seems, adjusting his stance is exactly what she does.
“Start with your heels parallel to your hipbones,” she says, and her hands brush against his front pockets for far too short a second, “and your shoulders in the same line. There. Not puffed out like a soldier or anything, just all in the same row. And don’t lock your knees.”
“But this looks so boring,” he says. She pinches his hip sharply, and he knows he’s supposed to shout and flinch, but you know, he doesn’t mind it half as much as he could.
“It’s boring for now, just until you understand how your core works.” She holds him in place again, and her boobs are pressed to his back, and that bare line of skin between her stockings and the hem of her skirt is nudged up against his legs, and parts of Leon are definitely standing straighter than they were a second ago. “All right, now breathe the way you do when you’re about to throw a fastball, face forward, and sing whatever comes to mind. Go.”
Well, when a beautiful idol singer is pressing up against him like that, he’s sure as hell going to sing one of her songs, because it’s not like he’s thinking of anything else. He lifts the microphone and goes for broke, belting the chorus of Specialest Friend like it’s a home run to China.
The last words, it’s our first love, baby, take it easy, reverberate more than a little off-key. But then Sayaka laughs, and her forehead nudges his shoulder from behind, and she says, “That’s not bad. That’s better. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, I just -- don’t usually hear it in that key.”
“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Uh. What key was that?”
“You took it about a fifth...and a quarter down.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s normal,” she says. “Your voice is supposed to be lower than mine. And harder.”
Yeah, it’s not the only thing that’s harder. Maybe if he kind of moves the microphone stand over and doesn’t hold onto it or anything, just lets it block a few sightlines...
“So,” he says, “if I were gonna ask you for private lessons...could we start maybe after dinner tonight?”
“Dinner?”
“You know, just...dinner, out. Maybe not that far out, I know idols have to follow crazy rules about that kind of thing, and I know what photographers get like...” Man, he’s whiffing this one. “We could get takeout. Hang for a while. If you wanted.”
He looks over his shoulder, and she’s got a blush as red as stitching across her cheeks, and her lips part to say, hopefully, yes --
And a Takarazuka revue bursts in through the auditorium doors, dressed as pirates, singing about how stealthy they are in four-part harmony.
Leon drops the microphone in what is probably the first fumble of his life, and Sayaka jumps about a foot in the air. The chorus of pirates parades through the aisles, branding crystal-coated swords and shining crowbars, and they swarm the stage with Junko at the helm.
“Don’t their costumes look awesome?” she cheers, wearing a black-and-white feathered hat about as big as her entire school uniform (which is, admittedly, on the skimpy side). “The Super High School Level Takarazuka Troupe will outshine even the hope in the audience’s eyes!”
“We have a Takarazuka troupe?” Sayaka asks.
“We do now!” Junko trills.
Well, there goes Leon’s chance to pick up any chicks.
***
The Crazy Diamonds have a whole bunch of stuff they do together to get closer. Most of it gets ‘em arrested. Nothing illegal about spreading out a blanket under the sun and eating lunch in the park, though. Except maybe trespassing, but nah, if they were trespassing Ishimaru’d be about fifty shades of red right now and Chihiro’d be glancing behind every couple seconds. Instead, Ishimaru’s unwrapping the bento boxes and Chihiro’s taking cell phone pictures of the birds or some shit.
Someday he’s gonna show them how to really have a good time, but for now -- could be a whole lot worse.
Ishimaru proclaims that lunch is ready and normally Mondo would be all over that shit, but one look at the sweat on Ishimaru’s cheeks and Chihiro’s too-damn-cute smile and Mondo can’t think about lunch. Kinda weird that no one else is in the park on a day like this, but they’re alone with the birds and the boxes.
So Mondo reaches over to Chihiro’s leg, and Chihiro’s not wearing stockings or nothing, and Ishimaru’s cheeks get even redder.
“This...this is nice,” Chihiro says, with a half-sleepy kind of smile. “It’s a lot quieter than school would be right now.”
Ishimaru opens his trap like he’s about to go on about noise regulations and how nobody’s listening to ‘em. But he must’ve changed his mind halfway through, because his eyebrows unsquinch and he says, “I think the fresh air will do us all good!”
“I think getting rid of some of those Super High School Level batshit crazies’ll do us all good,” Mondo says. “Everyone’s wound up too damn tight.”
“I guess,” Chihiro says, awkwardly nibbling the corner of one lip and that is too damn cute.
Ishimaru shakes his head and points directly at Mondo’s chest. “There is no need to disparage out classmates! Though I do agree that many of them have been somewhat high-strung lately, it is in no way a reflection on their sanity!”
“Ain’t disparaging if it’s true.”
Chihiro fidgets. “I am worried about everyone, though. But can’t we just have a nice time out here today?”
And then Chihiro has one of Mondo’s hands, and one of Ishimaru’s, and nope, Mondo’s not thinking about lunch. Chihiro draws them both close. There’s an engine purring in Mondo’s ears, and he doesn’t know which one of them he’s gonna kiss first, but the way the growling’s getting louder, he thinks it’s gonna be the bear.
-- wait, the fuck?
Mondo stares.
The bear stares back, tips its head to the side, and lopes right on down the hill.
Followed by lions.
And tigers.
And a goddamn rhino.
No. Two rhinos.
Which is about when Mondo stops counting and starts running for his life, Chihiro and Ishimaru right behind him.
***
There is an epidemic of sexual frustration among the student body. Mukuro wonders if “epidemic” is the proper terminology for something that isn’t technically contagious. But that is what Junko would call it, an epidemic of sexual frustration~!, and considering that she is the infection and the method of transmission Mukuro will concede her the right to name the disease.
Then again, Junko would also talk about branding it, wrapping it in pink mochi like a pill too bitter to swallow, so that the despair hits just when the taste is sweetest, and she’d make it sound beautiful even if Mukuro has never cared for sweets, and never needed them to make the medicine go down.
Then why is she so relieved? Why does Mukuro feel at ease now that her classmates are so unhappy?
She glances over at Naegi, who is currently struggling with a stack of dissected squids in metal trays, and wonders if he too has been infected by Junko’s plans. Perhaps he isn’t -- for all his optimism, Naegi has always been (what Junko calls) an herbivore, and not inclined to make demands on the girls he likes. Maybe he has given up on Kirigiri at last. Maybe he was never interested in Kirigiri in the first place and is immune to Junko’s plague. Maybe he is about to drop that stack of squid trays on the floor before they get to the cryo-vault and needs Mukuro’s help.
So she darts over and catches them and steadies the trays before he can let them slip.
(Maybe Junko is doing all of this so that Naegi will notice Mukuro at last.)
“Oh, thanks, Ikusaba,” Naegi says. “I thought those were going to fall for sure. Your reflexes are really something.”
Mukuro has heard many such compliments in her life, but they only seem to make her face this warm when Naegi says them. Thanking him would probably be awkward or out of place, so she just takes the trays and says, “Here. Why don’t you get the door?”
“Okay.” Naegi smiles at her, and Mukuro schools her expression into blankness. Is that what makes Naegi’s smile slip?
“Ikusaba, is something wrong?”
“No,” she says, and just barely remembers to leave off the sir. Her control is slipping just like his smile. The two incidents may be connected. Why does that make her heart race? “Does something seem wrong?”
He shakes his head. “You just seemed...never mind.” Once Mukuro arranges the trays into position, Naegi adds, “But if something is wrong, I’m here if you need someone to talk to.”
Mukuro considers this. If something is wrong...Naegi is inviting her to talk to him. This is exactly what Mukuro hopes for, isn’t it? But something has to be wrong, and nothing is going against Mukuro’s objectives --
-- except that she and Naegi haven’t talked about anything more substantial than falling trays of squid. Is that “something wrong”?
Mukuro is a Super High School Level Soldier. Even the most insignificant threat should be assessed and dealt with before it gets out of control.
“Yes,” she says. “Something is wrong, Naegi.”
But it is not simply “something wrong” in Mukuro’s heart: it is “something wrong” in that all of the cryogenic freezers are opening at once.
“Get down!” Mukuro grabs Naegi and crouches with him in a corner. Sublimating steam bursts out of all the freezer doors, and it may be toxic, so she clamps a hand over Naegi’s mouth as well since he doesn’t have the training she does in hostile environments. (His breath is so warm compared to the lab air. And his lips are soft. It doesn’t befit a Super High School Level Soldier to think about that.) She grabs a scalpel and brandishes it with her free hand, but it won’t do her much good with her vision this impaired, and with her current position so linked to Naegi’s.
The loudspeakers crackle to life, but instead of an evacuation procedure announcement, a catchy bassline plays.
And when the steam clears, all of the dissected animals in the lab have come to life as well.
No, that assessment isn’t quite correct -- sparks and wires flash from most of their chest cavities. They aren’t alive, just -- reanimated? Reprogrammed? Replaced with robotic duplicates? It would explain the jerky stomping motions of their strange dance. They raise their forearms or tentacles like Godzilla and stomp twice to the left, once to the right, then to the left again.
“Um, Ikusaba? I think I’m going to be sick,” Naegi says, muffled by Mukuro’s hand.
’Cause this is thriller! Thriller night! belts from the loudspeakers, in a voice Mukuro would recognize anywhere.
Despair as cold as the cryogenic freezers rushes down her shoulders. And she knows, without even needing to hear how worthless she is as a sister first, who is responsible for this powerful feeling. And Junko must feel it just as strongly, mustn’t she?
Thank you, little sister, Mukuro thinks as she proceeds to fight her way out before Naegi loses his lunch. Thank you so much.
***
Hagakure makes an awful move. So much the better: Celes is getting bored of Go. Hell, she’s getting bored of the rec room in general, now that everyone’s just sulking in their rooms. It’s positively maudlin.
“Why don’t you put your precognitive abilities to use and actually start posing a challenge to me?”
“Ease up. Go isn’t my thing, you know?” Hagakure sits back in his chair, fiddles with one dreadlock while Celes plans her move.
“Clearly,” Celes says. Jeez, he has such an idiot’s defense. Good thing she’s played against her share of idiots. She places an aggressive chit and stares at the clock above the rack of chess bottles. “Not that anyone around here is doing their thing, these days.”
“Hey, I’ve still got it.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, my predictions are getting clearer and clearer, you know? I’m up to forty percent accuracy! Leon would say that’s a pro average.”
That is so not what Celes meant, but hey, leave it to Hagakure. “Oh? And what’s the latest prediction, oh Super High School Level Fortune-Teller?”
He makes his move. It’s...surprisingly not idiotic. “That no one in this school will ever get laid again.”
“Any moron could have guessed that,” Celes groans under her breath.
“Except maybe Togami,” he adds, oblivious. “But he’ll have to pay for it.”
***
Fukawa sneezes.
Togami cannot zip his pants up fast enough. Literally, he can’t.
Junko, watching through the security system, is despairingly content to let the lovebirds proceed.
*****