reflections off the asphalt

by orphan_account

Summary:

Terasaka peers at him over his ramen bowl before shrugging decidedly. “Y’know, Asano, you’re in luck. ‘M a firm believer in second chances.”

“What do you mean by that?” says Gakushuu, a twinge of unease grasping hold of him.

“You’ll find out,” Horibe answers. “Take it from me, he’s persistent.”

“That isn’t as helpful as you seem to think it is.”

 

or: an honor student and a gang of five playing delinquent have a nighttime encounter months after their junior high school graduation at a certain wooden classroom under circumstances that definitely aren’t suspicious. asano gakushuu wishes that were the end of it.

Chapter 1: wheels have been set in motion

Asano Gakushuu doesn’t know how he ends up in these situations. 

Freeze frame. Record scratch. Backtrack. 

It all starts when you succumb to that nagging curiosity, morbid it may be, and let it lead you up to that campus—the one that should be abandoned. You find yourself at the summit of the arduous mountain trail, strands of hair plastered to your forehead by frigid rain, source of your curiosity in sight beyond the nocturnal fog. 

Gakushuu extracts his pocket-notebook from his blazer, clicks up his pen, and begins his inspection. Pebbles of rain soak the pages, smudge the ink, but he pays it no heed—the rain’s chill keeps him focused, if anything. Alert. 

Maybe impatience isn’t a good look on him—Akabane had agreed to confess to the happenings of E-Class a little bit at a time should Gakushuu ever beat him, after all. Annoyingly, however, that task has proven more difficult than he initially thought. Which on one hand is good—a rival is no fun when they pose no challenge—but on the other…

Just who was this ‘Koro-sensei’? 

After scaling stone steps, he reaches a tree. Lone. Tall. Too tall almost, with a thick trunk. He rests a hand on the soaked bark, using the other and his notebook to shield his vision from the rain as he peers up the trunk. Old, frayed, soggy rope is hooked around one of its branches and laid out like a trap. Weird. 

A dull poking underfoot tears him from his musings and he lifts his shoe from the grass, before his eyes shoot wide open. 

A knife?!

He toes it from the mud with his shoe, then squats and gingerly pinches it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s blunt, and rubbery in texture. Surely more of a toy than a knife. Yet when he curls his palm around its green holt, he’s filled with emotion he can’t describe. 

Nostalgia? Wisdom? Loss? 

His breaths grow uneven, and he stashes the knife in his blazer. That’s definitely… something. 

Rubber knife, he writes in his notebook, found: under a strange tree, not far from the E-Class building. 

Gakushuu pushes himself to his feet and a prickly, smoky scent cuts into his senses. Strange, but everything about this is strange. From the dangerous being who tutored E-Class for a year to how long it’s taken him to actively investigate and uncover the full, unadulterated truth of what occurred in that classroom himself. 

His eyeline meets the wooden building enclosing said classroom. And wasn’t it instinctive, a natural urge, for Icarus to soar to the sun?

He raises his head, straps on wax wings, and takes off. 

The stairs leading into the campus building are wooden, rotten, and weak with rainwater. One wrong step and he could lose his footing. His eye catches something miniscule and bright pink wedged between wooden planks; he readies his pen, crouches to further examine it, and immediately a confused frown invades his face. He frees it from its confines and rolls it on his palm. 

Is this…a BB gun pellet?

He clenches his fist over it. 

Questions. All that are being raised are more questions lacking obvious answers. And so, it is lucky how the hunger for challenge fueled by curiosity still pumps through Gakushuu’s veins naturally as blood. 

Besides, was it not hope that nestled in the depths of the jar breached by suffocating curiosity? 

He starts at a sickening squelch of shoe in waterlogged grass from behind him—and wastes no time in pushing himself to his feet and whipping around, all while smoothing out his blazer. The first thing his vision registers is an outstretched flickering lighter, the second is the five figures surrounding it. The sudden, hot light scorches his eyes, phantom wax threatens to melt on his shoulder-blades, and he opens his mouth—only to have the first words stolen from him. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” 

A low voice. One with the consistency of gravel. Yet familiar. 

What happens next is miscalculated—he steps forward and forgets he’s standing on worn away by age and rain wooden stairs that he has no way of being used to. His footing is lost, his head smacks against solid, and his vision is black before he realizes what’s happening. 

 

 

 

And Gakushuu is not outside anymore—this fact jumps out at him first when he stirs. He’s drier, for one, and lying on something akin to a mattress, for another. The fact to jump out at him second is the pain consuming his ankle and head—annoying. And the third, more worth his attention, is voices, coming from what must be the foot of whatever he’s lying on. Discreetly, he tunes in.

“—Sure he’s not dead?” says a dry, drawling voice. “He’s been out for ages.” 

“He’s not dead, he’s breathin’—see? He’s not dead,” that familiar gravelly voice from before replies, tinged in…worry?

“He looks dead.”

A new voice chimes in, speaking fast yet firmly, “Yeah, no, I’m with Ryoma. Dunno about you guys but I’m pretty fed up with death—the dude’s just unconscious. Bigger question is what he’s doing up here.”

Rain batters the roof, Gakushuu fights off a sneeze. 

“Whatever the reason, looks like curiosity killed the cat, huh?”

“…Kirara, c’mon.”

“Just trying to keep things light.”

There’s a hum and a new, monotonous voice says, “What’s keeping Takuya? I thought he said the kitchen was stocked with leftover food—”

Gakushuu can’t keep the sneeze contained any longer and the room falls to silence in the aftermath. He internally curses, but concedes and pries his eyes open. 

Scanning the room’s interior, he notes the wooden shelves with splintered edges balancing bottles of different shapes, sizes, and intactness. The walls are wooden as the floor and rattle every so often with the gale outside—not exactly the most safe—and are likely what’s contributing to the stench of rotten oak. His mattress is worn, with springs breaking free of the cotton, and his nose wrinkles at the stains spotting it. 

Finally, he brings himself to survey the individuals sharing the room with him. He’s met with four people this time, staring at him with expressions varying from blank, to vague concern, to vague concern mixed with slight wariness. 

And, oh no, he thought that one voice was familiar. 

He knows these people. 

Even when they’re not uniform-clad, Asano Gakushuu never forgets a face. 

Out of everyone, it had to be former members of the infamous E-Class to find him poking around their turf, didn’t it? What kind of practical joke is this? 

His jaw tightens and he ties a careful mask around his face, his usual nonchalance. He clears his throat, gaze falling on each of them in turn, and keeps his voice steady as he says, “Terasaka Ryoma—ranked forty-sixth out of one hundred and eighty-eight overall in the final exams of junior high. Hazama Kirara—eighteenth out of one hundred and eighty-eight. Yoshida Taisei—thirty-ninth out of one hundred and eighty-eight. Horibe Itona—thirty-third out of one hundred and eighty-eight.” Their stares don’t lax in intensity, but combinations of amusement and confusion teeter into the former threes’ expressions. Gakushuu pushes himself to a sitting position, straightening his back. “Well? Am I correct?” 

“Wh…yeah, sure,” says Terasaka offhandedly. He shakes his head and taps a hand to it. “Hey, yeah, okay, quick question—why the fuck do you still have all that memorized?” 

A twinge of annoyance shoots through him at that, and Gakushuu opens his mouth to defend himself. A series of shuffling footsteps stalls him, however, and his eyes dart to the doorway where the new fifth person slouches. Dirty blond hair, a faded and stained apron evidently ransacked from some stock cupboard tied around his waist. 

“There’s technically enough for some chanpuru, but, bein’ honest, I think we’re just better off…” He trails off as his eyes find Gakushuu’s conscious form. “Ah.”

“Muramatsu Takuya—ranked twenty-sixth out of one hundred and eighty-eight overall in the final exams of junior high,” Gakushuu says. “I thought there was one missing.” 

Muramatsu blinks slowly, then looks to the other four who shrug in unison. 

“You were saying, Taku?” Yoshida prompts.

Gakushuu notes how he’s languidly swinging a sharp-looking screwdriver between his thumb and forefinger and becomes increasingly aware how he is the one defenseless on a mattress with a sprained ankle and unidentified head injury in this scenario. Fantastic. 

“Oh! Yeah, right, uh—” Muramatsu runs a hand through his hair. “I was gonna say if it’s food we’re after, we might as well just head to the shop. These stocks are doin’ nothing for me.”

“The quicker we get him out of here the better,” Hazama agrees, twirling a pen around strands of hair almost resembling a cobweb. “And we still need to question him.” 

Gakushuu blames his headache for why he hadn’t clocked it earlier, but her comment cements it for him that—wait he’s in the E-Class building right now. 

By how they’re all staring at him, he’s just voiced his realization out loud. 

“Yeah, sounds like the best solution,” Terasaka says hurriedly. “Listen, Asano, you don’t have reason to trust us, we don’t have reason to trust you, yadda, yadda, yadda—just work with us here.”

“What.” A scowl slips onto Gakushuu’s face as Terasaka approaches with hands raised in front of him. “You need to question me? I think, taking everything into consideration, I have more of a right to know what’s going on with…this place…your class…than you do with anything regarding myself.”

Hazama casts him a long, searching look, raising a slow eyebrow and trapping him under an almost arachnidian gaze. “Is that so?”

Her words are drawn out, their undertones almost mocking in nature. And why does that pen in her hand seem to resemble a weapon so? 

Every encounter he has with this class only seems to raise more questions—even Akabane, who he sees five days a week, hasn’t become any less cryptic. It’s irritating. To put it lightly. He supposes being held captive by a bloodthirsty monster acting as a teacher will do that to you—but he certainly doesn’t believe in that story being the full truth. 

Which is exactly why he’s in this situation in the first place. 

“You think we’re being unfair, huh, Asano?” says Yoshida, eyes tracking him like headlights on an eventide road. “We’re not after personal shit if that’s what you’re stressin’ over. Just come quietly, yeah?”

“I’m not stressing—”

“You’re stressing,” retorts Horibe. His fingertips ghost Terasaka’s elbow. “Hey, maybe you should knock him out again.”

Terasaka rolls his eyes. “How d’you think that’d look exactly? Us comin’ down from the mountain carryin’ an unconscious guy? Plus, Kirara’s already made it clear how much he looks like he’s dead in that state—not happening.”

”Only a suggestion.”

Gakushuu shuts his eyes again and pinches the bridge of his nose, before inspecting for any obvious wounds on his head with his hand. Controlled, he must remain controlled. 

A warm, damp cloth rests at the back of his head, held in place with tape. Fine, he’ll leave it be for now. 

They’re watching him when his eyes open again, as if he poses any threat to them in his current condition. 

Another scanning of the room, with the knowledge now he’s in the E-Class building, proves nothing of use; he’s about to close his eyes again when a flash of vibrant yellow begs his attention, he allows it to and is met with a…poster. Of sorts. 

A poster depicting what seems like the government’s description of the monster that blew up the moon and held E-Class hostage, only in a doctor get-up with a lab coat and stethoscope, with the phrase “get well soon!” gaudily scribbled at the bottom—

Terasaka follows his eyeline, and his own eyes widen. “Right, okay, enough sightseeing. We’re gettin’ you out of here, don’t try anything.”

 

 

 

 

They don’t knock him out, but Gakushuu instead finds himself locked in Terasaka’s iron grip, slung over his shoulder, as they carry him out (back into the rain, back down the mountain) like he were some kind of infant. 

His scowl deepens. Demeaning. 

Yoshida catches his expression and crosses his arms, but there’s a wariness wallowing in his eyes Gakushuu does not miss and a single coin he’s turning over in his hands. “Listen, we’re not tryin’ to make this hard for you, this is just necessary, alright?” 

Gakushuu scoffs. “Please, as if you’re not getting any sense of revenge from this. I can take it. I can acknowledge I was in the wrong with how I treated you all before.” The words are unnatural on his tongue, but something coiled in his chest unravels slightly when he speaks them. 

Terasaka laughs, laughs, then. A guffaw that jostles Gakushuu from the shaking of his shoulders. “Nah, sorry to not meet ya expectations, Mr Student Council President, but the five of us aren’t big on revenge these days.” 

“Unless you're using it as a theme in a chilling narrative,” Hazama adds, an unnerving grin curling at her mouth. “We can make exceptions for that.” 

“I still don’t get Monte Cristo,” Horibe tells her. “I think you should unadd me from the ‘we’.”

“That’s because you don’t have any taste in literature.” 

“I didn’t get it either,” Muramatsu chimes in. “Dude was just sayin’ words.”

“That’s because the most challenging things you read are the step-by-step recipes you find online.” 

Muramatsu lets out an overly exaggerated, affronted gasp as Hazama snickers, and Gakushuu glances between them all, dumbfounded. What the hell kind of a dynamic is this? Someone get him out of here. He doesn’t have time to be a solitary hunter caught up among pack animals. 

This is not how he expected tonight to go. 

Yoshida chuckles and Muramatsu reels back the dramaticisms to rest his arm on the former’s shoulder, before Yoshida says, “Besides, some of us like playing fair.” He briefly holds Gakushuu’s gaze, before driving his eyes to park on the drenched deciduous bordering their trudge back down the mountain trail. “But acknowledging how you treated our class is a start, I guess.” 

Silence casts over them once more as they seem to be reminded of Gakushuu’s presence by Yoshida and they near the trail’s end. Hazama and Horibe return to tracing his every moment with their eyes. The former more analytically, in a way that makes Gakushuu feel like he’s a book—pried open and pored over. His skin crawls at the concept. The latter more simply curiously, scanning him as if he were a new piece of hardware. Weird, but not as obviously unsettling. 

They don’t release him when they reach the bottom of the mountain, instead they keep on with their trek. 

“Where are you taking me?” he demands. 

“We just wanna ask you some shit,” replies Terasaka, too calmly. 

“Put me down.”

“No thanks. You’ve hurt y’ankle an’ bashed ya head, anyway.”

“None of you are normal.”

“And you are? C’mon now, Mr Student Council President.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna keep callin’ you it.” Terasaka glances back at him, and Gakushuu glares into the amusement pooling in his eyes, any attempts at remaining neutral and nonchalant officially foregone. This is a waste of time—what could they possibly gain from it? 

“Oh boy, Ryoma’s giving him that look,” Muramatsu says. “Hey! Stay focused, this is not an Itona-situation, remember?” 

“I’m not treatin’ it like it is!” replies Terasaka, voice raising defensively. 

“You were thinkin’ it!” Yoshida returns. “Got too caught up in your little back ‘n’ forth, that’s how they get you.”

“Itona-situation?” Horibe says dryly. “I’m a situation now?” 

“The best kind of situation,” assures Muramatsu, and receives a swift kick to the shin.

“What are you talking about?” Gakushuu cuts in, frustration rising. “All you ever do or say only prompts more questions.”

“So we’re confusing you? You admit, you don’t understand what we’re talking about?” There’s that unnerving grin on Hazama’s face again. “Well, isn’t that a surprise. I didn’t think you could ever admit to not understanding something.” 

Gakushuu opens his mouth to retort, but Muramatsu cuts him off before he can. 

“We’re here,” he says, taking lead of the group. 

Gakushuu cranes his neck to a sign inscripted with ‘Matsuraiken’ peering down at him. A ramen joint. They’ve brought him to a ramen joint of all places. His jaw goes slack as the click of key revolving in keyhole sounds from behind where he’s facing and the door pries open—how did he get here again? Why couldn’t it have been Isogai who caught him? The other former class representative, Kataoka? Takebayashi, even? Someone reasonable? Who he could have a diplomatic discussion with? 

The interior of the shop is not greatly warmer than the rain and wind clashing outside, but Terasaka at least finally releases him—dumping him on a wooden stool that is, quite honestly, no more comfortable than being held captive on his shoulder. Then Terasaka moves to guard the door. Blocking his exit with the intent of a boulder. Just perfect. 

Why do they care so much? He’s the one with questions. 

And it’s for that reason this situation is not as terrible as it could be. It is terrible, don’t get him wrong, but after all he has his own investigation to conduct, own questions to probe. He will get something out of this—even if it’s out of less than ideal sources. 

Examining the five of them closer as they stand, watching him—they’re an odd group, surely? He knows about them what Kunugigaoka Junior High’s database does and, from that alone, you would never think of seeing a star pupil in Japanese Literature mingling with three deadbeats and the shrouded in irritating mystery transfer student. At least, he would never. 

Terasaka claps his hands together, bringing him back to the unfortunate present. “‘Kay, now for those questions we were talkin’ about.” He nears Gakushuu again until he’s beside him and leans down to eye level with him, before he lowers his voice until its gravel becomes grittier and says, “What were you doing up there?” 

“I hardly see how that’s your business,” returns Gakushuu, not breaking eye contact.

“Except it is,” says Hazama in a dry drawl that creeps up like a shadow from her position next to Horibe and closest to the door. “That campus is our property. E-Class collectively bought it after graduation, so whatever you were doing, well, I think it matches the definition of trespassing rather neatly, don’t you?” 

“Are you implying you want to press charges? Because I’d readily take all five of you in a court case.” Gakushuu folds his arms neatly over his chest and lifts his chin. 

But Hazama only snorts. “Fuck no, I’m well aware of how we’d be perceived against you,” she says. “I’m only letting you know…if you had run into someone who did care with the intent to, then where would you be?”

“Just answer the question, dumbass, none of us have all day,” Terasaka addresses him again, “why were you up there?”

“How,” starts Gakushuu, “can you possibly expect as part of the class supposedly held hostage by the bloodthirsty monster who blew up the moon, and who also happened to be your teacher for a year, for people not to be curious of your predicament? Not to investigate further—especially if they are the son of the disgraced principal who allowed it to happen?”

Rain slams against the door, rough but rhythmically. It’s the only sound in the silence following his words. 

Muramatsu whistles lowly and stretches his arms behind his head, turning it to Yoshida who’s behind the counter with him. “Huh, would’ja look at that? I didn’t think people still cared so much. It’s fair enough, I guess. Weird shit happened.”

“There are forums.” Yoshida rocks back on the balls of his feet. “I know that. The ‘Mysterious Case of Kunugigaoka’s Creature’ I’ve seen it called, there are some pretty…dedicated people to it.”

“Sounds like an Agatha Christie novel,” Hazama comments. 

“I’ll pretend I know who that is, sure.”

Horibe hums a hum like a machine whirring. “I remember we went through a lot of them together a while back. They’re so detailed…like something we’d build or renovate, right? So for all that detail, it’s comical how much they get wrong.”

Now his attention has been drawn to them, Gakushuu’s eyes flit between Yoshida, Muramatsu, and Horibe. Out of these five, they are the three he has actually seen in action—knows at least a smidge of their capabilities. It’s…one benefit to come out of last year’s Sports Festival. 

Assuming they haven’t weakened since then, the three of them are quick and hard-hitting. Horibe’s stature is something warranting underestimation from any regular strategist. Not him. Additionally, Yoshida and Muramatsu’s endurance and teamwork are to be feared—as long as they remain near each other as they do now they remain a threat if anything were to break out. Right now they’re close. Too close. 

Yes. Separating them is definitely what will advantage him most here. A strategic move that will provide him at least some semblance of control. 

“Rosencrantz, Guildenstern,” he says because, no, he’s decided he’s not above name calling in situations like these, and he needs to establish some sort of authority, “may one of you fetch me a glass of water?”

Silence stifles them as Terasaka, Yoshida, Muramatsu, and Horibe stare at him blankly to the point it becomes uncomfortable until Hazama clicks her tongue.

“He means Takuya and Taisei.” She crosses her arms and leans against the counter. “I was going to say I didn’t peg you for the type to be into Hamlet but, then, of fucking course you are.”

Gakushuu doesn’t entirely know how to feel about that assessment, but heat rises at his collar—of course they didn’t get the reference. What’s the point of an insult if it’s not understood? Usually he’d at least be able to revel in their non-understanding and his sense of superiority, but not when there’s one who does understand and makes him out to be a fool instead. 

Muramatsu shakes his head and moves to the sink to pour him a glass anyway, but is stilled by Yoshida touching a hand to his arm, taking his place and doing it instead. He slides the glass across the counter to Gakushuu after running it under the faucet and returns to his original position. Next to Muramatsu. Something Gakushuu didn’t foresee. Damn.

Practically, it’s a game of shogi he’s found himself in—one where he’s a piece on the brink of capture.  

In disguising his frustration, he takes a sip of water before continuing, “I—we have a right to know the truth.” He’s a negotiator, he can do this. “If the government has been lying—”

“The government lies a lot,” interrupts Hazama. “You get used to it.” 

Terasaka hasn’t stopped regarding him with a look resembling a brand of contemplation since Gakushuu’s answer to him. Gakushuu makes a point of ignoring him. 

Yoshida clears his throat and nudges Muramatsu, the two of them engage in a round of silent conversation through expressions, that Gakushuu can’t for the life of him decipher, until Muramatsu raises his eyebrows and nods with his mouth shaped in a perfect “o”—that Gakushuu can decipher and he swells a little at one of his few victories in the past twenty-four hours. That’s an expression of remembrance if he’s ever seen one. 

“Your ankle got messed up pretty badly, prolly a sprain,” Muramatsu says and Gakushuu has to restrain himself from scoffing. “Don’t see ya walkin’ about any time soon. Not to mention whatever you did to ya head. So how are you about ramen?”

“Ah, yes, the old method.” Hazama nods wisely, smirk creeping on her lips. “He’ll be more reasonable once we feed him.”

“Poison him, you mean,” mumbles Horibe. 

“Oi! I heard that.” Horibe sticks his tongue out and Muramatsu mimics him. “I’m not gonna give him my dad’s shit, duh. That won’t exactly work in our favour, will it?” 

Gakushuu supposes the name ‘Matsuraiken’ should have tipped him off. “Do you work here?” 

Muramatsu’s eyebrow twitches downwards. “No, I just have the key for fuckin’ fun—of course I work here, genius. This is literally my family’s shop.”

“It’s against school policy for students to have jobs.” 

A grin splits his face. “Aw, what’re you gonna do? Expel me? From the school I graduated from months ago? Please—” He ties an apron around him and a towel around his hair “—I’d pay to see that.”

“Besides, don’t you remember what happened when you tried to do that to Isogai?” says Yoshida. At Gakushuu’s glare he rolls his eyes. “Exactly. Eat some fucking ramen.” 

Gakushuu closes his eyes and exhales, a change of method is required, clearly. He reaches inside his blazer to retrieve his notebook—

His eyes fly open. Notebook—where’s the notebook? He drums his blazer down, tears open his other pockets—where has it gone? He had it, he definitively remembers putting it back in his blazer and not removing it after—did it dislodge? When he fell, did it fall with him? Out of his blazer and into the mud?

The one thing to provide him with direction, control over the situation, a sense of higher understanding—gone. 

Wait.

He checks his blazer’s interior once more—the knife. That curious, military green knife of rubber and plastic is gone too. 

A coincidence, it can’t be. 

Terasaka is still watching him—even though Hazama has shifted her focus to a book, Horibe to a miniature piece of machinery in his hands, and Yoshida to Muramatsu cooking behind the counter. 

“What have you done with them?” Gakushuu demands in a low voice. “You realize this only solidifies my belief in your class hiding what really happened?”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” returns Terasaka (unconvincingly). “But no shit a curiosity like yours ain’t gonna be suddenly diminished like that. You think we haven’t taken that into account at all?”

“You are ridiculously easy to read,” Gakushuu pushes, eyes narrowing. “That green, plastic knife. What was it and what have you done with it?”

Terasaka stiffens at his bringing up of the knife, eyes widening and forehead creasing. “I—”

Hazama doesn’t look up from her book but her eyes cease moving. “I’ll keep saying it until you take the fucking hint. You really ought to mind your own business, lest you become further entangled within more inescapable webs.”

“That notebook belongs to me.”

“Buy another one.”

“You—” Gakushuu bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep his mind focused. “There is important intel in there.” 

“Nothing we aren’t already aware of.”

“You read it?”

“I didn’t need to,” says Hazama, taking to observing him from the corner of her eye. “It’s a notebook with ‘Class 3-E’ written on the front. If you fancy yourself a detective, you could learn to be more subtle.” 

There’s another look in her eye once again just shy of arachnidian. But Gakushuu is no fearful insect. 

A scowl pulls at his lips—he has not, granted, had many run-ins with Hazama before now, but he can’t recall her ever being this talkative. Is she challenging him? Is that what’s happening here? 

Fine. He’ll carry that narrative. 

“How was I to know I’d run into former students from the E-Class?” In truth, such an oversight on his part is a punch in the gut, but him being discovered was never a possibility he considered. “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction—”

“Satisfaction brought it back. I’m aware of how it continues,” Hazama cuts in. “But, tell me, what do you plan to do once your lives run dry?” 

He makes to reply, but this group is intent on cutting him off more than anyone he’s met before. 

“Food’s ready.” Muramatsu places a bowl of steaming ramen in front of him, before spooning food into four more bowls and handing one each to the others—though how they plan on eating ramen standing up is a mystery. “Not anythin’ off my dad’s menu, either. All me. Consider it, I dunno, some kinda thanks for hearin’ us out.”

Food. A binding declaration of confinement—pomegranates gorged upon in ghostly gardens, dates and figs. Gakushuu is aware of its workings. 

His stomach growls. 

He makes a fishcake swim in the broth with his chopsticks. The smell is positively tantalising, he’ll give him that. “Don’t bother thanking me, I haven’t given a straight answer to any of your questions and I don’t intend to. What my specific business was at your building is mine alone, and no amount of bribery will change that.” 

Muramatsu’s small grin is lopsided, his eyebrows quirked. “Hey, hey, hey, no bribery here. Only business opportunities.” 

Gakushuu’s expression doesn’t twitch as he looks between Muramatsu and the ramen. Logically, he is aware it won’t be poisoned. The other four also have a bowl, after all, and Muramatsu certainly doesn’t look the type to be so knowledgeable about advanced chemistry as to be able to concoct any poison. 

He could have slipped the poison into your bowl alone before handing it to you. 

Taking all into consideration, it seems not a question of “could” but rather “would”. 

They would gain nothing from poisoning him, if they had the means to. Answers are clearly something they still want from him. And that one, Yoshida, mentioned their “playing fair”. Poisoning someone is far from playing fair. 

No, it doesn’t make sense. 

The chill damp creeps in through the walls and worms its way to his bones and lungs as memories from last year’s culture festival resurface. The principle. It was the Principal who had wanted to poison every last morsel of the food E-Class served at their mountaintop café. 

Food…more specifically, their main attraction had been ramen hadn’t it? Muramatsu likely had a major role to play in it—if the Principal had his way, then he would be the main student to deal with the fallout.  

“Stop starin’ at it and just eat it,” says Yoshida, momentarily tearing him from all that’s whirring in his mind. “Taku’s cooking basically has healing properties, y’know.” A voice like semi-molten metal, hard only to soften when warmed. 

Muramatsu’s cheeks gain a faint red hue as he laughs and begins wiping down the countertop, and a part of Gakushuu nudges him—whispers he should tell them of what the Principal had been planning those months upon months ago. But the logical side of him rebuttals, why should he?

“Healing properties?” Horibe turns his head to Hazama, motioning towards the ramen in his bowl with his chopsticks. “I think Taisei’s sick, the cold must be getting to him.” 

Yoshida fires him an amused grin. “Oh, c’mon, you always say this like you’re not the one who eats his food the most. You’re not foolin’ anyone, little guy.”

“I literally don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re crazy,” Horibe says through a mouthful of ramen. 

Gakushuu exhales through his nose, and raises some ramen to his lips. It’s not poisoned, that’s illogical. Of course. He puts it in his mouth and chews. 

Terasaka seems to decide this is time to make conversation again. “Karma’s still at Kunugigaoka, yeah?” 

Gakushuu almost chokes, but composes himself and swallows before replying, “Akabane?” He gives Terasaka a once over. “I wouldn’t have thought you were close.”

“Just answer my question, already. This is gettin’ old.” 

“What has he got to do with anything?”

Terasaka huffs a sigh. “Nothin’. Fine, forget it.” 

They eat in silence after that. The ramen is salmon-based, he quickly notes, and its flavors and textures balance each other out in a way he’s never experienced before, only added to by the combination of seasonings. He doesn’t comment on it, however. Gakushuu knows better than to dish out easy compliments like that. Especially in situations like these. 

He pushes the bowl away from him when he finishes, and Muramatsu stoops to sweep it up and plop it in the sink. 

There’s no reason to remain here any longer. He’s gained no new information, in fact only been left with more questions to ponder. He’s eager to leave this pit of time-waste he’s found himself in. 

Terasaka speaks again, “Don’t s’pose you’d be willing to tell us exactly what you were up to now, huh?” 

“Absolutely not,” returns Gakushuu. “But let me say this—if you’re hiding, don’t act surprised when someone comes seeking.” 

“Speakin’ in riddles. Fuckin’ typical, really.” There’s a surprising lack of bite to his words, a seeming resignation instead. 

“Not the most challenging riddle, however,” Hazama says, swapping her bowl of ramen for her book. “You should work on that. Along with your attempt at playing detective.” 

“I’ll see to it.” 

The unnerving grin returns. “I’ll see you will. Seven days, Asano.” 

Horibe inclines his head as if to comment, but remains silent, and takes to observing Gakushuu once more with eyes like dull sparks of electricity. 

Silence falls again as they watch him. Gakushuu clears his throat. 

He re-ties his mask of careful nonchalance as he rises to his feet, paying no mind to the way his ankle and head throb painfully in unison. “Well, thank you for your…hospitality…but I really must be going.” 

He doesn’t know why he waits, why a part of him seeks a reply or acknowledgment, but he lifts his chin and provides them a sweeping glance nonetheless. In response, they only share a series of looks he can’t decipher (annoying) and Horibe blinks at him a couple of times, before simply tilting his head. 

“Okay,” he says. Monotone. Blunt. 

Yoshida hums and digs a coin from his pocket, starting to continuously flip it. “Yeah, don’t let us keep you.” His brow furrows. “And…thanks for thankin’ us. I guess.” 

There is an emotion in his tone Gakushuu can’t detect—but he nods stiffly and smooths his mud-stained blazer.

Terasaka peers at him over his ramen bowl before shrugging decidedly. “Fine, but let me say this—you’re in luck, Asano, y’know. ‘M a firm believer in second chances.”

“What do you mean by that?” says Gakushuu, a twinge of unease grasping hold of him.

“You’ll find out,” Horibe answers. “Take it from me, he’s persistent.”

“That isn’t as helpful as you seem to think it is.”

Only more attempts to confuse him, to leave him fumbling, no doubt. Gakushuu refuses to let them melt his waxed wings, and promptly turns on his heel and marches for the door—despite the protests of his head and ankle. 

Terasaka’s eyes sear into his retreating back, and Gakushuu forces himself to ignore it. For he is no Orpheus and the quintet behind him is no Eurydice—he returns to the outside without so much of a glance back. 

Notes:

WELL i hope i managed to set things up neatly - this is my first chaptered thing (as well as first gakushuu related thing) ive ever written So Yeah!! what r ur thoughts on all the happenings legends

Chapter 2: and they have their own pace

Notes:

back with chapter 2 bay-beeee!!! as always i really hope im writing gakushuu ok lol and i hope u enjoy reading it!!! things r being set up…things r being established…also karma appears ig it was inevitable he had to appear at some point but hes not gonna be a major character

What had been intended as an investigation to satiate his curiosity has only starved it further. 

For the first time, Gakushuu finds his mind repeatedly straying in class. Always looping around to the other night’s quintet—not in the sense he (can you imagine?) wishes to engage with them any further than he already has, rather he finds he came away from them with dozens more questions and no answers. The carrot that is curiosity has been dangled even closer to him, and he can’t help feeling it wasn’t entirely unintentional. 

Damn curiosity—the manifester of all that’s wicked in the world, why must it come so naturally?

Though, again, he reminds himself, hope did sleep in its crevices. 

Besides, even neglecting that, they’re still in possession of his notebook. Unease trickles through him at its absence from his inner blazer pocket—all the information on 3-E and its hidden happenings he’s collected over the course of a year gone. Lost. Just like that. His photographic memory means the majority of it is not forgotten, but the lack of written physical record disjoints everything—his investigation is not complete without it. 

His ponderings shift in focus to the five individually as Miss Hashimoto summons him to complete a series of questions on the blackboard, as if preparing to write them profiles in the notebook he no longer has access to. 

As a whole, they’re irritating—by far among the members of the former 3-E he’d have desired to cross paths with again the least. Of course, he had helped them as he had helped their classmates on graduation day—out of his duty as a leader, as a show of gratitude and respect for them as a class. But never had he prepared to see them, much less interact with them, again. 

Then, as individuals…

Still irritating. Just to varying degrees. 

He readies an imaginary pen, writes imaginary subheadings. 

Terasaka—the reputation he solidified during his first and second years of junior high is by no means unknown to Gakushuu. An infamous attempted intimidator turned reserved deadbeat. Distinctly, he recalls conducting a second year assembly, sweeping his gaze across his room of subjects, and finding stony eyes of contempt pelting holes into his. Such a reputation he had seems to hold little weight now compared to then. And his eyes now, with how they regarded him the other night—contempt seems far from their descriptor. And what was that he said, blathering about second chances? 

He chalks in answers to sums on the blackboard. 

Horibe—that mysterious transfer student, the one sentenced to E-Class before he could even attend a day of judgement. The principal took great care in dousing the situation in normalcy, claiming some are simply destined to such a fate—which only reinforced Gakushuu’s suspicion further. Lightning-white hair, a stoic stare from eyes like gold sparks. Where he came from, why he immediately and specifically dropped to E-Class, is all thickly coated in that same frustrating mystery chasing those twenty-eight individuals wherever they dare tred. 

He’s dismissed from the blackboard, all answers correct. 

Muramatsu—another with a reputation not easily forgotten. Your typical early teenage delinquent during junior high’s first and second years, all picking fights and poor behavior. Gakushuu recalls easily the glint in his eye whenever his class would face A-Class in sport tournaments. And so the more mellow nature he tends to now is far from how Gakushuu knew him, albeit he reasons that’s because he could never claim he knew him in anything but passing and school reports, to the extent he had not even an ounce of knowledge regarding his family’s shop.

He returns to his seat, sits, picks up his pen once more. 

Hazama—a weaver of wordly webs, entrapping him before he can say the slightest thing. No notable reputation to speak of, and as such Gakushuu had taken her for a quieter, milder soul than she showcased the other night. Someone veiled by hair of ink, possessing a pair of crimson eyes never not reading, unsheathing a sharp grin so unnerving in an instant. An active challenger. 

The school bell shrills overhead. 

And Yoshida—another with no notable reputation prior to E-Class to speak of, his association with Terasaka and Muramatsu aside. He’s one carrying an air of reserved nonchalance that dissolved when he engaged with anyone but Gakushuu. There’s carefully constructed confidence in how he carries himself, only stunted by that wariness flickering in his eyes when observing him.

That wariness…

Gakushuu’s mouth twists. Why wariness? With wariness comes fear.

Intimidation? To be expected, healthy and encouraged, even. 

But fear? 

Nausea wrings out his gut. Fear is a tactic belonging to his father, a concept hanging on the breaking of others’ minds to his will. 

And he is not his father.

His father couldn’t even bring himself to tell him, his own son, the real reason behind the monster he installed in E-Class. Gakushuu cannot remember the last time that man was truly, wholly, utterly honest—him discovering E-Class’ secret himself could enable him to either tarnish his reputation further, or keep him in line under the threat of further tarnishing.

And if that isn’t a motivator on top of all this curiosity upon curiosity…

This pondering would be far more productive with his notebook, oh, why did they have to take his notebook—

”Spacing out today, eh, Second Place?” 

Gakushuu flicks his eyes upwards to a flare of red, magma eyes and canine teeth grinning broadly down at him.

Akabane slouches against his desk. “Oh, man, have you forgotten what the school bell means? Bad luck, it’s the next step down from getting two points off first place in a math exam, so I’ve heard.”

“What do you want?” Gakushuu stuffs his school materials in his bag, ignoring Akabane’s ever-broadening grin. 

“I mean, spacing out during class! Hardly behavior befitting of our dear model student, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What do you want?”

Akabane blocks the classroom exit, arms stretched behind his head, one hand curled loosely around an empty strawberry milk carton. 

Gakushuu rolls his eyes and shoves effortlessly past him. “Some of us have places to be, Akabane.” 

Akabane trails out after him. “Oh, come now—don’t be like that! What’s so big it has Asano Gakushuu distracted during class?”

“Nothing of your concern.” 

“A significant other, perhaps?”

“To reiterate, it’s none of your concern.”

“Mhm. Okay.”

Gakushuu slows to turn his head to him, eyebrow arched. “Okay?”

“That’s what I said,” says Akabane. His grin doesn’t lessen. “Okay, so who is it?” 

Gakushuu scoffs and whisks his head back around. “Don’t be stupid. It’s nothing like that and, more importantly, none of your concern.”

“How can I be stupid if I’ve beaten you on, let’s see—” Akabane mimes counting on his fingers “—every exam and test so far this year?”

Gakushuu scowls, hand clenching to a fist as he quickens his pace to lose him in the crowded hallway; but Akabane is persistent and hunts him like a pyroclastic flow through clusters of students, down the stairs, out the school doors, and into an outside smothered by charcoal clouds. 

As he nears the school gates, Gakushuu doesn’t think his current annoyance levels can rise any higher. 

 

Oh, how the fates bask in proving him wrong. 

 

One of the five now pressed into his brain with a hot iron, clad in a dark, bulky hoodie and matching sweatpants, skulks around the school gates—seemingly oblivious to the shocked and questioning stares directed his way. His eyes scan the crowd until they land on Gakushuu and widen, before approaching him with lumbering steps, prompting Akabane to finally shut up. 

Silence smothers them with all the matching intensity of the clouds as the three exchange stares—Akabane’s eyes bubbling with indefinable emotion. He opens his mouth, clamps it shut, rinse and repeat. 

Until he finally breaks the quiet, only to laugh, and Gakushuu drags a hand across his face. 

“What the fuck, Terasaka,” says Akabane. 

“Well good afternoon t’you too!” Terasaka retorts. “Geez, what’s a guy gotta do to get a warm welcome round here?” 

“Not showing up would be a start.” Akabane skirts around Gakushuu towards him. “What are you doing here? Miss me?”

“Ha! You wish,” Terasaka says, then scratches his cheek. “Well, yeah, okay, maybe I wanted to check up on you a little, see how you were gettin’ on, but I didn’t miss you, dumbass.”

“Aw, the puppet crawling back to his master! How cute, don’t you think, Second Place?” 

“Hey! Who’re you callin’ a puppet, lobster-head?”

“That doesn’t make sense, idiot.”

“Lobsters are red. Your hair is red.”

Gakushuu is out of his depth here. 

Just Akabane or just Terasaka he could at least manage—but both at the same time? 

Surely, the fate spinning his life’s thread wishes to watch him fall. 

He rounds on Terasaka. “What do you think you’re doing here?” 

Terasaka blinks at him in faux innocence. “I asked ya the other night how Karma was doing ‘n’ you wouldn’t answer me. So I came to see for myself.”

Another bout of silence succeeds his slip. Akabane folds his hands behind his back, grin dissipating as his eyes narrow and focus on Gakushuu, rooting him to the concrete. 

“The other night…?” he drawls.

Gakushuu keeps his expression controlled as he ignores him. “Why aren’t you in school?” 

“Takuya’s prolly coverin’ for me, s’fine,” says Terasaka, waving him off. 

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is?”

“Why are you here?”

“Ain’t’cha listening? To see Karma.”

“You’ve seen him. Now leave.”

“Hm…no thanks.”

“Then I have reason to believe there’s more to why you’re here than that—”

“What happened the other night?” Akabane cuts in, more firmly, eyes still narrowed and sliding between him and Terasaka. “Seeing you two interact in any capacity is fucking weird.”

Gakushuu’s pulse picks up the slightest amount—the genuine, absolute last thing he needs is for Akabane to find out he was at the old E-Class building and get involved. He’s already provided him with a potential method of securing the answers he seeks—he can’t imagine he’ll react in any way positively. 

Whether or not Terasaka reaches a similar conclusion of refraining from telling Akabane is a separate issue—

“Yeah, I ran into this nerd at the library when I was lookin’ for Kirara. Fell into a conversation, y’know,” says Terasaka, scratching his nose. “Man was readin’ math textbooks for fun. Fuckin’ insane.”

Gakushuu’s shoulders loosen and he bites down the relieved exhale threatening to release lest Akabane catches it. 

“Hm.” Akabane draws back, tilts his head at Gakushuu. “How boring! I don’t know what I expected from you.” 

A lilt of remaining suspicion crescendos in his voice. Gakushuu’s jaw tightens. 

He stretches, broad grin returning. “Well! I’m off. Have fun you two!” 

“Stay outta trouble!” Terasaka calls after his retreating form, to which Akabane flips him off. 

As soon as he saunters around the corner, Terasaka turns to fully face Gakushuu. The school gates have been rendered barren, bar the two of them and the watchful gaze of Kunugigaoka High School. 

Where Hazama studies him as if he were a literary text to analyze, and Horibe as if he were a piece of complex machinery to be disassembled—Terasaka stares right through him with eyes and face hiding nothing. Gakushuu can make himself as opaque as he desires, Terasaka looks at him like he’s transparent all the same, like stones smashing a window. Whether he himself realizes that or not is a different issue. 

For someone who leaves their expressions out in the wide open for the seeker to feast on, it is unusually taxing to get a grasp on what thoughts cement in his head.

Gakushuu’s jaw tightens further. “Give it to me straight, what are you doing here?” 

“Told ya I was a firm believer in second chances, didn’t I?”

“And I still don’t know what you’re implying or intending when you say that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I thought we had all silently, mutually agreed to leave the incident to rest and never cross paths again.”

“Well you thought wrong,” says Terasaka, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. “S’not like I’m exactly eager to talk to you either, but, y’know, loose ends ‘n’ all that.” 

That, Gakushuu finds, can’t be argued with. He still has more suspicions and questions than he knows what to do with, and they still want to know why he was up there. 

Which is puzzling, he’ll admit. They seem perfectly aware, at least to an extent, the reasoning for his visit. Do they just want to hear him admit it? Admit how much their class has been playing on his mind for all these months? Admit the length of his curiosity and eagerness to uncover?

As if he’d give them the satisfaction. 

“Loose ends,” repeats Gakushuu. He begins his walk from the school gates, Terasaka trailing after him. At risk of tarnishing his reputation, he doesn’t exactly desire being seen with an infamous delinquent. “Hardly any on yours, I’m the one with all questions and no answers.”

Tires screech on roads blocks away.

Terasaka says, “Why do you want ‘em so badly?” 

Gakushuu says, “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Wordless stare downs—he’s coming to associate them with this group as one follows his response. 

Scattering of gravel on the sidewalk from a car. “What exactly d’you want to know?” 

Gakushuu raises his chin. “The truth.”

“Of?”

“Your class.” He fights to not roll his eyes. “Your teacher, that year. And why the government would want to cover it up so desperately.”

They turn a corner, wander down a street rimmed by houses of various greys that seem to lose themselves in skybound clumps of charcoal that can barely call themselves clouds. A wrong turn, he’s not leading this idiot to his house. 

“Pretty stuck on it bein’ a cover up, huh?” Terasaka says. “Swear Karma agreed to tell ya stuff about what our teacher was really like back at graduation, though. Why want that information from us?”

“That hasn’t followed through yet.”

“Why not wait?”

“Why should I? A predator can only be so patient.” He can only imagine how Akabane’s mind games would intensify with something like this, choosing how much to tell him each time if it ever came to it, cutting off strategically to set his curiosity even further alight. “Additionally, that deal of ours only covers one aspect of what I wish to uncover.”

From the corner of his eye, he watches Terasaka square his shoulders. “Listen, Asano—”

“No, you listen,” interrupts Gakushuu, stopping in his pace to whirl around and properly lock eyes with him. “What could possibly be so governmentally significant about twenty-eight students’ last year at junior high that you’re all still so intent on keeping it such a guarded secret, months after you’ve graduated and moved on?” 

Silence. Something shifts in green eyes. 

He continues, “Furthermore, you confronting me alone only makes you that more suspicious, to be perfectly honest. I will not claim to know you well, but I’ve never seen you without at least one member of that…codependent circus of yours—”

“You’re not exactly unsuspicious yerself, asshole,” Terasaka cuts him off with a scoff. “I get bein’ curious, hell, it’d be shadier if you weren’t. And I won’t claim to know you just like you don’t know me, but I do know yer no stranger to ulterior motives.”

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“Tell me about it.”

“All I am requesting is simple knowledge,” says Gakushuu. “Is that so hard?”

“No knowledge is simple,” returns Terasaka. “Thought you of all people would know that.” 

“Is that one of Hazama’s proverbs? It sounds far too sophisticated for you.”

“I think you’re dancin’ around my point.”

“What?” Gakushuu almost laughs. “Is this knowledge really so complicated? Do you think I can’t handle it, that I’d be put in danger by learning it—”

“I don’t know.”

“That—” Gakushuu falters slightly, lowering a gesticulating hand. “You don’t know? You don’t know?” 

Terasaka scratches his ear, a look of near boredom rooted in his eyes. “S’what I said. Seems like yer gettin’ a bit hot under the collar there, Asano.”

Gakushuu tilts his head to the side and puffs out a sigh in a cloud that swirls before joining its brethren in the sky. He doesn’t know what will happen if he tells him? Seriously? He’s well aware the matter is sensitive, all secrets are, but so that there is no determined clause for if it is leaked? That’s simply…

…Even more suspicious. Annoyingly, a bolt of curiosity strikes through his veins for the upteenth time. 

“Fine,” he says. “I’m sure that’s deliberate. Let me turn the question on you, where does your curiosity lie?” 

“In the truth,” Terasaka echoes his earlier reasoning. 

Gakushuu humors him. “Of?”

“You,” he says simply. “Why you’re so fuckin’ obsesssed with our class more than anyone else, why you are the way you are, why you do the things you do. You try ‘n’ figure us out? We try ‘n’ figure you out.”

“I—”

“As Taisei would prolly say—it’s only fair. Law of equivalent exchange or some shit.” 

“That’s not what that is.” 

“Whatever, you understood me so I don’t see the problem.” Terasaka tugs at the strings on his hoodie. “Point is, you’re a curious case too, Mr Student Council President. Don’t forget that.” 

“That’s absurd,” retorts Gakushuu. “All of you are absurd. You, those…those…buffoons you call companions—” 

Rapid movement alerts him, movement so rapid if he had been anyone else it would have left him stumbling. Terasaka’s fist darts up from where it previously resided in his hoodie pocket, and stills inches from Gakushuu’s face. It trembles, before dropping. Gakushuu drags his eyes from it, to Terasaka’s twitching expression. 

Did he just…

Try and hit him? Really? Gakushuu almost laughs. 

”Don’t call ‘em anythin’ like that again,” spits Terasaka, mouth and eyebrows twisting downwards. “Talk shit about me, ‘m used to it, I don’t care—but leave them out of it. Yer lucky I remembered my anger management tips.”

“You make less and less sense with each passing day.” Gakushuu smoothens his blazer while staring him straight on. “What strange rules to set for yourself.”

Somewhere, blocks away, a car alarm blares. 

Terasaka’s stare is immalleable as he says, “You’re a fuckin’ weird one, aren’t you?” He exhales a huff, loosens his shoulders, and returns his hands to his pockets before turning to leave. “Don’t think you’ll be surprised to hear we’re not done here. We want to know shit, you want to know shit. If ya think about it, this is a mutually beneficial relationship.” 

“I’ve thought about it, and I think you need to look up the definition of that term.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Gakushuu watches him meander away, shoulders still evidently tense. 

In reality, it’s true. He has many benefits to gain from engaging with them, though how he can reap those benefits remains a mystery currently. And he has gained something from this interaction, pointless as the majority of it was to him. He has a firmer grasp on the nature of E-Class’ secret, and a firmer grasp of what they want with him. As unpleasant, annoying, it is. They want to uncover him, do they? Good luck.

Even he hasn’t uncovered him. 

Clicking his tongue, he readjusts his bag and continues on his way. This detour means he’ll reach his house far later than usual, but he has no intention of following Terasaka. As he said, they’ll likely cross paths once more soon enough. 

Steadily, fresh beads of rain pattern the sidewalk like a mosaic, charcoal clouds at last giving in. They may descend, but he will not. He will remain soaring towards the truth, his wax wings will not melt. Like a mantra, in a rhythm, he ensures himself of this. For his ambition will not be a flaw, much less fatal. 

He digs his umbrella for his bag, opens it, strides on. It’s persistent, the strumming on his umbrella’s crown and the stench of wet tarmac, it doesn’t cease until he passes a convenience store and figures in its parking lot snatch his attention…

…Seriously? He can’t escape these clowns. 

Quickening his pace, he attempts to shield himself with his umbrella so Yoshida Taisei and Muramatsu Takuya don’t recognise him from where they’re goofing around and riding the same skateboard. Didn’t Terasaka say Muramatsu was covering for him at school? He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised a delinquent would skip school to hang out with his…

Boyfriend? Is that the situation they have going on? He squints through the increasing downpour, it looks like they have their arms around each other which is probably indicative of something usually, right? 

Why is he giving thought to this? He doesn’t know whatever the status of their relationship may be, nor does he particularly care. 

Ah. It’s that damn curiosity again, he hates not knowing and not understanding. He needs to get things right, what’s the point if not utter correctness?

But he’s not nosy (well…in regards to those types of things), he won’t pry if it comes to it. 

By the time he’s returned to the present once more, Yoshida has spied him through the rain with a gaze like headlights piercing darkness. Gakushuu curses inwardly, straightens up in preparation. A confrontation—he’s becoming used to these. Maybe they’ll be compliant, provide him with the information he simply, so simply, wants. To him, he isn’t asking anything herculean. 

In anticipation, he waits. 

Anticipation that dissipates when what follows…

What follows is nothing. 

Yoshida doesn’t approach him, the opposite occurs. Gakushuu watches as he drifts his gaze from him, says something to Muramatsu, dismounts the skateboard, takes Muramatsu’s hand in his, and the two of them disappear into a sidealley neighbouring the convenience store. 

Honestly. Underwhelming. He finds himself disappointed—a confusing notion considering he doesn’t consider himself eager to interact with any member of that quintet. 

He says that, yet their irritating presence persists in his psyche. 

Thank the fates, the remnants of his walk home are without incident. 

He clicks the door shut behind him, takes in the household’s eerie silence. A usual predicament following his father’s firing from his position as principal and educator overall.

Likely, he is wallowing in his study. Pondering plans, seething in schemes, swimming in secrets piling up on secrets. And if Gakushuu can unlock just one of those secrets (the most significant one in his regard, the one concerning a monster and twenty-eight individuals, have you heard?) it will provide him with perhaps the most prominent upper hand he’ll ever have over him. 

Smirking to himself, he scales the staircase to his bedroom. As neat, clean, pristine as he left it, no disturbance. Textbooks neatly stacked with the pile’s bottom indenting his pecan carpet, laptop shining on his desk, the names of various authors peering down at him from his bookshelf, the potent and bitter scent of coffee forever waltzing in its air. 

He hangs his bag in his closet, tugs the curtains closed in an attempt to muffle the drumming of rain on window, and retrieves from beneath his bed a whiteboard, its bold heading bellowing “E-Class Secret: key notes”. Already, he has a picture of E-Class tacked onto it with various notes dotted around it. Akabane is circled—an arrow leading off him to a subheading reading “key information source”. 

All good investigators have whiteboards, anyone knows that. Detective fiction is one of many things he is well versed in, after all. It’s how he’s known how to go about this particular investigation—studying both the greatest fictional detectives and the greatest nonfictional ones. Yet, all good investigators also have pocket notebooks drowning in important information and he mourns the loss of his… 

No matter. What matters now is what is in front of him. And he knows exactly what edits to make. 

He unpops the lid from a whiteboard pen, circles each of that confusing quintet. 

Mutually beneficial, Terasaka’s words reverberate in his skull.

Sure, he’ll play their game, he decides, and it will be beneficial for him, not for them. He’ll see to that. What kind of game will this be? He’ll see to that too. What is certain? That no attempts to “understand” him will be made. He’ll see to that also.

He draws arrows leading off them to blank space where he neatly writes their names; they join Akabane in being subheaded “key information sources”, and he writes under Terasaka’s name what he has learned. 

The secret they harbor; their reasoning for not disclosing it despite it having wrapped up at graduation and it having been an entire semester since then, how it may be because this secret is more dangerous than he originally considered. Terasaka told him point blank he didn’t know what would happen if he were to disclose it to him. Something strange was always occurring on that mountain, but has he underestimated just how strange? 

“That class…” he finds himself saying outloud. “Right.” He levels his gaze to his mirror and tells his reflection, “Those five, as much as I resent admitting it, are useful. However, when in a group they seem more confident, in themselves and everything else. Therefore, if I want them to spill, I need them alone. Correct?”

His reflection only stares. 

“I was alone with Terasaka today, and he seems somewhat cooperative. He’s honest, and doesn’t attempt mind games, he’s straight to the point. He may be easy to convince, however, we left on…unideal terms.” 

His reflection raises an eyebrow. 

“Hazama? Absolutely not, companions or no companions with her, trying to get information from her appears torturous at best. She’s too sharp, and too…well-read. But, perhaps, if I can remain in control of the conversation’s direction…”

When he talked to her the other night, it felt too much like he was simply a book she’d idly picked from her shelf. 

“Horibe is too hard to read and harder to converse with. I don’t remember him saying anything directly to me concerning the circumstances the other night. Without his group, he may be even harder to talk to. Don’t you think so?” 

His reflection gesticulates as he speaks. 

“Then…”

Gakushuu’s thoughts fall to the two from the parking lot. His eyes fall to their names on his whiteboard. 

If he were to get one alone, he might breach some information, be rewarded with results. Separating them, especially, appears key.

But which…? 

He runs the possibilities over in his mind.

“Currently, that Yoshida is too on edge around me. I don’t know why considering both the others are not and he was the one to remind the cook about giving me ramen and thank me, so he doesn’t seem to hate me or anything akin to that, per se. Nonetheless, I don’t like it, so I’ll have to remedy that somehow, soon. Until then…”

A man who agrees to cook him ramen despite everything is a man he might potentially be able to hold a civil or reasonable negotiation with more than the others, typical delinquent he may be.  

Rose or gold? Crowns or stars?

It’s as easy as a coin toss. 

 

Notes:

well until next time - any thoughts legends?