Archive of Our Own

If Yumeko had to bet wisely, she’d be careful enough to bet against light ever peeking through the cracks in Kira’s concrete walls.

But it’s not ten grand on the line and up for grabs right now. It’s a reveal of the grin being swallowed back behind blue lips. A groan buried at the bottom of Kira’s throat.

Something worth the gamble.

Yumeko rips the topmost buttons of Kira’s uniform blouse undone like a punch through stacked cinder blocks.

“Someone’s excited,” Kira lilts, the bass in her lowered tone buzzing through Yumeko’s ear.

She stands unmoving at the edge of her own bed, with the back of her calves pressed against the frame as Yumeko closes the gap between them. She doesn’t let herself draw a sharp breath at the heat of glossed lips on her now-exposed collarbone, even as they trail up her neck with intention. Even as they find their way to her jaw, right below her earring.

Kira lets her eyelids flutter shut, though — because at least she can’t see herself blushing in the mirror across the room now, and at least Yumeko can’t either. She raises a hand to cup the back of the other girl’s head, carefully, as if with one sudden movement the moment would melt in her palm.

With arms wrapped loosely around Kira’s waist, Yumeko grins to herself and pulls away slightly. She leans her face close to Kira’s ear.

“Who’s excited, exactly?” she teases, bringing her fingers up to trace them around Kira’s pulse.

It’s fleeting, but lasts enough for Kira’s eyes to blink open and find Yumeko’s.

“I can feel your heart,” Yumeko says, like it’s nothing. Her hand maneuvers its way back to burning scorch marks in Kira’s hip.

And Kira scoffs so tenderly that she can’t help but to search for malice laced in her own breath. Eventually, all she finds is herself empty-handed.

“Is this the part where I say it belongs to you?”

It’s a joke, she tells herself.

Yumeko doesn’t answer. Instead, she guides Kira to lay on the bed. Wavy hair sprawls across the soft comforter, their chests rising and falling rhythmically. She crawls on top and giggles at the sight of Kira’s jaw clenching and throat bobbing with a dry gulp.

A faux-annoyed expression ultimately gets Kira nowhere and she knows it. It doesn’t stop her from propping herself up on her elbows and pushing her hair back to look at Yumeko properly. Her attention drifts lazily across the red-blue smudges painted over a sickening smile, until she lets herself indulge in it, surging forward.

It’s not until Kira’s mouth barely grazes against hers that Yumeko finally speaks.

“You don’t even need to say it,” she whispers, smiling sweetly. “You make it too obvious.”

And Kira’s face falls before Yumeko can finally seal the tension between them with another kiss.

She shoves Yumeko aside and ignores the small, pitchy squeal that bounces off the walls of her dorm room.

“Get off me.”

She spits it out childishly, like a grumble. Moonlight leaks through her sheer, white curtains, enough to outline her silhouette in the mirror once she finally finds the courage to look at it. Her long, painted nails run through her locks to undo the tangles, and she smooths her disheveled uniform skirt against her thighs.

This is how it should be. Crisp. Proper. Like nothing ever happened.

Maybe in another lifetime, she won’t crumble at the thought of whispers snaking down the halls about Student Council President folding to an enigma like Yumeko Kawamoto. It’s easier to hold her head above her heart and pretend that such a weakness couldn’t ever shroud her, not in that signature shade of red.

But today, her voice is brittle.

“No one can know about this.”

Yumeko sits herself up, and her head cocks to the side as the corner of her lips twitches. 

“And what exactly is this?”

Kira stares blankly at the wall and blinks.

Two beats the ace, right?

(The first time they kissed, three weeks ago, could have been construed as an accident — an accident, despite the deliberate nature of Kira storming into Yumeko’s dormitory room just to issue a final warning through gritted teeth.)

No one had ever climbed to the edge of the Top 10 so quickly. Everybody knew that. Day by day, wildfire consumed every detail of Kira’s stone-set reign so meticulously planned for, eventually granting once-fearful subjects the luxury of doubt.

Doubts about the council. Doubts about Kira. The system, its rigidity. They painted outside of the lines in colors that Kira could not erase, not even as the torturous echoes of her mother’s voice cycled through the back of her mind for days: if you lose control of this school, you lose your father’s trust.

The thought of losing her last ounce of control to a girl she couldn’t crack was blinding.

And as she charged into the room unarmed — accompanied only by the vestigial adrenaline fueling her racing heart in the aftermath of the House Wars — something of a threat was all that rolled off her tongue.

“Don’t forget who owns this school.”

“You can’t scare me, Kira,” Yumeko had replied with conviction. She took a step forward and brushed a stray strand of jet black hair off Kira’s face, and whispered:

“But I like it when you try.”

Yumeko is always hungry for something.

Kira had reminded herself of that in the heat of the moment.

Then it was rushed and sloppy and bruising but it happened anyway. Yumeko sighed, as if all the muscles in her body relaxed at the expense of Kira’s, and she planted her lips firmly where they suddenly ached for.

Kira had ripped herself away, flushed and flustered and everything in between.

But, the weeks of push and pull and resentment had unraveled into the truth. Pupils dilated as they separated, before either of them could crash back into presence. Kira could only collapse under her own reality and bask in how tension dissipated through passion. She surrendered to a new, unwavering addiction.

Today, Yumeko is staring now, expectantly, as Kira drifts out of reminiscence.

Like most times, Kira hardens her expression, and she motions briefly to the door.

“You should go,” she manages to spit out, “before your roommate gets back to your dorm.”

“Mary wouldn’t tell,” Yumeko chirps as she pushes herself off the mattress and straightens her shirt collar.

Kira cocks a brow. “Don’t be so sure.”

They share the thick air between themselves for half a beat longer before Yumeko hums contently to herself, somehow satisfied, and begins to turn away. Kira watches, unblinking. She watches the slight sway in Yumeko’s movement, the unnerving composure, Yumeko’s sleek dark hair falling perfectly as she tosses it behind her shoulder.

“Wait,” Kira interrupts.

The word is stern but it chokes her, abrasive against her throat. It’s coupled with a spark igniting at her fingertips as she throws her hand forward to catch Yumeko’s wrist. She tugs it, and Yumeko turns back to flash innocence across her complexion. She pulls harder until Yumeko is leaning over her, casting a shadow that swallows her whole.

Her palm rests on Yumeko’s cheek and she rubs her thumb across Yumeko’s bottom lip.

In the uncomfortable silence, Kira’s eyes never leave the lipstick stains. They are smeared across Yumeko like brushstrokes, melting as Kira swipes it off — but the bright bluish hue never quite leaves Yumeko’s smooth skin, not if one looks closely enough. It’s a risk, Kira decides, that can’t be worth taking.

“Clean off the lipstick,” she mumbles. Almost pathetic, barely a command. Yumeko takes it as one anyway.

“Of course, Miss President,” she teases, feigning submission yet freeing herself from Kira’s cold grip around her bare wrist. She turns to leave the room, and without looking back, she suggests, “How about we invest in lipstain instead?”

The sound of her bedroom door thudding shut slices through the lingering heaviness, though it’s not enough to dampen the ringing of Yumeko’s words in Kira’s head, nor the pieces of a promise weaved into them.

The truth is that Yumeko never expected things to go so far. 

That’s what she tells herself in the transient moment between winning a casual game of blackjack and catching the darkened glare in Kira’s piercing eyes from across the gambling den.

Except eventually — through the deafening screech! of a chair dragging against the floor as Kira rises to her feet and folds her hands neatly in front of herself — Yumeko decides that far is not far enough.

The ranking board flashes the top students and Yumeko takes a glimpse of her own name flying to Rank 13.

Making it into the Top 10 wasn’t exactly shaping out to be the endgame she’d been vying for, though it was bound to happen. The uphill battle has proven to be exciting but eventually lacking in purpose, merely vibrant wins with tragic losses wedged in between them to shape a thrill ride. Nowadays, there’s something about Kira’s subtle snarl, hidden when the glowing lights peppered around the room don’t hit at the right angle, that etches some sense of meaning into the back of Yumeko’s one-track mind.

Perhaps that was the whole point: a keen eye watching her ride each wave of victory, grimacing as [YUMEKO KAWAMOTO] races up the ranking board each day. A polished finger under her chin when she crashes down, offering plastic pity with that classic-Kira smirk. A flicker of fear in Kira’s gaze that she clutches onto when it spills through the window above the gambling den.

Yumeko knows that she herself would be the first to admit that this was fun.

She also knows Kira would be the last.

And the thing about those high walls around Kira’s mind is that Yumeko has decided that if she can’t see through them, then eventually — soon — she’ll climb them to the top.

Seated where the student council had formed a tight circle on chairs around a playing table, Suki parts his lips to quip something snarky. He sports bandaged fingers and a fresh pink hair color; the boy has had a particularly bitter aftertaste on his tongue over the past several weeks. But, he is promptly hushed by Kira’s finger to his mouth and her monotonous drawl:

“An awfully convenient win.”

The words don’t quite lace together the way Kira had intended.

Yumeko sighs and cradles her head as she leans against an elbow propped on the table. She offers a half-sincere “I’m very lucky,” and she stares up at the other girl.

“Don’t tell me you’re just counting cards now, Yumeko,” Kira says, tilting her head slightly to the side. She scans Yumeko up and down until her heed lingers on a small, red smudge at the corner of her lips.

“And why would I deprive myself of real fun, Kira?”

Yumeko has to bite her tongue to suppress the amused grin threatening to form at the sweet scene unfolding. Kira walks over with squared shoulders and kneels down by her side until their eyes are leveled. Still, Yumeko stares forward and reads the room: hushed now, jaws clenched, eyes darting between the two of them.

Kira breathes in.

“I suggest that you don’t get too comfortable at this rank before we see you back at the bottom.”

Yumeko turns to face her, centimeters away. Kira almost flinches from the proximity and narrows her eyes so as to not show how they’re shaking — but it doesn’t work, and the muscles around Yumeko’s lips have already begun contorting.

“100 to 1 odds you will,” Yumeko suggests, and rubs the lipstick stain off knowingly with the side of her index finger. “How much do you wager?”

Kira scoffs and rises to her feet, balanced steadily on her Louboutins.

Lounged in a wooden chair aside Yumeko, a pair of red-blazered arms cross.

“I mean, I’d bet on her,” Mary interrupts, matter-of-factly.

Hesitation embeds itself in the last words of this bold declaration as the ex-councilmember eyes up Kira, who slowly turns her attention back to the ranking board. As if on command, it scrolls down and passes by Rank 60 where Mary Davis’ name is spelled out mockingly, like a consolation prize for just having crawled up from below the red line.

“Good luck with that,” Kira taunts.

But Yumeko doesn’t dither when she seizes the opportunity to shine a brilliant grin at her twin-tailed friend, and she drapes an arm around Mary’s shoulders. 

“Why, thank you, Mary,” she sings.

Mary looks halfway between uneasy and indifferent from the sudden affection, as far as Kira could tell. She’s watched them — the rivalry turned camaraderie, the growing fondness that couldn’t be helped.

In the end, Mary leans into the touch.

Yumeko accepts it warmly. The urge to watch Kira’s brow cocking at their contact consumes her but she settles for relishing in the heat radiating off the president’s plastered, feigned smile.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Kira repeats.

The nonchalance and brevity of her blunt words don’t hide the glare she shoots back in Mary’s direction. Mary shifts in her seat uncomfortably and her focus darts to the floorboards beneath her feet, conveniently missing the way Kira’s lip twitches at the sight of Yumeko’s arm still wrapped around her.

It’s too easy, Yumeko soon realizes, to lure Kira into faltering just enough that only the two of them know Kira has lost the upper hand.

RANK 12:
YUMEKO KAWAMOTO

The ranking board flickers an update as Yumeko screams “paper!” in that throaty, shrill manner. She’s throwing down a playing card decorated with a drawing of an open hand, and an extra seven hundred bucks from her opponent's pathetic rock play sends her barely into the next ranking position.

Across the table, the classmate groans and balls his fists up, a red blush washing over his scowl as he slaps his card down. “I hate this game,” he mutters to himself.

In the council office, hidden behind the overhead window, Kira sighs.

“Riri, feed my fish,” she grumbles flatly, adjusting the jacket caped across her shoulders. “I need to take care of something.”

Heels almost stomping with each step, she rushes downstairs but slows her pace once in the vicinity of others. She lingers on the outskirts of the distracted crowd around Yumeko’s friendly game of Vote-Rock-Paper-Scissors, orbiting them quietly until Mary Davis comes into view. Kira straightens her posture and the corner of her lips curl upwards.

Mary doesn’t flinch — but she freezes — at the feeling of Kira’s hot breath:

“Play her.”

Mary blinks.

“What?”

“You want back in, don’t you?” Kira whispers, cautious to not draw too much attention. “Before she came here, you were one of my best gamblers, Mary.” She tilts Mary’s head towards the ranking board, where [MARY DAVIS] still spells out pathetically at Rank 45. “You’re moving up, but you’re not moving fast enough. You are running out of time.”

It’s not half a lie and Mary knows it, shown in the way her shoulders tense and her breathing deepens.

Kira continues. “Raise the stakes. Ten thousand per round, minimum. You’ll win.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mary snorts before she can regret it. “Like these voters have a reason to cheat for me anymore.”

“Leave that for me to take care of.” Kira shrugs.

The other girl goes quiet, pursing her lips and tapping a foot in largo. 

It’s not like she doubts it. Kira can play the school like puppets on a string. The girl can orchestrate whatever she pleases behind closed doors; Mary would at least give her that. But there’s something about Kira’s eagerness masquerading as insouciance that she picks up and can’t quite read so clearly.

Eventually, she turns to face the president.

“What do you want, Kira?” she finally allows herself to ask, surrendering her strategic caution.

Kira’s not looking at her, though. Mary tracks her gaze to Yumeko, sauntering over with an appreciable bounce in her gait.

“I want a shiny, new house pet tag around her neck.”

Mary narrows her eyes and straightens her posture. The words clumped at the tip of her tongue miss their chance to spill out, swiftly interrupted by clicking heels coming to a full stop in front of her.

“Care for some Jankenpon?” Yumeko proposes. She beams, offering an outstretched hand to either of the two.

Of course, Kira doesn’t take it. Instead, she examines the way Yumeko duly extends it more towards Mary and lifts an eyebrow, anticipating. Weighing her options, Kira subscribes to flashing a look back at Mary, too.

“Mary was just saying how much she’d love to play with you,” Kira fabricates. Her velvety voice is just above a low grumble, a hum through her chest. “Isn’t that right?”

Mary scoffs.

“Oh, come on,” Yumeko whines, grabbing onto Mary, “let’s do it!”

Deliberately, she rubs her thumb across the back of Mary’s hand, and she follows Kira at the corner of her eye. The president slowly turns towards her and seethes at the intimacy of the moment, at the sweet smirk painting across Yumeko’s red lips. Now it’s too easy, Yumeko thinks, to consume Kira entirely — because despite such valiant efforts to conceal herself, Kira’s inure facade crumbles at her feet, leaving Yumeko to joyously drown in the debris.

It’s easy to miss. Kira’s paled face is less obvious without sunlight, her trademark death glare a close match to the present demeanor she wears like a KICK ME! sign. Yumeko is forced to settle for whatever half-assed view of the pathetic fury she can steal from her peripheral vision, and Kira can only snap herself out of the fire-eyed trance that she’d been shoved into.

To her luck, Mary’s preoccupied by a masked figure emerging from the shadows like a saving grace, stopping behind Kira when the gleaming lights lining each table hit her silver accents just right.

“Riri.” Mary clears her throat in between syllables and swats Yumeko’s hand away. Impulsively, she requests, “Play me in Vote-Rock-Paper-Scissors?” She hitches a thumb towards the table, preset with poker chips and blank cards.

Before Kira has the chance to interject, Riri’s already shuffling around her and towards the table. She offers a look over to her sister anyways. Kira begrudgingly coughs out a flat, “Fine.”

Satisfied, Yumeko replaces Mary in the spot to Kira’s left as the pair departs to take their seats.

“Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not working,” says Kira.

The tightness in Kira’s remark matches her statue-like stance and firmly clasped hands, static even as Yumeko moved close to her. Elbows almost touching, they each observe the sea of gamblers in front of themselves, drowning in the clacking of chips against wood and the crisp riffling of playing cards. The room is dim, save for warm lights accenting the space and highlighting Kira’s deadpan expressions.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Yumeko goads. She watches Mary carefully — scissors! beating the paper that Riri regrettably flips on the tabletop. Riri’s glare never wavers though, her piercing irises burning holes into Mary’s. It’s etched with knowingness and content; Yumeko hums.

“Don’t play stupid, Kawamoto,” Kira shoots. “I know when you’re up to something. Always.”

Yumeko laughs, faintly. “You can drop the president act for a minute,” she whispers, linking her hands behind her back and scooting an inch closer to the grumpy girl. “It’s just us.”

Across the room, Mary flips a rock, holding her breath as Riri holds up another paper. Riri’s hand is almost visible at this angle — one rock and one scissor left unplayed. Yumeko grins excitedly.

“I don’t have time for this,” Kira decides, sneering at the gamble unfolding. Chad and Dori hover over Riri as the next round begins. Runa lingers behind, leaning against a pillar with a half-sucked lollipop pressed between her molars. The scoreboard just above her head shuffles through numbers before arriving at the updated score. “The Bet Gala is tomorrow,” Kira grunts, “and while my council plays foolish games with the bottom-feeders, I’ll have to do everything. As always.”

Mary, -$500. Riri, +$500. The room watches carefully as Mary slides over five chips. “Ante up, Riri.” Even then, Riri merely cocks her head to the side, unblinking, and slides over five of her own.

“Bet Gala?” Yumeko asks.

“A dance. And, a contest,” Kira declares, her focus still fixed ahead of her. “One queen and one king.”

“And gambling?”

“Find out for yourself.”

Yumeko chuckles softly. “Is this your way of asking me to be your date?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Kira snaps through clenched teeth. She drops her hands to her sides and surveys the room. Fortunately, no eyes landed back on hers.

They all avert to the scoreboard:

Mary, -$1000. Riri, +$1000. Spotting the masked girl playing casual games was unusual, though the win surprises no one — except Mary. She groans at the ranking board where her name falls to Rank 47. Wordlessly, Riri offers her a handshake, but Mary reaches for ten more chips instead. “One more round.”

“Hm,” Yumeko murmurs, shifting slightly until her shoulder almost brushes Kira’s.

Her knuckles inch closer to gently caress against the back of Kira’s hand.

It’s quick enough for nobody to see. It lingers enough for her to trace a small scar, the blue peering veins, and the cold skin just under the stack of gold bracelets cuffed around Kira’s wrist. It’s electric enough to yield a missable tremble of a muscle when Yumeko says, “Too bad this is our little secret, right?”

Kira exhales slowly and pulls her hand away.

“Don’t touch me.”

The luxury of such a sight is rare — Kira, blanketed in a white, loosely-fitted pajama shirt with her long, dark hair cascading over her swallowed shoulders; bare legs, save for a befitting pair of baby-blue panties; her natural, pink lips hungry against Yumeko’s. Sitting prettily in her lap, Yumeko traces the lacy outlines of the undergarment over Kira’s hipbone with a perfect, almond nail. She relishes as Kira wraps an arm tighter around her waist.

They kiss like it’s second nature now, moving together like it’s a waltz. For once, Yumeko knows the steps, every one-two-three. She rips off Kira’s thick headband with ease and tangles a hand in her roots, letting them relax completely.

Kira wants to think nothing of it when her whole body eases. Part of her wants to argue that she deserves this. A break, something for herself. Something buried between fine lines. Who is to say that she cannot transduce her boiling rage through the way she grips Yumeko’s thigh? Is it unjust to relieve the strain by pulling her in close?

Despite the answer, reality still stands true: agendas to fulfill, games to play. An endless cycle of kill-or-be-killed. Moments like these are merely a mirage, and Kira has come to know it quite well.

Yumeko departs from her lips.

“So,” Yumeko starts, brushing wispy strands out of Kira’s face, “about that gala…”

Kira begins to whip back a retort but is promptly impeded.

“I know; we can’t go together,” Yumeko huffs, “St. Dom’s can’t know their dear president has fun.”

“Glad we’re finally clear.”

Yumeko shrugs. “You’ll be more glad to know I was thinking of asking Ryan to go with me instead.”

Eyes narrowing, Kira’s hand comes to a still on Yumeko’s thigh.

“And why would you want that?”

“Why the long face? Yumeko chuckles airily. “Jealous?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, now.”

“Oh, no,” Yumeko croons, “Is that why you have grey hairs?” She picks at Kira’s scalp, though is immediately swatted away.

This is when that candied, glossy laugh congests the room and Kira’s forced into a fork in the road: let the unfamiliar snugness of the sound engross her, or bury her face into the crook of Yumeko’s neck as Yumeko tilts her head back in amusement. She opts for the latter — and when Yumeko’s giddy snicker chokes into a gasp, Kira lets herself believe she’s won this battle.

But as Yumeko pulls away and offers a smile, Kira can’t help but look. She looks, taking her time to study the subtle wrinkles by Yumeko’s eyes and the shine highlighting her lips. She memorizes the shape of Yumeko’s dimples and the hue of her blush, and she catches herself before she’s too far gone. The unfamiliar snugness engulfs her anyways.

“Look who showed up.”

Kira hates admitting to a misread of the other girl, so she doesn’t. Rather, she plucks out any tone of surprise from her voice and shoves down the twinge of irritation bubbling at the pit of her stomach. Yumeko and Ryan slow-dance clumsily towards the center of the makeshift ballroom, and Kira swaps disbelief for corrosion as she drawls her words.

The nerve, Kira thinks to herself. Maybe she’s had it all wrong. She sees them most days, the way Yumeko looks up at him when they stand face to face. They exchange loyalty like breathing and sometimes Kira wishes that Ryan would just fuck off.

She knows it’s harsh.

But she slaps Ryan out of the way regardless, unlinking them, and she extends a hand out for Yumeko to take. Tugging with forceful fervor, Kira spins her once and pulls her towards her own chest, letting an arm snake around her waist and settle at the small of her back. Yumeko’s palm lays flat against the bare skin of Kira’s shoulders, then slips further down her arm to the edge of the velvety gloves reaching her elbows.

Between steps, Kira steals glances at the girl before her — a glittery red gown hugging her frame to her ankles, elegant straight hair falling down her back. She doesn’t realize she’s staring too long until Yumeko’s delicate giggle pierces her train of thought.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be here long,” Yumeko assures. “I’ll just win Gala Queen and be on my way.”

Kira shams concern. “Gala Queen. God, you do realize you’re embarrassing yourself,” she says, “don’t you?”

“I bet thirty-thousand on it, and so should you,” Yumeko dares. “And when I win, I’ll see you in the Top 10.”

“Of course.” Kira scoffs and nods caustically. “Student Council is full, Kawamoto. Give it up.”

“I guess President Kira-san doesn’t kiss her coworkers. Very honorable. Very HR-friendly.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

Syrupy, sticky, glassy at the edges. Kira sinks ankle-deep in the honey river of sing-song melting to the floor, flowing from Yumeko like ritual, intention-injected to make Kira itch. It’s bait disguised as retaliation. A wind-up clothed in calamity.

Kira tugs Yumeko into a twirl but then lets go mid-spin, strutting away before she could watch her stumble back into Ryan.

Then Yumeko is back to tripping on toes, to slipping on sludge as she shuffles side-to-side on Ryan’s lead. It’s a weak attempt but he carries on anyway, politely overlooking the imbalance of it all. The bassy speakers pump distractions into the smokey air, masking Yumeko’s frustrated grunts as she stomps on Ryan’s shoes once again.

“What did the Ice Queen want?” Ryan wonders, a gentle stutter cloaked in fabricated cool.

“Kira is not happy about our plans tonight,” Yumeko snorts, arms looping up around Ryan’s neck.

“So, she must believe we even have a chance.”

“Everyone has a chance, Ryan.”

Ryan nods, thoughtful. “Well, how many votes do we have so far?”

Yumeko reaches into her purse. She clicks her phone on and squints to check the tally. “…2 votes.” She looks up at Ryan apologetically. “Which would be… ourselves.”

“Okay, we have to do something,” Ryan huffs as he surveys the crowd. “You’re here to win, yeah?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Ryan interlaces their fingers and guides her behind a sheer, white curtain that spans the width of the room and diffuses the floodlights beaming towards it. Their giant silhouettes rise over the dance floor on the opposite side, but they see no one — just each other, hand-in-hand, feebly stumbling into a simple waltz. It takes a few steps for them to ease into it but they eventually do.

It’s not natural but it’s somewhat fluid, the way they sway together through easy twirls and techniques. The ballroom becomes a sea of dimly-lit screens flashing the Gala King and Queen voting page. Thumbs hover over Yumeko’s name and press it decisively.

Yumeko knows nothing of this, though. She’s entranced by her own flow, arms moving to grab onto Ryan as he dips her downwards. His hands rest firmly on her back, holding her low above the hardwood floor. Perhaps in another life, this would be the part when puzzle pieces click and dreams come into fruition.

Unfortunately for Ryan, Yumeko’s goals tonight are clear, printed in black and white across her smirk.

He lifts her back up and her wandering eyes look over his shoulder at an instance. 

Kira stares back from a corner where the curtain meets the wall, observing every slight twitch of Yumeko’s muscles, each change in her expression. They trade warnings for faux-ignorance until Kira is ultimately shortchanged when Yumeko faces away mid-twirl and never looks back. There’s a very thin division, Kira realizes, between the smog of reality and the headspace that holds all of the what-ifs and the maybes. This is where she stands, a statue atop this line of separation, with each foot on either side of the border as she glares vacantly.

In her head, when she replaces Ryan’s face with her own, there’s a sting. A deafening and dizzying blow to the back of the skull. A knife twisted in her gut.

An unwelcome yearning for a future that’ll never come, and for a present that was never meant to be.

She’s not sure what to make of it now, but it doesn’t matter. The music drowns out, muffled and suffocating, despite her attempts to shake out of it.

The rest happens too fast because it happens on an impulse. Kira marches back to the main floor and wraps a tight fist around the sleeve of Runa’s penguin onesie.

“Call the beaver,” is all she has to say. In exchange, Runa pops her strawberry lollipop into her mouth and nods, reaching into a deep pocket for her cellphone.

Within a minute, all of the decorative lights go black, followed by the overhead chandelier. The music distorts then crunches into an eerie nothing, swiftly replaced by disoriented gasps and murmurs. Moonlight is the last hope as it seeps through the stained glass windows like tar, though it’s too late. Yumeko has already begun stumbling over her own feet, then Ryan’s, then whatever else had been lazily strewn across the floor behind the curtain.

Kira can’t see much without their silhouettes broadcasted, but she listens attentively, attempting to block out Suki’s voice.

(“Everyone can calm the fuck down!” he yells into his powered-off microphone.)

She listens to Yumeko’s addled yelp and the scraping of Yumeko’s heels across the floor as she wrestles with gravity, to Ryan’s “whoa!” in an effort to catch her mid-fall. Imprecision gets the best of them both.

The lights flicker back on, but Yumeko and Ryan plummet face-first into the curtain, snapping it off dubious metal hooks lined up in a row on the ceiling. They both grapple for it but are trounced, and by the time they’re sprawled across the floor, the fabric has already collapsed down onto them.

“Ryan! I’m stuck!” Yumeko squeals between thrashes.

Kira bites her lip to stifle a smile.

But once Yumeko and Ryan’s heads eventually pop up from under the curtain, their smothered hysteria breaks into a bubbly chuckle — weightless. Kira promptly remembers that there’s nothing to smile about.

It still comes to most people’s surprise when Yumeko’s name is called to the stage. The moment is a blur; a sash is thrown across her torso. A crown is placed carefully on her head, a perfectly gold contrast to her dark locks. A bouquet is forced into her arms then the pampering house pets scurry away, leaving only the newly bedazzled girl to stand two feet taller than the electrified crowd.

She meets a pair of glacier eyes, several feet away, lingering at the rear. Evidence of anger, emboldened and underscored and unusually easy to read, presents first in the form of a tight scowl, then as a flash of distress when the ranking board updates behind her.

Yumeko watches her own name fly to Rank 10. The rest of the students cheer. She looks back to where Kira stood, but sees nothing.

RANK 10:
YUMEKO KAWAMOTO

Kira paces across her bedroom, window to door, then back. The rankings mock her from a low-lit cellphone screen.

The view from the top-floor dormitory was as calming as it could be, the orange gleam of lamp posts freckling the campus, trees shaping the horizon under starlight. She can’t see much from afar, but the forest is quiet, she’s sure. Tranquil, secluded. She shuffles through descriptors like a wishlist.

She’s unsure why but she’s feeling neck-deep in the desire to disappear. Worry etches into her headspace, lacing into foreign thoughts. It’s something between panic and frustration that she can’t seem to shake, so she shuts her phone off and tosses it onto her bed.

Peering out her window, she watches rain slide down frosted panes. Watches light refract in the droplets. Watches them blur her reflection. When the soft click and squeak of the door opening slashes the dead air, she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she studies the movements through the reflections in the window, carefully tracking the second figure coming into view.

Yumeko shuts the door behind herself and leans against it, arms crossing.

“Why did you leave?” Yumeko asks.

Kira could be honest. She considers it: a confession of the hole in her chest or the fog in her brain, a fight against embarrassment and confusion and whatever comes next. She drums her nails on the windowsill.

“Why did you follow me?” she barks back.

Yumeko shrugs. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Just like you couldn’t resist barging your way into the Top 10.” Kira pushes away from the window and turns on her heels to face the other girl. “What is your motive here? You come in mid-year with your head held too high, fucking up my council on day one, eyeing the Top 10 from the minute you step foot through these doors — and for what? A one-way ticket to fame and fortune? I expected you to know by now that it’s not that easy.”

“And I expected you to have stopped me by now.” Yumeko tuts. “The great, all-powerful Kira.”

“The term is not over until it’s over,” Kira warns.

Yumeko straightens her posture. “You’re giving an awful lot of thought to the leaderboard and not enough to what actually mattered to you tonight.”

She says it like it’s obvious. Bold, pungent, and diffusing into the thick woolen ambiance until it’s oversaturated. Kira tries to think nothing of it, especially when the shadows casted across Yumeko’s batting lashes become the foreground of her tunnel-vision.

“I care about order,” Kira insists.

“You care about keeping what’s yours.”

“Such as my rightful control of this place.”

Yumeko’s chin tilts up, only slightly.

“Such as me.”

Kira says nothing, stilettos planted on the ground but threatening to dig into the tile below until she’s small. Small, like staring up at skyscrapers, wondering if such a steel giant could be the tallest thing in the world. But, she is eye-level with dark brown eyes and forced to accept that fact, as she listens to her own blood rush to her face.

Her heart shouldn’t do this. The hiccups, the ache. So much for order. The room chills over now, eliciting goosebumps down her arms, but she doesn’t cover them. She doesn’t fold into herself to search for warmth because Yumeko grins, and this is enough to morph Kira into stone. Another slam! to the stomach. Another chance to be shaken.

So she stares like it’s the only thing she knows: don’t lose your grip. Don’t lose your balance. Be the last one to blink, if you know what’s good for you.

“Tell me, President Kira-san — what was your motive for keeping your door unlocked?” Yumeko reaches behind herself to secure the lock, testing the handle once for good measure before peeling herself away from it. “Can’t be a stupid mistake; you rarely make those. What is it, then?” She watches Kira move closer too, steps slow and mechanical. “You wanted me to follow you here?”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“I’d bet you a pretty wager that I do.”

“So this is just a game to you, isn’t it?” Kira shakes her head. “Like everything else in your goddamn life.”

And for a fraction of a second, when Yumeko swallows thickly in lieu of an answer, Kira manages to believe she’s gotten the upper hand back.

But mindlessly, Yumeko reaches forward and begins tracing the diamonds on Kira’s necklace. She leans towards Kira’s ear, close enough to leave a reddish stain on the tip of it.

“And you’re the prize.”

Kira, going pale in the face, decides she’s had enough.

She surges forward. Yumeko stumbles and her back slams against the wall. A palm cuffs around the base of Yumeko’s throat, not enough to steal her breath but just enough to pin her in place, as her hands wrap around Kira’s waist. Even after her balance steadies, Yumeko grips hard, her polished nails digging into the silky fabric of Kira’s blue gown.

Kira won’t admit it but the dull sting sends current through her body, wrapping around her lungs and tightening, tightening, tightening. It burns, like a swell of water crashing onto her — cold, then warm. Then something in between.

Yumeko doesn’t wait. She presses her hips against Kira’s then locks their mouths, letting dark blue languidly melt into her skin without care. A warm glow from a floor lamp outlines Kira’s figure in gold and Yumeko indulges in it, grasping the back of Kira’s hair with haste as if she could feel the halo at her fingertips. Her jaw goes slack as Kira trails down her neck to her collarbone, as a wandering hand wedges itself behind her back.

As if relentlessly rehearsed, Yumeko’s zipper comes undone. Yet, Kira’s lips never leave her skin while the sequined dress falls to the scarlet marble floor. Yumeko’s head thuds back against the wall in ecstasy from the strong, smooth hands snaking around her bare sides. Before it’s too late, she reaches behind Kira, too.

Dark blue satin pools at their feet and Kira exhales, shakier than she would usually allow. She’s never like this: breath uneven, pulse racing, pride coming undone. At risk of losing her nerve, she draws Yumeko’s lips back onto her own and kisses her as if it was the last time she’d ever taste her. 

Maybe it could be. But she files the thought somewhere at the back of her mind and submits to the electricity of Yumeko’s tongue teasing her bottom lip.

When they finally crash onto the mattress, hooded eyes lock onto Kira’s. Yumeko lays onto her back and guides Kira towards her body. Kira straddles her leg, pressing against the middle of her thigh.

“Fuck,” Kira hisses to herself, unsure if the other girl had heard.

Yumeko keenly watches her grind down, and grips her hips tighter until the skin beneath her fingertips has gone red. The knot in Yumeko’s stomach contracts with each motion. She lifts her hands, making a half-assed attempt at hiding the way they tremble from the ministrations, then presses them against the blazing skin over Kira’s ribcage, just under the wire of her bra.

“Kira…” she whispers under her breath as she guides her fingers around Kira’s back and fidgets with the metal clasp.

She’s so enthralled by Kira’s hushed whimpers, her squeezed-shut eyes and the lip captured between her teeth, that she takes a moment too long with the bra and suddenly it’s too late — Kira tugs her hand away, clutches around her wrist, and leans forward to press it against the pillow right next to her head.

“Did I say you could do that?” Kira asks. She grabs onto Yumeko’s other arm and locks it down too. “Leave them there,” she commands. She pushes her own hair back and flips it off her shoulders, slowly and teasingly, letting the lamplight strike her figure for the other girl to leer at.

Without thinking, Yumeko giggles. She attempts to reach forward to cup the nape of Kira’s neck and crush their lips back together, but is promptly stopped by hands forcing them down once more. Kira is leaning forward and over her now, taunting as she continues to press against Yumeko.

“I said, leave them,” Kira says through choked-down grunts and ragged breathing. “God, you never listen.”

Soaking in whatever’s left of the whine that Yumeko tries to swallow back in, Kira lowers herself and props up on one forearm while her other hand tangles in Yumeko’s rich, brown-black locks. She leans forward and her tongue lightly grazes the top of Yumeko’s right ear.

Yumeko shivers.

“If I let you touch me…” Kira begins, softly. She tugs at Yumeko’s roots, eliciting something between a smile and a groan. “Are you going to follow my rules?” Letting up a bit to make room, she guides Yumeko’s warm fingers to the curves of her waist. “Only here,” she adds.

Yumeko sighs. Heat recollects at her core and she presses herself up into the girl once more in an attempt to alleviate her desperation.

But it doesn’t work. Kira forces her hips back down onto the bedsheets and the heavy air between them feels like a wildfire, and Yumeko’s wondering if this is the moment she’ll finally die.

“Yes,” Yumeko finally complies, drawing a sharp inhale to ground herself, burying her smugness deep in exchange for the moment — for Kira to win, or at least believe that she has.

“Yes, what?” Kira raises a brow.

Yumeko’s eyes flicker up to meet Kira’s. They’re barely a bluish green anymore, all color shrouded by a captivating darkness that Yumeko finds herself drowning deeper into. She swallows hard, her mouth going dry under the scrutiny, and her lips curl upward. Without moving her hands an inch, she simply squeezes Kira’s sides and pulls her closer as she whispers:

“Yes, Kira.”

(“Are you scared of anything, Kira?”

Yumeko stares up at the ceiling.

To the left, Kira turns away to face the wall, forcing interest in the crown molding. She tugs her silky sheets further up her bare chest, and she clutches.

“That’s none of your concern,” Kira replies as she studies every detail of the floral patterns.)

The side bets were trivial.

Blake and Chad broke up @ Bet Gala: 13/2.

Yumeko and Ryan will date: 8/1. Kira rolls her eyes.

Dori and Michael will hard-launch by Wednesday: 1/3.

Kira kills Yumeko: 1/1 even.

Riri passes her a look, accessorized by a raised brow, but she just shrugs.

The side bets keep pouring in, overloading the LED display until their view from the overlooking balcony goes fuzzy. Words and numbers blur into a mess of half-jokes and long-shots. The day after the gala is always the most colorful, bustling with gossip of who-did-what and who-did-who. Strikingly familiar and oftentimes boring — Kira dismisses the screen too soon and turns away to head for dinner.

An outstretched arm stops her in place. Riri glances over at her with bewilderment outlining her features, her smokey eyes almost bulging until they flick back towards the screen.

KIRA AND YUMEKO HOOKED UP
50/1

“What the hell is this?”

Under Kira’s breath but above her desiccated tongue, the aftertaste of the question lingers until it goes stale. She gawks at the bold letters written in unquestionable capitals, like it would erase. Like she could melt them into obsolescence with only the flame burning in her cheeks.

This is something she can’t show when people are looking: disaster dressed in fight-or-flight, the kind of fury that leaks into your bloodstream like it’s wiring you up. Kira feels like that, roped at the wrists and weak in the knees.

So, she walks. Before she can lose her front. That precarious tower of cement slabs. She walks despite the burn of her feet chafing against her tights, despite the wobble of her high-heels when she doesn’t pay attention. Autopilot navigates her through the ages-old corridors and into the dining hall where radiance of a golden dawn floods through crosshatched windows.

It feels like an unwanted spotlight when Kira bulldozes through the main doors. Attention averts to her in brand new fonts: pity, surprise, and judgment, worst of all. She decides immediately that she hates this. She hates the scrutiny when it’s not fear. She was never one to appreciate change.

And then she remembers that one of these smug, snot-nosed losers had broadcasted her on the school’s biggest screen, an insurrection or even a betrayal. She doesn’t mind what she calls it if the perpetrator is still on the loose. Who’s to deny that everyone’s guilty, actually? From the way they ogle, it might as well be a fact.

Fuck it.

Kira ignores the whispers and slack-jawed leering, and reaches for the gun. Crushes the puzzle under her foot. Aims her arrow right between Yumeko’s big brown eyes. In seconds, she’s towering over the girl, steady with her hands clasped in front of herself and her bright blue lips stretched thinly. There’s no time, she determines, to wait for Yumeko to put down that stupid spoon in one hand and that stupid set of playing cards in the other. No time to wait for her to finish saying, “Go Fish. Do you have any—”

“Unsurprising that someone so hellbent on ranking Top 10 would blatantly lie just to stay on top.”

Yumeko’s voice is cut off, and so are everyone else’s. The room mutes, save for the echo of Kira’s growl and the clattering of silverware.

Kira hums. “You’re getting greedy. Rank 10 isn’t enough for you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Yumeko responds, placing her own utensil down onto a half-eaten plate of chicken and rice. She watches as Riri approaches behind Kira, arms unmoving at her sides like a soldier but attention drifting helplessly towards Mary. Yumeko ignores that, but pockets the observation for another day.

Other present members of the council take the hint and rise from their seats. Begrudging their royal meals but loyal nonetheless, Runa and Suki make their way towards their president. Though their intimidation tactics miss the mark, they still make a show out of crossing their arms.

“Consider me… disappointed, in your lack of familiarity with the side betting policies.” Kira pulls out her phone, taps open the side bet app, and holds it leveled in Yumeko’s face. The infamous bet flashes on the screen. “It’s obvious you entered this, just to bet on yourself. To lie and win. Don’t bother.”

Yumeko surveys the room, darting back and forth between Michael and Ryan and Mary and the random, wide-eyed kid in the corner — all of whom only offer incredulous looks. It takes nothing for her to yield to the shadows of the student council consuming her, their inner fires fuming out of their unfaltering resolve. If that’s what they want, she will provide it: docile respect. Unassuming responses in the name of pacificity.

“I’m so sorry, President Kira-san, but that truthfully wasn’t me.” Calmly, she places her cards face-down and interlocks her fingers together, resting them in front of herself on the table.

“You’re lying,” Suki snaps from Kira’s left, but she raises a hand to interrupt him.

“If it wasn’t you, then you will find out who it was,” Kira orders, pocketing the phone back into her jacket. She blinks at Yumeko’s perplexion. “You’re an aspiring councilmember, aren’t you?” Michael and Ryan shift over instinctively as Kira leans in between them and plants her palms onto the table. She hovers over Yumeko and their food and their messy spread of playing cards before hissing, “Time to prove yourself.”

That’s the end of the conversation because Kira wants it to be. But it doesn’t stop Yumeko from filing the rest of her thoughts for later and watching Kira stroll to the council’s dining table looking artificially unbothered. Yumeko has learned this quickly, the obscure quiver manifesting through the way she so subtly fumbles her commands. The way she so subtly fidgets her hands even when they’re so authoritatively folded together.

“What the fuck was that about?” Mary mumbles, back to picking at her fries. 

“Are we going to ignore those other side bets about me and Yume?” Ryan stutters out. “‘cause that’s… that’s crazy…”

Mary narrows her eyes momentarily but opts for a dismissive wave. “No, I don’t care,” she puts bluntly, fully turning towards Yumeko. “Kira’s freaking out. You can hear it in her voice.” She chuckles. “That’s a first.”

“Because betting on something so intimate makes her feel too exposed,” Yumeko whispers, almost thinking out loud. “Like she’s just one of us.”

“Doesn’t help that it’s about her and you,” Mary snorts between bites. “She hates you.”

“Hate is a strong word, Mary.” Yumeko grabs a fry, dodging Mary’s explicit dismay. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

Michael sighs. “50 to 1 odds on… you and her. Who would even think that?”

“Someone out there has got to be very confident,” Yumeko jests. Her dimples probe by the corner of her lips, shaped up into a bright display of amusement. She picks her Go Fish cards back up and spreads them into a neat fan.

The others exchange questioning squints before facing Yumeko once more.

“So… it’s true, then?” Mary asks slowly. “You and Kira?”

Yumeko hums. “I can’t say anything,” she snickers. “It would ruin the bet!”

The others groan.

“Careful,” Michael warns, keeping himself hushed. “Don’t play this game, Yume. You don’t know what Kira would do to you.”

“It’s fine. She won’t hurt me,” Yumeko asserts. But she tosses a glance over at the student council’s table and studies Kira’s hardened facade, only to feel discomfort boil at the pit of her stomach. 

Yumeko doesn’t knock, usually. Their arrangements have been clear as day, molded as a discrete text message, a silent exchange from opposite ends of a room. It’s either a: meet me in 5 [Seen: 1:21 AM]; or, it’s nothing, just a nod of the head in passing as they rearrange their day just for thirty minutes alone.

That’s why her fist feels so bizarrely heavy as she raises it to the front door of Kira’s dormitory suite.

She knocks once but earns no response. Not even the squeak of the floorboards from the other side of the door.

Maybe, Yumeko wonders, Kira is laying down, buried under silk covers, head sinking into the feather-stuffed pillows and listening to the bubbles of her fish tank coming up to the waterline. She pictures the fluorescent glow, small waves projecting onto the arched ceiling, and remembers the feeling of being swallowed whole by the california king bed. The feeling of uncertainty, radiating off the president and onto her exposed skin.

Costumed warmth. Entirely human.

Maybe Kira’s not cruel for the sake of being cruel. Maybe she’s not cruel at all. It never took a lot to figure that out. It’s just that the mental portrait painted in Yumeko’s head has become graffitied by black streaks that spell GUILTY!

The truth is that Yumeko never expected things to go so far. 

That’s what she tells herself in the transient moment between walking away and wondering if this was entirely her fault.

A sneering remark snaps her out of it.

“I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.”

Suki’s tone is abrasive against the dying quietude of the hallway. Purse in-hand and heels clicking against marble, he stops in his tracks and eyes Yumeko up and down.

“Hm.” Unimpressed, he reads a post off his phone. “President and the new girl, both AWOL after the Bet Gala. Celebrating her ticket into Top 10? That side bet is onto something.”

Yumeko grabs for the phone, though it’s whipped out of her reach. “Who wrote that?” She keeps her voice even, sturdy.

“That’s the horrifying beauty of online anonymity,” Suki tuts, forging a theatrical pout. “We may never know.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Yumeko smooths down her uniform shirt. “Help me figure out who placed that bet.”

“And then what? You get a pat on the back from Kira and that leaves me with…?” Suki scoffs. “Sorry, but I’m not a charity for the bitch who almost got me 86’ed.”

He laughs once more and it bounces off the walls, striking Yumeko’s headspace like shards of glass as he shoves past her and throws a final blow over his shoulder:

“Enjoy Top 10, Yumeko Kawamoto. It won’t last.”

“Psst.”

Days had lapsed by more sluggishly than what Yumeko mostly prefers. That riveting spark of a brand-new day, and the whimsy of a challenge… She may as well declare a drought. Not a single call and not a single text.

Yesterday was the group’s biweekly poker night in the main den, with Mary and Ryan and whoever else dared to join. It was nothing more than a friendly game of Texas Hold’em. A never ending routine of raising and checking and slapping down a three-of-a-kind, or whatever. Yumeko’s eyes had glossed over by 10:30, even when a straight flush clutched her an extra fifteen bands from a heads-up game with some self-effacing sophomore. He dropped instantly to Rank 57.

At that point, the ranking board beamed: [YUMEKO KAWAMOTO], still perched prettily at the bottom of the Top 10, fifteen thousand dollars closer to overtaking Hartley Williams’ ninth-place slot. But, she paid it no attention, and instead she heeded the balcony above the outskirts of the lounge. Pursed blue lips and a stone-cold glower — that was the closest she’d get to a sliver of an interaction.

This is how she found herself at the back of the Basic Drawing 1 classroom, scooting her stool over and dragging her easel along with it.

“Psst!”

Kira closes her eyes and sucks in a breath through the nose, then holds it. She counts to four in her head slower than usual, like she’s bending time to evade this moment. Regardless, Yumeko plops down next to her and strokes her nub of charcoal across a sketchbook, squarely propped up.

“We need to talk,” Yumeko implores, fixated on her half-assed attempt at a still-life scene, but still leaning sideways towards Kira. It comes out as a whisper-yell, yet not enough to turn heads. The teacher is too busy critiquing Chad’s lazy bowl of pears at the front of the room anyway.

“And why would I talk to you?”

Kira doesn’t look over either. She’s feigning indifference through the way she shades depth into a pineapple.

“You’re gonna snap that charcoal in half, Kira,” Yumeko snickers under her breath.

It’s true. The skin by Kira’s nails has gone white from her deadly grip around the midnight-black stick, but she doesn’t care. She took this elective for an easy A+ so she could focus on important council business — not for some annoying shrill of a girl to make herself at home and waste time like it’s cash. So she lets her seething show, and lets the dark dust rub into her fingers.

“Unless you’ve done what I’ve asked of you regarding that side bet, I am not particularly interested in whatever else you want to say.”

“I have… not…” Yumeko says carefully. She huffs at the lopsided vase of sunflowers taking form on her paper.

Kira turns towards Yumeko now, leveraging those glaring wintery eyes, and Yumeko thinks for half a beat that she’ll actually say something.

But even if she wanted to, she doesn’t. The bell rings and Miss Edwards dismisses the class, and everyone eagerly abandons their artwork just for pasta day at the dining hall. Kira begins to follow suit, wordlessly rising from her seat and preparing to pack up her schoolbag.

Spontaneously, Yumeko reaches for Kira and manages a loose grip around her wrist. The crisp, white shirtsleeve covers most of Kira’s skin, but Yumeko’s palm still soaks in warmth from the top of her hand.

Yumeko has missed this. She almost forgets that she has something else to say, but who can blame her? Her thumb instinctively brushes across Kira’s arm, a motion she had learned by rote, and Kira doesn’t move, even if she should.

There’s nothing, then there’s a burning sensation — then a profuse burden of familiarity latches onto their nerves.

Yumeko wants to shiver. Kira wants to scream.

They’re quiet for a moment and it almost feels like understanding.

“Wait,” says Yumeko, eventually. She squeezes Kira’s wrist. “Suki won’t help me. I have no lead. Michael has no access to the app ever since you stole it from him—”

“We borrowed it from him—”

“—so I’m not sure how you expect me to solve a mystery overnight… BUT!” Her voice crescendos in a frail attempt at holding Kira’s attention. “I have a better idea.”

Kira’s eyes dance between Yumeko’s unconvincing grin and their unioned hands, before she peels herself out of the firm grasp.

“You’re clearly not trying hard enough. You’re rarely this… lazy.”

Yumeko clears her throat, suddenly attuned to the absence of soft skin against her own. She blinks, pushing disappointment aside.

“Proposition,” she declares. “We play into the rumors.”

Though it’s not quite clear what response she had expected, the cynical cackle that escapes Kira’s mouth was probably not it.

“You’ve lost me already,” Kira dismisses.

“Isn’t it perfect, though?” Yumeko asks. It’s earnest, sugary. “Suki can sell the power-couple angle in minutes, it’s…” She stands up and ambles towards Kira until they’re toe to toe. “…the only thing that makes sense.”

Kira scans Yumeko up and down, letting her eyes drag leisurely. Everything hits her at once — the smell of floral perfume, the feeling of overlapping breaths. When Yumeko moves in closer, batting her lashes and letting sunlight wash over herself from the window across the room, Kira doesn’t blink. 

She simply tilts her head aside, watching Yumeko swallow and fail to hide it.

“Relationships are distractions,” Kira whispers.

Yumeko giggles.

“You want a relationship?”

Kira’s steady inhale-exhale catches on the jagged edges of that question. Unthinking, her body pulls forward, ever so slowly, and so does Yumeko’s.

Eyes drift to lips. Mouths go dry.

It’s muscle memory despite their innate unwillingness to embrace it.

Yumeko brushes a finger against Kira’s hand so coyly that Kira wonders if it’s a trick of the imagination.

Then Kira clenches a fist, and the magnetic pull between them sags to the ground. She forces herself into immobility. “Isn’t that what you want?” she mumbles, gravely and throaty like she’s holding something back. “For everyone to believe that I’m yours?”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“Hardly.”

Yumeko hmphs and plucks her sketchbook off its easel.

“Apathy looks weird on you, Kira-san,” Yumeko says, hushed, “now that I’ve seen who you are when no one else is watching.”

Kira scoffs. “You don’t know me.”

“Then, I want to.”

In careful motions, she closes the sketchbook and tucks it under her arm, passing one last look at Kira before strutting towards the door. She leaves one last parting wish, tossing it back to Kira: “Just think about it. See you later.”

Kira doesn’t acknowledge it.

She just watches Yumeko walk out and listens to the ringing in her own ears.

The second Yumeko steps into the library, her resolve dissipates. It leaves her in waves, exuding in layers, until she can’t help but feel a little too raw.

“Yume,” Michael greets. He doesn’t look away from his computer, but he doesn’t have to. The library had become their own little oasis amid chaos, safe from prying eyes.

When he finally tears himself away from the screen, he’s met with Yumeko standing stiffly in front of him. She’s a deer in the headlights, an iron sculpture, unbudging.

“Are you… good?” he questions gingerly, shutting the laptop little by little. “You look like you just… shit yourself.”

Yumeko slides out a chair next to Michael. She flumps into it and lets out a quivering exhale.

“How do you know if… you asked someone out?”

Michael is dumbfounded, trying to configure any sort of meaningful response.

“Uh, if you… asked them out, I would think.”

Toying with a silver ring around her thumb, Yumeko grunts quietly. “Well, what if you didn’t really ask them out but they could probably take it that way?”

Michael shakes his head. “Yumeko, I am so confused right now.”

“Swear on your life you won’t ever speak of this conversation,” Yumeko spits out, hurried and desperate like she’s bursting at the seams. 

“Yume, this was barely a conversation!”

She laughs. And then she shuts up. And suddenly, she’s briskly walking out the library faster than she’d entered it.

“You seem more on-edge than usual,” Riri observes. It’s barely audible, but no less sincere.

Kira waves a hand to dismiss it, but it’s painfully obvious in her tense shoulders, her scrunched-up forehead. Riri worries her jaw might break from the pressure of her clenching.

They stand side-by-side in the center of Kira’s dormitory suite, peering down at the smaller ranking board displayed on her computer. The room is muted except for the faint buzzing of lightbulbs threatening to overtake Riri’s muffled whisper.

Kira crosses her arms and leans back against one of the tall, round pillars along the centerline of her spacious, high-ceilinged bedroom. The side bets outstare them, taunting KIRA and YUMEKO in big letters. Their names are posted up in too-close proximity for Kira’s liking. It’s too late now. It’s a thing.

“The student body seems to believe that our little transfer friend and I are…involved.” Kira inhales deeply. “Now she has proposed that we go along with that rumor, that we be involved, or… at least pretend to be.”

Riri shoots an expectant stare.

Kira rolls her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kira seethes. “I know what you’re going to say.” She strolls to her desk chair and takes a seat, sweeping her hair to one side, allowing Riri to knowingly follow and knead the knots by her shoulder blades. “She most certainly proposed to pretend. I’m sure of it. She said it herself. Don’t look at me like I wanted her to ask me out for real.”

Riri bites her tongue under her dark crimson mask.

And Kira sighs, still unable to relax.

“Anyway, it’s a dumb plan and it’ll never work.” She crosses her legs and splays a hand out in front of herself, inspecting her manicure for imperfections as a distraction. “What’s in it for me? The whole school will think that I can be played with, and that’s far from the truth. Alright, yes, we can spin it into a whole royal wedding narrative but why take the gamble that people will buy it? Father taught us to place our bets wisely.”

She’s rambling now and she knows it. Riri’s letting her, and she knows that too. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head.

Then it comes like a tidal wave crashing over them both.

Riri gulps, and asks, “Was the side bet true?”

It’s so stifled that Kira must be imaging it.

“What did you just say?”

Riri’s massaging hands come to a stop and she retreats as Kira’s head spins. Knowing better, she says nothing more, but she watches every contortion of her sister’s face from shock to anger, to shock again.

The chance to deny it is far gone. Riri’s eyes have already shifted from fear to understanding by the way they soften so slightly. They stare at each other for a moment in a wordless exchange of compassion that’s smothered thickly in the pollution of anxiety. Kira rises from her seat and clenches her jaw.

“This stays between us.” Kira jabs a finger at Riri’s chest. “Don’t tell a single soul or I swear I will —”

Poised knocks on her door cut her off.

What scares Kira more, in this moment, is her own instinct to straighten her collar and smooth down the frizz in her hair. Her own intrinsic response. That skip in her heartbeat.

By now, she’s learned the rhythm of these knocks and the weight of them against the solid oak. She’s learned to wait five seconds and check her mirror twice before answering. There’s beauty in routine, she’d say — a cheap excuse for whatever this is.

Except today she nods at Riri to go open the door. It creaks open slowly and Yumeko fades into view, her brows raising at the sight of Riri’s frigid stare in her face.

“Hi, Riri,” she sings sweetly, shoving down any hint of panic that could bubble up from the unexpected greeting. She steals a glance over Riri’s shoulder and falls into Kira’s discernment. “May I?” she asks carefully, pointing a finger over at Kira.

Riri doesn’t budge. Levering her menacing stature, she holds her stare until Kira yields.

“Leave us,” Kira instructs Riri as she takes her time approaching the door herself. Without hesitation, Riri slips out of the room. She gives Kira one last look before shutting the door.

Yumeko maneuvers past Kira, past the pillars and her desk, only to stand by the large window on the east wall. She leans on the sill, her hands politely resting on its edge, as she watches the wind rustle the nearby trees.

“You’re extremely hard to get rid of,” Kira says from behind, inching closer to the other girl but maintaining the several feet of space between them. It’s barely an observation and it’s wholly a fact, the words dribbling off Kira’s tongue and stitched together with something close to acceptance.

This is the worst part — the inborn desire to pull her in close.

Yumeko faces Kira now, and Kira gets to give her a once-over. She inches towards Kira in perfect posture. Kira backs up like she’s scared. She can’t be. The whole thing is screwed up.

“We didn’t plan to meet tonight,” Kira states, snappy.

“Obviously,” Yumeko chides, tossing her hands up in defeat. “We haven’t planned anything in days!”

It’s only now that Yumeko realizes she has nothing else to say. So instead, she steps forward and tucks a loose, black lock of hair behind Kira’s ear.

Forgoing ambiguity, she presses a kiss to Kira’s lips. They’re tinted faintly from the residue of her trademark blue shade. They’re motionless, succumbing to the firm pressure against itself. This might be what desire really feels like. One kiss, distinct and unmistakable. No heat, just rawness. Kira wants to believe that.

Despite it, and against the pounding in her ribcage, she pulls away and puts up a hand to prevent Yumeko from leaning back in.

“We can’t do this anymore,” Kira says lowly, staring into Yumeko’s eyes as if there’s something to be won.

Even if there was, Yumeko’s face is unreadable. As Kira starts to think that she’s caught a glimpse of truth in Yumeko’s expression, it subtly contorts into something more cryptic. It’s not worth it, or at least that’s what Kira wants to believe — to search through rubble for the sake of clarity. There was never any clarity in this.

But the haze is painful. Like smoke in lungs and watery eyes. Kira can’t understand why her body contradicts everything she’s built up, every time it’s lured towards the other girl.

“Do you want me to leave?” Yumeko asks.

It’s concise and sober.

She waits for an answer that never comes.

So she nods a simple okay as dissatisfaction bleeds through her resolute mask, and walks past Kira towards the door.

Kira shuts her eyes, squeezing them in frustration until she sees stars. She can’t back down, not when her pedestal is already sinking into the mud below herself.

There can be comfort in power. There can be comfort in a job well done. Comfort is nested in warm brown eyes and dimples and unwavering boldness. Kira clutches onto her self-reassurance as she turns around to follow Yumeko, to wedge in a final word, or to ask her to stay. She hasn’t figured that out.

She just knows she deserves this.

She needs whatever’s buried between fine lines.

But there’s a smack and a throaty “fuck!” before the world goes momentarily dark. Then she squeezes her left eye shut and throws a palm up to hold her cheek. Wincing, she doubles over, hissing out the extra “ mother fucker! ” strangled in her chest.

She realizes quickly enough that she’s ran straight into a pillar.

“Kira,” Yumeko whispers, caught in a half-laugh, half-gasp. She runs up to brace Kira’s arm and keep her steady, though Kira shoves her away.

This could be the day Kira finally dies — swollen, sinking in the pity that paints across Yumeko’s parted lips. Salt on wounds. There’s no point in scooping up whatever crumbs of dignity have been left on the floor.

She forgets to shun Yumeko out of her space before retreating into the bathroom. She’ll deal with the aftermath later.

Kira curses herself for not locking the bathroom, as the door handle starts to turn.

“Fuck off, Yumeko.” She shuts the faucet and storms to catch the door, trying to force it back closed but it’s weak enough that Yumeko holds it ajar.

“Kira, stop.” Yumeko says firmly but gently. “Let me in.”

Kira could end this. She could slam Yumeko’s hand in the door or say something she’d try not to regret tomorrow.

But she’s tired now and her mascara is starting to streak, and if Yumeko’s gonna see her like this, she might as well keep her head high. She wears her president demeanor like a medal now, caring too deeply about whether the girl can see right through it.

“What do you want?”

Yumeko pushes the door open, surprised to be met with little resistance. She manages to slip into the bathroom in small shuffling steps and clicks the door shut. Her left hand raises, lifting up a slouchy white ice pack.

“From your cute mini-fridge.”

She makes herself comfortable on the plush, blue bathmat next to Kira’s tub. The porcelain is frigid against her back but she doesn’t mind it. She’ll make do with pretending there’s heat from the stout lavender candle aflame on the countertop.

Kira looms over her with crossed arms, though Yumeko doesn’t relent. She simply pats the soft cotton twice, motioning for Kira to sit.

When hesitancy boils over, Kira finds herself giving in. She stays a foot away, but still slumps against the bathtub too.

“You’re too far.” Yumeko scoots closer, cradles Kira’s head with one steady hand, and presses the ice pack against Kira’s cheek.

She’s careful to be tender, mindlessly stroking Kira’s hair after a sudden wince. The domesticity of it all feels like forgiveness, the kind that follows you and lingers until you accept that you won’t forget. Even then, there’s no protest, no shove-away nor a trace of complaint in the heaviness between them. There’s no indecision in their movements and there’s no novelty in the touch.

They feel stripped down like this. Overexposed like a photo you didn’t mean to take. It’s hard to navigate the complexity of this feeling, Kira thinks, when gentle hands are lulling you neutral.

Kira doesn’t look up when Yumeko speaks.

“Are you okay?” Yumeko asks.

It’s a stupid question. She doesn’t care if it is. Yet it’s enough to elicit a scowl out of Kira, who finally plucks the ice pack out of Yumeko’s hand and elbows her away.

“What does it look like?”

“Looks like Miss President is a little clumsier than she lets on.”

Kira looks over now, but doesn’t match Yumeko’s cheekiness. She grumbles, pressing the ice near her eye once more.

“You people have no idea what it’s like being the president.”

“I think you’re more than that.”

“That’s not your business, Kawamoto.”

Yumeko stares at the ivory-white tiles between her feet, and she pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging tightly.

“Jabami.”

Kira cocks an eyebrow.

“That’s my real name,” Yumeko explains, instantly faltering to her memories. “Mrs. Kawamoto was my guardian after my parents died in a car crash. I was just a child but at that point they’d already taught me everything I know, and…” Her voice fades as she clasps her fingers around the poker chip pendant chained around her neck. “That’s why I came here once I was ready.”

She thinks for a moment, then clicks her phone on, handing it to the other girl. Two shining faces burn across the screen: a young girl and boy around their age, donning familiar red blazers with black trim and gleaming gold lapel pins.

“You’re a legacy?” Kira mutters incredulously. She’s somewhere between annoyed and impressed, dropping the cellphone back into Yumeko’s lap without another word.

“Mhm.”

Mouth going dry, Kira squirms. “Why are you telling me this?”

Yumeko pauses before the corner of her lips twitch into a perky smile.

“Because it’s your business to know everything about everyone.”

“Ah,” is all Kira manages. “Right.”

“See? Guess you don’t know everything about me, president,” Yumeko jests.

Kira chuckles to herself as she places the ice pack down on the edge of the tub. She sighs.

“So is gambling like… an unhealthy coping mechanism, or something?”

Yumeko scoffs and gives the other girl a playful shove.

“That’s not your business, Timurov,” she mimics, emulating Kira’s huskiness.

Kira rolls her eyes, biting back a grin, until she meets Yumeko’s steady stare. By then, she splits at her seams, letting a low chuckle break free. It evolves into a hearty laugh as Yumeko mirrors her, the pair of them doubling over, tripping over the border that separates heartache from contentment.

When they come up for air, their faces are apart by millimeters, the tips of their noses almost touching. They sit in the reverb of their hysterics, chests pounding in sync.

Kira doesn’t remember how it started — suddenly, her gaze roams downwards to Yumeko’s ear-to-ear smile and she’s leaning in, her own smirk fading into concentration as she listens closely to the pattern of Yumeko’s breath.

In tempo, her eyes blink closed and she swallows her pride, and she presses her lips firmly onto Yumeko’s.

It’s slow for the sake of being slow. Calm for the sake of soaking in the warmth and mellowness haloing them both. Kira balls her fists between kisses, letting her nails dig into her palm, letting her facade sink further into the ground below them.

Kira wonders if she could die in Yumeko’s arms.

And it’s only when Yumeko looks at her, half-lidded eyes barely reflecting the candlelight burning on the sink, that she understands what fear is.

Kira still lightens when Yumeko’s slender fingers come up to the back of her neck. She wants to shroud her own pulse and fold into herself until her heart rate matches Yumeko’s, yet her jaw loosens.

She collides into Yumeko’s inviting, perfect-pink smile — and they do the only thing they seem to know.

Dance as one. Rake their hands down each other’s arms. Deepen their passion until they can’t breathe, lungs aching.

They don’t stop, even when they have to gasp between kisses, even when their lips hurt, even when Kira feels like she wants to cry, even when she kind of does. Even when Yumeko kind of does too. This was not going to be the day Kira slams on the brakes and pretends she doesn’t feel the whole world caving in on her.

So she doesn’t stop it, not until she grabs Yumeko’s face and holds it close to her own, deciding to stop just for air.

They laugh again, together. Kira wishes she could drown in it, the assuaging reverb bouncing off the tiles, the repose she’s cozying into now.

“Maybe we’re both a little fucked up,” Yumeko mumbles against Kira’s lips, a hand cradling her jaw.

And at least for today, kissing Yumeko is like that. Cautious but needy. Frightened but indulgent. Frayed at the corners of her starlight smile, fucked up.

Kira snorts softly. “A dangerous pair,” she adds.

“Exactly.”

As Yumeko’s face brightens, Kira pulls away. She shakes her head and sits back against the bathtub. She glares down at her lap, playing with the gold rings wrapping her fingers.

“I’m scared of… you.”

Yumeko furrows her brows.

“What?”

“Last week you asked me what I’m scared of. Well, here it is.” She mumbles her statement, chews on it deliberately as if she could swallow it back, should she want to. But she knows in the end that she can’t, as Yumeko looks at her expectantly. “You don’t cheat, you don’t lie, you don’t pretend to be someone else. You can manipulate but you are never dishonest. Just a master of setting traps that I keep falling into.” She gestures to a floor-to-ceiling mirror and seethes at her own reflection, at the single streak of saltwater down her cheek and the puffiness of her nose. She scoffs in self-pity. “You play for fun, for yourself. I can’t say the same.”

“Why not?”

Kira lets out a sarcastic snicker. “Because sometimes I don’t even know who I am besides the chairman’s daughter. And sometimes I suck at just being that.” 

Yumeko doesn’t pry. Instead, she waits for Kira’s breath to steady before she asks, “Do you ever do anything for yourself?”

Then Kira swallows, and she looks at the floor, tracing the gout lines between each tile like they’d lead somewhere. It doesn’t change the fact that there’s no use in questioning the suffocating wonders of human nature and adoration.

That’s what this is, she decides, as she feels Yumeko’s stare to the side of her head — a coalescence of moments shaping into pattern. A sliver of hope. 

Yumeko is the gentle hum of a favorite song through speakers. She’s a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and the joyride between freeway exits, the potholes that won’t be fixed and the stolen glances at red lights.

There’s this feeling of determination swallowing Kira whole.

So she locks eyes with Yumeko and answers:

“Whenever I kiss you.”

Yumeko smiles.

(Yumeko sighs as she rests her head on Kira’s shoulder and watches the candle flicker.

“What now?” she wonders, whispering.

Kira will answer eventually. For now, she’ll close her eyes and surrender.)

The gambling den is bursting with life, a symphony of chatter engulfing the space with the brilliance of a Saturday night. Each table is packed with players anteing up in countless variations of their favorite games. Other students mingle, hovering over matches to observe the thrilling exchanges of risk and reward.

Mary saunters into the room, scanning it over until she picks out Ryan from the crowd. He had saved the best table in the house for tonight’s session, particularly at Mary’s demand. With only a few days left of the term, her discomfort at Rank 20 was becoming unbearable.

“Where the fuck is Yumeko?” Mary complains, throwing her bag down by a chair next to Ryan. She huffs and takes her seat, pulling out a crisp deck of cards. She crosses her legs and slouches comfortably as she shuffles the deck twice. “Seriously, I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Neither have we,” Michael says flatly with his nose in a book.

“Let’s just start this shit,” Mary grumbles, riffling the cards into a smooth waterfall. She snaps her fingers towards the opposite end of the table. “Hello? Skirmish?”

Chad looks up from his phone with furrowed brows, then devolves into a juvenile groan. “What the hell, Mary. I thought we were gonna play Strip Poker.”

“Yeah, no,” Mary dismisses, beginning to deal out two sets of cards. “Ante up.”

As the final card is placed down with a quiet flick, the double doors to the den are pushed open. Yumeko marches in. The room doesn’t stop to stare at her anymore, but her hips still sway in her signature fashion while she struts through the sea of students.

Once she finds her way to her friends, she stands half-apologetic at the head of the table with her hands clasped behind her back.

“Sorry I’m late,” Yumeko beams.

Mary rolls her eyes. She equips herself with something snarky to say and turns towards Yumeko to spit it out, but a hint of color seizes her. Her hands freeze and her jaw hangs ajar.

The rest of the group gawks at Yumeko, too, as her smile dissolves into concern.

“What?” she asks. “Why do you all look weird?”

Michael — open-mouthed and frazzled — gets himself to motion towards his own face. “Well, you’ve got a little… something…” he warns, battling between a wide smile and a shellshocked expression.

Yumeko pops her poker chip off its mount on her necklace and holds its reflective side in front of her face.

Though the mirror is small, she sees it — a bold, blue kiss mark on her jaw, just underneath her ear.

She laughs under her breath, shaking her head in amusement before placing the chip back in its place. The ranking board behind her chimes, but she doesn’t pay attention. Instead, she casually takes the last seat at the table, making weak attempts to stifle a radiant smirk. In the end, a light pinkish blush across her cheeks forfeits her faux composure. And in the corner of her eye, she catches Kira lurking from the student council office, peering through the overlooking window.

Instead of that classic, tight scowl, she wears something else. It’s softer at the edges. Bolder, without losing sight the delicate mess that has upended them. Yumeko likes it that way.

RANK 9:
YUMEKO KAWAMOTO

The group looks up in awe, eyes following closely as Yumeko’s name bumps up one more spot. All of them gape — except Mary.

She faces Yumeko with a knowing grin and crosses her arms over her chest.

“So you did bet on yourself.”

“In the end, yes, I did participate…” Yumeko clarifies, linking her hands in her lap and gazing over at Mary. “Five dollars, times fifty — just for the love of the game. I still don’t know who originally made that bet.”

“Huh.” Mary snorts.

A slot machine-esque cha-ching! rings through the den again, and Yumeko’s heed snaps to the board. Mary’s name highlights, then soars upwards until…

RANK 10:
MARY DAVIS

On the side bet screen, KIRA AND YUMEKO HOOKED UP fades away, making room for the next big thing. Yumeko stiffens her face in thought, eyes darting between each word and letter like she’d find an explanation in the pixels between them. Gears turn in Yumeko’s mind, clicking in place once by one, and she whips around to face Mary.

Exasperated, she utters:

“You placed the side bet.”

“Bet $700 on those odds, bitch,” Mary says, chest puffed but her voice slicked with nonchalance. She hides her playful smirk poorly.

“How did you know?” Yumeko wonders, face contorting into an excited grin.

“I had a feeling,” Mary shrugs, “And when you never came back to our room after the gala, I just… threw out a hail mary.”

Yumeko squeals into laughter, throwing an arm around Mary as she cackles relentlessly. “Kira’s gonna kill you,” she wheezes, tears forming in her eyes.

Mary scoffs. “She’s already gotta deal with you.” Searching over her shoulder, she finds Riri watching intently from the office, too. “Riri!” Mary yells while she sticks a hand up to wave, and she winks — “Hope you kept my black jacket!”