Archive of Our Own

Tomioka Giyuu had always been… off, in a way that was difficult to ignore once you noticed it.

It wasn’t just that he was quiet—plenty of students were quiet in their own ways. It was how he carried himself. His gaze never quite met anyone else’s, always drifting just past their shoulder or down toward the floor. Conversations with him felt one-sided, not because he didn’t listen, but because he didn’t seem to know how to respond. And physical contact? That was entirely out of the question. Even the brush of a sleeve in passing would make him stiffen, subtle but unmistakable.

At first, they misunderstood.

“He thinks he’s better than us,” Shinaguzawa Sanemi had muttered once, not bothering to lower their voice. “Can’t even look people in the eye.”

Giyuu had been standing right there when it was said. He didn’t react—at least, not outwardly. But his shoulders had drawn in just slightly, his posture tightening as if he were trying to take up less space.

It might have continued like that—misinterpretation turning into quiet resentment—if not for Shinobu Kocho.

“You’re all wrong, you know,” she had said one afternoon, her voice light but her eyes sharp as she looked around at the others. “Tomioka-san isn’t arrogant.”

“Then what is it?” Iguro Obanai challenged.

Shinobu’s smile didn’t waver, but there was something more serious beneath it. “He has severe social anxiety. He doesn’t ignore you because he looks down on you. He just… doesn’t know how to interact.”

The room had gone quiet after that.

“…Social anxiety?” Kanroji Mitsuri repeated, uncertain.

Shinobu nodded. “Eye contact, conversation, even being close to people—it overwhelms him. So he avoids it.”

There had been a long pause, the kind where realization settles heavily.

“Oh.”

From that point on, everything shifted.

No one made a grand announcement about it. There was no formal agreement. But somehow, silently, they adjusted. They paid attention.

Someone always made sure Giyuu wasn’t alone during meals, even if he didn’t say much. Another would sit nearby during meetings, not crowding him, just… present. Conversations became gentler around him, slower, leaving space for him to respond—or not—without pressure.

“Hey, Tomioka,” Rengoku Kyojuro would say casually, dropping down beside him. “Mind if I sit here?”

Giyuu would hesitate, just for a second, before giving a small nod.

That was enough.

Over time, it became routine. Natural.

And slowly—so slowly it was almost imperceptible—Giyuu began to open up.

Not in big ways. Not all at once.

But sometimes, he would answer a question with more than a single word. Sometimes, he would linger instead of leaving immediately. Once, someone even caught him almost making eye contact before he quickly looked away again.

They never pointed it out. Never made a big deal of it.

Still, one thing never changed: he didn’t touch anyone. Not once. Not even by accident, if he could help it.

And no one pushed him.

If anything, they became… protective.

Not in an obvious, suffocating way—but in the quiet glances exchanged when someone new approached him too quickly, or the subtle way they would redirect attention if Giyuu looked overwhelmed.

Sanemi was the one who stood out the most.

It didn’t make sense at first.

He was loud—always loud. Sharp-edged and volatile, his voice carried across rooms without effort, cutting through whatever space he occupied. His scowl never really left his face, carved there so deeply it felt permanent. He snapped at people over the smallest things, rolled his eyes at anything remotely sentimental, and had no patience for hesitation, awkwardness, or silence.

So the change in him was… noticeable.

Not obvious. Not something you could point to immediately. But once you saw it, you couldn’t stop seeing it.

It happened the first time Giyuu walked past him mid-argument.

“—I’m telling you, that’s not how it works, you just—”

Sanemi stopped.

Not gradually. Not like he trailed off or lost his train of thought. The words simply cut off, sharp and abrupt, like something had snapped the thread.

For a brief second, his gaze shifted—just barely—to the side, tracking Giyuu as he passed. His expression didn’t soften completely, but something in it eased. The usual bite in his scowl dulled, his shoulders loosening in a way that was so slight it would’ve gone unnoticed if anyone wasn’t already looking at him.

Giyuu didn’t react. Didn’t look at him. Just kept walking, gaze lowered, footsteps quiet and steady.

“…What?” the other student said after a moment, frowning. “Why’d you stop?”

Sanemi blinked once, like he’d been pulled back into the moment. His expression snapped right back into place.

“Tch. Forget it,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “Wasn’t important.”

The conversation didn’t pick back up the same way.

After that, it started happening more often.

Not just the stopping—though that happened too—but the way his voice shifted. Lowered, sometimes, when Giyuu was nearby. Less sharp, less explosive. Still rough, still impatient, but missing that edge that usually cut straight through people.

It was strange enough that people started noticing.

“…Am I imagining things,” Mitsuri whispered one afternoon, her voice hushed as she leaned slightly toward Obanai, “or does Shinazugawa-san get quieter around Tomioka-san?”

Obanai didn’t answer right away. His eyes followed the scene across the room—Sanemi in the middle of a complaint, hands moving sharply as he spoke, irritation clear in every line of his posture.

Giyuu passed behind him.

Sanemi’s voice dropped off mid-sentence. Not completely, but enough that the shift was obvious.

“…You’re not imagining it,” Obanai said quietly.

Mitsuri hesitated. “It’s not like he’s being nice, exactly, but—”

“He’s holding back,” Obanai finished.

And that, more than anything, was what made it stand out.

Sanemi didn’t hold back.

Except, apparently, here.

It showed most clearly when someone else didn’t.

“Hey, you could at least try to respond,” a student said one day, their tone edging into irritation as they stepped a little too close to Giyuu. “It’s kind of rude to just ignore people like that.”

Giyuu’s shoulders tightened almost immediately, his posture drawing in on itself. His gaze dropped further, fixed somewhere near the floor, and for a moment it looked like he might just… endure it. Stay silent, let it pass.

The student took another step forward.

And then stopped.

Not because of anything Giyuu did.

But because of the presence behind him.

Sanemi hadn’t moved closer. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unchanged at first glance—but his eyes were locked onto the student with a kind of intensity that made the air feel heavier.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive in the way people expected from him.

It was worse.

“…I didn’t mean anything by it,” the student muttered quickly, the edge in their voice gone as they took a step back. Then another. “Whatever.”

They turned and left not long after.

Giyuu didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge it.

But the tightness in his shoulders eased, just slightly.

Sanemi clicked his tongue under his breath, like the whole thing had been an inconvenience.

“People are annoying,” he muttered, more to the air than to anyone else.

No one argued.

—

“Okay, but you do that on purpose,” Mitsuri said later, her tone careful but insistent.

Sanemi didn’t even look at her. “Do what.”

She hesitated, trying to find the right words. “That thing you do when someone’s bothering Tomioka-san. You just… stare at them until they leave.”

“That’s just my face.”

Obanai let out a quiet, unimpressed sound.

Mitsuri frowned. “No, it’s not. You don’t look at everyone like that.”

“I literally do.”

“Not like that,” she insisted. “It’s different.”

Sanemi’s jaw tightened slightly. “You’re overthinking it.”

There was a brief pause.

“…Your ears are red,” Mitsuri added, softer now.

“Shut up.”

He turned away after that, shoulders tense, clearly done with the conversation.

No one pushed further.

—

Out of everything, though, the strangest part wasn’t Sanemi.

It was Giyuu.

Because out of everyone there, Giyuu stood closest to him.

Not intentionally—at least, it didn’t seem like it. There was no moment where he chose it, no visible decision. It just… happened.

In crowded rooms, Giyuu would drift—quiet, almost absent in the way he moved—until he ended up somewhere near Sanemi. Not close enough to touch. Never that. There was always space between them, a careful, maintained distance.

But closer than he stood to anyone else.

At first, it seemed like coincidence.

Until it kept happening.

“…He does that every time,” Rengoku said quietly one afternoon, watching from across the room.

Obanai followed his gaze. Giyuu stood just off to Sanemi’s side, posture still slightly drawn in, but not as tense as he usually was in groups. His shoulders weren’t as rigid, his stance less defensive.

“…Yeah,” Obanai murmured. “He does.”

Sanemi didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t look at him, didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t move away, either.

And more than that—he didn’t push.

No sharp comments directed at him, no impatient demands for a response, no attempt to force conversation or eye contact. Just a steady presence, unchanging, predictable in a way that didn’t overwhelm.

Giyuu shifted slightly as people moved around them, adjusting his position without really thinking about it—but he stayed within that same quiet proximity.

Like it was easier to breathe there.

—

“Hey.”

Giyuu paused.

Sanemi stood a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, not quite looking at him.

“…What?” Giyuu replied after a moment.

Sanemi clicked his tongue softly. “You’re in the way.”

Giyuu blinked, glancing around briefly. “…I’m not.”

“You are,” Sanemi said flatly. Then, after a short pause, he jerked his head slightly to the side. “Move over there.”

There was nothing particularly different about the spot he indicated.

But Giyuu stepped over anyway.

Closer.

Sanemi gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, like that had been the intended outcome all along.

“Better.”

That was it.

No explanation. No acknowledgment of anything beyond that.

But Giyuu didn’t move away afterward.

—

It was obvious.

The way Sanemi’s voice lost some of its sharpness when Giyuu was nearby. The way his attention shifted, subtle but consistent, whenever something—or someone—pushed too far. The way he watched without making it look like watching.

And the way Giyuu, without realizing it, gravitated toward him. The way the tension in his posture eased just enough to notice. The way he stayed, even when he didn’t have to.

Neither of them said anything about it.

Neither of them seemed to understand it.

But it was there, steady and undeniable, settling into place between them without needing to be named.

—

“Let’s all go to a festival!” Mitsuri’s voice rang out across the room, bright and sudden enough to pull everyone’s attention toward her. She clapped her hands together, practically bouncing in place, eyes shining with excitement.

“It’s tomorrow,” she added, like that somehow made it even better.

“That would be amazing!” Rengoku said immediately, his voice just as enthusiastic—if not louder. “A wonderful way to spend time together!”

“I guess it wouldn’t be bad,” Obanai muttered, though he didn’t sound entirely opposed.

Shinobu smiled faintly, watching the reactions ripple through the group. “It does sound nice.”

There was a general murmur of agreement, small nods, quiet approval.

And then—

Sanemi’s gaze shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic, just a flick of his eyes toward the side of the room. But it was enough. Enough for Shinobu to notice. Enough for Obanai to follow the direction of his stare.

And then, one by one, the others did too.

Giyuu sat slightly apart from them, as he usually did. Not far—never completely removed—but distant enough that he didn’t feel surrounded. His head was lowered, his attention fixed on his hands, fingers fidgeting restlessly against each other.

He hadn’t said anything.

Hadn’t reacted at all.

The energy in the room shifted, just slightly.

“…Tomioka-san?” Shinobu said gently, her voice softer now, more careful. “Would you like to come with us?”

The question settled in the air.

Giyuu stilled.

Just for a second.

Then his fingers started moving again, slower this time, like he was trying to ground himself. His shoulders drew in slightly, tension threading through his posture as the silence stretched. No one spoke. Even Rengoku, who usually filled any quiet without hesitation, stayed still.

Giyuu swallowed.

“I…” His voice came out quieter than usual, barely above a murmur. He hesitated, like the words were catching somewhere on the way out. “…I want to come.”

He lifted his gaze just slightly—not enough to meet anyone’s eyes, but enough to show he meant it—before quickly dropping it again.

There was a beat.

And then—

“That’s wonderful!” Rengoku exclaimed, the tension breaking instantly.

“I’m so glad!” Mitsuri added, clasping her hands together again, beaming.

The others chimed in, voices overlapping, the mood lifting just as quickly as it had quieted.

Giyuu didn’t respond.

He just sat there, fingers still fidgeting in his lap, shoulders a little tense—but he didn’t leave. That, in itself, felt like something.

Sanemi didn’t say anything either.

He just watched.

—

The conversation moved on after that—plans, times, who would meet where—but Sanemi barely paid attention. His focus lingered, just slightly, on Giyuu.

By the time things started to settle and people began drifting off, Sanemi pushed himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against and walked over.

He stopped a short distance away.

Giyuu noticed. Slowly, he looked up.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Sanemi said, voice quieter than usual. Not soft—but not sharp either.

Giyuu blinked, like he hadn’t expected that.

“I…” He hesitated again, fingers curling slightly into his sleeves. “…I think I want to.”

Sanemi didn’t interrupt.

“I want to spend time with you guys,” Giyuu added, the words coming out a little uneven, like he wasn’t used to saying them out loud.

There was a brief pause.

Sanemi studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in suspicion, but like he was trying to read something deeper.

“…You sure?” he asked.

Giyuu nodded. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t confident.

But it wasn’t uncertain, either.

Sanemi held his gaze for a second longer before giving a short nod in return.

“Alright.”

That was it. There was no pushing, no teasing, no making a big deal out of it.

They left together not long after.

—

The next day came faster than Giyuu expected.

He stood in the doorway of his room for a moment, hesitating.

“Tsutako-nee…” he called softly.

A moment later, his sister appeared, her expression warm as soon as she saw him. “Yes, Giyuu?”

He shifted slightly, fingers brushing against the hem of his sleeve.

“I’m going out,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “…With my friends. There’s a festival.”

For a second, she just stared at him.

Then her face lit up.

“A festival?” she repeated, her voice bright with surprise—and something softer underneath it. Relief. Happiness. “That sounds wonderful.”

Giyuu glanced away, a faint hint of color rising to his cheeks.

“I said I would go,” he added, like he needed to explain it.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said gently. Then, after a brief pause, her smile turned a little playful. “Although… I do think I should help you get ready.”

Giyuu didn’t argue.

He never did, not with this.

Ever since they were younger, she had been the one to pick out his clothes. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he did. Maybe too much. He just didn’t know how to choose something that felt right, something that wouldn’t make him stand out in the wrong way.

So he trusted her.

Tsutako moved to his closet, scanning through it more carefully this time, her expression thoughtful.

“Hmm… a festival means a lot of people,” she murmured. “So nothing too heavy… but still something nice.”

She pulled out a few options, holding them up one by one before narrowing it down.

“Here.”

She handed him a simple black oversized hoodie—soft fabric, slightly loose, the kind that looked comfortable but intentional. Underneath, she layered a fitted white t-shirt, clean and plain, adding just enough contrast without making it loud. For the bottom, she picked dark gray straight-leg jeans—well-fitted, not too tight, not too baggy—something that gave him structure without making him feel restricted.

“And these,” she added, placing a pair of clean white sneakers beside the outfit. “They’ll match.”

Giyuu took the clothes quietly, nodding once before changing.

When he stepped back out, Tsutako paused.

The outfit was simple. Minimal.

But it suited him.

The darker tones made his features stand out more, the white shirt softening the look just enough. The hoodie hung slightly off his frame, giving him a relaxed appearance, but the fit of the jeans kept everything balanced. It didn’t look like he was trying too hard—but it didn’t look careless either.

“Wait,” she said gently, stepping closer.

She reached up, adjusting the neckline of the hoodie slightly before moving to his hair.

“Hold still.”

Giyuu did.

Instead of tying it back, she let his hair fall naturally, then took two small front sections and pinned them loosely behind his head. Not tight—just enough to keep it out of his face while still looking soft.

“There,” she said, stepping back.

Giyuu hesitated before glancing up at her.

“…Is it okay?” he asked quietly.

She smiled, softer now. “You look really good.”

A faint flush crept up his neck, barely visible but there.

“…Thank you,” he murmured.

For a moment, he lingered.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a brief, quiet hug.

She stilled in surprise—just for a second—before returning it gently.

“Have fun,” she said.

Giyuu nodded, pulling back before heading toward the door.

—

Almost everyone was already there.

The park was a little livelier than usual, the distant sounds of the festival drifting through the air—faint music, laughter, the occasional burst of something loud and excited. It hadn’t started in full yet, but the energy was building.

Rengoku was in the middle of a story, speaking animatedly as usual, while Mitsuri’s absence hadn’t gone unnoticed—her voice missing from the mix made everything feel just slightly quieter than it should have been.

Sanemi wasn’t part of the conversation.

He leaned back against a tree a short distance away, arms crossed, one foot pressed against the bark behind him. His expression was the same as always—impatient, vaguely irritated—but his attention wasn’t on anything specific. His gaze drifted across the park, unfocused.

“…She said she’d be here soon,” Shinobu was saying calmly. “Mitsuri isn’t usually late without a reason.”

“Even so,” Rengoku replied, “we should ensure everyone arrives safely before—”

His voice blurred into the background.

Because Sanemi noticed movement.

At first, it didn’t register as anything important—just someone approaching from the path. But then—

He looked properly.

And stilled.

Giyuu.

For a second, Sanemi didn’t move at all.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t shift.

His breath caught—not sharply, not loud, but enough that it felt wrong in his chest, like it had paused mid-motion and forgotten how to continue.

Giyuu looked… different.

Not dramatically so. Not in a way that demanded attention from everyone around him.

But enough.

His hair was down.

That alone was enough to throw something off. It framed his face differently, softer somehow, the longer strands resting naturally against his shoulders. A few sections had been pinned back—not tightly, just enough to keep it from falling forward completely.

And the outfit—

Simple. Clean. Dark tones that suited him more than anything overly bright ever could. The hoodie hung slightly loose on him, the white shirt underneath catching the light just enough to break up the darkness. The jeans fit well—structured without looking stiff—and the whole thing came together in a way that looked effortless.

Like he hadn’t tried.

Which made it worse.

Sanemi stared.

“…Oi.”

An elbow jabbed into his side.

Not hard, but enough.

Sanemi didn’t react immediately.

“Oi,” Obanai repeated, quieter this time, sharper. “You’re staring.”

Sanemi blinked once, slow, like he was coming back to himself.

He shot Obanai a brief, irritated side glance—but it lacked its usual bite. More distracted than anything.

“Tch,” he muttered under his breath.

And then he looked back.

The expression on his face hadn’t changed much on the surface—but there was something different underneath it. The tension in his jaw had eased slightly. The harshness in his eyes had dulled, just enough to notice if you were paying attention.

He didn’t look away.

—

Giyuu slowed as he got closer.

He could feel it—the shift in attention, the way conversations dipped just slightly, the awareness settling onto him. His fingers twitched faintly at his sides before curling into the sleeves of his hoodie.

His gaze stayed lowered.

Not fully to the ground—just enough that he didn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes directly. Somewhere around shoulder level. Collarbones. Safe.

He stopped a few feet in front of them.

There was a brief pause.

Then, quietly, he lifted one hand and gave a small wave.

“…Hi,” he said.

“Ah! Tomioka!” Rengoku’s voice came immediately, bright and warm. “You’ve arrived! Excellent timing!”

Shinobu smiled faintly. “You made it.”

Giyuu nodded once, shoulders still slightly tense, fingers fidgeting lightly against the fabric of his sleeve.

Sanemi hadn’t said anything yet.

He pushed himself off the tree.

The movement was subtle—but deliberate.

Step by step, he closed the distance until he was standing beside Giyuu. Not close enough to touch. Never that.

But close.

The others resumed talking, the conversation picking back up around them, but Sanemi’s attention didn’t fully return to it.

His gaze flicked toward Giyuu again.

Up close, it was worse.

“…You look good,” he said.

The words came out more casually than he expected—but quieter than usual.

Giyuu stilled.

For a second, he didn’t respond. His fingers tightened slightly in his sleeve, the fabric bunching under his grip as a faint flush crept up along his cheeks.

“…You look good too,” he said after a moment, voice softer than before.

His gaze shifted just slightly—not upward, not enough for eye contact—but enough to take in Sanemi’s appearance.

Sanemi’s outfit was… very Sanemi.

Dark, slightly rough around the edges. A black jacket layered over a worn shirt, the fabric a little distressed, paired with darker jeans and boots that looked like they’d seen too much use. There was something unpolished about it—but it fit him perfectly.

Giyuu noticed.

Sanemi nodded once, like that settled it.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

There was a faint heat at the tips of his ears.

Neither of them said anything else after that.

But neither of them moved away, either.

—

“Sorry I’m late!”

Mitsuri’s voice cut through the moment, bright and apologetic as she hurried toward them.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Kanroji!” Rengoku greeted warmly. “You’ve arrived just in time!”

She beamed, clearly relieved, her energy immediately filling the space she stepped into.

Across from her, Obanai straightened almost imperceptibly.

His usual composure slipped—just slightly. His gaze lingered a second too long, his posture tightening before he quickly looked away, adjusting his bandages like it gave him something to focus on.

“…You’re late,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice wasn’t quite as sharp as usual.

Mitsuri smiled sheepishly. “I know, I know—I’m sorry!”

Sanemi noticed.

He didn’t say anything—but there was a brief flicker of something in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Something almost amused.

Then it was gone.

“Alright,” Shinobu said smoothly, glancing between everyone. “Now that we’re all here…”

“Let’s go!” Mitsuri added excitedly.

There were nods of agreement, the group naturally shifting as they began moving toward the festival.

Sanemi fell into step without thinking.

Giyuu walked beside him.

—

By the time they reached the festival, it was already in full swing.

Lights stretched across the area in long, glowing strands, warm and golden against the darkening sky. Booths lined the paths in rows, bright colors and hand-painted signs competing for attention. The air was thick with overlapping sounds—music playing from somewhere in the distance, vendors calling out to passing crowds, laughter, footsteps, voices layered over voices until it all blurred into something overwhelming.

It was loud.

Too loud.

Giyuu slowed almost immediately.

It wasn’t obvious to anyone who wasn’t paying attention—but his shoulders drew in just slightly, his fingers tightening around the sleeve of his hoodie. His gaze dropped further, focusing on the ground just ahead of his steps as the crowd pressed closer around them.

People brushed past. Not touching him, not quite—but close enough that it made his movements more careful, more controlled.

Without thinking, he shifted.

Closer.

Sanemi noticed.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at him right away.

But his position adjusted—subtly, naturally. He moved just a half-step forward, slightly to Giyuu’s side, his presence creating a small barrier between him and the flow of people. Not obvious. Not enough for anyone else to comment on.

Just enough.

Giyuu felt it.

The space around him didn’t feel as tight anymore. The movement of the crowd dulled slightly, like it was being redirected before it could reach him fully.

His grip on his sleeve loosened a little.

They moved through the booths together, the group sticking close at first, stopping here and there as Mitsuri pointed out different games or food stalls.

“Oh! Look at that one!” she said, tugging lightly at Iguro’s sleeve. “And that one too—there’s so many!”

Rengoku laughed, clearly enjoying the energy. “There is much to explore! We must make the most of it!”

Eventually, though, the group split naturally into smaller clusters, drifting toward different interests.

Giyuu didn’t move far.

He ended up with Sanemi, Iguro, and Mitsuri.

—

“Let’s go to that booth!” Mitsuri said suddenly, pointing ahead.

It was a ring toss game, rows of glass bottles lined up neatly with prizes hanging above—plush animals in different shapes and colors swaying slightly in the evening air.

They followed her over.

Mitsuri paid quickly, excitement written all over her face as she picked up the rings.

“Okay, okay—watch this!” she said, focusing.

She tossed one.

It hit the bottle—and bounced off.

“…Ah.”

She tried again.

This time, it landed halfway before slipping off.

“Wait, that almost counted!” she insisted, laughing nervously.

A few more tries followed, each one just slightly off.

By the end, she had only managed to get a couple to land properly.

“Aw man…” Mitsuri pouted, shoulders dropping slightly as she looked up at the prizes. “I really wanted that rabbit…”

Her gaze lingered on a soft, pastel-colored bunny hanging near the center.

Beside her, Giyuu had gone quiet.

Not withdrawn—just… focused.

His eyes had lifted slightly, scanning the prizes.

Then they stopped.

“…That fox is pretty,” he said quietly.

It was small. Red, with a white underside and a curled tail. Simple, but well-made.

Mitsuri blinked, immediately turning toward him.

“Oh—that one is really pretty,” she said quickly, her tone warm but careful, like she didn’t want to overwhelm him. “It suits you.”

Giyuu didn’t respond right away, but his gaze stayed on it a moment longer before dropping again.

Iguro glanced sideways.

Then at Sanemi.

It wasn’t a long look—just enough.

A silent understanding.

“…Come on,” Mitsuri said gently after a moment, stepping back from the booth. “Let’s go get something to eat. There’s a fries stand over there.”

Giyuu nodded.

They started walking.

Sanemi didn’t move.

Iguro stayed with him.

The two exchanged a brief look before stepping forward toward the booth again.

—

“These fries are really good, Tomioka-san!” Mitsuri said, holding up a container with a bright smile.

They had found a quieter corner near the food stalls—still busy, but less crowded than the main paths.

Giyuu stood beside her, holding his own portion carefully, like he wasn’t entirely used to it.

He nodded slightly. “…They’re good.”

Mitsuri’s smile softened just a bit.

“What else do you want to try?” she asked, her tone light, encouraging. “There’s so much here.”

Giyuu went still.

His fingers shifted slightly against the container, grip tightening just a little as he looked out toward the rows of stalls.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Mitsuri felt it immediately.

Her smile faltered—not visibly, but internally. Did I push too much? she thought, a flicker of panic rising.

“I mean—we don’t have to—” she started quickly, ready to backtrack.

“I want…” Giyuu spoke, cutting in softly.

She paused.

He hesitated, eyes scanning briefly before settling on something in the distance.

“…those skewers,” he said, lifting his hand slightly to point.

Grilled meat, smoke rising faintly from the stall, the scent carrying through the air.

Mitsuri brightened almost instantly—but she held it in, keeping her reaction gentle.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “We can go there next.”

Giyuu nodded back, small but certain.

“Maybe after another game,” she added lightly. He didn’t object.

—

They turned back toward the others.

But before they could reach the booth again—

Sanemi and Iguro were already walking toward them.

Iguro stepped forward first, holding something out.

Mitsuri blinked.

Then gasped.

“The bunny—!”

She took it immediately, her face lighting up as she held it close.

“Thank you so much, Iguro-san!” she said, her voice bright with genuine excitement as she hugged it tightly.

Without thinking, she leaned in and hugged him too. Iguro froze, completely. His face went red almost instantly, his posture stiffening as he awkwardly tried to process it.

“…It was nothing,” he muttered, looking away quickly.

Nearby, Giyuu watched.

A faint smile touched his expression—small, fleeting, but there.

Then—

Something shifted in front of him.

Sanemi.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held something out.

Giyuu looked down.

The fox.

For a second, he didn’t react.

Then his gaze lifted—just slightly, just enough— and met Sanemi’s.

It was brief.

But direct.

Blue meeting violet.

Clear.

Unfiltered.

Sanemi’s breath caught. Not sharply—but enough that it felt like something had been pulled tight inside his chest. The noise of the festival dulled for a split second, everything around them fading just slightly at the edges.

It was different. This wasn’t accidental. Wasn’t almost.

Giyuu blinked first.

His gaze dropped immediately, a flush rising quickly across his cheeks as he reached out and took the fox with both hands.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

He held it close, fingers curling into the soft fabric as he pulled it toward his chest.

Sanemi looked away, fast.

“Don’t think much of it,” he muttered, his voice rougher than before.

But he didn’t step back.

Didn’t create distance.

He stayed right there, close enough that the space between them felt intentional.

Giyuu didn’t move away either.

He just stood there, holding the fox carefully, his grip gentle but firm—like it mattered more than he knew how to say. They eventually drifted toward another booth without really deciding on it.

The festival had only gotten louder as the night deepened. Lanterns glowed brighter overhead, and the crowd thickened in waves that shifted unpredictably through the paths. Every few seconds, someone would brush past too close, laugh too loudly, or call out from somewhere just out of sight.

Giyuu stayed near the middle of the group now.

Not because he chose to—but because it felt safer that way.

Sanemi and Iguro had moved ahead, already getting pulled into another game stall that promised small prizes and loud cheering from whoever won. Mitsuri, meanwhile, had gravitated toward food again, happily dragging Giyuu along with her.

“It’s like a festival tour!” she said brightly, handing him a skewer wrapped in paper. “We have to try everything!”

Giyuu nodded slightly, holding it carefully in both hands.

“…Okay.”

He took a small bite as they walked.

The warmth of the food helped—just a little. Enough to ground him in the moment.

For a few minutes, it was almost normal.

Almost calm.

Then it happened.

Someone bumped into him.

Hard.

Giyuu froze instantly.

The skewer slipped from his hand and hit the ground, the food rolling slightly before coming to a stop in the dirt.

For a second, he didn’t move at all.

Didn’t breathe properly.

Didn’t react.

Then the sound hit him.

“Hey—can you not watch where you’re going?!”

The voice was loud. Sharper than it needed to be. Angry in a way that didn’t match what had happened.

Giyuu flinched.

His shoulders jerked back instinctively, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. The world felt too close, too loud, too fast. His fingers curled into the fox plush he was still holding, clutching it like an anchor.

“I—” he started, but nothing followed.

“I wasn’t even near you!” Sanemi’s voice cut through immediately.

Low. Dangerous.

He stepped forward before anyone else could react.

The stranger turned, still irritated. “Then he should watch—”

Sanemi grabbed him by the collar.

The movement was fast.

Not chaotic—controlled.

But sharp enough that it stopped everything around them.

“Say that again,” Sanemi said quietly.

The tone was worse than yelling.

The air around them changed.

Giyuu stood frozen behind them, eyes wide but unfocused, the fox pressed tightly against his chest. Mitsuri had gone still. Even Iguro had stopped mid-step, watching carefully.

The guy shoved back.

That was all it took.

Sanemi didn’t hesitate.

They hit each other once—hard—before Iguro stepped in, grabbing Sanemi’s arm while someone else pulled the stranger back. Voices rose again, overlapping, messy, but the confrontation didn’t last long after that.

The guy backed off, muttering angrily under his breath before disappearing into the crowd.

Silence fell in the small space they were left in.

Sanemi stood there for a second longer.

His breathing was heavier than usual. His jaw was tight. There was a cut along his cheekbone, thin but visible under the festival lights.

Then—without looking at anyone—he turned.

And walked away.

“Sanemi—” Mitsuri started, but stopped when he didn’t even slow down.

He didn’t run.

But he didn’t stay either.

Just disappeared into the crowd like he needed distance from everything all at once.

Giyuu stared after him.

“…Is he mad?” he asked quietly.

His voice was small.

Uncertain.

His fingers tightened around the fox in his hands, pressing it closer to his chest.

“I think… I made him mad.”

Mitsuri immediately shook her head. “No—no, Tomioka-san, it’s not—”

“He’s not mad at you,” Iguro cut in, his tone steady, watching the direction Sanemi had gone. “That wasn’t because of you.”

Giyuu didn’t answer right away.

His gaze stayed fixed where Sanemi had disappeared.

“…He left,” he said quietly.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Iguro replied. “He’ll be back.”

Mitsuri nodded quickly. “Yeah! He always does that!”

A pause.

Then she smiled gently, trying to redirect the moment.

“Let’s just go sit down for the fireworks, okay?”

—

They found a quieter spot a little further away from the main crowd—open enough to see the sky clearly, but far enough that the noise dulled into something softer.

Giyuu ended up sitting on a low rock slightly apart from the others.

Not far.

Just enough space to breathe.

He held the fox in his lap now, fingers resting lightly over it.

The sky above was darkening fully now, stars barely visible through the haze of festival lights. Somewhere in the distance, announcements echoed faintly.

He didn’t look at anything else.

Just the sky.

Waiting.

—

Then—

A shadow fell over him.

Giyuu looked down slightly.

Sanemi stood there.

“…Here,” he said.

In his hand was another skewer.

Giyuu blinked.

“You didn’t have to…” he said softly.

Sanemi huffed once, almost irritated—but not really.

“I wanted to.”

He held it out again.

After a second, Giyuu reached for it. Their fingers brushed briefly when he took it.

It was small.

But enough to make both of them pause for half a beat longer than necessary.

Sanemi sat down beside him.

Close.

Not touching—but closer than before.

The space between them felt intentional now, like neither of them had decided to correct it.

Giyuu looked down at the fox in his lap.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly. “For earlier.”

Sanemi didn’t respond immediately.

His gaze stayed forward.

“It’s nothing,” he said finally. “I just don’t like idiots.”

A pause.

Giyuu hesitated.

“…And for the fox,” he added.

That earned a brief side glance from Sanemi.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That too.”

Silence settled again.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full.

Giyuu shifted slightly, then spoke again, softer this time.

“Why?”

The word was quiet.

Simple.

But it changed something.

Sanemi froze.

Not visibly dramatic—but enough that the air around him tightened.

“…Why what?” he asked, though he already knew.

Giyuu didn’t look at him.

Just stared at the fox in his hands.

“Why do you… do things like that?”

There was a long pause.

Sanemi exhaled through his nose, sharp and frustrated—but not at him.

“…You’re annoying,” he muttered.

Giyuu blinked slightly, unsure.

Then Sanemi clicked his tongue.

“I like you, Giyuu.”

The words landed heavily.

For a second, everything stopped.

Even the crowd noise felt distant.

Giyuu went still.

His fingers tightened slightly on the fox.

“…You do not need to return anything,” Sanemi added quickly, voice rougher now, like he regretted letting the first part slip out. “Just—forget it if it’s weird.”

But he didn’t move away.

Didn’t stand.

Didn’t leave.

Giyuu stayed silent.

His breath felt uneven, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“…Sanemi,” he said finally.

Sanemi’s jaw tightened.

“Don’t,” he cut in immediately. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

His hand, still holding the skewer, lowered slightly.

Slowly, hesitantly, his other hand shifted closer.

Not touching fully.

Just… near.

His pinky brushed the back of Sanemi’s hand.

Light.

Careful.

Barely there.

But intentional.

The fireworks began just then. The first burst lit up the sky in bright color, reflecting off their faces in flashes of gold and red and blue.

Sanemi’s breath stopped.

Giyuu—who never touched people—was touching him.

Not grabbing.

Not pulling away.

Just staying there.

Sanemi let out a shaky breath, like something in him had finally cracked open.

Slowly, he turned his hand over.

And caught Giyuu’s fully.

Giyuu didn’t pull away.

His breath hitched slightly, his grip on the skewer tightening as the fireworks continued above them, louder now, brighter now, filling the sky with sound and color that neither of them fully looked at.

“…Giyuu,” Sanemi said again, quieter this time.

Rougher.

Like he was testing whether saying his name could change anything.

Giyuu hummed faintly in response.

Still there.

Still not moving away.