Chapter Text
Taro had always preferred corners.
Corners of the library where the light didn’t quite reach the center tables. Corners of classrooms where no one really looked twice at him. Corners of the school courtyard where the wind moved softly through the trees and no one bothered him with questions like what club are you in? or why are you always alone?
He didn’t mind being alone.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Across campus, the world seemed louder. Sharper. More certain.
Especially the Martial Arts Club.
You could hear them before you saw them—the rhythmic thuds of feet hitting mats, the sharp commands, the occasional shout of encouragement. And always, at the center of it all—
Budo Masuta.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unmistakably strong, even when he wasn’t moving. Messy black hair that never seemed to obey gravity. A red armband that marked him as club leader, like a banner of authority. A bandanna tied neatly across his forehead. Grey eyes that didn’t miss much.
He was everything Taro wasn’t.
Where Taro faded into the background, Budo dominated it.
And yet, every day after lunch, Taro found himself walking past the dojo doors a little slower than necessary.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to hear him.
“Again! Your stance is off—focus!”
Budo’s voice didn’t carry anger. It carried certainty. Like he believed everyone could be better if they just tried hard enough.
Taro didn’t realize he was smiling faintly until he turned the corner.
It started small.
A borrowed pen.
That was all.
Taro had been sitting in the courtyard when he realized his pen had run out halfway through notes. He sighed quietly, staring at the unfinished sentence like it had personally betrayed him.
“Hey.”
He nearly jumped.
Budo stood there, slightly out of breath, like he’d just finished running. Up close, he was even more… present. Not intimidating, exactly. Just overwhelming in a way Taro wasn’t used to.
“You dropped this earlier,” Budo said, holding out a pen.
Taro blinked. “Oh. is that mine?”
“Yeah. It fell when you passed by the dojo.”
“…Thank you.”
Budo nodded once, like the matter was resolved. But instead of leaving, he stayed for a moment.
Taro shifted slightly. “Do you… need something?”
“No.” A pause. Then, more carefully: “You’re always reading.”
Taro looked down at his book. “Is that… bad?”
Budo shook his head quickly. “No. Just… interesting. I don’t see many people reading that much anymore.”
“It’s quieter than everything else.”
Something flickered in Budo’s expression—understanding, maybe.
Then he smiled. Small. Warm. “That makes sense.”
And just like that, he left.
Taro stared at the pen in his hand longer than he meant to.
After that, it kept happening.
Just… little intersections.
Budo would nod at him in the hallway.
Taro would quietly hold the door open when Budo’s hands were full of training gear.
Once, Budo had walked him halfway to the library without even realizing it.
“Were you going this way?” Budo had asked.
“…Yes.”
“Oh. Me too.”
Budo smiled.
The Martial Arts Club became louder in Taro’s mind than it had any right to be.
Not the noise—but the rhythm.
The discipline.
The way Budo moved like he had a purpose carved into every motion.
Taro started noticing things he shouldn’t have.
Like how Budo always checked on the club members first.
How he never raised his voice in anger, only in instruction.
How his expression softened when someone improved.
And how, sometimes, when practice ended and everyone left—
Budo stayed behind alone.
Just standing there in the empty dojo.
One rainy afternoon, Taro stayed late in the library.
He didn’t notice the time until the lights flickered slightly, signaling closing hours.
When he stepped outside, rain hit him instantly.
Hard. Cold. Unforgiving.
He hesitated under the awning.
No umbrella.
Of course.
“Hey.”
Taro turned.
Budo stood a few feet away under the rain, already slightly soaked in sweat from training. He had an umbrella in one hand and a gym bag over his shoulder.
“…Hi,” Taro said.
Budo tilted his head. “What are you still doing here?”
“I lost track of time.”
A pause.
Then Budo held out the umbrella.
Taro stared at it. “I shouldn’t.” he waved it off.
“I insist.” Budo said simply.
“But wouldn’t you get wet?.”
“I’ll be fine” Budo smiled faintly, while still holding the umbrella out, waiting for Taro to take it.
Taro stared at the umbrella, then at Budo.
“...Why don’t we share it?”
Budo stood there for a second then smiled faintly.
“That sounds like a better idea.”
Taro’s heartbeat did something strange.
But he didn’t move away.
So they stood there.
Under the umbrella.
Too close.
Not close enough.
Walking together felt different in the rain. Quieter. Like the world had softened just for them.
Taro found himself speaking before he could stop it.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Help people. All the time.”
Budo was silent for a moment.
Then: “Because someone helped me once.”
“That’s it?”
Budo glanced at him. “Isn’t that enough?”
Taro didn’t answer.
But something inside him shifted slightly.
A week later, during Martial Arts Club practice, one of the younger members got injured. Nothing serious—just a twisted ankle—but panic spread quickly.
Budo reacted instantly.
He carried the student to the side, checked their condition, gave instructions to others, and called for help.
Calm. Controlled. Steady.
Taro had been passing by outside when he saw it through the open doors.
And for the first time, he didn’t see strength as distance.
He saw responsibility.
After everything settled, Budo stepped outside for air.
And found Taro still there.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Budo asked.
Taro hesitated. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“It’s fine.”
A pause stretched between them.
Then Taro said quietly, “You were kinda heroic.”
Budo blinked. “What?”
“I mean when something happens, you just… act without a doubt"
Budo looked down at his hands. “If I don’t, someone else might get hurt.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Taro said.
Budo looked up again.
Taro struggled for words. That was normal. But this felt different.
“It’s like you always know what to do,” he finished.
Budo was quiet for a long time.
Then, softer than before:
“I don’t.”
That surprised Taro.
Budo exhaled slowly. “I just… decide anyway.”
Something about that made Taro’s chest tighten.
After that, Taro started staying a little longer near the dojo.
Not inside.
Just nearby.
Budo started noticing.
Of course he did.
One day, after practice, Budo walked over, still in his gi, bandanna slightly loosened from training.
“You didn’t have to wait out here,” he said.
Taro looked down at his book. “I know.”
“…But you do anyway.”
Taro didn’t answer.
Budo sat down next to him.
Taro glanced at him. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Yeah,” Budo said honestly. “It’s quiet here.”
That made Taro pause.
Quiet.
Not empty.
Not lonely.
Just… quiet.
They sat like that for a while.
No pressure to speak.
Just shared silence.
It wasn’t until later that Taro realized something terrifying.
He had started looking for Budo.
In hallways.
In the courtyard.
At the outside of the dojo .
And worse—
He started hoping Budo would look for him too.
Budo, for his part, was not doing much better.
He just didn’t have the language for it yet.
He noticed Taro the way he noticed training progress.
Subtle at first.
Then impossible to ignore.
The way Taro listened more than he spoke.
The way he noticed things others missed.
The way he always seemed… steady in a different way than Budo was.
Not strong like impact.
Strong like stillness.
It came one afternoon after club practice.
Taro was sitting near the courtyard fountain when Budo approached.
He looked different.
Less composed.
Not weak—never that—but uncertain in a way Taro had never seen.
“Taro,” he said.
Taro closed his book slowly. “Yes?”
Budo stood there for a moment too long.
Then: “Do you ever feel like you’re not sure what you’re doing, but you do it anyway?”
That was almost exactly what Taro had heard before.
He nodded.
Budo exhaled. “Yeah. Me too.”
Silence.
Then Taro asked, carefully, “Why are you telling me this?”
Budo looked at him.
Really looked.
And for once, there was no club, no students, no responsibility in his expression.
Just him.
“I think I enjoy talking to you,” he said simply.
Taro froze.
The world didn’t stop.
But it felt like it did.
“…Oh,” Taro said quietly.
Budo scratched the back of his neck. “That sounded worse than I meant it.” he let out a soft laugh.
“No,” Taro said quickly. Then softer: “I understand.”
Another pause.
Then Taro added, “I enjoy it too.”
Budo blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then he smiled.
Not the confident club leader's smile.
Something smaller.
Real.
After that, nothing changed immediately.
But something shifted.
They still walked separately in hallways.
Still kept distance in public.
Still existed in their own worlds.
But now there were moments.
Shared glances.
Lingering conversations.
Sitting closer without realizing it.
And the quiet understanding that neither of them were alone in noticing anymore.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and the sky turned soft orange, Budo walked Taro to the library again.
“You don’t have club activities today?” Taro asked.
“It ended early.”
They stopped at the entrance.
Neither moved immediately.
Taro held his book tighter than usual.
Budo looked at him for a long moment.
Then said, “You know… I think I understand quite better now.”
Taro looked up slightly.
Budo continued, “It’s not empty. It’s just… space where you can hear things.”
Taro’s grip loosened slightly.
“Yes,” he said.
A pause.
Then Budo added, almost hesitantly:
“I like being in that space with you.” he grinned.
Taro’s chest tightened again.
But this time, it didn’t feel unfamiliar.
He looked at Budo.
Really looked.
And said, “...I do too”
Budo blinked.
Then smiled.
And stayed.
They didn’t become something overnight.
But they became something real.
Something built slowly.
Between pages and fists.
Between silence and certainty.
Between a boy who reads the world carefully…
And a boy who learned how to protect it.
they stopped walking through life alone but together.