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marlynnofmany · 1 month

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Not Special, Part Two

(Part One is here)

Oscar Tennyson grabbed his purchases and hurried after the rest of his crew. As usual, they were walking quickly on their longer legs and bellowing for him to keep up. The teeth-and-scales Mighty had no patience for human weaknesses. Of which there were many.

But, as Oscar had just learned, there were some strengths as well. And he couldn’t wait to show them.

He scampered onboard before the door shut, wondering if they would actually leave without him if he dawdled too long. Probably not — who would handle their finances and hunting permits? They’d have to hire someone else, because they certainly didn’t want to do it themselves. But he didn’t want to test that.

He had much better things to test. While the stark metal walls vibrated with the engine’s revs, Oscar wove between scaled biceps and tails to his own quarters. He pressed the panel by the door, which was oversized and cracked like all of them on this ship. The Mighty were not fans of fiddly little buttons or keys. Not when they could have panels big enough to punch, which only broke sometimes.

When Oscar stepped through and closed the door behind him, he felt immediately relieved. This was his private space to decorate as he chose, without worrying that someone would take things down or make fun of him. Ship rules were clear about personal quarters. Oscar’s fake orchids and real cactus made the room homey, along with more posters than the walls could hold. They spilled onto the ceiling, lining it with nature scenes from Earth, sports figures he admired, media announcements, and a good number of fluffy kittens. This was the one spot on the ship where he could feel comfortable, and he was making the most of it.

The bag of refueling station supplies crinkled as he set it on his small table to remove the contents. A high-end store might have had Waterwill bags that evaporated after a day, but this place used regular old plastic. Inside were food cubes, bottled water, and the purchase he was most excited about: six cans of very weak caffeine.

He scanned the label. It was just like the other human had said. Tall cans in dramatic colors, but not much of substance inside. At least, not as far as the average human was concerned.

Oscar couldn’t wait until dinner time.

Before then, he had a permit to submit and several other things to check. The ship should be on the way to Argosha, which was notorious for welcoming outsiders in to hunt the Dagger Birds that were giving everyone so much trouble, but he had better get their paperwork in order anyway.

He grabbed his tablet and left his safe haven, heading back into the public parts of the ship where he could face taunts from any direction. Really, these guys were just like his cousins. At least it was familiar.

Fending off tiresome conversation — “How’s the weather down there?” “Why don’t you ask your mother?” —he reached the bridge and found a corner to stand in. The captain and the pilot were arguing about where to land when they reached Argosha.

“The main site will have more people to admire our ship!”

“The new one is closer to the hunting grounds!”

“Dagger Birds are overrunning the place; everywhere is a hunting ground!”

“Do you want to pay the damages for shooting a building instead of a bird? We can take it all out of your pay, if you want!”

“Fine, but if we land on some overgrown hedge and the ship is scratched, you get to pay for that!”

“Fine!”

The pair of them stopped yelling and sat back in their seats as if nothing at all was the matter, because it wasn’t. Polite disagreements were always held at that volume.

In the brief lull while the pilot manipulated the controls with more force than a lesser console could withstand, Oscar spoke up. “I’d like to come too.”

Both dinosaurian heads turned to stare at him in surprise. “Why?” the captain demanded. “One kick from a bird, and you’re useless to us.”

“Thanks,” Oscar said flatly. “I’ll keep out of the way. I want to take photos of your fighting prowess; I should be able to sell them.”

Both of the Mighty preened at that, as he’d known they would. Ego was big here. The captain agreed, and Oscar didn’t let slip any hints of his secret plan. He just finished working on his tablet, then retreated to his quarters to practice Dagger Bird mating calls.

The air on Argosha was breathable but hot, at least this part of it. Oscar was ready with his Tool in his pocket. (He’d gotten out of the habit of calling it a phone, since the Mighty were right in that it did a near-infinite number of things.) (He still smirked quietly at the potential innuendo, but it was a conversation he didn’t really want to have with giant dinosaur aliens, so he kept that to himself.)

“This way,” announced the captain, pointing in what looked like an arbitrary direction into the wilderness. Whooping with the alien equivalent of testosterone, the crew raised their blasters and tromped off the landing pad with Oscar following close behind.

True to his word, he did take some pictures as he went. But he was waiting for his moment.

It didn’t take long to come. The shouting scared off all the wildlife, then the Mighty found a boulder to crouch behind and wait for the creatures to come back. They played a silent counting game to see who was best at guessing when they’d spot something worth killing.

Distant footsteps on leaves made them smack each other in excitement, but nothing appeared between the trees.

Now or never, Oscar thought. Knowing better than to startled his crewmates, he whispered, “Here, let me.” Then he took a deep breath and let loose with his best imitation of a Dagger Bird seeking a mate. “Woarrrrrrk!”

While the Mighty shushed him and wondered what he was doing and started to figure it out, an answering woarrk sounded from nearby.

Then another, then, three.

Oscar wondered if he’d overplayed his hand.

No less than five large and eager Dagger Birds crashed through the undergrowth at once, croaking and flapping, taking offense at each other’s presence. The Mighty all roared and leapt out, firing in every direction.

Oscar dashed for a tree he’d been eyeing, the one with lots of branches, and didn’t stop climbing until he was out of beak-stabbing range. He held tight to the trunk, catching his breath and watching the chaos. Belatedly, he remembered to take out his Tool and snap some photos.

This was actually a good angle. He got a great shot of the captain aiming down the throat of a wide-open beak, then another a split second later when the beak snapped shut inches from his head. Another of the engineer shooting one from beneath. Two of the pilot tackling the largest bird and sinking teeth into the back of its neck where it couldn’t reach to stab.

Other species did their trophy hunting from a distance. The Mighty liked the fight as much as the kill. Their blasters were set on a deliberately low setting, and their teeth were sharp.

Safe up in his tree, Oscar grimaced at how bloody things were getting down below. He yelled another bird call to distract the one about to spear the crewmate who’d been knocked to the ground, and he got a cheerful “Nice save by the little guy!” which was as close to a thank you as he was going to get. The crewmate scrambled up and bit off a chunk while the bird was distracted. A couple of the crew looked like they were bleeding their own blood, but most of it was coming from the Dagger Birds, which were just as stubborn as the stories had said. Not one of them ran off. The last to die fell on top of somebody, which just added laughter from the rest of the crew to the triumphant cheers.

Oscar took a picture of the bird being dragged off his disgraced crewmate. That photo he wouldn’t sell, but would keep as minor blackmail if he ever needed it. Sticking it up on the wall to remind everyone of this moment could be a valuable strategic move.

“We are the MIGHTY!” bellowed the captain, and the whole crew joined in with a deep-voiced cheer. Oscar climbed down to more approval than he’d gotten in the last month.

“Good work by our human here! Who knew you could do that?”

“That’s sure an efficient way to hunt!”

“We should bring you out every time. That was great.”

Oscar took the praise with pride, not bothering with modesty. That was just another word for weakness as far as these guys were concerned.

He managed to dodge when one of them made to slap him on the back with a large bloodstained hand, which just made them laugh more. Luckily the captain directed everybody to gather their kills for dragging back to the ship, rather than chasing the human and messing up his clothes.

Oscar took a position on the lowest branch of his tree, taking a couple more photos as the victorious hunters figured out how to get it all home. If anyone had asked Oscar, which they never would, he’d have suggested going back for a hovercart, or taking them one at a time. But of course they did neither.

Definitely the type to insist on carrying all the groceries in at once, Oscar thought as his crewmates strained to drag the giant carcasses through the undergrowth. He hopped down and kept pace out to the side where there was no blood on the leaves.

They finally made it back to the ship, doing nothing to clean up the smears of blood they left on the landing pad. Oscar darted off to his quarters as soon as the door opened. The rest of them could handle getting the birds into cryo storage, or chopped up right away, whichever they saw fit to do. The lowest-ranking one without significant injuries would be in charge of clearing the blood from the hallways, but only after they’d all taken a walk through the water-and-air blast chamber that passed for a shower here. It had always reminded Oscar of a car wash.

He kept to himself until dinner, sorting his photos while everyone else dealt with the catch and the mess and the injuries. The mechanical medsystem on this ship was just as efficient as the shower. They’d all be in decent shape by mealtime.

And mealtime after a successful hunt was also drinking time.

Oscar usually ate in his room, wanting nothing to do with the raucous meat-tearing and drunkenness. But today was different, because he’d learned something valuable about the liquid they were getting drunk off.

Oscar considered the cans he’d bought, then decided it would have more of an impact if he just took one of the communal supply. So instead he grabbed his new food cubes and a premade tin of spaghetti from his mini-cryo, and followed the sound of laughter.

They were already a little drunk when he got there. Sprawled across chairs with a table full of meat slabs spilling over the edges of the plates. And as expected, there were tall purple cans everywhere.

“Heyyyy, it’s the little guy! Let’s hear it for the human with the surprise talent! Maybe you’re not useless after all!”

“Thanks,” Oscar said as they pounded fists against anything in reach as a form of applause. He leaned against the open doorway and shuffled his belongings so he could get a fork in a meatball without setting down the food cubes. “That was pretty easy where I’m from. You guys really can’t do that?” He popped the meatball into his mouth, casual as you please.

The Mighty of course, thought this was funny, and took it in stride. More gulps from their drinks, more savage mouthfuls of food, and a few questions about the surely-excellent photos he’d gotten, which would make them all look amazing.

Oscar said he’d share the best ones. These would make fine decorations in their own quarters, and would probably be appreciated by the right paying audience.

Then came the moment he’d been waiting for. The captain raised his drink in another cheer, and somebody noticed that the human was the only one without a can in his hand.

“Get the human a warrior’s drink!”

“Bet you he passes out after one sip.”

“Nah, he can take at least two.”

Oscar smiled quietly. If they’d been paying attention, they might have changed their bets at that smile. He set his food down in the hallway to free his hands. When one muscular, taloned arm offered him a can of their most potent intoxicant, he took it. Oh so casually.

Then he whipped his head back and chugged the whole thing.

“Oh! Human’s gonna die!”

“I’m not cleaning up the puke!”

“What the supernova! There are better ways to go than that!”

“Somebody drag him to medical so we don’t have to find somebody else to do the boring stuff.”

“Yeah, he was just getting interesting.”

Oscar ignored all of them, giving the empty can a thoughtful look. It felt like the same thin aluminum he remembered from Earth. And if there was anything his cousins had taught him, it was the proper way to dispose of a beer can.

He dug his fingertips in and crushed it against his forehead. Then while the room reacted to that, he wiped off the drips and threw the can across the room. When it went into the trash on the first try, he was internally very glad, but he didn’t let it show. Instead he picked up his food and resumed eating. “What’s the big deal?” he said. “Is that what you guys have been getting drunk off? How quaint.”

“How in all the black holes—”

“No, he’s gonna fall over any second; just watch.”

“Quaint, that’s hilarious.”

“He’s totally bluffing. Just wait and see.”

Oscar was enjoying being the center of the crew’s attention today. He made a show of sweeping his eyes across the various cans in the room. “None of you has finished a can yet, I see. Was that supposed to be strong?”

There was widespread laughing and elbowing of each other, most of them still clearly convinced that the silly little human was going to throw up and die any second now.

So Oscar set down his food, walked over to the table, and chugged a second one. It was a bit more liquid than his stomach was really happy with, but that was a small price to pay for the uproar that followed.

They exclaimed; they renewed their bets; they drank from their own cans; they got visibly drunker and abandoned their bets.

Oscar leaned against the doorframe, eating spaghetti and food cubes.

After one particularly unsteady crewmate tripped onto the table full of meat, and someone pointed out that the human wasn’t wobbling at all, Oscar said, “You guys don’t know much about my species, do you? Half of what I eat would liquify your insides.” He held up a food cube, eyeing the different colored specks of all the ingredients that made it balanced for an omnivorous digestive system. He laughed. “You guys just eat meat. How boring!”

They only got drunker after that. Oscar was pretty sure that the nearest two wanted to pat him on the back, but the floor was moving too much for them to make it all the way to the doorway. Somebody offered him a raw slab of Dagger Bird. He turned it down with casual scorn.

“Nah, meat isn’t worth eating unless it’s passed through fire. That’s weakling meat you’ve got there. Get back to me when it’s cooked brown.”

They loved that. The party was an epic one, only winding down when most of the crew was too drunk to reach more drinks. Oscar demonstrated his steadiness by picking through the mess to drop his food containers in the trash, then move back to the door.

“Well, it’s been fun,” he said. “I’ll send in the med-drone to make sure nobody’s going to wake up dead. Let me know if you want to get your tails handed to you by any more Dagger Birds. I’ll call ‘em in close for you again.”

He got groggy approval to that.

Oscar left with a smile on his face, and a mild amount of caffeine in his blood. Maybe after stopping by the medcenter, he’d use that energy on some exercise. Thoughts of the run to the hunting grounds, and the way his crewmates had paced themselves, suggested that it wouldn’t take much practice for him to out-endurance the Mighty on the VR treadmill.

I wonder what else I can do?

~~~~~~~~~

By popular request, this is the sequel to the story I posted last week, which is part of the ongoing series of backstory for the main character in this book. (It started that way, at any rate, and turned into a sprawling series in its own right. Fun stuff.)

Patreon opens the day after tomorrow, on May 1st! There's a free tier and everything if you want to keep up without strings attached! And you can even request more delightful nonsense like this.

Onward!

#multiple people wanted to see what happened next #and who am I to say no to that?#this is twice as long as the first story #because I had to cover everything #three cheers for this guy and his newfound respect #not to mention self-confidence #I imagine the dynamic will be different the next time he visits home and interacts with his cousins #noogies from a frat bro is nothing when you've dealt with macho space dinosaurs #anyways; other tags:#humans are weird #hfy #haso #eiad #humans are space orcs #my writing #The Token Human #writeblr #looking forward to the Patreon you guys #it's gonna be great

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sabraeal · 1 month

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don't speak boyshit, Chapter 10

[Read on AO3]

It’s not that Kamitami waits around for Kashima. People get that shit twisted all the time, thinking that they’re joined at the hip just because they’re in the same club a couple days a week, or have stupid kid brothers that like to run around together, or because he acted like some sort of emotional support dog for the first few months after that kid came to the academy. But that’s not why he lingers at the bike rack after practice, fussing at the gears as Kashima herds the skinny little bean sprout that passes for Kotaro out the school doors.

No, it’s because when he gets up, casually dusting off his uniform pants like this is all a happy accident, like he only just saw them wandering down the walkway with a purpose and not whole minutes ago, all he has to say is, “Heading out?” and Kashima replies, “Oh, Kamitani! I didn’t see you there! I guess if you don’t mind.”

He grunts at that, grumbles a bit, but that’s the thing— he doesn’t. Most people are effort, expecting him to do shit like talk and be nice— like he doesn’t have a dozen other things he’d rather be doing than shooting the shit with the boneheads in his class, or being cornered by a bunch of girls who think giggles are a good way to carry a conversation. But Kashima can keep one up all by himself, not expecting anything more than a grunt to tell him to keep going. All those nerds that study physics might say that perpetual motion is impossible, but that’s only because they’ve never seen Kashima on a real jag before midterms. Kid doesn’t even need air sometimes.

He’s quiet today though, letting Kotaro off his leash enough to scramble through some bushes. At least, as long as they stand there, staring at the quivering branches like they have any idea what that kid is up to in there. Which is fine with him; if he can’t count kids then he won’t feel that weird missed-step pitch and roll in his stomach, like something’s missing. Like it’s weird that Taka isn’t in orbit around him, some puny little moon determined to crash right into his planet’s surface, instead of the only thing he’d wanted for the last five years.

Kashima shifts like he might feel it too, like he’s done the mental math and come up one body short of normal. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t fill the air with chatter, telling him that it’s okay to have emotions, to mourn even the positive changes in his life. Doesn’t ask him stupid questions either— that’s what he likes about Kashima, honestly. The kid knows how to stay in his damn la—

“Kamitani?” His name sits high in Kashima’s mouth, strained even as he tries to look casual. “Are you avoiding Inomata-san?”

Well, there goes that. Time to find some new fucking friends.

“Kamitani?” Kashima cranes his huge eyes towards him, shock scrawled across every millimeter of white around them. “Are you?”

He’s not.

That’s the long and short of it. If that girl’s going around complaining that she can’t find him, well— that’s a skill issue. It’s not because he’s been making himself scarce whenever he hears the squeak of her school shoes rounding the corner, or because he’s been finding reasons to stay late at club just in case some nerd’s lurking around the bike rack, waiting to shake him down over her stupid questions. Kamitani isn’t just walking around, letting Inomata live rent-free in his head twenty-four-seven just because she wants to know what his type is.

At least, that’s what he should say. What he wants to, once he’s had some time to stew on it. But what he manages now is, “Shut up.”

A couple years ago that might have actually done it; might have made Kashima’s eyes get all big and watery and sent him scrambling for a safer kind of conversation. But tonight he only sighs, sending him the sort of look that makes Kamitani’s shoulders ache, begging to bow beneath the weight of his disappointment.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you can just say so,” Kashima tells him, all prim, like shut up wasn’t clear enough. “But if you want my opinion—”

“I don’t.”

“—You should talk to her.” His gives the barest little shrug, like this is casual advice, something he probably hadn’t been working himself up to say all evening. “At least find out what she wants to tell you.”

“I already know what she wants.” What feature do you find most physically attractive in the opposite sex and why? “To annoy the shit out of me.”

“Kamitani.” There he goes again, giving him that look, like somehow he’s the wrong one here. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think it will be.”

He’s right. It’ll be worse. “Easy for you to say.”

Kashima hums, unconvinced. “She’s a perfectly nice girl, if you’d just give her a chance. Which you’d know, if you’d just talk to her.”

Kid wouldn’t be so quick to say that if he was the one saddled with fifty short answer questions about what gets his dick hard. “Why should I? Because you think it’s the nice thing to do?”

“Well, yes.” His head tilts, half-thoughtful, half-guilty. “That, and, er…Inomata-san isn’t exactly known for giving up…”

Ah, well. Kamitani grimaces. Kid does have a point. It’s just fifty questions, after all. No wrong answers. “I’ll think about it.”

Just fifty questions.

What traits besides the physical do you find desirable in the opposite sex?

Opinion shit, too. Simple stuff.

What would you consider the ‘perfect date?’

Easy as breathing.

Do you have a ‘type?’ If so, what is it?

Except it’s fucking impossible. Oh, sure, he’d given Kashima a metric ton of shit about letting some perfectly cute girl off because he didn’t know whether he liked her or not. Because he’d spent too much energy trying to figure it out, and he wanted to focus on being a good big brother, or whatever, but now—

Now he’s had two weeks to find out he doesn’t know shit about what he likes either. Just like back in first year, when Kashima cornered him with the sort of questions those stupid magazines asked idols, and all he’d been able to give him was his height and blood type. Only worse, because a third year should know his favorite food, or favorite color, or at least have a fucking opinion about whether he likes shy girls or sporty girls or whatever, and Kamitani—

Kamitani doesn’t. Even when he’s got his dick in his hand, it’s just whoever’s on the cover of the nearest magazines from the neck down. Nothing special, just breasts and butt and the idea of a warm body to make the whole thing go quicker. Real simple. Utilitarian, even. Reasonable.

It’s goddamn embarrassing, that’s what.

“I’m as bad as fucking Kashima,” he grunts, the heel of his hand the only thing keeping his forehead from meeting the desk. He’s half-tempted to let it go— a couple minutes of unconsciousness would be welcome with the way this day is going but—

“What’s up, Captain?” Saginuma’s grin can get him climbing walls on a good day, but right now one flash of it has him putting in real effort not to snap the arm resting between his seat and Kamitani’s desk. Be easy too; the kid doesn’t work out enough to give him more trouble than a toothpick. “Can’t figure out how to get the team to Koshien?”

“Shut up.” That gets his head up at least, even clears it a little. “I could win those games with my eyes closed.”

“Yeah, get real, Saginuma!” Hands clap down on his shoulders, shaking them the way Usokawa’s probably only seen through the TV screen. It takes a full count of ten for Kamitani to convince himself it’s not worth it to break his fingers too. “Kamitani’s got our season on lock. We’re going all the way to—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Saginuma waves him off, already bored. “But it begs that question doesn’t it? If our dear captain here isn’t biting his nails over plays, then just what has got him so stressed out?”

It’s bad enough that he has to suffer that idiot’s grin ratcheting wider, his stupid arm trespassing further into his personal bubble to support that shit-stirring lean— but it’s worse to see he’s got Usokawa doing the same thing, lenses flaring like some lame cartoon villain. Even Ebizawa’s half-turned in his seat.

“None of your business,” he snaps. Stupid move, since that only gets Ebizawa to turn the full way around, brows pitched high on his forehead. “I’m not stressed out.”

“Sure, of course. You’re just pulling your hair out for fun, like the rest of us.” Usokawa adjusts his glasses, too knowing. “Now come on, tell us what’s up.”

“Nothing.” It comes out too fast, too defensive. Might as well have put up a big sign saying, I’m hiding something. Bonehead move, since there’s no way he can asked these losers about—

Or maybe he could. Ebizawa’s had a string of girlfriends; nothing serious, just a few confessions that stretched into a handful of dates, petering out by the time they had to switch uniforms. Even Saginuma had a vague something over summer break second year, at least until the girl left him for the ghoul in 3-B’s haunted house during the culture festival. And Usokawa…

Well. Was Usokawa. Even if he’d never strung more than three words together in front of a girl, he had opinions about them. Not ones Kamitani cared to listen to, but he had them, at least. Unlike some people.

“Hey,” he grunts, scrubbing at the back of his head. “What’s your type?”

Kamitani’s not stupid— he expects the question to land like a bomb, devastating the conversation around it. He expects the silence, the glances that pass between Ebizawa and Saginuma, like there must be something wrong with their ears—

But he doesn’t expect Usokawa’s nearly instant, “B! Just like yours, right, Kamitani?”

It takes his brain a full ass minute to catch up. “I don’t care about your fucking blood type.”

Usokawa blinks. “But you said—?”

“He meant like with girls, idiot.” Ebizawa glances at him, like he can’t quite believe it himself. “Uh, right?”

His shoulders twitch, skin starting to itch right around his collar. “Whatever.”

“What? Really? Kamitani?” Sure, it’s not something he usually cares about, but there’s no reason for Usokawa to gape, pitch forward all slack-jawed like it’s some sort of shock. “Well, I like bookish girls with glasses and a soft side.”

Huh. F cups and a preference for bikinis would have been his guess for that perv, but that’s practically normal. Nice, almost.

“They always have the biggest breasts, after all,” Usokawa leers, and ah, there it is. The weird shit he’s been waiting for. “Plus they get all bashful during the beach chapters when they lose their—”

A well-timed cuff from Saginuma saves him from having to hear anymore about beach episodes. “He means three dimensional girls, idiot.”

“Hey, some of those games are fully rendered n—”

“The ones that aren’t programmed to take their tops off if you feed them enough cheesecake.”

“Oh, well, fine, I guess. In that case,” —Usokawa clears his throat, adjusting his tie for good measure— “my type is anyone who lets me touch them.”

“I said real girls,” Kamitani grunts. “Not non-existent.”

“I kind of like when they’re shy,” Saginuma offers, almost wistful. “Girls, I mean. Though I like them when they’re perky too. Energetic, you know. Or both, I guess.”

“They can’t be both shy and energetic,” Usokawa scoffs, like he’s some sort of expert. “Those are on two completely opposite sides of the same slider, like bookish and sporty—”

“I don’t know, some girls are shy until you get to know them.” Ebizawa shrugs, holding the only brain cell between the three of them. “And then they talk just as much as all the other girls. Sometimes even about the same stuff.”

“Yeah, Usokawa. Girls have layers.” Saginuma grins, adding, “At least the ones in 4D.”

“Hey, my waifus have layers too!” he insists, entirely too earnest. “Some of them even have seasonal outfits!”

Kamitani turns, putting both of those idiots at his back. “What about you?”

Ebizawa blinks. “Me?”

“You’re the only one out of these chucklefucks who’s managed to talk to more than one girl for ten minutes.” And have her keep his interest for longer than it takes the conversation to end. A superpower, as far as Kamitani’s concerned. “What’s your take?”

“Oh…er…” He runs a hand through the fluff of his hair. “I don’t really know. Ah…nice girls, I guess?”

“Nice girls?” Saginuma groans. “Really? All those girlfriends and that’s what you’re got? Girls that are nice to you?” He huffs, shaking his head. “Must be nice to be good looking.”

“T-they don’t have to be nice to me!” Ebizawa sputters, red splotching his cheeks. “Er, I mean…it’s nice, when they are. But I was thinking when they’re like…actually nice. The ones that are always supporting their friends, or uh…helping underclassmen with their work, or like…get chocolates for the whole class on Valentine’s Day—”

“Really?” Saginuma’s brows brush his hairline. “You want obligation chocolate?”

“I’m not saying that I—I want that! I just think it’s just nice that they’d think of everyone when—”

“Not everyone is too proud to take Kamitani’s seconds,” Usokawa sniffs. “Right, Ebizawa?”

“He doesn’t speak for me.” Ebizawa’s gaze cuts to him, desperate. “You know that, right? I don’t want any of your, er…ah….?”

“Actually, yeah.” Saginuma swings back around, forehead crumpled in disbelief. “What is with that, dude? Can’t you be at least a little grateful? Some of the ones you got last year were handmade.”

Annoyance itches up Kamitani’s spine, spiking his shoulders up around his ears. “I don’t like sweet shit. What’s hard to understand?”

“Yeah, but you could be nice about it.” Ebizawa flinches under his glare. “I’m just saying! Girls put in a lot of effort into that sort of stuff. It wouldn’t kill you to think about their feelings.”

“Why the hell do I care?” It’s not like any of those girls cared about his. None of them asked if they could shove their chocolates in his face; they just did it and hoped he’d think they were cute enough not to care that he couldn’t even put a name to a face. Like it wasn’t weird to have upperclassmen corner him with some half-baked confession when they hadn’t even spoken two words to each other. “I’m not interested in any of that sort of shit.”

His life’s complicated enough; the last thing he needs is to add some girl’s tender feelings to the mix. The hag’s bad enough as it is.

“Really?” Saginuma blinks, all wide-eyed, like this is some revelation or something. Like he hasn’t spent the last four years dodging every doe-eyed classmate that tried to get him on the roof alone, or every enterprising senpai that brought him a bento. “You know, now that I’m thinking of it— just what do you like in a girl?”

“Oh, hey, yeah!” Usokawa whips around in his seat, practically vibrating. “You’ve asked all of us, but you haven’t said— what’s your type, cap?”

It’s just his luck that every conversation in this classroom reaches a fucking lull just in time for Usokawa to put his personal business on blast. There’s not one head that doesn’t snap to their corner, the weight of thirty stares boring into into him and—

And Kamitani scowls. This isn’t just a mistake, it’s a fucking disaster.

“None of your business,” he grunts, already halfway out of his chair. There’s no plan once he gets out of it, just a certainty that anywhere he goes will be better than staying here, but—

Bing-bong ding-dong.

“All right, students,” Kumatsuka-sensei hums, quiet voice carrying beneath the last tolling note of the bell. “Time to take your seats.”

The thing is: he really doesn’t care about this shit. Perfect dates and blood types and whether someone’s chocolates end up on his desk out of obligation or not— none of that matters. The other guys might waste their time thinking about which girl in class fills out the uniform best, or who would look the cutest in a yukata, or whether they have a chance of getting either of them to kiss them on the school roof before the end of the year, but that’s not his problem.

A girlfriend’s inevitable; the kind of thing that’ll happen to him one day no matter how he feels about it. Worrying over when or how is like tearing his hair out over earthquakes that’ll hit in his thirties— absolutely useless, and completely out of his control. It’ll either wreck his whole life or it won’t; he doesn’t need to have an opinion about whether it’ll have a B or C cup when it does.

Or at least he didn’t, until now. Because now it’s weird that he hasn’t.

“Kamitani-senpai?” Chain link rattles as Sato settles against the batting cage next to his, arms folded just under the name stitched onto her windbreaker. “Got something on your mind?”

None of your business sits at the tip of his tongue— a reflex, really, a rock he’s always ready to throw— but there’s no one else here on the pitch, and if he’s being fair, it’s a manager’s job to ask that sort of thing. “No.”

“Senpai.” It huffs out of her, as close to a laugh as he’s heard from her. “The machine stopped pitching balls two minutes ago.”

The bat dips in his fingers, scuffing dirt across the plate. “Huh? Re—?”

A ball whiffs past— the perfect one, a real potential out-of-the park pitch— the whole cage rattling as chain link catches it instead of aluminum. Sato simply says. “No.”

Kamitani’s cleats kick up clay as he shifts, abandoning his hitter’s stance to scowl. Another pitch whizzes through, hitting the chain a little lower, and she adds, “But you didn’t notice one way or another, did you?”

Kid’s got him there. He sighs, leaning back until metal crowds him, worn enough to bow out and cradle his shoulders. Her head cocks, bobbed hair settling against the line of her jaw. Makes it look strong, like she belongs here, part of the team rather than just a cheerleader on the sidelines.

“Sato.” This time the machine’s really out, gears clucking across the pitch, whining and whirring until it finally shuts off. “You’re a girl.”

She blinks— real slow, mouth rucking up all weird too, weight shifting until she goes from at rest to potential energy all at once. “Is that what you were thinking about, senpai?”

“What?” It’s not like he needs to meditate on her bone structure to figure it out; the bust-to-waist ratio kinda gives it away. “No. I’m saying that you know what girls are thinking. Because you are one.”

Kamitani’s not the type to give ground, but he will give the kid this: he’s earned the epic side-eye she slants him, both brows hiked up to hit her hairline. Or at least, he assumes they are after he loses line-of-sight over the event horizon of her bangs. “I know what I’m thinking, at least.”

Good enough. “If you were asking a guy about his type, what would you want him to tell you?”

Sato stares. “Is someone asking you that kind of stuff, senpai?”

“Hypothetically,” he grunts, shoulders hunched. “What would a girl be looking for?”

There’s a pause— a long one; strained, like she’s coming up with answers he’ll never have the clearance to hear— before she says, “A boyfriend?”

“Not happening.” Not when his only qualification for this whole survey business is that he’s best friends with the idiot Inomata actually likes. “What else.”

“I don’t know about that, senpai.” Her nose scrunches up, all dubious. “Are you sure she doesn’t want you to say she’s your type?”

“Hell no.” Inomata might not know much about this shit, but even she’s not stupid enough to expect ‘high-maintenance know-it-all’ to rank at the top of anyone’s list. “This is…informational. Data, or whatever.”

“O…kay.” She fixes him with this look, one that says then-what-the-hell-are-we-doing-here-senpai, and, god, he should have just kept his mouth shut. “Then why can’t you just tell her what you’re into?”

Kamitani might be shit with his feelings or whatever, but even he knows that it’s frustration that makes his neck knot up so much it aches, that makes his fingers so stiff they practically crack as he drags his hat down, covering his face. “Forget it. This is stupid.”

“W-wait! Senpai”— there’s chain link between them, but Sato half-reaches out anyway, eyes wide— “do you not…? I mean, with girls, don’t you—?”

“Girls are hot.” There’s some heat behind it when he says it, a different kind of frustration funneling right out of his mouth, the kind that hits him when school skirts slip a little too far up a thigh, or when his elbow brushes past something that certainly isn’t a shoulder, but he’d rather die than let more of it out. “I just don’t think about it all the time.”

Sato blinks. “Oh. Okay. So you don’t really have a, er…?”

“I just don’t get what people want to hear,” he grounds out, folding his arms to hide the way his hands clench. “Like, what? That tits are good? Or that I care about some hobby or whatever? I don’t.”

“Ah, I…see. I think.” Her head tilts again, but this time it’s assessing, like she’s trying to figure out his fucking problem. “Maybe you should think of it like…what’s the first thing you notice about a girl when you look at her?”

Easy. How annoying she’s going to be until he finds a reason to walk away. “Legs?”

Sato coughs, like something’s gone down the wrong pipe. “Well. That’s a start.”

He frowns. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Her grimace is all the answer he needs. “Okay, what if you thought about it more as…if you were going to date someone, senpai, what would you want them to be like?”

Nothing like the old hag, for one. “Normal.”

Sato’s whole face furrows, like not only is his answer shitty, but it has a stank to it too. “Normal.”

“Like they don’t get weird or whatever.” It’s self-explanatory, really, but Sato keeps staring at him like he belongs beneath a microscope. Or maybe on the bottom of her shoe. “You know what I mean. Girls are fine, but then they become girlfriends and just hang off a guy until something shakes ‘em off.”

“And that’s”— she hesitates— “bad?”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Because then they wanna go on dates. Get all picky over who a guy talks to, even if it’s just for school stuff. Want to call them by their first name.”

Kamitani hadn’t even known Ebizawa had a name, not until his last two-month wonder came in with a special bento just for her Arata-kun. He could have died happy never knowing.

Sato sighs, hand rubbing over her face. “Senpai, are you even sure you want a girlfriend?”

“I’m not talking about me,” he grunts. “This for data or whatever.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, senpai” — she glances up at him, shaking her head— “but I think you’re an outlier.”

Outlier — that’s a nice way to put it, one even Kashima would be hard put to argue over. He’d try, of course, say a bunch of things about opportunity and responsibilities and everyone taking things at their own pace, but it wouldn’t change the facts:

It’s fucking stupid that he can’t figure this out.

“Hayato!” The hag doesn’t so much shout his name as let it reverberate through the whole house, practically shaking the floorboards just to get attention. “Hurry up! I’m leaving in ten.”

Kamitani grunts, wrist-deep in his shirt drawer. The same place he’s been standing for the past five fucking minutes, thinking about this shit instead of picking between long sleeves and short ones. Because that’s apparently where this whole disaster has put him— not able to think and function at the same time. “Give me a minute, woman!”

It’s Inomata’s fault. He’d been just fine before he looked at her stupid questions, but one flip through them has him so twisted up he’s struggling to put his arms through the right holes, taking no less than three tries to get the damn thing buttoned the right way and—

“Hayato!” His teeth clack down so tight he nearly scrapes a layer off his tongue. “Let’s go!”

“I’m coming,” he growls, shoving his shirt down into his pants. “I’m coming.”

His hands fumble the belt— someone needs to put him out of his fucking misery already— and it’s with one last glance in the mirror that he sees red and white stripes balled up in the corner. A half-tied, hopeless mess that’s probably been there since April, when the old taskmaster that ran this school insisted that everyone had to wear their full uniform to the Entrance Ceremony, and—

There’s a tie in our dress code. Even now he can see that sour sneer she gave him, all superior, like being top-spot in the Advanced Class made her better than him. As a third year, you might bother to wear one.

It’s stupid. He couldn’t be paid enough to care about what Inomata thinks about him. And still—

Still he snatches that tie and sling it over his neck. Let her fucking choke on that.

Lunch bell’s hardly rung before Saginuma’s hanging over his seat, phone shoved right up under his nose. “You guys seen this yet?”

Kamitani’s neck cranes back, the black blur on the screen resolving into a blur with shit on it. “Maybe,” he grunts, knocking Saginuma’s arm wide. “If you didn’t just shove it in my face.”

Kid doesn’t even break stride, just lets his phone settle between the four of them as he plows on. “It’s Onibaba’s Curse 3: The Cure, the sequel to Onibaba’s Curse—”

“I know how numbers work,” Kamitani grunts, glaring down at the screen. Not that there’s much on it— just black and some white figure, no less blurry at this distance. “What’s it got to do with me?”

“It’s playing at the theater in town right now.” Ebizawa and Usokawa are crowding in now, and Saginuma puffs up as he says, “We should go see it. I heard it’s even scarier than the first one, and that—”

“Nearly had Kashima climbing out of his skin,” Usokawa reminds him. It’s gleeful, the way he says it, a feature rather than a warning. “Sounds perfect.”

Kamitani catches the empty seat to his side and frowns. “Where the hell is Kashima, anyway? Didn’t he bring lunch today?”

“He did.” Usokawa turns wistful, one cheek propped up on his hand. “Probably made by that butler of his. Think he’ll let me have a slice of his omelet if I give him one of my hot dog octopuses?”

“No deal. That guy makes a whole aquarium’s worth of those suckers,” Saginuma sighs. “And they’re made from the really fancy dogs too.”

“Aw, but—”

“I didn’t ask about his hot dogs.” It comes out of him like a whip crack, a roll of thunder right before lightning strikes, but neither one of them does so much as jump, too caught up in dreaming about Saikawa’s stupid sausages. “Where’s Kashima?”

“He got called out by another girl again.” Ebizawa shakes his head, huffing, “This is, what? The third one this month? It’s not even summer break.”

“It’s third year, I’m telling you.” Usokawa’s eyes blink wide behind his glasses. “It makes the girls crazy. All of them are looking for their high school romance, and they’re taking no prisoners.”

Kamitani snorts. “Seems like they’re taking plenty of prisoners, actually.”

“Hey.” Ebizawa shifts in his seat, pitching himself up on one knee. “If we’re gonna get bread, we should probably get going.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kamitani gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders to work the stiffness out of them. “I’m—”

“You!” School shoes squeal as they skid to a stop right in front of him, and oh, he knows that stomp too well to even need to glance above the knee-highs. “Don’t move.”

It’s nothing to smirk down into Inomata’s scowl, to straighten from his slouch and loom every last inch over her, enjoying the way her mouth only furrows further into her cheeks. “And what are you going to do—?”

About it, that’s what he should be saying. Maybe even with a real aggressive lean, feet planted so she can’t haul him off like she did last time. But she wraps a whole hand around his tie and tugs instead, and the thought rattles right out of him, ideas as dried up as his mouth.

“Come with me,” she grunts, another good yank driving him two steps after her. He barely makes it; the room tilts as Inomata herds him out, knees suddenly jelly, trembling, and—

And she’s got to be choking the life out of him. That’s why everything’s gone all swimmy, breath ragged like he’s run four kilometers without stopping for air.

“Hey.” He digs in his heels, hauling her up short. “Cut it out.”

She scowls up at him, knuckles still blanched to match the red and white wrapped around them. It’d be nothing to knock her away, to squeeze that wrist until her fingers untangled themselves, but instead he just stands there, stupid, as she snaps, “We don’t have all day.”

Kashima’s the kind of idiot that would just take it, that would stand here, letting his mouth work— babbling, probably— until she hauled him off. But Kamitani— Kamitani waits until he’s sure his knees will hold him before he yanks the tie from her grip, demanding, “Just where are we going?”

Inomata blinks— all slow, like he’s the idiot— and says, “The courtyard.”

He frowns. “What? Why?”

“What do you mean why?” She lifts the bag in her hand— a nice cloth one, the kind the rich kids always had wrapped around their parent-packed bentos— and says, “It’s lunch time.”

That girl might not have him on a leash anymore, but she still bullies him right down onto one of the courtyard’s empty benches. One of the last ones, by the looks of it; everywhere else is covered in couples, making doe-eyes at each other, feeding each other from their nearly compartmentalized meals. Thankfully they’re all too wrapped up with each other to notice when Inomata shoves a bento in his lap, a single sheet of printed paper balanced on top.

“What the hell is this about?” Kamitani grunts, glaring as she drops down beside him, her own bento perched in her lap. “I was gonna get bread.”

“This is better than bread,” she informs him primly, breaking apart her chopsticks with the same precision as she arranges the pleats on her skirt, a sharp charcoal horizon cutting across her knees. “This is a balanced meal.”

He glares down at the metal lid, dubious. “Curry bread is balanced. There’s meat. Bread. Stuff.”

“It’s really not. Now hurry up and eat.” Her chopstick stabs toward the paper he’s snatched up between his fingers. “You’ll need time to fill out the rubric.”

“The…?” It’s a grid, he realizes, staring down at the sheet. Flavor, one square says, while another below it reads, Mouth Feel. There’s other squares beside them too— comments, the first one reads, while the one after says, score—

A grading rubric. She’s given him a grading rubric for lunch.

“There’s something wrong with you, you know that?” he grumbles, flicking open the latch. “Something real unbalanced.”

“Well, if you can’t answer some simple questions” — simple, she says, like it would take a real moron to get caught up on question two. Like a hot-blooded high school boy should know what he likes when it bends over right in front of him— “then I’ll have to resort to acquiring useful data through other means.”

He snorts. “Like making me choke down your cooking?”

“Don’t scoff when you haven’t even looked at it.” Her chin lifts, all prideful, but he can’t help but notice she hasn’t opened hers either. “Maybe I’ve struggled with some of the…er…finer points of pastry, but even I can make a bento.”

“We’ll see,” he hums, giving her rubric a pointed glance. She swallows at that, real thick, the nerves starting show in the way her fingers clench against her own tin, and, well, he might as well put her out of her misery—

“What?” It’s barely more than an exhale, breathy as she leans closer, glancing between the open bento and the look on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s vegetables in this.” Bell peppers, broccoli, and the worst offender: carrots. Big, thick slices too, laid right on top of his rice. Gross.

Her forehead furrows, mouth rucked up with annoyance. “There’s vegetables in curry too.”

He grunts, rolling the chopsticks in his hand, trying to figure out how to get to the actual food underneath. “Not ones I can see.”

Inomata stares at him, real nasty-like, as if he’s the problem, and not the girl who put vegetables in his lunch. “How are you one of this school’s top athletes? You eat like a garbage bin.”

“I’m a growing boy.” That’s what the hag always says at least, before shoving more bok choy onto his plate. Chopsticks clacking, he excavates the rice beneath a strip of nori, stopping to pick up fish and pickled radish before shoveling the whole thing into his mouth.

Inomata pitches forward, eyes wide. “Well?”

He shrugs, picking out a slice of carrot. “It’s edible.”

“Edible.” He might as well have said disgusting from the way she groans, a useless heap collapsed over her completely untouched lunch. “I don’t want it to be edible.”

Kamitani shovels in another bite— this one with pickled lotus— and it’s…passable. Nutritious, if not exactly mouthwatering. He’d probably finish the whole thing, if she let him stop talking long enough. “Considering some of the other stuff you’ve made, you should be happy I’m not calling a dentist.”

“The point isn’t just to not cause physical harm,” she grits out, still not eating. “It’s supposed to display the sort of skills that would make me…girlfriend material.”

Inomata slumps, hair falling forward in a solid black sheet, hiding her face like she’s that girl from Ringu. Dejected, that’s how she looks. Mortified too, knowing her. Completely hopeless.

It doesn’t fit on her. Same way that case of nerves didn’t in his house, making her look all coltish and lost, like some little kid, and—

And maybe there is something wrong with this bento after all, since he gets that weird pit in his stomach again, the kind that can’t be filled with more rice and a hefty dose of curry bread. His mouth rumples, wrinkling as the words shove themselves out between his teeth. “It’s not bad.”

Her head rolls toward him across her shoulders, fixing him with a flat stare. “Do you want to date me now?”

Ha. Now that's fucking funny. “It’d take more than a bento to do that.”

“That’s what I thought.” She sighs, straightening her spine along with her skirt. Only one of them needs it. “Well, if there’s something you’d actually like to eat, just make a note of it somewhere on the rubric. I won’t make any promises, but…I can take it into consideration.”

He glances up at her, fingers stiff where they settle against the chopsticks. “So this what we’re doing now? Bento?”

Her palms smooth over her already pristine pleats. “It seems the most obvious skill for improvement. Yagi-san said—”

“Yagi.” He nearly spits out the fish in his mouth. “You’re taking advice from that pervert?”

Red flares over her cheeks, splotchy and uneven, but her shoulders take on a defensive hike. “Well, I wouldn’t be, if someone had given me something else to go off of. But if there’s anyone who knows what a bento should be like…”

It would be the prince of third year, who had his pick. “Why are you so worried about what he thinks anyway? Shouldn’t you be making stuff Kashima likes?”

“Well, ideally— yes. But…” Her shoulders twitch, a flinch rather than a shrug. “It’s not as if I have a natural way to ask. We don’t…hang out outside of school hours.”

“Does anybody?” he grunts, so dry he nearly scorches his mouth. But she glances up at him, all reproachful, like she doesn’t know if he’s teasing her or Kashima, and there it is, that stupid knot again, lodged right in his gut. “Listen. We’re going to a movie this weekend.”

Inomata glances up at him, brows furrowed. “Huh?”

“The guys. All of us together.” There’s an itch between his shoulders he can only scratch with a shrug. “Kashima’s coming too.”

Or at least he will be, once Kamitani’s done with him.

“Oh.” Her head tilts, wary. “That’s…nice?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What I’m trying to say is: it’d probably be fine if you came.”

“What?” She’s all eyes when she blinks, mouth falling slack. “You mean…really? And you wouldn’t mind?”

“Yeah.” He sets the chopsticks over the empty tin. “It’s fine or whatever.”

“Real—?”

“I said it’s fine, didn’t I?” he snaps. “Besides, I owe you for the lunch.”

“But…” Her mouth works, rounding over a half dozen words before she sits back, hands pressed flat against her untouched bento. “All right. Sure. I think I could make that work.”

She spares him the smallest, shyest glance. “T-thank—”

“Shut up,” he grunts. “Just eat your damn food already.”

“I-I don’t know.” Kashima’s pale when they finally corner him before homeroom, eyes darting all over like he’s looking for an exit. “I-I might have to look after Kotaro that day.”

“Kashima,” Saginuma groans, hands slapping to his face. “Come on. The headmistress can’t spare you for a day?”

“I mean, sure, but really…i-it’s fine.” He puts on that shaky little smile of his, and Kamitani knows: if he looked under the kid’s desk, his knees would be quivering. “B-besides, it’s not like those sorts of movies are, you know…my thing, really…”

Kamitani had assumed it would be him who had to lean in, him who had to put the nail in the coffin, but instead it’s Ebizawa, brows pitched to his hairline as he asked, “Oh, so you’re scared?”

“W-what? No.” He can’t tell whether Kashima is shaking his head or just having full body tremors. “I’d be perfectly happy to go, if it wasn’t for—”

“So you’re coming?” Kamitani doesn’t even flinch when the kid turns that betrayed look his way. He’ll thank him later. Probably. “The hag’s gonna have to get used to not having you around anyway. She won’t have all this free labor when you’ve got entrance exams.”

Or after, but he knows better than to say that. He’s not going to be the one that gets Kashima to chicken out of college just because it might be more than two doors down from his brother.

“I-I suppose so.” The kid straightens, nodding. “I’ll, ah, see what I can’t work out.”

“Hell yes!” Usokawa whoops. “The five of us, hitting the town—”

“About that.” Kamitani strives to keep his voice even as he says, “I’m bringing someone with me.”

Saginuma blinks. “Yeah, sure, man. Whatever. The more the merrier.”

“No problem at all!” Usokawa adds, as if he has any bearing on the answer. “Anyone you bring is sure to be cool!”

“Yeah.” Kamitani smothers a grimace. “We’ll see about that.”

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