Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

< hey. i’m sorry but i don’t think this is gonna

Itaru drops the phone before he even finishes reading the entire sentence.

Getting dumped? Plenty of experience points there. Getting dumped via text message? That’s a new skill he didn't think he would have any levels in. Oh well. One more thing to add to his lore entry in the codex.

It’s not that he has anything against the people he dates. Well… no, that’s a blatant lie, he does have his grievances. It’s just that, they always end up wanting more than he feels comfortable giving.

He’s already compromising by splitting his time between playing games and going out with them. But they always seem to end up wanting more. Asking for more. More of his time, his attention, his commitment.

All these strings attached to being stable partners. All these questions he can’t answer without either lying to himself or to whoever he’s dating at the moment. It’s exhausting. How do couples in established relationships even deal with this?

“It’s probably just me, isn’t it,” Itaru mumbles to the empty, stuffy air of his bedroom. The chibi Lancelot figurine that sits on the shelf above his desk doesn’t deign him with a reply. His PC fans whir loudly in complaint, but don't provide much else in the way of advice.

It’s probably just him. Maybe he isn’t cut out for love and romance. Maybe he’s doomed to a life of solitude, with only his videogames to keep him company. Nobody will become his other half, or complete him and make him whole. Like his parents warned him. Like his sister teased him.

It sounds like a fate worse than death, when others say it.

Then why does it sound so appealing to him, the more he thinks about it?

Even without a single romantic bone in his body, Itaru can’t deny that he does have desires. He does have a libido.

And he’s not like those sexless freaks that the sections of the internet he likes to frequent keep mocking and making fun of. He’s not a virgin nerd loser, thanks to his prettyboy looks and the bare minimum of communication skills that his sister drilled into him for his social makeover. More than once, he’s gotten his dates to put out on the second or third date, just by laying on the charm a little thick. With a wink, or a lopsided smile, or a hand around their waist, pulling in.

Before they end up dumping him, anyway.

It’s scumbag behaviour, he knows in the back of his mind. In the way social media loudly decries that sort of thing. Slut. Whore. Hookup culture is ruining the sanctity of human connections! Says one thinkpiece article after another. The only one you should lose your virginity to is the one you want to spend the rest of your life with!

(But not when it comes to the men who fuck around? Just women? Double standard, much? That men get to treat sex as a bodycount list of conquered trophies while women who sleep around are either shameful or shameless?)

(Itaru does not remember who he lost his V-card to. A girlfriend in university? A classmate in highschool? Whoever the lucky or unlucky lady is, she must not remember him either. Just a prettyboy face with a fake personality to match.)

Does he feel bad about it? Well, yeah. He doesn’t particularly like seeing bitter disappointment, or scathing judgement, or tired resignation, in someone's eyes when they look at him.

But Itaru cannot help what he is.

There’s not a single romantic bone in his body, and he doesn’t know how to respond to these silent pleas for more without stretching himself thin and letting the princely mask slip. And that would spell disaster for everyone involved, so he'd rather not let things get even close to that catastrophic point of no return.

He doesn’t want to hurt people, but neither does he want to be hurt.

Itaru looks at his phone, at his thumb hovering over the install button of a hookup app. This way is for the best. Surely there are others like him, looking for one night stands. No attachment, no lingering feelings. As long as he can get off and get on with his life. If he has to be a little secretive about it, has to be a little choosy about who he swipes right on, well, that’s a fair price to pay to keep both his identities under wraps.

And if not, then, there’s always his backlog of eroge to fall back on.

Mankai sweeps him up in its warm embrace, and Itaru… finds that he does not mind as much as he thought he would. The Spring Troupe, plus the Director, colourful cast of personalities that they are, are comfortable to be around. Comfortable to be with.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Itaru sleeps in the presence of someone else, multiple someones, even, without the intention of bedding any of them. (Aside from the obvious fact that two of them are still minors.)

Itaru deletes the hookup app after the night he promises to stay. He figures that, now that he has his face attached to one more public persona, it’s too risky to keep soliciting strangers for casual sex.

Surprisingly, his libido is kept in check by the effort and energy he puts into theater instead. Something about inducing the same or similar rush of feel-good brain chemicals after a fulfilling round of practice, probably.

As for the unromantic aspect of him, well, that part still hasn’t changed. He still doesn’t think about partnering up with someone for the long-term future, still doesn’t think about wedding vows and children and passing down the Chigasaki name like a proper only-son-of-the-family should.

But maybe that’s because he now has that sort of ‘ideal’ family that so many seem to long for, even if it’s just in the setting of an etude.

A loving wife and three kids.

It’s not all that bad, but only because it’s not all that real, either. It’s not like Citron is actually his wife (husband? spouse?) or Sakuya, Masumi, and Tsuzuru are actually his sons.

And maybe it’s because of exactly that, that he finds himself caring for them. Not because any of them want him to. Not because any of them ask for more than what he’s willing to give. There’s no true obligation, no unspoken contract thrust upon him by others’ expectations; he cares for them because he wants to. Because he likes them, and likes being around and with them.

Because they’re family, even if not by blood. Maybe it’s even because they’re not family by blood that makes him feel so strongly about this strange new tangle of bonds he finds himself in.

Itaru looks at his bouquet of Spring and thinks, I still like playing single-player campaigns the most, but co-op party games are nice, too.

Of course, that doesn’t mean his libido disappears completely. It was fine when they had to worry over the success of the Romeo and Julius performance looming ahead, but now that the play’s run is over and they’re passing the baton over to the next runner in the race, the newly-formed Summer Troupe—it hits Itaru with the full force of a truck ready to make him the protag of the next shitty isekai light novel bestseller.

This time, his 2D hentai CG collection doesn’t cut it. Nor do the porn vids, of increasing subject variety and niche, when he starts renting them to jerk off to. His own hand just isn’t enough company for how pent up he is. But neither does he want to reinstall the hookup app again, because he can’t afford to smear the company’s name with a scandal on the off-chance that he gets caught.

His saviour, ironically, is his unlawfully unwedded not-spouse.

Citron comes to his room one weekend night and—propositions him. Something casual, something with no strings attached. Just a fun thing to do between two friends.

Normally, with such a beneficial arrangement, Itaru would find no reason to refuse, but… he hesitates. Just as he does not want to be hurt, so it goes that he doesn’t want to hurt others either. And Citron, he knows, is quite the romantic at heart, and out loud.

Won’t this be an unfair, one-sided relationship, biased in his favour? If Itaru only takes and does not give, because he is still unwilling, unable to give it?

“It isn’t unfair, because I’m not asking for it. I don’t want to have something unwillingly given, either.”

Citron’s expression is soft and honest and kind, a diminished echo of how he usually presents himself. But he, too, hesitates before he can cross the line.

He takes Itaru’s hand in his own and presses it to his chest, and Itaru dreads what he might feel there. But contrary to his expectations, Citron’s heart thumps at a steady, measured pace. Not like the rapid heartbeat of someone in love, like how it’s always depicted in romance movies and novels and dramas.

“You’re not in love with me.” It comes out as more of a statement than a question.

Citron’s smile is tight as he answers, slowly and carefully picking out the words.

“I do love you, in the way that I love a lot of things. A lot of people. I’ve been told before… that my heart is too generous. That I love too much, and too many at once. It angers some and disappoints others that they cannot be the single target of my affections. But I cannot help what I am. I cannot shrink my heart to be any smaller, to fit only one person inside.”

The opposite of me, Itaru thinks, but also, kinda the same?

“I am afraid… of overwhelming you. Of pushing you away. I do not want you to feel in―indent―indented? Ah, what is another word for… obliged, to return what I want to give to you. But all the same, I want to give it to you. My love, and a place in my heart, if you’ll have it.”

That look of fearful sadness doesn’t belong on Citron’s face, Itaru thinks.

(Also, he probably meant indebted. Itaru doesn't know how being indented would feel, but he imagines it's something like being a little to the side of his usual self, whatever that means in a non-metaphorical sense. Maybe it's much like how Citron seems to be at this very moment, as ironic as that would be.)

He should be smiling. He should be carefree. Citron’s fingers curl and twist around his own, lacing their hands together. And… Itaru finds that he doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would.

His heart doesn’t flutter, but Citron’s warmth pressed against him—it’s pleasant. There's no shortness of breath, no rush of adoration or butterflies in his stomach, no grand realization of hidden feelings or anything. Perhaps that would be underwhelming to anyone else, but Itaru likes it that way. Just a simple, steady assurance that nothing has to change in a big way. It’s nice.

Still, he wants to put it in no uncertain terms. So that neither of them will be disappointed; so that neither of them will get hurt.

“Just to be clear, this isn’t you asking for my hand in marriage in advanced Citronese, right? To have and to hold for eternity and all that. You can hug me and kiss me if you want, I don’t think I'd mind, but I probably won’t initiate any of that myself. And…”

Here he falters, because this has always been the biggest stumbling block with everyone he’s ever tried to have a relationship with, but he pushes through, because he has to. For both their sakes.

“I do care for you, because I like you as a person, as a, a―friend, but I’m always gonna end up putting myself first. I’m not gonna compromise any part of myself for you. Not my hobbies, not my personality, nothing.”

The words leave him like a grave confession of sin, but Citron’s eyes twinkle like evening stars upon receiving them.

“Oh, Itaru, you silly goose! Why would I ever ask you to change? You as you are, both the princely Itaru who only shows off his cool side and the slob gamer Itaru who doesn't hide anything, is who I fell in love with, after all.”

Does Citron know how much those words come as a relief to him? Maybe he does, because Itaru knows how emotionally intelligent Citron truly is, under all those verbal typos and outlandish jokes. He’s seen it firsthand, after all, that day before RomiJuli’s final performance.

The relief floods through and out of him with a sigh, and Citron giggles when he dips forward and leans all of his weight into Citron. It’s Citron who wraps his arms around Itaru in a hug, and it’s Citron who presses his lips against Itaru’s forehead in a kiss, but it’s Itaru who doesn’t reject any of those advances, simply luxuriating in the feel of having it lavished upon him. It’s nice. He doesn’t mind.

Citron clears his throat.

“About the, um, offer I made you, though. There’s just one more teeny tiny thing I have to tell you.”

Itaru hums, pulling back. Citron looks uncharacteristically bashful, so he draws himself up to full attention.

“I’ve never been bedded before,” he admits in a whispered rush. “You will have to teach me.”

…Oh. Oh? Oh!

“Oooh, yeah, okay. I’ve only ever been with women so I don’t know how this works either.”

Also, because Itaru’s a lazy fuck, he’s never been the one to do any of the prep. Just wham, bam, thank you ma’am. But seeing as they’re both beginners in this aspect—and because he cares for Citron enough to not want to hurt him—Itaru figures that putting in some effort is the least he should do.

He pulls up the internet browser on his phone and shuffles around to bump their shoulders together, holding it out so Citron can see the screen as well. Time to do some brushing up on his strats before taking this unfamiliar branch of the 2-player questline he’s otherwise cleared so many times before.

Chapter Text

Summer passes into Autumn passes into Winter, and the family that is Mankai grows larger and more colourful through the seasons.

They’re all quirky people, coming from all walks of life, to the point that Itaru doesn’t feel like the odd one out anymore—nobody bats an eye at his otaku lifestyle when there’s an actual honest-to-god A-list child celebrity, a yakuza debt collector, and a homeless amnesiac among them.

And what’s more surprising is how easily he forms connections even outside of Spring, becoming gamer buddies with Banri and Taichi and going for drinks with Tsumugi and Tasuku and driving the Summer kids around for their errands and hobbies.

The fact that the adult crowd are all quite good-looking people is a neat bonus, too. When the guillotine of the debt stops hanging over their necks after the act-off against God-za and they’re all settled in, comfortable and secure that they have a place to stay and belong, Itaru decides, why not? Might as well help himself to the food at the buffet, right?

Some of them are receptive to it, and some of them are flattered but politely not interested, and none of them really bat an eye beyond a few genuinely curious questions when he explains himself and what his deal is, in bits and pieces not because he dreads their reactions but because he doesn’t really know how to put it in words.

In a place full of people with all sorts of personal issues and secrets, there’s no real room for judgement anyway.

And to his surprise, he finds a few fellow companions in that regard as well, though there’s variance, a spectrum of perspectives he’s never thought of beyond his own but makes sense in hindsight:

Some are enamoured by the idea of romance when it comes to others, but not so much with regards to their own love life or lack thereof—Kazunari of notorious Shoujo Manga Appreciation Club fame reveals himself to be this type; some are strictly averse to it and fear the unwanted weight of romantic expectations placed upon them by others—a quiet admission from Tsumugi that Itaru treats with the utmost respect and consideration it deserves; and some simply have never put much thought in it and could easily go with or without, one way or another—understandable, considering the ups and downs of Omi’s turbulent adolescence.

It eases the harsher bite of loneliness, soothes the sting in Itaru’s chest, to know that he’s not alone in navigating this. This strange absence of what’s considered normal, though he won’t call it a lacking of anything, even if greater society condemns it as such.

He’s not the odd one out in the world, not when some of his companions share the same outlook on love and romance. He is a little bit of an outlier when it comes to his nightlife, though. Maybe he's playing into some negative stereotype about otaku having abnormally high sex drives but to that, he can only say: lol. Lmao. Orz, even.

The days come and go and he shares a bed with most of the consenting adults at least once, and some more than once, and very occasionally with more than one person at a time, because Itaru is a horny, horny gremlin of a man and he’s basically living out his harem anime dreams here, if they ever made any of those that catered to a gay or bisexual audience and not just the straight dudes.

But it’s much, much more fulfilling than he could’ve ever dreamed it to be, because he cares for all these people. He likes them enough to spend time with them even when none of them ask for his time. He trusts them enough to offer up his own secrets, and trusts them enough to not take advantage of his vulnerabilities.

Itaru opens and bares his heart to them, but does not give it to anyone. His heart is his own and belongs to himself; they can look and touch, but not take, and at the end of the day he slips it back into his own chest, secure and comfortable in the knowledge that nobody begrudges him for not giving it away.

Time passes, as time is in the habit of doing when nobody’s looking, and as everyone grows ever more familiar with each other, the dynamics of the intricate web of relationships within Mankai go through a few developments here and there to fit the gradual but insistent change.

The way Summer and Autumn so easily mingle together before splitting off in mixed groups of twos and threes, the way Winter falls into lockstep to the point that it’s difficult to find one of them without another close by.

All these fledgling links, big and small, flowerbud connections blooming into different shapes and sizes. All here in their communal garden, thriving under the sunshine-spotlight of theater and tended to by their dear Director.

Even in Spring, things are changing. Itaru gets to see one such example up close and personal, in the way that it’s all too clear how Citron’s clearly harbouring some sort of attraction to Sakuya.

Sure, Citron’s brand of casual affection has ramped up in intensity, and it’s a little funny to see how the rest of the company reacts to it versus Spring, who have mostly gotten used to it: kisses pressed to Masumi’s head, to Tsuzuru’s cheeks, to Itaru’s hands, to Sakuya’s closed eyelids.

But Itaru can see how he’s holding back specifically when it comes to Sakuya. How Citron’s eyes linger a bit too long on Sakuya’s lips before he changes course and pulls him in for a tight hug instead. Itaru sees the struggle in Citron’s heart and wonders if he has the necessary stats to step in and pull off a successful assist or if his meddling might inflict a debuff on Citron, or worse, trigger a bad end flag for the CitoSaku route instead.

He doesn't fancy himself a cupid, so maybe the best thing to do is to just watch and wait. In any case, his room and his couch or his bed are always open for Citron to crash on and take shelter in, should he feel the need to. Not the most conventional or appropriate form of support, sure, but Itaru’s never really been a conventional (or appropriate) sort of person, has he.

No, the thing that requires Itaru’s attention more, right now, is their rookie sixth to Spring’s established family of five.

Established makes it sound like they don’t have a place for him, but it’s not like they’re shutting him out. Rather—Chikage doesn’t let himself fit in. Doesn’t respond to Masumi’s snark, doesn’t answer Tsuzuru’s questions, doesn’t laugh at Citron’s jokes, doesn’t see Sakuya even though he’s looking their leader right in the eyes.

The person right now who’s closest to Chikage is Itaru himself, as comes with the territory of being his roommate, and even then, there’s not much he can do to bridge the gap between them and the others when his own window into Chikage is covered by heavy blinds, thick curtains, and frosted glass. Minimal contact, untouched bedsheets, one-sided conversations about nothing that means anything meaningful.

Itaru is not in the habit of building bridges, not when the last one he built all those years ago burned down from both sides, but. You see, he quite likes Mankai, this place that’s accepted all parts of him without asking him to change, and if Chikage proves a threat to his sanctuary, then…

Well. Not like Itaru can defeat him; their levels are too disparate for him to even have a chance in a head-on fight. But he does have a trump card hidden up his sleeve.

He just has to wait for the perfect opportunity.

Senpai will kill us when he wakes up, Itaru thinks.

All the same, he fits himself to the side of Chikage that isn’t occupied by Citron. Against his back, Sakuya and Masumi snuggle close together despite having two entire futons available to them, and Tsuzuru drapes himself over their bellies even though there’s more than enough space for him under the blankets too.

Itaru reaches an arm across Chikage’s chest to brush his thumb over Citron’s cheek, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear; Citron’s eyelids twitch but don’t open, though his lips curl into a knowing grin. Itaru looks up at Chikage’s face, smoothed over by deep sleep and deeper comfort, and smiles to himself as well.

Welcome to the family, Itaru thinks, and then amends, welcome home.

“Chigasaki,” Chikage says, in a tone of voice that makes Itaru snap to attention from the fugue of endless FPS no-scope headshots he’d been immersed in.

Humming, Itaru keeps his eyes on his phone screen and off of his roommate. There's a strange, strangled sort of quality to the way Chikage said his name that makes him wonder if Chikage’s forcing himself to say it. To have this conversation, whatever it may entail.

The sound of fingers tapping on a laptop keyboard slow to a stop, and now Itaru can practically feel the weight of Chikage’s gaze on him, heavy with uncertainty.

“What is it, senpai?”

“Why…”

Hesitation doesn’t belong on Chikage’s tongue, feels so foreign wrapped around him when he normally tells lies as easily as breathing air. If this is—if he’s about to offer Itaru a secret, a truth, in exchange for all the grief that he’s put them through, well, Itaru will be flattered, and he’ll keep it, of course, but there’s also a part of him that’s disappointed by the prospect; their relationship isn’t meant to be transactional, at least, not anymore.

Whatever regrets Chikage may have, Itaru doesn’t want to be his means of atonement.

“Why haven’t you taken me to bed yet?”

Record scratch.

Itaru blinks. Once, twice, a few more times. His phone buzzes in his hands, the words GAME OVER popping up on the screen, and he fumbles his grip on the device so badly that he drops it. And with the way he’s leaned back against the couch armrest, he just so happens to drop it right onto his crotch.

A wheeze ejects itself from his mouth, whistling through the gaps of his gritted teeth. Through the tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, he can see Chikage sit up straighter, laptop set aside and one hand hesitantly reaching out to… what. Help him out? Give his shoulder a pat?

“Warn a guy first, will ya?”

It comes out more harshly than he likes. Itaru sees Chikage’s expression begin to shutter off, smoothing back out into impassive neutrality, and shakes his head to kick his brain back into gear.

“Wait, wait, sorry. I don’t—I’m not mad or anything.”

“…I suppose I shouldn’t have asked you that out of the blue, either. Apologies.”

“Nah, nope, drop the polite office worker mode. Just. Gimme a sec.”

Fishing his phone back up from where it had bounced off his lap and onto the rug, Itaru taps the home button and then taps the screen twice to turn it off, setting it face-down on the table so he look at Chikage fully. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek.

“By ‘take you to bed’, I’m assuming you mean, like. Sex?”

It takes a long moment, but eventually, Chikage gives the barest of nods. Not even a verbal response? Itaru squints at him, searching for—what exactly, he’s not sure.

And like, here’s the thing. Itaru does still have functional eyes, even if he needs to wear contacts or glasses to see more than two meters in front of him clearly, and, yes, maybe he has entertained a thought or two about having a romp in the hay with Chikage at least once, because damn the man, he is objectively good-looking, if not someone Itaru would necessarily describe as sexy; his personality certainly isn’t, both inside and out. But…

His internal ramble must take too long, because Chikage’s face goes pinched. Tight, and vaguely hurt. Or, not hurt, but—lost. Confused.

“I, ahem. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I. Sort of know, that you. You sleep around, and I…”

Huh. Hm. Itaru hasn’t exactly shared a bed with anyone since Chikage joined the troupe, because again, his libido takes a backseat to the rush of practice and rehearsals, and unless the others are in the habit of sharing gossip about his sex life with their newbie, he didn’t think Chikage would pick up on it so soon—ah, whatever.

The worry over a breach of privacy can be dealt with some other time, or maybe never, pushed to the back of his mind like a lot of other thoughts Itaru finds too inconvenient to dwell on for longer than three seconds.

“Are you jealous? Because, uh, one, didn’t think you’d have any interest in this kinda thing and, two, if this is your method of asking me out then I don’t do dating, sorry.”

Chikage’s mouth snaps shut so quickly, Itaru swears he can hear his jaw click. His brows furrow, and he purses his lips.

“I. Don’t? Think I’m jealous, no… but.” A sharp inhale, and then a long, drawn-out exhale. “I think. I think I’m working with some incorrect assumptions here.”

Okay. Well. That’s simultaneously more helpful than expected and also not helpful at all. Running his tongue along the back of his teeth, Itaru slouches over into a truly, unbelievably uncomfortable position and mentally goes through a list of possible incorrect assumptions in his mind while his spine begs him to stop holding the shrimp pose.

He jolts back up and nearly tumbles off the couch in the process.

“Senpai. Chikage-san. Look at me. Do you think I sleep with people because I’m comfortable with them?”

Chikage frowns. “I. Yes? Isn’t that generally how it works for normal people.”

“Lol, ‘normal people’. Okay yeah that’s not the way I wanted to word that sentence, um. Lemme rephrase.” Laying his palms flat on the coffee table, Itaru leans forward. “Do you think I’m comfortable with people because I sleep with them?”

“I’m guessing that my conjecture was wrong,” Chikage says flatly in lieu of a proper response to Itaru’s question, because he doesn’t like to be made fun of and this certainly feels like fun being made at his expense.

Itaru waves his hands around, trying to clear the air. He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth won’t stop curling up in a smile; hopefully Chikage won’t take too much offense to that. “I mean! I can see how you got from Point A to Point B, and, look. I won’t lie, I am curious what sex with you would be like. But. It’s not a mark of familiarity or anything. We don’t need to fuck to say that we’re family.”

Despite himself, Chikage snorts. “You realize how horribly that can be misconstrued, right?”

“Psh, whatever. If anyone wants to claim that all familial love is strictly platonic then I invite them to ponder what the hell a married couple counts as if not a family.”

“If you spewed any of these hot takes of yours on the internet, you’d be. Hm, how do the kids say it? Hashtag cancelled?”

“Please, I’m a videogame streamer, I know what it’s like to be yelled at by ninety percent of my chat when I don’t do what they tell me to do. Fuckin’ backseaters, play the game yourself if you don’t like the way I play it.”

Chikage’s eyes crinkle with mirth, and it’d be easy to let the conversation slip further into lighthearted territory or lull into agreeable silence after its rocky beginning. But now the idea’s latched onto Itaru’s brain and he can’t quite let go of that particular train of thought. He coughs to clear his throat and tries to make himself sound as casual as possible when he springs the question:

“Would you, though?”

Itaru's leg starts bouncing when he notices Chikage going deathly still. He slides his palm over his own thigh as he waits for an answer, telling himself this: no matter how formulated the response, no matter how fake the answer he receives, he won’t pry deeper if Chikage doesn’t want him to―

“Can I be honest, Chigasaki.”

Oh. That’s… not what he expected. Itaru swallows, a loud sound in the near-silence. This might be a Tsumugi situation all over again; being trusted with something Chikage holds close to his chest. Fear of what others might think.

“Go ahead. This room is a judgement-free zone anyway, hit me with your best shot.”

For a moment, there is nothing. And then,

“I. Don’t like talking about it. Don’t like thinking about it.” Chikage bites the tip of his tongue, hard enough to almost draw blood but not quite. “So I’d rather not entertain the possibility, even if just as a hypothetical.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but he purses his lips and jerks his head away. Like he’s already revealed too much, like he’s committed a huge mistake just by opening his mouth and letting the words spill out.

And… Itaru gets it. Sometimes, even the act of saying something feels like shining a spotlight on it, an unwanted truth you can’t turn your eyes away from anymore now that you’ve spoken it into existence.

A squick, if not a full-blown trigger. Bad memories, bad past experiences. Simply because. Any number of reasons.

Not wanting anything to do with sex is nothing to be ashamed of. He’s learned that by now, having slowly weaned himself off of the type of sites that told him otherwise, distancing himself from the rotten parts of the internet that thrived off contempt and putting others down.

Itaru likes to think that he’s getting better at being a decent human being, so he shrugs. “Sure thing, won’t bring it up around you anymore.”

Then he picks his phone back up and opens a different game than the one he’d stopped playing earlier. In his peripheral vision, he can spot Chikage stiffening up again, confusion and mild exasperation in the way he tilts his head askew ever so slightly.

“What. Just like that? No further questions?”

“Just like that.”

If noticing the way Chikage practically deflates with relief from all the tension holding him stiff and upright makes Itaru smile a little, well, hopefully Chikage won’t take too much offense to that, either.

Chapter Text

He shouldn’t have let his guard down so easily. Mankai is such an unprejudiced, accepting place—it simply slips Itaru’s mind one day, that the world beyond its walls doesn’t necessarily share the same open-mindedness.

Right now, though, instead of cursing his slip of the tongue, he needs to do damage control.

It was just meant to be mindless idle chatter while waiting for the scene to load, y’know? Booting up Tokidoki Occult Club DX, the newest release of that popular psychological horror + dating sim franchise—now with murder mystery elements!—and continuing his save file from where he left off last stream.

He might not have a single romantic bone in his body, but he’s got the plot and the tropes of the genre down to a science. Even though it doesn’t quite translate to real-world experience, he’s an expert at making these pixels on a PC screen swoon for him in record time, no sweat.

Romance is just a societal construct made up of intricate rituals that are only meaningful if you intentionally assign it and convey that meaning, right?

He says just as much, more or less, probably a lot less than the nuanced take he intended to give, that he cooked up in his head—

And the chat explodes.

“What, did I say something hilarious? Better jot it down for the history books, gang, ‘cause my goldfish brain memory does not remember what left my mouth, like, three seconds ago.”

The kneejerk reflex grin that breaks out on his face slowly softens into something less manic as he actually parses what’s being said (well, typed) by his viewers. There’s a wave of comments calling him things like a ‘chad’ or a ‘fuckboy’, which he honestly can’t tell if they’re meant to be compliments or insults, and then a wave of comments along the lines of ‘lol thats what a virgin otaku loser would say’ and ‘omg sigma male behaviour spotted’.

(Itaru will be the last to admit that maybe he’s not that hip with the kids anymore, but what the hell does that even mean.)

“Wow, luh-mao, didn’t expect this kind of reaction. Takes one to know one, I guess? Yeah, yep, I said it. Congratulations, or condolences, take your pick. Congratudolences? Condolations.”

A few obnoxious commenters applaud him for ‘establishing dominance over a pointless genre for fake gamers’ or something along the lines of that nonsense, and further things that take the sentiment a bit too far for his liking—truthfully, he doesn’t get to read those all the way through before his irritation level spikes through the roof and he directs his chat moderator team to bring the banhammer down on them like a bolt of divine retribution from up high.

That kind of thing makes him seethe. He might style himself as a elitist connoisseur for funsies, but he’ll never stoop so far low as to mock and deride what others may like, even if he doesn’t get it, even if it’s personally not for him.

“Mods? Mods, I want those twinks obliterated. You enter Taruchi’s domain and insult videogames to his face? Blocked. Blocked. None of you are free from sin.”

There’s no such thing as a pointless game, much less an entire genre; if even a single person enjoys it, even if it’s just the person who created it, then it has meaning in its existence.

Feeling the blood boiling in his veins slowly cool down, Itaru scans the chat for other things that might require his intervention. A few more stragglers calling him out for ‘pandering to the woke audience’, whatever, they can get short-term timeouts. Go cry in gay baby jail about it. Some reasonable ones telling others to report the trolls, good.

And then the worst of it… is over.

Most of his audience shifts their focus back to the gameplay itself, chattering among each other about plot theories and puzzle solutions. Itaru turns his attention back to the game as well, proceeding to work on the supposedly impossible crime mystery so he can unlock the ending CG for this particular route.

“Oof, yeah, I can see why this part trips up first-time noobs, since—whathefuck, did you guys see that?! It breaks the regular Knox Decalogue conventions! Fuckass. They’re called the ten commandments of detective fiction for a reason, but I guess the hype new thing to do is deconstruct cliches and shit, right?”

The timer ticks down, and he barely makes it to the end of the round-robin interrogation scene, pointing out the traitor’s identity with an exaggerated flourish. His reward for all that intense puzzle-solving action?

…Aw, that’s cute, the nameless protag gets a kiss from his newly-established girlfriend after she kicks his ass in a retro fighting game match. Young love.

(Personally, Itaru would enjoy the bragging rights more than the smooch, but that’s just him.)

Right as he hits save and mouses over the new game button to start on a different path, one comment happens to catch his eye amongst the sea of GLs and GGs.

‘hey guys is taruchi aro? since he said that weirdo thing abt romance earlier lol’

Aro…? That’s a new one; he hasn’t seen any slang word like that before, though his mental internet lingo cheatsheet is, admittedly, somewhat out of date—still stuck in the era of image boards and forum posts rather than social media. He might need to run another software update for his brain dictionary soon.

And the unfortunate thing with text is that it’s sometimes difficult to make out the tone of a message, so Itaru doesn’t know if the comment is meant to be disparaging or if it’s a genuine question.

Maybe he should give the benefit of the doubt. Don’t assume malicious intent when it could just be incompetence, or sincere curiosity, and all that.

“Only arrow I am is the one being shot straight through your heart, baby,” is what he settles on saying instead, cackling like a hyena when the whole chat fills with ‘UGHhh’ and ‘grossss lol’ at his cringe. Misdirection tactic: success.

Still, he tucks the word away in a corner of his brain as he starts the game again. Won’t hurt to look up it once he’s done with his stream, right?

The door of Room 102 looms before him, tall and imposing. Or about as tall and imposing as any nondescript wooden door could be, which isn’t much, really. The only reason Itaru hesitates to knock on it is that, well, it’s Masumi and Tsuzuru’s room; he’s never had any reason to go in further beyond the doorway. It is, after all, the inviolable Sanctuary of the Scriptwright and His Assistant, his gamer brain helpfully provides, even though Masumi and Tsuzuru would both probably protest those titles.

Right now, though, he’s buzzing with excitement. The sort of excitement that comes with finding out something about yourself that makes a bunch of puzzles pieces finally slot together into place.

He wants to share the discovery with someone—Chikage is out on business, the type that doesn’t need to be represented by the shifty double-quote bunny-fingers gesture, and springing his revelation on the 101 duo probably isn’t the most tactful move, considering the whole ‘Citron has a secret crush on Sakuya’ thing, so—Masumi and Tsuzuru it is.

Itaru lifts a hand and taps his knuckles on the solid wood, knock-knock-knock. He waits, and—it’s silly, but he has this whole imagined scenario in his head, of busting down the door and yelling “TSUZURU AND/OR MASUMI, HOLY FUCK” like that one meme from the funny American cartoon—but in the end, he’s just waiting for them to open the door so he can share his findings.

Isn’t that what Spring taught him? Shared grief is halved, shared joy is doubled, something sentimental like that. Doesn’t need to be loud or obnoxious or even all that important, just… genuine.

The door swings open, nearly hitting him right in the face, and as Itaru takes a step back just in time to avoid a possible concussion, Masumi’s disgruntled expression peeks out at him from the semi-darkness.

Itaru blinks. He taps his phone screen on so he can check the time. It’s 3pm on a Saturday.

“Why, uh, don’t you have the lights on?”

Somehow, Masumi’s stare goes even squinty-er. Or that could be the difference in light levels wreaking havoc on his eyes, maybe. Itaru certainly knows how that feels.

“What do you want.”

Oof, okay. It’s not like Masumi sounds particularly grumpy or anything, or not any more than his usual levels of grumpiness, but Itaru wonders if he’s come to them at a bad time. Maybe he should go crash a shoujo manga club meeting instead, or spill the tea while in the middle of a gaming sesh with Banri.

He tries for a smooth grin, knowing that Masumi can see through it anyway. “Wanna tell you a thing. Or, you and Tsuzuru both. If he’s free?”

Masumi looks over his shoulder back into the room, and Itaru glimpses a blinding glare in the midst of all the shadows. Sheesh, does Tsuzuru not use the blue light filter that comes preinstalled in most laptops nowadays?

“Tsuzuru,” Masumi calls out, uncharacteristically soft. Itaru’s spine goes ramrod straight. That’s the sort of tone he hears from Citron, when he’s talking about Sakuya. “Itaru’s here, says he wants to tell us something. Can I let him in?”

Suddenly, Itaru wonders if he’s come at a bad time.

He doesn’t hear a response from Tsuzuru, though there must be an exchange of some sort, because Masumi pulls the door open wider, allowing Itaru access into their territory. But keeping an eye on him as he steps over the boundary between hallway and room, like he’s warning Itaru to stay on his best behaviour while he’s inside, Or Else.

Itaru creeps inside with his phone held to his chest, feeling very much like an underlevelled character entering a boss arena that he’s wildly unprepared for, blinking his eyes rapidly to adjust to the darkness and also to make sure he’s not seeing things, because…

“Why are there so many blankets,” he says out loud, in lieu of pointing out anything else. Like how the blankets are all on the floor, haphazardly piled up to form some sort of… nest? Which Tsuzuru is currently curled up in the middle of, his laptop in front of him. And how Masumi closes the door and proceeds to entirely ignore Itaru as he slips back into place next to Tsuzuru.

Tsuzuru’s head perks up, turning around to greet Itaru with a smile. “Oh, hey Itaru-san. What’s up?”

Itaru squints.

Okay, yeah, those two definitely cuddling.

Listen, he’s got nothing against PDA as long as it’s not obnoxious, but—them? Never would he have guessed.

“So,” he awkwardly coughs into his fist, bringing the tips of his two pointer fingers together, “You two… am I interrupting something? ‘Cause I can, uh, just go. It’s not that important, I guess. Sorry to bother.”

“You’re always a bother,” Masumi grunts. And grunts again, but in a more whiny manner, when Tsuzuru swats at him. “What? I’m right.”

Sighing, Tsuzuru shoots Itaru a wry grin. “I suppose you are right.”

“Hey,” Itaru weakly objects.

“Doesn’t mean you have to be rude about it, Masumi.” With a loose flap of his hand, Tsuzuru beckons Itaru closer. “You can sit down, Itaru-san, there’s plenty of room.”

This time, Masumi actually lets out a long whine. Well, no, it still sounds very flat, but there’s something hilarious about a “nooooooooo” with no emotion behind it whatsoever. “Why are you letting him in our blanket pile. Traitor. I’m gonna kick you both out and hog it for myself. It’s technically mine in the first place.”

“Wh―c’mon, don’t be like that. This is a very nice blanket pile and I’m very, very happy you bought all the blankets for us.”

“Liar. The first time you saw the blankets you got mad at me for buying so many.”

“We already talked about this! I don’t want to rehash the argument, okay?”

A-yup. Maybe Itaru should just, leave. Leave these two cuddlers to whatever it is they were doing before his presence invokes some kind of lovers’ spat. So he starts to edge towards the door, trying not to let the awkwardness he feels show in his expression or body language.

Unfortunately, he’s clumsy as fuck and also, it’s dark, he can’t see shit? So one of his socked feet gets tangled up in a snarl of fluffy blankets and trips him up―he pinwheels his arms to try and regain balance, but it’s too late. With a loud yelp, he tumbles to the floor, curling his arms around his head to protect that vital point and also hopefully shielding anyone from being crushed by his skull.

“Itaru-san!” He hears Tsuzuru cry out, and also hears an alarmed gasp from Masumi, which does kinda warm his heart a little. Hey, the kid has some modicum of concern for him at least.

Thankfully, he lands on a part of the pile that’s thick enough to mostly cushion him from the impact of the fall. “Oof—!” A sharp, throbbing pain shoots through his left elbow but the rest of him feels relatively unscathed. When he blinks the spinning stars out of his vision, he finds himself curled up on his side, the shadows of Tsuzuru and Masumi looming over him as they hover their hands over his fallen form, worried.

“Whoops,” Itaru laugh-wheezes, trying to catch his breath. He props himself up on arms and knees and gratefully accepts Tsuzuru’s offered hands to haul himself upright, then immediately checks his phone for any damage, which Masumi scoffs at.

Hey, don’t judge, everyone knows how much of a gacha game addict he is―thankfully, his phone seems none the worse for wear. Phew.

Itaru rakes a hand through mussed hair and huffs another laugh. “Alright, I’ll get outta your hair,” he says with his most charming smile for. Some reason. To save face? But these two already know how uncool he is. “Don’t wanna ruin the mood any further for you lovebirds.”

With a start, Tsuzuri and Masumi look at each other, than back at Itaru―Tsuzuru with a mortified expression, while Masumi looks disdainful.

“Ruin the mood?” Masumi sneers.

“Lovebirds?” Tsuzuru shakes his head. “It’s not―we don’t see each other like that!”

Huh? But you’re so close, not like how you two usually are, Itaru almost says, but manages to clamp his mouth shut before the words actually leave his lips. He’s assuming things about them. He shouldn’t do that. Should know better, knows firsthand the frustration of having his intentions misunderstood or intentionally ignored. So he stills his tongue and waits.

Another shared glance passes between them before Tsuzuru sighs and roughly scratches the back of his head. He opens his mouth, closes it, evidently trying and failing to find the words. Subtly, Masumi leans into his side for support; Itaru flicks his eyes over to him, but only for a brief moment before turning his gaze back to Tsuzuru again.

“We…” Tsuzuru’s voice trails off after hanging off the end of that word for far too long. He shakes his head with a rueful laugh. “No, nevermind. You wouldn’t get it, Itaru-san.”

Itaru purses his lips. “Try me,” he challenges, ignoring how Masumi’s glare sharpens.

“It’s… I guess the easiest way to put it is that we’re in love with the idea of love. The idea of it appeals to me, the theory of it. The themes and symbolism you see in romance stories sometimes. It’s fascinating! How an emotion can drive people to do things they wouldn’t otherwise. To reach for the highest highs, or, or sink to the lowest lows…”

Tsuzuru clasps his hands together, almost starry-eyed. It reminds Itaru a little bit of Muku when the kid’s info-dumping about whatever shōjo manga he’s into at the time.

“Sometimes I read stuff like that and think, wow. I wanna know what that feels like! And. Okay, there are maybe one or two people that make me think, oh, I’d do anything for you. But when I look at it, really scrutinize it… heck, when I imagine them actually returning my feelings, and we’d have to do stereotypical couple-y things like, going on dates and stuff—” He shudders, closing his eyes. “I dunno. It feels like it falls apart.”

Interesting. But… “That’s cool and all. Still doesn’t explain whatever you’ve got going on,” Itaru quips, eager to strike at the heart of the matter.

Masumi gives him the stink eye, then scoffs. “Basically, Tsuzuru and I are partners in pining. He tells me all about the massive crush on Citron he’s got. Yap, yap, yap. Acts all exasperated when he has to tsukkomi Citron’s mistakes, but he secretly actually enjoys teaching Citron new words and stuff, like the nerd that he is.”

“Hey!” Embarrassed, Tsuzuru swats at Masumi, who may not be wearing a shit-eating grin but certainly gives off the aura of it. “I think learning another language is admirable! And two can play at that game.”

The air of smugness instantly evaporates from around Masumi, replaced by panic. “Wait, don’t—”

“I mean,” Itaru interjects, “We all know how weird you get about the director, that’s an open secret at best.”

“We’re not talking about the director,” Tsuzuru says smugly, managing to keep Masumi at arm’s length as he desperately tries to slap a hand over Tsuzuru’s mouth.

“Tsuzuru,” Masumi hisses, cheeks starting to tint pink, “Don’t you dare.”

Ooh, now that’s got Itaru’s interest piqued. He leans in for this particular juicy bit of gossip, but not too close that Masumi would turn his violent attempt at silencing Tsuzuru on him instead.

“He’s got a thing for Sakuya,” Tsuzuru sing-songs, chuckling even as Masumi half-heartedly punches him on the shoulder again and again, “Won’t even get out of bed if Sakuya doesn’t come wake him up, like a princess waiting for a kiss from his fairytale prince.”

“Ooh.”

“I told him, what if Sakuya gets fed up with you one day? Gonna rot in bed until I get the director to call you out? And then he said―”

“Sakuya would never do that,” Masumi snaps, though with how much he’s blushing, it doesn’t come off as threatening at all. He petulantly huffs. “He’s too nice. And―it’s Sakuya we’re talking about here. Anyone would do anything for him, not just me.”

There’s a beat of silence for a moment, before both Itaru and Tsuzuru nod in unison. Yup, he’s kinda got them there.

Nobody would ever say no to anything Sakuya asks of them, even the more surly or taciturn members of the company. He’s just got that effect on everyone, which would be more terrifying if not for the fact that they all know he’s the sweetest, most kind-hearted person in Mankai who would never take advantage of that. Probably.

“Partners in pining, huh. That’s a fun way to put it.” Humming, Itaru uncrosses his legs, because ow, his shitty blood circulation is doing the pins and needles sensation thingy. “And… let me get this straight.”

Tsuzuru snickers. Wh―oh. Lol. Okay, fine, Itaru walked right into that one.

“You both squee,” he hears Tsuzuru mutter something about how it’s the year 201X, who even uses squee anymore, well screw you, Tsuzuru, he happens to be attached to his outdated fandom terminology, thanks, “About your crushes, but, like. Have no intention of acting on it? Either of you? This isn’t some sort of mutual wingman-ing thing? Because most of the time, when guys talk to each other about girls, it’s to hype each other up and discuss strats on how to capture their love interest target.”

Though to be fair, he’s mostly gleaned that fact from strangers’ social media posts and drunken after-work conversations with his work colleagues. Mankai and its associates… kinda screwed with his perception of normies and casuals, taught him that what’s common in the world―or what seems like ‘the default’ in the eyes of society―doesn’t necessarily apply to everyone.

Tsuzuru makes a face, like he can barely hide his distaste for the thought. “Oh, ew, I know what you mean and I’ve never liked that; feels really gross, treating people like goals to achieve or prizes to be won. If it were me, I’d like to think I value Citron’s happiness over whatever jealousy or possessiveness I might feel if I knew he liked someone else.”

Welp, that’s good to know, Itaru thinks. Otherwise he might have to break the awkward news that Citron does in fact have a secret crush on Sakuya. Or maybe that’s not really a dealbreaker? Citron did say something about having space for more than one person in his heart, the romantic sap.

“He’s not my end-all be-all one and only, y’know?” Tsuzuru continues, apparently not finished with his thought experiment. “Romance puts a lot of stock in the ‘one true love’ trope but I personally can’t imagine devoting yourself to someone so wholly that other things just… fall to the wayside like that.”

“I can.” On the other hand, Masumi crosses his arms over his chest, radiating disagreement. “I think a bit of jealousy and prioritization is fine,” he says, somewhat defensively. “As long as you don’t do anything they wouldn’t like.”

“Well, yeah, that’s the bare minimum of decency.” Tsuzuru sighs. “Let’s put it this way: if the director told you to kill me, would y―”

“I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

“Okay, bad choice of example, that one’s on me. You’d sacrifice me for a single corn chip. What if the director told you to kill Sakuya?”

That gets Masumi to pause, torn up over a decision he clearly doesn’t want to make. Haltingly, he grinds out through a clenched jaw, “If… the director had. A really good reason, maybe. And if Sakuya… also thinks there’s no other choice.” He makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat. “I’d rather kill myself. Or kill everyone else in the room, and then kill myself.”

“Woah, hey, let’s ease up a bit on the hypothetical killing game scenarios,” Itaru quips, hoping to lighten the mood from the sudden serious (albeit admittedly, pretty damn wacky) nosedive it’s taken. He rubs his palms together, just to have something for his hands to do as he arranges his thoughts. They sure have given him a lot of things to chew on.

In any other context, he would say that it sounds like they’re licking each other’s wounds over the whole unrequited (or rather, un-confessed) crushes thing. But since he’s made his own little discovery, it sheds a different light on their arrangement. ‘In love with the idea of love’, as Tsuzuru put it. Bonding over how much certain people mean to them, but not to the point of downplaying their connections with various others in their lives.

It doesn’t exactly match up with how Itaru personally feels about love, but he does agree with some of the points they’re making. So…

He can barely contain his giddy excitement.

“Would you guys say you’re kinda, like… aromantic?”

Blink, blink. A confused look. Nod. It’s funny just how much they’re in sync with each other without even seeming to realize it.

Tsuzuru snaps out of his stunned stupor first, huffing out a disbelieving laugh as he scratches his cheek with a fingertip. “I—yeah? Not quite aro, but somewhere under the umbrella of it, I guess? I think I am capable of romance, kinda. Just,” he makes a vague wobbly hand gesture, “Not all of the amatonormative stuff that comes with it.”

Ooh, another fun new word. Itaru quickly scribbles it down in his mental notebook, eager to search it up later and see what other terms he can use to describe his experience and understand his own thoughts better.

“Where did you learn that?” Masumi asks, and he even sounds genuinely curious as he says it, peering closer at Itaru’s face. “Full offense, but you don’t seem like the kind of person interested in that sort of thing.”

Hey. Ow. Okay, that one kinda stings. But Itaru brushes it off, too happy to care.

“When I was streaming a dating sim earlier, one of my viewers called me ‘aro’ in chat because of something I said.” Well, there was also the shitstorm that happened right before that, but these two don’t need to know about it. “I guess the way I was playing that game, or commenting about it, must’ve tipped them off.”

“Ahh, I see.” Nodding in understanding, Tsuzuru then smiles, reaching over to pat Itaru’s shoulder. “Well, I’m glad you took it in a good way.” He glances at Masumi with a wry smile, chuckling as the teen huffs and looks off to the side. “When I first told Masumi about it, he freaked out pretty bad.”

“Felt like you were trying to tell me I wasn’t actually in love with the director.”

Yeah, Itaru can sympathize with that. Leaning that there’s a word for people like him… it felt like everything became both clearer and more confusing at once. There’s probably still more he can learn about the subject, but for now, he’s just… so happy.

He’s not broken, like he thought he was.

A sudden rush of emotion chokes him up, something hot at the back of his nose and tears pricking at his eyes. Sniffling, he scrubs his face with the sleeves of his shirt, giggling wetly as he feels two pairs of hands once more hover concernedly over his shoulders.

“M’okay,” he wheezes out, overwhelmed. “I just—it’s a real thing. I’m not a, a freak who can’t love people. I’m normal.”

“…Yeah, you are,” Tsuzuru whispers, kind. He smooths a hand up and down Itaru’s back, a little awkward, but his touch is firm and warm and grounding. “I’m. I’m sorry if anyone ever made you feel otherwise, Itaru-san.”

Itaru feels another warmth snuggling against his side; a rare show of affection from Masumi. “Mhm. And who cares about being ‘normal’ anyway. It’s overrated.” An arm wraps around his waist, pulling him in for something that’s almost a hug.

“Ahaha, welcome to the aro gang, I guess!”

Blubbering with emotion, Itaru cries. Lets himself cry, shedding all the pent-up frustration and sorrow and loneliness he’s been carrying inside himself all this time; the callous remarks and judgement he thought he’d brushed off with dignity, without realizing how much those words were stabbing at his heart. Masumi squeezes him tighter, and Tsuzuru leans in to join the embrace, surrounding him protectively.

He should feel pathetic, letting himself be comforted by people younger than him. He’s a working adult, for goodness’s sake! Save the world-shattering revelations for a mid-life crisis or something!

But he’s too happy to care. There’s a word for people like him, and there are people who understand him and can even relate to what he feels.

He finally has a place where he feels like he can belong.

Once his head’s cleared up some and he no longer feels like a pile of mushy goo, Itaru leans on Tsuzuru’s shoulder and asks, “So what were you guys doing before I came here, anyway.”

Tsuzuru clams up, faint red dusting the tips of his ears. Huh. Interesting reaction.

Masumi snickers. “He was making me beta-read his RomiJuli fanfic—”

“MASUMI!”

Hollering at the top of his lungs, Tsuzuru lunges over Itaru to grapple Masumi to the floor, which quickly turns into them just rolling around in the blanket-pile, laughing and tickling each other to death.

Itaru blinks. Then blinks again.

“So, wait, SakuMasu real?”

Masumi freezes up. Slowly turns to face Itaru like he’s a robot with rusty joints. Haha, kinda like how Citron was when he played S.

(Oh, shit. S/Luke also canon? Okay, in hindsight, yeah duh, no shit, the gay pining subtext overtones were off the charts in that play.)

“I’m gonna kill you,” Masumi hisses, which Itaru takes as his cue to get the fuck outta there pronto.

That’s enough emotional vulnerability for one day! Now all he wants to do is to coop up in his room and play games to his heart’s content, possibly until the heat death of the universe.

In a burst of athletic ability he would’ve never expected from himself, Itaru manages to dodge Masumi’s attack, reach the door in record time and slam it shut behind him as he jumps outside. Huh, it’s already evening. Might as well take a shower to freshen up and wash off all the dried tears and snot from his face.

With a spring in his step, he crosses the short bit of hallway between 102 and 103, pulling the door open without so much as a knock.

Only to see—