I always thought diary entries had to start with something important.... A life-changing event, a dramatic confession, or some grand realization.
Instead, I'm writing this because I have too many thoughts and nowhere to put them.
My name is Rielle. I love my boyfriend and will be forever grateful for him! i also like cats, romance, anything pink, visual novels, horror games and so much more. I spend far too much time thinking about fictional characters and even more time imagining conversations that will probably never happen. I romanticize everything—the sunlight on my bedroom wall, old songs playing at midnight, unfinished stories, people who leave, people who stay.
Most days, I write.
Sometimes it's fanfiction. Sometimes it's just scenes that exist only because I needed them to. Little pieces of comfort. Little pieces of heartbreak. Things I was too afraid to say out loud, hidden inside characters who aren't really me.
Lately, I've been organizing everything.
The stories I wrote when I couldn't sleep.
The drafts I never posted.
The thoughts that felt too personal to call writing.
So I started leaving little markers between the pages.
The Soft Index is where everything begins—the table of contents for this notebook, a map for anyone wandering through.
Things I Meant to Say holds the stories, the fics, and all the feelings I found easier to hand to fictional characters than keep for myself.
Unsent Thoughts is exactly what it sounds like... midnight ramblings, loose threads, and words that arrived before I knew what to do with them.
Filed Away is for the posts that still feel like home. The ones I keep returning to, even after time has passed.
Letters From You to Me is where i keep your messages—the sweet ones, the requests, the thoughtful ones, and the ones that make me laugh at three in the morning.
And Letters I Can't Send is tucked away in a separate envelope—works intended for older audiences, kept apart from the rest of the notebook and clearly marked before opening.
Maybe that's all writing really is—collecting pieces of yourself before they disappear.
Right now, there's one story I keep returning to.
I've been building it slowly, one chapter at a time, like pressing flowers between the pages of a book and hoping they'll keep their shape. It's called The Year the Wind Changed.
It's a Kazuha story.
A story about growing up. About quiet affection. About missing someone before you've even lost them. The kind of love that arrives so gently you don't realize it's changed everything until it's already there.
Maybe nobody will ever read it.
Maybe someone will.
Either way, I think it deserves a place here.
So this is Entry #000.
The very beginning.
And even if nobody ever turns the page after this one, I suppose it still counts.
SYNOPSIS: For years, you lived in the shadow of one name: Alhaitham. No matter how hard you studied or how close you came, he always remained just out of reach. But as the Akademiya's examinations draw near and the pressure begins to mount, something starts to change. Will you finally surpass the rival you have chased for so long? Or will you discover that there is more waiting for you beyond first place?
TAGS: ALHAITHAM X READER...ish?, ONESHOT, comfort, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, burn out reader, written in reader's POV, second POV, use of Y/N twice, one-sided rivalry, inaccurate system of the Akademiya?
WC: 14.5k
A/N: there's no outright romance between reader and alhaitham in this fic, but their interactions are admittedly very cute, and there are several moments where your heart is hammering and your face is suspiciously warm.... feel free to interpret their relationship however you'd like—platonic, romantic or somewhere in between! i personally wrote it with romantic lens :)
thank you @ikeepforgettingmyacc for beta reading,
this has been in my drafts for over a year and only found the time to finish it now huhu, so please enjoy ♡
There had been a time when failure was a concept reserved for others—a distant storm seen on the horizon, but never one that drenched your own skin.
Intelligence and success was as natural as the comforting swish of the rivers that cradled your village, tucked far from Sumeru City. Your home was a place of endless green fields and golden afternoons, a sanctuary where life moved at the pace of a slow drifting cloud.
In a village where news traveled faster than the merchants' caravans, your mind became the local legend.
By the age of eight, the local instructors had run out of wisdom to offer you. You had swallowed their lessons whole, leaving them with nothing but your questions.
By ten, the passing travelers with dust on their boots and ink on their fingers would pause in their journeys just to witness the child who spoke in the cadence of a sage.
By twelve, you were the child the villagers pointed to with a mixture of pride and reverence.
"This is the one" they would whisper, their voices thick with a communal hope. "The future of the Akademiya. The brightest spark our soil has ever produced."
At first, the attention felt like a heavy cloak, too warm for a child to wear. You would duck your head, your gaze falling to the grass, wishing to be just another child in the fields. But as the years bled into one another, the cloak became your skin. The expectation of greatness ceased to be a burden and became your baseline.
You still remembered the evening the old researcher visited.
The air had been thick with the scent of jasmine and the low hum of summer insects. Over a modest dinner, the man had leaned forward, his eyes bright with the fervor of a man who had seen the world's wonders.
"You must send them to the Akademiya," he had urged, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
Your mother’s laugh had been soft, tinged with the bittersweet reality of the village. "As if we could afford to pluck such a rare flower from its roots."
The researcher had shook his head, undeterred. "If they continue to study with such ferocity, the Akademiya will find its own way to pluck them."
You had sat there, feigning interest in your meal, but your heart had been racing. The moment the guest departed, the dam broke. A hundred questions spilled from you, frantic and hungry: What are the libraries like? Is the air truly thick with the scent of old parchment? How many minds gather under the Great Tree? Is it true that the very foundations of Teyvat’s wisdom are laid there?
Your father had eventually laughed, a warm, grounding sound, and sent you outside to let the fever of your curiosity cool.
That night, you sat beneath a canopy of stars that felt close enough to touch. You watched the constellations and saw patterns—equations, and possibilities. You imagined yourself walking through halls of marble and vine, your footsteps echoing against the weight of centuries of thought.
For years, that dream was your North Star.
Every book devoured, every sleepless night spent under the dim glow of a candle, every ounce of your fragile energy poured into study. It was all a pilgrimage toward a single destination.
The Akademiya.
When you finally arrived, the sheer scale of Sumeru City felt like a physical blow to the chest. The architecture was a breathtaking. A marriage of nature and intellect—massive, ancient trees intertwined with soaring stone structures, creating a labyrinth of shade and light. Scholars hurried through the streets, their debates flowing as naturally as the wind through the leaves.
It was a symphony of thought, and you were ready to join the orchestra.
You entered the examination halls, not with the trembling hands of a student, but with the quiet certainty of a scholar. You weren't arrogant—arrogance required a sense of superiority. You were simply certain.
Hours later, you emerged into the sunlight, your mind buzzing with the satisfaction of a task completed perfectly. You had performed well. No... you had performed flawlessly.
Three days later, the rankings were posted.
A sea of students surged toward the board, a cacophony of nervous whispers and frantic shuffling. You moved through the crowd with a calm grace, your eyes searching the parchment for your name.
You found it.
Second.
The world seemed to tilt. The warmth of the sun felt suddenly cold against your skin. You blinked, certain the ink had betrayed you, and looked again.
Second.
The name etched above yours was a stranger's name. Alhaitham.
The margin between your brilliance and his was a mere ghost of a margin less than a single percentage point.
It was absurd.
For a long moment, you simply stared at the ink, the silence in your mind deafening. Then, a small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but one of sheer, bewildered irony.
Second place? you thought, a spark of quiet defiance lighting in your chest. Fine. Let him have this one. I will take the first during the next assessment. It is a simple matter of effort.
You walked away from the board, already calculating your next move, already planning your ascent. It was a simple plan.
Except, the next assessment came and the world refused to bend to your will.
And Alhaitham remained first.
Then another.
Then another.
The cycle became a rhythmic, cruel heartbeat that pulsed through the halls of the Akademiya. Weeks bled into months; months stretched into years, and the seasons of Sumeru the heavy rains and the stifling humidity seemed to pass in a blur of ink and parchment.
Every single ranking ended with the same devastating cadence.
Alhaitham.
Then you.
The gap between your scores was never a chasm rather it was a thin, razor sharp line that sliced through your confidence.
It never widened, and it never vanished.
It served as a silent, mocking reminder that no matter how much of your soul you poured into your studies, someone else was always standing exactly one step ahead.
But the sting of the rank wasn't what truly wounded you. It was his indifference.
Most scholars at the Akademiya wore their intellect like a mantle of gold. They craved the prestige; they hungered for the validation of their peers and the nods of their professors. They lived for the competition. But Alhaitham? Alhaitham treated brilliance as if it were a mere chore, a mundane necessity of life.
He attended lectures with a detached, surgical precision. He completed assignments with a terrifying efficiency. He read, he learned, and then as if he were simply finished with the world for the day he would vanish. He would slip away before the accolades could be handed out, leaving the air empty where his presence had been.
You would see him in the periphery of your vision: a quiet figure tucked beneath the shade of a tree between classes, or a silhouette buried deep within the shelves of the House of Daena. When a professor offered him praise, he didn't beam or bow; he merely looked vaguely inconvenienced, as if the compliment were a gust of wind that had slightly disturbed his reading.
You hated that.
You hated the effortless grace of his intellect. You hated the way he seemed to inhabit a world where the struggle for excellence didn't even exist. Most of all, you hated the way you had become a satellite orbiting his sun, your entire sense of self defined by the distance between your name and his.
The rivalry was a ghost—a phantom battle fought entirely within the quiet chambers of your own mind. To the rest of the world, you were a brilliant scholar; to yourself, you were a perpetual runner up.
By the time the next major examination approached, the obsession had grown teeth. It had become something jagged and ugly.
Your dormitory had become a sanctuary of madness.
Every inch of desk and wall was smothered in notes, diagrams, and scribbled theories. You studied through the haze of your meals; you studied the rhythmic sway of the trees as you walked; you studied in the liminal spaces between waking and sleep.
Friends’ invitations grew infrequent, their voices fading into the background as you declined one gathering after another. Professors began to look at you with growing concern, their voices softening as they asked if you were sleeping enough, if your health was holding.
You would offer them a calm, practiced smile. "Yes, of course. I am resting well"
The truth was far more exhausting.
The truth was that you were tired of the silver medal. You were tired of being the shadow. And this time, you were prepared to burn yourself to ash if it meant finally eclipsing him.
That desperate determination was what led you to the House of Daena long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the bustling crowds had retreated to their homes.
The Great Library was a cathedral of silence, lit only by the soft, amber glow of lamps that cast long, dancing shadows against the endless rows of books.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dried ink.
You sat hunched over a heavy tome, your eyes stinging, your fingers trembling slightly from fatigue. The world outside Sumeru City had drifted into a peaceful slumber, but your mind was a storm of equations and logic.
Hours bled into one another, marked only by the turning of pages and the scratch of your quill. You were so deeply submerged in the sea of knowledge that you almost didn't hear the shift in the air the subtle change in the library's quiet rhythm.
Then, a soft, deliberate tap landed against your shoulder.
Your heart gave a sudden, violent leap. You turned, your breath catching in your throat, expecting a librarian or a weary fellow student.
Instead, you found yourself staring into the calm, unreadable eyes of Alhaitham.
He was standing there, looking as though he had simply stepped out of a dream, his presence as cool and steady as the moonlight filtering through the high windows.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn't the heavy, awkward kind one might expect from two rivals, nor was it the comfortable quiet of friends. It was something sharper.
His gaze didn't land on your face first; it traveled.
It swept over the dark, bruised crescents beneath your eyes, the untouched tray of food sitting cold beside your notes, and the frantic, cluttered mountain of texts that seemed to be slowly swallowing you whole. His eyes lingered on your hand the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly as they gripped your quill, stained with ink and fatigue. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. It was the look of a scholar identifying a variable that had gone rogue.
"You haven't gone back to your dormitory," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with that infuriatingly calm cadence of his.
You were the first to break the contact, looking away toward the endless shelves of the House of Daena. "I'm fine."
"You said that the last time."
"There wasn't a last time."
"There were three."
Your shoulders stiffened, a small, defensive jerk of your spine. Alhaitham sighed a soft, exhaled sound that was nearly lost beneath the distant, rhythmic rustle of the rainforest leaves outside the high windows. Without asking permission, he pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down.
The movement was startling.
In the hierarchy of the Akademiya, Alhaitham was an island. He didn't seek company—he didn't even seem to tolerate it. Yet here he was, settling into the seat as though he had every intention of staying until the candles burned to nothing.
Under the warm, flickering light of the desk lamp, the sharp edges of his rivalry seemed to soften. Without the frantic energy of the student body around him, he looked... human. Just another scholar, weary and caught in the gravity of the night. The realization irritated you. It was much easier to hate him when he felt like an unreachable monument of intellect.
"Why are you here?" you asked, your voice sounding thinner than you intended.
"I came to return a book." His gaze flickered toward the chaotic sea of parchment surrounding you. "Then I discovered a more immediate problem."
You rolled your eyes, a weary gesture of defiance. "I'm not a problem."
"At the moment, you are."
"How flattering."
"You mistake observation for insult."
"Because your observations usually sound like insults."
"They only sound that way because you dislike the conclusions."
You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him that his conclusions were nothing but arrogance wrapped in logic, but the words died in your throat.
He was right.
That was the most maddening part of Alhaitham: he was almost always right.
He leaned back, the chair creaking softly under his weight. "You've been avoiding meals."
You blinked, the fog in your brain momentarily clearing. "What?"
"Your lunch yesterday remained untouched."
Your stomach gave a traitorous, hollow ache. "You noticed that?"
"You sit three rows away from me."
"That doesn't answer the question," you muttered, feeling a flush of heat rise to your pale cheeks.
"It answers it sufficiently."
You stared at him, searching for a hint of mockery, a sign that he was teasing you. But there was none. Alhaitham simply accepted facts as they existed, as if observing your deteriorating health was no different than noting the humidity in the air.
"You also left a lecture early this morning," he continued, relentless.
Your frown deepened. "I had studying to do."
"You nearly walked into a pillar."
"..."
"And your handwriting has noticeably deteriorated."
"..."
"Your notes from two weeks ago were significantly more legible."
You felt a sudden, frantic prickle of vulnerability. "Have you been... analyzing my notes?"
"I've debated with you enough times to recognize your handwriting."
A groan escaped you, and you let your forehead drop onto the cool surface of the desk, the wood smelling of cedar and old ink. "Please," you whispered into the paper, "just stop noticing things."
"No."
The answer was instantaneous. No hesitation, no softening of the blow. You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "Why?"
For the first time, Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled. He tilted his head slightly, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because they're there."
It was such a quintessentially Alhaitham response that you almost laughed a dry, tired sound. The exhaustion was winning; the room felt heavy, the air thick and warm, and your eyes burned with every blink. You hated that he could see the cracks in your porcelain composure. You hated that he was right.
His gaze softened, a change so subtle it was almost a trick of the light. "Rest," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its analytical edge and becoming something firm, grounded, and strangely certain. "It's the only logical thing to do."
"I don't have time," you countered, though your eyelids felt like lead.
"You do."
"I really don't."
"You do."
"The examinations are next week!" you hissed, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim your dignity.
"Precisely."
You blinked at him, bewildered. "That doesn't even make sense."
"It does." Alhaitham folded his arms, his expression turning clinical once more. "Your current condition is reducing both retention and comprehension. Continuing to study while exhausted produces diminishing returns."
You closed your eyes, realizing you had walked straight into his trap. "You're treating yourself like a machine," he continued.
"A machine?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
"An inefficient one."
"Oh, thank you."
"Not a compliment."
You buried your face in your hands, the weight of the world feeling as heavy as the books on your desk. Somewhere above the sound of your own frustrated breathing, Alhaitham let out a long, weary sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly gentle, carrying a hint of something that sounded almost like... exasperation.
"Archons."
You glanced up, startled. The word sounded so foreign, so uncharacteristic of the man who usually spoke in perfect, measured sentences. It was the first time he had sounded like a person instead of a scholar.
"What?" you whispered.
"You are a most difficult variable to solve," he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
"Mental health should always be prioritized," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the vast silence of the library. "Regardless of circumstance."
The sheer sincerity of the statement struck you like a physical force. The towering shelves of books faded into the periphery, the shadows in the corners of the room deepened into velvet, and the vast, hollow space of the library vanished, leaving only the narrow, electric distance between the two of you.
"You've pushed yourself well beyond your limits." His eyes drifted, a fleeting moment of observation as they swept over the scattered parchments and the ink stained edges of your sleeves, before snapping back to your face. "Take a break."
A sudden, sharp tightness bloomed in your chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath. You searched his face for the tell tale signs of a victor, the subtle curl of a lip, the glint of superiority, the quiet satisfaction of seeing a rival falter. But there was nothing.
A part of you wanted to snap at him, to wrap yourself in your pride and push him away. But another part the part that was tired of fighting the world alone ached to ask the question that had been festering in your mind for years.
"Why does it matter to you?"
The question hung in the air, fragile and trembling.
For the first time that evening, the man of endless logic fell silent.
The only sound was the distant, rhythmic sigh of the wind brushing against the high glass windows and the soft, ghostly flicker of the lamp. Alhaitham’s gaze shifted, his eyes clouding with a rare, contemplative depth, as if he were weighing the exact value of the truth before deciding whether to bestow it upon you.
Moonlight spilled across the mahogany table in long, silver ribbons, illuminating the dust motes dancing between you. After a silence so long it felt eternal, he finally spoke.
"Because despite what you seem to believe, I've never considered you an obstacle."
Your breath hitched, snagging in your throat. Before you could find the strength to protest, he continued, his voice cutting through the stillness. "You're one of the few people in this Darshan capable of challenging my conclusions."
His expression remained as composed as a statue’s, yet there was an undeniable, raw honesty beneath the surface, a vulnerability in his steadiness that made it nearly impossible to look away.
"Our debates are interesting," he added.
You blinked, stunned. Interesting? Was that all? After years of rivalry, after the sleepless nights and the crushing weight of second place, he chose the word interesting? It felt almost insulting in its understatement, yet as you looked at him, you saw he was entirely, devastatingly serious.
"Most discussions become predictable after a few minutes," he said, a pause stretching between his words like a taut wire. "Yours don't."
"You assume I've enjoyed outperforming you." His gaze lowered, drifting to the mountains of books and the evidence of your relentless, desperate struggle to catch him. "That assumption is incorrect."
The lamp flickered, a dying pulse of amber light, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended in time. Then, almost as if the words cost him something to say, Alhaitham added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "If anything, I've been waiting for the day you finally surpass me."
The words landed with more impact than any grand proclamation, more weight than any official ranking ever could. In the quiet sanctity of the library, the truth finally dawned on you. You had spent years treating Alhaitham as the finish line, a distant, cold destination to be conquered. You never realized that he hadn't been standing in your way; he had been standing there, quietly watching, waiting for you to finally catch up.
"You're a fool," you whispered, though the sting was gone from your voice. It was a soft, breathless thing, almost a laugh. "To wait for someone to surpass you... it goes against every instinct of a scholar."
"Logic is rarely driven by instinct," Alhaitham replied, his gaze returning to yours. The intensity hadn't faded, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. "It is driven by the pursuit of excellence. And a pursuit is only meaningful when the opposition is worthy."
You looked down at your hands. They were still trembling. The frantic, desperate energy that had driven you for months, the need to prove, the need to win seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a quiet, hollowed out peace.
He reached out, his hand hovering over the table for a fraction of a second before he pulled a small, wrapped parcel from the pocket of his robe. He set it beside your inkwell. "Eat. Then go back to your dormitory. If you collapse during the examination, the lack of a proper challenger will be a significant inconvenience to the Akademiya."
You looked down at the parcel warmth still seemed to radiate from it and then back at him. The fierce, burning rivalry that had defined your existence was still there, but the edges had softened.
As he walked away, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, you didn't immediately reach for your quill. Instead, you unwrapped the parcel, the scent of warm bread and honey filling your senses, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to simply be.
Yet, the week leading up to the examinations was a quiet and difficult revolution
The first battle was against ghosts.
It was not a war fought against the looming expectations, nor against the theories of the Akademiya, nor the impossible, logic defying questions that awaited you.
It was a war fought against yourself.
The old habit was a frantic living thing—a phantom limb. It lurked in the hollows of your thoughts, a restless specter waiting for the slightest lull in your focus to strike. Years of relentless conditioning did not dissolve overnight simply because one infuriatingly perceptive scholar had commanded you to.
Your body was a vessel of exhaustion—heavy and aching—but your mind was a caged bird, beating its wings against the bar.
You sat along at your desk long after the sun had dipped below the rainforest canopy, leaving you room bathed in the bruised purples and deep indigos of twilight. The familiar collection of books was stacked in a neat, imposing tower within arm’s reach. The mere sight of them made your chest tighten, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.
They were both your sanctuary and your cage.
You stared at the spines of the books. They seemed to stare back, judging your stillness.
A minute passed, heavy and thick as honey.
Then another.
Your fingers began to twitch, a rhythmic, nervous dance against the wood of the desk. Just one chapter, the thought whispered, sliding into your mind with the seamless ease of a predator. One chapter wouldn't hurt. You have the energy. You have the time.
It was a lie you had told yourself a thousand times before. One chapter would inevitably bleed into three; three would stretch into six; six would dissolve into a sleepless, feverish night of frantic memorization. You knew the descent into madness intimately. The temptation settled into your marrow, a cold, creeping itch. Without a conscious thought, your hand began to drift toward the nearest textbook. The movement was instinctive, as automatic and unthinking as a heartbeat.
Halfway there, you froze.
The silence in your room suddenly expanded, becoming enormous and deafening. The tips of your fingers hovered a mere inch above the worn, pebbled leather of a volume on ancient tomes. A sharp, jagged frustration rose in your throat. You realized, with a jolt of unsettling clarity, that you weren't studying because you possessed a hunger for knowledge; you were studying because the vacuum of not studying felt like a physical wound.
Slowly, with a monumental effort of will, you pulled your hand back.
The guilt arrived instantly, crashing into you with the force of a sudden summer storm. It was a physical weight: a tightening in your throat, a sickening knot in your stomach, a dull, thrumming pressure behind your ribs. You should be doing something. Everyone else is out there, chasing the light. The examinations are a tide coming in, and you are standing still, letting the water rise around your ankles.
The thought of Alhaitham struck like a spark in dry tinder. Suddenly, your mind was a gallery of him: Alhaitham seated beneath the dappled shade of a tree, a book balanced effortlessly against his knee; Alhaitham in the hushed sanctity of the House of Daena, his presence a calm anchor in a sea of frantic scholars; Alhaitham, standing atop the rankings, his name a permanent fixture above yours.
Your jaw clenched so hard it ached. You hated this helplessness. You hated the terrifying sensation that to rest was to surrender, and to slow down was to be swallowed by the shadows of those who refused to stop.
Your fingers curled into the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood. But then, amidst the cacophony of your own racing heart, a different memory surface. It was the memory of a pair of steady, turquoise eyes staring directly into your soul across a pool of flickering lamplight.
You could hear his voice with a clarity that was almost maddening. “Rest.”
It had been so simple. So direct. Devoid of the grandiosity most scholars used to mask their intentions. “It’s the only logical thing to do.”
You scowled at the phantom of him. Even in the sanctity of your own mind, Alhaitham was an insufferable presence. Yet, the memory felt more real than the desk beneath your hands. You leaned back, forcing your spine to uncurl, and exhaled a breath you felt you had been holding for years.
The room remained unchanged. The books were still there, silent and demanding. The examinations still loomed like a storm on the horizon. You folded your hands in your lap, forcing them to remain still, a feat that felt as difficult as resisting the pull of gravity.
For a long time, the restlessness crawled beneath your skin like tiny, invisible insects. \
But then, slowly, the world began to bleed back in.
The frantic noise of your thoughts began to recede, replaced by the delicate, rhythmic symphony of the Sumeru night. You heard the distant, melodic chirping of insects in the canopy; the gentle, rhythmic sigh of the wind moving through the leaves outside your window; the faint, earthy scent of rain that still lingered in the humid air.
A shaft of moonlight, pale and ethereal, stretched across your floorboards like a silver ribbon. In its glow, you saw them: tiny particles of dust drifting lazily through the air. They rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic dance, suspended in the light like miniature stars caught in a celestial current.
You watched them. You didn't analyze the composition of the dust. You didn't calculate the velocity of their drift. You didn't ask how this moment could be used to improve your standing in the Akademiya. You simply watched.
One particle spiraled upward, a tiny speck of silver against the dark. Another spun slowly, caught in a microscopic eddy of air, before vanishing into the velvet shadows. The movement was entirely meaningless. It was profoundly unproductive. It served no purpose in the grand architecture of your future.
How long had it been since you had allowed yourself to simply witness the world without trying to conquer it? How long had you been so busy measuring the usefulness of every moment that you had forgotten how to live within them?
The second day brought the first encounter with the "new" you.
Or perhaps not new.
Perhaps simply the version of yourself that had been buried beneath years of pressure.
The Akademiya grounds were unusually tranquil that afternoon. Most students had retreated to the sanctuaries of the libraries or the shaded halls to escape the rising Sumeru heat. This left the grounds to the birds, the wind, and the occasional scholar drifting across the stone pathways. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of broad, emerald leaves, casting a shifting mosaic of gold and deep shadow across the grass.
You had chosen a spot beneath the sprawling roots of the Great Tree, a heavy treatise on linguistics resting in your lap. Normally, this would be a moment of intense, almost frantic focus. You would have been dissecting every sentence, cross referencing the symbols and sentence structure, your mind racing to absorb every scrap of data before the sun dipped below the horizon.
But today, the words blurred at the edges. You read a paragraph on ruin devices, then read it again, and a third time, only to realize you hadn't actually processed a single syllable.
A strange, foreign sensation began to settle in your limbs. It wasn't the bone deep, hollow exhaustion that came from pulling all nighters in the House of Daena. It was something much simpler.
You were sleepy.
The realization sent a small jolt of panic through you. For years, sleepiness had been an enemy to be vanquished. It was a weakness to be suppressed with bitter tea, cold water, and sheer, stubborn willpower. The old reflex surged up in your throat: Stand up. Walk to the library. Find a more upright chair. Keep going. Keep going until the world stops spinning.
Your fingers tightened on the parchment, the edges crinkling under your touch. You felt the familiar, gnawing guilt, the sensation that every second spent in repose was a second Alhaitham was gaining on you. You could almost see him in your mind's eye, sitting perfectly poised, his mind a sharp, unclouded blade, absorbing knowledge with effortless grace while you sat here, succumbing to the most basic of biological needs.
“You’re treating yourself like a machine.”
His voice, calm and infuriatingly logical, echoed in your mind. You closed your eyes tight, scowling at the memory. It was an incredibly annoying thought to have when you were trying to be productive. And yet, as you sat there, the debate raged within you. One side of your mind screamed that a midday nap was a luxury for the lazy; the other side, a quieter, more tired voice, pointed out that you had spent years running a marathon with no finish line in sight.
With a heavy, decisive sigh, you closed the book.
The action felt monumental, as if you were signing a treaty with your own body. A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. Permission to be tired. It felt absurd, yet as you leaned your head back against the rough, cool bark of the tree, a profound sense of relief washed over you.
The world began to soften. The rustle of the leaves became a lullaby; the warmth of the sun on your skin felt like a gentle weight, pressing you down into the earth. You let go.
You were drifting, hovering in that hazy, golden space between wakefulness and dreams, when a shadow fell across your vision, cooling the warmth on your face.
Your eyes fluttered open.
Standing a few paces away was Alhaitham. He was, as usual, a study in composed stillness, a book tucked effortlessly beneath one arm. He didn't call your name or startle you; he simply stood there, observing you with that unreadable, piercing gaze. His eyes drifted from your drowsy expression to the closed book in your lap, and then, quite inexplicably, to the sky.
"The light is changing," he remarked. His voice was steady, cutting through the afternoon haze without breaking the tranquility of the garden.
You blinked, your brain feeling as though it were moving through honey. "What?"
"The light," he repeated, nodding toward the canopy above. "It will become too harsh for reading in approximately twenty minutes. The glare will make the parchment difficult to navigate."
You stared at him, momentarily speechless. Only Alhaitham could turn a moment of quiet vulnerability into a lecture on solar positioning. You waited for the sting, the subtle implication that you were wasting time, or the observation that you looked unkempt in your stupor.
Instead, he simply added, "If you intend to sleep, do it now."
"That's it?" you asked, your voice a bit raspy from sleepiness. "No lecture on the importance of midday alertness? No comment on my lack of discipline?"
One of his eyebrows arched a subtle, elegant movement. "What were you expecting? A dissertation on proper napping techniques?"
A genuine snort escaped you, and you saw the tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was a victory, however small.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward a stone bench a short distance away. He didn't sit near you instead, he chose a spot in the shade that was close enough to be a presence, yet far enough to grant you privacy. He opened his own book, settled in, and became a silent, steady anchor in the garden.
As you drifted back into sleep, you only felt a strange, burgeoning sense of safety.
The third day was when the clarity began to settle. It wasn’t a miraculous transformation; there was no sudden burst of light, no magical curing of years of chronic exhaustion. The anxiety hadn't vanished; it was still there, a low hum in the background of your mind, whispering the old, frantic litany: Study more. Work harder. Don't stop. If you stop, you disappear.
But for the first time, the voice sounded more like a suggestion you were free to ignore.
On this morning, you sat at your desk with a fresh stack of parchment and a cup of tea that was actually warm—rather than the bitter, forgotten sludge you usually favored. You opened your textbook and began to read. You read a section, made a note, and then unexpectedly you paused.
An observation had occurred to you.
You reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write. One theory bled into another; a conclusion linked unexpectedly to a lecture from months ago; an argument that had once felt like a tangled knot of thorns suddenly smoothed out into a straight, logical line.
You stared at the page, then the textbook, then back at the page. The realization was startling. The information wasn't new. You had read these exact passages a dozen times before. The difference was that now, your brain was actually present enough to process them.
For years, you had mistaken the mechanical act of memorization for the art of understanding. When exhaustion had consumed you, studying had been a desperate survival tactic: words entered your eyes, your hand moved across the paper, and you retained just enough to pass the examination before the knowledge evaporated. But now, your thoughts move with a fluid, quiet grace.
The irony was almost enough to make you laugh. In your frantic pursuit of becoming a better scholar, you had nearly forgotten how scholarship actually worked.
By midday, several pages of notes lay spread across your desk. They were, quite frankly, a revelation. Your previous notes had always been a frantic map of a collapsing margins crowded with panicked scribbles, entire paragraphs crossed out in jagged, angry lines, a visual representation of a natural disaster.
Today’s pages were different.
They were…. clean and organized.
The ideas flowed with a logical progression, the connections highlighted rather than buried under the weight of stress.
A small, triumphant smile tugged at your lips. Perhaps Alhaitham knew exactly how irritating this realization would be, you thought. And perhaps that is all the motivation I need to surpass him.
That thought followed you as you made your way toward the House of Daena later that afternoon. The library was bathed in the golden, heavy light of the descending sun, dust motes dancing in the long shafts of brilliance like tiny, suspended stars. A week ago, your instinct would have been to find the darkest, most isolated corner, a place to hide your exhaustion.
Today, you did something entirely uncharacteristic.
You chose a table near one of the large, towering windows. You sat where the light was warmest, where the hum of other scholars felt like a gentle backdrop rather than a distracting cacophony.
You had returned your attention to your notes when a familiar, low voice drifted through the air. It wasn't directed at you, but at a passing scholar. You glanced up instinctively.
Alhaitham.
He was standing a few rows away, his expression as composed and unreadable as ever. He was engaged in a brief, clipped exchange with a senior researcher, his tone efficient and devoid of unnecessary fluff. As the conversation ended, he turned to leave, his gaze sweeping the room with its usual analytical precision.
Then, his eyes caught yours.
He paused.
His gaze lingering on you for a second longer than was strictly necessary. He took in the open book, the neatness of your desk, and the fact that you were sitting in the light rather than the shadows.
"You're sitting in the sun," he remarked as he began to walk toward your section.
"I am," you replied, feeling a strange, playful spark of energy. "Is there a particular reason that's a problem?"
He reached your table, not stopping, but slowing his pace just enough to acknowledge you. He glanced down at your notes, the clean, organized lines of your recent work. "On the contrary. Based on the clarity of your script, it seems to be aiding your cognitive function rather than hindering it."
You blinked, caught off guard by the subtle compliment hidden within his clinical assessment. "Is that your way of saying my notes look better?"
"It's my way of saying you've stopped performing the academic equivalent of a frantic scramble," he said, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something there, not quite a smile, but approval. "It's much more efficient this way."
"Efficiency," you repeated, a soft laugh escaping you. "Always back to the logic of it. Do you ever just... enjoy the sunlight, Alhaitham?"
He paused, his hand resting on the edge of the table. For a moment, the busy library seemed to fade into the background. "I find that enjoying the sunlight is much easier when one isn't squinting through a fog of mental fatigue."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He simply nodded once a silent, dignified farewell and continued on his way toward the deeper stacks. You watched him go, the warmth of the sun on your skin feeling a little more profound, the silence of the library feeling a little more like home. You turned back to your parchment, the ink flowing smoothly, the world feeling, for the first time in a very long time, perfectly in focus.
The fourth day tested your resolve.
The morning had begun with a rare, tranquil grace. You had arrived at the House of Daena shortly after sunrise, when the air still held the silver chill of the night and the grand halls felt less like a labyrinth of expectations and more like a sanctuary. Sunlight poured through the high, arched windows in pale, dusty streams, illuminating the shelves. You had settled into your new seat near a window. Your notes were organized, your tea was warm, and for the first time in years, the act of studying felt more like a genuine conversation with the world.
You were midway through a particularly dense passage on elemental theory when the silence was punctured. A cluster of voices, hushed but vibrating with a frantic, jagged energy.
"...there's no way I'm sleeping this week," a voice whispered, thick with a fatigue that sounded almost permanent.
"I'm serious," another replied, the sound of shuffling parchment punctuating their words. "Have you seen the practice assessments? The complexity has doubled since last year."
"They say the gap between the top ranks is widening," a third student added, their voice dropping to a terrified low. "If you aren't in the top tier by the final exam, you're basically invisible to the Matra."
You watched them from the corner of your eye. They were Spantamad students, their robes slightly rumpled, their eyes rimmed with the tell-tale redness of sleeplessness. One carried a stack of books so precarious it looked like a structural hazard; another looked as though they might collapse into the floorboards at any moment.
"I heard Alhaitham already finished his entire curriculum review," the first one whispered, a note of pure dread in their tone.
A collective groan rippled through the group. "That's not reassuring," one muttered. "When is anything involving Alhaitham actually reassuring?"
"It's just... intimidating," the student with the books sighed.
As they moved past, the air seemed to vibrate with their anxiety, a frantic frequency that usually would have triggered a sympathetic tremor in your own chest. A week ago, hearing the word rankings would have been like a physical blow. You would have felt the familiar, suffocating spiral begin: Am I falling behind? Is my progress too slow?
Instead, you felt a strange, detached sort of pity. You looked down at your own notes… you weren't running a race against them.
"You're staring at the same paragraph for three minutes. Is the text particularly captivating today, or are you merely performing a silent vigil for your lost focus?"
The voice was low, steady, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that had just passed by. You looked up to find Alhaitham standing beside your table. He held a slim volume in one hand, his expression as unreadable as a closed book, but his eyes were fixed on you with a piercing, observant intensity.
"I was actually thinking about the Spantamad students," you admitted, your voice soft. "They seem... overwhelmed."
Alhaitham’s gaze drifted toward the aisle where the group had disappeared. "They are," he said simply. He pulled out the chair opposite yours an uncharacteristic move, as he usually preferred his own solitude and sat down. "They have mistaken anxiety for productivity. They believe that by increasing the volume of their suffering, they will increase the quality of their intellect. It is a common fallacy."
"It's hard not to feel that way when everyone is talking about it," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the library at large. "It feels like if you aren't panicking, you aren't trying hard enough."
Alhaitham leaned back slightly, his turquoise eyes meeting yours. "And what is your definition of 'trying'?"
The question caught you off guard. "To... to master the material. To be prepared."
"To be prepared is to understand the core principles so deeply that the variables of an exam cannot shake you," he countered, his tone clinical yet strangely grounding. "To panic is merely to admit that you are at the mercy of the unknown. You are currently sitting here, in the light, with organized thoughts and a steady hand. By any logical metric, you are 'trying' far more effectively than the group that just passed by."
You looked down at your hands. They were, indeed, steady. "It feels different this time," you whispered, almost to yourself. "It feels like... the knowledge belongs to me, rather than me chasing after the knowledge."
A small, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his expression. It wasn't a smile, but the tension in his brow eased. "That is because you have stopped treating scholarship as a weapon to prove your worth, and started treating it as a tool to expand your mind. The distinction is subtle, but the results are profound."
He reached out, his fingers tapping the edge of your notebook in a rhythmic, calming cadence. "Do not let their turbulence dictate your tempo. A river that flows too violently often loses its direction. A steady current is much harder to divert."
You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, a quiet sense of triumph that had nothing to do with grades. "Thank you, Alhaitham. For... for the perspective."
"Don't thank me. It is merely a logical observation," he replied, though he didn't immediately get up to leave. Instead, he opened his own book, settling into a comfortable silence beside you
The fifth day was a day of quiet preparation.
Not for the examinations.
Not entirely.
The air was thick with the frantic energy of students who had forgotten how to breathe without calculating their progress. They moved in clusters, their voices a low, jagged hum of anxiety, passing around practice assessments like they were sacred, terrifying relics. For years, you would have been part of that hum. You would have been in the library by dawn, eyes stinging from the dim light, your stomach cramping from a diet of half eaten bread and sheer willpower.
But this morning, you stepped beyond the Akademiya grounds.
The Sumeru sun was generous, spilling gold across the stone pathways and warming the skin of your face. The city was a symphony of sensory details you had long ago dismissed as "distractions." There was the heady, sweet perfume of jasmine spilling from window boxes; the earthy, damp scent of the forest floor clinging to the shade of the Great Tree; the rhythmic clack clack of merchants setting up their stalls; and the sound of laughter not the brittle, forced laughter of a student relieved to have passed a quiz, but the deep, resonant sound of people simply being.
You wandered aimlessly, a ghost in a world of color. You eventually found yourself in a bustling café, a place that, a week ago, would have felt like an assault on your senses. It was loud, the clatter of porcelain and the murmur of a dozen conversations swirling around you. But instead of retreating, you ordered a proper meal warm and watched. You watched the server frantically navigate the rows of tables; an elderly scholar sip tea with a slow, meditative grace; you watched two merchants haggle with a theatrical intensity; you watched a group of students laughing so hard they nearly overturned their table.
None of them knew your name. None of them knew your rank. And for the first time, the realization didn't make you feel small
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bruised purples and molten ambers, you found yourself drawn toward the Grand Bazaar. The fountain was a centerpiece of cool, cascading light, its steady song a balm to the lingering hum of the day. And there, leaning against the polished stone of the fountain with a composure that seemed to defy the bustling crowds, was Alhaitham.
He looked as though he had been carved from the very twilight itself. His gaze fixed on the water as if he were reading the ripples. He didn't look up as you approached, but the slight shift in his posture told you he knew exactly who was walking toward him.
"You left the Akademiya," he said as you came to a halt beside him. His voice was a low baritone, cutting through the evening air with its usual, unshakeable steadiness. It sounded almost like an accusation, though there was no bite in it.
You let a soft, wistful smile touch your lips. "It turns out the world is quite large."
"It is a fact, not a discovery," he remarked, finally turning his head to meet your eyes. His turquoise gaze was piercing, scanning your face with that unnerving, analytical precision. He paused, his eyes lingering on the healthy glow of your cheeks. "Though your heart rate seems significantly more regulated than it was yesterday. Your presence is... less frantic."
"Is that a compliment?" you teased, feeling a playful spark of energy. "Or just an observation?"
"In my case, there is rarely a difference," he replied.
A silence settled between you, but it wasn't the heavy, expectant silence of the library. It was light. Easy. You looked at the fountain, then back at him. "You're staying late. Not much studying left to do?"
"The archives are quietest at this hour," he said, though he made no move to pick up his book. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe. When he withdrew his hand, he held something small and vibrant between his fingers. It was a Sumeru Rose, its petals a deep purple, perfectly preserved, as if it had been plucked from a dream. He held it out to you. You blinked, the breath catching in your throat. "What is this?"
"A flower," he said, as if he were presenting a particularly uninteresting piece of logic. You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "Thank you, Alhaitham. I would never have guessed."
You saw it then the tiniest, most infinitesimal flicker of exasperation in the corner of his eye. You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the bloom. The petals felt like silk against your skin. "For your desk," he added, his voice dropping an octave. "To serve as a visual reminder."
"A reminder of what?" you asked softly.
"That even the most complex and rigorous structures require periods of stillness to grow," he said, his gaze drifting toward the darkening horizon. "Constant motion without pause is merely a way to exhaust oneself before the goal is reached."
The words hit you with the force of a physical weight. It was an acknowledgment of the change he had seen in you.
"Thank you," you whispered, and the gratitude felt deep, rooted in something far more profound than academic thanks.
As the evening breeze stirred your hair, a sudden, staggering realization began to dawn on you. You looked at him and really looked at him. You saw the man you had spent years trying to outrun, the rival who had loomed over your every ambition. But as you stared at his composed profile, the memories began to shift. They began to reassemble themselves into a pattern you had been too blinded by competition to see.
You remembered a month ago, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, staring blankly at a plate of untouched food, your mind spinning with equations until the world felt blurred. You had been so lost in your own exhaustion that you hadn't noticed him approaching. He had simply set a small, wrapped parcel of dried fruit on the edge of your table.
"You are consuming more mental energy than glucose," he had said, his voice cool and matter of fact as he walked past. "It is mathematically unsound to study on an empty stomach."
You remembered the long walks between the Grand Bazaar and the Akademiya, where you used to try and sprint to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, your lungs burning and your heart racing in a desperate attempt to match his pace. You had once stumbled, breathless, and he had stopped not to wait, but to subtly slow his gait, his shoulder brushing yours as if by accident.
"The path is not a race, even if you insist on treating it as one," he had remarked, his eyes fixed ahead, though he had stayed at your side until your breathing leveled out.
You remembered the afternoon you had nearly collapsed in the library, your arms trembling under the weight of three massive, ancient tomes. You had turned your head for a mere second to find a reference, and when you turned back, the heaviest book was gone. You had seen Alhaitham walking away toward the returns shelf, the tome tucked effortlessly under his arm.
"You were carrying more than was necessary for your current research," he had called back without looking. "Efficiency is more important than bravado."
And the small things are the quiet moments in the library where you would find a fresh sheet of high quality parchment or a specific vial of indigo ink waiting on your desk, accompanied by no note, but always appearing exactly when your own supplies had run dry.
Your grip tightened around the Sumeru Rose. For years, you had believed you were the one paying attention. You had been the one tracking scores, measuring distances, and watching his every move with the eyes of a rival. But now, the truth was undeniable. While you had been staring at his back, trying desperately to catch him, he had been glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. He hadn't just been observing your progress; He had been watching you. He hadn't been running the same race; he had been standing at the finish line, waiting for you to realize that you didn't need to run so hard to reach him.
Your heart gave a small, rhythmic thud against your ribs not the panicked thud of a student, but the steady, warm pulse of a person who was finally, truly, seeing the world for the first time.
The present rushed back into focus. Heat crept into your face as you looked at him. "You've been watching me."
For perhaps the first time all evening, the unshakeable composure of Alhaitham faltered. It was a microscopic shift, a momentary stillness in his breathing, a slight tightening of his gaze but to you, it was as loud as a shout. He didn't look away, though.
"‘Watching’ is an imprecise term," he countered, though the clinical edge of his voice lacked its usual bite.
You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to dance on the evening breeze. "Of course you'd say that."
"Observation is the basis of all knowledge," he replied, leaning back slightly. "If you intend to truly understand a subject, you must first observe it in its natural state, without the interference of your own biases."
The words were characteristically Alhaitham: logical, measured, and draped in a layer of intellectual detachment. Yet, as they hung in the air between you, they felt devastatingly intimate. Beneath the academic jargon was a truth that made your pulse quicken: he had been studying you.
His gaze drifted downward, settling on the dried Sumeru Rose cradled in your palm. For a long moment, the world seemed to recede. The bustling chatter of the Sumeru plaza, the distant calls of merchants, even the rhythmic splashing of the fountain it all faded into a muted hum, leaving only the two of you in a pocket of sudden, heavy stillness.
"You spent years assuming I viewed you as competition," he said quietly.
The words caught in your throat, stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt an instinctive need to defend yourself, to reclaim the pride you had worn like armor for so long. "I never said that," you countered, though the defense felt thin even to your own ears.
"No," Alhaitham agreed, his voice as steady as the stone beneath your feet. "You simply decided it for both of us."
A sharp retort sat on the tip of your tongue— a witty jab about his arrogance but it died there. It was a realization that stung more than an insult because it was undeniably true. You had built a wall of rivalry to protect yourself, and he had simply walked right through it.
He turned his head, his eyes following the shimmering arc of the fountain’s water. "Most discussions within the Akademiya are predictable," he mused, his tone shifting into that familiar, analytical cadence.
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Predictable?"
"Most scholars are interested in being correct," he said, his gaze remaining fixed on the water. "Very few are interested in understanding why they might be wrong." He paused, and the evening breeze stirred the dark strands of his hair, a rare moment of softness in his rigid silhouette. "You were."
The words landed with a quiet, devastating weight. It wasn't a critique of your intellect, but an observation of your soul.
"You challenged arguments that everyone else accepted as gospel," he continued, his voice low and rhythmic. "You questioned conclusions that professors considered settled. Whenever I thought I had reached the end of a subject, you were there, finding the one thread worth pulling." He paused, and for a fleeting second, he sounded almost reluctant, as if he were admitting a secret he hadn't intended to share. "It was... useful."
A startled, breathless laugh escaped you. "There it is."
He turned his gaze back to you, his expression perfectly, maddeningly serious.”There is what?"
"The Alhaitham version of a compliment," you teased, though your heart was racing. "The highest praise a man of logic can bestow."
"It wasn't intended as a compliment," he corrected, though his eyes narrowed slightly, a tell-tale sign that he was aware of the effect he was having on you.
You smiled, leaning into the warmth of the moment. For once, you didn't feel the need to win the argument. You didn't need to be right; you just needed to be heard.
Alhaitham was the first to look away, his gaze drifting back toward the city lights. "When you began treating every conversation as a contest," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, "I assumed it was a temporary phase. A symptom of ambition."
The warmth in your chest faltered, replaced by a sudden, sharp ache. "But it wasn't."
"You stopped arguing because you enjoyed the learning," he said, his words precise, surgical, cutting through your defenses with terrifying ease. "Instead, you started arguing because you were trying to prove something. You were trying to bridge a gap that didn't actually exist."
Silence settled between you, heavy and profound. He was right. Again. It was exhausting, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it: the comfort of being truly known.
"You kept trying to become someone else," he said, his voice barely a whisper now, stripped of its usual academic armor. "And frankly... It was disappointing."
The word hit you like a physical blow. "Disappointing?" you breathed, staring at him in disbelief.
For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. A flash of something raw, something almost vulnerable, crossed his features a shadow of regret, or perhaps a longing he couldn't quite name. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual composure, but the impact remained.
"The person you already were," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the world stand still, "was far more interesting."
A profound silence fell over the plaza. You looked down at the flower in your hand. Its petals were fragile, yet it had been preserved with such care that it remained whole. A week ago, you might have seen only a withered plant. Now, you saw the intent behind it.
A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips, born of a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.
Alhaitham noticed immediately. He always did. "And what conclusion have you arrived at?" he asked, his eyes searching yours with an uncharacteristic hint of curiosity.
You closed your fingers carefully around the rose, shielding the delicate petals. The answer sat warmly in your chest, a realization so new and so personal that to speak it aloud felt like it might break the spell.
"It's a secret," you whispered.
A pause followed. Then, Alhaitham let out a long, slow sigh. It wasn't the sigh of an irritated man, but one of quiet resignation, as if he had predicted this exact moment of sentimental defiance.
"You realize," he said, his tone dry but fond, "that withholding information from a scholar is exceptionally cruel."
You laughed again, the sound light and free. "Consider it repayment."
"For what?"
"For making me figure it out all by myself," you teased, your rose colored eyes bright with a newfound clarity.
The corner of his mouth lifted. It was a tiny movement, a mere ghost of a smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, but this time, you didn't let it escape you. You caught it, held it in your memory, and realized that in the quiet language of glances and dried flowers, you had finally learned how to read him.
Alhaitham didn't answer immediately. He pushed himself away from the polished stone, straightening with unhurried ease. "The light will be optimal for reading in the west wing of the Akademiya in about an hour," he said calmly. "If you're still free by then, you may join me."
The final day the eve of the examinations arrived with a strange slice.
It was a quiet that existed only within you, because the Akademiya itself was anything but still. Anxious energy clung to every hallway and lecture chamber like a thick, humid mist. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and the frantic, ozone-like tang of desperation. Students rushed between classes, their footsteps a staccato rhythm of panic, clutching stacks of notes to their chests as if the paper itself could shield them from failure. Study groups occupied every available surface; frantic, hushed whispers followed you through the corridors like the buzzing of insects. You passed a student in the hall, eyes bloodshot and trembling, desperately trying to cram three months of botanical theory into a single afternoon. Another sat on a stone bench, staring blankly at the sky, looking moments away from praying directly to the Dendro Archon for a miracle.
The atmosphere was so saturated with tension that it felt tangible, a pressure against your skin. A week ago, you would have been a part of that frantic tide. You would have been the one carrying twice as many books as necessary, your shoulders aching under the weight of unnecessary preparation. You would have skipped lunch to shave ten minutes off a review session; you would have skipped dinner to chase a fleeting thought; you would have sacrificed sleep to the altar of "just one more hour." You would have convinced yourself that a single, extra moment of cramming could be the difference between existence and insignificance.
But now, as you navigated the crowded halls, the desperation felt oddly distant. It was as if you were watching a storm from behind a thick pane of glass. You could see the lightning, you could hear the thunder, but you were no longer being drenched by the rain.
It wasn't that you didn't care.
The examinations still mattered; you had poured your soul into your studies, and you wanted the results to reflect that. But the fear had loosened its grip, transforming from a suffocating shroud into something smaller, something manageable. It was no longer a monster waiting to consume you whole; it was merely a quiet companion, a reminder of the stakes, but one that no longer dictated your every breath.
When night finally settled over Sumeru, you found yourself sitting by the open window of your room. The rainforest stretched endlessly beyond the city walls, a vast, breathing ocean of dark green bathed in the ethereal silver of the moonlight. The sounds of the night drifted inward through the cool air, the rhythmic, distant chirping of insects, the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle murmur of the wind moving through the canopy. You rested your arms on the windowsill, watching the moon climb its slow, celestial arc.
Behind you, your notes remained untouched on your desk. The sight felt almost absurd, a quiet rebellion against years of habit. For so long, the night before an exam had followed a ritual of madness: panic, review, panic, more review. A desperate, cyclical attempt to memorize information you already knew, as though the sheer volume of data could act as a shield against the unknown.
Tonight, the books remained closed because there was nothing left to prove. The work was done.
Your gaze drifted to the desk. The dried Sumeru Rose rested beside your neatly organized notes, its preserved petals glowing softly under the moonlight. You smiled, thinking of how different that desk had looked a week ago. It had been a battlefield of half finished notes, spilled ink, and cold, forgotten tea. Now, it simply looked like a desk.
And as you looked at the flower, your thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did, to him.
Alhaitham.
The name no longer stirred that sharp, jagged tension in your chest. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt like sunlight on skin. You found yourself remembering the small, quiet things: the way he had handed you a parcel of bread and honey when he noticed your hands shaking; the stillness of a bench beneath a tree; the silent, knowing nod in the library; the ghost of a smile by the fountain. These weren't just moments; they were proof. Proof that someone had seen you long before you had learned how to see yourself.
For years, you had treated your rivalry with him as the defining epic of your life—the impossible mountain you had to climb, the finish line you had to cross. You had lived in the shadow of his intellect, constantly measuring your worth by how close you could stand to his light.
And then, the thought arrived the one that had been hovering at the edge of your mind all evening.
What if tomorrow comes, and the rankings are released, and he is first... and I am second?
In the past, that thought would have been a catastrophe. It would have felt like a personal failure, a sign that you were still "lesser," still chasing a shadow you could never catch. You would have felt the sting of being the runner up, the child who was talented but never quite enough.
But as you sat in the moonlight, the thought felt different. If you were second, you would still be you.
You would still be the person who loved the intricacies of ancient philosophy. You would still be the person who found beauty in the way the light hit the rainforest leaves. Being second wouldn't erase the hours of study, the growth of your mind, or the strength of your spirit. The ranking was a number on a parchment; it wasn't the sum of your soul.
For the first time, you realized that the competition had never been about beating him. It had been about finding yourself. And in the process of chasing his excellence, you had discovered your own.
You liked the person you had become in the pursuit. You liked your curiosity, your stubbornness, and your resilience. You liked that you were no longer just a collection of scores and achievements. You were a person of depth, of passion, and of quiet, steady strength.
The examinations would come tomorrow.
The results would be posted.
But as you watched the moon, you knew that no matter what name was written on that list, you had already won. And for the first time, the view was beautiful.
The examinations came, as they always did, a whirlwind of ink, parchment, and grueling mental exertion. Hundreds of scholars sat hunched over their desks, their shadows stretching long and thin as the sunlight crawled sluggishly across the stone floors. The air was thick with the palpable tension of a thousand minds straining against the limits of their own understanding. Questions demanded more than just rote memorization. They demanded the soul of a scholar: theories, intricate formulas, subtle interpretations, and the courage to build an argument from nothing.
The exams were not easier if anything, the complexity of the final papers had been staggering but you met them as yourself. You studied, yes but you studied with a new kind of clarity. You slept when your body demanded it. You ate when the sun was high. You no longer chased him like a shadow.
The difference was nothing short of miraculous. Problems that once felt like impenetrable thickets of logic began to unravel. Connections that used to require hours of agonizing labor emerged with a natural clarity. You realized, with a profound sense of clarity, that a sharp mind required care just as surely as any fine blade required maintenance.
When the final parchment was collected and the last quill was set aside. You felt content.
The results arrived several days later, and as was the tradition of the Akademiya, the institution descended into a beautiful, chaotic madness. Before the sun had even cleared the canopy, students were swarming the central plaza, their voices rising in a cacophony of excitement and dread. Rumors spread through the hallways like wildfire, faster than any official decree.
You watched the commotion from the periphery, leaning against a cool stone pillar. As you moved toward the center, the sea of students parted, though not entirely. Fragments of frantic conversation drifted past you like autumn leaves.
"Did you see the scores? The linguistics section was brutal!"
"The top rankings are absolutely ridiculous this year... "
"How is that even possible? He didn't even look like he was trying!"
"I swear, Alhaitham isn't even human.."
A small, amused huff escaped you. Some things, it seemed, were as constant as the stars.
Finally, you reached the front. The official parchment hung neatly against the wooden board, a stark list of names and numbers that had once dictated your every waking thought. Your eyes traveled upward, almost by instinct, toward the summit of the list.
First: Alhaitham.
The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference. A smile touched your lips not a bitter one, not a wounded one, but something warm and almost fond.
Of course it was him.
You could almost see the slight, satisfied tilt of his head as he read it. You imagined the insufferable, quiet dignity he would maintain, as if being the best in the Akademiya was as mundane as breathing.
Then, your gaze drifted down.
Second: Y/N L/N
The margin between you was almost laughably small. It was a difference measured in whispers, in the tiniest fractions of a point a gap so narrow it was practically a bridge. In the past, seeing this would have been a catastrophe. You would have dissected every missed nuance, every slightly flawed argument, and spent weeks mourning the "what ifs." But now, all you felt was a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride. You weren't just close to him; you were standing right there with him, not as a shadow, but as a peer.
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. It was the sound of someone who had finally realized the race was over, and that the prize was much better than a rank.
"It seems the margin is shrinking."
The voice was low, steady, and vibrated with a familiar resonance that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You didn't need to turn around. Only one person in the entire Akademiya possessed the ability to move through a crowd like a ghost, arriving with such effortless, quiet authority.
Alhaitham stepped up beside you. He didn't look at the board. He didn't look at his own name, which sat at the very top like a crown. His attention was entirely, singularly fixed on you. His gaze was observant, sweeping over your face with that characteristic, analytical intensity, as if he were reading a text more complex than any ancient scroll.
The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference.
As you stepped away from the board, a familiar presence materialized beside you. Alhaitham didn't look at the rankings; he didn't need to. He looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your calm expression and the steady light in your eyes.
"You look well," he noted, his voice as cool and steady as the Sumeru breeze.
The words were simple, stripped of any grandiosity, yet they carried a weight that no "congratulations" ever could. He was seeing the light in your eyes, the lack of tension in your shoulders, the way you finally occupied your own skin without looking for permission. He was saying: You look like you have finally found your way back to yourself.
The smile lingering on your lips widened, bright and teasing. "And you look far too satisfied with yourself," you countered, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Is the view from the top as lonely as they say, or are you just enjoying the ego boost?"
His eyebrow lifted, a subtle, elegant movement that signaled his amusement. "The view is quite standard," he replied, his voice dropping to that private, intimate register. "But the company... the company has become significantly more interesting."
You stared at him, your breath hitching in the small, charged space between you. Alhaitham met your gaze with an expression as unreadable as a closed tome, yet the corner of his mouth twitched a microscopic movement that wasn't quite a smile, but was far too intentional to be mere muscle fatigue.
Around you, the Akademiya was a cacophony of post examination chaos. Students surged around the notice board like frantic waves crashing against a stubborn rock, their voices rising in a fever pitch of jubilant celebrations, bitter complaints, and the frantic scratching of quills as they compared scores. Yet, despite the roar of the crowd, the space beside Alhaitham felt strangely insulated, as if he carried a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the world at bay. Perhaps he always had. Perhaps you were simply the only one who knew how to step inside it.
For years, you had stood before these rankings feeling a crushing sense of vertigo, as if the distance between first and second place was a vast, unbridgeable canyon. But looking at the parchment now, the gap seemed almost laughably small. A mere fraction of a point. A handful of marks a difference so insignificant that a casual observer would have missed it entirely. Your eyes drifted back to the top of the list, tracing the ink.
First: Alhaitham.
Second: Y/N L/N
The sight should have been a familiar ache, a reminder of the summit you couldn't quite reach. Instead, a warmth bloomed in your chest, steady and bright. "You know," you said, your voice thoughtful and surprisingly light, "I used to think seeing your name above mine was the worst thing imaginable."
Alhaitham folded his arms, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "And now?"
You paused, actually considering the weight of the years behind you, the sleepless nights, the frantic studying, the desperate need to be enough. The answer surprised even you. "Now? Now I think there are probably worse things."
"Such as?" he prompted, his tone dry, inviting the challenge.
"Being Kaveh," you countered without a second of hesitation.
The reaction was instantaneous. Alhaitham looked away, but for one glorious, fleeting second, you saw a genuine flash of amusement dance across his features. "You aren't wrong," he conceded. “You aren't wrong," he conceded, his voice carrying a rare note of agreement.
"You said that remarkably fast," you teased, a playful glint in your eyes. "Usually, you'd at least argue."
"Why argue against empirical evidence?" he replied, turning his gaze back to you. "It would be an inefficient use of energy."
A laugh escaped you, a bright, clear sound that seemed to settle the restless air around you. As the sound faded, you noticed Alhaitham relax almost imperceptibly. Most people would have missed the subtle softening of his shoulders, but you had spent years studying not just his intellect, but his silences. You realized then that the rivalry hadn't been a solo performance. You had assumed the fierce, quiet desperation belonged only to you, but looking at him now, you understood. It had mattered to him, too. Not because he craved the vanity of the ranking, but because you had become a constant in his world, the one voice capable of complicating his logic, the one presence that made the silence of his solitude feel less absolute.
"You know," you said, crossing your arms and tilting your chin up with a newfound, gentle defiance, "one day, I am going to beat you."
"I know."
The sheer, unshakeable certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You frowned, searching his teal eyes for even a hint of doubt, a flicker of competitive heat. "You're supposed to disagree! That's how a rivalry works. You're supposed to defend your position."
Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled, as if you had just proposed a mathematically impossible theorem. "That seems counterproductive. If you are destined to surpass me, why waste breath pretending otherwise?"
You threw your hands up in exasperation, though the smile on your face betrayed you. "Archons, you are utterly hopeless. There is no winning an argument with you."
"And yet," he countered, his gaze steady and uncomfortably perceptive, "you have spent years competing with me. One has to wonder if you simply enjoy the pursuit."
He had you there again. You hated how he could turn your own history against you, stripping away your defenses with nothing but a few well placed words. But as you stood there in the sun drenched plaza, you realized he was right. You did enjoy it.
The afternoon sun filtered through the grand, arched windows of the Akademiya, casting long, golden honey streaks across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a group of scholars erupted into a chorus of either triumph or despair, but you didn't care to look. For the first time, you didn't feel trapped by the results.
You glanced one last time at the list. Second place. The position that had haunted your dreams and stolen your sleep, a constant reminder of a summit you could never quite touch. Now, It no longer looked like a mark of inadequacy; it looked like a stepping stone. You were growing, and the distance was shrinking. And certainly, the view was much better when first place was occupied by an insufferable scholar who had recently taken to ensuring you were and subtly reminding you to sleep.
"You're smiling," Alhaitham observed, his voice a low hum, cutting through the ambient nose of the hall.
You immediately scowled, trying to reclaim your dignity with a sharp tilt of your chin. "No, I am not."
"You are."
"I am most certainly not."
"You are."
"Alhaitham"
"Y/N"
The way he mimicked your indignant cadence was so deadpan, so utterly unexpected and devoid of mocking yet brimming with a teasing intent, that you nearly lost your composure again. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained entirely unapologetic, looking as though he had just delivered a flawless lecture. Then, his expression shifted, settling into something purposeful.
"Come." he said.
You blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"
"Lunch."
"I am perfectly capable of buying my own lunch," you countered, though your stomach betrayed you with a small, hungry traitorous twitch.
"I am well aware of your capabilities." he replied, his tone implying that your independence was a fact he respected, but one that was currently irrelevant.
"Then why are you inviting me?"
Without waiting for a formal acceptance, Alhaitham began walking down the grand steps, his stride purposeful. You hesitated for a moment, considering the satisfaction of leaving him to his solitude. Before you could decide, he glanced over his shoulder. It was only a single, brief look, but it was enough to pull you in.
"Besides," he added, his voice carrying back to you over the din of the hall, "if you truly intend to surpass me one day, you will need to remain conscious long enough to actually do it."
For years, you had operated under a fundamental misunderstanding. You had believed your story with Alhaitham was a war of attrition— a relentless, exhausting climb toward a peak defined by numbers, rankings, and the cold prestige of the Akademiya. You thought it was about the singular, desperate need to prove your worth by eclipsing his.
But as you fell into step beside him, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing with his steady, unhurried stride, the truth settled in your heart with a quiet, profound clarity.
The rankings were transient.
They would shift like the desert sands next semester, next year, perhaps not for a decade. Yet, for the first time in your life, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a threat as a warm, lingering thought bloomed in your mind: Second place isn't so bad. Not when first place is walking beside you for lunch.
As the two of you merged into the vibrant flow of students spilling through the walkways, your gaze drifted toward him. You watched the way the sunlight caught the sharp lines of his profile, and you felt a pang of retrospective embarrassment.
How wrong you had been.
For years, you had misread his silence as arrogance. You had mistaken his detachment for a lofty sense of superiority, assuming that the reason he remained unruffled by the chaos of academic competition was that he viewed the world and the people in it as beneath his notice.
You thought he was indifferent to the very things that defined your existence: the struggle, the ambition, the desperate need to be seen.
But the illusion had shattered in quiet spaces between your heated debates, in the hushed hours of late night study sessions, and in the simple, unexpected kindness of a parcel of warm bread wrapped carefully in cloth left on your desk.
Alhaitham had never been indifferent. He simply valued a different currency.
While the rest of the Darshan chased the fleeting glitter of prestige, he chased the deep, resonant marrow of understanding. While others clamored for the roar of recognition, he sought the quietude of peace.
You remembered the lectures the way he would receive the rapturous praise of professors with nothing more than a singular, dismissive nod before returning to his book. You remembered how he would slip away from the celebratory banquets before the toasts even began, seemingly irritated by the way people treated his mind as a monument rather than a tool. You had assumed it was because he felt he was above it all. Now, you realized the truth was much more grounded: he already knew exactly who he was. He didn't need a scroll to validate his existence.
He wasn't ahead of everyone else because he was faster or smarter; he was ahead because while the rest of the world was running a frantic, exhausting race, Alhaitham had quietly, calmly, chosen his own destination.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, born of a sudden, profound affection for the man beside you.
"You've done that three times now."
The voice was low and deadpan, pulling you back to the present. You blinked, realizing Alhaitham was watching you, his gaze fixed on your face with that unnerving focus.
"Done what?" you asked, trying to reclaim your composure, though your heart was still racing from the weight of your own thoughts’
"Smiled at nothing."
"I wasn't smiling at nothing," you countered, though your cheeks felt a faint, roseate warmth creeping into your cheeks.
"Then what were you smiling at?" he prompted, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were attempting to solve a particularly complex equation.
You paused, looking at him.
You looked at the man who had been the center of your frustration, the architect your rivalry, and the catalyst of your growth. The scholar who had become the most vital and unshakeable constant in your life. You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you.
"If I told you,” you said, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “your ego would become truly unbearable."
"I find that unlikely," he replied, his expression remaining perfectly neutral, thoughthere was a tell-tale glimmer of something bright— something warm lingering in his eyes
As you reached the bustling heartof the Grand Bazaar, the smells of spices and street food wafted around you, pulling you back into the noise of the living world. Alhaitham led you away from the main thoroughfare, navigating the crowds with his usual effortless grace, until you reached a small, quiet cafe, tucked away. As you sat down across from him, you felt a final, lingering tension dissolve. The crushing pressure to be perfect—the need to be the singular, untouchable summit had finally lifted.
"I still plan on beating you," you said, leaning back in your chair and watching him with a newfound, calm determination. Your gaze steady and devoid of the old, frantic desperation
Alhaitham opened the menu, his eyes dancing with a rare, subtle spark of challenge. "I look forward to it,” he replied, his voice smooth and unhurried. “But for now," he gestured towards a passing waiter, "I suggest we start with something light. You look as though you might faint if you try to eat a full meal."
You reached across the table and playfully kicked his boot with your own. "I'm fine."
"Of course," he murmured, his gaze meeting yours, his expression softening just enough to betray his amusement. "And I'm convinced you're not. It seems we have reached a stalemate."
"Fine," you conceded, a genuine, melodic laugh bubbling up from your chest. "A stalemate. For now."
The two of you sat in the warmth of the afternoon sun, two rivals who had finally found something more valuable than a perfect score. As the shadows began to lengthen and the city hummed its evening song around you, a profound sense of peace settled over you. You knew that the rankings would continue to change and the seasons would turn; but the person sitting across from you— the man who watched your struggle and waited for you to catch up was the only constant that truly mattered.
all writing belong to @velverii do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.
SYNOPSIS: For years, you lived in the shadow of one name: Alhaitham. No matter how hard you studied or how close you came, he always remained just out of reach. But as the Akademiya's examinations draw near and the pressure begins to mount, something starts to change. Will you finally surpass the rival you have chased for so long? Or will you discover that there is more waiting for you beyond first place?
TAGS: ALHAITHAM X READER...ish?, ONESHOT, comfort, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, burn out reader, written in reader's POV, second POV, use of Y/N twice, one-sided rivalry, inaccurate system of the Akademiya?
WC: 14.5k
A/N: there's no outright romance between reader and alhaitham in this fic, but their interactions are admittedly very cute, and there are several moments where your heart is hammering and your face is suspiciously warm.... feel free to interpret their relationship however you'd like—platonic, romantic or somewhere in between! i personally wrote it with romantic lens :)
thank you @ikeepforgettingmyacc for beta reading,
this has been in my drafts for over a year and only found the time to finish it now huhu, so please enjoy ♡
There had been a time when failure was a concept reserved for others—a distant storm seen on the horizon, but never one that drenched your own skin.
Intelligence and success was as natural as the comforting swish of the rivers that cradled your village, tucked far from Sumeru City. Your home was a place of endless green fields and golden afternoons, a sanctuary where life moved at the pace of a slow drifting cloud.
In a village where news traveled faster than the merchants' caravans, your mind became the local legend.
By the age of eight, the local instructors had run out of wisdom to offer you. You had swallowed their lessons whole, leaving them with nothing but your questions.
By ten, the passing travelers with dust on their boots and ink on their fingers would pause in their journeys just to witness the child who spoke in the cadence of a sage.
By twelve, you were the child the villagers pointed to with a mixture of pride and reverence.
"This is the one" they would whisper, their voices thick with a communal hope. "The future of the Akademiya. The brightest spark our soil has ever produced."
At first, the attention felt like a heavy cloak, too warm for a child to wear. You would duck your head, your gaze falling to the grass, wishing to be just another child in the fields. But as the years bled into one another, the cloak became your skin. The expectation of greatness ceased to be a burden and became your baseline.
You still remembered the evening the old researcher visited.
The air had been thick with the scent of jasmine and the low hum of summer insects. Over a modest dinner, the man had leaned forward, his eyes bright with the fervor of a man who had seen the world's wonders.
"You must send them to the Akademiya," he had urged, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
Your mother’s laugh had been soft, tinged with the bittersweet reality of the village. "As if we could afford to pluck such a rare flower from its roots."
The researcher had shook his head, undeterred. "If they continue to study with such ferocity, the Akademiya will find its own way to pluck them."
You had sat there, feigning interest in your meal, but your heart had been racing. The moment the guest departed, the dam broke. A hundred questions spilled from you, frantic and hungry: What are the libraries like? Is the air truly thick with the scent of old parchment? How many minds gather under the Great Tree? Is it true that the very foundations of Teyvat’s wisdom are laid there?
Your father had eventually laughed, a warm, grounding sound, and sent you outside to let the fever of your curiosity cool.
That night, you sat beneath a canopy of stars that felt close enough to touch. You watched the constellations and saw patterns—equations, and possibilities. You imagined yourself walking through halls of marble and vine, your footsteps echoing against the weight of centuries of thought.
For years, that dream was your North Star.
Every book devoured, every sleepless night spent under the dim glow of a candle, every ounce of your fragile energy poured into study. It was all a pilgrimage toward a single destination.
The Akademiya.
When you finally arrived, the sheer scale of Sumeru City felt like a physical blow to the chest. The architecture was a breathtaking. A marriage of nature and intellect—massive, ancient trees intertwined with soaring stone structures, creating a labyrinth of shade and light. Scholars hurried through the streets, their debates flowing as naturally as the wind through the leaves.
It was a symphony of thought, and you were ready to join the orchestra.
You entered the examination halls, not with the trembling hands of a student, but with the quiet certainty of a scholar. You weren't arrogant—arrogance required a sense of superiority. You were simply certain.
Hours later, you emerged into the sunlight, your mind buzzing with the satisfaction of a task completed perfectly. You had performed well. No... you had performed flawlessly.
Three days later, the rankings were posted.
A sea of students surged toward the board, a cacophony of nervous whispers and frantic shuffling. You moved through the crowd with a calm grace, your eyes searching the parchment for your name.
You found it.
Second.
The world seemed to tilt. The warmth of the sun felt suddenly cold against your skin. You blinked, certain the ink had betrayed you, and looked again.
Second.
The name etched above yours was a stranger's name. Alhaitham.
The margin between your brilliance and his was a mere ghost of a margin less than a single percentage point.
It was absurd.
For a long moment, you simply stared at the ink, the silence in your mind deafening. Then, a small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but one of sheer, bewildered irony.
Second place? you thought, a spark of quiet defiance lighting in your chest. Fine. Let him have this one. I will take the first during the next assessment. It is a simple matter of effort.
You walked away from the board, already calculating your next move, already planning your ascent. It was a simple plan.
Except, the next assessment came and the world refused to bend to your will.
And Alhaitham remained first.
Then another.
Then another.
The cycle became a rhythmic, cruel heartbeat that pulsed through the halls of the Akademiya. Weeks bled into months; months stretched into years, and the seasons of Sumeru the heavy rains and the stifling humidity seemed to pass in a blur of ink and parchment.
Every single ranking ended with the same devastating cadence.
Alhaitham.
Then you.
The gap between your scores was never a chasm rather it was a thin, razor sharp line that sliced through your confidence.
It never widened, and it never vanished.
It served as a silent, mocking reminder that no matter how much of your soul you poured into your studies, someone else was always standing exactly one step ahead.
But the sting of the rank wasn't what truly wounded you. It was his indifference.
Most scholars at the Akademiya wore their intellect like a mantle of gold. They craved the prestige; they hungered for the validation of their peers and the nods of their professors. They lived for the competition. But Alhaitham? Alhaitham treated brilliance as if it were a mere chore, a mundane necessity of life.
He attended lectures with a detached, surgical precision. He completed assignments with a terrifying efficiency. He read, he learned, and then as if he were simply finished with the world for the day he would vanish. He would slip away before the accolades could be handed out, leaving the air empty where his presence had been.
You would see him in the periphery of your vision: a quiet figure tucked beneath the shade of a tree between classes, or a silhouette buried deep within the shelves of the House of Daena. When a professor offered him praise, he didn't beam or bow; he merely looked vaguely inconvenienced, as if the compliment were a gust of wind that had slightly disturbed his reading.
You hated that.
You hated the effortless grace of his intellect. You hated the way he seemed to inhabit a world where the struggle for excellence didn't even exist. Most of all, you hated the way you had become a satellite orbiting his sun, your entire sense of self defined by the distance between your name and his.
The rivalry was a ghost—a phantom battle fought entirely within the quiet chambers of your own mind. To the rest of the world, you were a brilliant scholar; to yourself, you were a perpetual runner up.
By the time the next major examination approached, the obsession had grown teeth. It had become something jagged and ugly.
Your dormitory had become a sanctuary of madness.
Every inch of desk and wall was smothered in notes, diagrams, and scribbled theories. You studied through the haze of your meals; you studied the rhythmic sway of the trees as you walked; you studied in the liminal spaces between waking and sleep.
Friends’ invitations grew infrequent, their voices fading into the background as you declined one gathering after another. Professors began to look at you with growing concern, their voices softening as they asked if you were sleeping enough, if your health was holding.
You would offer them a calm, practiced smile. "Yes, of course. I am resting well"
The truth was far more exhausting.
The truth was that you were tired of the silver medal. You were tired of being the shadow. And this time, you were prepared to burn yourself to ash if it meant finally eclipsing him.
That desperate determination was what led you to the House of Daena long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the bustling crowds had retreated to their homes.
The Great Library was a cathedral of silence, lit only by the soft, amber glow of lamps that cast long, dancing shadows against the endless rows of books.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dried ink.
You sat hunched over a heavy tome, your eyes stinging, your fingers trembling slightly from fatigue. The world outside Sumeru City had drifted into a peaceful slumber, but your mind was a storm of equations and logic.
Hours bled into one another, marked only by the turning of pages and the scratch of your quill. You were so deeply submerged in the sea of knowledge that you almost didn't hear the shift in the air the subtle change in the library's quiet rhythm.
Then, a soft, deliberate tap landed against your shoulder.
Your heart gave a sudden, violent leap. You turned, your breath catching in your throat, expecting a librarian or a weary fellow student.
Instead, you found yourself staring into the calm, unreadable eyes of Alhaitham.
He was standing there, looking as though he had simply stepped out of a dream, his presence as cool and steady as the moonlight filtering through the high windows.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn't the heavy, awkward kind one might expect from two rivals, nor was it the comfortable quiet of friends. It was something sharper.
His gaze didn't land on your face first; it traveled.
It swept over the dark, bruised crescents beneath your eyes, the untouched tray of food sitting cold beside your notes, and the frantic, cluttered mountain of texts that seemed to be slowly swallowing you whole. His eyes lingered on your hand the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly as they gripped your quill, stained with ink and fatigue. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. It was the look of a scholar identifying a variable that had gone rogue.
"You haven't gone back to your dormitory," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with that infuriatingly calm cadence of his.
You were the first to break the contact, looking away toward the endless shelves of the House of Daena. "I'm fine."
"You said that the last time."
"There wasn't a last time."
"There were three."
Your shoulders stiffened, a small, defensive jerk of your spine. Alhaitham sighed a soft, exhaled sound that was nearly lost beneath the distant, rhythmic rustle of the rainforest leaves outside the high windows. Without asking permission, he pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down.
The movement was startling.
In the hierarchy of the Akademiya, Alhaitham was an island. He didn't seek company—he didn't even seem to tolerate it. Yet here he was, settling into the seat as though he had every intention of staying until the candles burned to nothing.
Under the warm, flickering light of the desk lamp, the sharp edges of his rivalry seemed to soften. Without the frantic energy of the student body around him, he looked... human. Just another scholar, weary and caught in the gravity of the night. The realization irritated you. It was much easier to hate him when he felt like an unreachable monument of intellect.
"Why are you here?" you asked, your voice sounding thinner than you intended.
"I came to return a book." His gaze flickered toward the chaotic sea of parchment surrounding you. "Then I discovered a more immediate problem."
You rolled your eyes, a weary gesture of defiance. "I'm not a problem."
"At the moment, you are."
"How flattering."
"You mistake observation for insult."
"Because your observations usually sound like insults."
"They only sound that way because you dislike the conclusions."
You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him that his conclusions were nothing but arrogance wrapped in logic, but the words died in your throat.
He was right.
That was the most maddening part of Alhaitham: he was almost always right.
He leaned back, the chair creaking softly under his weight. "You've been avoiding meals."
You blinked, the fog in your brain momentarily clearing. "What?"
"Your lunch yesterday remained untouched."
Your stomach gave a traitorous, hollow ache. "You noticed that?"
"You sit three rows away from me."
"That doesn't answer the question," you muttered, feeling a flush of heat rise to your pale cheeks.
"It answers it sufficiently."
You stared at him, searching for a hint of mockery, a sign that he was teasing you. But there was none. Alhaitham simply accepted facts as they existed, as if observing your deteriorating health was no different than noting the humidity in the air.
"You also left a lecture early this morning," he continued, relentless.
Your frown deepened. "I had studying to do."
"You nearly walked into a pillar."
"..."
"And your handwriting has noticeably deteriorated."
"..."
"Your notes from two weeks ago were significantly more legible."
You felt a sudden, frantic prickle of vulnerability. "Have you been... analyzing my notes?"
"I've debated with you enough times to recognize your handwriting."
A groan escaped you, and you let your forehead drop onto the cool surface of the desk, the wood smelling of cedar and old ink. "Please," you whispered into the paper, "just stop noticing things."
"No."
The answer was instantaneous. No hesitation, no softening of the blow. You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "Why?"
For the first time, Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled. He tilted his head slightly, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because they're there."
It was such a quintessentially Alhaitham response that you almost laughed a dry, tired sound. The exhaustion was winning; the room felt heavy, the air thick and warm, and your eyes burned with every blink. You hated that he could see the cracks in your porcelain composure. You hated that he was right.
His gaze softened, a change so subtle it was almost a trick of the light. "Rest," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its analytical edge and becoming something firm, grounded, and strangely certain. "It's the only logical thing to do."
"I don't have time," you countered, though your eyelids felt like lead.
"You do."
"I really don't."
"You do."
"The examinations are next week!" you hissed, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim your dignity.
"Precisely."
You blinked at him, bewildered. "That doesn't even make sense."
"It does." Alhaitham folded his arms, his expression turning clinical once more. "Your current condition is reducing both retention and comprehension. Continuing to study while exhausted produces diminishing returns."
You closed your eyes, realizing you had walked straight into his trap. "You're treating yourself like a machine," he continued.
"A machine?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
"An inefficient one."
"Oh, thank you."
"Not a compliment."
You buried your face in your hands, the weight of the world feeling as heavy as the books on your desk. Somewhere above the sound of your own frustrated breathing, Alhaitham let out a long, weary sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly gentle, carrying a hint of something that sounded almost like... exasperation.
"Archons."
You glanced up, startled. The word sounded so foreign, so uncharacteristic of the man who usually spoke in perfect, measured sentences. It was the first time he had sounded like a person instead of a scholar.
"What?" you whispered.
"You are a most difficult variable to solve," he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
"Mental health should always be prioritized," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the vast silence of the library. "Regardless of circumstance."
The sheer sincerity of the statement struck you like a physical force. The towering shelves of books faded into the periphery, the shadows in the corners of the room deepened into velvet, and the vast, hollow space of the library vanished, leaving only the narrow, electric distance between the two of you.
"You've pushed yourself well beyond your limits." His eyes drifted, a fleeting moment of observation as they swept over the scattered parchments and the ink stained edges of your sleeves, before snapping back to your face. "Take a break."
A sudden, sharp tightness bloomed in your chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath. You searched his face for the tell tale signs of a victor, the subtle curl of a lip, the glint of superiority, the quiet satisfaction of seeing a rival falter. But there was nothing.
A part of you wanted to snap at him, to wrap yourself in your pride and push him away. But another part the part that was tired of fighting the world alone ached to ask the question that had been festering in your mind for years.
"Why does it matter to you?"
The question hung in the air, fragile and trembling.
For the first time that evening, the man of endless logic fell silent.
The only sound was the distant, rhythmic sigh of the wind brushing against the high glass windows and the soft, ghostly flicker of the lamp. Alhaitham’s gaze shifted, his eyes clouding with a rare, contemplative depth, as if he were weighing the exact value of the truth before deciding whether to bestow it upon you.
Moonlight spilled across the mahogany table in long, silver ribbons, illuminating the dust motes dancing between you. After a silence so long it felt eternal, he finally spoke.
"Because despite what you seem to believe, I've never considered you an obstacle."
Your breath hitched, snagging in your throat. Before you could find the strength to protest, he continued, his voice cutting through the stillness. "You're one of the few people in this Darshan capable of challenging my conclusions."
His expression remained as composed as a statue’s, yet there was an undeniable, raw honesty beneath the surface, a vulnerability in his steadiness that made it nearly impossible to look away.
"Our debates are interesting," he added.
You blinked, stunned. Interesting? Was that all? After years of rivalry, after the sleepless nights and the crushing weight of second place, he chose the word interesting? It felt almost insulting in its understatement, yet as you looked at him, you saw he was entirely, devastatingly serious.
"Most discussions become predictable after a few minutes," he said, a pause stretching between his words like a taut wire. "Yours don't."
"You assume I've enjoyed outperforming you." His gaze lowered, drifting to the mountains of books and the evidence of your relentless, desperate struggle to catch him. "That assumption is incorrect."
The lamp flickered, a dying pulse of amber light, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended in time. Then, almost as if the words cost him something to say, Alhaitham added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "If anything, I've been waiting for the day you finally surpass me."
The words landed with more impact than any grand proclamation, more weight than any official ranking ever could. In the quiet sanctity of the library, the truth finally dawned on you. You had spent years treating Alhaitham as the finish line, a distant, cold destination to be conquered. You never realized that he hadn't been standing in your way; he had been standing there, quietly watching, waiting for you to finally catch up.
"You're a fool," you whispered, though the sting was gone from your voice. It was a soft, breathless thing, almost a laugh. "To wait for someone to surpass you... it goes against every instinct of a scholar."
"Logic is rarely driven by instinct," Alhaitham replied, his gaze returning to yours. The intensity hadn't faded, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. "It is driven by the pursuit of excellence. And a pursuit is only meaningful when the opposition is worthy."
You looked down at your hands. They were still trembling. The frantic, desperate energy that had driven you for months, the need to prove, the need to win seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a quiet, hollowed out peace.
He reached out, his hand hovering over the table for a fraction of a second before he pulled a small, wrapped parcel from the pocket of his robe. He set it beside your inkwell. "Eat. Then go back to your dormitory. If you collapse during the examination, the lack of a proper challenger will be a significant inconvenience to the Akademiya."
You looked down at the parcel warmth still seemed to radiate from it and then back at him. The fierce, burning rivalry that had defined your existence was still there, but the edges had softened.
As he walked away, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, you didn't immediately reach for your quill. Instead, you unwrapped the parcel, the scent of warm bread and honey filling your senses, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to simply be.
Yet, the week leading up to the examinations was a quiet and difficult revolution
The first battle was against ghosts.
It was not a war fought against the looming expectations, nor against the theories of the Akademiya, nor the impossible, logic defying questions that awaited you.
It was a war fought against yourself.
The old habit was a frantic living thing—a phantom limb. It lurked in the hollows of your thoughts, a restless specter waiting for the slightest lull in your focus to strike. Years of relentless conditioning did not dissolve overnight simply because one infuriatingly perceptive scholar had commanded you to.
Your body was a vessel of exhaustion—heavy and aching—but your mind was a caged bird, beating its wings against the bar.
You sat along at your desk long after the sun had dipped below the rainforest canopy, leaving you room bathed in the bruised purples and deep indigos of twilight. The familiar collection of books was stacked in a neat, imposing tower within arm’s reach. The mere sight of them made your chest tighten, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.
They were both your sanctuary and your cage.
You stared at the spines of the books. They seemed to stare back, judging your stillness.
A minute passed, heavy and thick as honey.
Then another.
Your fingers began to twitch, a rhythmic, nervous dance against the wood of the desk. Just one chapter, the thought whispered, sliding into your mind with the seamless ease of a predator. One chapter wouldn't hurt. You have the energy. You have the time.
It was a lie you had told yourself a thousand times before. One chapter would inevitably bleed into three; three would stretch into six; six would dissolve into a sleepless, feverish night of frantic memorization. You knew the descent into madness intimately. The temptation settled into your marrow, a cold, creeping itch. Without a conscious thought, your hand began to drift toward the nearest textbook. The movement was instinctive, as automatic and unthinking as a heartbeat.
Halfway there, you froze.
The silence in your room suddenly expanded, becoming enormous and deafening. The tips of your fingers hovered a mere inch above the worn, pebbled leather of a volume on ancient tomes. A sharp, jagged frustration rose in your throat. You realized, with a jolt of unsettling clarity, that you weren't studying because you possessed a hunger for knowledge; you were studying because the vacuum of not studying felt like a physical wound.
Slowly, with a monumental effort of will, you pulled your hand back.
The guilt arrived instantly, crashing into you with the force of a sudden summer storm. It was a physical weight: a tightening in your throat, a sickening knot in your stomach, a dull, thrumming pressure behind your ribs. You should be doing something. Everyone else is out there, chasing the light. The examinations are a tide coming in, and you are standing still, letting the water rise around your ankles.
The thought of Alhaitham struck like a spark in dry tinder. Suddenly, your mind was a gallery of him: Alhaitham seated beneath the dappled shade of a tree, a book balanced effortlessly against his knee; Alhaitham in the hushed sanctity of the House of Daena, his presence a calm anchor in a sea of frantic scholars; Alhaitham, standing atop the rankings, his name a permanent fixture above yours.
Your jaw clenched so hard it ached. You hated this helplessness. You hated the terrifying sensation that to rest was to surrender, and to slow down was to be swallowed by the shadows of those who refused to stop.
Your fingers curled into the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood. But then, amidst the cacophony of your own racing heart, a different memory surface. It was the memory of a pair of steady, turquoise eyes staring directly into your soul across a pool of flickering lamplight.
You could hear his voice with a clarity that was almost maddening. “Rest.”
It had been so simple. So direct. Devoid of the grandiosity most scholars used to mask their intentions. “It’s the only logical thing to do.”
You scowled at the phantom of him. Even in the sanctity of your own mind, Alhaitham was an insufferable presence. Yet, the memory felt more real than the desk beneath your hands. You leaned back, forcing your spine to uncurl, and exhaled a breath you felt you had been holding for years.
The room remained unchanged. The books were still there, silent and demanding. The examinations still loomed like a storm on the horizon. You folded your hands in your lap, forcing them to remain still, a feat that felt as difficult as resisting the pull of gravity.
For a long time, the restlessness crawled beneath your skin like tiny, invisible insects. \
But then, slowly, the world began to bleed back in.
The frantic noise of your thoughts began to recede, replaced by the delicate, rhythmic symphony of the Sumeru night. You heard the distant, melodic chirping of insects in the canopy; the gentle, rhythmic sigh of the wind moving through the leaves outside your window; the faint, earthy scent of rain that still lingered in the humid air.
A shaft of moonlight, pale and ethereal, stretched across your floorboards like a silver ribbon. In its glow, you saw them: tiny particles of dust drifting lazily through the air. They rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic dance, suspended in the light like miniature stars caught in a celestial current.
You watched them. You didn't analyze the composition of the dust. You didn't calculate the velocity of their drift. You didn't ask how this moment could be used to improve your standing in the Akademiya. You simply watched.
One particle spiraled upward, a tiny speck of silver against the dark. Another spun slowly, caught in a microscopic eddy of air, before vanishing into the velvet shadows. The movement was entirely meaningless. It was profoundly unproductive. It served no purpose in the grand architecture of your future.
How long had it been since you had allowed yourself to simply witness the world without trying to conquer it? How long had you been so busy measuring the usefulness of every moment that you had forgotten how to live within them?
The second day brought the first encounter with the "new" you.
Or perhaps not new.
Perhaps simply the version of yourself that had been buried beneath years of pressure.
The Akademiya grounds were unusually tranquil that afternoon. Most students had retreated to the sanctuaries of the libraries or the shaded halls to escape the rising Sumeru heat. This left the grounds to the birds, the wind, and the occasional scholar drifting across the stone pathways. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of broad, emerald leaves, casting a shifting mosaic of gold and deep shadow across the grass.
You had chosen a spot beneath the sprawling roots of the Great Tree, a heavy treatise on linguistics resting in your lap. Normally, this would be a moment of intense, almost frantic focus. You would have been dissecting every sentence, cross referencing the symbols and sentence structure, your mind racing to absorb every scrap of data before the sun dipped below the horizon.
But today, the words blurred at the edges. You read a paragraph on ruin devices, then read it again, and a third time, only to realize you hadn't actually processed a single syllable.
A strange, foreign sensation began to settle in your limbs. It wasn't the bone deep, hollow exhaustion that came from pulling all nighters in the House of Daena. It was something much simpler.
You were sleepy.
The realization sent a small jolt of panic through you. For years, sleepiness had been an enemy to be vanquished. It was a weakness to be suppressed with bitter tea, cold water, and sheer, stubborn willpower. The old reflex surged up in your throat: Stand up. Walk to the library. Find a more upright chair. Keep going. Keep going until the world stops spinning.
Your fingers tightened on the parchment, the edges crinkling under your touch. You felt the familiar, gnawing guilt, the sensation that every second spent in repose was a second Alhaitham was gaining on you. You could almost see him in your mind's eye, sitting perfectly poised, his mind a sharp, unclouded blade, absorbing knowledge with effortless grace while you sat here, succumbing to the most basic of biological needs.
“You’re treating yourself like a machine.”
His voice, calm and infuriatingly logical, echoed in your mind. You closed your eyes tight, scowling at the memory. It was an incredibly annoying thought to have when you were trying to be productive. And yet, as you sat there, the debate raged within you. One side of your mind screamed that a midday nap was a luxury for the lazy; the other side, a quieter, more tired voice, pointed out that you had spent years running a marathon with no finish line in sight.
With a heavy, decisive sigh, you closed the book.
The action felt monumental, as if you were signing a treaty with your own body. A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. Permission to be tired. It felt absurd, yet as you leaned your head back against the rough, cool bark of the tree, a profound sense of relief washed over you.
The world began to soften. The rustle of the leaves became a lullaby; the warmth of the sun on your skin felt like a gentle weight, pressing you down into the earth. You let go.
You were drifting, hovering in that hazy, golden space between wakefulness and dreams, when a shadow fell across your vision, cooling the warmth on your face.
Your eyes fluttered open.
Standing a few paces away was Alhaitham. He was, as usual, a study in composed stillness, a book tucked effortlessly beneath one arm. He didn't call your name or startle you; he simply stood there, observing you with that unreadable, piercing gaze. His eyes drifted from your drowsy expression to the closed book in your lap, and then, quite inexplicably, to the sky.
"The light is changing," he remarked. His voice was steady, cutting through the afternoon haze without breaking the tranquility of the garden.
You blinked, your brain feeling as though it were moving through honey. "What?"
"The light," he repeated, nodding toward the canopy above. "It will become too harsh for reading in approximately twenty minutes. The glare will make the parchment difficult to navigate."
You stared at him, momentarily speechless. Only Alhaitham could turn a moment of quiet vulnerability into a lecture on solar positioning. You waited for the sting, the subtle implication that you were wasting time, or the observation that you looked unkempt in your stupor.
Instead, he simply added, "If you intend to sleep, do it now."
"That's it?" you asked, your voice a bit raspy from sleepiness. "No lecture on the importance of midday alertness? No comment on my lack of discipline?"
One of his eyebrows arched a subtle, elegant movement. "What were you expecting? A dissertation on proper napping techniques?"
A genuine snort escaped you, and you saw the tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was a victory, however small.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward a stone bench a short distance away. He didn't sit near you instead, he chose a spot in the shade that was close enough to be a presence, yet far enough to grant you privacy. He opened his own book, settled in, and became a silent, steady anchor in the garden.
As you drifted back into sleep, you only felt a strange, burgeoning sense of safety.
The third day was when the clarity began to settle. It wasn’t a miraculous transformation; there was no sudden burst of light, no magical curing of years of chronic exhaustion. The anxiety hadn't vanished; it was still there, a low hum in the background of your mind, whispering the old, frantic litany: Study more. Work harder. Don't stop. If you stop, you disappear.
But for the first time, the voice sounded more like a suggestion you were free to ignore.
On this morning, you sat at your desk with a fresh stack of parchment and a cup of tea that was actually warm—rather than the bitter, forgotten sludge you usually favored. You opened your textbook and began to read. You read a section, made a note, and then unexpectedly you paused.
An observation had occurred to you.
You reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write. One theory bled into another; a conclusion linked unexpectedly to a lecture from months ago; an argument that had once felt like a tangled knot of thorns suddenly smoothed out into a straight, logical line.
You stared at the page, then the textbook, then back at the page. The realization was startling. The information wasn't new. You had read these exact passages a dozen times before. The difference was that now, your brain was actually present enough to process them.
For years, you had mistaken the mechanical act of memorization for the art of understanding. When exhaustion had consumed you, studying had been a desperate survival tactic: words entered your eyes, your hand moved across the paper, and you retained just enough to pass the examination before the knowledge evaporated. But now, your thoughts move with a fluid, quiet grace.
The irony was almost enough to make you laugh. In your frantic pursuit of becoming a better scholar, you had nearly forgotten how scholarship actually worked.
By midday, several pages of notes lay spread across your desk. They were, quite frankly, a revelation. Your previous notes had always been a frantic map of a collapsing margins crowded with panicked scribbles, entire paragraphs crossed out in jagged, angry lines, a visual representation of a natural disaster.
Today’s pages were different.
They were…. clean and organized.
The ideas flowed with a logical progression, the connections highlighted rather than buried under the weight of stress.
A small, triumphant smile tugged at your lips. Perhaps Alhaitham knew exactly how irritating this realization would be, you thought. And perhaps that is all the motivation I need to surpass him.
That thought followed you as you made your way toward the House of Daena later that afternoon. The library was bathed in the golden, heavy light of the descending sun, dust motes dancing in the long shafts of brilliance like tiny, suspended stars. A week ago, your instinct would have been to find the darkest, most isolated corner, a place to hide your exhaustion.
Today, you did something entirely uncharacteristic.
You chose a table near one of the large, towering windows. You sat where the light was warmest, where the hum of other scholars felt like a gentle backdrop rather than a distracting cacophony.
You had returned your attention to your notes when a familiar, low voice drifted through the air. It wasn't directed at you, but at a passing scholar. You glanced up instinctively.
Alhaitham.
He was standing a few rows away, his expression as composed and unreadable as ever. He was engaged in a brief, clipped exchange with a senior researcher, his tone efficient and devoid of unnecessary fluff. As the conversation ended, he turned to leave, his gaze sweeping the room with its usual analytical precision.
Then, his eyes caught yours.
He paused.
His gaze lingering on you for a second longer than was strictly necessary. He took in the open book, the neatness of your desk, and the fact that you were sitting in the light rather than the shadows.
"You're sitting in the sun," he remarked as he began to walk toward your section.
"I am," you replied, feeling a strange, playful spark of energy. "Is there a particular reason that's a problem?"
He reached your table, not stopping, but slowing his pace just enough to acknowledge you. He glanced down at your notes, the clean, organized lines of your recent work. "On the contrary. Based on the clarity of your script, it seems to be aiding your cognitive function rather than hindering it."
You blinked, caught off guard by the subtle compliment hidden within his clinical assessment. "Is that your way of saying my notes look better?"
"It's my way of saying you've stopped performing the academic equivalent of a frantic scramble," he said, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something there, not quite a smile, but approval. "It's much more efficient this way."
"Efficiency," you repeated, a soft laugh escaping you. "Always back to the logic of it. Do you ever just... enjoy the sunlight, Alhaitham?"
He paused, his hand resting on the edge of the table. For a moment, the busy library seemed to fade into the background. "I find that enjoying the sunlight is much easier when one isn't squinting through a fog of mental fatigue."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He simply nodded once a silent, dignified farewell and continued on his way toward the deeper stacks. You watched him go, the warmth of the sun on your skin feeling a little more profound, the silence of the library feeling a little more like home. You turned back to your parchment, the ink flowing smoothly, the world feeling, for the first time in a very long time, perfectly in focus.
The fourth day tested your resolve.
The morning had begun with a rare, tranquil grace. You had arrived at the House of Daena shortly after sunrise, when the air still held the silver chill of the night and the grand halls felt less like a labyrinth of expectations and more like a sanctuary. Sunlight poured through the high, arched windows in pale, dusty streams, illuminating the shelves. You had settled into your new seat near a window. Your notes were organized, your tea was warm, and for the first time in years, the act of studying felt more like a genuine conversation with the world.
You were midway through a particularly dense passage on elemental theory when the silence was punctured. A cluster of voices, hushed but vibrating with a frantic, jagged energy.
"...there's no way I'm sleeping this week," a voice whispered, thick with a fatigue that sounded almost permanent.
"I'm serious," another replied, the sound of shuffling parchment punctuating their words. "Have you seen the practice assessments? The complexity has doubled since last year."
"They say the gap between the top ranks is widening," a third student added, their voice dropping to a terrified low. "If you aren't in the top tier by the final exam, you're basically invisible to the Matra."
You watched them from the corner of your eye. They were Spantamad students, their robes slightly rumpled, their eyes rimmed with the tell-tale redness of sleeplessness. One carried a stack of books so precarious it looked like a structural hazard; another looked as though they might collapse into the floorboards at any moment.
"I heard Alhaitham already finished his entire curriculum review," the first one whispered, a note of pure dread in their tone.
A collective groan rippled through the group. "That's not reassuring," one muttered. "When is anything involving Alhaitham actually reassuring?"
"It's just... intimidating," the student with the books sighed.
As they moved past, the air seemed to vibrate with their anxiety, a frantic frequency that usually would have triggered a sympathetic tremor in your own chest. A week ago, hearing the word rankings would have been like a physical blow. You would have felt the familiar, suffocating spiral begin: Am I falling behind? Is my progress too slow?
Instead, you felt a strange, detached sort of pity. You looked down at your own notes… you weren't running a race against them.
"You're staring at the same paragraph for three minutes. Is the text particularly captivating today, or are you merely performing a silent vigil for your lost focus?"
The voice was low, steady, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that had just passed by. You looked up to find Alhaitham standing beside your table. He held a slim volume in one hand, his expression as unreadable as a closed book, but his eyes were fixed on you with a piercing, observant intensity.
"I was actually thinking about the Spantamad students," you admitted, your voice soft. "They seem... overwhelmed."
Alhaitham’s gaze drifted toward the aisle where the group had disappeared. "They are," he said simply. He pulled out the chair opposite yours an uncharacteristic move, as he usually preferred his own solitude and sat down. "They have mistaken anxiety for productivity. They believe that by increasing the volume of their suffering, they will increase the quality of their intellect. It is a common fallacy."
"It's hard not to feel that way when everyone is talking about it," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the library at large. "It feels like if you aren't panicking, you aren't trying hard enough."
Alhaitham leaned back slightly, his turquoise eyes meeting yours. "And what is your definition of 'trying'?"
The question caught you off guard. "To... to master the material. To be prepared."
"To be prepared is to understand the core principles so deeply that the variables of an exam cannot shake you," he countered, his tone clinical yet strangely grounding. "To panic is merely to admit that you are at the mercy of the unknown. You are currently sitting here, in the light, with organized thoughts and a steady hand. By any logical metric, you are 'trying' far more effectively than the group that just passed by."
You looked down at your hands. They were, indeed, steady. "It feels different this time," you whispered, almost to yourself. "It feels like... the knowledge belongs to me, rather than me chasing after the knowledge."
A small, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his expression. It wasn't a smile, but the tension in his brow eased. "That is because you have stopped treating scholarship as a weapon to prove your worth, and started treating it as a tool to expand your mind. The distinction is subtle, but the results are profound."
He reached out, his fingers tapping the edge of your notebook in a rhythmic, calming cadence. "Do not let their turbulence dictate your tempo. A river that flows too violently often loses its direction. A steady current is much harder to divert."
You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, a quiet sense of triumph that had nothing to do with grades. "Thank you, Alhaitham. For... for the perspective."
"Don't thank me. It is merely a logical observation," he replied, though he didn't immediately get up to leave. Instead, he opened his own book, settling into a comfortable silence beside you
The fifth day was a day of quiet preparation.
Not for the examinations.
Not entirely.
The air was thick with the frantic energy of students who had forgotten how to breathe without calculating their progress. They moved in clusters, their voices a low, jagged hum of anxiety, passing around practice assessments like they were sacred, terrifying relics. For years, you would have been part of that hum. You would have been in the library by dawn, eyes stinging from the dim light, your stomach cramping from a diet of half eaten bread and sheer willpower.
But this morning, you stepped beyond the Akademiya grounds.
The Sumeru sun was generous, spilling gold across the stone pathways and warming the skin of your face. The city was a symphony of sensory details you had long ago dismissed as "distractions." There was the heady, sweet perfume of jasmine spilling from window boxes; the earthy, damp scent of the forest floor clinging to the shade of the Great Tree; the rhythmic clack clack of merchants setting up their stalls; and the sound of laughter not the brittle, forced laughter of a student relieved to have passed a quiz, but the deep, resonant sound of people simply being.
You wandered aimlessly, a ghost in a world of color. You eventually found yourself in a bustling café, a place that, a week ago, would have felt like an assault on your senses. It was loud, the clatter of porcelain and the murmur of a dozen conversations swirling around you. But instead of retreating, you ordered a proper meal warm and watched. You watched the server frantically navigate the rows of tables; an elderly scholar sip tea with a slow, meditative grace; you watched two merchants haggle with a theatrical intensity; you watched a group of students laughing so hard they nearly overturned their table.
None of them knew your name. None of them knew your rank. And for the first time, the realization didn't make you feel small
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bruised purples and molten ambers, you found yourself drawn toward the Grand Bazaar. The fountain was a centerpiece of cool, cascading light, its steady song a balm to the lingering hum of the day. And there, leaning against the polished stone of the fountain with a composure that seemed to defy the bustling crowds, was Alhaitham.
He looked as though he had been carved from the very twilight itself. His gaze fixed on the water as if he were reading the ripples. He didn't look up as you approached, but the slight shift in his posture told you he knew exactly who was walking toward him.
"You left the Akademiya," he said as you came to a halt beside him. His voice was a low baritone, cutting through the evening air with its usual, unshakeable steadiness. It sounded almost like an accusation, though there was no bite in it.
You let a soft, wistful smile touch your lips. "It turns out the world is quite large."
"It is a fact, not a discovery," he remarked, finally turning his head to meet your eyes. His turquoise gaze was piercing, scanning your face with that unnerving, analytical precision. He paused, his eyes lingering on the healthy glow of your cheeks. "Though your heart rate seems significantly more regulated than it was yesterday. Your presence is... less frantic."
"Is that a compliment?" you teased, feeling a playful spark of energy. "Or just an observation?"
"In my case, there is rarely a difference," he replied.
A silence settled between you, but it wasn't the heavy, expectant silence of the library. It was light. Easy. You looked at the fountain, then back at him. "You're staying late. Not much studying left to do?"
"The archives are quietest at this hour," he said, though he made no move to pick up his book. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe. When he withdrew his hand, he held something small and vibrant between his fingers. It was a Sumeru Rose, its petals a deep purple, perfectly preserved, as if it had been plucked from a dream. He held it out to you. You blinked, the breath catching in your throat. "What is this?"
"A flower," he said, as if he were presenting a particularly uninteresting piece of logic. You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "Thank you, Alhaitham. I would never have guessed."
You saw it then the tiniest, most infinitesimal flicker of exasperation in the corner of his eye. You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the bloom. The petals felt like silk against your skin. "For your desk," he added, his voice dropping an octave. "To serve as a visual reminder."
"A reminder of what?" you asked softly.
"That even the most complex and rigorous structures require periods of stillness to grow," he said, his gaze drifting toward the darkening horizon. "Constant motion without pause is merely a way to exhaust oneself before the goal is reached."
The words hit you with the force of a physical weight. It was an acknowledgment of the change he had seen in you.
"Thank you," you whispered, and the gratitude felt deep, rooted in something far more profound than academic thanks.
As the evening breeze stirred your hair, a sudden, staggering realization began to dawn on you. You looked at him and really looked at him. You saw the man you had spent years trying to outrun, the rival who had loomed over your every ambition. But as you stared at his composed profile, the memories began to shift. They began to reassemble themselves into a pattern you had been too blinded by competition to see.
You remembered a month ago, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, staring blankly at a plate of untouched food, your mind spinning with equations until the world felt blurred. You had been so lost in your own exhaustion that you hadn't noticed him approaching. He had simply set a small, wrapped parcel of dried fruit on the edge of your table.
"You are consuming more mental energy than glucose," he had said, his voice cool and matter of fact as he walked past. "It is mathematically unsound to study on an empty stomach."
You remembered the long walks between the Grand Bazaar and the Akademiya, where you used to try and sprint to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, your lungs burning and your heart racing in a desperate attempt to match his pace. You had once stumbled, breathless, and he had stopped not to wait, but to subtly slow his gait, his shoulder brushing yours as if by accident.
"The path is not a race, even if you insist on treating it as one," he had remarked, his eyes fixed ahead, though he had stayed at your side until your breathing leveled out.
You remembered the afternoon you had nearly collapsed in the library, your arms trembling under the weight of three massive, ancient tomes. You had turned your head for a mere second to find a reference, and when you turned back, the heaviest book was gone. You had seen Alhaitham walking away toward the returns shelf, the tome tucked effortlessly under his arm.
"You were carrying more than was necessary for your current research," he had called back without looking. "Efficiency is more important than bravado."
And the small things are the quiet moments in the library where you would find a fresh sheet of high quality parchment or a specific vial of indigo ink waiting on your desk, accompanied by no note, but always appearing exactly when your own supplies had run dry.
Your grip tightened around the Sumeru Rose. For years, you had believed you were the one paying attention. You had been the one tracking scores, measuring distances, and watching his every move with the eyes of a rival. But now, the truth was undeniable. While you had been staring at his back, trying desperately to catch him, he had been glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. He hadn't just been observing your progress; He had been watching you. He hadn't been running the same race; he had been standing at the finish line, waiting for you to realize that you didn't need to run so hard to reach him.
Your heart gave a small, rhythmic thud against your ribs not the panicked thud of a student, but the steady, warm pulse of a person who was finally, truly, seeing the world for the first time.
The present rushed back into focus. Heat crept into your face as you looked at him. "You've been watching me."
For perhaps the first time all evening, the unshakeable composure of Alhaitham faltered. It was a microscopic shift, a momentary stillness in his breathing, a slight tightening of his gaze but to you, it was as loud as a shout. He didn't look away, though.
"‘Watching’ is an imprecise term," he countered, though the clinical edge of his voice lacked its usual bite.
You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to dance on the evening breeze. "Of course you'd say that."
"Observation is the basis of all knowledge," he replied, leaning back slightly. "If you intend to truly understand a subject, you must first observe it in its natural state, without the interference of your own biases."
The words were characteristically Alhaitham: logical, measured, and draped in a layer of intellectual detachment. Yet, as they hung in the air between you, they felt devastatingly intimate. Beneath the academic jargon was a truth that made your pulse quicken: he had been studying you.
His gaze drifted downward, settling on the dried Sumeru Rose cradled in your palm. For a long moment, the world seemed to recede. The bustling chatter of the Sumeru plaza, the distant calls of merchants, even the rhythmic splashing of the fountain it all faded into a muted hum, leaving only the two of you in a pocket of sudden, heavy stillness.
"You spent years assuming I viewed you as competition," he said quietly.
The words caught in your throat, stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt an instinctive need to defend yourself, to reclaim the pride you had worn like armor for so long. "I never said that," you countered, though the defense felt thin even to your own ears.
"No," Alhaitham agreed, his voice as steady as the stone beneath your feet. "You simply decided it for both of us."
A sharp retort sat on the tip of your tongue— a witty jab about his arrogance but it died there. It was a realization that stung more than an insult because it was undeniably true. You had built a wall of rivalry to protect yourself, and he had simply walked right through it.
He turned his head, his eyes following the shimmering arc of the fountain’s water. "Most discussions within the Akademiya are predictable," he mused, his tone shifting into that familiar, analytical cadence.
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Predictable?"
"Most scholars are interested in being correct," he said, his gaze remaining fixed on the water. "Very few are interested in understanding why they might be wrong." He paused, and the evening breeze stirred the dark strands of his hair, a rare moment of softness in his rigid silhouette. "You were."
The words landed with a quiet, devastating weight. It wasn't a critique of your intellect, but an observation of your soul.
"You challenged arguments that everyone else accepted as gospel," he continued, his voice low and rhythmic. "You questioned conclusions that professors considered settled. Whenever I thought I had reached the end of a subject, you were there, finding the one thread worth pulling." He paused, and for a fleeting second, he sounded almost reluctant, as if he were admitting a secret he hadn't intended to share. "It was... useful."
A startled, breathless laugh escaped you. "There it is."
He turned his gaze back to you, his expression perfectly, maddeningly serious.”There is what?"
"The Alhaitham version of a compliment," you teased, though your heart was racing. "The highest praise a man of logic can bestow."
"It wasn't intended as a compliment," he corrected, though his eyes narrowed slightly, a tell-tale sign that he was aware of the effect he was having on you.
You smiled, leaning into the warmth of the moment. For once, you didn't feel the need to win the argument. You didn't need to be right; you just needed to be heard.
Alhaitham was the first to look away, his gaze drifting back toward the city lights. "When you began treating every conversation as a contest," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, "I assumed it was a temporary phase. A symptom of ambition."
The warmth in your chest faltered, replaced by a sudden, sharp ache. "But it wasn't."
"You stopped arguing because you enjoyed the learning," he said, his words precise, surgical, cutting through your defenses with terrifying ease. "Instead, you started arguing because you were trying to prove something. You were trying to bridge a gap that didn't actually exist."
Silence settled between you, heavy and profound. He was right. Again. It was exhausting, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it: the comfort of being truly known.
"You kept trying to become someone else," he said, his voice barely a whisper now, stripped of its usual academic armor. "And frankly... It was disappointing."
The word hit you like a physical blow. "Disappointing?" you breathed, staring at him in disbelief.
For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. A flash of something raw, something almost vulnerable, crossed his features a shadow of regret, or perhaps a longing he couldn't quite name. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual composure, but the impact remained.
"The person you already were," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the world stand still, "was far more interesting."
A profound silence fell over the plaza. You looked down at the flower in your hand. Its petals were fragile, yet it had been preserved with such care that it remained whole. A week ago, you might have seen only a withered plant. Now, you saw the intent behind it.
A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips, born of a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.
Alhaitham noticed immediately. He always did. "And what conclusion have you arrived at?" he asked, his eyes searching yours with an uncharacteristic hint of curiosity.
You closed your fingers carefully around the rose, shielding the delicate petals. The answer sat warmly in your chest, a realization so new and so personal that to speak it aloud felt like it might break the spell.
"It's a secret," you whispered.
A pause followed. Then, Alhaitham let out a long, slow sigh. It wasn't the sigh of an irritated man, but one of quiet resignation, as if he had predicted this exact moment of sentimental defiance.
"You realize," he said, his tone dry but fond, "that withholding information from a scholar is exceptionally cruel."
You laughed again, the sound light and free. "Consider it repayment."
"For what?"
"For making me figure it out all by myself," you teased, your rose colored eyes bright with a newfound clarity.
The corner of his mouth lifted. It was a tiny movement, a mere ghost of a smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, but this time, you didn't let it escape you. You caught it, held it in your memory, and realized that in the quiet language of glances and dried flowers, you had finally learned how to read him.
Alhaitham didn't answer immediately. He pushed himself away from the polished stone, straightening with unhurried ease. "The light will be optimal for reading in the west wing of the Akademiya in about an hour," he said calmly. "If you're still free by then, you may join me."
The final day the eve of the examinations arrived with a strange slice.
It was a quiet that existed only within you, because the Akademiya itself was anything but still. Anxious energy clung to every hallway and lecture chamber like a thick, humid mist. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and the frantic, ozone-like tang of desperation. Students rushed between classes, their footsteps a staccato rhythm of panic, clutching stacks of notes to their chests as if the paper itself could shield them from failure. Study groups occupied every available surface; frantic, hushed whispers followed you through the corridors like the buzzing of insects. You passed a student in the hall, eyes bloodshot and trembling, desperately trying to cram three months of botanical theory into a single afternoon. Another sat on a stone bench, staring blankly at the sky, looking moments away from praying directly to the Dendro Archon for a miracle.
The atmosphere was so saturated with tension that it felt tangible, a pressure against your skin. A week ago, you would have been a part of that frantic tide. You would have been the one carrying twice as many books as necessary, your shoulders aching under the weight of unnecessary preparation. You would have skipped lunch to shave ten minutes off a review session; you would have skipped dinner to chase a fleeting thought; you would have sacrificed sleep to the altar of "just one more hour." You would have convinced yourself that a single, extra moment of cramming could be the difference between existence and insignificance.
But now, as you navigated the crowded halls, the desperation felt oddly distant. It was as if you were watching a storm from behind a thick pane of glass. You could see the lightning, you could hear the thunder, but you were no longer being drenched by the rain.
It wasn't that you didn't care.
The examinations still mattered; you had poured your soul into your studies, and you wanted the results to reflect that. But the fear had loosened its grip, transforming from a suffocating shroud into something smaller, something manageable. It was no longer a monster waiting to consume you whole; it was merely a quiet companion, a reminder of the stakes, but one that no longer dictated your every breath.
When night finally settled over Sumeru, you found yourself sitting by the open window of your room. The rainforest stretched endlessly beyond the city walls, a vast, breathing ocean of dark green bathed in the ethereal silver of the moonlight. The sounds of the night drifted inward through the cool air, the rhythmic, distant chirping of insects, the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle murmur of the wind moving through the canopy. You rested your arms on the windowsill, watching the moon climb its slow, celestial arc.
Behind you, your notes remained untouched on your desk. The sight felt almost absurd, a quiet rebellion against years of habit. For so long, the night before an exam had followed a ritual of madness: panic, review, panic, more review. A desperate, cyclical attempt to memorize information you already knew, as though the sheer volume of data could act as a shield against the unknown.
Tonight, the books remained closed because there was nothing left to prove. The work was done.
Your gaze drifted to the desk. The dried Sumeru Rose rested beside your neatly organized notes, its preserved petals glowing softly under the moonlight. You smiled, thinking of how different that desk had looked a week ago. It had been a battlefield of half finished notes, spilled ink, and cold, forgotten tea. Now, it simply looked like a desk.
And as you looked at the flower, your thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did, to him.
Alhaitham.
The name no longer stirred that sharp, jagged tension in your chest. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt like sunlight on skin. You found yourself remembering the small, quiet things: the way he had handed you a parcel of bread and honey when he noticed your hands shaking; the stillness of a bench beneath a tree; the silent, knowing nod in the library; the ghost of a smile by the fountain. These weren't just moments; they were proof. Proof that someone had seen you long before you had learned how to see yourself.
For years, you had treated your rivalry with him as the defining epic of your life—the impossible mountain you had to climb, the finish line you had to cross. You had lived in the shadow of his intellect, constantly measuring your worth by how close you could stand to his light.
And then, the thought arrived the one that had been hovering at the edge of your mind all evening.
What if tomorrow comes, and the rankings are released, and he is first... and I am second?
In the past, that thought would have been a catastrophe. It would have felt like a personal failure, a sign that you were still "lesser," still chasing a shadow you could never catch. You would have felt the sting of being the runner up, the child who was talented but never quite enough.
But as you sat in the moonlight, the thought felt different. If you were second, you would still be you.
You would still be the person who loved the intricacies of ancient philosophy. You would still be the person who found beauty in the way the light hit the rainforest leaves. Being second wouldn't erase the hours of study, the growth of your mind, or the strength of your spirit. The ranking was a number on a parchment; it wasn't the sum of your soul.
For the first time, you realized that the competition had never been about beating him. It had been about finding yourself. And in the process of chasing his excellence, you had discovered your own.
You liked the person you had become in the pursuit. You liked your curiosity, your stubbornness, and your resilience. You liked that you were no longer just a collection of scores and achievements. You were a person of depth, of passion, and of quiet, steady strength.
The examinations would come tomorrow.
The results would be posted.
But as you watched the moon, you knew that no matter what name was written on that list, you had already won. And for the first time, the view was beautiful.
The examinations came, as they always did, a whirlwind of ink, parchment, and grueling mental exertion. Hundreds of scholars sat hunched over their desks, their shadows stretching long and thin as the sunlight crawled sluggishly across the stone floors. The air was thick with the palpable tension of a thousand minds straining against the limits of their own understanding. Questions demanded more than just rote memorization. They demanded the soul of a scholar: theories, intricate formulas, subtle interpretations, and the courage to build an argument from nothing.
The exams were not easier if anything, the complexity of the final papers had been staggering but you met them as yourself. You studied, yes but you studied with a new kind of clarity. You slept when your body demanded it. You ate when the sun was high. You no longer chased him like a shadow.
The difference was nothing short of miraculous. Problems that once felt like impenetrable thickets of logic began to unravel. Connections that used to require hours of agonizing labor emerged with a natural clarity. You realized, with a profound sense of clarity, that a sharp mind required care just as surely as any fine blade required maintenance.
When the final parchment was collected and the last quill was set aside. You felt content.
The results arrived several days later, and as was the tradition of the Akademiya, the institution descended into a beautiful, chaotic madness. Before the sun had even cleared the canopy, students were swarming the central plaza, their voices rising in a cacophony of excitement and dread. Rumors spread through the hallways like wildfire, faster than any official decree.
You watched the commotion from the periphery, leaning against a cool stone pillar. As you moved toward the center, the sea of students parted, though not entirely. Fragments of frantic conversation drifted past you like autumn leaves.
"Did you see the scores? The linguistics section was brutal!"
"The top rankings are absolutely ridiculous this year... "
"How is that even possible? He didn't even look like he was trying!"
"I swear, Alhaitham isn't even human.."
A small, amused huff escaped you. Some things, it seemed, were as constant as the stars.
Finally, you reached the front. The official parchment hung neatly against the wooden board, a stark list of names and numbers that had once dictated your every waking thought. Your eyes traveled upward, almost by instinct, toward the summit of the list.
First: Alhaitham.
The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference. A smile touched your lips not a bitter one, not a wounded one, but something warm and almost fond.
Of course it was him.
You could almost see the slight, satisfied tilt of his head as he read it. You imagined the insufferable, quiet dignity he would maintain, as if being the best in the Akademiya was as mundane as breathing.
Then, your gaze drifted down.
Second: Y/N L/N
The margin between you was almost laughably small. It was a difference measured in whispers, in the tiniest fractions of a point a gap so narrow it was practically a bridge. In the past, seeing this would have been a catastrophe. You would have dissected every missed nuance, every slightly flawed argument, and spent weeks mourning the "what ifs." But now, all you felt was a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride. You weren't just close to him; you were standing right there with him, not as a shadow, but as a peer.
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. It was the sound of someone who had finally realized the race was over, and that the prize was much better than a rank.
"It seems the margin is shrinking."
The voice was low, steady, and vibrated with a familiar resonance that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You didn't need to turn around. Only one person in the entire Akademiya possessed the ability to move through a crowd like a ghost, arriving with such effortless, quiet authority.
Alhaitham stepped up beside you. He didn't look at the board. He didn't look at his own name, which sat at the very top like a crown. His attention was entirely, singularly fixed on you. His gaze was observant, sweeping over your face with that characteristic, analytical intensity, as if he were reading a text more complex than any ancient scroll.
The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference.
As you stepped away from the board, a familiar presence materialized beside you. Alhaitham didn't look at the rankings; he didn't need to. He looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your calm expression and the steady light in your eyes.
"You look well," he noted, his voice as cool and steady as the Sumeru breeze.
The words were simple, stripped of any grandiosity, yet they carried a weight that no "congratulations" ever could. He was seeing the light in your eyes, the lack of tension in your shoulders, the way you finally occupied your own skin without looking for permission. He was saying: You look like you have finally found your way back to yourself.
The smile lingering on your lips widened, bright and teasing. "And you look far too satisfied with yourself," you countered, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Is the view from the top as lonely as they say, or are you just enjoying the ego boost?"
His eyebrow lifted, a subtle, elegant movement that signaled his amusement. "The view is quite standard," he replied, his voice dropping to that private, intimate register. "But the company... the company has become significantly more interesting."
You stared at him, your breath hitching in the small, charged space between you. Alhaitham met your gaze with an expression as unreadable as a closed tome, yet the corner of his mouth twitched a microscopic movement that wasn't quite a smile, but was far too intentional to be mere muscle fatigue.
Around you, the Akademiya was a cacophony of post examination chaos. Students surged around the notice board like frantic waves crashing against a stubborn rock, their voices rising in a fever pitch of jubilant celebrations, bitter complaints, and the frantic scratching of quills as they compared scores. Yet, despite the roar of the crowd, the space beside Alhaitham felt strangely insulated, as if he carried a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the world at bay. Perhaps he always had. Perhaps you were simply the only one who knew how to step inside it.
For years, you had stood before these rankings feeling a crushing sense of vertigo, as if the distance between first and second place was a vast, unbridgeable canyon. But looking at the parchment now, the gap seemed almost laughably small. A mere fraction of a point. A handful of marks a difference so insignificant that a casual observer would have missed it entirely. Your eyes drifted back to the top of the list, tracing the ink.
First: Alhaitham.
Second: Y/N L/N
The sight should have been a familiar ache, a reminder of the summit you couldn't quite reach. Instead, a warmth bloomed in your chest, steady and bright. "You know," you said, your voice thoughtful and surprisingly light, "I used to think seeing your name above mine was the worst thing imaginable."
Alhaitham folded his arms, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "And now?"
You paused, actually considering the weight of the years behind you, the sleepless nights, the frantic studying, the desperate need to be enough. The answer surprised even you. "Now? Now I think there are probably worse things."
"Such as?" he prompted, his tone dry, inviting the challenge.
"Being Kaveh," you countered without a second of hesitation.
The reaction was instantaneous. Alhaitham looked away, but for one glorious, fleeting second, you saw a genuine flash of amusement dance across his features. "You aren't wrong," he conceded. “You aren't wrong," he conceded, his voice carrying a rare note of agreement.
"You said that remarkably fast," you teased, a playful glint in your eyes. "Usually, you'd at least argue."
"Why argue against empirical evidence?" he replied, turning his gaze back to you. "It would be an inefficient use of energy."
A laugh escaped you, a bright, clear sound that seemed to settle the restless air around you. As the sound faded, you noticed Alhaitham relax almost imperceptibly. Most people would have missed the subtle softening of his shoulders, but you had spent years studying not just his intellect, but his silences. You realized then that the rivalry hadn't been a solo performance. You had assumed the fierce, quiet desperation belonged only to you, but looking at him now, you understood. It had mattered to him, too. Not because he craved the vanity of the ranking, but because you had become a constant in his world, the one voice capable of complicating his logic, the one presence that made the silence of his solitude feel less absolute.
"You know," you said, crossing your arms and tilting your chin up with a newfound, gentle defiance, "one day, I am going to beat you."
"I know."
The sheer, unshakeable certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You frowned, searching his teal eyes for even a hint of doubt, a flicker of competitive heat. "You're supposed to disagree! That's how a rivalry works. You're supposed to defend your position."
Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled, as if you had just proposed a mathematically impossible theorem. "That seems counterproductive. If you are destined to surpass me, why waste breath pretending otherwise?"
You threw your hands up in exasperation, though the smile on your face betrayed you. "Archons, you are utterly hopeless. There is no winning an argument with you."
"And yet," he countered, his gaze steady and uncomfortably perceptive, "you have spent years competing with me. One has to wonder if you simply enjoy the pursuit."
He had you there again. You hated how he could turn your own history against you, stripping away your defenses with nothing but a few well placed words. But as you stood there in the sun drenched plaza, you realized he was right. You did enjoy it.
The afternoon sun filtered through the grand, arched windows of the Akademiya, casting long, golden honey streaks across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a group of scholars erupted into a chorus of either triumph or despair, but you didn't care to look. For the first time, you didn't feel trapped by the results.
You glanced one last time at the list. Second place. The position that had haunted your dreams and stolen your sleep, a constant reminder of a summit you could never quite touch. Now, It no longer looked like a mark of inadequacy; it looked like a stepping stone. You were growing, and the distance was shrinking. And certainly, the view was much better when first place was occupied by an insufferable scholar who had recently taken to ensuring you were and subtly reminding you to sleep.
"You're smiling," Alhaitham observed, his voice a low hum, cutting through the ambient nose of the hall.
You immediately scowled, trying to reclaim your dignity with a sharp tilt of your chin. "No, I am not."
"You are."
"I am most certainly not."
"You are."
"Alhaitham"
"Y/N"
The way he mimicked your indignant cadence was so deadpan, so utterly unexpected and devoid of mocking yet brimming with a teasing intent, that you nearly lost your composure again. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained entirely unapologetic, looking as though he had just delivered a flawless lecture. Then, his expression shifted, settling into something purposeful.
"Come." he said.
You blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"
"Lunch."
"I am perfectly capable of buying my own lunch," you countered, though your stomach betrayed you with a small, hungry traitorous twitch.
"I am well aware of your capabilities." he replied, his tone implying that your independence was a fact he respected, but one that was currently irrelevant.
"Then why are you inviting me?"
Without waiting for a formal acceptance, Alhaitham began walking down the grand steps, his stride purposeful. You hesitated for a moment, considering the satisfaction of leaving him to his solitude. Before you could decide, he glanced over his shoulder. It was only a single, brief look, but it was enough to pull you in.
"Besides," he added, his voice carrying back to you over the din of the hall, "if you truly intend to surpass me one day, you will need to remain conscious long enough to actually do it."
For years, you had operated under a fundamental misunderstanding. You had believed your story with Alhaitham was a war of attrition— a relentless, exhausting climb toward a peak defined by numbers, rankings, and the cold prestige of the Akademiya. You thought it was about the singular, desperate need to prove your worth by eclipsing his.
But as you fell into step beside him, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing with his steady, unhurried stride, the truth settled in your heart with a quiet, profound clarity.
The rankings were transient.
They would shift like the desert sands next semester, next year, perhaps not for a decade. Yet, for the first time in your life, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a threat as a warm, lingering thought bloomed in your mind: Second place isn't so bad. Not when first place is walking beside you for lunch.
As the two of you merged into the vibrant flow of students spilling through the walkways, your gaze drifted toward him. You watched the way the sunlight caught the sharp lines of his profile, and you felt a pang of retrospective embarrassment.
How wrong you had been.
For years, you had misread his silence as arrogance. You had mistaken his detachment for a lofty sense of superiority, assuming that the reason he remained unruffled by the chaos of academic competition was that he viewed the world and the people in it as beneath his notice.
You thought he was indifferent to the very things that defined your existence: the struggle, the ambition, the desperate need to be seen.
But the illusion had shattered in quiet spaces between your heated debates, in the hushed hours of late night study sessions, and in the simple, unexpected kindness of a parcel of warm bread wrapped carefully in cloth left on your desk.
Alhaitham had never been indifferent. He simply valued a different currency.
While the rest of the Darshan chased the fleeting glitter of prestige, he chased the deep, resonant marrow of understanding. While others clamored for the roar of recognition, he sought the quietude of peace.
You remembered the lectures the way he would receive the rapturous praise of professors with nothing more than a singular, dismissive nod before returning to his book. You remembered how he would slip away from the celebratory banquets before the toasts even began, seemingly irritated by the way people treated his mind as a monument rather than a tool. You had assumed it was because he felt he was above it all. Now, you realized the truth was much more grounded: he already knew exactly who he was. He didn't need a scroll to validate his existence.
He wasn't ahead of everyone else because he was faster or smarter; he was ahead because while the rest of the world was running a frantic, exhausting race, Alhaitham had quietly, calmly, chosen his own destination.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, born of a sudden, profound affection for the man beside you.
"You've done that three times now."
The voice was low and deadpan, pulling you back to the present. You blinked, realizing Alhaitham was watching you, his gaze fixed on your face with that unnerving focus.
"Done what?" you asked, trying to reclaim your composure, though your heart was still racing from the weight of your own thoughts’
"Smiled at nothing."
"I wasn't smiling at nothing," you countered, though your cheeks felt a faint, roseate warmth creeping into your cheeks.
"Then what were you smiling at?" he prompted, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were attempting to solve a particularly complex equation.
You paused, looking at him.
You looked at the man who had been the center of your frustration, the architect your rivalry, and the catalyst of your growth. The scholar who had become the most vital and unshakeable constant in your life. You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you.
"If I told you,” you said, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “your ego would become truly unbearable."
"I find that unlikely," he replied, his expression remaining perfectly neutral, thoughthere was a tell-tale glimmer of something bright— something warm lingering in his eyes
As you reached the bustling heartof the Grand Bazaar, the smells of spices and street food wafted around you, pulling you back into the noise of the living world. Alhaitham led you away from the main thoroughfare, navigating the crowds with his usual effortless grace, until you reached a small, quiet cafe, tucked away. As you sat down across from him, you felt a final, lingering tension dissolve. The crushing pressure to be perfect—the need to be the singular, untouchable summit had finally lifted.
"I still plan on beating you," you said, leaning back in your chair and watching him with a newfound, calm determination. Your gaze steady and devoid of the old, frantic desperation
Alhaitham opened the menu, his eyes dancing with a rare, subtle spark of challenge. "I look forward to it,” he replied, his voice smooth and unhurried. “But for now," he gestured towards a passing waiter, "I suggest we start with something light. You look as though you might faint if you try to eat a full meal."
You reached across the table and playfully kicked his boot with your own. "I'm fine."
"Of course," he murmured, his gaze meeting yours, his expression softening just enough to betray his amusement. "And I'm convinced you're not. It seems we have reached a stalemate."
"Fine," you conceded, a genuine, melodic laugh bubbling up from your chest. "A stalemate. For now."
The two of you sat in the warmth of the afternoon sun, two rivals who had finally found something more valuable than a perfect score. As the shadows began to lengthen and the city hummed its evening song around you, a profound sense of peace settled over you. You knew that the rankings would continue to change and the seasons would turn; but the person sitting across from you— the man who watched your struggle and waited for you to catch up was the only constant that truly mattered.
all writing belong to @velverii do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.
SYN0P5IS: For three years, he quietly watched them from afar. For three years, his true feelings were never said. But in their final year, things change. Will he be able to express these thoughts before time runs out? Or will their quiet bond remain just that, until the very end?
TAGS: Kazuha x Reader, Fluff, Angst (lol), Slow Burn, Unaware Idiots, Modern AU, High School Setting, Kazuha's POV written in 3RD PERSON
SERIES: ONGOING
A/N: i'll decorate this more later :))
April: The Beginning of the Fourth and Last Year
Chapter 1: April 10 — The Wind Returns to Room 4-A (4.6k words)
Chapter 2: April 10 — Between Firecrackers and Falling Petals (4.0k words)
all writing belong to @velverii do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.
Chapter 2: April 10 — Between Firecrackers and Falling Petals
5YN0PSIS: The calm rhythm of Room 4‑A dissolves into lunchtime chaos as Itto, Yoimiya, and Heizou launch their ill‑fated “Anti‑Pigeon Operation." Amid the laughter, firecrackers, and frantic shouts echoing through the halls, Kazuha finds himself sharing a secluded sakura‑lined path with you, whose gentle presence and Maple the plant bring unexpected warmth to the midday stillness.
TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, SLOW BURNN, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, modern au, high school setting in Inazuma, NO USE OF Y/N (refers to reader with you/yours) otherwise, gender-neutral pronouns, pigeons were not harmed, highk not proof read all that much
W.C: 4,018
A/N: lost the doc so i rewrote everything + lost motivation + school's 💔💔💔
The sharp, singular chime of the bell sliced through the air, signaling the end of Sumeragi sensei’s final lecture. Room 4-A dissolved into a cacophony of motion. The rhythmic scraping of chair legs against the floor joined a rising swell of voices as the morning’s academic decorum evaporated, replaced by the singular, frantic mission of securing lunch before the cafeteria lines became a battlefield.
Kazuha remained anchored in his seat, a calm island in the middle of the sudden tide. His fingers rested lightly atop the edge of his notebook, his gaze drifting toward the windows. The sunlight mellowed into a heavy, molten gold that spilled across the desks, illuminating the dancing dust and the scattered remains of the morning's lessons.
Around him, the classroom shifted into its midday rhythm. Ayaka moved with her usual, quiet grace, meticulously reorganizing her desk and smoothing the invisible wrinkles from her sleeves. Nearby, Kokomi was a portrait of focused composure, her brow slightly furrowed as she updated her planner, her attention divided between her notes and the small cluster of students hovering near her to consult on upcoming committee responsibilities.
The tranquility, however, was short lived.
“I’m serious!” Itto’s voice boomed, cutting through the ambient chatter like a thunderclap. He was propped up on the edge of his chair, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other gripped the desk. “Last year’s curry had honor. It had integrity! This year’s? It looks like a betrayal of the highest order!”
Thoma, who was methodically packing his bag with the practiced efficiency of someone used to managing chaos, didn't even look up. “You say that every single year, Itto. And yet, somehow, you always manage to finish three servings.”
“Because I’m brave!” Itto declared, puffing out his chest. “A warrior must face the betrayal head on!”
“No,” Heizou interjected, appearing at Itto’s shoulder as if he had simply materialized from the shadows of the lockers. His eyes glinted with a familiar, mischievous intelligence. “You do it because you lack basic survival instincts.”
Itto whirled around, pointing an accusing finger at the detective. “Says the guy who drank expired milk during third year just because you claimed you ‘wanted to investigate the flavor profile’!”
Heizou didn't miss a beat, tilting his head with an air of scholarly unconcern. “In my defense, the scent and appearance were highly suspicious. It still looked edible thus, it required a formal inquiry.”
“That’s a death wish,” Thoma muttered, though a fond smile tugged at his lips.
As a ripple of laughter moved through the nearby desks, you leaned over to Kazuha, carefully adjusting the soft cloth wrapped around Maple’s pot. You lifted the plant with a gentle, protective cradling motion, as if it were something far more fragile than a mere shrub.
Heizou’s keen eyes caught the movement instantly. “You brought the plant again?” he asked, leaning in to eye Maple with a look of profound, feigned suspicion.
“Of course,” You replied, your voice light and easy. “He was getting lonely at home.”
“It’s a plant. It doesn't have a social life. Moreover, It doesn't look like a Maple leaf!”
“And you’re loud and don't have any imagination,” You countered smoothly, “but we still keep you around.”
Thoma let out a sudden, sharp snort into his drink, and Itto nearly choked on his own indignant gasp of laughter. Heizou recoiled, pressing a hand to his chest in a gesture of grand, theatrical agony. “Kazuha,” he said, looking toward the poet with solemn gravity, “your desk neighbor wounds me. Deeply.”
Kazuha attempted to maintain his composure, lowering his gaze to his notebook, but the faint, unmistakable tug at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“There!” Heizou barked, pointing a finger at Kazuha as if he had just unmasked a master thief. “The evidence is irrefutable! You're putting salt into my injury!”
“I did not,” Kazuha murmured, though the warmth in his voice suggested otherwise.
“You absolutely did,” You added, glancing at him with an expression of quiet, unmistakable amusement.
The banter was abruptly severed by the heavy thud of the classroom door sliding open.
“There you guys are!”
Yoimiya burst into the room like a sudden gust of wind, her energy so palpable it seemed to vibrate the very air. A few students near the windows jumped, nearly spilling their drinks in the wake of her entrance. Dragging behind her was Kirara, who was lugging two heavy convenience store bags and wearing the exhausted expression of someone who had been swept up in a whirlwind against her will.
“Yoimiya,” Kirara warned, her voice a weary plea, “I still think this is a bad idea. A very, very loud idea.”
“It’s a fantastic idea!” Yoimiya chirped, her eyes bright with excitement.
“That’s exactly what worries me,” Kirara sighed.
Kazuha’s eyes drifted to the object clutched in Yoimiya’s hand, and his expression shifted into one of mild apprehension. “…Are those firecrackers?”
“They’re tiny!” Yoimiya defended, holding them up as if their small size made them harmless. “Miniature ones. Practically decorative.”
“That specific sentence has never made anything sound safer in the history of the world,” Thoma muttered under his breath.
Itto appeared in the doorway a moment later, ducking around the frame while aggressively chewing on what appeared to be his second rice ball of the minute. “The pigeons have gone too far!” he announced to the room at large.
Kazuha blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “The pigeons?”
“Yes!” Yoimiya said, her face dropping into a mask of grave seriousness. “One of them stole my bread this morning. Right out of my hand!”
“It looked her directly in the eyes while doing it,” Kirara added. “Honestly, it was kind of intimidating.”
“That bird knew no fear,” Yoimiya whispered heroically.
Heizou folded his arms, leaning back to contemplate the situation with the gravity of a high stakes interrogation. “So, naturally,” he mused, “your tactical solution was explosives.”
“Exactly!”
“You know,” Heizou admitted, a slow, thoughtful nod following, “there is a strange, chaotic kind of logic to it.”
“Kujou Sara is going to kill all of you,” Thoma informed them, his tone sounding less like a warning and more like a prophecy.
“Only if she catches us!” Itto countered, his mouth half full of rice.
Then, Heizou let out a long, defeated sigh. “Actually, no. She definitely will. She’ll make an example of us.”
“...But,” Heizou added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he stepped into line with them, “the look on her face when the first one goes off will be worth the paperwork. Count me in.”
Yoimiya pointed dramatically toward the hallway, her eyes flashing with the spirit of adventure. “Anyway! Lunchtime operation begins now! We ride at dawn!”
Kirara stared at her, deadpan. “It is noon, Yoimiya.”
“Details,” Yoimiya muttered, waving a hand dismissively as if time were merely a suggestion rather than a rule. Her gaze shifted suddenly toward Kazuha, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous, infectious light. “You’re coming too, right? You can’t let us go into battle alone!”
Kazuha didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he cast a single, weary glance toward the courtyard windows. In his mind’s eye, the scene played out with painful clarity: a sudden small red explosion as pigeons scattered violently into the air; the high pitched, panicked screams of terrified first years; and finally, the terrifying silhouette of Kujou Sara appearing from the shadows like divine punishment.
“…I think I’ll survive without participating,” he murmured, his voice a calm anchor amidst their rising tide of excitement.
“A coward’s answer!” Itto declared, slamming a hand onto a nearby desk with enough force to make the pens rattle.
“A smart one,” Thoma corrected instantly, offering Kazuha a look of profound, sympathetic solidarity.
Heizou slung an arm heavily across Kazuha’s shoulders, leaning in with a dramatic, conspiratorial grin. “Suit yourself, poet. But know this: history will remember your betrayal. The chronicles will speak of the man who stood by while the revolution was lost.”
“I am willing to accept that burden,” Kazuha replied, his expression deadpan, though the slight tilt of his head suggested he was enjoying the theatrics.
“You say that now,” Heizou added.
You watched the exchange from the periphery, shifting the weight of Maple in your arms. “You’re all definitely getting yelled at,” you noted, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.
“Probably,” Yoimiya admitted, her cheerfulness entirely unshakeable, as if being scolded were simply a fun side effect of adventure.
“That’s future us’ problem,” Heizou added, leaning back with an air of unearned nonchalance.
“That specific mindset explains a great deal about your grades,” Kokomi remarked quietly. She didn't even look up from her planner, her voice a cool stream of logic cutting through the heat of their excitement.
Heizou clutched his chest dramatically for the second time that afternoon. “I thought we were friends!” he cried, leaning into the tragedy of it.
“We are,” Kokomi replied calmly, finally turning a page. “I’m still right.”
A sharp, undignified gasp escaped Heizou.
The group hurriedly began to drift toward the door, a storm of overlapping voices and increasingly questionable decision making. Itto was already halfway into the hallway, loudly declaring himself the “Supreme Commander of Anti Pigeon Operations,” while Kirara followed close behind, repeatedly reminding everyone not to run near the stairs.
Kazuha watched them disappear down the corridor before exhaling softly through his nose. The classroom felt strangely quiet afterward.
Beside him, you adjusted one of Maple’s leaves gently before reaching for their bag. “You’re really not going with them?” you asked.
“I prefer surviving lunch break.”
“That’s fair.”
Kazuha slid his notebook carefully into his bag before standing. “Though I suspect peace may no longer be an option for them.”
As if summoned by prophecy itself, a loud, echoing crash erupted from somewhere below. Then, the frantic, unmistakable sound of shouting.
You blinked once, staring at the window. “…That was fast.”
“Mm.”
Another voice carried faintly through the open hallway windows, high pitched and panicked: “ITTO, RUN ”
A few seconds later, someone screamed in outrage.
“That was my lunch!”
“Itto, duck!”
“I am ducking!”
“You’re standing on a table!”
Kazuha closed his eyes briefly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “…14 minutes,” he murmured. “A new record.”
A laugh you tried to suppress escaped anyway quiet and genuine. It was enough to make Kazuha look toward you instinctively. Warm sunlight spilled across the desk between them, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. Maple’s leaves shifted slightly in the breeze drifting in from the open windows, and for a brief second, the distant chaos of the "Anti Pigeon Operation" faded into a dull hum.
Then you caught him looking.
“…What?”
Kazuha blinked, realizing a second too late that he had been staring. The silence between them stretched, soft and unhurried as a small blush crept. “…Nothing.”
There was the slightest pause before amusement softened your expression. “You do that a lot.”
His brows knit faintly. “Do what?”
“Look at people like you’re trying to write poetry about them.”
Kazuha nearly choked on absolutely nothing, the suddenness of the observation catching him off guard. “I do not.”
“You kinda do,” you admitted lightly, standing up from their desk. “It’s not a bad thing, though.”
Somewhere in the hallway, Itto yelled loud enough to vibrate the very floorboards. Neither of them moved immediately. Then you adjusted Maple against your hip and smiled slightly, breaking the spell. “Anyway… I was gonna eat behind the library before afternoon classes. It’s quieter there.”
Kazuha hesitated. Only briefly.
"...I know a better spot, wanna come?” he said softly.
The small, lingering warmth of your expression stayed with Kazuha, a quiet ember in his chest that refused to fade even as he stepped through the classroom door.
The hallway had grown noticeably calmer by the time they emerged. Most students had already vanished toward the courtyard or the bustling cafeteria, leaving only the occasional echo of laughter or the distant, muffled chatter of a group lingering by the lockers.
You walked beside him at an easy, unhurried pace. You moved with a gentle grace, keeping Maple balanced securely in your arms, while Kazuha adjusted the strap of his bag against his shoulder. For a long stretch, neither of them spoke. It wasn't an awkward silence, but it was a heavy one charged with a new, subtle awareness that Kazuha found himself hyper fixated on. He was suddenly, inconveniently aware of the rhythm of their footsteps on the floor, the way the breeze from the open windows carried the faint, sweet scent of the sakura trees, and the soft rustle of your clothing as you moved.
Beside him, you shifted your grip, adjusting the cloth wrapped around Maple’s pot. “Heizou’s probably going to die someday doing something incredibly stupid,” they remarked, their voice cutting through the quiet.
Kazuha glanced toward you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “That implies he actually learns from his consequences.”
“That’s true.” You considered this with a mock serious expression. “Actually, no. He’d probably survive out of sheer spite alone.”
“That seems much more likely,” Kazuha agreed.
A quiet, melodic laugh escaped you, the sound bright and grounding. As both of you approached the stairwell leading toward the back of the school, the area was nearly deserted. From somewhere deep in the lower levels, a sharp voice rose in a sharp reprimand about running in the halls, followed immediately by the booming, unmistakable sound of Itto offering a loud, boisterous apology that sounded more like a challenge than a plea for forgiveness.
You blinked, glancing toward the stairwell. “…How did they get caught that fast?”
“It's Kujou Sara. She operates beyond the limitations of normal humans,” Kazuha answered, his tone bordering on the legendary.
“That certainly explains the collective fear,” You mused.
“She once found Heizou hiding on the roof during his second year,” Kazuha added, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling as he recalled the tale.
“How? He’s a novice detective, isn't he? He’s supposed to be good at hiding.”
Kazuha hummed thoughtfully. “…No one knows. It remains one of the school's great mysteries.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“It was terrifying for him, too,” Kazuha murmured.
They descended the final flight of stairs and stepped outside into the rear courtyard. Here, the chaotic energy of the main campus was muffled by the dense, rustling canopy of the sakura trees. The path curved gently along the edge of the campus, a secluded sanctuary mostly abandoned by the midday rush. Pink petals drifted lazily through the air like summer snow, settling on the stone path.
As you walked beneath the shade of the trees, you slowed your pace. “You really do know all the quiet places here, don't you?”
Kazuha looked ahead, his gaze fixed on the shaded trail. “I spent a great deal of time avoiding the crowds during my first year.”
“Because you’re an introvert?” You teased gently.
“Because of Itto,” Kazuha countered, his voice tinged with fond exasperation.
You laughed immediately, the sudden movement nearly startling the leaves of the plant in your arms. “That sounds about right.”
“He introduced himself by challenging three different people to arm wrestling during orientation,” Kazuha reminisced.
“…Did he win?”
“Unfortunately.”
The smile on your face lingered, softening under the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches. Kazuha found himself momentarily distracted by the way the wind caught a few loose strands of your hair, sweeping them across their cheek. He forced his gaze forward before the moment could become too heavy.
The destination appeared just ahead a secluded stretch of grass beneath the oldest sakura trees, overlooking a slope that led down toward the harbor. Through the veil of pink blossoms, the distant sea shimmered, sunlight scattering silver light across the water far below the hill.
You looked around, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. “Okay, yeah... This place is perfect.”
Kazuha set his bag down near the base of a sprawling, ancient tree. “Most students prefer the social atmosphere of the central courtyard during lunch.”
“Their loss,” you replied simply.
You settled into the grass beside him, placing Maple carefully on the ground between them. For a while, the only sounds were the distant, lonely cries of gulls from the harbor and the rhythmic rustle of the trees overhead. The air here was cooler, tempered by the shade, and Kazuha felt his shoulders drop as a deep sense of relaxation washed over him.
Beside him, you began to unpack their lunch, only to freeze mid motion. “…Wait.”
Kazuha turned to look at them. You were staring down into your lunchbox with a look of mounting dread. “…Did you forget something?” he asked softly.
“My chopsticks,” You whispered, looking genuinely devastated.
A beat of silence passed. Then another. “…I left them on my desk.”
Kazuha watched as your expression slumped. Even Maple seemed to offer no consolation. “It's fine.. I can go back and get them ”
“No,” Kazuha interrupted, perhaps a second too quickly. He reached into his bag, his movements deliberate and calm, and pulled out a pair of chopsticks still neatly wrapped in clean paper. “I usually carry a spare.”
You stared at the gift as if he had just performed a minor miracle. “You carry emergency chopsticks?”
“…Beidou always says that preparedness is the best way to prevent suffering,” Kazuha said, a hint of amusement in his voice
As you reached out to take them, their fingers brushed against his. It was a fleeting contact, lasting no more than a heartbeat, but the sensation sent a sudden, unexpected warmth flickering beneath Kazuha’s ribs.
“Thank you,” you said, their voice dropping to a soft, sincere murmur.
The lunch was a quiet affair, the only sounds being the rhythmic clink of chopsticks and the distant, muffled echoes of the school day drifting up the hill. They ate in a comfortable sort of rhythm, the kind that only exists when two people aren't rushing to fill the silence with unnecessary noise.
Eventually, the food was finished, and the air between them seemed to settle into a peaceful, sun drenched stillness.
“…You really like quiet places, huh?” You asked after a while, their voice barely a murmur, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the tranquility of the grove.
Kazuha nodded faintly, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the blue of the sky met the shimmering silver of the harbor. “They’re easier to think in.”
“What do you usually think about?”
The question was simple enough, but there was a quality to it a soft, genuine curiosity that lacked any hint of intrusion that made him pause longer than he intended. He found himself weighing his answer, wondering how much of his inner world he was willing to reveal to someone he had only just begun to truly see.
Poetry. The shifting temperament of the weather. The way music settles in a room. The silent language of nature. He could offer a dozen different truths, yet none of them felt quite sufficient for the stillness of this moment. Instead of choosing a word, he let his gaze lift.
You sat beside him beneath drifting petals, Maple balanced between them while sunlight filtered through the branches overhead in fractured gold. The wind caught softly at loose strands of your hair before carrying them away again. There was nothing dramatic about the moment. Nothing grand.
And somehow, that made it harder to look away from.
“…A lot of things,” he admitted eventually, his voice low and melodic. “Poetry. The way the weather shifts before a storm. Things people say without realizing they’ve actually said them.”
You tilted your head slightly, a stray lock of hair falling across your eyes. “That sounds lonely.”
The observation caught him off guard. It wasn't a critique, nor was it intended to be cruel; if anything, it was the unvarnished honesty of the statement that struck him. It was as if you had looked past his calm exterior and seen the quiet isolation he often carried like a second shadow.
Kazuha looked down at the notebook resting on the grass beside him, the edges slightly worn from use. “Maybe a little,” he conceded softly.
You seemed to realize immediately that you might have stepped into a space a little too personal, a little too raw. “Ah sorry,” you said, a small note of regret in your tone. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. Just… an observation.”
“I know.”
The reassurance came out softer than he had intended, a gentle dismissal of their apology. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, your eyes drifted toward his notebook, a spark of mischief returning to their gaze. “Do you really write poetry about people?”
Kazuha nearly inhaled his rice incorrectly, a sudden, uncharacteristic cough escaping him. “I do not.”
“You hesitated,” You pointed out, a playful lilt in their voice.
“Because that question sounded as if you were interrogating me,” he countered, trying to regain his composure.
“That’s not a no.”
Kazuha turned to look at you fully, finally catching the glint of amusement dancing beneath your otherwise innocent expression. He realized then that he was being teased, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of fond defeat.
“…Heizou is influencing you,” he murmured.
“He’s contagious,” You admitted with a grin.
“That is deeply concerning....”
“It really is.”
Your laughter came quieter this time, a shared, private sound that felt tucked away from the rest of the world. As Kazuha listened to the light melody of your laugh, he felt something ease in his chest. The strange, heightened awareness he had been carrying since the morning the way his eyes lingered on them a second too long, the way your presence seemed to settle inconveniently beneath his ribs didn't disappear, but it smoothed itself into something gentler. Something warmer.
Beside him, you reached out to adjust Maple’s pot, ensuring the plant was stable on the uneven ground, before looking back toward the harbor. “You know,” they said, your tone turning thoughtful, “when Heizou told me this morning that you’d probably become class president, I thought he was exaggerating.”
Kazuha let out a soft, weary sigh. “So did I.”
“But everyone voted for you so fast. It was almost unanimous.”
“That may have been driven by fear,” Kazuha joked, though there was a trace of truth in it.
“I don’t think so.” You rested their chin lightly against one hand, looking up at him through the shifting shadows of the sakura branches. “People trust you, Kazuha. You make the classroom feel… calmer. Like the air settles when you walk in.”
The compliment landed with unexpected weight. Kazuha lowered his gaze almost immediately, his fingers tracing the grain of the grass near his notebook. He had never quite known what to do with praise—your praise; it was a foreign element, something he didn't know how to anchor.
“…I’m not sure I’ve done anything deserving of that yet,” he murmured.
“You stood up there today and took the responsibility, even though you obviously didn’t want to. That’s enough.”
“That’s not particularly admirable,” he argued weakly.
“I think it is.”
A sudden gust of wind stirred the canopy above, loosening a flurry of pale pink petals. They drifted slowly downward, dancing through the sunlight before settling between them like fallen stars. Kazuha could still feel the lingering warmth of your words, a soft heat beneath his skin that had nothing to do with the sun.
And then, before he could catch himself, he smiled. It wasn't a wide, boisterous grin like Itto’s, but a small, brief, and entirely genuine expression of peace.
You noticed. You noticed everything.
“There's that look again,” you said softly, a look of quiet triumph crossing their face.
Kazuha felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks and looked away toward the distant harbor, attempting to reclaim whatever dignity he had left. “…You are unusually observant.”
“Well,” You replied, your voice light and teasing as you leaned back into the grass, “I sit next to you now. I have to be.”
Chapter 2: April 10 — Between Firecrackers and Falling Petals
5YN0PSIS: The calm rhythm of Room 4‑A dissolves into lunchtime chaos as Itto, Yoimiya, and Heizou launch their ill‑fated “Anti‑Pigeon Operation." Amid the laughter, firecrackers, and frantic shouts echoing through the halls, Kazuha finds himself sharing a secluded sakura‑lined path with you, whose gentle presence and Maple the plant bring unexpected warmth to the midday stillness.
TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, SLOW BURNN, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, modern au, high school setting in Inazuma, NO USE OF Y/N (refers to reader with you/yours) otherwise, gender-neutral pronouns, pigeons were not harmed, highk not proof read all that much
W.C: 4,018
A/N: lost the doc so i rewrote everything + lost motivation + school's 💔💔💔
The sharp, singular chime of the bell sliced through the air, signaling the end of Sumeragi sensei’s final lecture. Room 4-A dissolved into a cacophony of motion. The rhythmic scraping of chair legs against the floor joined a rising swell of voices as the morning’s academic decorum evaporated, replaced by the singular, frantic mission of securing lunch before the cafeteria lines became a battlefield.
Kazuha remained anchored in his seat, a calm island in the middle of the sudden tide. His fingers rested lightly atop the edge of his notebook, his gaze drifting toward the windows. The sunlight mellowed into a heavy, molten gold that spilled across the desks, illuminating the dancing dust and the scattered remains of the morning's lessons.
Around him, the classroom shifted into its midday rhythm. Ayaka moved with her usual, quiet grace, meticulously reorganizing her desk and smoothing the invisible wrinkles from her sleeves. Nearby, Kokomi was a portrait of focused composure, her brow slightly furrowed as she updated her planner, her attention divided between her notes and the small cluster of students hovering near her to consult on upcoming committee responsibilities.
The tranquility, however, was short lived.
“I’m serious!” Itto’s voice boomed, cutting through the ambient chatter like a thunderclap. He was propped up on the edge of his chair, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other gripped the desk. “Last year’s curry had honor. It had integrity! This year’s? It looks like a betrayal of the highest order!”
Thoma, who was methodically packing his bag with the practiced efficiency of someone used to managing chaos, didn't even look up. “You say that every single year, Itto. And yet, somehow, you always manage to finish three servings.”
“Because I’m brave!” Itto declared, puffing out his chest. “A warrior must face the betrayal head on!”
“No,” Heizou interjected, appearing at Itto’s shoulder as if he had simply materialized from the shadows of the lockers. His eyes glinted with a familiar, mischievous intelligence. “You do it because you lack basic survival instincts.”
Itto whirled around, pointing an accusing finger at the detective. “Says the guy who drank expired milk during third year just because you claimed you ‘wanted to investigate the flavor profile’!”
Heizou didn't miss a beat, tilting his head with an air of scholarly unconcern. “In my defense, the scent and appearance were highly suspicious. It still looked edible thus, it required a formal inquiry.”
“That’s a death wish,” Thoma muttered, though a fond smile tugged at his lips.
As a ripple of laughter moved through the nearby desks, you leaned over to Kazuha, carefully adjusting the soft cloth wrapped around Maple’s pot. You lifted the plant with a gentle, protective cradling motion, as if it were something far more fragile than a mere shrub.
Heizou’s keen eyes caught the movement instantly. “You brought the plant again?” he asked, leaning in to eye Maple with a look of profound, feigned suspicion.
“Of course,” You replied, your voice light and easy. “He was getting lonely at home.”
“It’s a plant. It doesn't have a social life. Moreover, It doesn't look like a Maple leaf!”
“And you’re loud and don't have any imagination,” You countered smoothly, “but we still keep you around.”
Thoma let out a sudden, sharp snort into his drink, and Itto nearly choked on his own indignant gasp of laughter. Heizou recoiled, pressing a hand to his chest in a gesture of grand, theatrical agony. “Kazuha,” he said, looking toward the poet with solemn gravity, “your desk neighbor wounds me. Deeply.”
Kazuha attempted to maintain his composure, lowering his gaze to his notebook, but the faint, unmistakable tug at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“There!” Heizou barked, pointing a finger at Kazuha as if he had just unmasked a master thief. “The evidence is irrefutable! You're putting salt into my injury!”
“I did not,” Kazuha murmured, though the warmth in his voice suggested otherwise.
“You absolutely did,” You added, glancing at him with an expression of quiet, unmistakable amusement.
The banter was abruptly severed by the heavy thud of the classroom door sliding open.
“There you guys are!”
Yoimiya burst into the room like a sudden gust of wind, her energy so palpable it seemed to vibrate the very air. A few students near the windows jumped, nearly spilling their drinks in the wake of her entrance. Dragging behind her was Kirara, who was lugging two heavy convenience store bags and wearing the exhausted expression of someone who had been swept up in a whirlwind against her will.
“Yoimiya,” Kirara warned, her voice a weary plea, “I still think this is a bad idea. A very, very loud idea.”
“It’s a fantastic idea!” Yoimiya chirped, her eyes bright with excitement.
“That’s exactly what worries me,” Kirara sighed.
Kazuha’s eyes drifted to the object clutched in Yoimiya’s hand, and his expression shifted into one of mild apprehension. “…Are those firecrackers?”
“They’re tiny!” Yoimiya defended, holding them up as if their small size made them harmless. “Miniature ones. Practically decorative.”
“That specific sentence has never made anything sound safer in the history of the world,” Thoma muttered under his breath.
Itto appeared in the doorway a moment later, ducking around the frame while aggressively chewing on what appeared to be his second rice ball of the minute. “The pigeons have gone too far!” he announced to the room at large.
Kazuha blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “The pigeons?”
“Yes!” Yoimiya said, her face dropping into a mask of grave seriousness. “One of them stole my bread this morning. Right out of my hand!”
“It looked her directly in the eyes while doing it,” Kirara added. “Honestly, it was kind of intimidating.”
“That bird knew no fear,” Yoimiya whispered heroically.
Heizou folded his arms, leaning back to contemplate the situation with the gravity of a high stakes interrogation. “So, naturally,” he mused, “your tactical solution was explosives.”
“Exactly!”
“You know,” Heizou admitted, a slow, thoughtful nod following, “there is a strange, chaotic kind of logic to it.”
“Kujou Sara is going to kill all of you,” Thoma informed them, his tone sounding less like a warning and more like a prophecy.
“Only if she catches us!” Itto countered, his mouth half full of rice.
Then, Heizou let out a long, defeated sigh. “Actually, no. She definitely will. She’ll make an example of us.”
“...But,” Heizou added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he stepped into line with them, “the look on her face when the first one goes off will be worth the paperwork. Count me in.”
Yoimiya pointed dramatically toward the hallway, her eyes flashing with the spirit of adventure. “Anyway! Lunchtime operation begins now! We ride at dawn!”
Kirara stared at her, deadpan. “It is noon, Yoimiya.”
“Details,” Yoimiya muttered, waving a hand dismissively as if time were merely a suggestion rather than a rule. Her gaze shifted suddenly toward Kazuha, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous, infectious light. “You’re coming too, right? You can’t let us go into battle alone!”
Kazuha didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he cast a single, weary glance toward the courtyard windows. In his mind’s eye, the scene played out with painful clarity: a sudden small red explosion as pigeons scattered violently into the air; the high pitched, panicked screams of terrified first years; and finally, the terrifying silhouette of Kujou Sara appearing from the shadows like divine punishment.
“…I think I’ll survive without participating,” he murmured, his voice a calm anchor amidst their rising tide of excitement.
“A coward’s answer!” Itto declared, slamming a hand onto a nearby desk with enough force to make the pens rattle.
“A smart one,” Thoma corrected instantly, offering Kazuha a look of profound, sympathetic solidarity.
Heizou slung an arm heavily across Kazuha’s shoulders, leaning in with a dramatic, conspiratorial grin. “Suit yourself, poet. But know this: history will remember your betrayal. The chronicles will speak of the man who stood by while the revolution was lost.”
“I am willing to accept that burden,” Kazuha replied, his expression deadpan, though the slight tilt of his head suggested he was enjoying the theatrics.
“You say that now,” Heizou added.
You watched the exchange from the periphery, shifting the weight of Maple in your arms. “You’re all definitely getting yelled at,” you noted, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.
“Probably,” Yoimiya admitted, her cheerfulness entirely unshakeable, as if being scolded were simply a fun side effect of adventure.
“That’s future us’ problem,” Heizou added, leaning back with an air of unearned nonchalance.
“That specific mindset explains a great deal about your grades,” Kokomi remarked quietly. She didn't even look up from her planner, her voice a cool stream of logic cutting through the heat of their excitement.
Heizou clutched his chest dramatically for the second time that afternoon. “I thought we were friends!” he cried, leaning into the tragedy of it.
“We are,” Kokomi replied calmly, finally turning a page. “I’m still right.”
A sharp, undignified gasp escaped Heizou.
The group hurriedly began to drift toward the door, a storm of overlapping voices and increasingly questionable decision making. Itto was already halfway into the hallway, loudly declaring himself the “Supreme Commander of Anti Pigeon Operations,” while Kirara followed close behind, repeatedly reminding everyone not to run near the stairs.
Kazuha watched them disappear down the corridor before exhaling softly through his nose. The classroom felt strangely quiet afterward.
Beside him, you adjusted one of Maple’s leaves gently before reaching for their bag. “You’re really not going with them?” you asked.
“I prefer surviving lunch break.”
“That’s fair.”
Kazuha slid his notebook carefully into his bag before standing. “Though I suspect peace may no longer be an option for them.”
As if summoned by prophecy itself, a loud, echoing crash erupted from somewhere below. Then, the frantic, unmistakable sound of shouting.
You blinked once, staring at the window. “…That was fast.”
“Mm.”
Another voice carried faintly through the open hallway windows, high pitched and panicked: “ITTO, RUN ”
A few seconds later, someone screamed in outrage.
“That was my lunch!”
“Itto, duck!”
“I am ducking!”
“You’re standing on a table!”
Kazuha closed his eyes briefly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “…14 minutes,” he murmured. “A new record.”
A laugh you tried to suppress escaped anyway quiet and genuine. It was enough to make Kazuha look toward you instinctively. Warm sunlight spilled across the desk between them, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. Maple’s leaves shifted slightly in the breeze drifting in from the open windows, and for a brief second, the distant chaos of the "Anti Pigeon Operation" faded into a dull hum.
Then you caught him looking.
“…What?”
Kazuha blinked, realizing a second too late that he had been staring. The silence between them stretched, soft and unhurried as a small blush crept. “…Nothing.”
There was the slightest pause before amusement softened your expression. “You do that a lot.”
His brows knit faintly. “Do what?”
“Look at people like you’re trying to write poetry about them.”
Kazuha nearly choked on absolutely nothing, the suddenness of the observation catching him off guard. “I do not.”
“You kinda do,” you admitted lightly, standing up from their desk. “It’s not a bad thing, though.”
Somewhere in the hallway, Itto yelled loud enough to vibrate the very floorboards. Neither of them moved immediately. Then you adjusted Maple against your hip and smiled slightly, breaking the spell. “Anyway… I was gonna eat behind the library before afternoon classes. It’s quieter there.”
Kazuha hesitated. Only briefly.
"...I know a better spot, wanna come?” he said softly.
The small, lingering warmth of your expression stayed with Kazuha, a quiet ember in his chest that refused to fade even as he stepped through the classroom door.
The hallway had grown noticeably calmer by the time they emerged. Most students had already vanished toward the courtyard or the bustling cafeteria, leaving only the occasional echo of laughter or the distant, muffled chatter of a group lingering by the lockers.
You walked beside him at an easy, unhurried pace. You moved with a gentle grace, keeping Maple balanced securely in your arms, while Kazuha adjusted the strap of his bag against his shoulder. For a long stretch, neither of them spoke. It wasn't an awkward silence, but it was a heavy one charged with a new, subtle awareness that Kazuha found himself hyper fixated on. He was suddenly, inconveniently aware of the rhythm of their footsteps on the floor, the way the breeze from the open windows carried the faint, sweet scent of the sakura trees, and the soft rustle of your clothing as you moved.
Beside him, you shifted your grip, adjusting the cloth wrapped around Maple’s pot. “Heizou’s probably going to die someday doing something incredibly stupid,” they remarked, their voice cutting through the quiet.
Kazuha glanced toward you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “That implies he actually learns from his consequences.”
“That’s true.” You considered this with a mock serious expression. “Actually, no. He’d probably survive out of sheer spite alone.”
“That seems much more likely,” Kazuha agreed.
A quiet, melodic laugh escaped you, the sound bright and grounding. As both of you approached the stairwell leading toward the back of the school, the area was nearly deserted. From somewhere deep in the lower levels, a sharp voice rose in a sharp reprimand about running in the halls, followed immediately by the booming, unmistakable sound of Itto offering a loud, boisterous apology that sounded more like a challenge than a plea for forgiveness.
You blinked, glancing toward the stairwell. “…How did they get caught that fast?”
“It's Kujou Sara. She operates beyond the limitations of normal humans,” Kazuha answered, his tone bordering on the legendary.
“That certainly explains the collective fear,” You mused.
“She once found Heizou hiding on the roof during his second year,” Kazuha added, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling as he recalled the tale.
“How? He’s a novice detective, isn't he? He’s supposed to be good at hiding.”
Kazuha hummed thoughtfully. “…No one knows. It remains one of the school's great mysteries.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“It was terrifying for him, too,” Kazuha murmured.
They descended the final flight of stairs and stepped outside into the rear courtyard. Here, the chaotic energy of the main campus was muffled by the dense, rustling canopy of the sakura trees. The path curved gently along the edge of the campus, a secluded sanctuary mostly abandoned by the midday rush. Pink petals drifted lazily through the air like summer snow, settling on the stone path.
As you walked beneath the shade of the trees, you slowed your pace. “You really do know all the quiet places here, don't you?”
Kazuha looked ahead, his gaze fixed on the shaded trail. “I spent a great deal of time avoiding the crowds during my first year.”
“Because you’re an introvert?” You teased gently.
“Because of Itto,” Kazuha countered, his voice tinged with fond exasperation.
You laughed immediately, the sudden movement nearly startling the leaves of the plant in your arms. “That sounds about right.”
“He introduced himself by challenging three different people to arm wrestling during orientation,” Kazuha reminisced.
“…Did he win?”
“Unfortunately.”
The smile on your face lingered, softening under the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches. Kazuha found himself momentarily distracted by the way the wind caught a few loose strands of your hair, sweeping them across their cheek. He forced his gaze forward before the moment could become too heavy.
The destination appeared just ahead a secluded stretch of grass beneath the oldest sakura trees, overlooking a slope that led down toward the harbor. Through the veil of pink blossoms, the distant sea shimmered, sunlight scattering silver light across the water far below the hill.
You looked around, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. “Okay, yeah... This place is perfect.”
Kazuha set his bag down near the base of a sprawling, ancient tree. “Most students prefer the social atmosphere of the central courtyard during lunch.”
“Their loss,” you replied simply.
You settled into the grass beside him, placing Maple carefully on the ground between them. For a while, the only sounds were the distant, lonely cries of gulls from the harbor and the rhythmic rustle of the trees overhead. The air here was cooler, tempered by the shade, and Kazuha felt his shoulders drop as a deep sense of relaxation washed over him.
Beside him, you began to unpack their lunch, only to freeze mid motion. “…Wait.”
Kazuha turned to look at them. You were staring down into your lunchbox with a look of mounting dread. “…Did you forget something?” he asked softly.
“My chopsticks,” You whispered, looking genuinely devastated.
A beat of silence passed. Then another. “…I left them on my desk.”
Kazuha watched as your expression slumped. Even Maple seemed to offer no consolation. “It's fine.. I can go back and get them ”
“No,” Kazuha interrupted, perhaps a second too quickly. He reached into his bag, his movements deliberate and calm, and pulled out a pair of chopsticks still neatly wrapped in clean paper. “I usually carry a spare.”
You stared at the gift as if he had just performed a minor miracle. “You carry emergency chopsticks?”
“…Beidou always says that preparedness is the best way to prevent suffering,” Kazuha said, a hint of amusement in his voice
As you reached out to take them, their fingers brushed against his. It was a fleeting contact, lasting no more than a heartbeat, but the sensation sent a sudden, unexpected warmth flickering beneath Kazuha’s ribs.
“Thank you,” you said, their voice dropping to a soft, sincere murmur.
The lunch was a quiet affair, the only sounds being the rhythmic clink of chopsticks and the distant, muffled echoes of the school day drifting up the hill. They ate in a comfortable sort of rhythm, the kind that only exists when two people aren't rushing to fill the silence with unnecessary noise.
Eventually, the food was finished, and the air between them seemed to settle into a peaceful, sun drenched stillness.
“…You really like quiet places, huh?” You asked after a while, their voice barely a murmur, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the tranquility of the grove.
Kazuha nodded faintly, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the blue of the sky met the shimmering silver of the harbor. “They’re easier to think in.”
“What do you usually think about?”
The question was simple enough, but there was a quality to it a soft, genuine curiosity that lacked any hint of intrusion that made him pause longer than he intended. He found himself weighing his answer, wondering how much of his inner world he was willing to reveal to someone he had only just begun to truly see.
Poetry. The shifting temperament of the weather. The way music settles in a room. The silent language of nature. He could offer a dozen different truths, yet none of them felt quite sufficient for the stillness of this moment. Instead of choosing a word, he let his gaze lift.
You sat beside him beneath drifting petals, Maple balanced between them while sunlight filtered through the branches overhead in fractured gold. The wind caught softly at loose strands of your hair before carrying them away again. There was nothing dramatic about the moment. Nothing grand.
And somehow, that made it harder to look away from.
“…A lot of things,” he admitted eventually, his voice low and melodic. “Poetry. The way the weather shifts before a storm. Things people say without realizing they’ve actually said them.”
You tilted your head slightly, a stray lock of hair falling across your eyes. “That sounds lonely.”
The observation caught him off guard. It wasn't a critique, nor was it intended to be cruel; if anything, it was the unvarnished honesty of the statement that struck him. It was as if you had looked past his calm exterior and seen the quiet isolation he often carried like a second shadow.
Kazuha looked down at the notebook resting on the grass beside him, the edges slightly worn from use. “Maybe a little,” he conceded softly.
You seemed to realize immediately that you might have stepped into a space a little too personal, a little too raw. “Ah sorry,” you said, a small note of regret in your tone. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. Just… an observation.”
“I know.”
The reassurance came out softer than he had intended, a gentle dismissal of their apology. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, your eyes drifted toward his notebook, a spark of mischief returning to their gaze. “Do you really write poetry about people?”
Kazuha nearly inhaled his rice incorrectly, a sudden, uncharacteristic cough escaping him. “I do not.”
“You hesitated,” You pointed out, a playful lilt in their voice.
“Because that question sounded as if you were interrogating me,” he countered, trying to regain his composure.
“That’s not a no.”
Kazuha turned to look at you fully, finally catching the glint of amusement dancing beneath your otherwise innocent expression. He realized then that he was being teased, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of fond defeat.
“…Heizou is influencing you,” he murmured.
“He’s contagious,” You admitted with a grin.
“That is deeply concerning....”
“It really is.”
Your laughter came quieter this time, a shared, private sound that felt tucked away from the rest of the world. As Kazuha listened to the light melody of your laugh, he felt something ease in his chest. The strange, heightened awareness he had been carrying since the morning the way his eyes lingered on them a second too long, the way your presence seemed to settle inconveniently beneath his ribs didn't disappear, but it smoothed itself into something gentler. Something warmer.
Beside him, you reached out to adjust Maple’s pot, ensuring the plant was stable on the uneven ground, before looking back toward the harbor. “You know,” they said, your tone turning thoughtful, “when Heizou told me this morning that you’d probably become class president, I thought he was exaggerating.”
Kazuha let out a soft, weary sigh. “So did I.”
“But everyone voted for you so fast. It was almost unanimous.”
“That may have been driven by fear,” Kazuha joked, though there was a trace of truth in it.
“I don’t think so.” You rested their chin lightly against one hand, looking up at him through the shifting shadows of the sakura branches. “People trust you, Kazuha. You make the classroom feel… calmer. Like the air settles when you walk in.”
The compliment landed with unexpected weight. Kazuha lowered his gaze almost immediately, his fingers tracing the grain of the grass near his notebook. He had never quite known what to do with praise—your praise; it was a foreign element, something he didn't know how to anchor.
“…I’m not sure I’ve done anything deserving of that yet,” he murmured.
“You stood up there today and took the responsibility, even though you obviously didn’t want to. That’s enough.”
“That’s not particularly admirable,” he argued weakly.
“I think it is.”
A sudden gust of wind stirred the canopy above, loosening a flurry of pale pink petals. They drifted slowly downward, dancing through the sunlight before settling between them like fallen stars. Kazuha could still feel the lingering warmth of your words, a soft heat beneath his skin that had nothing to do with the sun.
And then, before he could catch himself, he smiled. It wasn't a wide, boisterous grin like Itto’s, but a small, brief, and entirely genuine expression of peace.
You noticed. You noticed everything.
“There's that look again,” you said softly, a look of quiet triumph crossing their face.
Kazuha felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks and looked away toward the distant harbor, attempting to reclaim whatever dignity he had left. “…You are unusually observant.”
“Well,” You replied, your voice light and teasing as you leaned back into the grass, “I sit next to you now. I have to be.”
Chapter 1: April 10 — The Wind Returns to Room 4-A
5YN0PSIS: Kaedehara Kazuha only wanted a quiet final year—one more cycle through spring and sakura. But the wind has never been one to leave him be. Within the first hour of the new school year, he’s been roped into class president, and seated beside someone he’s spent the last two years quietly trying not to think about. Maybe the universe is trying to tell him something—or maybe Heizou is just really annoying. Either way, silence is no longer an option.
TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, SLOW BURNN, modern au, high school setting in Inazuma, use of Y/N, gender-neutral pronouns, unrequited love/pining (for now), beidou as an adoptive parent wooo!!
W.C: 4,690
A/N: hi !! i was originally going to keep the teacher’s old name, but during my hiatus, i helped a friend with their oc lore. and since they also helped proofread most of the chapters, I changed the name as a small nod to aforementioned oc! i’ll be remaking the taglist... but the names tagged at the end are from the old taglist that have interacted or commented on the announcement post about the rewrite. let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
The morning sun filtered weakly through sheer curtains, spilling across a simple room in a quiet seaside neighborhood of Inazuma. The shadows it cast moved slowly, reluctantly, as though even the daylight was hesitant to interrupt the stillness of the hour.
Its sole occupant sat cross-legged on his futon, a worn notebook balanced on one knee, and a pencil resting against his nose. The pages were clean, the graphite dull. Unused.
Kaedehara Kazuha had been awake long before the sun began its slow climb. Not out of nervousness—he told himself—but because the wind had been unusually restless that dawn. It had pressed against his window in gentle but persistent gust as though trying to rouse him.
Fourth year. Final year.
He stared at the page as if waiting for it to move first. As if the paper might blink or speak before he had to.
From the other side of the house came the low clinking of dishes, the rhythmic chop of a knife, and the subtle hum of the morning news on television
Beidou was awake, of course.
She always was—long before the harbor stirred, before the ships rose and fell with the tide. The scent of grilled fish and warm miso wafted through the paper-thin walls, grounding him in the present.
Kazuha exhaled softly. Closing the notebook and sliding it into his bag.
When he stepped out, Beidou glanced over her shoulder without missing a beat. She stood at the stove in a loose tank top and well-worn slacks, chopsticks in one hand, a chipped mug of coffee in the other. Her hair, as wild as always, was tied in a halfhearted bun.
“You’re up early,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.
"I couldn’t sleep," he admitted.
She gave him a knowing glance. , then gestured with her chin. "First day of your last year, huh?"
He nodded. "That it is."
"You’ve grown," she said casually, flipping the fish with practiced ease. “Back in second year, I used to have to threaten you with cold rice just to get you out of bed.”
He chuckled under his breath. "The wind was loud this morning."
“So it was.” She paused, the words lingering for a moment like steam above miso. “Usually means something’s about to change.”
She slid the breakfast tray across the low table—grilled fish, miso soup, a small bowl of pickled radish. “You sure you’re ready for today?”
Kazuha paused as he lowered himself to the table. “As ready as I’ll ever be.
Beidou leaned against the doorway, arms crossing over her chest. Her expression softened just slightly—just enough.
“You’re not the kind of kid who cares about popularity or titles,” she said. “Don’t start now. Just be yourself. That’s more than enough.”
He nodded, though something in his chest stirred restlessly. “I’m not worried,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if it was true.
“Sure,” she said easily. “But even if you were—it’s fine. Things are supposed to feel different this year. That’s what change is.”
She sipped from her coffee, then added with a wry smile, “Just don’t let the wind carry you off before you’ve had your say. Sometimes, you have to walk into it.”
Kazuha looked up at her, quiet admiration in his eyes. He nodded. “I’ll try.”
Breakfast passed in comfortable silence. No music, no rush. Just the soft clink of chopsticks and the whisper of steam rising from miso. It was a peace he’d learned to treasure—a quiet that allowed his thoughts to breathe.
As he slid on his bag and stepped toward the door, Beidou called after him. "Hey."
He turned.
She tilted her head. "Whatever today throws at you—keep your feet steady. And if you can’t? Come home. The harbor’s not going anywhere."
Kazuha nodded. "Thanks mom.”
And with that, he stepped into the crisp April morning.
⋆ ·−· ·−· ·−· ·−· ⋆
The walk to school was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of sakura branches lining the residential streets while merchants opened their stalls and mothers ushered their children along.
Inazuma High School sat nestled on a sloping hill, its indigo gates weathered but dignified, watching over the shrine and harbor below.
Kazuha slowed as he approached, shifting the weight of his bag. Around the entrance, clusters of students buzzed with conversation, their voices overlapping—new classes, new clubs, new hopes.
He offered a polite nod to a passing underclassman, slipping through the crowd toward the bulletin board by the gates. Class lists were already drawing a small gathering.
Class 4-A.
He scanned for his name, fingers ghosting near the page.
Kaedehara Kazuha — 4-A.
There it was. Familiar. Steady.
Then, a voice broke the quiet behind him—carefree, teasing.
"Checking if you still exist again this year?"
Kazuha turned slightly, already knowing the speaker. Shikanoin Heizou stood just a pace behind him, shirt half-tucked, blazer slung over one shoulder, a single earbud dangling from his collar.. His hair was tousled in a way that always looked deliberate.
Kazuha regarded him with a long-suffering look. “And here I was hoping you’d matured.”
“I did,” Heizou replied smoothly, stepping beside him. “That’s why I’m early. Also because I want first dibs on back row seating.”
He leaned in, scanning the sheet beside him. Kazuha caught the faint scent of orange peel gum and over-sharpened pencil lead—both hallmarks of Heizou’s morning routine.
“Let’s see... Kokomi, Ayaka, Kirara—Yoimiya’s in 4-C—dang,” Heizou muttered. “There goes my entertainment.... guess we have to meet up during lunch time”
Kazuha’s brows knit faintly. He hadn’t expected that either.
“Wait—Thoma’s here?” Heizou blinked, leaning closer. “Didn’t think he’d get shuffled into our class. Good surprise, I guess...”
Kazuha gave a quiet hum of agreement. His thoughts were half with the list and half with the strange quiet knot in his chest—something stirring just beneath the ribs.
“Ah, and here we go,” Heizou said, tapping a name with mock ceremony. “Kaedehara Kazuha. Dead center!"
“You read my name last,” Kazuha murmured.
“Saved the best for last.” Heizou offered an innocent grin. “You know who’s also here? Y/N.”
A pause. Subtle, but sharp.
Kazuha stilled.
The name was there—printed just a few lines above his. Unassuming. Neat.
Something in him coiled tighter, then loosened again all at once.
“Relax,” Heizou said, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve been pretending you’re not interested since second year. Isn’t this, like, fate giving you a nudge?”
"I don’t believe in fate."
“Yeah, yeah. But you do believe in poetry, which is just fate that rhymes.”
Kazuha said nothing. Instead, he stepped forward and into the school building, the echo of student chatter trailing behind them like fading footprints.
Heizou followed, slinging his bag lazily over the chair in the back row. "Bet you ten mora you end up class president."
Kazuha arched a brow. "Why would anyone nominate me?"
"Mystery. Soft voice. Artistic. Quiet, Handsome. The usual."
"That’s not how class elections work."
Heizou winked. "Just watch me."
Kazuha sighed. "I’m going to regret showing up early, aren’t I?"
"Absolutely."
⋆ ·−· ·−· ·−· ·−· ⋆
They made their way down the hallway, the buzz of returning students ebbing as they approached Room 4-A. It sat near the end of the hallway, morning sun pooling through its windows in soft, slanted beams. The door was propped open, and a few early arrivals were already milling inside,
Near the front stood Kamisato Ayaka, pristine as ever. Her blue ribbon matched the faint frost in her gaze, but her smile warmed when she noticed them.
“Good morning, Kaedehara, Shikanoin.” She greeted, folding her hands neatly.
"Morning, Ayaka," Heizou greeted with casual ease. "Still as composed as always."
She smiled politely. “It’s only natural to begin the year prepared. And you? Early for once. A shift in planetary alignment?”
Heizou dramatically clutched his chest. "She wounds me. I was here out of pure responsibility."
Kazuha gave Heizou a sidelong glance, then nodded politely. "You seem well, Kamisato."
“Thank you.” Her gaze softened. “I trust you both will continue setting the tone for the class—as usual.”
Heizou leaned over and whispered, “She says that like we’re not ticking time bombs”
Kazuha arched his brow. “Just speak for yourself....”
“I always do.”
They turned to the seating chart near the board. Unlike previous years, there was no blank grid. The chart was already filled out, names neatly typed and mapped.
Ayaka glanced over at the two boys, she offered a small smile, brushing invisible dust from her uniform sleeves. "It seems they’ve already decided our seats," she said lightly. "Rather unusual for the first day."
Heizou peered over his shoulder. "Huh. Assigned seating this early? Bold move."
"I imagine they want to establish order quickly this year," Ayaka murmured.
Heizou smirked. "You say that like they know this class won’t spiral into chaos anyway."
Kazuha shook his head, amused. "At least the sunlight’s better here than in 3-B." Then he scanned for his name—second row, seat C. Near the window.
As always.
He couldn’t help but let his gaze drift to the name beside his. B.
Y/N.
He stared for half a second too long.
Heizou noticed. Of course he did.
He leaned in, scanning where Kazuha’s eyes had landed. “Well, well. What’d I say earlier? Fate’s giving you more than a nudge—it’s shoving you into direct line of sight.”
Kazuha offered no response.
Ayaka, still nearby, glancing between the two. “Is something the matter?”
“No,” Kazuha said quickly, too quickly.
Ayaka tilted her head slightly, her lips curling in a subtle, knowing smile. Her gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary before she turned her attention back to the seating chart
Kazuha then moved toward his desk, placing his bag down with quiet precision. The desk still had the faint pencil ghost marks of last year’s occupant—tiny scribbles in the corner, an etched doodle smoothed over by wear. Kazuha ran his thumb across the edge once before taking his seat.
The window overlooked the sakura path that wound behind the library—a quiet spot where only a few students ventured during lunch. It would be good for writing.
Still… his thoughts wandered.
He opened his notebook again. Not to write, at first, but to look. The page held a single haiku:
April stirs again—
Desks rearranged like old thoughts,
And one smile returns.
He’d written it while the sky outside was still silver. Half-asleep. But now, the weight of it sat more heavily. As if his hand had known before his mind did.
Heizou whistled low beside him. “I’d say you’re doomed, but honestly? This might finally be your chance.”
Kazuha again... didn’t reply but the tips of his ears turned a shade darker. He kept his eyes forward, notebook closed on his desk, though his hands rested over it a second too long.
Heizou grinned, “Not denying it, huh?”
Still, Kazuha said nothing
But the blush didn’t fade…
Soon, the classroom shifted—noise spilling in from the hallway, voices growing louder as students arrived.
And then—
“Oh! New seats today?”
The voice cut through everything. The kind of voice that always seemed to wear a smile, even in silence.
Kazuha’s head turned before he realized it had moved
There, in the doorway, stood Y/N.
One hand clutched the strap of their school bag, the other balancing a small potted plant wrapped in a cloth sleeve. Strands of hair clung gently to their cheek where the wind had mussed it.
The noise in the room briefly shifted—acknowledging them with a few waves, quiet greetings. Kazuha remained silent, eyes tracking the subtle way they smiled back at each classmate—gentle, not showy, like someone used to easing into rooms instead of owning them.
He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until they started to move.
Y/N crossed toward the middle rows, pausing beside a girl from their old class—Sayo, maybe… They exchanged a few quiet words, then settled together into a desk near the back corner.
Kazuha blinked.
That wasn’t quite right.
Their seat was clearly marked on the chart—second row, directly beside his. Yet here they were, slipping into a spot three rows behind.
Maybe… they just hadn’t checked yet. Maybe they were giving someone else a moment. Maybe it was easier to melt into the back and avoid attention.
All perfectly reasonable
But still...
The empty desk beside him felt unusually noticeable. Not in a loud way—just enough to make the space feel… unbalanced.
He looked down, flipping a page in his notebook. His pen hovered above the paper, then stilled.
The sunlight was soft. The air, clear... sure, but to his right, there was an absence where something—someone—was meant to be.
And for a brief second, the space seemed to linger longer than it should
Then, from behind, he heard Kokomi's voice—something about the plant. “…You brought a plant to school again?” she asked gently, tilting her head just a little. “Is there a reason?”
“Kokomi!” Y/N said brightly, “he was just getting lonely at home..."
“He?” Kokomi looked up from her planner.
“The plant! His name is Maple!”
Kazuha blinked.
Maple? That was the name…?
He glanced towards the desk again. The plant’s glossy leaves caught the light—small and round…not at all like the pointed edges of an actual maple leaf. It didn’t match the name in the slightest.
Perhaps it was deliberate.
The thoughts tugged at him. There had to be a reason, right?
Maybe it was the color the leaves would turn one day. Or a memory. A feeling. Even a person…
But before that thought could settle, a voice broke through.
“Ah there it is!” Heizou said, sharp with amusement “You’re staring again.”
Kazuha startled slightly, he didn’t even look up. “I am not.”
“You are..” Heizou replied, “You always tilt your head slightly when you do it. It's your ‘admiring from afar’ angle.”
“I don’t have an angle.”
“You have, like... five. And they all involve pretending you’re writing haiku when you’re actually just thinking about them,"
Kazuha sighed softly through his nose. “Do you not have anything better to do?”
“Nope!” Heizou replied cheerfully, chin propped on one hand. “This is honestly fun to watch. Watching you pretend not to care while very obviously caring.”
Kazuha shook his head, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him—just barely tugging upwards.
Heizou immediately caught it. “Seeeee? You’re even smiling!”
“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” Kazuha murmured, flipping a page in his notebook to deflect.
“Eventually.” Heizou said, leaning back. “But right now, you’re much more interesting to bother”
Kazuha didn’t dignify that response—though his pencil tapped once, twice… as if trying to ground him through the lingering warmth.
Then suddenly, the classroom door slid open again with a soft thud, and quiet conversation faded almost immediately. A tall woman with ink-black hair tied into a high tail stepped inside, a folder tucked beneath her arm. She wore a navy blouse and dark gray slacks—formal, but not intimidating.
"Good morning, everyone," she said calmly. "I’m Sumeragi Reina, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year. I also handle world literature electives.”
There was something about the way she spoke that silenced the room—not because she demanded it, but because she simply assumed it would be given.
She flipped open the folder, gaze gliding over the list. “We’ll begin with attendance. Then we’ll move into class officer nominations.”
The familiar rhythm of names called and answered unfolded: a mix of sleepy acknowledgments, enthusiastic “here!”s, and the occasional awkward silence before a hand shot up.
Then—
“Arataki Itto-”
“YO!” The booming voice rang from the hallway. A second later, a tall figure skidded into view, backpack half-zipped and hair unmistakable.
“Present and lookin’ fabulous!” Itto declared, striking a pose like he’d just stepped onto the red carpet instead of almost tumbling inside the classroom.
Kazuha chuckled as several students flinched, a few even instinctively covered their ears.
Sumeragi-sensei raised an eyebrow. “…Thank you, Arataki. Take your seat.”
Once the last name was checked off, she stepped toward the whiteboard, uncapping a black marker.
Class 4-A Officer Elections
The words went up in smooth strokes.
“As you know,” Reina began, “each class selects a president, vice president, secretary, treasurer, and committee representatives. You may nominate yourself or a classmate. Let’s begin with President.”
Silence fell, thick and awkward.
A cough. A shuffle. Someone's chair creaked.
And then, without hesitation—
"Kaedehara," Heizou said, without missing a beat. "I nominate Kaedehara Kazuha."
The air shifted.
Conversations faltered. A chair scraped. Several heads turned.
Kazuha stilled.
His pencil, poised mid-stroke, lowered by a fraction. Slowly, he turned his head toward Heizou, eyes narrowing in a measured, startled disbelief.
"Heizou," he said quietly. "You—"
Heizou didn’t even bother hiding the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back in his seat with all the smug satisfaction of someone who’d just lobbed a pebble into still water, knowing exactly how far the ripples would reach.
Sumeragi-sensei, unbothered, glanced up from her clipboard. “Kaedehara Kazuha. Do you accept the nomination?”
Kazuha blinked once. Then again.
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his pencil. The wooden body shifted against his knuckles.
"I—I'd prefer to decline," he said, voice even but low. "I don’t believe I’m suited for—"
“Seconded!”
The rest of the sentence didn’t land. Itto’s voice boomed from the back, cutting clean through the hum of the room.
Kazuha’s shoulders tensed.
He turned slightly, just enough to see Itto’s broad grin and enthusiastic wave. Like this was some friendly joke. Like the attention wouldn’t settle too sharply on Kazuha’s back.
"Thirded!" Thoma added from across the room, a sheepish shrug already forming as their eyes met. His smile was almost apologetic.
Kazuha opened his mouth to protest.
And then—
He glanced towards the back
Y/N sat turned slightly in their seat, hand half-raised, amusement dancing behind their eyes. A tiny smile—lopsided, warm—played on their lips.
There was a ripple of laughter. A few students clapped just for the fun of it.
Something cold and fluttering tugged at his chest, like a leaf caught in an updraft.
He looked away, breath tight.
"Nominations can’t be withdrawn once seconded," Sumeragi-sensei said, unfazed, writing his name on the board with a neat underline.
Kazuha blinked... "...Is that actually a rule?"
"It is now," she replied, still writing.
Another ripple of laughter. Scattered applause. A few whistles from the back.
Kazuha’s eyes flicked back to Heizou.
That same grin.
Heizou raised both hands like a man claiming innocence.
Kazuha didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The flat line of his mouth said enough.
And yet, he straightened slightly in his seat. Shoulders drawing back. Hands folding loosely over his notebook.
The breeze had shifted.
And ready or not, he was moving with it.
The class laughed. A few clapped. Someone whispered, “Well, that’s new,” and someone else replied, “He kinda gives off that calm leader vibe.”
Kazuha sat very still. The sound blurred at the edges—distant, like wind outside a window. His pulse had shifted, now echoing faintly behind his ears, beneath his skin, in the places still untouched by calm.
Heizou slid into the seat behind him then leaned in, voice low and far too satisfied. “You’re welcome.”
Kazuha didn’t look at him right away. He exhaled through his nose, straightening in his seat, as if steadying himself against an incoming gust.
“You’re a menace,” he said, voice even.
“And you,” Heizou said, grin wide, “are class president.”
Kazuha turned his head, meeting his gaze at last. “You ambushed me.”
Heizou shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “I gave you a push!”
“There’s a difference.”
“You needed it.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“No one ever asks for greatness,” Heizou said, mock-wise. “Sometimes it’s just... thrust upon them by meddling best friends.”
Kazuha sighed again, gaze drifting briefly to the window. The sakura branches stirred outside, the same way his thoughts did now—slow, reluctant, and unrooted.
“So this is happening,” he murmured. “Whether I want it or not.”
“That’s how all good stories start,” Heizou said, folding his hands behind his head.
Kazuha glanced back down at his notebook, the page still open from earlier. He tapped the corner lightly, then closed it.
“And just like that,” he said softly, “I’m running.”
Heizou grinned. “Told you. Fate.”
Kazuha once again, didn’t respond.
But his hand lingered on the closed cover of his notebook, as if somewhere deep in the unwritten pages, waiting for what’s to come next.
But… no one else had volunteered. No one had even been nominated.
A few classmates shifted in their seats, clearly unwilling to raise their hands for the spotlight. Some had glanced Kazuha’s way, as if expecting him to somehow naturally shoulder the role.
A few students had murmured to each other, half-turning as if considering—but ultimately, every glance circled back to him.
Quiet. Capable. The kind of person people trusted to keep things steady.
And maybe that was all it took.
By the time Reina asked again, the silence had stretched too long. His name, still fresh on the board, went unchallenged.
So when she finally declared,
“Class President: Kaedehara Kazuha,” the room didn’t react with surprise. Just a few nods, scattered claps, and the unspoken relief that someone else had already filled the silence.
Heizou gave him a dramatic bow, one hand pressed theatrically over his chest.
Kazuha exhaled softly, hand lifting to rub at the side of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his collar. The corner of his mouth tugged upward—barely a smile, more an acknowledgment of the moment’s weight.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
The title had settled over his shoulders like a cloak he hadn’t asked for, but one he would wear nonetheless.
Kazuha shook his head once, slow and amused. He said nothing—but the look he sent Heizou’s way spoke volumes.
Then Reina glanced up. “Kaedehara, would you mind coming up to say a few words?”
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room—some surprised, others simply amused.
Kazuha, for a beat, didn’t move.
Then he rose slowly, chair scraping gently against the tile, and stepped toward the front of the room with the kind of calm that made it hard to tell if he was nervous at all.
He stood by the table and took a small breath, gaze resting somewhere beyond the classroom windows.
He didn’t fidget. Didn’t clear his throat. He only rested one hand loosely against the desk.
“…I hadn’t intended to stand here today,” he said quietly, voice steady but soft. “But it seems the wind had other plans.”
A few students chuckled under their breath.
Kazuha’s gaze flicked across the room—not lingering, but passing over each desk. Not avoiding anyone, but not focusing on anyone either. Except, maybe, just briefly, on a particular desk at the back.
“But if you’ve entrusted it to me, then I’ll do my part. Though, I don’t think a leader needs to speak the loudest,” he continued. “Or draw attention. I believe it’s more important to listen, to notice what others might miss. If I can do that—even just a little—then I’ll try to be someone worth trusting.”
He paused, then added, “I hope this year is kind to all of us. And I’ll do what I can to help it along.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then a few claps. Then more.
He bowed his head slightly and returned to his seat, a faint flush across his cheekbones—not embarrassment, but something gentler. A quiet hum beneath his skin.
As he sat down, applause still fading around him, his eyes drifted briefly across the room.
And there—near the back—Y/N was clapping with the rest of the class, their smile unmistakable even from a distance.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t exaggerated. But it was there, real and directed at him.
Kazuha looked away quickly, pretending to adjust the strap of his bag again. But something in his chest had already shifted—subtle as wind curling beneath sakura petals.
They smiled.
At him.
He blinked once, then lowered his gaze, unsure what to do with the warmth that lingered beneath his skin—just under his collar, in the spaces between breath and thought.
“Thank you, Kaedehara. Now—Vice President nominations.”
The voice cut clean through his reverie.
Kazuha startled slightly, back straightening as he turned toward the front again, his ears still faintly pink. Reina stood by the board, marker poised, her expression unreadable as ever.
He cleared his throat quietly and folded his hands atop his desk, as if the motion could steady him.
It didn’t.
Vice President votes were quick—Ayaka Kamisato, as expected. Secretary went to Kokomi, who nodded with her usual grace. Treasurer fell to a quiet girl named Sayo, known more for her impeccable attendance than her words.
And then came the committee representatives.
Heizou—unsurprisingly—claimed a spot, flashing a peace sign as Reina jotted his name. Y/N was also chosen as class representatives as well, their names met with murmurs of agreement and nods from classmates who clearly expected it.
Itto, somehow, was selected….
Kazuha could only assume Thoma had strategically avoided nomination by focusing on helping others vote instead of drawing attention to himself. Thoma’s grin was bright as ever when his name wasn’t called, and Kazuha couldn't help picturing the meetings ahead—loud, chaotic, and somehow always centered around Itto’s latest ‘great idea.’
As the announcements wrapped up, the weight of newly assigned titles began to settle. Some students leaned back with satisfied smirks, others exchanged amused glances or groaned about responsibilities.
Then, Sumeragi-sensei flipped her folder closed. “Assigned seating begins now. Please move to your designated desks.”
Despite the clearly posted seating chart near the board, a few hopeful students hovered near preferred spots—testing whether the system would really be enforced.
One student in particular had already made themselves comfortable three rows back, a small potted plant sitting neatly at the corner of their desk....
Sumeragi-sensei paused mid-sentence, her gaze narrowing.
“Y/N,” she said sharply. “You’re in seat B. That's the second row, beside Kaedehara.
Kazuha glanced to his right. Someone else was there—one of the newer boys, who looked up, startled, and began hurriedly collecting his things. Kazuha hadn’t noticed him settling in that seat… maybe his mind had still been reeling from the sudden class president nomination, and everything else had blurred.
Y/N blinked. “Ah—sorry, Sensei. I didn’t check the chart properly.”
Laughter rippled around them. The boy awkwardly vacated seat B, mumbling an apology. Y/N gave him a grateful nod, cradled their plant again, and moved forward.
Kazuha sat a little straighter as they approached.
They slid into the seat beside him, offering a sheepish smile as they set the pot down with a soft clink. “Didn’t think I’d end up this close to the front.” they mumbled…
Once everyone had more or less settled, Y/N turned slightly toward him. “Looks like we’re desk neighbors!"
Kazuha blinked. That smile—genuine, a little amused—brought the faintest warmth to his chest.
He meant to say something elegant. Even a basic hello would’ve sufficed.
Instead, he muttered, “Ah. Yes. I—good morning.”
They tilted their head. “You okay?”
“I am… functioning.”
A laugh bubbled out of them—quiet, genuine. "That’s one way to put it.”
It stirred something in him. Not discomfort. Not panic. Just… awareness. A warmth spreading behind his collarbones like the first flush of spring.
From the far end of the row, Heizou groaned audibly.
“Oh my god. That was painful.”
Thoma, seated beside him, stifled a laugh. “You mean endearing.”
“No, I mean painful! Like secondhand embarrassment clawing up my spine.”
Y/N turned halfway, having caught part of it. “You’re just jealous I get to sit near the class president.” while amusement flickering in their eyes.
Kazuha flushed faintly. “That title was… not my intention.
“Maybe not,” they said with a smile. “But it suits you.”
Kazuha looked at them for a breath too long.
Then—slowly, shyly—he smiled back.
They turned away to open their notebook, humming softly under their breath as if nothing unusual had passed between them.
Kazuha, meanwhile, wrote quietly into his own:
Calm. Breathe.
It didn’t help.
TAGLIST: @3amstoryreader
all writing belongs to @svynie. do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.
“i wouldn’t do that” “i wouldn’t say that” “i wouldn’t wear that” “i wouldn’t kiss them” too bad you pedantic dorks, you’re not the one in control here.
Chapter 1: April 10 — The Wind Returns to Room 4-A
5YN0PSIS: Kaedehara Kazuha only wanted a quiet final year—one more cycle through spring and sakura. But the wind has never been one to leave him be. Within the first hour of the new school year, he’s been roped into class president, and seated beside someone he’s spent the last two years quietly trying not to think about. Maybe the universe is trying to tell him something—or maybe Heizou is just really annoying. Either way, silence is no longer an option.
TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, SLOW BURNN, modern au, high school setting in Inazuma, use of Y/N, gender-neutral pronouns, unrequited love/pining (for now), beidou as an adoptive parent wooo!!
W.C: 4,690
A/N: hi !! i was originally going to keep the teacher’s old name, but during my hiatus, i helped a friend with their oc lore. and since they also helped proofread most of the chapters, I changed the name as a small nod to aforementioned oc! i’ll be remaking the taglist... but the names tagged at the end are from the old taglist that have interacted or commented on the announcement post about the rewrite. let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
The morning sun filtered weakly through sheer curtains, spilling across a simple room in a quiet seaside neighborhood of Inazuma. The shadows it cast moved slowly, reluctantly, as though even the daylight was hesitant to interrupt the stillness of the hour.
Its sole occupant sat cross-legged on his futon, a worn notebook balanced on one knee, and a pencil resting against his nose. The pages were clean, the graphite dull. Unused.
Kaedehara Kazuha had been awake long before the sun began its slow climb. Not out of nervousness—he told himself—but because the wind had been unusually restless that dawn. It had pressed against his window in gentle but persistent gust as though trying to rouse him.
Fourth year. Final year.
He stared at the page as if waiting for it to move first. As if the paper might blink or speak before he had to.
From the other side of the house came the low clinking of dishes, the rhythmic chop of a knife, and the subtle hum of the morning news on television
Beidou was awake, of course.
She always was—long before the harbor stirred, before the ships rose and fell with the tide. The scent of grilled fish and warm miso wafted through the paper-thin walls, grounding him in the present.
Kazuha exhaled softly. Closing the notebook and sliding it into his bag.
When he stepped out, Beidou glanced over her shoulder without missing a beat. She stood at the stove in a loose tank top and well-worn slacks, chopsticks in one hand, a chipped mug of coffee in the other. Her hair, as wild as always, was tied in a halfhearted bun.
“You’re up early,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.
"I couldn’t sleep," he admitted.
She gave him a knowing glance. , then gestured with her chin. "First day of your last year, huh?"
He nodded. "That it is."
"You’ve grown," she said casually, flipping the fish with practiced ease. “Back in second year, I used to have to threaten you with cold rice just to get you out of bed.”
He chuckled under his breath. "The wind was loud this morning."
“So it was.” She paused, the words lingering for a moment like steam above miso. “Usually means something’s about to change.”
She slid the breakfast tray across the low table—grilled fish, miso soup, a small bowl of pickled radish. “You sure you’re ready for today?”
Kazuha paused as he lowered himself to the table. “As ready as I’ll ever be.
Beidou leaned against the doorway, arms crossing over her chest. Her expression softened just slightly—just enough.
“You’re not the kind of kid who cares about popularity or titles,” she said. “Don’t start now. Just be yourself. That’s more than enough.”
He nodded, though something in his chest stirred restlessly. “I’m not worried,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if it was true.
“Sure,” she said easily. “But even if you were—it’s fine. Things are supposed to feel different this year. That’s what change is.”
She sipped from her coffee, then added with a wry smile, “Just don’t let the wind carry you off before you’ve had your say. Sometimes, you have to walk into it.”
Kazuha looked up at her, quiet admiration in his eyes. He nodded. “I’ll try.”
Breakfast passed in comfortable silence. No music, no rush. Just the soft clink of chopsticks and the whisper of steam rising from miso. It was a peace he’d learned to treasure—a quiet that allowed his thoughts to breathe.
As he slid on his bag and stepped toward the door, Beidou called after him. "Hey."
He turned.
She tilted her head. "Whatever today throws at you—keep your feet steady. And if you can’t? Come home. The harbor’s not going anywhere."
Kazuha nodded. "Thanks mom.”
And with that, he stepped into the crisp April morning.
⋆ ·−· ·−· ·−· ·−· ⋆
The walk to school was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of sakura branches lining the residential streets while merchants opened their stalls and mothers ushered their children along.
Inazuma High School sat nestled on a sloping hill, its indigo gates weathered but dignified, watching over the shrine and harbor below.
Kazuha slowed as he approached, shifting the weight of his bag. Around the entrance, clusters of students buzzed with conversation, their voices overlapping—new classes, new clubs, new hopes.
He offered a polite nod to a passing underclassman, slipping through the crowd toward the bulletin board by the gates. Class lists were already drawing a small gathering.
Class 4-A.
He scanned for his name, fingers ghosting near the page.
Kaedehara Kazuha — 4-A.
There it was. Familiar. Steady.
Then, a voice broke the quiet behind him—carefree, teasing.
"Checking if you still exist again this year?"
Kazuha turned slightly, already knowing the speaker. Shikanoin Heizou stood just a pace behind him, shirt half-tucked, blazer slung over one shoulder, a single earbud dangling from his collar.. His hair was tousled in a way that always looked deliberate.
Kazuha regarded him with a long-suffering look. “And here I was hoping you’d matured.”
“I did,” Heizou replied smoothly, stepping beside him. “That’s why I’m early. Also because I want first dibs on back row seating.”
He leaned in, scanning the sheet beside him. Kazuha caught the faint scent of orange peel gum and over-sharpened pencil lead—both hallmarks of Heizou’s morning routine.
“Let’s see... Kokomi, Ayaka, Kirara—Yoimiya’s in 4-C—dang,” Heizou muttered. “There goes my entertainment.... guess we have to meet up during lunch time”
Kazuha’s brows knit faintly. He hadn’t expected that either.
“Wait—Thoma’s here?” Heizou blinked, leaning closer. “Didn’t think he’d get shuffled into our class. Good surprise, I guess...”
Kazuha gave a quiet hum of agreement. His thoughts were half with the list and half with the strange quiet knot in his chest—something stirring just beneath the ribs.
“Ah, and here we go,” Heizou said, tapping a name with mock ceremony. “Kaedehara Kazuha. Dead center!"
“You read my name last,” Kazuha murmured.
“Saved the best for last.” Heizou offered an innocent grin. “You know who’s also here? Y/N.”
A pause. Subtle, but sharp.
Kazuha stilled.
The name was there—printed just a few lines above his. Unassuming. Neat.
Something in him coiled tighter, then loosened again all at once.
“Relax,” Heizou said, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve been pretending you’re not interested since second year. Isn’t this, like, fate giving you a nudge?”
"I don’t believe in fate."
“Yeah, yeah. But you do believe in poetry, which is just fate that rhymes.”
Kazuha said nothing. Instead, he stepped forward and into the school building, the echo of student chatter trailing behind them like fading footprints.
Heizou followed, slinging his bag lazily over the chair in the back row. "Bet you ten mora you end up class president."
Kazuha arched a brow. "Why would anyone nominate me?"
"Mystery. Soft voice. Artistic. Quiet, Handsome. The usual."
"That’s not how class elections work."
Heizou winked. "Just watch me."
Kazuha sighed. "I’m going to regret showing up early, aren’t I?"
"Absolutely."
⋆ ·−· ·−· ·−· ·−· ⋆
They made their way down the hallway, the buzz of returning students ebbing as they approached Room 4-A. It sat near the end of the hallway, morning sun pooling through its windows in soft, slanted beams. The door was propped open, and a few early arrivals were already milling inside,
Near the front stood Kamisato Ayaka, pristine as ever. Her blue ribbon matched the faint frost in her gaze, but her smile warmed when she noticed them.
“Good morning, Kaedehara, Shikanoin.” She greeted, folding her hands neatly.
"Morning, Ayaka," Heizou greeted with casual ease. "Still as composed as always."
She smiled politely. “It’s only natural to begin the year prepared. And you? Early for once. A shift in planetary alignment?”
Heizou dramatically clutched his chest. "She wounds me. I was here out of pure responsibility."
Kazuha gave Heizou a sidelong glance, then nodded politely. "You seem well, Kamisato."
“Thank you.” Her gaze softened. “I trust you both will continue setting the tone for the class—as usual.”
Heizou leaned over and whispered, “She says that like we’re not ticking time bombs”
Kazuha arched his brow. “Just speak for yourself....”
“I always do.”
They turned to the seating chart near the board. Unlike previous years, there was no blank grid. The chart was already filled out, names neatly typed and mapped.
Ayaka glanced over at the two boys, she offered a small smile, brushing invisible dust from her uniform sleeves. "It seems they’ve already decided our seats," she said lightly. "Rather unusual for the first day."
Heizou peered over his shoulder. "Huh. Assigned seating this early? Bold move."
"I imagine they want to establish order quickly this year," Ayaka murmured.
Heizou smirked. "You say that like they know this class won’t spiral into chaos anyway."
Kazuha shook his head, amused. "At least the sunlight’s better here than in 3-B." Then he scanned for his name—second row, seat C. Near the window.
As always.
He couldn’t help but let his gaze drift to the name beside his. B.
Y/N.
He stared for half a second too long.
Heizou noticed. Of course he did.
He leaned in, scanning where Kazuha’s eyes had landed. “Well, well. What’d I say earlier? Fate’s giving you more than a nudge—it’s shoving you into direct line of sight.”
Kazuha offered no response.
Ayaka, still nearby, glancing between the two. “Is something the matter?”
“No,” Kazuha said quickly, too quickly.
Ayaka tilted her head slightly, her lips curling in a subtle, knowing smile. Her gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary before she turned her attention back to the seating chart
Kazuha then moved toward his desk, placing his bag down with quiet precision. The desk still had the faint pencil ghost marks of last year’s occupant—tiny scribbles in the corner, an etched doodle smoothed over by wear. Kazuha ran his thumb across the edge once before taking his seat.
The window overlooked the sakura path that wound behind the library—a quiet spot where only a few students ventured during lunch. It would be good for writing.
Still… his thoughts wandered.
He opened his notebook again. Not to write, at first, but to look. The page held a single haiku:
April stirs again—
Desks rearranged like old thoughts,
And one smile returns.
He’d written it while the sky outside was still silver. Half-asleep. But now, the weight of it sat more heavily. As if his hand had known before his mind did.
Heizou whistled low beside him. “I’d say you’re doomed, but honestly? This might finally be your chance.”
Kazuha again... didn’t reply but the tips of his ears turned a shade darker. He kept his eyes forward, notebook closed on his desk, though his hands rested over it a second too long.
Heizou grinned, “Not denying it, huh?”
Still, Kazuha said nothing
But the blush didn’t fade…
Soon, the classroom shifted—noise spilling in from the hallway, voices growing louder as students arrived.
And then—
“Oh! New seats today?”
The voice cut through everything. The kind of voice that always seemed to wear a smile, even in silence.
Kazuha’s head turned before he realized it had moved
There, in the doorway, stood Y/N.
One hand clutched the strap of their school bag, the other balancing a small potted plant wrapped in a cloth sleeve. Strands of hair clung gently to their cheek where the wind had mussed it.
The noise in the room briefly shifted—acknowledging them with a few waves, quiet greetings. Kazuha remained silent, eyes tracking the subtle way they smiled back at each classmate—gentle, not showy, like someone used to easing into rooms instead of owning them.
He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until they started to move.
Y/N crossed toward the middle rows, pausing beside a girl from their old class—Sayo, maybe… They exchanged a few quiet words, then settled together into a desk near the back corner.
Kazuha blinked.
That wasn’t quite right.
Their seat was clearly marked on the chart—second row, directly beside his. Yet here they were, slipping into a spot three rows behind.
Maybe… they just hadn’t checked yet. Maybe they were giving someone else a moment. Maybe it was easier to melt into the back and avoid attention.
All perfectly reasonable
But still...
The empty desk beside him felt unusually noticeable. Not in a loud way—just enough to make the space feel… unbalanced.
He looked down, flipping a page in his notebook. His pen hovered above the paper, then stilled.
The sunlight was soft. The air, clear... sure, but to his right, there was an absence where something—someone—was meant to be.
And for a brief second, the space seemed to linger longer than it should
Then, from behind, he heard Kokomi's voice—something about the plant. “…You brought a plant to school again?” she asked gently, tilting her head just a little. “Is there a reason?”
“Kokomi!” Y/N said brightly, “he was just getting lonely at home..."
“He?” Kokomi looked up from her planner.
“The plant! His name is Maple!”
Kazuha blinked.
Maple? That was the name…?
He glanced towards the desk again. The plant’s glossy leaves caught the light—small and round…not at all like the pointed edges of an actual maple leaf. It didn’t match the name in the slightest.
Perhaps it was deliberate.
The thoughts tugged at him. There had to be a reason, right?
Maybe it was the color the leaves would turn one day. Or a memory. A feeling. Even a person…
But before that thought could settle, a voice broke through.
“Ah there it is!” Heizou said, sharp with amusement “You’re staring again.”
Kazuha startled slightly, he didn’t even look up. “I am not.”
“You are..” Heizou replied, “You always tilt your head slightly when you do it. It's your ‘admiring from afar’ angle.”
“I don’t have an angle.”
“You have, like... five. And they all involve pretending you’re writing haiku when you’re actually just thinking about them,"
Kazuha sighed softly through his nose. “Do you not have anything better to do?”
“Nope!” Heizou replied cheerfully, chin propped on one hand. “This is honestly fun to watch. Watching you pretend not to care while very obviously caring.”
Kazuha shook his head, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him—just barely tugging upwards.
Heizou immediately caught it. “Seeeee? You’re even smiling!”
“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” Kazuha murmured, flipping a page in his notebook to deflect.
“Eventually.” Heizou said, leaning back. “But right now, you’re much more interesting to bother”
Kazuha didn’t dignify that response—though his pencil tapped once, twice… as if trying to ground him through the lingering warmth.
Then suddenly, the classroom door slid open again with a soft thud, and quiet conversation faded almost immediately. A tall woman with ink-black hair tied into a high tail stepped inside, a folder tucked beneath her arm. She wore a navy blouse and dark gray slacks—formal, but not intimidating.
"Good morning, everyone," she said calmly. "I’m Sumeragi Reina, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year. I also handle world literature electives.”
There was something about the way she spoke that silenced the room—not because she demanded it, but because she simply assumed it would be given.
She flipped open the folder, gaze gliding over the list. “We’ll begin with attendance. Then we’ll move into class officer nominations.”
The familiar rhythm of names called and answered unfolded: a mix of sleepy acknowledgments, enthusiastic “here!”s, and the occasional awkward silence before a hand shot up.
Then—
“Arataki Itto-”
“YO!” The booming voice rang from the hallway. A second later, a tall figure skidded into view, backpack half-zipped and hair unmistakable.
“Present and lookin’ fabulous!” Itto declared, striking a pose like he’d just stepped onto the red carpet instead of almost tumbling inside the classroom.
Kazuha chuckled as several students flinched, a few even instinctively covered their ears.
Sumeragi-sensei raised an eyebrow. “…Thank you, Arataki. Take your seat.”
Once the last name was checked off, she stepped toward the whiteboard, uncapping a black marker.
Class 4-A Officer Elections
The words went up in smooth strokes.
“As you know,” Reina began, “each class selects a president, vice president, secretary, treasurer, and committee representatives. You may nominate yourself or a classmate. Let’s begin with President.”
Silence fell, thick and awkward.
A cough. A shuffle. Someone's chair creaked.
And then, without hesitation—
"Kaedehara," Heizou said, without missing a beat. "I nominate Kaedehara Kazuha."
The air shifted.
Conversations faltered. A chair scraped. Several heads turned.
Kazuha stilled.
His pencil, poised mid-stroke, lowered by a fraction. Slowly, he turned his head toward Heizou, eyes narrowing in a measured, startled disbelief.
"Heizou," he said quietly. "You—"
Heizou didn’t even bother hiding the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back in his seat with all the smug satisfaction of someone who’d just lobbed a pebble into still water, knowing exactly how far the ripples would reach.
Sumeragi-sensei, unbothered, glanced up from her clipboard. “Kaedehara Kazuha. Do you accept the nomination?”
Kazuha blinked once. Then again.
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his pencil. The wooden body shifted against his knuckles.
"I—I'd prefer to decline," he said, voice even but low. "I don’t believe I’m suited for—"
“Seconded!”
The rest of the sentence didn’t land. Itto’s voice boomed from the back, cutting clean through the hum of the room.
Kazuha’s shoulders tensed.
He turned slightly, just enough to see Itto’s broad grin and enthusiastic wave. Like this was some friendly joke. Like the attention wouldn’t settle too sharply on Kazuha’s back.
"Thirded!" Thoma added from across the room, a sheepish shrug already forming as their eyes met. His smile was almost apologetic.
Kazuha opened his mouth to protest.
And then—
He glanced towards the back
Y/N sat turned slightly in their seat, hand half-raised, amusement dancing behind their eyes. A tiny smile—lopsided, warm—played on their lips.
There was a ripple of laughter. A few students clapped just for the fun of it.
Something cold and fluttering tugged at his chest, like a leaf caught in an updraft.
He looked away, breath tight.
"Nominations can’t be withdrawn once seconded," Sumeragi-sensei said, unfazed, writing his name on the board with a neat underline.
Kazuha blinked... "...Is that actually a rule?"
"It is now," she replied, still writing.
Another ripple of laughter. Scattered applause. A few whistles from the back.
Kazuha’s eyes flicked back to Heizou.
That same grin.
Heizou raised both hands like a man claiming innocence.
Kazuha didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The flat line of his mouth said enough.
And yet, he straightened slightly in his seat. Shoulders drawing back. Hands folding loosely over his notebook.
The breeze had shifted.
And ready or not, he was moving with it.
The class laughed. A few clapped. Someone whispered, “Well, that’s new,” and someone else replied, “He kinda gives off that calm leader vibe.”
Kazuha sat very still. The sound blurred at the edges—distant, like wind outside a window. His pulse had shifted, now echoing faintly behind his ears, beneath his skin, in the places still untouched by calm.
Heizou slid into the seat behind him then leaned in, voice low and far too satisfied. “You’re welcome.”
Kazuha didn’t look at him right away. He exhaled through his nose, straightening in his seat, as if steadying himself against an incoming gust.
“You’re a menace,” he said, voice even.
“And you,” Heizou said, grin wide, “are class president.”
Kazuha turned his head, meeting his gaze at last. “You ambushed me.”
Heizou shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “I gave you a push!”
“There’s a difference.”
“You needed it.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“No one ever asks for greatness,” Heizou said, mock-wise. “Sometimes it’s just... thrust upon them by meddling best friends.”
Kazuha sighed again, gaze drifting briefly to the window. The sakura branches stirred outside, the same way his thoughts did now—slow, reluctant, and unrooted.
“So this is happening,” he murmured. “Whether I want it or not.”
“That’s how all good stories start,” Heizou said, folding his hands behind his head.
Kazuha glanced back down at his notebook, the page still open from earlier. He tapped the corner lightly, then closed it.
“And just like that,” he said softly, “I’m running.”
Heizou grinned. “Told you. Fate.”
Kazuha once again, didn’t respond.
But his hand lingered on the closed cover of his notebook, as if somewhere deep in the unwritten pages, waiting for what’s to come next.
But… no one else had volunteered. No one had even been nominated.
A few classmates shifted in their seats, clearly unwilling to raise their hands for the spotlight. Some had glanced Kazuha’s way, as if expecting him to somehow naturally shoulder the role.
A few students had murmured to each other, half-turning as if considering—but ultimately, every glance circled back to him.
Quiet. Capable. The kind of person people trusted to keep things steady.
And maybe that was all it took.
By the time Reina asked again, the silence had stretched too long. His name, still fresh on the board, went unchallenged.
So when she finally declared,
“Class President: Kaedehara Kazuha,” the room didn’t react with surprise. Just a few nods, scattered claps, and the unspoken relief that someone else had already filled the silence.
Heizou gave him a dramatic bow, one hand pressed theatrically over his chest.
Kazuha exhaled softly, hand lifting to rub at the side of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his collar. The corner of his mouth tugged upward—barely a smile, more an acknowledgment of the moment’s weight.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
The title had settled over his shoulders like a cloak he hadn’t asked for, but one he would wear nonetheless.
Kazuha shook his head once, slow and amused. He said nothing—but the look he sent Heizou’s way spoke volumes.
Then Reina glanced up. “Kaedehara, would you mind coming up to say a few words?”
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room—some surprised, others simply amused.
Kazuha, for a beat, didn’t move.
Then he rose slowly, chair scraping gently against the tile, and stepped toward the front of the room with the kind of calm that made it hard to tell if he was nervous at all.
He stood by the table and took a small breath, gaze resting somewhere beyond the classroom windows.
He didn’t fidget. Didn’t clear his throat. He only rested one hand loosely against the desk.
“…I hadn’t intended to stand here today,” he said quietly, voice steady but soft. “But it seems the wind had other plans.”
A few students chuckled under their breath.
Kazuha’s gaze flicked across the room—not lingering, but passing over each desk. Not avoiding anyone, but not focusing on anyone either. Except, maybe, just briefly, on a particular desk at the back.
“But if you’ve entrusted it to me, then I’ll do my part. Though, I don’t think a leader needs to speak the loudest,” he continued. “Or draw attention. I believe it’s more important to listen, to notice what others might miss. If I can do that—even just a little—then I’ll try to be someone worth trusting.”
He paused, then added, “I hope this year is kind to all of us. And I’ll do what I can to help it along.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then a few claps. Then more.
He bowed his head slightly and returned to his seat, a faint flush across his cheekbones—not embarrassment, but something gentler. A quiet hum beneath his skin.
As he sat down, applause still fading around him, his eyes drifted briefly across the room.
And there—near the back—Y/N was clapping with the rest of the class, their smile unmistakable even from a distance.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t exaggerated. But it was there, real and directed at him.
Kazuha looked away quickly, pretending to adjust the strap of his bag again. But something in his chest had already shifted—subtle as wind curling beneath sakura petals.
They smiled.
At him.
He blinked once, then lowered his gaze, unsure what to do with the warmth that lingered beneath his skin—just under his collar, in the spaces between breath and thought.
“Thank you, Kaedehara. Now—Vice President nominations.”
The voice cut clean through his reverie.
Kazuha startled slightly, back straightening as he turned toward the front again, his ears still faintly pink. Reina stood by the board, marker poised, her expression unreadable as ever.
He cleared his throat quietly and folded his hands atop his desk, as if the motion could steady him.
It didn’t.
Vice President votes were quick—Ayaka Kamisato, as expected. Secretary went to Kokomi, who nodded with her usual grace. Treasurer fell to a quiet girl named Sayo, known more for her impeccable attendance than her words.
And then came the committee representatives.
Heizou—unsurprisingly—claimed a spot, flashing a peace sign as Reina jotted his name. Y/N was also chosen as class representatives as well, their names met with murmurs of agreement and nods from classmates who clearly expected it.
Itto, somehow, was selected….
Kazuha could only assume Thoma had strategically avoided nomination by focusing on helping others vote instead of drawing attention to himself. Thoma’s grin was bright as ever when his name wasn’t called, and Kazuha couldn't help picturing the meetings ahead—loud, chaotic, and somehow always centered around Itto’s latest ‘great idea.’
As the announcements wrapped up, the weight of newly assigned titles began to settle. Some students leaned back with satisfied smirks, others exchanged amused glances or groaned about responsibilities.
Then, Sumeragi-sensei flipped her folder closed. “Assigned seating begins now. Please move to your designated desks.”
Despite the clearly posted seating chart near the board, a few hopeful students hovered near preferred spots—testing whether the system would really be enforced.
One student in particular had already made themselves comfortable three rows back, a small potted plant sitting neatly at the corner of their desk....
Sumeragi-sensei paused mid-sentence, her gaze narrowing.
“Y/N,” she said sharply. “You’re in seat B. That's the second row, beside Kaedehara.
Kazuha glanced to his right. Someone else was there—one of the newer boys, who looked up, startled, and began hurriedly collecting his things. Kazuha hadn’t noticed him settling in that seat… maybe his mind had still been reeling from the sudden class president nomination, and everything else had blurred.
Y/N blinked. “Ah—sorry, Sensei. I didn’t check the chart properly.”
Laughter rippled around them. The boy awkwardly vacated seat B, mumbling an apology. Y/N gave him a grateful nod, cradled their plant again, and moved forward.
Kazuha sat a little straighter as they approached.
They slid into the seat beside him, offering a sheepish smile as they set the pot down with a soft clink. “Didn’t think I’d end up this close to the front.” they mumbled…
Once everyone had more or less settled, Y/N turned slightly toward him. “Looks like we’re desk neighbors!"
Kazuha blinked. That smile—genuine, a little amused—brought the faintest warmth to his chest.
He meant to say something elegant. Even a basic hello would’ve sufficed.
Instead, he muttered, “Ah. Yes. I—good morning.”
They tilted their head. “You okay?”
“I am… functioning.”
A laugh bubbled out of them—quiet, genuine. "That’s one way to put it.”
It stirred something in him. Not discomfort. Not panic. Just… awareness. A warmth spreading behind his collarbones like the first flush of spring.
From the far end of the row, Heizou groaned audibly.
“Oh my god. That was painful.”
Thoma, seated beside him, stifled a laugh. “You mean endearing.”
“No, I mean painful! Like secondhand embarrassment clawing up my spine.”
Y/N turned halfway, having caught part of it. “You’re just jealous I get to sit near the class president.” while amusement flickering in their eyes.
Kazuha flushed faintly. “That title was… not my intention.
“Maybe not,” they said with a smile. “But it suits you.”
Kazuha looked at them for a breath too long.
Then—slowly, shyly—he smiled back.
They turned away to open their notebook, humming softly under their breath as if nothing unusual had passed between them.
Kazuha, meanwhile, wrote quietly into his own:
Calm. Breathe.
It didn’t help.
TAGLIST: @3amstoryreader
all writing belongs to @svynie. do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.
hi !! i'm back sorta... just a quick update regarding my kazuha x reader fic, previously titled “this year… maybe.”
while i was on an indefinite break, i ended up writing over ten new chapters (lol....). during that time a lot about the story shifted so because of that, i’ve decided to rewrite the earlier chapters to better match the direction it's now heading.
the fic has also been retitled to:
“the year the wind changed.” !!
i’ll be uploading the chapters weekly, or at least around that pace—i haven’t properly proofread anything yet, and this time, i want to make sure it actually holds up the way i imagined it. the first new chapter should be posted tomorrow or even later this day ^^
if you’d still like access to the original chapters, please PLEASEEE let me know!! i can either keep them up or remove them, whichever feels more helpful for you.
thank you for reading again!! i’m excited (and honestly a bit nervous) to finally start sharing again. hope you’ll still stick around this time :)
i think there’s a new way minors r participating in nsfw spaces. in the past two days ive seen two blogs that gave off the same vibe. the first one was a dark content blog, the writer stating they’re 51 with a bio saying they have dementia and r a grandma. today i saw another dark content blog but with the age 41 and a similar bio saying they have dementia and r a grandma. i think it’s too coincidental, so if anyone comes across those blogs BEWARE these two blogs were jjk centric
REPORT/BLOCK @/GOSPELICA
PLEASE REBLOG THIS FOR VISIBILITY.
minor posing as adult and posting nsfw/dc content , no MDNI RULE — please report for sexually explicit content, etc! DO NOT ENCOURAGE THEM, SEND ASKS, ETC.
oh my god i’ve literally seen them. i just realized what they meant ,,, 15 and 14 are backwards cus they have dementia.
it would be greatly appreciated if you could drop usernames if you still know them!! thank you hun :>
nonnie thank you so much for sharing as they have gained a lot of attention despite only starting writing a week or two ago. this is why it’s so important to check followers, likes, & rbs for minors/blank pages normally, as more attention will only encourage and motivate these people into continue writing, or fake their age.
although it is not the responsibilities as writers to constantly monitor minors and educate them on internet safety, the most we can do as greater platform-havers is to report / block influencing accounts when we can!
developing an interest in dc and unhealthy habits for intimacy is so dangerous for children i can’t even begin to fathom what they must’ve gone through before they decided to begin writing. these habits are fueled by months/years of community engagement / grooming ETC
Chapter 3: May 8, Fourth Year — Tea, Tension and A Touch of Chaos
5YN0PSIS: The classroom erupts into a whirlwind of ideas, from water guns to strength contests, as festival planning spirals into chaos. With no clear direction in sight, tensions rise and laughter echoes—but just as the noise reaches its peak, a calm yet commanding presence steps in, leaving behind a ripple of unspoken tension.
TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, awkward conversations, SLOW BURNN, angst, one-sided (or is it?), ITTO APPEARS!! and another person... 3RD+2ND POV, USE OF Y/N, modern au, classic itto shenanigans
W.C: 3.5K
A/N: this chapter won’t cover the full chaos of the Mid-Year Festival itself, it's all about the planning stage for now. If I end up with too many ideas for the prep work, I might split it into its own chapter. so the original plan of the 3rd chapter being the mid-year festival may be separated in 3 parts..
The morning light streamed through the windows of Class 4-B as Kazuha walked in, his bag casually slung over one shoulder. The familiar sounds—of soft laughter, rustling of bags and the occasional scraping of chairs against the floor—greeted him.
Kazuha made his way to his desk by the window, the spot he had selfishly assigned himself a month ago.
It wasn’t just because he enjoyed the view or the natural light that was perfect for writing—it was also because it was beside [Y/N]
Sliding into his seat, he let his bag drop to the floor as he opened his notebook.
Today would be the planning meeting for a mid-year festival.
Kazuha tapped his pen lightly against his notebook, his mind already buzzing with ideas.
But would any of them resonate or even impress [Y/N]?
He glanced to the side, where [Y/N]’s seat was empty.
They weren’t late—they never were.
They had a habit of arriving right before the bell rang, something Kazuha had noticed far too well, a detail Heizou never lets him forget
“KAZUHAAAA”
Speaking of Heizou…
Heizou’s singsong voice interrupted his thoughts as he plopped down into the seat in front of him. “You look awfully serious for someone who’s composing haikus… instead of actual festival plans.”
Kazuha sighed, closing his notebook. “Well, good morning to you too, Heizou. I look serious because I am thinking of actual ideas for the meeting. Unlike some people…”
“Oh? But I DO take it seriously,” Heizou replied, crossing his arms dramatically.
“So, are you planning to contribute to today’s meeting or just cause trouble like usual?” Kazuha asked, with a raise of his eyebrows.
“Trouble? ME?? I'm offended Kazu...” Heizou grinned, pulling a small kit out of his bag. Inside were what looked like harmless props—fake bugs, disappearing ink, and something that suspiciously resembles a whoopee cushion.
“You can’t be serious”
“But I am!” Heizou’s grin widened but before he can continue, the classroom door swung open, and Yoimiya bounced in with her energy immediately lighting up the space.
“HEIZOUU!!” she called out, her voice brimming with excitement. “Ahh! And good morning, Kazuha!”
“Good morning, Yoimiya,” Kazuha said politely.
Her energy was almost overwhelming… this early in the day, he thought.
Yoimiya grabbed a chair, spun it around and sat on it. “Soooo what’s the topic today?? Something… festival-y? Oh and Heizou! Did you bring the stuff?”
Heizou held up the kid proudly. “Right here.”
“GREAT! We’ve got work to do.. Kazuha! You’re not gonna ban this idea right?? Imagine the laughs it’ll get!!”
Kazuha pinched the bridge of his nose. “As class president, I am obligated to encourage ideas that foster collaboration and creativity… not chaos.”
“Chaos is creativity.” Yoimiya quickly argued.
Before the conversation could escalate, Tomo and Shinobu entered the room together, their voices a calm counterpoint to Yoimiya’s. Shinobu carried a stack of papers neatly clipped together, her no-nonsense expressions contrasting sharply with Tomo’s easygoing smile.
“Kazuha.” Shinobu said with a curt nod. “Good morning. We’ll need to finalize the budget after today’s meeting.”
“Of course,” Kazuha replied, returning her nod.
“Morning!” Tomo chimed in, sliding into the seat beside Heizou. “What’s all this talk about chaos? Are we planning a festival or a disaster?”
“Both.” Heizou and Yoimiya said in unison.
Shinobu sighed, shaking her head. “Let's just try to stay on task today, alright? Mr. Takahashi is expecting us to make actual progress.”
“Don’t worry, Shinobu!” Tomo said, grinning. “We’ve got this under control… probably.”
Kazuha exhaled, letting the chatter wash over him. It was shaping up to be a lively day.
As the classroom began to fill with students, the usual buzz of the early morning was suddenly interrupted by a booming voice..
“YOO!!! IT’S FESTIVAL TIME, BABYY!!”
The door swings open with dramatic force, revealing Itto’s beaming face. His energy is enough to make even the sleepiest students groan.
The surprising part wasn’t his grand entrance…
It was that he was on time.
“Itto… you’re actually here before the bell??” Yoimiya asked, voice tinged with disbelief
“Is it snowing.. Or did Itto actually make it to class on time!?” Heizou quipped, earning chuckles from the surrounding students.
“Well, that's a surprise… ” murmurs Shinobu, glancing over at Tomo with a raised eyebrow.
“Miracles do happen,” Tomo replies wryly, shaking his head with an amused chuckle as Itto’s boisterous laugh echoes around the room.
“Laugh all you want Heizou, but this year’s festival is gonna be epic thanks to yours truly!” Itto declared as he strides confidently inside the room, dramatically twirling before taking his seat.
Then the bell rings, everyone quickly quiets down, turning toward the front.
As if on cue, Mr. Takahashi walks in, his expression calm but purposeful. He raises his hand to silence the last few lingering whispers. “Alright, class, let’s get to work.”
His voice was steady and his manner was at a no-nonsense despite his usual friendly and joking disposition. “This will be a critical week for our school festival preparations. Let's make sure we leave a lasting impression, not only on the school but on each other.”
Kazuha, who has been sitting quietly at his desk, exchanges a short glance with [Y/N], who had just arrived and sat at their seat beside him. A brief flutter in his chest, he felt a rush of warmth but he’s quick to push the feeling down.
He takes a breath and then nods at Mr. Takahashi, who motions for him to take the lead as he left the class, presumably to a meeting with other teachers.
With ease, Kazuha steps forward, standing in front of the class, his expression calm. The murmurs died down once again as he opened the discussion
“This year’s festival,” Kazuha begins, his tone steady but carrying an unmistakable earnestness, “is more than just a chance to impress. It’s an opportunity for us to build something that we can all be proud of—something that now only showcases our talents, but also our unity. Let's make it meaningful!”
The brainstorming session begins almost immediately, the room coming alive with enthusiasm.
“I’ve got the perfect idea!” Yoimiya burst out, hand shooting up as she was practically bouncing in her seat. “A mystery maze with tons of surprises!”
Kazuha raised an eyebrow, tapping his pen. “What kind of surprises?” he asked, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
Without missing a beat, Yoimiya whipped a water gun out of her bag and aimed it at Heizou. “Like this one!” she grinned, shooting a stream of water directly at him.
Heizou’s eyes widened just in time to feel the cold spray. “What the-” he sputtered, jumping out of his seat, shirt completely soaked. “Yoimiya you menace!” Heizou said, while wiping his face with a dramatic flair.
The class erupted into laughter, some clutching their stomachs from the unexpected prank.
“You’ve got to be kidding me..” Heizou mutters, trying to wring out his shirt. “You traitor.”
Yoimiya simply grins wider, clearly fazed. “Hey, it's all in the name of fun! What better way to get people talking than a little mystery..! And some water…”
“I guess that’s one way to keep us on our toes..” Heizou said, shaking his head in amusement. “But don’t think I’ll let this slide! Me and my prank kit will be waiting for you to fall in our little trap..!”
Yoimiya rolled her eyes while she giggled, clearly still pleased with herself. “See?? It’ll be filled with all kinds of surprises!!"
Kazuha sighed, though there was a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m not sure ‘surprise’ is the word I would use..” He raised his eyebrows, trying to keep a straight face as he glanced at Heizou, who was now half-drenched in water.
Though, Yoimiya’s enthusiasm doesn't seem to be the only thing that’s booming in the room..
Before anyone can add anything else, Itto, who had been sitting quietly with his arms crossed, suddenly slams his hand down on the desk with a loud
BANG!
..Drawing everyone’s attention.
“HOLDD ON A SECOND!!” Itto’s voice rang out.
“We NEED something way more INTENSE THAN THIS. Forget water balloons, I’m talking about a real test of strength!” He sits up straight, his usual grin wide as ever. “How about a strength competition? Arm-wrestling, boulder-lifting contests—let’s see who got the power to win!!”
Shinobu, who had been absentmindedly taking notes on the topic, finally looks up, her gaze sharp. “Uh, we’re supposed to be showcasing creativity, not strength.” she points out dryly, clearly not impressed by Itto’s suggestion. “If we’re doing a festival, there’s no need to make it into a gym session..”
But Itto’s determination remained undeterred, his grin only growing wider “Pfft, who said we can’t have both?” he counters, completely ignoring Shinobu’s criticism. “Strength and creativity go hand in hand! You gotta have the power to be creative!! Plus, I’m the one who’s gonna win anywaaays, so you guys better prepare!!” He flexes his muscles dramatically for emphasis, earning a few chuckles from the class.
The playful banter catches Yoimiya’s attention, and she leans back in her chair, raising an eyebrow. “Really? A Strength competition?” She crosses her arms, her expression turning smug. “My mystery maze would get waaaaaaaaaaaay more attention than your ‘muscle festival’! People don’t come for boulders and arm-wrestling. They come for surprises!”
Itto snorts, clearly unamused. “A maze? Are you kidding? That's your idea of entertainment?” He leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as if to mock Yoimiya. “Naaaah, mine’s gonna be the main event! Everyone’s gonna want to see who’s the strongest!! Not who can navigate some over-complicated maze..”
Yoimiya rolls her eyes dramatically, flicking a lock of hair out of her face. “Strongest huh? Suuuuree, because everyone just loves seeing a bunch of sweaty guys trying to lift rocks..”
She gives him a teasing, almost mocking smile. “Maybee, we’ll have a rock-lifting station for your fans after MY MAZE STEALS THE SHOW.”
Itto’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “You’re really underestimating me… People love seeing power on display! You think they’ll care about running around a maze, getting wet for fun? Think again!”
The argument between Yoimiya and Itto soon escalates.. With both clearly unwilling to back down. The class watches with mixed expressions, some enjoying the back-and-forths, others just shaking their head..
Kazuha, who has been observing quietly, clears his throat, effectively cutting through the growing tension. “Alright.. Alright, both ideas do have merit, but let’s try to hear a few other suggestions before we start getting too carried away,” he suggests, his voice calm yet carrying an authoritative edge.
The room falls into a brief yet awkward silence as everyone looks at Kazuha then to someone who had been seated near the door..
Ayaka, who hadn’t been paying as much attention… until now. The sudden rise in eyes looking at her had caught her off guard. She blinks, her face flushing pink with surprise at the attention now on her.
“Oh! Uh..” she stammers, clearly embarrassed. “Maybe.. We could have a tea booth of sorts? A place to relax and refresh, something more peaceful in the middle of all the excitement?” Her voice soft as she tries to put forward her idea.
Shinobu perked up, nodding. “I like that idea. It’d be perfect for people who need a break from all the excitement. We could even decorate it with fairy lights or plants.”
Itto groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up. “BORINGG!!” A study corner at a festival?? Why not just hand out pillows and call it a nap room?
Before he could continue, Shinobu smacked the back of his head with a book “Be quiet, Itto. Not everyone’s looking for chaos and noise.”
Itto rubbed the back of his idea, pouting. “Fine… fine, but if most of the students end up sleeping, don't say I didn't warn you!”
The class erupted into laughter once more, now each voice vying to be heard over the other quickly turning the classroom into chaos.
And amid everything, Kazuha stood quietly, listening to the lively exchange as fingers absentmindedly traced his notebook. He watched as Yoimiya waved her water gun around, showering Heizou again in a sudden burst of water, Itto jumping in with the same usual booming voice to pitch his idea. Shinobu, exasperated but amused while Ayaka and Kirara watched everything quietly..
Kazuha’s mind wandered, he glanced in your direction. You were watching the others argue, a faint smile tugging at your lips as if the sherry absurdity of it all amused you.
Kazuha’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than intended, and a memory surfaced—a conversation you’d had not long ago. You had spoken about your hobby of doing art.
The memory of your enthusiasm stirred something in him, and before he could overthink, an idea formed.
He cleared his throat, hoping to catch the class’s attention. “What about an art gallery?“ He said, his voice steady but carrying just enough weight to momentarily cut through.
The room quieted as heads turned in his direction, and Kazuha felt his pulse quicken. Despite his serene exterior, he was suddenly aware of the weight of their gazes—and yours.
“We could create a space where students can showcase their creativity,” he continued, keeping his tone steady. “Paintings, photography, crafts, even poetry! It could be something that encourages people to express themselves“
The silence that followed his suggestion stretched uncomfortably long.
His idea hung in the air, seemingly unnoticed as some exchanged hesitant glances. Kazuha’s calm demeanor didn’t waver, but a faint warmth crept up his neck. His fingers resumed their slow tracing along the edge of his notebook, grounding him as his thoughts swirled.
Did I misread the room? Was it too plain? He wondered, stealing a glance in your direction. To his dismay, you were looking at him, your expression contemplative.
Embarrassed, Kazuha quickly looked away, his hand stilling as he forced himself to remain composed.
Finally the silence broke—not with acknowledgement, but with Itto’s voice reigniting the earlier debate.
“No way a maze is better than my strength competition” Itto barked, through the awkward atmosphere with his usual brashness.
“Your competition doesn’t even make sense” Yoimiya shot back, “Who’s going to want to watch people lift boulders for fun??”
“Lots of people!! EVERYONE loves boulders!”
“Name one person,” Shinobu said, smacking the back of his head again. “Other than you”
Kazuha slid onto the teacher’s chair, feeling the heat of embarrassment fade into a cooler more.. Detached resignation.
He glanced at you again, hoping for some sign that you’d at least considered his suggestion. But your attention was now focused on the escalating argument, leaving him to sit in quiet frustration.
The tension in the room grew as Yoimiya and Itto continued bickering, Heizou joining in with his dry remarks about logistics..
The conversation devolved into a chaotic back-and-forth, and no one seemed willing—or able—to bring it back on track. Kazuha thought about trying to interject again, but his earlier embarrassment held him back.
He folded his hand in his lap, his expression calm but his mind racing with thoughts of how he could have worded his suggestion better—or perhaps even better… kept quiet.
The air felt heavy, the awkwardness palpable despite the lively banter.
Just as Kazuha was about to resign himself to sitting quietly for the rest of the meeting, the classroom door opened, and Ayato stepped in.
His entrance was sudden yet smooth, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room as he took in the scene—Yoimiya waving her water gun, Itto gesturing wildly, and Shinobu pinching the bridge of her nose in visible frustration.
Despite having graduated from the school a year ago, Ayato often returned to assist with events, particularly festival planning, given his reputation for strategic thinking and refined tastes. His role as a special consultant for the Student Council made his appearances occasional yet impactful
With an almost imperceptible smile, Ayato clapped his hands once, the sound cutting cleanly through the noise
“Alright everyone,” he said in a firm yet calm voice, immediately commanding attention. “Let’s settle down. I see we have no shortage of creative ideas, but we seem to be lacking a clear direction.”
As Ayato entered and spoke, Ayaka froze mid-thought, her eyes widening in surprise. “Br- Brother?!” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper while she clasped her hands nervously.
Ayato smiled warmly at his sister, his calm demeanor putting her slightly at ease. “I was passing by on my way to check on the festival’s overall progress.. And heard quite the commotion,” he said, glancing around the room. “It seem you really are all overflowing ideas”
Ayaka nodded, trying to compose herself. “Yes, we’ve been discussing potential themes. There are so many wonderful ideas but..” Her gaze dropped to the floor, her voice faltering slightly. “It’s a bit hard to decide.”
“Then perhaps I can help,” Ayato said, his sharp gaze softening as he looked at her. “Ayaka you mentioned a relaxing booth earlier didn’t you?”
“Ah yes!” Ayaka quickly responded followed by a nod.
“And Kazuha proposed an art gallery…” As Ayato continued speaking, his eyes swept over the room, pausing momentarily on Kazuha and then on [Y/N].
It was subtle, but the faintest hint of a knowing smile tugged at his lips.
His voice maintained its usual composure as he turned back to Kazuha. “An art gallery paired with tea, don’t you think it has a certain elegance to it? A perfect opportunity to showcase talents while offering a serene atmosphere.”
Kazuha, ever perceptive, caught the fleeting glance between Ayato and [Y/N]. For just a split second, your eyes seemed to brighten at the suggestion, lips curling into a smile of approval.
That subtle change, so simple yet so radiant, sent an unexpected twinge through Kazuha’s chest.
He averted his face, his hand brushing a strand of fair from his face in an attempt to steady himself.
Why does it bother me? He wondered silently. It’s just Ayato being his usual self.. Right?
But the way Ayato’s words seemed to resonate with [Y/N], and the faint amusement lingering in his expression, unsettled Kazuha in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
“Indeed” Kazuha replied, his voice steady despite the slight tightness in his chest. “It’s an amazing idea, blending art and tea… I’m sure most of us would agree.” He glanced towards [Y/N], his tone carefully neutral, as if daring to confirm what he already suspected.
[Y/N] nodded enthusiastically.
Ayato chuckled softly, his gaze turning back to Kazuha, as if gauging his reaction. “I thought so. I’ve always believed the best ideas come from collaboration.”
He clasped his hands together. “And who better to bring the vision to life than talented individuals like you and [Y/N]?’
Kazuha’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at Ayato’s choice of words.
The former Student Council President had an effortless charm, one that clearly captivated everyone in the room—including [Y/N].
Meanwhile, Ayaka’s blush deepened at her brother’s encouragement, though she was still too flustered to notice the subtle undercurrents in the room. “Ah- Thank you Ayato..” she managed to say.
Ayato chuckled once more. “It's nothing, Ayaka. After all, a Kamisato should always strive to enrich the lives of others! I’m sure you’ll make it a memorable experience
Meanwhile, at the back of the room, the banter continued unabated.
“Though.. It’s still a mystery why you think boulder-lifting is creative, Itto.” Yoimiya teased with a sly grin. “What’s next? A rock stacking competition? An Okinabuto wrestling competition? Though I will admit, it’d be hilarious to watch you drop a rock on your foot.”
“Hey! Don't diss the rocks nor my bugs!!” Itto shot back, puffing his chest out. “Plus, you’d be surprised how much skill it takes to stack boulders.”
Heizou leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “It’s not really… the boulders we’re questing. It’s about your ability to stack anything without knocking it over.”
“OH HOHO, that’s RICH coming from the guy who can’t even dodge a water gun!” Itto retorted, pointing at Heizou.
Shinobu, clearly at her wit’s end, sighed deeply and crossed her arms. “You’re all impossible.. Yoimiya, dont even think about shooting that things again.”
She then gave Itto a sharp look. “And you—stop encouraging her.”
Yoimiya held up the water gun innocently and spun it in her hand, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Me? I would neveeeer…”
“Oh not again..” Heizou muttered, sliding his chair further back as if anticipating another spray.
Itto laughed boisterously to which Shinobu shot back, “Close your mouth Itto.. not everyone has your brain-to-brawn ratio.”
“Brain-to-brawn ratio..?? Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?” Itto scratched his head, visibly confused.
“It’s definitely an insult,” Heizou chimed smugly from… across the room.. Far, far away from Yoimiya.. Earning an exaggerated gasp from Itto.
As the laughter and teasing continued in the room, Ayato stepped closer to Kazuha, his tone low enough to not be overheard. “You should be careful, Kazuha,” he said with a teasing lilt. “If you don’t make your move soon, someone else might.”
Kazuha turned towards Ayato sharply, his eyes betraying his usual composed expression. A flicker of surprise—and just a hint of jealousy. “I appreciate your advice Ayato,” he replied, his voice low but firm. “But some things are worth waiting for.”
Ayato simply smiled, patting Kazuha’s shoulder before stepping back to address the class once more.
“Now then, let’s channel this lively energy into making the festival unforgettable, shall we?”
Chapter 3: May 8, Fourth Year — Tea, Tension and A Touch of Chaos
5YN0PSIS: The classroom erupts into a whirlwind of ideas, from water guns to strength contests, as festival planning spirals into chaos. With no clear direction in sight, tensions rise and laughter echoes—but just as the noise reaches its peak, a calm yet commanding presence steps in, leaving behind a ripple of unspoken tension.
TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, awkward conversations, SLOW BURNN, angst, one-sided (or is it?), ITTO APPEARS!! and another person... 3RD+2ND POV, USE OF Y/N, modern au, classic itto shenanigans
W.C: 3.5K
A/N: this chapter won’t cover the full chaos of the Mid-Year Festival itself, it's all about the planning stage for now. If I end up with too many ideas for the prep work, I might split it into its own chapter. so the original plan of the 3rd chapter being the mid-year festival may be separated in 3 parts..
The morning light streamed through the windows of Class 4-B as Kazuha walked in, his bag casually slung over one shoulder. The familiar sounds—of soft laughter, rustling of bags and the occasional scraping of chairs against the floor—greeted him.
Kazuha made his way to his desk by the window, the spot he had selfishly assigned himself a month ago.
It wasn’t just because he enjoyed the view or the natural light that was perfect for writing—it was also because it was beside [Y/N]
Sliding into his seat, he let his bag drop to the floor as he opened his notebook.
Today would be the planning meeting for a mid-year festival.
Kazuha tapped his pen lightly against his notebook, his mind already buzzing with ideas.
But would any of them resonate or even impress [Y/N]?
He glanced to the side, where [Y/N]’s seat was empty.
They weren’t late—they never were.
They had a habit of arriving right before the bell rang, something Kazuha had noticed far too well, a detail Heizou never lets him forget
“KAZUHAAAA”
Speaking of Heizou…
Heizou’s singsong voice interrupted his thoughts as he plopped down into the seat in front of him. “You look awfully serious for someone who’s composing haikus… instead of actual festival plans.”
Kazuha sighed, closing his notebook. “Well, good morning to you too, Heizou. I look serious because I am thinking of actual ideas for the meeting. Unlike some people…”
“Oh? But I DO take it seriously,” Heizou replied, crossing his arms dramatically.
“So, are you planning to contribute to today’s meeting or just cause trouble like usual?” Kazuha asked, with a raise of his eyebrows.
“Trouble? ME?? I'm offended Kazu...” Heizou grinned, pulling a small kit out of his bag. Inside were what looked like harmless props—fake bugs, disappearing ink, and something that suspiciously resembles a whoopee cushion.
“You can’t be serious”
“But I am!” Heizou’s grin widened but before he can continue, the classroom door swung open, and Yoimiya bounced in with her energy immediately lighting up the space.
“HEIZOUU!!” she called out, her voice brimming with excitement. “Ahh! And good morning, Kazuha!”
“Good morning, Yoimiya,” Kazuha said politely.
Her energy was almost overwhelming… this early in the day, he thought.
Yoimiya grabbed a chair, spun it around and sat on it. “Soooo what’s the topic today?? Something… festival-y? Oh and Heizou! Did you bring the stuff?”
Heizou held up the kid proudly. “Right here.”
“GREAT! We’ve got work to do.. Kazuha! You’re not gonna ban this idea right?? Imagine the laughs it’ll get!!”
Kazuha pinched the bridge of his nose. “As class president, I am obligated to encourage ideas that foster collaboration and creativity… not chaos.”
“Chaos is creativity.” Yoimiya quickly argued.
Before the conversation could escalate, Tomo and Shinobu entered the room together, their voices a calm counterpoint to Yoimiya’s. Shinobu carried a stack of papers neatly clipped together, her no-nonsense expressions contrasting sharply with Tomo’s easygoing smile.
“Kazuha.” Shinobu said with a curt nod. “Good morning. We’ll need to finalize the budget after today’s meeting.”
“Of course,” Kazuha replied, returning her nod.
“Morning!” Tomo chimed in, sliding into the seat beside Heizou. “What’s all this talk about chaos? Are we planning a festival or a disaster?”
“Both.” Heizou and Yoimiya said in unison.
Shinobu sighed, shaking her head. “Let's just try to stay on task today, alright? Mr. Takahashi is expecting us to make actual progress.”
“Don’t worry, Shinobu!” Tomo said, grinning. “We’ve got this under control… probably.”
Kazuha exhaled, letting the chatter wash over him. It was shaping up to be a lively day.
As the classroom began to fill with students, the usual buzz of the early morning was suddenly interrupted by a booming voice..
“YOO!!! IT’S FESTIVAL TIME, BABYY!!”
The door swings open with dramatic force, revealing Itto’s beaming face. His energy is enough to make even the sleepiest students groan.
The surprising part wasn’t his grand entrance…
It was that he was on time.
“Itto… you’re actually here before the bell??” Yoimiya asked, voice tinged with disbelief
“Is it snowing.. Or did Itto actually make it to class on time!?” Heizou quipped, earning chuckles from the surrounding students.
“Well, that's a surprise… ” murmurs Shinobu, glancing over at Tomo with a raised eyebrow.
“Miracles do happen,” Tomo replies wryly, shaking his head with an amused chuckle as Itto’s boisterous laugh echoes around the room.
“Laugh all you want Heizou, but this year’s festival is gonna be epic thanks to yours truly!” Itto declared as he strides confidently inside the room, dramatically twirling before taking his seat.
Then the bell rings, everyone quickly quiets down, turning toward the front.
As if on cue, Mr. Takahashi walks in, his expression calm but purposeful. He raises his hand to silence the last few lingering whispers. “Alright, class, let’s get to work.”
His voice was steady and his manner was at a no-nonsense despite his usual friendly and joking disposition. “This will be a critical week for our school festival preparations. Let's make sure we leave a lasting impression, not only on the school but on each other.”
Kazuha, who has been sitting quietly at his desk, exchanges a short glance with [Y/N], who had just arrived and sat at their seat beside him. A brief flutter in his chest, he felt a rush of warmth but he’s quick to push the feeling down.
He takes a breath and then nods at Mr. Takahashi, who motions for him to take the lead as he left the class, presumably to a meeting with other teachers.
With ease, Kazuha steps forward, standing in front of the class, his expression calm. The murmurs died down once again as he opened the discussion
“This year’s festival,” Kazuha begins, his tone steady but carrying an unmistakable earnestness, “is more than just a chance to impress. It’s an opportunity for us to build something that we can all be proud of—something that now only showcases our talents, but also our unity. Let's make it meaningful!”
The brainstorming session begins almost immediately, the room coming alive with enthusiasm.
“I’ve got the perfect idea!” Yoimiya burst out, hand shooting up as she was practically bouncing in her seat. “A mystery maze with tons of surprises!”
Kazuha raised an eyebrow, tapping his pen. “What kind of surprises?” he asked, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
Without missing a beat, Yoimiya whipped a water gun out of her bag and aimed it at Heizou. “Like this one!” she grinned, shooting a stream of water directly at him.
Heizou’s eyes widened just in time to feel the cold spray. “What the-” he sputtered, jumping out of his seat, shirt completely soaked. “Yoimiya you menace!” Heizou said, while wiping his face with a dramatic flair.
The class erupted into laughter, some clutching their stomachs from the unexpected prank.
“You’ve got to be kidding me..” Heizou mutters, trying to wring out his shirt. “You traitor.”
Yoimiya simply grins wider, clearly fazed. “Hey, it's all in the name of fun! What better way to get people talking than a little mystery..! And some water…”
“I guess that’s one way to keep us on our toes..” Heizou said, shaking his head in amusement. “But don’t think I’ll let this slide! Me and my prank kit will be waiting for you to fall in our little trap..!”
Yoimiya rolled her eyes while she giggled, clearly still pleased with herself. “See?? It’ll be filled with all kinds of surprises!!"
Kazuha sighed, though there was a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m not sure ‘surprise’ is the word I would use..” He raised his eyebrows, trying to keep a straight face as he glanced at Heizou, who was now half-drenched in water.
Though, Yoimiya’s enthusiasm doesn't seem to be the only thing that’s booming in the room..
Before anyone can add anything else, Itto, who had been sitting quietly with his arms crossed, suddenly slams his hand down on the desk with a loud
BANG!
..Drawing everyone’s attention.
“HOLDD ON A SECOND!!” Itto’s voice rang out.
“We NEED something way more INTENSE THAN THIS. Forget water balloons, I’m talking about a real test of strength!” He sits up straight, his usual grin wide as ever. “How about a strength competition? Arm-wrestling, boulder-lifting contests—let’s see who got the power to win!!”
Shinobu, who had been absentmindedly taking notes on the topic, finally looks up, her gaze sharp. “Uh, we’re supposed to be showcasing creativity, not strength.” she points out dryly, clearly not impressed by Itto’s suggestion. “If we’re doing a festival, there’s no need to make it into a gym session..”
But Itto’s determination remained undeterred, his grin only growing wider “Pfft, who said we can’t have both?” he counters, completely ignoring Shinobu’s criticism. “Strength and creativity go hand in hand! You gotta have the power to be creative!! Plus, I’m the one who’s gonna win anywaaays, so you guys better prepare!!” He flexes his muscles dramatically for emphasis, earning a few chuckles from the class.
The playful banter catches Yoimiya’s attention, and she leans back in her chair, raising an eyebrow. “Really? A Strength competition?” She crosses her arms, her expression turning smug. “My mystery maze would get waaaaaaaaaaaay more attention than your ‘muscle festival’! People don’t come for boulders and arm-wrestling. They come for surprises!”
Itto snorts, clearly unamused. “A maze? Are you kidding? That's your idea of entertainment?” He leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as if to mock Yoimiya. “Naaaah, mine’s gonna be the main event! Everyone’s gonna want to see who’s the strongest!! Not who can navigate some over-complicated maze..”
Yoimiya rolls her eyes dramatically, flicking a lock of hair out of her face. “Strongest huh? Suuuuree, because everyone just loves seeing a bunch of sweaty guys trying to lift rocks..”
She gives him a teasing, almost mocking smile. “Maybee, we’ll have a rock-lifting station for your fans after MY MAZE STEALS THE SHOW.”
Itto’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “You’re really underestimating me… People love seeing power on display! You think they’ll care about running around a maze, getting wet for fun? Think again!”
The argument between Yoimiya and Itto soon escalates.. With both clearly unwilling to back down. The class watches with mixed expressions, some enjoying the back-and-forths, others just shaking their head..
Kazuha, who has been observing quietly, clears his throat, effectively cutting through the growing tension. “Alright.. Alright, both ideas do have merit, but let’s try to hear a few other suggestions before we start getting too carried away,” he suggests, his voice calm yet carrying an authoritative edge.
The room falls into a brief yet awkward silence as everyone looks at Kazuha then to someone who had been seated near the door..
Ayaka, who hadn’t been paying as much attention… until now. The sudden rise in eyes looking at her had caught her off guard. She blinks, her face flushing pink with surprise at the attention now on her.
“Oh! Uh..” she stammers, clearly embarrassed. “Maybe.. We could have a tea booth of sorts? A place to relax and refresh, something more peaceful in the middle of all the excitement?” Her voice soft as she tries to put forward her idea.
Shinobu perked up, nodding. “I like that idea. It’d be perfect for people who need a break from all the excitement. We could even decorate it with fairy lights or plants.”
Itto groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up. “BORINGG!!” A study corner at a festival?? Why not just hand out pillows and call it a nap room?
Before he could continue, Shinobu smacked the back of his head with a book “Be quiet, Itto. Not everyone’s looking for chaos and noise.”
Itto rubbed the back of his idea, pouting. “Fine… fine, but if most of the students end up sleeping, don't say I didn't warn you!”
The class erupted into laughter once more, now each voice vying to be heard over the other quickly turning the classroom into chaos.
And amid everything, Kazuha stood quietly, listening to the lively exchange as fingers absentmindedly traced his notebook. He watched as Yoimiya waved her water gun around, showering Heizou again in a sudden burst of water, Itto jumping in with the same usual booming voice to pitch his idea. Shinobu, exasperated but amused while Ayaka and Kirara watched everything quietly..
Kazuha’s mind wandered, he glanced in your direction. You were watching the others argue, a faint smile tugging at your lips as if the sherry absurdity of it all amused you.
Kazuha’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than intended, and a memory surfaced—a conversation you’d had not long ago. You had spoken about your hobby of doing art.
The memory of your enthusiasm stirred something in him, and before he could overthink, an idea formed.
He cleared his throat, hoping to catch the class’s attention. “What about an art gallery?“ He said, his voice steady but carrying just enough weight to momentarily cut through.
The room quieted as heads turned in his direction, and Kazuha felt his pulse quicken. Despite his serene exterior, he was suddenly aware of the weight of their gazes—and yours.
“We could create a space where students can showcase their creativity,” he continued, keeping his tone steady. “Paintings, photography, crafts, even poetry! It could be something that encourages people to express themselves“
The silence that followed his suggestion stretched uncomfortably long.
His idea hung in the air, seemingly unnoticed as some exchanged hesitant glances. Kazuha’s calm demeanor didn’t waver, but a faint warmth crept up his neck. His fingers resumed their slow tracing along the edge of his notebook, grounding him as his thoughts swirled.
Did I misread the room? Was it too plain? He wondered, stealing a glance in your direction. To his dismay, you were looking at him, your expression contemplative.
Embarrassed, Kazuha quickly looked away, his hand stilling as he forced himself to remain composed.
Finally the silence broke—not with acknowledgement, but with Itto’s voice reigniting the earlier debate.
“No way a maze is better than my strength competition” Itto barked, through the awkward atmosphere with his usual brashness.
“Your competition doesn’t even make sense” Yoimiya shot back, “Who’s going to want to watch people lift boulders for fun??”
“Lots of people!! EVERYONE loves boulders!”
“Name one person,” Shinobu said, smacking the back of his head again. “Other than you”
Kazuha slid onto the teacher’s chair, feeling the heat of embarrassment fade into a cooler more.. Detached resignation.
He glanced at you again, hoping for some sign that you’d at least considered his suggestion. But your attention was now focused on the escalating argument, leaving him to sit in quiet frustration.
The tension in the room grew as Yoimiya and Itto continued bickering, Heizou joining in with his dry remarks about logistics..
The conversation devolved into a chaotic back-and-forth, and no one seemed willing—or able—to bring it back on track. Kazuha thought about trying to interject again, but his earlier embarrassment held him back.
He folded his hand in his lap, his expression calm but his mind racing with thoughts of how he could have worded his suggestion better—or perhaps even better… kept quiet.
The air felt heavy, the awkwardness palpable despite the lively banter.
Just as Kazuha was about to resign himself to sitting quietly for the rest of the meeting, the classroom door opened, and Ayato stepped in.
His entrance was sudden yet smooth, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room as he took in the scene—Yoimiya waving her water gun, Itto gesturing wildly, and Shinobu pinching the bridge of her nose in visible frustration.
Despite having graduated from the school a year ago, Ayato often returned to assist with events, particularly festival planning, given his reputation for strategic thinking and refined tastes. His role as a special consultant for the Student Council made his appearances occasional yet impactful
With an almost imperceptible smile, Ayato clapped his hands once, the sound cutting cleanly through the noise
“Alright everyone,” he said in a firm yet calm voice, immediately commanding attention. “Let’s settle down. I see we have no shortage of creative ideas, but we seem to be lacking a clear direction.”
As Ayato entered and spoke, Ayaka froze mid-thought, her eyes widening in surprise. “Br- Brother?!” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper while she clasped her hands nervously.
Ayato smiled warmly at his sister, his calm demeanor putting her slightly at ease. “I was passing by on my way to check on the festival’s overall progress.. And heard quite the commotion,” he said, glancing around the room. “It seem you really are all overflowing ideas”
Ayaka nodded, trying to compose herself. “Yes, we’ve been discussing potential themes. There are so many wonderful ideas but..” Her gaze dropped to the floor, her voice faltering slightly. “It’s a bit hard to decide.”
“Then perhaps I can help,” Ayato said, his sharp gaze softening as he looked at her. “Ayaka you mentioned a relaxing booth earlier didn’t you?”
“Ah yes!” Ayaka quickly responded followed by a nod.
“And Kazuha proposed an art gallery…” As Ayato continued speaking, his eyes swept over the room, pausing momentarily on Kazuha and then on [Y/N].
It was subtle, but the faintest hint of a knowing smile tugged at his lips.
His voice maintained its usual composure as he turned back to Kazuha. “An art gallery paired with tea, don’t you think it has a certain elegance to it? A perfect opportunity to showcase talents while offering a serene atmosphere.”
Kazuha, ever perceptive, caught the fleeting glance between Ayato and [Y/N]. For just a split second, your eyes seemed to brighten at the suggestion, lips curling into a smile of approval.
That subtle change, so simple yet so radiant, sent an unexpected twinge through Kazuha’s chest.
He averted his face, his hand brushing a strand of fair from his face in an attempt to steady himself.
Why does it bother me? He wondered silently. It’s just Ayato being his usual self.. Right?
But the way Ayato’s words seemed to resonate with [Y/N], and the faint amusement lingering in his expression, unsettled Kazuha in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
“Indeed” Kazuha replied, his voice steady despite the slight tightness in his chest. “It’s an amazing idea, blending art and tea… I’m sure most of us would agree.” He glanced towards [Y/N], his tone carefully neutral, as if daring to confirm what he already suspected.
[Y/N] nodded enthusiastically.
Ayato chuckled softly, his gaze turning back to Kazuha, as if gauging his reaction. “I thought so. I’ve always believed the best ideas come from collaboration.”
He clasped his hands together. “And who better to bring the vision to life than talented individuals like you and [Y/N]?’
Kazuha’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at Ayato’s choice of words.
The former Student Council President had an effortless charm, one that clearly captivated everyone in the room—including [Y/N].
Meanwhile, Ayaka’s blush deepened at her brother’s encouragement, though she was still too flustered to notice the subtle undercurrents in the room. “Ah- Thank you Ayato..” she managed to say.
Ayato chuckled once more. “It's nothing, Ayaka. After all, a Kamisato should always strive to enrich the lives of others! I’m sure you’ll make it a memorable experience
Meanwhile, at the back of the room, the banter continued unabated.
“Though.. It’s still a mystery why you think boulder-lifting is creative, Itto.” Yoimiya teased with a sly grin. “What’s next? A rock stacking competition? An Okinabuto wrestling competition? Though I will admit, it’d be hilarious to watch you drop a rock on your foot.”
“Hey! Don't diss the rocks nor my bugs!!” Itto shot back, puffing his chest out. “Plus, you’d be surprised how much skill it takes to stack boulders.”
Heizou leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “It’s not really… the boulders we’re questing. It’s about your ability to stack anything without knocking it over.”
“OH HOHO, that’s RICH coming from the guy who can’t even dodge a water gun!” Itto retorted, pointing at Heizou.
Shinobu, clearly at her wit’s end, sighed deeply and crossed her arms. “You’re all impossible.. Yoimiya, dont even think about shooting that things again.”
She then gave Itto a sharp look. “And you—stop encouraging her.”
Yoimiya held up the water gun innocently and spun it in her hand, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Me? I would neveeeer…”
“Oh not again..” Heizou muttered, sliding his chair further back as if anticipating another spray.
Itto laughed boisterously to which Shinobu shot back, “Close your mouth Itto.. not everyone has your brain-to-brawn ratio.”
“Brain-to-brawn ratio..?? Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?” Itto scratched his head, visibly confused.
“It’s definitely an insult,” Heizou chimed smugly from… across the room.. Far, far away from Yoimiya.. Earning an exaggerated gasp from Itto.
As the laughter and teasing continued in the room, Ayato stepped closer to Kazuha, his tone low enough to not be overheard. “You should be careful, Kazuha,” he said with a teasing lilt. “If you don’t make your move soon, someone else might.”
Kazuha turned towards Ayato sharply, his eyes betraying his usual composed expression. A flicker of surprise—and just a hint of jealousy. “I appreciate your advice Ayato,” he replied, his voice low but firm. “But some things are worth waiting for.”
Ayato simply smiled, patting Kazuha’s shoulder before stepping back to address the class once more.
“Now then, let’s channel this lively energy into making the festival unforgettable, shall we?”
Chapter 2: April 25 - A Simple Pen, A Silent Intent
5NY0PSIS: As class president, he carefully pairs himself with you, hoping to make the most of this seemingly mundane task
TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, awkward conversations, SLOW BURNN, fluff, one-sided (or is it?), FLUFF, heizou + kuki + tomo appearance, 3RD+2ND POV, USE OF Y/N, no use of italics or bold fonts (i got lazy..) NOT PROOFREAD.
WC: 3, 701
A/N Seriously... I don't know if this is a slow-burn romance or just a painfully slow Kazuha trying to find the right words. Anyway, thank you for reading!!
The morning light poured into the classroom, dust particles drifting in its golden glow. The faint rustling of papers and murmur idle conversations filled the air as students of Class 4-B settled in.
Kaedahara Kazuha leaned against the window, his crimson eyes gazing out at the cherry blossoms swaying gently in the breeze while he listened to the morning announcements. He seemed perfectly fine, his calm expression undisturbed by the chatters around him.
But beneath his composed exterior, his heart beats with a restless rhythm.
Today was the first time he would be able to see the fruits of his carefully crafted cleanup schedule, one he had painstakingly arranged just last week.
As class president, his second task —after settling the seating arrangement— had been to organize the duties for the after-class cleanup. Kazuha approached this responsibility with fairness, mapping out the tasks, balancing the workload, and pairing everyone with suitable partners
And yet…
He couldn’t deny that his pen lingered just a moment too long when it came to your name.
As the bell rang, Mr. Takahashi strode into the room, his presence immediately silencing the class. “ALRIGHT!! LISTEN UP!” Mr. Takahashi said, his voice stern as he adjusted his glasses, “We assigned after-class cleanup partners for the term. Class President, the floor is yours”
Kazuha rose from his seat, holding a neatly organized list. He glanced at Heizou, who gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up.
Clearing his throat, Kazuha began.
“The pairings were arranged to ensure fairness and balance,” he said, his tone measured. “If anyone has concerns, please don't hesitate to speak to me later.”
The class nodded in unison in unison, and Kazuha began calling out names, one by one.
“Tomo and Shinobu,” Kazuha announced, his voice steady as always. Tomo grinned, flashing a thumbs-up in Shinobu’s direction, who simply nodded in acknowledgement. They somehow make a good team—Tomo’s carefree energy perfectly balanced by Shinobu’s sharp and efficient approach
“Kirara and Ayaka,” Kazuha continued, his voice a little louder than before. Kirara smiled brightly at Ayaka who offered her usual serene smile in return. Their pairing made perfect sense—both were hardworking and responsible in their own ways. Ayaka, with her composed nature, would surely complement Kirara’s live energy as well.
“Heizou and Yoimiya,” Kazuha called, the pair exchanging amused glances. “JACKPOT!” Heizou mused with a cheeky grin, while Yoimiya beamed back at him. The two had a dynamic brimming with mischievous energy. Their playful demeanor was contagious, drawing a few amused chuckles from the rest of the class as Kazuha prayed they wouldnt cause too much chaos..
A few more of the pairs were announced, his voice steady despite the slight edge of anticipation in the air.
Finally, he paused.
His gaze lingering on the last pair of names on the list.
Kazuha’s voice softened just slightly, “myself and [Y/N].”
The room remained quiet, though Kazuha didn’t miss the curious glance Heizou shot him.
He adjusted the paper in his hands and moved on to the next order of business, trying to appear unaffected.
He glanced up briefly to see you—[Y/N]—your expression unchanged, as if this was simply another day...
"Alright, everyone, don’t forget to bring your cleaning supplies after school," Mr. Takahashi continued, dismissing the class with a wave of his hand. "See you all again in a few hours."
Then on cue, lunch bell chimed, the classroom erupted into chatter as students unpacked their lunches and settled into their routines.
Kazuha, however, sat in his usual corner by the window, quietly unwrapping his bento box. He preferred the quiet moments, savoring the peace that only the calm before class could provide.
As he lifted a pair of chopsticks to take his first bite, he glanced toward the door where you were exiting the classroom. Your bright presence always stood out to him...
Though you weren’t the loudest, nor the most flamboyant, something about you, made him watch you with a quiet, growing fascination.
“KAZUHAA!” Tomo, as usual, broke his concentration with his booming voice.
Kazuha turned, startled, to see Tomo sliding into the seat in front of him. “You ever think about how ridiculous cleanup duty is?
Kazuha smiled gently, not at all surprised by the sudden intrusion. “It’s about fostering responsibility and teamwork. Besides, the janitors have enough to manage without having to clean up after us.”
“Ah, the noble class president,” Tomo teased, grinning. “Always the voice of reason.”
“You make it sound like it’s a.. bad thing,” Kazuha replied with an amused tilt of his head.
Before the conversation could continue, Heizou appeared by Kazuha’s side, his signature smirk firmly in place as he leaned casually against the desk. “What’s this? Talking about cleaning up after yourselves!? So boring!!! Let me guess, Kazuha—more ‘responsibility and teamwork’ talk?”
Kazuha glanced up, his smile barely hiding the hint of exasperation. “Is there something you want, Heizou?”
Heizou grinned mischievously. “Oh, nothing major...! Just thought I’d drop by to check on our noble president. So, how’s it feel, Kazuha? You’re the big man on campus now!!”
Kazuha sighed, knowing exactly where this was going. “It’s not that gonna be that simple, Heizou...”
“Oh, I’m sure...” Heizou said, tapping his chin. “I bet you have all sorts of complicated feelings about your position. But hey, I think I get it. It’s hard to be the most popular guy in the class.”
Tomo chuckled, clearly enjoying the show. “Yeah, especially when you’re trying to act all modest.”
Kazuha looked at his friend, deadpan. “What are you getting at, exactly?”
Heizou crossed his arms, his smirk widening. “Oh, nothing. Just wanted to remind you that being president comes with its perks, you know? Like… getting to pair yourself with someone specific for cleanup duuuutyyyyy...!!!”
Kazuha’s breath caught for a moment, though he quickly recovered. “I’m just following the seating arrangement. It’s purely coincidental.”
“Coincidental?” Heizou raised an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah and I'm Miko's brother.... You’re NOT fooling anyone, my friend. I know exactly what you’re up to!"
Tomo’s eyes widened in realization. “Wait, are you talking about…?” He glanced between Kazuha and Heizou.
“Yes, EXACTLY!” Heizou said, winking at Kazuha before turning his attention back to Tomo. “I’ll bet my last Katsudon that Kazuha purposely paired himself with [Y/N[ for cleanup duty!!!”
Kazuha felt his cheeks warm at the teasing. He was trying to be subtle, to act like it was just a coincidence... but Heizou wasn’t making it easy.
“Stop being so obvious,” Heizou continued, clearly enjoying Kazuha’s discomfort.
“You’ve been mooning over them since second year. Everyone’s gonna catch on if you don’t stop acting all giddy around them.”
Kazuha straightened his back and cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sureeeee you don’t,” Heizou said, smirking knowingly. “But you know, there’s no harm in letting them know, right? It’s your last year, after all.”
Kazuha was quiet for a moment. He could feel the weight of Heizou’s words.
But he wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
“Maybe it’s better to just keep it to myself,” Kazuha replied softly, though his voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.
Heizou shrugged, looking almost sympathetically at him. “Your call, Kazuha. Just don’t take too long. Time’s running out...”
Just then, Shinobu entered the conversation, her calm presence a contrast to the banter around her. “You two are getting too loud. Can you save the gossip for after school...?”
Heizou raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll keep my observations to myself.... For now.”
Tomo chuckled, clearly entertained by the exchange. “Alright, alright, but you gotta admit, Kazuha—you’re not fooling anyone with that ‘coincidental pairing’ act.”
Kazuha gave him a wry smile, shaking his head. “Let’s just focus on something else, shall we?”
In the afternoon the, the bell rang once more, now signaling the end of the day which was met with a collective groan from the class.
Everyone began to gather their things, packing up books and chatting excitedly about the free time ahead. However, as the noise died down, Mr. Takahashi’s voice rang out sharply.
“Alright, everyone, time for cleanup duty. Let’s not drag this out. Get to your assigned tasks and finish it quickly!1 Kazuha! [Y/N]!! You're on duty for today!”
Kazuha stood, gathering his notes and setting them aside. He had half expected this moment—he’d already seen his name paired with yours on the roster earlier.
The thought of spending this time together should have excited him, but instead, it only brought a swell of nervousness.
What would he even say? How would he bridge the gap between the polite, detached student he was and the person he wished he could be when he was around you?
Kazuha took a deep breath, glancing at you as you stood up from your desk. You caught his eye for a moment, offering a small, friendly smile that made his heart flutter. His response was almost automatic—a soft smile, perhaps a bit more earnest than usual.
The classroom emptied out quickly, leaving just the two of you...
It was quiet, save for the faint scraping of your broom on the floor and the soft rustling of papers as Kazuha shuffled through his notes...
It was the perfect opportunity for a conversation, one he had been hoping for ever since he found out he'd be paired with you for cleanup duty.
He had to make the most of it, right?
After all, this was his chance to finally talk to you, to maybe connect beyond the passing greetings and small interactions of the past year.
He glanced up at you, trying to appear casual. “So... um... you like art, right?”
You paused for a moment, your broom hanging mid-air as you blinked at him. “Yeah... I do,” you answered slowly, as if trying to piece together why he’d bring it up now.
Kazuha rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how awkward it sounded. “Right, I remember you mentioned it before. I think you said you like drawing too?”
You nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, that’s right. People, emotions... capturing moments like that"
Kazuha smiled a little, more relaxed now that the conversation was going somewhere. But then, of course, his nerves kicked in again, and the words stumbled out before he could think about them.
“That’s cool,” he said, too quickly.
“I mean, uh... it must be, like, hard to capture a person’s, like, essence, you know?” He winced at his own words, wishing he could take them back. “Uh, not that... I mean, you must be good at it, right? Sorry... I’m rambling.”
You chuckled lightly, easing the tension a bit. “It’s okay. I get what you mean. It’s hard to really capture the way someone is in a single moment, but... I guess that’s part of the fun, right? Trying to freeze time like that but then again I'm not that good at it though, its just a hobby to pass the time”
Kazuha nodded, but then quickly added, “Yeah, yeah, exactly. Like... it’s like... trying to trap a fleeting feeling... or something. Uh oh... poetry’s like that too. You know, trying to... capture the feeling of a moment with words.”
You tilted your head, surprised. “Oh, you write poetry?” you asked, genuinely interested.
“Uh, well, yeah,” Kazuha said, his words coming out more nervously now. “I do. It’s just... you know, little poems. Nothing serious. Mostly haikus. About nature and... other stuff.” He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m not trying to make this all about me or anything.”
You smiled, trying to hide the amusement in your eyes. “I’m not complaining,” you said softly. “It’s interesting, actually. I didn’t know you wrote poems.”
Kazuha felt his heart skip a beat. This was the moment. He had a chance to share something, to let you into his world.
He straightened up, trying to sound more confident. “Well... it’s kind of a way to, you know, express myself. Like how you use your art. Maybe one day, if you want... I could show you one of my poems?”
You hesitated for a second, glancing over at him. “I’d like that,” you said, a genuine smile on your face.
Kazuha smiled back, but his cheeks flushed a little. “Yeah? Cool. Cool. I’ll, uh... I’ll definitely get one ready sometime.”
Silence lingered between you two for a brief moment as you both continued with your tasks. Kazuha tried not to think too much about it, but the conversation had felt a little... strange, hadn't it?
He had tried to sound casual, but now that he was thinking about it, he realized he had blurted a lot of things out without really knowing if any of it made sense.
But maybe that was just how conversations were.
At least you hadn’t looked too uncomfortable... right?
"So," he said after a moment, trying to keep things light, "do you... uh, do you like listening to music while you draw? Or is it one of those things where you need quiet?"
You blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in subject. “I... I usually listen to music, yeah,” you said slowly, as if trying to figure out where this was going. “I think it helps me get in the zone, you know?”
“That’s cool,” Kazuha said quickly, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah, music helps with, like, the mood and stuff, right? I mean, for poetry, I sometimes listen to... um... instrumental music. Helps me focus.”
You smiled again, this time with a bit more warmth. “Yeah, same here. Something calming, I guess.”
Kazuha felt his heart race a little, and then he immediately regretted it. “Right, calming. Yeah. I guess, uh... well, do you have a favorite artist or band or something?”
You thought for a moment. “I guess I like a bit of everything...! Maybe a bit biased to Classic Rock.”
“Classic rock?” Kazuha repeated, a little too loudly. He flushed, realizing how excited he sounded. “I didn’t know that. I mean, I’ve listened to a little bit of it too. Like, The Beatles and stuff... You know, the classics.”
You laughed, a light, amused sound that made Kazuha smile, though he felt a little embarrassed at how eager he had sounded. “Yeah, The Beatles are definitely classic. There’s something about old music that feels... timeless, right?”
“Totally,” Kazuha agreed quickly. “Yeah, exactly. It’s... timeless. I, uh... I think I’d like to hear what you draw to one day, you know? If you’re up for it.”
You gave him a soft nod, your expression kind. “Sure. I can show you some stuff sometime!"
Kazuha’s heart fluttered at the thought, but he tried to play it cool. “Great. I’ll look forward to it.”
As the conversation started to wind down, Kazuha realized he was probably making this all more complicated than it needed to be.
But that was just how he was, wasn’t it? Always overthinking, trying to make everything perfect when maybe just being himself would be enough.
“Alright, I guess we’re done here,” he said, trying to sound casual as he finished gathering his things.
You nodded, stretching your arms out above your head. “Yeah, looks like it. Thanks for helping with the cleanup.”
“No problem,” Kazuha said, offering you a small smile. “It wasn’t too bad, actually.”
You smiled back, gathering your things. “I’ll see you later, Kazuha. It was... nice... talking.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, watching as you turned to leave. “It really was.”
As you left the room, Kazuha stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. He glanced down at his pencil case, and his gaze landed on the pen—the very same pen you had lent him back in second year.
Kazuha picked up the pen, tracing the surface with his fingers. He had kept it all this time, tucked away, a quiet reminder of that fleeting, simple moment.
The pen had come to symbolize more than just a tool—it was a connection, a brief interaction that had lingered in his mind, growing quietly but steadily with every passing day.
He had never told anyone about it.
It seemed so small... so insignificant when spoken aloud.
But as Kazuha ran his thumb over the worn clip of the pen, he found himself lost in the memory.
It was the final stretch of the exam, and the tension in the room hung heavy in the air, the clock ticking down the minutes.
Kazuha sat near the back of the room, his brow furrowed in concentration, the edges of his paper nearly covered in neat, flowing script.
He had been moving quickly, the rhythm of his writing unbroken—until it wasn’t.
With a soft, almost imperceptible click, the pen in his hand sputtered and stopped, its once smooth ink flow now stilted and dry.
He tried again, pressing harder, but it was no use.
The familiar blue ink that had danced across the page was gone, leaving nothing but a dry, scratchy sound as his pen slid uselessly across the paper.
Kazuha’s heart sank into his chest.
He glanced around, momentarily desperate. No one seemed to notice, their focus fixed entirely on their own papers.
The classroom felt both enormous and stifling all at once, the minutes stretching out like an endless road ahead of him. He couldn’t bring himself to ask for a new pen. To disrupt the quiet, to draw attention to himself at such a moment.
But what choice did he have? He couldn’t just sit there, unable to finish.
He looked down at his paper, the inkless pen in his hand, and for a fleeting second, considered giving up. He had nearly reached the end, but his answers, though thorough, were incomplete. The thought of leaving them unfinished gnawed at him.
Then, a quiet voice cut through the stillness.
“Here.”
Kazuha blinked, startled. His gaze flickered up and across the desk to where you sat.
You were calm, your posture relaxed, the air around you as composed as ever. Your hand extended toward him, a pen sliding quietly across the surface of the desk.
Kazuha’s eyes widened slightly, his mind taking a moment to process the gesture.
Your face was focused on your own paper, your expression neutral, but there was a softness in your movement. It wasn’t loud or forceful, but it was kind.
He reached for the pen, his fingers brushing briefly against yours.
The sensation was electric, something he hadn’t expected, and yet it felt strangely... comforting.
His pulse quickened, and he looked up, only to find you already turning back to your own work, your focus unbroken, as if the exchange had been no more than a passing breeze.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible, more a breath than words.
You nodded slightly, a motion so small it almost went unnoticed.
It wasn’t the first time Kazuha had noticed you though.
The memory of the sports festival lingered in the back of his mind. It hadn’t been anything extraordinary—at least, not from your perspective.
You hadn’t been the star athlete, nor had you done anything that particularly drew attention.
But for some reason, in the midst of all the chaos, Kazuha had found his gaze lingering on you.
Maybe it was the way you had cheered on others with such sincerity, the way you had looked so immersed in the spirit of the event.
There was something about you—something quiet and unassuming, yet undeniably captivating—that had caught his attention.
It hadn’t been the loud moments or the flashy victories, but the subtle grace you carried with you. And somehow, without meaning to, you had imprinted yourself on his mind.
The rest of the exam passed in a haze, his hand moving mechanically across the paper as he worked through the final questions.
But his mind kept drifting back to the soft, almost fleeting touch of your fingers on the pen, the brief exchange that left him feeling oddly... unsettled.
The exam eventually ended, the sound of pens setting down and papers rustling filled the air, signaling the end of a long and tense period.
Kazuha stood slowly, the familiar sound of chairs scraping against the floor blending into the background, but his gaze was still fixed on the pen in his hand. The borrowed pen, still warm from the brief touch.
He wanted to return it.
He knew he should.
But when he looked toward you, you were already gathering your things.
The sound of your laughter drifted to his ears as you moved toward the door.
He stood there for a moment longer, watching you leave, the warmth from the pen still lingering in his fingers. He had barely even spoken to you before today—yet now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted, something unspoken between the two of you, something that made his chest tighten in an unfamiliar way.
Kazuha shook his head, snapping back to the present. The memory of that moment, though seemingly insignificant at the time, had stayed with him all these months. Now, as he sat in the classroom, holding the pen once again, he realized something that had eluded him then.
It wasn’t the pen that mattered.
It was the quiet connection.
The small gesture that seemed to carry more weight than anything he had felt before.
A fleeting touch, a brief but meaningful exchange, and yet it had left a lasting impression on him.
Now, he understood it. The pen, that simple moment, was the beginning of something much more.
Kazuha smiled to himself, almost imperceptibly. He placed the pen down on his desk, his fingers still lingering on it for a moment longer, feeling that warmth return. There was something more to this—something worth exploring, worth understanding.
He remembered Heizou’s teasing words from earlier, his voice ringing in his mind: "Time is ticking, Kazuha."
Kazuha chuckled softly under his breath. He had a whole year. Time was on his side, and perhaps it was time for him to finally let his feelings burn, to stop running from them and start letting them take shape.
No rush. He had all the time he needed.
Right?
TAGLIST: @danhenglovebot, @milkteeboba
all writing belongs to me (@svynie) do not repost without my explicit permission, translate or plagiarize.
Chapter 2: April 25 - A Simple Pen, A Silent Intent
5NY0PSIS: As class president, he carefully pairs himself with you, hoping to make the most of this seemingly mundane task
TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, awkward conversations, SLOW BURNN, fluff, one-sided (or is it?), FLUFF, heizou + kuki + tomo appearance, 3RD+2ND POV, USE OF Y/N, no use of italics or bold fonts (i got lazy..) NOT PROOFREAD.
WC: 3, 701
A/N Seriously... I don't know if this is a slow-burn romance or just a painfully slow Kazuha trying to find the right words. Anyway, thank you for reading!!
The morning light poured into the classroom, dust particles drifting in its golden glow. The faint rustling of papers and murmur idle conversations filled the air as students of Class 4-B settled in.
Kaedahara Kazuha leaned against the window, his crimson eyes gazing out at the cherry blossoms swaying gently in the breeze while he listened to the morning announcements. He seemed perfectly fine, his calm expression undisturbed by the chatters around him.
But beneath his composed exterior, his heart beats with a restless rhythm.
Today was the first time he would be able to see the fruits of his carefully crafted cleanup schedule, one he had painstakingly arranged just last week.
As class president, his second task —after settling the seating arrangement— had been to organize the duties for the after-class cleanup. Kazuha approached this responsibility with fairness, mapping out the tasks, balancing the workload, and pairing everyone with suitable partners
And yet…
He couldn’t deny that his pen lingered just a moment too long when it came to your name.
As the bell rang, Mr. Takahashi strode into the room, his presence immediately silencing the class. “ALRIGHT!! LISTEN UP!” Mr. Takahashi said, his voice stern as he adjusted his glasses, “We assigned after-class cleanup partners for the term. Class President, the floor is yours”
Kazuha rose from his seat, holding a neatly organized list. He glanced at Heizou, who gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up.
Clearing his throat, Kazuha began.
“The pairings were arranged to ensure fairness and balance,” he said, his tone measured. “If anyone has concerns, please don't hesitate to speak to me later.”
The class nodded in unison in unison, and Kazuha began calling out names, one by one.
“Tomo and Shinobu,” Kazuha announced, his voice steady as always. Tomo grinned, flashing a thumbs-up in Shinobu’s direction, who simply nodded in acknowledgement. They somehow make a good team—Tomo’s carefree energy perfectly balanced by Shinobu’s sharp and efficient approach
“Kirara and Ayaka,” Kazuha continued, his voice a little louder than before. Kirara smiled brightly at Ayaka who offered her usual serene smile in return. Their pairing made perfect sense—both were hardworking and responsible in their own ways. Ayaka, with her composed nature, would surely complement Kirara’s live energy as well.
“Heizou and Yoimiya,” Kazuha called, the pair exchanging amused glances. “JACKPOT!” Heizou mused with a cheeky grin, while Yoimiya beamed back at him. The two had a dynamic brimming with mischievous energy. Their playful demeanor was contagious, drawing a few amused chuckles from the rest of the class as Kazuha prayed they wouldnt cause too much chaos..
A few more of the pairs were announced, his voice steady despite the slight edge of anticipation in the air.
Finally, he paused.
His gaze lingering on the last pair of names on the list.
Kazuha’s voice softened just slightly, “myself and [Y/N].”
The room remained quiet, though Kazuha didn’t miss the curious glance Heizou shot him.
He adjusted the paper in his hands and moved on to the next order of business, trying to appear unaffected.
He glanced up briefly to see you—[Y/N]—your expression unchanged, as if this was simply another day...
"Alright, everyone, don’t forget to bring your cleaning supplies after school," Mr. Takahashi continued, dismissing the class with a wave of his hand. "See you all again in a few hours."
Then on cue, lunch bell chimed, the classroom erupted into chatter as students unpacked their lunches and settled into their routines.
Kazuha, however, sat in his usual corner by the window, quietly unwrapping his bento box. He preferred the quiet moments, savoring the peace that only the calm before class could provide.
As he lifted a pair of chopsticks to take his first bite, he glanced toward the door where you were exiting the classroom. Your bright presence always stood out to him...
Though you weren’t the loudest, nor the most flamboyant, something about you, made him watch you with a quiet, growing fascination.
“KAZUHAA!” Tomo, as usual, broke his concentration with his booming voice.
Kazuha turned, startled, to see Tomo sliding into the seat in front of him. “You ever think about how ridiculous cleanup duty is?
Kazuha smiled gently, not at all surprised by the sudden intrusion. “It’s about fostering responsibility and teamwork. Besides, the janitors have enough to manage without having to clean up after us.”
“Ah, the noble class president,” Tomo teased, grinning. “Always the voice of reason.”
“You make it sound like it’s a.. bad thing,” Kazuha replied with an amused tilt of his head.
Before the conversation could continue, Heizou appeared by Kazuha’s side, his signature smirk firmly in place as he leaned casually against the desk. “What’s this? Talking about cleaning up after yourselves!? So boring!!! Let me guess, Kazuha—more ‘responsibility and teamwork’ talk?”
Kazuha glanced up, his smile barely hiding the hint of exasperation. “Is there something you want, Heizou?”
Heizou grinned mischievously. “Oh, nothing major...! Just thought I’d drop by to check on our noble president. So, how’s it feel, Kazuha? You’re the big man on campus now!!”
Kazuha sighed, knowing exactly where this was going. “It’s not that gonna be that simple, Heizou...”
“Oh, I’m sure...” Heizou said, tapping his chin. “I bet you have all sorts of complicated feelings about your position. But hey, I think I get it. It’s hard to be the most popular guy in the class.”
Tomo chuckled, clearly enjoying the show. “Yeah, especially when you’re trying to act all modest.”
Kazuha looked at his friend, deadpan. “What are you getting at, exactly?”
Heizou crossed his arms, his smirk widening. “Oh, nothing. Just wanted to remind you that being president comes with its perks, you know? Like… getting to pair yourself with someone specific for cleanup duuuutyyyyy...!!!”
Kazuha’s breath caught for a moment, though he quickly recovered. “I’m just following the seating arrangement. It’s purely coincidental.”
“Coincidental?” Heizou raised an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah and I'm Miko's brother.... You’re NOT fooling anyone, my friend. I know exactly what you’re up to!"
Tomo’s eyes widened in realization. “Wait, are you talking about…?” He glanced between Kazuha and Heizou.
“Yes, EXACTLY!” Heizou said, winking at Kazuha before turning his attention back to Tomo. “I’ll bet my last Katsudon that Kazuha purposely paired himself with [Y/N[ for cleanup duty!!!”
Kazuha felt his cheeks warm at the teasing. He was trying to be subtle, to act like it was just a coincidence... but Heizou wasn’t making it easy.
“Stop being so obvious,” Heizou continued, clearly enjoying Kazuha’s discomfort.
“You’ve been mooning over them since second year. Everyone’s gonna catch on if you don’t stop acting all giddy around them.”
Kazuha straightened his back and cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sureeeee you don’t,” Heizou said, smirking knowingly. “But you know, there’s no harm in letting them know, right? It’s your last year, after all.”
Kazuha was quiet for a moment. He could feel the weight of Heizou’s words.
But he wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
“Maybe it’s better to just keep it to myself,” Kazuha replied softly, though his voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.
Heizou shrugged, looking almost sympathetically at him. “Your call, Kazuha. Just don’t take too long. Time’s running out...”
Just then, Shinobu entered the conversation, her calm presence a contrast to the banter around her. “You two are getting too loud. Can you save the gossip for after school...?”
Heizou raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll keep my observations to myself.... For now.”
Tomo chuckled, clearly entertained by the exchange. “Alright, alright, but you gotta admit, Kazuha—you’re not fooling anyone with that ‘coincidental pairing’ act.”
Kazuha gave him a wry smile, shaking his head. “Let’s just focus on something else, shall we?”
In the afternoon the, the bell rang once more, now signaling the end of the day which was met with a collective groan from the class.
Everyone began to gather their things, packing up books and chatting excitedly about the free time ahead. However, as the noise died down, Mr. Takahashi’s voice rang out sharply.
“Alright, everyone, time for cleanup duty. Let’s not drag this out. Get to your assigned tasks and finish it quickly!1 Kazuha! [Y/N]!! You're on duty for today!”
Kazuha stood, gathering his notes and setting them aside. He had half expected this moment—he’d already seen his name paired with yours on the roster earlier.
The thought of spending this time together should have excited him, but instead, it only brought a swell of nervousness.
What would he even say? How would he bridge the gap between the polite, detached student he was and the person he wished he could be when he was around you?
Kazuha took a deep breath, glancing at you as you stood up from your desk. You caught his eye for a moment, offering a small, friendly smile that made his heart flutter. His response was almost automatic—a soft smile, perhaps a bit more earnest than usual.
The classroom emptied out quickly, leaving just the two of you...
It was quiet, save for the faint scraping of your broom on the floor and the soft rustling of papers as Kazuha shuffled through his notes...
It was the perfect opportunity for a conversation, one he had been hoping for ever since he found out he'd be paired with you for cleanup duty.
He had to make the most of it, right?
After all, this was his chance to finally talk to you, to maybe connect beyond the passing greetings and small interactions of the past year.
He glanced up at you, trying to appear casual. “So... um... you like art, right?”
You paused for a moment, your broom hanging mid-air as you blinked at him. “Yeah... I do,” you answered slowly, as if trying to piece together why he’d bring it up now.
Kazuha rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how awkward it sounded. “Right, I remember you mentioned it before. I think you said you like drawing too?”
You nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, that’s right. People, emotions... capturing moments like that"
Kazuha smiled a little, more relaxed now that the conversation was going somewhere. But then, of course, his nerves kicked in again, and the words stumbled out before he could think about them.
“That’s cool,” he said, too quickly.
“I mean, uh... it must be, like, hard to capture a person’s, like, essence, you know?” He winced at his own words, wishing he could take them back. “Uh, not that... I mean, you must be good at it, right? Sorry... I’m rambling.”
You chuckled lightly, easing the tension a bit. “It’s okay. I get what you mean. It’s hard to really capture the way someone is in a single moment, but... I guess that’s part of the fun, right? Trying to freeze time like that but then again I'm not that good at it though, its just a hobby to pass the time”
Kazuha nodded, but then quickly added, “Yeah, yeah, exactly. Like... it’s like... trying to trap a fleeting feeling... or something. Uh oh... poetry’s like that too. You know, trying to... capture the feeling of a moment with words.”
You tilted your head, surprised. “Oh, you write poetry?” you asked, genuinely interested.
“Uh, well, yeah,” Kazuha said, his words coming out more nervously now. “I do. It’s just... you know, little poems. Nothing serious. Mostly haikus. About nature and... other stuff.” He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m not trying to make this all about me or anything.”
You smiled, trying to hide the amusement in your eyes. “I’m not complaining,” you said softly. “It’s interesting, actually. I didn’t know you wrote poems.”
Kazuha felt his heart skip a beat. This was the moment. He had a chance to share something, to let you into his world.
He straightened up, trying to sound more confident. “Well... it’s kind of a way to, you know, express myself. Like how you use your art. Maybe one day, if you want... I could show you one of my poems?”
You hesitated for a second, glancing over at him. “I’d like that,” you said, a genuine smile on your face.
Kazuha smiled back, but his cheeks flushed a little. “Yeah? Cool. Cool. I’ll, uh... I’ll definitely get one ready sometime.”
Silence lingered between you two for a brief moment as you both continued with your tasks. Kazuha tried not to think too much about it, but the conversation had felt a little... strange, hadn't it?
He had tried to sound casual, but now that he was thinking about it, he realized he had blurted a lot of things out without really knowing if any of it made sense.
But maybe that was just how conversations were.
At least you hadn’t looked too uncomfortable... right?
"So," he said after a moment, trying to keep things light, "do you... uh, do you like listening to music while you draw? Or is it one of those things where you need quiet?"
You blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in subject. “I... I usually listen to music, yeah,” you said slowly, as if trying to figure out where this was going. “I think it helps me get in the zone, you know?”
“That’s cool,” Kazuha said quickly, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah, music helps with, like, the mood and stuff, right? I mean, for poetry, I sometimes listen to... um... instrumental music. Helps me focus.”
You smiled again, this time with a bit more warmth. “Yeah, same here. Something calming, I guess.”
Kazuha felt his heart race a little, and then he immediately regretted it. “Right, calming. Yeah. I guess, uh... well, do you have a favorite artist or band or something?”
You thought for a moment. “I guess I like a bit of everything...! Maybe a bit biased to Classic Rock.”
“Classic rock?” Kazuha repeated, a little too loudly. He flushed, realizing how excited he sounded. “I didn’t know that. I mean, I’ve listened to a little bit of it too. Like, The Beatles and stuff... You know, the classics.”
You laughed, a light, amused sound that made Kazuha smile, though he felt a little embarrassed at how eager he had sounded. “Yeah, The Beatles are definitely classic. There’s something about old music that feels... timeless, right?”
“Totally,” Kazuha agreed quickly. “Yeah, exactly. It’s... timeless. I, uh... I think I’d like to hear what you draw to one day, you know? If you’re up for it.”
You gave him a soft nod, your expression kind. “Sure. I can show you some stuff sometime!"
Kazuha’s heart fluttered at the thought, but he tried to play it cool. “Great. I’ll look forward to it.”
As the conversation started to wind down, Kazuha realized he was probably making this all more complicated than it needed to be.
But that was just how he was, wasn’t it? Always overthinking, trying to make everything perfect when maybe just being himself would be enough.
“Alright, I guess we’re done here,” he said, trying to sound casual as he finished gathering his things.
You nodded, stretching your arms out above your head. “Yeah, looks like it. Thanks for helping with the cleanup.”
“No problem,” Kazuha said, offering you a small smile. “It wasn’t too bad, actually.”
You smiled back, gathering your things. “I’ll see you later, Kazuha. It was... nice... talking.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, watching as you turned to leave. “It really was.”
As you left the room, Kazuha stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. He glanced down at his pencil case, and his gaze landed on the pen—the very same pen you had lent him back in second year.
Kazuha picked up the pen, tracing the surface with his fingers. He had kept it all this time, tucked away, a quiet reminder of that fleeting, simple moment.
The pen had come to symbolize more than just a tool—it was a connection, a brief interaction that had lingered in his mind, growing quietly but steadily with every passing day.
He had never told anyone about it.
It seemed so small... so insignificant when spoken aloud.
But as Kazuha ran his thumb over the worn clip of the pen, he found himself lost in the memory.
It was the final stretch of the exam, and the tension in the room hung heavy in the air, the clock ticking down the minutes.
Kazuha sat near the back of the room, his brow furrowed in concentration, the edges of his paper nearly covered in neat, flowing script.
He had been moving quickly, the rhythm of his writing unbroken—until it wasn’t.
With a soft, almost imperceptible click, the pen in his hand sputtered and stopped, its once smooth ink flow now stilted and dry.
He tried again, pressing harder, but it was no use.
The familiar blue ink that had danced across the page was gone, leaving nothing but a dry, scratchy sound as his pen slid uselessly across the paper.
Kazuha’s heart sank into his chest.
He glanced around, momentarily desperate. No one seemed to notice, their focus fixed entirely on their own papers.
The classroom felt both enormous and stifling all at once, the minutes stretching out like an endless road ahead of him. He couldn’t bring himself to ask for a new pen. To disrupt the quiet, to draw attention to himself at such a moment.
But what choice did he have? He couldn’t just sit there, unable to finish.
He looked down at his paper, the inkless pen in his hand, and for a fleeting second, considered giving up. He had nearly reached the end, but his answers, though thorough, were incomplete. The thought of leaving them unfinished gnawed at him.
Then, a quiet voice cut through the stillness.
“Here.”
Kazuha blinked, startled. His gaze flickered up and across the desk to where you sat.
You were calm, your posture relaxed, the air around you as composed as ever. Your hand extended toward him, a pen sliding quietly across the surface of the desk.
Kazuha’s eyes widened slightly, his mind taking a moment to process the gesture.
Your face was focused on your own paper, your expression neutral, but there was a softness in your movement. It wasn’t loud or forceful, but it was kind.
He reached for the pen, his fingers brushing briefly against yours.
The sensation was electric, something he hadn’t expected, and yet it felt strangely... comforting.
His pulse quickened, and he looked up, only to find you already turning back to your own work, your focus unbroken, as if the exchange had been no more than a passing breeze.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible, more a breath than words.
You nodded slightly, a motion so small it almost went unnoticed.
It wasn’t the first time Kazuha had noticed you though.
The memory of the sports festival lingered in the back of his mind. It hadn’t been anything extraordinary—at least, not from your perspective.
You hadn’t been the star athlete, nor had you done anything that particularly drew attention.
But for some reason, in the midst of all the chaos, Kazuha had found his gaze lingering on you.
Maybe it was the way you had cheered on others with such sincerity, the way you had looked so immersed in the spirit of the event.
There was something about you—something quiet and unassuming, yet undeniably captivating—that had caught his attention.
It hadn’t been the loud moments or the flashy victories, but the subtle grace you carried with you. And somehow, without meaning to, you had imprinted yourself on his mind.
The rest of the exam passed in a haze, his hand moving mechanically across the paper as he worked through the final questions.
But his mind kept drifting back to the soft, almost fleeting touch of your fingers on the pen, the brief exchange that left him feeling oddly... unsettled.
The exam eventually ended, the sound of pens setting down and papers rustling filled the air, signaling the end of a long and tense period.
Kazuha stood slowly, the familiar sound of chairs scraping against the floor blending into the background, but his gaze was still fixed on the pen in his hand. The borrowed pen, still warm from the brief touch.
He wanted to return it.
He knew he should.
But when he looked toward you, you were already gathering your things.
The sound of your laughter drifted to his ears as you moved toward the door.
He stood there for a moment longer, watching you leave, the warmth from the pen still lingering in his fingers. He had barely even spoken to you before today—yet now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted, something unspoken between the two of you, something that made his chest tighten in an unfamiliar way.
Kazuha shook his head, snapping back to the present. The memory of that moment, though seemingly insignificant at the time, had stayed with him all these months. Now, as he sat in the classroom, holding the pen once again, he realized something that had eluded him then.
It wasn’t the pen that mattered.
It was the quiet connection.
The small gesture that seemed to carry more weight than anything he had felt before.
A fleeting touch, a brief but meaningful exchange, and yet it had left a lasting impression on him.
Now, he understood it. The pen, that simple moment, was the beginning of something much more.
Kazuha smiled to himself, almost imperceptibly. He placed the pen down on his desk, his fingers still lingering on it for a moment longer, feeling that warmth return. There was something more to this—something worth exploring, worth understanding.
He remembered Heizou’s teasing words from earlier, his voice ringing in his mind: "Time is ticking, Kazuha."
Kazuha chuckled softly under his breath. He had a whole year. Time was on his side, and perhaps it was time for him to finally let his feelings burn, to stop running from them and start letting them take shape.
No rush. He had all the time he needed.
Right?
TAGLIST: @danhenglovebot, @milkteeboba
all writing belongs to me (@svynie) do not repost without my explicit permission, translate or plagiarize.
5YNOPSIS: As fourth year begins, Kazuha steps into his sudden role as class president. But when a familiar presence enters the classroom, his carefully built composure wavers. A brief, awkward exchange during seating arrangements brings back a memory from two years ago.. a moment that changed everything for him
Tags: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, fluff, modern au, high school setting in Inazuma, TOMO'S ALIVE! (i know that's not his actual name..) Heizou and Beidou Appearance, Unrequited Love/Pining (for now), reader's action is written as - You did this bla bla bla, Use of [Y/N]
WC: 4, 491
A/N: This was originally intended to be a oneshot, but as I started writing more, I found there were too many scenarios I wanted to explore.... So, I decided to turn it into a series instead! This chapter was the original oneshot, with a few added details and adjustments!! - anyone else want to be tagged..?
The morning sun peeked through the pale curtains of Kazuha’s room, dappling the wooden floor with light. The faint rustle of cherry blossoms outside blended with the distant chirping of birds, creating a serene melody.
Kazuha stirred under the soft covers of his futon, blinking groggily at the sunlight filtering through pale curtains.
“HEY! Kazuha!” Beidou’s voice rang out from downstairs, full of its usual lively energy. “If you don’t get up soon, you’re gonna be late! Dont make me drag you!”
Kazuha groaned, sitting up and trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. “I’m up..!” he called back, though the lethargy clinging to his limbs said otherwise.
He shuffled toward the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water in a bid to wake himself fully.
His reflection stared back at him, hair disheveled, crimson eyes half-lidded still lingering sleep.
By the time he stepped into the shower, the cold water immediately woke up his mind.
He lingered longer than usual, letting his thoughts drift.
Today was the start of his final year in high school.
The idea brought a strange mix of anticipation and unease, but one thought stood out above the rest: You.
Your name had been in the same class as his.. Class 4-B
Kazuha’s heart quickened as he recalled seeing it, placed among his future classmates. After years of fleeting glances and quiet admiration, fate had placed you in the same class...
Was it a sign? Or perhaps just a cruel trick to test his resolve?
He sighed, stepping out of the shower and toweling off. He dressed with practiced efficiency, smoothing the crisp fabric of his uniform and tying his hair into its usual loose ponytail.
Downstairs, the aroma of grilled fish and steamed rice greeted him, and Kazuha’s stomach growled in appreciation.
Beidou was already seated at the table, leaning back in her chair with an air of casual confidence. “Finally decided to grace us with your presence, huh?” she teased, grinning as Kazuha slid into his seat.
“You’re up early,” Kazuha replied, helping himself to a serving of rice and miso soup.
“Had a shipment to oversee at dawn...” Beidou said, waving a hand. “But I wouldn’t want to miss seeing my kid off on his first day back.”
Kazuha’s lips curved into a faint smile. Beidou wasn’t one for traditional displays of affection, but her pride in him was evident.
As they ate, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So, what’s the plan this year, Kazu? Flying under the radar like always?”
Kazuha paused, chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Something like that,” he said lightly, though his thoughts were anything but simple.
Beidou raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.
Instead, she smirked. “Well, don’t let ’em push you around. You’re a Kaedehara, after all! Go make a splash!!"
He chuckled softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
After breakfast, Kazuha shouldered his bag and made his way to the door. Beidou followed, leaning against the frame as she watched him slip on his shoes.
“Good luck, kid,” she said, ruffling his hair as he straightened.
Kazuha glanced back, his eyes soft. “Thanks, Mom.”
The air was crisp and refreshing as Kazuha stepped outside, his satchel slung loosely over one shoulder. The cobblestone path that led to the heart of Inazuma City were now covered with the petals of the sakura trees. Each step he took stirred a few fallen petals into the air.
For most, this was simply another school day.
But for Kazuha, it felt like something more.
The idea of starting his final year was enough to make him reflect.. about everything.. but knowing that you would share his classroom this year had sent his emotions into overdrive.
The streets bustled with life as merchants opened their stalls and mothers ushered their children along. Kazuha weaved through the familiar sights.
As he passed by the riverbank, he couldn’t resist pausing for a moment. The gentle ripple of the water reflected the cherry blossoms overhead, and for the briefest of moments, Kazuha felt his heartbeat to steady.
But the memory of seeing your name on the class roster made his pulse quickened when he’d first spotted it. His lips quirked into a faint smile as he recalled.
[Y/N].
In Class 4-B.
With me.
It wasn’t as if you’d never noticed him before—you’d exchanged polite nods, once or twice—but this year felt different.
The proximity, the potential for interaction, and the possibility to finally close the distance between you—it was both exhilarating and terrifying...
As the school gates came into view, his stomach churned with nervousness. Students in their uniforms crowded the courtyard, their chatter blending into a harmony of excitement.
Kazuha slipped through the crowd, trying to mask his inner storm of emotions under his calm exterior. His destination was the bulletin board, where students gathered to confirm their class placements.
The board was covered in lists of names, neatly organized by class and year. He moved to the front, his heart beating just a little faster with each step. As he stood there, the names on the list blurred together for a moment—until he found it.
His gaze flickered from the first name to the last.
Kirara’s name made him smile a little, thinking of her playful, hardworking nature, always so full of energy.
Kuki Shinobu’s name, though, was a comfort—her sharp mind and calm demeanor were qualities Kazuha appreciated.
Then, of course, there was Shikanoin Heizou, with his tendency to be both mischievous yet quick-witted, he was the type of person who could get away with anything with just a wink and a smile.
But it was the last name that truly made his heart skip
7. Kaedehara Kazuha
8. [Your Name]
His fingers hovered over the list, still not quite believing it. There you were, placed right beside him in Class 4-B.
The sheer coincidence—could it be? Was this some sort of sign, or was it just luck?
He blinked, trying to steady his breath, but all the excitement and nerves seemed to rush into him at once.
In that moment, Kazuha allowed himself a soft, fleeting smile that no one else would notice, but it made his heart feel lighter.
He stepped back to let the next student through, slipping his hands into his pockets as he made his way toward the classroom, his heart warm with anticipation.
By the time Kazuha reached Class 4-B, the classroom was already beaming with excitement as students were catching up on their vacations, gossiping about the summer, and speculating on what this year would bring. Some were still settling into their seats, others chatting with familiar faces.
As Kazuha settled into his usual seat by the window, he couldn’t help but notice the gentle rustle of the curtains in the breeze. The room felt alive with promise...
His gaze drifted lazily toward the front of the classroom, and for the briefest moment, his mind wandered to other matters—the sea breeze, the distant rustle of leaves, and the soft hum of nature just outside the classroom walls.
It was a familiar feeling, like the world outside was calling him, reminding him that there were places beyond this room.
But today, everything felt heavy with anticipation, tethering him here.
His fingers lightly traced the edge of his desk as he waited for the bell to ring, the subtle pulse of his heartbeat was now an erratic drumbeat in his chest.
Finally, the door creaked open, and in walked Mr. Takahashi, the homeroom teacher.
"Good morning, Class 4-B!" Mr. Takahashi greeted, his voice steady and authoritative.
He was the.. sort of teacher who commanded attention without needing to raise his voice, a quiet confidence in his demeanor that immediately settled the room.
"Let’s get started."
As he walked toward the front, there was a palpable shift in the air.
The students, who had been chatting away moments ago, began to quiet down, eyes turning towards the front.
Kazuha felt the familiar stir of unease in his stomach, the sense that something was about to happen—something he couldn’t quite control.
Mr. Takahashi cleared his throat to get everyone's attention, "Before we get into the schedule for the year, there’s something we need to address. It's time for our class officer elections."
A collective groan echoed through the room, the sound of students who didn’t particularly care for responsibilities.
Then, there was a moment of silence as everyone waited for someone to take the initiative. After all, the elections was never something people eagerly volunteered for—it was just a formality, a necessary duty to get through the year.
Kazuha, ever the quiet observer, leaned back in his chair, his hands on his lap. He wasn’t particularly concerned about the election.
He’d been elected in other class officer roles in the past without much fuss.
It wasn’t also that he disliked it... it was simply that he preferred to lead quietly, from the background.
He had never been one to demand the spotlight.
"Alright, well then.." Mr. Takahashi continued, breaking Kazuha’s thoughts, "Let’s get started. I’ll open the floor for nominations. Who would like to volunteer for the position of class president?"
Silence.
Kazuha’s gaze shifted, taking in the faces of his classmates. No one seemed eager to take the lead, and the air was thick with reluctance.
His thoughts began to drift again, as they often did. He didn’t mind being the class president, but the position came with expectations.
Expectations that made him a little uneasy.
He wasn’t about to nominate himself too.
He wasn’t particularly sure that anyone else would nominate him, either. He had always been more of a quiet leader, stepping in when necessary but never pushing himself forward.
The minutes ticked by, the only sound in the room being the occasional rustle of a student shifting in their seat.
Then, unexpectedly, a voice pierced the silence.
"I nominate Kaedehara Kazuha!"
Kazuha’s eyes widened, his body stiffening in surprise. He turned toward the back of the room, where the voice had come from. Tomo—one of his closest friends—was grinning widely at him, hands raised in a mock salute.
"I SECOND THE NOTION!" another voice chimed in, Heizou's...
Kazuha blinked, his mind racing. He hadn’t anticipated this.
He hadn’t even thought to volunteer, much less be nominated so quickly. The idea of being class president was one thing, but having it thrust upon him in front of the whole class was... different.
He glanced around the room, his eyes scanning the faces of his classmates, most of whom were already looking toward him with varying degrees of curiosity.
A wave of heat crept up his face. He wasn’t entirely sure why his heart rate had picked up so suddenly. It was just an election, after all.
And yet, there was something about the way they were all looking at him now that felt... he wasn’t sure how to explain it.
Mr. Takahashi glanced over at him, eyebrows raised. "Well, it seems we have a nominee." He looked toward the class. "All in favor of Kaedehara Kazuha as class president, raise your hands!"
Kazuha didn’t move.
His gaze flicked from hand to hand as they shot up around the room—some with enthusiasm, others with casual indifference.
But then, in the middle of it all, he saw it.
Your hand.
You were raising your hand..
Kazuha’s heart skipped a beat, and he had to take a sharp breath to steady himself.
He hadn’t expected that.
The warmth of your gesture, the way your fingers moved so naturally in the air, felt like a soft reassurance.
He wasn’t sure why it made him feel like his entire world had shifted just a little.
When the votes were tallied, Mr. Takahashi nodded. "Looks like it’s unanimous! Kaedehara Kazuha, is now our new class president."
The class broke into applause, the sound echoing in his ears. Kazuha stood up, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t held leadership positions before—but this time, it felt different.
This time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more at play than just being the class president.
As the applause died down, Kazuha cleared his throat, raising his hands in an effort to calm the room. "Thank you," he said, his voice steady despite the churn of emotions inside him. "I’ll do my best to make this year run smoothly."
He tried not to let his nerves show, keeping his gaze steady as he surveyed the class.
It was only when his eyes caught yours again, the soft smile on your lips, that he felt a sense of calmness..
After the election concluded and the classroom settled into a familiar rhythm of idle chatter, Mr. Takahashi waved Kazuha over to the front desk. A neat pile of name cards lay waiting, along with a seating chart template.
“As our esteemed class president,” Mr. Takahashi began with a playful grin, “you get the honor of helping me decide everyone’s seating. and if you can avoid putting people with, uh, ‘history’ near each other, you’ll have my eternal gratitude."
“Understood, sir.” Kazuha chuckled lightly, though he felt an almost absurd level of responsibility. It wasn’t that assigning seats was difficult... it was the knowledge that where people sat might define their year.
Would friendships blossom? Would rivalries form? Would someone sit beside someone they secretly admired?
Would he...?
As he flipped through the cards, your name appeared.
It stood out.
Not because the ink was bolder or the letters more elegant, but because it carried a weight only he could see...
His fingers lingered on it for a heartbeat too long before he gently placed it down.
He began filling the chart, hoping to create a fair balance. The chatter of the classroom felt distant as he arranged friendships and personalities.
But when it came to assigning his own seat..
He faltered.
Kazuha closed his eyes briefly, a silent prayer forming.
"To any deity, archon, or celestial being who might hear me... let me sit with [Y/N]."
It was foolish. Selfish... even.
But the thought of being close to you—of seeing you not just as a distant admiration but as a part of his daily life—made his heart race in ways that scared him as much as they thrilled him.
Then, he carefully placed your name beside his own.
“Finished?” Mr. Takahashi asked, peering over Kazuha’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Kazuha replied, keeping his tone even despite the small scare Mr. Takahashi had given him.
“Great. Let’s see how long it takes for complaints to start rolling in,” the teacher joked, pinning the chart to the board. “Everyone, find your new seats!”
The classroom buzzed as students gathered around the chart. Kazuha remained at his desk, his expression calm though his fingers tapped a silent rhythm against his thigh.
He didn’t look up, not even when he heard footsteps approach.
“Looks like we’re seatmates,” you said, breaking the silence.
Kazuha glanced up, his breath catching for a split second. You stood beside him, your smile easy and unguarded, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Yes,” he replied, though his voice wavered. He cleared his throat quickly, composing himself. “It seems so.”
You tilted your head slightly, amused by his formal tone. “Looking forward to the year, Kaedehara-san!"
His name on your lips felt like a melody. “A-As am I,” he stammered, cursing himself inwardly for the awkward response.
As you settled into your seat, Kazuha couldn’t help but steal a glance. Your attention had already shifted to arranging your supplies, but to him, the moment lingered like a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.
Then... the memory resurfaced with startling clarity as Kazuha caught the faintest scent of cherry blossoms drifting through the open window.
Second Year Sports Day
The school’s sports day had arrived, and with it, the usual mix of excitement and energy that buzzed through the air.
While the rest of the school seemed to vibrate with uncontainable enthusiasm, Kazuha found himself sitting at the edge of the track, away from the heart of the festivities. His usual spot under the large sakura tree, a quiet refuge, stood at the farthest corner of the grounds.
The cool shade beneath the tree provided a temporary escape from the groups of students, their cheers and shouts muffled by the distance.
The only sounds Kazuha truly heard were the occasional rumbles of laughter and the rustling of the leaves overhead.
He opened his notebook, the familiar pages welcoming him like an old friend. He’d been trying to write a poem about spring, something inspired by the energy of the day...
Yet, as his pen hovered over the first line, he found himself distracted. His thoughts wandered, and the words refused to come.
His gaze drifted across the field, where students in brightly colored uniforms lined up for their respective events.
Some were stretching, some were chatting, and others were just as focused as he had hoped to be in his writing.
Yet, it wasn’t their energy that caught his attention.
It was you.
There you were, standing in the middle of your relay team, adjusting the ribbon on your uniform.
It wasn’t that you stood out because of any particularly noticeable trait.
You weren’t the loudest, nor were you drawing attention with over-the-top theatrics.
Instead, it was in the way you carried yourself.
Your eyes seemed to be focused on the track ahead, and your smile was soft yet determined. It was clear you were nervous, but there was an undeniable strength in the way you held your own.
As you adjusted the straps of your shoes, your hands moving in practiced motions, Kazuha felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. It was a strange feeling, one he couldn’t quite place.
He watched as you laughed at something your teammate said, your voice ringing clearly through the air, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.
He didn’t know why he couldn’t look away, why his thoughts were suddenly so jumbled. All he could do was watch as you leaned forward, preparing for the race to begin.
The whistle blew, sharp and clear, cutting through the air. The race started with a burst of energy. You took off down the track with the other runners, your legs pumping with determination, your face set with concentration.
You weren’t the fastest.
In fact, Kazuha knew that the fastest runners were already ahead, but there was something about the way you ran.
It wasn’t about speed.
It was about perseverance, about staying steady no matter the odds.
There was no frenzied urgency to your movements. You were calm—almost serene—despite the pressure of the race, despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins.
It was as if the entire world had fallen away, leaving only the rhythm of your body and the goal ahead.
The baton exchange came, and Kazuha’s eyes followed every move. As you passed the baton, you didn’t falter.
You didn’t hesitate.
The way you handed off the baton was smooth, like you’d done it a thousand times. Your face, flushed with effort, broke into a brief smile as you cheered for your teammate who took off next.
It wasn’t a smile directed at anyone in particular. It was a natural, easy smile—a smile that felt effortless and genuine, as if you weren’t concerned with anything other than the moment itself.
Kazuha couldn’t explain it, but that smile...so simple
Made something stir deep within him...
His hand, still gripping the pen, trembled slightly.
He was so absorbed in watching you that he didn’t realize his notebook had slipped from his lap and fallen to the ground with a soft thud.
The noise startled him out of his daze, and for a brief moment, he blinked in confusion as he looked down at the notebook, now on the grass beside him.
He shook his head, trying to clear the sudden fog in his mind.
But the moment he lifted his gaze again,
There you were—laughing with your teammates, clearly exhausted but no less joyful...
And suddenly, it hit him.
He hadn’t noticed you before.
Not like this.
Not until now.
The noises of the crowd faded, the rustling of the leaves turned into a soft murmur.
The only thing that mattered was you—your laughter, your smile, your quiet strength as you cheered on your friends.
In the space of a single moment, his world had shifted.
For the first time, Kazuha felt something he couldn’t explain—a pull, an unshakable weight in his chest.
Now, you were all he could see.
In his reverie, he didn’t hear the bell ring or the shuffle of students around him.
He was lost in the memory, feeling that familiar warmth rise in his chest, the same warmth that had blossomed quietly within him since that day.
But then a soft voice broke through the haze of nostalgia, sharp and clear.
“Kaedehara-san?” The sound of your voice snapped him back to the present, and Kazuha blinked, looking up in mild surprise. You were standing by his desk, your gaze not quite meeting his but still focused on him with an expression that held something like concern, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
“Kaedehara-san,” you repeated, your tone playful yet gently questioning. “Are you daydreaming...? You looked like you were a million miles away!"
Kazuha felt his heart leap in his chest.
The gentle teasing was enough to make him realize just how lost he’d been in his thoughts.
He quickly shook his head, trying to mask his embarrassment with a sheepish smile. “Ah, sorry, I—was just thinking.”
Your smile softened, though the hint of amusement still lingered. “I figured,” you said, tapping your fingers on his desk lightly. “You seemed so... far away.”
“Ah... I didn’t mean to seem distant,” he stammered, immediately trying to explain himself, but the words escaped him as quickly as they had arrived.
Instead, he offered a small, embarrassed laugh. “I guess I got a little lost in my head.” It was then that he realized he hadn’t even noticed when the class had finished, or how the others were packing up for lunch.
The room was quieter now, with only a few lingering conversations and the shuffle of bags and chairs. “Hmm, well, it’s good to know I wasn’t the only one spacing out,” you said with a small wink. “You’ve been pretty focused all morning. Do you need a break?”
Kazuha opened his mouth to respond but found himself at a loss for words.
His heart was still racing a little, not entirely from embarrassment, but from the realization that you were still here, still so close.
His chest tightened in a way he couldn’t quite explain, a feeling that had been growing steadily ever since he sat beside you today.
“I’m... I’m fine,” Kazuha managed, though his voice was quieter than he intended. He quickly gathered his things—his notebook, pen, and the scattered bits of paper that had somehow gotten mixed up throughout the morning—and began packing them into his bag.
But his thoughts wandered again, despite his best efforts to stay focused.
How could he tell you what had been on his mind for so long? How could he put into words the feelings that had been growing within him ever since that second year Sports Day?
He couldn’t, not yet. He wasn’t ready.
But as you turned to walk away, your voice lingered in the air. “Well, I’ll let you catch up on your thoughts then, Kaedehara-san. Don’t work yourself too hard, okay?”
Kazuha watched you go, his heart racing in his chest as the words you’d said echoed in his mind. "Don’t work yourself too hard."
How could he explain that it wasn’t work, but something much more complicated?
That it wasn’t just the class, or the presidency, or the seat arrangement that filled his thoughts..
It was you.
But he remained silent, and he let you walk away, his gaze lingering on the space where you had sat.
Later that evening, after the weight of the day had lifted,
Kazuha sat by his window, the sky had deepened into dusk, the stars flickering above like distant fires, and the air was cool.
It was quiet in his room, aside for the soft rustle of the wind and the occasional chirp of crickets in the night.
The silence gave him the space he needed to think, to process the emotions that were swirling within him... tangled and messy.
He had been thinking of you all day... how you had smiled at him when you called him out of his thoughts, how your voice had sounded when you’d asked if he was okay.
It had been casual.
But there was a depth to it that he couldn’t shake.
The truth was, Kazuha had known for a long time that his feelings for you had deepened.
Ever since that Sports Day in his second year, he had watched you from the shadows, silently admiring you from afar.
He had told himself, back then, that it was just a passing crush, something that would fade with time.
But it hadn’t.
It had only grown stronger, more persistent, like a plant planted deep in his heart that refused to wither.
And now, in his fourth year, here he was—seated beside you.
His heart pounding every time your voice brushed against his ear. He had told himself that the new school year would be the one where he finally found the courage to tell you.
But each time he thought about it, the fear gripped him all over again.
What if you didn’t feel the same? What if, by speaking his heart, he destroyed the quiet connection he had with you?
Kazuha closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back in his chair. “I have to tell them,” he whispered softly to the stars outside, as if seeking some cosmic answer. “This year, I have to.”
But as he sat there, a pang of longing tugged at his chest.
So close... yet so far.
You were right there, right beside him.
Yet the distance between his feelings and the courage to act on them felt like an unbridgeable gap.
His heart ached with the weight of it, knowing that despite being closer to you than ever before, he remained just as far from you in the ways that truly mattered...
But he knew that he couldn’t keep living in this quiet reverie forever.
Tomorrow would be another day. Another chance to take that first step, to move closer to you, to finally show the words that had been held back for so long.
With a soft sigh, Kazuha set his pen down and looked out at the stars.
They were distant, silent, and untouchable—but still, they shone brightly.
Just like his feelings for you.
taglist: @danhenglovebot
divider belongs to @/rookthornesartistry
kazuha fanart belongs to NOT FOUND !! (PLEASE LET ME KNOW.. I CANT FIND THE OG..)
all writing belongs to @svynie. do not repost without my explicit permission, translate or plagiarize.
