On Monday, Hachiman woke up thinking that the week to come would be as monotonous as ever. By Friday, five different girls had confessed to him. Needless to say, he has a big decision to make...

Author's Note: The only thing I've previously written for Oregairu is a oneshot, and since I've essentially developed an unhealthy obsession with the anime, I knew it would only be a matter of time before I embarked on a substantial project.

Basically, if all goes as planned and I don't lost inspiration, there will be seven chapters to this story. Each will be a day in the course of a single week. They will all transpire from Hachiman's perspective and will feature a confession from five different girls, them being Haruno, Kawasaki, Yui, Yukino and Iroha in no particular order. On Saturday, he'll accept one of the girl's confessions, and Sunday will be devoted to reaction/happy fluff. :)

Since music is my go-to route to inspiration, here is my playlist for the fic in case you feel like having a listen. Most of them are just classic or contemporary love songs. Or musical tracks, because one can never have enough musical theatre, and some RATM to boot-

I Loves You Porgy by Nina Simone,

Eet by Regina Spektor,

Seasons of Love from Rent,

At Last by Etta James,

I Promise by Radiohead,

Love Came By from Jane Eyre

Everything Has Changed by Ed Sheeran/Taylor Swift,

Too Many Mornings from Follies,

Bulls on Parade by RATM,

Microphone Fiend (cover) by RATM,

That's basically all the background required. Hope you enjoy it!

One Week:

Monday

Many novelists start a work of fiction with their protagonist waking up. It's a beginning that's as typical as they come, which will no doubt elicit a somewhat deserved eye roll from a reader before they proceed to convince themselves that the person who recommended it must have had some reason to do so. Of course, having experienced many a disappointment in my time as result of Zaimokuza-related suggestions, I'd be happy to vouch for the fact that the majority of books with a cliched beginning will also have a cliched set of characters, a cliched but suspiciously predictable twist and a cliched romance, before topping off the reeking pile of cliche with a cliched conclusion that leaves you not with a feeling of satisfaction, or at least catharsis, but emptiness. Emptiness deriving from the thought that then slowly begins to consume you: did I seriously just waste however many hours reading that crap?

Here we arrive at yet another, in my opinion, perfectly valid justification for reading light novels. Even the most reprehensible of the genre, which aren't exactly at a premium, will always have those glorious details that persuade you to brave the worst and stick with the plot. The most prominent of these is, of course, female characters drawn with a flourish, and when I saw flourish I mean feminine assets so large and pronounced it makes you ponder whether their owner would be physically capable of standing up straight. There is no doubt that any sane straight men is lying through their teeth should they claim that such enticing illustrations don't capture their attention. Not in an intellectual sense, which will probably be their main reason for sniffing and turning away, but in an instinctive masculine sense. Personally, I'd much rather read a bad novel with, ahem, physically stimulating aspects, than a bad novel that was just boring and gratingly ostentatious.

Of course, even I, whose standards are according to Yukino "so low they could win first prize at a limbo competition", have a limit to my tolerance of poor writing. For instance, being a cultured man I have a deeply rooted appreciation for a well written tsundere character, but a harem situation is overstepping the boundaries into a mine field of sheer, inescapable literary repugnancy as far as I'm concerned. They exist solely for the solace and self-gratification of the reader, and though there will always be a place for this kind of bottom of the barrel scraping entertainment, at least from the perspective of someone who also appreciates his fair share of non-exploitative publications, there is far too much of it cluttering up Japan's precious bookshops nowadays. Like all decent human beings, I'm opposed to the ideals of fascism, but had I been an inhabitant of Nazi Germany at the time of their regular book burning sessions, I might not have protested as strongly if harem-based stories were the first to be exposed to the flames.

Oh, and here's another factor in my passionate defense of the light novel format: cliches become cliches for a reason. Whoever the lucky man was that struck gold in beginning his story with the phase "Once upon a time" would've been chuffed, because in all fairness, it's frighteningly effective. That famous opening not only sets the scene for a classic fantasy yarn, but also immediately grabs the listener or reader by the scruff of the neck. It's the countless imitators that ruin a personality type or plot set up, and forever sentence it to the hellish label of trope.

Therefore, I have no shame in beginning my recount of the week that changed my high school days with the protagonist, obviously Yours Truly (then again, I'm not much of a protagonist- maybe "antihero" is more appropriate?), being disturbed from his blissful, undisturbed Sunday night slumber by the screech of his younger sister.

'Wake up!'

My mind was abruptly yanked from the mindboggling universe of my continually bizarre dreams (this one had seen me pitted against the Blanks in a No Game No Life episode) (1), and it wasn't happy about this at all. I groaned with an irritated reluctance and promptly shut my eyes again, hoping that, if I only denied the prospect of returning to school hard enough, our rotten education system would simply cease to be.

'Pretending the school shut or burnt down overnight won't get you anywhere! Oh, and I made pancakes for my favourite Onii-chan! Ooooh, that must've been really high in Komachi points!'

'At this stage, even mentioning Komachi points is, in itself, low in Komachi points,' I grumbled.

She gave no indication that she'd heard from outside the door, and soon her footsteps could be heard on the stairs as she returned to the kitchen, all the while whistling the melody of a shitty J-pop artist that was, apparently, "all the rage". Typical Komachii- obliterating all my hopes and aspirations, and whistling while doing so. Then again, I probably shouldn't be too derogatory, as she is my life's foremost and only supplier of food, affection, social encouragement and, most pivotally of all, cuteness (excluding the positively angelic Totsuka). If she didn't have this silver lining to her otherwise abrasive personality, I'd probably have disowned her by now. Or at least attempted to. She can be Freddy Krueger level intimidating when she wants to be (2).

It usually takes about ten to fifteen minutes to pull myself out of bed, climb haphazardly into school uniform and then drag myself downstairs. On this occasion, it was leaning towards the latter, but I take comfort in the fact there will always be a breakfast prepared with eggs and flour intermixed with love (God, sometimes I make myself nauseous) awaiting my hasty arrival. My stomach roared in anticipation as I sat down at the table, readily accepting my pancakes. With a flourish of cutlery, half of it was already being digested in the bottomless pit that is my stomach.

Komachi is an expert at burrowing into her Onii-chan's heart, to the extent I'd claim she was comparable to the subterranean monstrocities in a certain 80s B-movie (3). One of her most efficacious methods of digging was knowing exactly the right kind of food to make, and when. I had an irrepressible sweet tooth, so pancakes slathered with syrup were a regular on the breakfast cafe menu. Her cooking was a necessity for us, thanks to my own ineptitude and the more-often-than-not missing paternal figures of our corporate slave parents. Standing beside the oven frantically stirring batter, adorned by a colourful apron, she almost seemed paternal herself. The man who determined to steal Komachi from me would end up either a very lucky man, or dead at the hilt of a bloody kitchen knife wielded by your vengeful narrator.

Huh. Maybe I'm beginning to understand why everyone insists I'm a siscon.

'So, how are things going with the Service Club?'

'You ask me that every single Monday.'

'That's because you never answer the question properly, Onii-chan,' she responded, with a signature pout.

I swallowed down a mouthful of shovelled pancake before sighing. My loner senses were tingling, warning me that avoiding the question or feigning ignorance wouldn't be an option this time. A Komachi who wanted something was a dangerous Komachi.

'Not much, to be brutally frank. We're as dysfunctional as ever. On the rare occurence that we actually receive a request, me and the Ice Bitch squabble about every single decision while Airhead attempts to play the role of mediator-'

'Hachima-'

'Even if said request is Tobecchi level moronic, we're apparently obligated to accept every single one because of someone's rich philanthropist mindse-'

'Hachiman, I'm not asking about that. I'm asking about your boyfriend prospects!'

Ah. I take back all my hyperbolic praise of Komachi. Her recurrent pestering habit of intruding on the few friendly relations I could boast of was grating to an extreme. After being forced into it by Hiratsuka-sensei, the other woman so maliciously determined to intrude on my otherwise undisturbed life, I'd striven to keep her oblivious of the Service Club with the knowledge she'd undoubtedly see it as another oppurtunity to play the role of matchmaker for me. My Komachi-deduction skills were as accurate as ever. Ever since learning of my forced but not exactly unpleasant daily company, it had become a cornerstone of our conversations. I suppose I should mention that I use the word "conversation" very loosely; they mostly consisted of her relaying various manipulative schemes that would result in a date situation before I eventually got irritated with her petulance and returned to the safety of my room. It was made even worse by the fact that, being as comfortable in social situations as she was, her and the girls had become something akin to friends. If either of them met each other and then proceeded to converse about who knows what, I often found myself adopting the role of the third wheel (no change there then).

'We both know that my "boyfriend prospects" are like Yukino's breasts: pitifully nonexistent.'

'That's rude, Onii-chan,' she scolded easily. 'Besides, they're not nonexistent. They're just... developing.'

My eyebrows rose. 'Are we talking about me or Yukino here? Cause if you're yuri inclined (4), then that's fine.'

Komachi rolled her eyes, but due to her being preocuppied with the batter, I managed to escape the punches she usually liked to rain down on me if I got on her nerves. Despite her diminutive figure, she was fully capable of leaving a bruise or two on my skin, even through my usual black blazer. I suspected this was also partly due to my, uh, inexperience in the muscle and general fitness department, but we'll let that slide.

After a minute or two of silence, she came to sit in the spot across from me on the table and, having served herself, also made a start on her breakfast. Between mouthfulls, she'd glance up at me with an astonishing lack of subtlety as if she wanted to say something, before carrying on as she had been.

Just as I was about to ask her if there was a problem with my appearance she was just too polite to make me aware of, she finally mustered up the courage. 'Onii-chan...'

'Yes?' I said impatiently.

'... I know you might not want to hear this. Sometimes you pretend to be so dense, and you have no idea how annoying it is, but...' She hesitated, before ploughing on, 'Yui and Yukino... you must realise that they-'

'We'd better get going for school,' I interrupted sharply, standing up with the accompaniment of the chair leg scraping on the floor. 'Hiratsuka will have my head if I'm late again.'

I was already turning away, but Komachi's frustrated sigh was perfectly audible. It only served to increase the speed of my footsteps towards the door.

I opened it with a disquieting creak my parents had never bothered to amend. 'Get dressed. I'll be waiting for you outside.'

And suddenly, I was standing outside in the lashing chill of a February Monday morning in Chiba, staring blankly at the overcast sky. There wasn't a speck of blue or fluffy white to be found. Just a dull, overwhelming grey.

In truth, I felt like coward. Had I not always considered it futile to, when an object of frustration or anxiety settles down in your path, turn away or attempt to go round its circumference rather than facing it head on? Of course, if an easier route made itself known you can be assured of the fact I'd be first to take it (such is my incredible work ethic), but in most situations, procrastination can never and will never be an effective solution. Komachi's words, and indeed the words and implication she'd left unspoken, hung over me, suspended like stalactites in a cavern. And at any moment, they're precarious grip on the dripping walls above could shatter.

Yui Yuigahama. Yukino Yukinoshita. If there was anyone in my life I'd deem myself comfortable enough with to address by their given name, providing the feeling was mutual of course, it would be this unlikely pair. That's most certainly not a statement I make lightly: no one addresses me by my given name except for my family to avoid the confusion of an entire household referred to as "Hikigaya". Of course, I doubt either of us would have the gall to break the walls of subtext and complicating feeling surrounding us. All three of us were suspended in mid air. Stranded in the dulldrums. No one moving forward, no one moving back. Every day at the Service Club summoned another inkling of doubt from within the recesses of our minds. The thought that, in our denial and refusal to progress our strained, bittersweet friendships, we were losing what made us want to progress in the first place. Was what we had genuine? Was what we have genuine? Was what we wanted genuine? The answers to all my queries only seemed to be retreating away from my grasp instead moving within reach.

Girls. In essence, they were part of my species. They spoke the same language as I did. They communicated with the same gestures, the same glances that my own gender did. So why were they always so difficult to understand?

Take Komachi as an example. No matter how many times I nagged her about the issue, she continued to be just as slow getting out the door as she had been for years. I blame the parents.

'Hurry up!'

Human beings are, for some utterly inconceivable reason, obsessed with routine. With balance. With a structured, easy, unasssuming way of life. Those that attempt to rebel against the regular status quo, paradoxically, fall into a routine of rebelling, therefore making the entire exercise counterproductive. I am not so desperate for power in my own life that I have resorted to adolescent delinquency. I accept that society, youth and people are abhorrent, and I strive to elevate myself above mundanity by setting myself apart from my false counterparts at school. The wonderful life of loner- I truly could not be more proud that I follow the example set by all my angsty predecessors.

However, despite the fact I freely concede my hatred of the commonplace riajuu lifestyle, there is undeniably a sort've innate comfort in familiarity. For example, a regular day in the life of Hachiman Hikigaya is breathtakingly easy to define: after waking up and enjoying the pleasures of a Komachi prepared breakfast, we cycle to school and suffer through home-room, suffer through tiresome and clearly unplanned lessons (seriously, most teachers are as disillusioned with life as me and don't even bother putting in effort, the hypocrites), then suffer the insults of Yukino at Service Club only to return home for more suffering, this time manifesting in the form of homework. Fuck the starving, poverty stricken kids in Africa you see in charity adverts. I'm the one whose really struggling. Seriously world, get some perspective.

Currently, my general purpose school day was stranded within the third of these stages. Although homeroom was, for the most part, a complete waste of time, and I wouldn't feel an inkling of sadness if I never had to worry about my attendance record again, it was in fairness one of the less stressful parts of my day. My technical knowledge of music was limited, and my talent for it even less so, but there's truly nothing more therapeutic than plugging in your headphones and enjoying some anime OPs. Having said that, there was absolutely nothing therapeutic about the band I was currently listening to. They're one of the only western bands that I like- they're powered by revolutionary rapping, hip-hop inspired drum beats and guitar riffs so infused with testosterone any male who heard them would struggle, and ultimately fail, to resist the urge to break out into brain shattering head banging (5). Anyone as gloriously anti-establishment as Zack de la Rocha and Tom Morello are bound to capture the attention of any loner, and I, the self-proclaimed king of my kind, was no exception.

But the driving use of an F sharp octave (6) didn't distract me from the other means of occupying my time I often engaged in during homeroom. Namely, human observation: one of the most celebrated (by myself only) talents in my arsenal of 108. This was truly the ace in my hand. If I were a Torterra, this would be my Earthquake (7). Incidentally, the fact that move only had 10 pp in the games, in particular Diamond, was quite literally the bane of my existence as a Sinnoh trainer. Especially when it came to battling Cynthia.

But that's a topic for another time and place. What's important is that the usual clique divisions of Class 2F were, on that Monday, just as stark and noticeable as the sexual tension between Yui and Yukino.

...

Okay, maybe that analogy doesn't entirely ring true. But in the words of Martin Luther King, "I have a dream", and god-dammnit is it a sweet one.

Everything was orderly and in their accepted place. As Morello's wah wah pedal burst forward with face melting consequences (8), my eyes flickered over to Hayama's group, situated on the far left side of me by the window. The subtleties, or rather lack thereof, of their group dynamics were clear as day in the positions which they adopted. Hayama Hayato. If I were the king of loners, then he was the king of riajuu. We were polar opposites. He was the definition of "pretty boy", what with the high cheek bones, the sweeping blonde hair and blue eyes that many a girl had drowned in the overwhelming charm of. Oh yeah- he was also the best athlete at the school (captain of the soccer team and all that jazz), and his grades weren't shabby either, beating me by some distance even in my best subject, Japanese. His sickeningly nice persona matched his looks, mostly because both aspects, and indeed all aspects of the Prince of Soubu High, were irritating to the extreme. Like seriously, rom-com gods. It's unfair that one man should have so much going for him. Spread the love a little, would you?!

Nonetheless, I take solace in the fact I feel no envy towards him regarding his friendships. The occasions where one of his clique had come to the Service Club, seeking assistance on a social misshap that usually revolved around him, were numerous. Surperflous, even. I'd begun to lose count. The greatest indication of the true nature of their disgusting, vile, wholly artificial group was the chain mail incident that had come to close to obliterating their social ties permanently. Sometimes, I genuinely wondered how he slept at night; was he really unbothered by the undeniable insincereity of the connections he claimed to so dearly treasure? Of all the congenital annoyances concerning Hayama, this was the one that grated my nerves to such fine strippings they could probably be used as a topping at a Michelin-star restaurant. A guy as popular as him would experience no difficulty should he strive to abandon his current "friendships" and forge some new, true, real still he persisted, seemingly unconcerned with the delicate fragility of his social life, and how this fragility could make itself bitterly known at any given moment. All it would take was one of them, unwilling and unsatisfied with the status quo, to knock them all off the knife edge.

Currently, they were whittering away about the same topics they'd been whittering away about since our very first day of attendance at Soubu High. Well, I use the pronoun "our" with the assumption that they'd readily exclude me from any form of grouping, as thanks to Yui's dog and an abnormally fast moving car I'd typically managed to miss that. Thankfully, I'm not the kind of outcast who stills clings desperately to the hope of social acceptance, like a certain pitifully armless space opera protagonist did to that weird telecom in Empire Strikes Back (9). I'm fully aware that me and Hayama's clique will forever be at odds with each other, and not just because we share no common ground, personality traits or interests. From my perspective, it's about moral high ground. And, referring to the same sprawling film saga as I did previously, possessing the high ground means victory is a mere formality.

Except for Darth Maul. That guy got it bad.

You could even say the situation left him in two places, am I right lads?!

...

Well, at least I make myself laugh.

But bad jokes and unadulterated loathing- for your face, your voice, your clothing (10)- aside, the one silver lining of the unfortunate truth Hayama wasn't about to die any soon was that his group made for easily accessible and oppurtune test subjects in my ongoing social investigation. Scientists will only investigate something if they have no prior knowledge or experience with that something, thus making it perfectly justifiable that I should carry out mine on friendship. What exactly makes a friend? What was the point by which you could declare yourself someone's friends? And what were the conditions that would allow you to maintain this status? Imagine providing accurate, statistically backed up evidence for such questions at a TED talk! I'd secure the Nobel Prize in days, and my name would be reverred across the globe. Albert Einstein? Isaac Newton? Stephen Hawking? Take fucking notes, bitches. They'd rename an element in my honour- Hikigayaminium. They'd probably have to create a prestigious new award for scientific achievement in my honour, just to try and encapsulate the galaxy-esque scale of my intellect and all round brilliance. "And the winner of 2029's Hachiman award goes to..." etc etc.

Of course, this career route was just an alternative to that of my true ambition: being a house husband. Worldwide glory and acclaim was one thing, but leeching off my talented wife's bank account with the pretence of it being part of my job? I think we'd all make the same choice.

But I digress. Essentially, Hayama and co were my lab rats, and you can believe me when I say I'd have absolutely no hesitation in authorising their extermination. So far, I'd managed to derive a list of checkpoints by which one could assess their "friendship level", so to speak. They were as follows:

1. To be friends, you must interact with them on a regular basis.

2. To be friends, you must be comfotable enough to talk to each other about any subject under the sun, even if said subject seems monumentally retarded.

3. To remain friends, the connection between you must be true to your feelings. Sorry to keep harking back to the same word over and over again, but here it comes. It must be genuine.

Therefore, if we're judging on the various data and evidence recorded from Hayama's clique alone, I can only come to one conclusion. Friendship is a social construct. It is a myth. It simply doesn't exist. We are all single, solitary specks of dust in a universe far greater than ourselves. Life, in its very essence, is futille. And we are totally alone. Have a nice day!

But again, if judging from the Hayama data, I can also make a perhaps even more controversial statement. By my criteria, I'm actually one third of the way to being friends with Miura Yumiko.

I know. Baffling, isn't it? But alow me to explain.

Due to my days of resting my arms on the desk, with headphones plugged in to maximise the standoffish odour, many just assumed I used homeroom as a window of oppurtunity for extra sleep. But thanks to how brilliantly I'd mastered the intricate art of tilting my head ever so slightly to the side, a select few had come to realise this assumption was false. Sometimes, my classmates just so happened to glance in my vague direction at that exact moment when I'd chosen them as my next point of obersation, thus resulting in eye contact, a burst of awkwardness, and then breaking of said eye contact. There were a select few that garnered my attention more often than others, and one of them was Miura Yumiko.

Her Highness the Fire Queen was, to a certain extent, more complex in character than her counterparts. Though she was still one of the foremost contributors to her clique's malignant vacuosity, there were times when she didn't appear interested in their group's conversations at all and would resort to occupying herself with an iphone. Then again, she was probably utilising said device as means of being sociable with other riajuu, so the silver lining was rather thin. Besides, her apparently unrelenting crush on Hayama was a fatal nail in the coffin of our friendship, which had only really been a possibility in the first place. But the glimmer of palpable dissatisfaction, of disappointment, that became visible in her emerald irises as Hayama spent his attention on someone she deemed unworthy was... I suppose, a little fascinating. Enough to persuade my eyes to focus in on her whenever one of these instances arose.

She had a habit of looking away and pouting when someone in her clique was getting on her nerves. Once, I'd thought it the action of a spoilt little riajuu, and all my instincts told me it was silly to project any ideals onto her for fear of being let down. But being frustrated by the company of those around you? That was something I could empathise with more than anything. And so, whenever our eyes did meet, a part of me, almost sub-consciously (my kouhai instincts perhaps?) compelled me to offer her... I dunno. Solace, I guess. The first few times, she'd looked more than a little disgusted that the puny Hikio was trying to communicate with her and expressed this with her eyes accordingly, but then, it seemed to become something of an inside joke. Emerald depths would meet those of a dead fish. The tiniest smirk. And then we'd move on with our lives.

Does that count as interaction on a regular basis?

Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself. Convince myself that a girl like that would even consider looking at me.

I really hate Hayama.

Grunting, I unlocked my phone with the intention of changing the track. This time, my RATM playlist, set to shuffle, settled on a cover of a Eric B and Rakim song (11). Just before the chorus was set to drop, the instantly recognisable figure of a certain pink-haired airhead burst into my line of vision (I'd recognise her, ahem, means of production anywhere). The music was a little louder than usual so I hadn't quite heard her greeting. I quickly removed my earphones, not wanting to seem rude to my Service Club member.

Upon looking up, I knew instantly something was wrong.

If months of interaction with Yui Yuigahama have taught me anything, it's that she is the type of person who will do absolutely anything to avoid exerting themselves. In any way, shape or form. This is a common symptom of those afflicted with condition of being an airhead; they use their idiocy, or at least the veil of idioicy they use to conceal their true intellignece for fear of not fitting in, as an excuse for their lack of effort. Academia. Gym sessions. You name it. Yuigahama, with her almost absurd ditsiness, will ievitably be seen lagging behind everyone else. That wasn't to say she was stupid, per say. Sometimes, she could be startingly perceptive of the struggles of others, no matter how utterly inconceivable they might seem. Indeed, anyone who'd managed to squeeze themselves into Yukino Yukinoshita's good books had, as far as I'm concerned, done enough to earn one's respect.

But there, standing in front of me, was a girl whose figure was hunched from exhaustion. Her breath came out in shallow pants, and her hair, usually held so neatly in a bun, was escaping from its confines in an unruly mess of tangles. It was clear to me she'd just been running. I wouldn't put it past Yuigahama to forget to set her alarm clock before going to bed- the frequency by which she was late for homeroom only seconded that notion- but it was more than just the physical hints that convinced me. Her chocolate brown irises had dilated impossibly wide, and her cheeks were flushed a shade of pink that, had I not suddenly been put on edge, I'd probably describe her as cute enough to fall in love with. She was fiddling with her fingers, something which I'd noticed she always did when nervous, and the expression contorting her face... apprehension? Anxiety? Distress?

Anticipation?

'You... you shouldn't listen to your music so loud, Hikki,' she said, her words streaming out rapidfire. 'S- someone might be trying to tell you something.'

I raised my eyebrows. My Loner Senses were tingling at the back of my skull, dully and reliably enlightening me to the fact that people were looking at me. Or rather, looking at us. It was rare that Yuigahama would come straight to me instead of her clique in the morning; people were aware that we attended the Service Club together, but due to the, ahem, popularity stigma surrounding the name of Hachiman Hikigaya, it was an unspoken rule that only the bravest and most fearless of individuals would express a connection with me in public. The only person I could think of who did so without on a regular basis was Totsuka, but that was understandable because Totsuka transcended what it meant to be human.

I figured I should spare Yuigahama from the ridicule of her peers by putting this conversation to bed quickly.

'Was there anything you wanted?'

For a moment, I swore her blushes intensified. It was definitely a figment of my imagination, but the amount of time it took for her to respond definitely wasn't. An unsettling silence had come to rest over the classroom of Class 2F. I stole a glance sideways, taking in my classmates' reactions. They were just as taken back as I was. Kawaski-something was staring at us without a hint of shame. Tobe, prone to form, looked bewildered. Miura Yumiko was biting her lip, as if she were struggling to contain herself from screaming.

But Hayama's reaction caught my attention the most. His eyes... for the first time, they ever so slightly resembled my own.

'Hikki.'

Yuigahama's tremulous voice diverted my gaze back to her. 'Yeah?'

'Um...' She was fiddling with her skirt. 'Can I- can I talk to you at lunch? There's something I need to ask you.'

I waited for her to give a reason why. To finish. It seemed she already had.

'Sure. Come to my usual spot.'

I spent the next few hours trying to figure out what the Service Club's resident klutz wanted from me.

The first lesson of the day was Maths. This was a subject that I'd never really paid much attention in, so much so that changing my attitude for a single lesson wouldn't have affected my already abysmal grades that much. So, that granted me a free hour wherein I utilised the 63rd of my 108 talents- Contemplation Hikki. This was a state of intensive, pensive, determinative thought, often bordering on philosophical levels. If I were a Buddhist, I'd probably call this nirvana (this smells like teen spirit, am I right 90s grunge fans? 12). If I were Benedict Cumberbatch, I'd probably call this my mind palace (13). It allowed me to analyse (or overanalyse) whatever my subject was in such great depth that the very essence of reality fell away until I existed solely as a series of ideas, deep within the darkest depths of my far reaching and fast working brain.

...

Okay, so maybe it isn't quite as dramatic as that. Essentially, Contemplation Hikki is when I become so absorbed in thought that I ignore all my surroundings.

"Well, that wouldn't make any difference. It's not like your surroundings care about you anyway," whispers the voice of self-depracation in my ears. Wow. It's really beginning to sound like Yukino Yukinoshita.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Contemplation Hikki.

So, being a person of logic and reason, I decided to approach the question, that being why Yui had decided to approach me, by drawing up a set of plausible answers and taking each of them apart in turn. My first was as follows: a Service Club request. This one was disregarded pretty quickly for a number of reasons, the most obvious being practicality. Why would Yuigahama seek my company alone, intentionally excluding the President of our club and her best friend, if it was related to our volunteer work? Not only that, but it seemed bizarre, even for an imperishably persistent airhead, to waste so much energy in rushing to school for a matter that she could quite easily wait to resolve after school. You know, in a proper club meeting? And believe me, I flagged up several other faults in my logic that were just as if not more damning, but for the sake of my recount's already, uh, meandering pace I'll skip over those.

The second was that Yuigahama had, unfortunately, fallen victim to a family matter. Those two words are what modern society has come to use when addressing an area so broad it could mean virtually anything, as long as it's related to one's close relations. Sometimes, it isn't even that. After all, I am a member of my own family (supposedly), so by that logic literally anything that affected me, no matter how minor, was also a family matter, but now I was getting caught up on semantics. A few examples of what this could entail were a health problem so damaging it would severely impact everyone involved's emotional wellbeing, like the contraction of cancer. Or, perhaps a car accident not too dissimilar to one that, coincidentally, Yuigahama had instigated. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Of course not.

Anyway, Yuigahama would've been well aware of my expertise in the handling of family matters, what with how regularly her and Komachi were in contact (sometimes, it seemed like that they never weren't in contact), and so spent the effort to get to school early in order to ask for my advice. There were flaws here as well, obviously. Firstly, I use the term "expertise" very loosely, for though I do indeed have a lot of experience in dealing with obnoxious family members (well, one obnoxious family member), that doesn't mean I deal with them well. I'm not going to lie to you- Komachi knows that she's cute, and knows exactly how to use this to her advantage. How do you think she learnt the art of kawaii-orientated manipulation? Using me as the equivalent of a practice dummy, that's how. Any sane human or alien in any galaxy or universe would think it self-explanatory not to heed the advice of man who was dominated by his imouto, and although she often struggled to prove as much, Yuigahama was indeed a sane human. Oh, and there was also the small matter that Yuigahama didn't have any siblings, and judging from her routine bouts of bubbliness, her home life didn't really scream delinquent.

That left me with only one answer.

I think we all know what it is.

...

That's right. Zombie apocalypse.

I can envision what took place outside Yuigahama's house of resience right now, aided by the powers invested in me by Contemplation Hikki. Upon stepping onto the pavement, she was suddenly charged down by the mangled, reanimated corpse of one of her neighbours. Perhaps, to add spice to the drama of this wannabe HOTD episode (14), it was actually her father (dun dun DUN), thus validating my family matter theory. After being forced to kill the patriarch of the Yuigahama household with a conveniently placed nearby crowbar, she dashed to school to seek my aid for some also conveniently undefined reason. My Maths lesson would then be interrupted by a hoard of the horrific brain-eaters, and I'd be forced to heroically defend my classmates with whatever resources I could scavenge from the supply cupboard. Tobe would die valiantly in sacrifice of my cause, and Hayama would betray us only to be overcome by Yours Truly, and I'd escape down the fire escape with the Miura, Yuigahama and Totsuka- the latter cradled in my arms, obviously- as the only survivors of the Sobu High massacre.

Then the break time bell rang, signalling the end of my daydream. Oh well.

After that was Japanese, the only subject that I consistently paid in attention in, so by the time I was heading over to my self-designated loner spot overlooking the tennis courts, I was still in the dark.

Here is yet another example of the positive correlation between familiarity and comfort. There is absolutely nothing overtly special about this place of the Sobu High grounds, except for the therapeutic silence and gentle sea breezes that reigned supreme in the early afternoon, and the fact that it often serves the role of host to the school's most prominent loner. I can't exactly remember the first time I established this as my lunchtime territory, but I've never shifted or attempted expansion to it since. The other loner hotspots I was aware of in our year were the library, which was soiled by the presence of Zaimokuza, and the roof, where Kawasaki choose to entertain herself (he he). Usually, I would take a seat on the steps, thus granting me an excellent view of the Chiba sights beyond the school fence and whoever may have been playing on the tennis courts. If it was Totsuka, it was a blessing to observe, even from afar. By the way, I should probably give my daily prayer to the powers that be for the existence of that fair, fair beauty.

God on high, hear me prayer. In my need, you have always been there (15). And, in response to my and indeed the world's suffering, you granted us the good prophet Totsuka as redemption for our misery. For this, we thank you. Amen, hallelujah, God bless us everyone (16).

Sometimes, I add in a few more verses if I'm feeling particularly pious. One day, I intend to compose the psalms of my religion and spread the texts across the world, establishing Chiba as an international pilgrimage site.

But today, Totsuka was nowhere to be found (physically that is- in spirit he's omniscient). Instead, the figure of Yuigahama was disrupting the clarity of the scene by sitting right in my go-to spot.

I paused for a moment, suddenly unsure whether I should approach her. Her back was to me, but I could tell her face, from the way she was clutching her sides with her arms and tapping her feet restlessly on the stone steps, would be a far cry from the cheerfulness I'd come to expect from her. My chest felt oddly tight, as if I were a claustrophic trapped in the darkest of confines.

Come on Hikki. It's only Yuigahama. How bad could it possibly be?

I closed the distance between her, ensuring my face remained neutral.

'Yo.'

Yuigahama gasped and let out a surprised yelp that was, quite frankly, very very very cute. I'd give it a solid 8-10 on my Komachi cute meter, with Totsuka being a 9 and your average embarrassed tsundere character as a 9.5.

Recovering from my greeting, she crossed her arms together and pouted, a light shade of red scorching her cheeks. 'H- how many times have I told you not to sneak up one me, Hikki?! You'll give me a heartattack!'

'Sorry,' I replied, not feeling at all apologetic.

I took a seat beside her.

Aha. As expected, the dreaded beast of social awkwardness arrives right on cue.

Unfortunately, I've yet to develop an 109th talent that helps me to remedy, or at least allieviate, a situation such as this. I was currently doing absolutely everything in my admittedly limited power to avoid eye contact with the girl sitting beside me, and she wasn't helping either. How could something like this happen outside of a light novel, or a romantic fanfiction? Every second or two, we'd steal a glance in the others direction, as if checking to ensure they were still there, and when we inevitably caught each other doing so, Yuigahama would blush bashfully and I'd turn my head away, hoping beyond hope that a hole would open up and send me on an adventure to meet the Queen of Hearts (17). I'd much rather be brutally decapitated for the robbery of tarts than have to endure this sort've cliched rubbish. Seriously romantic comedy gods, couldn't you at least try and make things original?

Well, screw this. I've been exaggerating thus far, but if things carry on as they are I could well become the first person in history to die from clinical embarassment.

'Um-'

'-Hikki-'

'-oh sorr-'

'-no, you go first.'

We both decided to try and break the ice at the same time. Great. If anything, that's made what was once a block expand to sizeable iceberg proportions. And we're the proverbial Titanic, unable to steer cleer of its path.

I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I was doing so, I was suddenly struck by a violent epiphany. In a moment, I knew exactly why I was there. I knew exactly what Yui wanted to speak to me about.

Oh no...

My dead fish eyes widened and, unable to keep a lid on the shame coursing through my veins, I put my head in my hands.

'Oh god...' I moaned through my fingers. 'I know. It's about that.'

I couldn't see Yuigahama's reaction, but the time it took for her to respond was all too indicative. 'Y- you do?!' she squeaked, her voice resembling a leprechaun on helium.

I sighed.

Damn you, romantic comedy Gods.

I couldn't believe this had happened. I couldn't believe that the same universe that had given us something as holy and beautiful as Totsuka could simultaneously find it amusing to rain down this kind of crap on our easily smashable skulls. My lingering suspicion from earlier had been confirmed: I was indeed living in a fanfic. In this fanfic, the author was performing a stunt that only the most creatively bankrupt attempted to pull. It would dig a literary hole of shame for them so deep that escaping would become utterly unthinkable, unless you were Harry Houdini. Or immortal. Or Spiderman, I gue- I'm getting sidetracked. AGAIN. Maybe this is why I appear to be so out of favour with the divine entities messing around on the Earth-model controlling chess board overhead. I was their sacrificial pawn that, for some reason, never quite seemed to die.

I took a deep breath, summoning in all my courage and expelling all my dignity. It was time to resort to my method of dealing with the going when the going gets tough. Begging, of course.

I turned my head back to meet Yuigahama's eyes. Her hazel eyes looked they were about to explode, and her lip was trembling.

This is the consequence of your foolish actions, Hachiman. You've traumatised an innocent girl.

'Listen... I know that nothing I say or do can make you forgive me. You're certainly not obligated to. I wouldn't forgive me if I saw the horrors that I know you've seen.'

Unexpectedly, her lip stopped trembling. 'Huh?'

I facepalmed. 'Stupid Hachiman,' I muttered bitterly. 'I knew I should've kept them better hidden. I mean, I suspected you'd seen something when I left you and Komachi alone to buy some more instant ramen. I should've said something, damn it.'

Yuigahama tilted her head to the side. 'Hikki... are you sure we're talking about the same thing?'

I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the fate that awaited me. Then, for the first time in the conversation, I properly met her eyes.

'You saw my collection of Citrus volumes, didn't you (18)?'

The horror that streamed onto her face all but confirmed my suspicions. I'd been so mind-bendingly naive, leaving them in such an obvious, easily observed spot in my wardrobe. Honestly. How dense harem protagonist esque can you get?

Having said that, I'm not exactly ashamed for possessing them. I mean, come on. Deep down, I think we all love a bit of that yuri manga goodness. I'd never even dream of telling her of course, but it helped somewhat that Mei was rather similar in personality to Yukino and Yuzu was a long lost cousin of Yuigahama, excluding the promiscuity aspect. Inserting them into the fictional stepsister's clothes wasn't that-

Ahem. I appear to have spoken a little too freely.

Regardless, it was time to enter the second stage of my begging for forgiveness routine. Getting on my knees in order to make myself appear as pitiable as possible. But just as I was about to initiate part two, I was interrupted.

'Ew ew ew ew ew ew! No! Gross! Pervert! Weirdo! Hikki!'

For the last time, my name is not a valid insult.

But excluding annoyance at Yui and Yukino's immature corruption of the good Hikigaya name, my body was overwhelmed by confusion. And just a pinch of hope.

'You mean... you didn't see my Citrus collection?'

'NO!'

...

Halle-fucking-lujah.

It's strange how a person's moods operate. One can swing from close to bipola to ecstasy akin to heroin injection in the space of a sentence. Yuigahama had undergone a similarly dramatic change in the same amount of time as well, but I barely noticed. I was too busy praying to the Gods I'd been cursing at the start of the conversation.

Though this did mean that Yui knew I was into a yuri managa series. That could come back to haunt me, but in this instance alone I think optimism is justified!

I sat back against the stone step, suddenly capable of breathing again. Well, that's a relief.

'So... what was it you actually wanted to tell me?'

The relief was short-lived.

Yui had started crying. And not the type where you're not quite sure whether they're just attention seeking or not. This was a full body, whimpering, tears flowing down your cheeks like lava from Pompeii kind of crying. She seemed to be mumbling something under her breath, but it was so quiet, so heart-wrenchingly desperate. I looked on, stunned.

Now. As a loner, my comfort zone is rather small. I'm comfortable when, fitting to my social status, I am not in the presence of a fellow human. I'm comfortable when I'm sitting in homeroom, headphones plugged in, listening to anime OPs or rap rock songs, stealing glances at the others in my class while they're not looking. I'm comfortable when I'm sat at home, watching the weekly air of the anime whose theme I was listening to during the day on the sofa. I'm comfortable when I'm exchanging loving quips with Komachi, or not so loving but friendly nonetheless quips with the Ice Queen. Until then, I suppose a part of me had thought I was comfortable in Yui Yuigahama's company too.

Perhaps that was what ripped my heart into shreds when I saw her in the state she was. I wanted to help her. Rest my arm around her shoulder. Do something. But the knowledge that I was the one responsible for her tears cut deep into my skin, fixing me to my seat, helpless and pathetic as I always fucking was.

There and then, I agreed with Yui. I really was gross.

I couldn't even speak. The words were strangled, constricted, entangled somewhere in my voice box.

Slowly, the lovable, confusing, pink-haired airhead looked up. A tear dropped down onto the lapel of her blazer.

'... How can you still pretend you don't know? I thoug- I thought you wanted something genuine.'

I clenched my fists together.

'Hikki, I- I think that I lo-'

'Don't say it. Please.'

It hurt to think about, so I didn't. Emotions pained me, so I tried not to feel. It had never, ever worked.

'I can't answer that right now.'

'Hikki-'

I stared at my feet, unable to look at her. 'Just... just let me think about this, okay? I need... I need... I need time.'

The sound of her tears continued, ringing in my eardrums like echoes in a cavern. I certainly felt like I was trapped in a cavern. I was spinning around desperately, looking for the light at the end of the tunnel that had never seemed so far away, or the wind that would signal a path for me to take. I was clutching at straws, and I always drew the short one.

'One week. Let me have that, Yui.'

She laughed bitterly. 'You've had a year to think about it, Hikki. What difference is a week going to make?'

We sat there in silence for awhile. One person crying, another person who felt on the verge of crying, and a thousand words they wanted to say hanging between them. A sea breeze blew over their heads, as it always did.

At some point, I stood up and begun walking away from her. It was the only thing that didn't feel... shallow, I guess, and I was terrified that if I'd spoken again, it would be something that I regretted. I wasn't really feeling anything, except for a compulsion to run until Yui's head was a tiny speck on the horizon and I could pretend like she hadn't just confessed to me.

Yui just confessed to me.

I needed a MAXX Coffee.

1. An anime I'm watchign atm.

2. Nightmare on Elm Street

3. Tremors

4. Japanese term for lesbian.

5. Rage Against the Machine, one of my fave bands.

6. Bulls on Parade

7. Pokemon

8. Tom Morello's love of the wah wah pedal.

9. Star Wars

10. Wicked

11. Microphone Fiend

12. Nirvana

13. Sherlock

14. Highschool of the Dead

15. Les Mis

16. Christmas Carol

17. Alice in Wonderland

18. A yuri manga series.

I must admit, I'd initially planned on writing another scene where Hachiman goes to the Service Club and Yukino reacts to how he responded to Yui's confession, but I thought it would be more realistic if 8man just went home after that point. He's the type to avoid awkwardness and social interaction, tbf.

But yh, plz tell me what you thought of the opening chapter in a review! I really appreciate people's feedback.

Also, a quick word of warning: I wouldn't expect quick updates on this story. I'm a slow a writer at the best of times and I'm entering a month of exams, so the work I'll be able to do will be limited for awhile. Nonetheless, I'll keep at it and post Tuesday in due time!