A/N: SO SORRY IT'S SO LATE. COLLEGE IS BASICALLY A WHIRLWIND AND MY LIFE IS TERRIBLY BUSY BUT HERE IT IS. This is sort of the opening / preface to the beginning of part two, but please, let me know what you think and if there's anything you want to see happen in part two!

DEDICATION: dedicated to the lovely fyerigurl, who's the loveliest of all and basically inspires me with her existence ugh.

Update: UGH I'm so sorry - basically coffeelatte has issues with technology and should just live in a cave. I'm sorry for the wrong chapter upload, everything should be fixed now. v_v sneak peaks at the next chapter coming soon on my tumblr, and the picture of Nanao's outfit is posted already!

Disclaimer: I do not own PoT.

The year is at once, harder and easier, than one would have expected a long distance relationship to be. (Or at the very least, from what Nanao had expected, and though he won't admit it, what Atobe did, too).

It wasn't so hard, because their conversations had always been the center of their bond, easily carried through skype conversations despite the time difference (they made it work, even if one was drowsy half the time). For a while, Atobe almost liked it, the way he watched her eyes light up whenever his features became visible on the small laptop screen, the way she seemed so very eager to speak to him.

But then it was hard, sometimes, because he remembers the way her fingers would ghost over the back of his hand and how it'd comfort him more than words could, the way they'd spent moments in silence, listening to nothing but the stutters between heartbeats and memorizing the lines of one another's features.

For how easy his classes are and how manageable his studies were, he had a schedule, had an actual advisor, now, working to mould him into the future mega-CEO he's destined to be. He has places to go and people to meet and things to learn outside of university lectures, and he, at once, has more and less freedom than he used to in high school. He can't quite jet off to Spain to visit her like he could have easily done back in Hyotei.

And Nanao is-

Happy.

So happy.

There's a small, selfish part of him that loathes it, to see how much happier she is in a place where he isn't, in a new life with new things and new people and to see her cheeks flushed from so much happiness it aches. It's terrible and petty, but he's used to being the sun around which she orbits, so it'd taken some adjustment when she suddenly flew off and found something that made her deliriously excited that wasn't him.

But there's a larger, overwhelming part of him that's fond, that's relieved that she's happy instead of miserable, that's happy that she's happy and that's proud of her achievements. And he is – proud. It's a strange feeling, being proud, but she's shown him some of her designs and she has a tendency to babble about her classes and it sounds like she's doing well (but then, she typically does; her ineptitude at Greek had always been an odd mystery to him). It makes this foreign, bubbly feeling well up in his chest, and he's realized now that it's pride.

There's a little constant buzzing in the back of his head, this thing- he doesn't want to call it longing, but it kind of is, because he does miss her, as much as he smirks it off and rolls his eyes. Nanao, on the other hand, is very blatant with her own homesickness.

She writes him letters.

She writes them in between classes and during odd moments in lectures, scribbles some hastily while she's out shopping, painstakingly puts them down on little napkins when she goes out to eat. They skype constantly and go on about their lives, so the letters are entirely unnecessary – but they are, at once, nothing and everything.

They range from full-fledged, three-page letters in her neat script, to three-word sentences on restaurant paper napkins. They can be about buildings she's seen, or about a sudden wave of nostalgia she'd had while walking past a particular landmark; they're about lovely graffiti she's seen on a wall that was surprisingly inspiring, about a gorgeous quote she read, about how she goes to sleep to the sound of crickets, how she eats waffles and thinks of them and how awful they were at cooking.

Sometimes she'll send them as she writes them, and at others, she'll send them all at once.

He reads every letter of every one.

She also sends him packages – a little bag of tea she picked up at the local shops, a souvenir that catches her eye (it stands on his desk: a little ceramic elephant with a curved trunk arching over its head), a braided bracelet that she knows he'd never wear but sits next to the elephant on his desk.

And in this way, he gets it. He sees her life in the little notes she scribbles (and it warms his heart just a little because that means he's always on her mind, doesn't it?), the little odds and ends she picks up wherever she goes.

He'll never admit it, but he likes the constant stream of packages to his house that's started since she's flown off. (Yuushi is also incredibly jealous, because all he ever gets of Minako are the pictorials of her gigs splattered across magazines – but then, sometimes Atobe's jealous, because Oshitari and Nanao send one another new literature almost all the time to the point where it's almost tradition).

He's not proud to admit it, but Atobe has caved at a few points the past year. He may or may not have jetted off to Barcelona under the guise of meeting some potential small businesses to buy out, and may or may not have waltzed onto Nanao's campus with a pair of shades and a bouquet of tulips. (The first time, the gaggle of foreign girls she'd made friends with had swooned, had gushed in Spanish and fawned over the flowers and Nanao's novio, because they'd recognized him from her pictures). Oshitari may or may not have been too envious to speak for a while, because the last time he'd tried visiting Shigohara Minako in Milan, she'd already been halfway across the country, hurtling towards her next show.

He'd gotten a bit of flack from his advisor for it, but it had been worth it, to see the sheer disbelief and stun on her features morph into overwhelming elation, the way she'd quite literally dropped off her belongings in favor of pitching herself at him and wrapping her arms so tightly around his ribcage he was sure he'd bruise. She'd pulled him in, pressed a fervent kiss to both of his cheeks, gripped his hands until they grew white with pressure – and it may have been he who flew across the globe, but she seemed so very, very happy about it.

(Also: he refuses to let it be that Shigohara Minako has visited Nanao more times than he, simply because her constant traveling allows her to visit Spain multiple times. Each and every time, Nanao'd call him with bright eyes and a brighter smile, babbling about what latest trinket Minako brought for her, and for the love of god, will the she-devil stop fraternizing with his girlfriend?)

Her program keeps her busy, incredibly so; she doesn't even have time to come home for the holidays, nor is she allowed to take off for entire weekends to fly back. It upsets her when she can't make it back to spend the big events with Keigo and her family (she'd almost cried when she found out she wouldn't be able to fly in for Christmas, and had actually cried when it was confirmed she couldn't for his birthday), and he's not happy about it either, but they're things he'd already expected when he sent her off.

But she likes it. Loves it, even, and it's easy to tell with the gleam in her eyes whenever she talks about the work she's doing and the things she's learning. He'd never really expected her to fall so fiercely into it, but she has – and if it makes her happy, then he's happy. She almost revels in her busy schedule, if only because each and every thing she does excites her more about what she's learning.

He almost thinks Barcelona is the best decision she's ever made.

She looks content. Fulfilled. It's a good look for her, and if anything, it almost makes her more attractive – because she'd always been wonderfully earnest and honest, but now, now she was- vivacious. It was the same sort of quality that had once made Shigohara Minako beautiful when she played tennis, the same sort of delight brimming in her eyes, the spring in her step.

All in all, things have been good.

They've fought, too, of course, because when he's stressed between multiple projects and gaining a handle on the company workings, he doesn't have time to have actual conversation with her; likewise, she's not quite understanding when he abruptly ends one of their phone calls, because didn't he see that this was the only time they ever got to communicate? They were both people with much too busy lives for it to be easy to maintain contact, and it was too easy, sometimes, to drown in their own individual lives rather than make an effort to maintain the one they shared.

But they worked it out in the end, because they cared far too much to ever really stay mad.

And now, she's due back in two months, and she's-

"What do you mean, you want to extend your stay?" Atobe's voice is thin, brittle, like it's held together at the seams by a thread. It's flat.

Nanao's smile – bright, excited – slowly fades from her lips into a small, unsure frown. "I just- they offered me another year, and it'd be a great opportunity, so I just- I'd thought-"

"It is," he interrupts. "It's a wonderful opportunity." His voice is level, now, monotone and his words bleed away into nonchalance.

Nanao lowers her eyes, fidgets with her fingers for a bit. "I just thought…Keigo, it's such an amazing opportunity."

It is, he wants to agree. But there's another part of him demanding, asking, hasn't she studied enough the past year? Tokyo University is a world-renowned college, so why can't she continue her studies here? Is it really necessary that she spends another year all the fucking way over in Barcelona?

"And the banquet?" he asks, then. His tone is light and conversational, as though his girlfriend hadn't just told him that she wanted to spend another 365 days across the globe, as though he didn't have to plan on accepting that the only form of communication he'd have with her for twelve more months would be harried phone calls and tired video sessions.

She's due back in two months – just in time to accompany him to the Banquet. Capitalized, bolded, underlined, marked in red on his calendar: the grand celebration, to which only the loveliest and wealthiest darlings of society were invited, where his father would make the official announcement to declare him as the future CEO of the Atobe Corporation. While it had always been an unspoken assumption that Keigo would take over, this was-

-this was his coronation. This was where he was given the keys to the kingdom, if only so he could use them later, but this was…everything he'd been working towards since he was old enough to even comprehend how large of a legacy he'd been born into.

This was, perhaps, the most important high-society function he'd ever attend in his life, if only because it was the most important event to him.

"I…If I stay, I don't think- I don't think I can make it; they're really strict about taking days off and if I take some off now they won't let me stay-"

"Alright." His knuckles clench around the phone. "I've a conference call in a few minutes. I have to go."

"Keigo, wait-"

He ends the call.

He knows he's being childish.

It's a wonderful opportunity for her, and had the roles been reversed, he'd never be one to allow a relationship to dictate his career choices. It makes him a hypocrite, certainly, but he can't help but to try justifying it with a- he misses her, misses the way her fingers clutched at his to give and receive support, misses the way she'd always been the person who didn't expect things of him, ever. It doesn't justify anything, he knows.

He can't help it anyway.

Because there's always, always this little voice in the back of his mind, whispering- this isn't forever, there's a time limit on you and her and it's ticking away- All it would take is a flick of his father's whim, and he'd be off meeting his potential fiancé, hand-selected by his parents for her family's assets and compatibility with their own corporation. The only reason his father supports their relationship (and by support, he means not actively protest) at all is because it makes Keigo even more of a darling prince in the media's eyes, and because it translates to consistency and commitment for the Atobe image. He knows, has always known this, despite the way he presses Nanao close and kisses her cheek, so can anyone really blame him for trying to have her beside him for as long as it's allowed?

After all-

He can present her with jeweled ball gowns and sparkling diamonds, all the lovely pearls and sparkling wine money can buy, and he'll be like a prince straight from the pages of a fairy tale – complete with a dashing white steed and a glass castle – but this, this story of theirs, is far from a romantic book. Theirs isn't a beginning nor an end, is simply the middle of a grander saga, and in the end, the Atobe prince will wed another princess, and Nanao will-

He just wants her while he's still allowed to.

Then he thinks of the happy flush in her cheeks whenever she shows him a new design, the way her eyes had practically beamed with elation when hers was picked to be showcased at the college gala, and he can't quite bring himself to ask Nanao to fly back. As much as he loathes to, he understands, and he realizes that she ought to spend another year abroad, regardless of what it may mean for them.

Atobe sighs and stares at the phone for a moment, contemplating. Then he drops it softly on his bed. He'll call her tomorrow. Or something.

Nanao stares at the phone with a bitten lip and a clenched hand. Her lashes flutter wildly as she blinks to hold back to tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, and there's a bright, deep flush on her cheeks as she exhales loudly. Something twists uncomfortably in her gut, deep in her chest and low in her stomach. She splays a shaky hand over her abdomen to try to center herself.

She hadn't thought it'd be this way.

But then, perhaps she hadn't thought about it at all.

She'd just been morbidly excited about the opportunity, too busy squealing and drowning in elation to really think about what it'd mean for their relationship, about how Keigo might see it. And she sees it now, understands that it's not the greatest news, but she'd also-

-she'd also had this tiny, subconscious part of her that had hoped he'd support her.

Because- in this past year she'd learned a lot about independence and 'finding oneself,' but she finds that she always does a little better, works a little harder, when Keigo believes in her, when he tells her that she'll do great and that he's happy for her. It's silly and she's probably weak and he'll probably call her dumb that she's like this, but she can't help it, the way she feels a bit better when Keigo's on her side.

She feels wretched now, but she's…she wants this. She wants this, and she's- she's going to stay.

He doesn't tell her this, but Atobe thinks that if she's extending her stay, then there's really nothing left to do but to- break up.

He doesn't tell her because he doesn't want it to come off as an ultimatum: it's their relationship or architecture. He doesn't tell her, because as much as he wants her to come home, there's still a deeper part of him that wants her to pursue everything she's ever wanted, that's indescribably happy and proud of her. He doesn't tell her, because it's not that he's breaking up with her because she's staying, it's just…a matter of fact.

Their relationship doesn't have much time left: at most, two years. Perhaps less, perhaps a bit more. It's silly, then, to continue on with a long distance relationship (and it's hard, so fucking hard, sometimes, to be in one), because by the time she comes home, it'll be the end, anyway.

But when she calls again the next day, he answers it, and tells her- "You should stay."

"…Really?" her voice is hesitant and unsure from across the line.

It only makes him more sure. "Yeah. Congratulations – I'm happy for you. It's an amazing opportunity." His voice is soft and his tone is genuine, because he is, and he can hear Nanao's loud exhale of relief. He hears a shuffle, and he can practically see her sitting up from the sheer excitement. It makes him smile a little.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

He hums.

He'll have to find a date to the banquet, he thinks.

His fingers trail along the napkin choices – champagne or cream (champagne, he thinks; always champagne). They find purchase along the folds of the fabric, and he can't help but to remember the last time he'd went shopping for a dress for Nanao, remembers the vivid colors and the way her expression softened into one of shy excitement whenever she received one.

He couldn't possibly show up dateless to his own coronation ceremony.

He lets go of the napkin.

He tells her so.

He doesn't mean for it to be mean, had never meant it in that way. He'd simply wanted to tell her because, well- she deserved to know. And she had to understand, didn't she, that he couldn't grace his ceremony without a date on his arm, not when he was nineteen and nearing twenty, not when he wasn't considered a teen anymore. He has real duties to society now, homages to pay and games to play.

But he hears the stilted breath and the catch in her voice anyway.

"Oh," she breathes, and it comes muffled through the phone.

He hates that she sounds that way, but there's also a part of him that's twisted and wretched and thinks- you're the one who decided to stay, and this is what happens when you do. The thought is gone in the next moment when she takes a deep, shuddering breath and murmurs "I know. I'm- I wish I could be there, and I'm so sorry I'm missing it. I know how much it means to you."

His finger taps solemn beats against the wood of his desk. Selfless as always, Nanao, his mind half-sneers, because of course she'd be sorry about missing it rather than upset that her boyfriend was taking another girl to the ball. He'd once adored it, this manner of hers, all kind and achingly polite, but all he can think of now is how he'd have preferred if she threw a fit and demanded that he go alone.

He wouldn't have gone alone (probably), but it'd have felt a little nicer than this sickening twist in his stomach.

"Listen," she rushes, and he already knows what's coming next: "I have this project deadline and my group members are waiting for me, so I have to-"

"Go."

A flicker of silence, as though Nanao is debating whether to leave their conversation or not.

She does.

He's not surprised.

Their conversations are a little forced, a little broken after the incident. She still musters up this cheeriness in her voice, but it's no longer as buoyant, and he's no longer as fond. Their words are stuttered, their affection stowed away somewhere long lost, and there are these erratic pauses in between their sentences, as though-

As though they're struggling to come up with things to say, when that's always been the one thing that they'd been good at, since before they'd become good friends.

It's a little like watching the stars die out, one by one, across the expansive sky. He sees it happening, knows it is, but he's helpless to do anything but to watch; he's not quite sure if he wants to save it, either.

What's the point – when they're doomed to end, anyway?

He decides to take Ichihara Emi – of faint French descent and the girl who had recently joined the modeling world of high fashion in Japan, with long limbs and thin cheeks and a fashionably thin figure. She has vaguely dead eyes (but that's why she sells, because the magazines clamor for such dark expressions) and a beautiful smile.

Nothing like Nanao, but perhaps that's what he'd wanted.

He's approving the live orchestra selected to play for night when his phone lights up with a message from Nanao: she's just received an A on her project. He's genuinely happy for her, and he tells her so; there just also happens to be this strange, hollow flicker in the cavern of his chest. It's alright.

In the back of his mind, he ponders the logistics of their break up. How to do it, when would be the most acceptable and convenient time for both of them, and if he ought to at least fly out to see her face to face when he does it. And he doesn't like it, this bile that rises in his throat when he starts to think about being Keigo and Nanao and not KeigoandNanao, but it has to be done, is something that's a certain if she's going to stay the next year in Spain.

She knows this, too, doesn't she?

He almost doesn't want to do it, if only because he thinks of the way her expression will crumple, and he's never been good at making her sad. (He's never good at making anyone sad, but with Nanao, he'd only ever wanted her to be happy).

Perhaps he'll do it after the ceremony.

Yes, he decides; he'll do it then.

It's a week before the party when they video chat for the first time in a while. When the screen comes to life, he sees Nanao: hair a little longer than he remembers, tired lines under her eyes but an undeniable vivacity sparkling in her expression. She's happy, he realizes, content in a way she'd never been back in Tokyo.

There's a simultaneous clench and loosening in his chest at the realization.

She's happy. She's happy in Spain, even if it means not being by his side, happy in a way that Tokyo and Japan has never been able to make her – happy in a way he's never been able to make her. It's this thought that makes the final piece of the puzzle break off and flit away, that lets his shoulders droop in half relief and half-

-surrender.

Spain makes her happy.

It's okay, then, to break up with her. To let her go. Perhaps there's no better place and time and reason to do it than for this – because different things make them happy, now, and what's the point in struggling and staying together (despite the inevitable end) if there are other things that make them happier?

It feels a lot like closure when he looks at her animated features as she babbles on about the latest project she's working on.

He can do it.

She can be happy.

He doesn't say a word to Oshitari, but it doesn't matter; when he finds out that Keigo's taking Ichihara Emi to the party, he already knows that something's changed. That, and he suspects that he's already heard from Minako about Nanao's decision to stay another year (they're apparently peas in a pod now, his mind huffs).

All Oshitari does is tilt his head to the side with a thin line across his lips.

Atobe shrugs.

"Should I even bother sending Shigohara Minako an invitation, or will she be halfway to Europe?" he asks instead, and watches as Oshitari's eyes grow fond at the name.

(He tells himself, then, that he will never, ever have such a look in his eyes for Nanao because it's particularly unbecoming).

The party is stunning. It's perhaps the largest, most glamorous one the Atobes have ever thrown – and isn't that a statement?

It takes place in the main Atobe estate itself, where there's a custom ballroom built specifically for the purpose of entertaining large volumes of guests. The champagne is lovely and the orchestra is beautiful and the most attractive thing about the party are the guests themselves. Delicacies of lobster and caviar make their rounds through the marble floors, balanced atop gleaming trays handled by impeccably dressed waiters and waitresses; the ceilings are too-high and the lights sparkle from crystals, and everywhere, there is laughter and wealth.

It's the culmination of everything that their society represents, and it's perfect for the Atobe heir to take his throne. He's nineteen, on the cusp of his twenties, dashing and charming and devilishly perfect to the point where people question his validity at times.

He's wearing a custom-designed Armani suit that fits his figure like a glove, hair swept to the side and the usual smirk on his lips. He's holding onto a flute of champagne and murmuring a well-aimed quip to a group of shareholders, who burst into laughter shortly afterwards; this is Atobe Keigo at his best, in his element and poised to kill.

Ichihara Emi is suitably gorgeous that night, wearing a nude dress that's surprisingly beautiful and chic and wearing a dark shadow on her eyes. People are just a little surprised that Suzuki Nanao couldn't make it out to the biggest event for the Atobe heir, but then, she's been absent from Japan's high society scene since she'd jetted off to Spain, so it's not that much of a shock, either.

People coo over them regardless, even if they know that he has a girlfriend, call them a stunning pair and takes so many pictures he thinks he's blind at some point.

He has some genuine fun halfway through the night when he meets up with the regulars (they all still play in college, and it's much, much less serious now than it used to be because they have other things to do with their lives, but tennis always has been and probably always will be a constant in their lives). They haven't changed, not in the places that matter, and he loves being around his dear friends even if they are a bit manic at times.

They clap him on the back and it means much more than the gushing words of praise from the throng of people he's met today, because they of all people know what he's sacrificed to stand here, know all the things he's done and things he's lost.

Wisely, no one says a word about Nanao, whose presence – or lack thereof – had always been much more noticeable when she was absent than when she was here.

Atobe's had a while (a year) to adjust to social gatherings without Nanao as his date, but it stings a little more tonight, when he's facing more fake smiles and shallow congratulations than ever before. It stings, because she's always been the first one he'd turned to in his moments of triumph, because it felt at times that she was so happy for him that she was, quite possible, even happier than he was about his successes.

It makes something clench in his chest, though, so he tries not to think about it too much.

Instead, he regretfully bids his friends a momentary adieu, because he has some more rounds to make, before his father's grand speech at the end of the night.

He does just that: waltzes around the room with the most beautiful girl in the room (well, Shigohara was more lioness than girl, so really, she and Emi are not in the same category; there'd been a moment, earlier, when the two girls sized one another up. How did that go, one may ask – all Atobe has to say is, had Shigohara been the type of girl to lose, then he wouldn't have hated her as much as he did. Subsequently, Emi is suspiciously absent whenever Oshitari and Shigohara are around).

Likewise, when Atobe runs into Oshitari and Shigohara (always Shigohara, never Minako, because that'd be like treating her as a person when she's a terrifying, fire-breathing monster) in between partaking in social politics, Emi whisks away to 'speak to an acquaintance she sees across the room.'

He's mid-sentence when he sees Oshitari's brows climb high up his forehead and Shigohara's lips curve into an insufferable, knowing smirk. Neither of them are looking at him. Instead, they're looking past him, as though there's something behind him, and it makes him faintly irritated because hello, he's talking-

He turns around and that thought dies instantly.

"…Hi, Keigo." A small, nervous smile.

It's the same voice, still familiar and soft and breathy, but it's different, because all he's heard for so long is her voice marred by the speakers of his phone or laptop.

He can't help but to stare, expression frozen and eyes unblinking, for a few moments.

All he sees for a few moments is her expression – the same one he's seen so many times in photographs and over the computer screen, the one he's seen perhaps once, twice, in person. And it's here in front of him, real in a way that almost hurts, physical and tangible and here.

Then his vision expands, and little bits and pieces of her appearance start filtering into his line of sight.

Her hair, longer than before, in large, soft curls around her waist; her dress – a glittering, golden gown that sparkles brilliantly underneath the chandeliers; her thin neck and delicate collarbones; her hands, fingers, clutching at one another nervously and fumbling around-

She's lovely.

"You ought to have done your hair up. It would have shown off the dress better," is all he manages to say, at first, and Nanao breaks out into this huge beam that throws him off completely.

It's her smile that does it. It's her smile that disarms him, completely undoes him in a way that he loathes, makes him stride forward and cross the gap between them in less then a few seconds, a few heartbeats. It makes all the missing he'd done for the past year come crashing back against him in one, big torrential wave, makes him reach out and pull her to him with cold fingers.

And he'd be embarrassed for making such a scene, he really would, only Nanao's even worse, her fingers gripping his sleeves and her arm loping around his neck with such a sense of desperation that he wonders if she's okay. It's been so long, but they still fit together, and they've always been like two broken pieces whose edges aligned to make something unbroken – it makes something dislodge itself from his chest.

He makes a move as if to shift backwards just a little, but Nanao's arms tighten around him fervently, and he can't quite pull away now, can he? Instead, his hands trail down her sides to rest at her hips, thumbs stroking gentle circles there.

It seems to calm her in a few moments, enough that she finally loosens her hold so that they can lean back and properly look at one another.

He catches the little brightness in her eyes that looks suspiciously like tears, focuses on the glitter eyeshadow and rosy cheeks and pink lips. "I thought you couldn't make it," he murmurs. "Did they give you a vacation?"

Her arms are still around his neck. "No," she murmurs.

He pauses. "What? Did they excuse this absence, then?"

Her fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the back of his neck. "No."

He doesn't quite understand. There's the beginnings of an idea at the back of his mind, but he doesn't quite let himself give into that, yet, because no, he oughtn't-

"I. I'm done. I- declined. I said that I'm coming back. After, after this year." She gets the words out in jerky attempts, as though she's nervous, but she's firm in the way she says it.

Atobe's brows furrow. "You chose Tokyo U over Spain?"

Nanao's tongue darts out to lick at her lower lip. "No. You."

He frowns in genuine bafflement. "What-"

"You. I chose. I chose you," she rushes to clarify, and there's a certain redness to her cheeks that's certainly not makeup, now. "I chose you over Spain."

He feels like he's falling.

Like the ground beneath him as given way, as though he's falling down, down, and there's this swooping in his stomach and he can't quite comprehend the full idea of what's just happened- "You chose me over Spain?" his voice is oddly muted and somber.

Doesn't she know that they've only a year left, perhaps two? "…You chose a year with me over Spain?"

Something flickers in her eyes, because this is the first time that they've ever discussed time, ever. But she lifts her chin in that stubborn way of hers, eyes sure and set and: "Yeah." Her eyes soften a bit, this time. "I'd choose a day with you over Spain, I think," she whispers, as though it's a secret, as though it's a daring confession, and it sort of is.

Something breaks, then.

He kisses her.

It's almost bruising, the way his lips press harshly against hers, and he swallows the soft gasp she lets out and clutches her to him harder as her hand comes to slide against his cheek.

It's terrible, stupid decision making at its finest, he wants to tell her – because is she stupid, to give up such an amazing opportunity all for a high school boyfriend, even if it is him? Had she consulted him on it, he'd have said no, would have strapped her down and kept her in Spain, but that's also maybe why she hadn't said a word to him, either.

He also has a thousand questions brimming over, things like when did you change your mind and why and also things like thank you and you really shouldn't have but I can't bring myself to not be happy that you did.

But those things are secondary to the way Nanao's eyes are looking at him the way they always have, as if he's something special and awe-inspiring and darling, as if he means something a lot more than what he actually is. Those things don't matter when Nanao's hands find their way to his, when her fingers clasp his and when her forehead leans against his and they're breathing the same air again.

So he takes a little longer, takes another minute to breathe it in, to squeeze her hand and to smile softly when she huffs a breathless, excited laugh. He even revels in the telltale click he hears from somewhere to his right, no doubt a photo that'll be featured in the society pages; perhaps he'll get a bit of flack for doing this when he has another date, but perhaps the media will be besotted with the fact that Nanao surprised him at the event. He doesn't really care, either.

He wraps his arm around her shoulder and presses another kiss to her temple, to her forehead, likes the way she half-giggles, half gasps and the way her hand clutches at his front as though he makes her knees weak.

That's when he hears a snide "My my, the Atobe heir is rather into PDA nowadays, isn't he?"

He rolls his eyes. "As if you're anyone to judge anyone else on public displays, Shigohara," he bites back. "And yours is rather more PDI than PDA, isn't it? Public displays of indecency."

Nanao laughs at that, and he thinks that it's nice to have her around to laugh at his jokes again. He'd been feeling woefully double-teamed against that wretched Yuushi and awful Shigohara. But then he notices the lack of surprise on Shigohara's features, and his eyes narrow: "…Don't tell me that you already knew."

Her smile is positively smug as she reaches forward to tuck a lock of Nanao's hair behind her ear. "Nanao tells me everything – isn't that right, darling?"

Atobe is just a little horrified and very, very nauseous.

At the end of the night, when his father makes the much-anticipated speech-

"…-the rightful successor, who has consistently displayed outstanding intelligence, commitment and competency in all areas, will be my son, Keigo…-"

-he hears the roar of applause and the congratulations from all the members of society who matter, and he's proud, terrifyingly so, has never been quite this gratified. But he sweeps his gaze along the crowd, doesn't really stop at anyone or any face until he finds a particular one, somewhere in the middle, clapping fiercely and smiling so brightly and earnestly it makes him laugh aloud.

She catches him looking, and gives this small, over-eager wave that makes his heart beat harder.

His lips curve into a smirk.

And later, when the party is finally over, she stays.

They slip away to his bedroom, where he changes into his silk pajamas and she changes from her dress to one of his loose shirts. They face one another in bed, and her body naturally curls in towards him, her head pillowed on her hands and her eyes bright as they peer up at him. "The party was wonderful," she whispers.

The party was really, like any other party, just much more extravagant and important; but it had been the first party in a year that they'd attended together, and falling back into old routine had been oddly reassuring. Ichihara Emi had suddenly found a very attentive Gakuto and Shishido by her side, and subsequently, wasn't very upset when she found her date had taken another girl on his arm (and now he owed Gakuto and Shishido more favors than he can count, but well, he doesn't mind).

His father had smiled at the way the press and society members cooed at the two of them and had offered Nanao warm welcome (as warm as Atobe Akihiko could be). Atobe continued to make societal rounds, but always, always found his way back to Nanao's side, where she'd wrap a comforting hand around his and press a soft kiss to his cheek, where he didn't quite feel the harsh edge of fake smiles as badly.

And his father's speech – the validation and fruition of everything he'd worked towards until now – had been very, very wonderful indeed.

"Mm," he replies.

And then they talk.

He finds out that she'd cried, hysterically, when she'd gotten off the phone with him when he'd said that he was taking another date. And she doesn't tell Atobe because she wants to guilt him, says it genuinely because they share everything, and he finds out that she'd wanted to stay for Spain, but hadn't quite realized how painful it would be to not be KeigoandNanao anymore.

She knows that it's a silly thing, to make such vital life and career decisions over a teen boyfriend, but- he makes her happy. He's vital to her, is the thing, is such an important figure in her life that she can make this sacrifice without regretting it. After all, she's already spent a year in Spain, and yes, the opportunity would be nice but it's not necessary.

She only has so much time with him left.

She knows, and they don't talk about it, but they both know, and she wants to have him for as long as she can.

He finds out that once, when he'd been very, very sick (bedridden with home visits from the doctor and hardly lucid), she'd almost ditched her project and broken the rules to come see him. She'd been stopped by her friend (for which Atobe is very glad), but she'd spent the weekend crying and upset and feeling very much awful that she couldn't see him or be there for him.

He learns that for all the happiness and exuberance Spain gave her, it really almost gave her as much sadness, but that she'd never quite told him, because she hadn't wanted to burden him. Because she knew that if he found out how hurt she was by the distance, that he'd keep trying to come and see her, even if it got him into trouble with his advisor and his father.

So she'd bundled it up and tried to only think of her happiness, because Spain really had been a very refreshing and wonderful time for Nanao.

And when he talks to her tonight, he notices. She's a bit more grown up, now, a bit less afraid to voice her thoughts and her emotions (but still far from how bold he wants her to be), even more thoughtful than she'd been before.

But always, always earnest and kind and achingly invested in his wellbeing.

It's this thought that makes him reach out and pull her to his chest. She clutches back at him, presses her nose against his arm.

"I missed you," she confesses, and it's hardly even a whisper, just her lips silently moving against his arm.

He tightens his hand around hers.

THE PICTURE OF NANAO'S DRESS IS NOW UP ON MY TUMBLR. Please go check it out!

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