distress: a feeling of extreme anxiety, sadness or pain
It was always incredible how literature teachers could conjure up such far-fetched interpretations of the text, while expecting their students to operate on the same wavelength. She couldn't possibly have guessed that a pair of eyes on a poster symbolised the judgement of America's meaningless consumerism in the 1920s; and from the baffled look on Igarashi's face, neither could he. It was nearly the end of the school day, and the warm spring sun was beckoning her to leave Ikeda sensei's dull lesson. Feeling unusually unfocussed, she yawned and turned towards the windows, resting her head on the table.
"Hey, Nanase-chan," Igarashi instantly interrupted her drifting thoughts.
"Hmm?" she mumbled tiredly, raising her head just enough for her to turn and face him.
"Seventy-four," he declared triumphantly, as if expecting her to understand what he was referring to. Seeing her blank stare, he hastened to elaborate. "You know, the number of times he has said 'okay' this lesson."
"You actually counted?" she whispered incredulously.
"Well, it's my brilliant strategy to help me stay awake. And before you judge, I want to say that it seems to be more effective than whatever yours is."
"Fine," she mumbled, her lips quirking up into a begrudging smile.
The relief she felt when the bell finally rang was indescribable. She quickly gathered up her belongings and made a beeline to the door.
"Heading to the club room now?" Igarashi smoothly intercepted her eager exit. Her footsteps slowed to a halt as she pieced his words together. It was Tuesday. Writing club was on Tuesday. "Did you forget?" There was a frustratingly cheeky smile on his face.
"Oh," she sighed, "I did forget."
He gazed at her with his head tilted thoughtfully. "You okay? You don't strike me as the absent-minded type."
There was a moment of stunned silence – was it that obvious that she was still affected by the weekend? Then, she quickly waved away his concern. "I'm fine," she said dismissively, forcing a smile onto her face. "Come on, let's head to the clubroom."
To his credit, he dropped the subject even though he hadn't looked at all convinced, and immediately launched into a new conversation. The walk was pleasant, albeit in a very different way from what she was used to with Seijuro. Igarashi's unrivalled ability to eliminate any chance for awkward silences made her feel a touch of nostalgia; she had almost forgotten how comforting it could be to simply listen to someone's animated chatter. When Eru cast him a sidelong glance, and he grinned in response, she felt an unexpected pang of longing to return to the Teiko days – to Kise's dramatic declarations and Aomine's immature retorts, punctuated by Midorima's snide comments and Murasakibara's loud chewing.
As they drew near to the clubroom, they could hear the animated voices of the other members through the door that had been left ajar. When she entered the room alongside Igarashi, they were immediately met with cheerful greetings. The second years – Kirigaya, Mizutani and Tomatsu – were already seated in at the discussion table.
"Now that we're all here, we can start the session!" The president, Fukami said cheerfully, making her way towards the whiteboard at the front of the room. "Genres, anyone?"
"Fantasy," Iwanaga called out.
"Did you make vice-president by proposing the same genre every week?" Kirigaya called out, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Be more original, Hibiki-senpai."
"Shut up. I'd like to see you contribute something then." Iwanaga gazed imploringly at Fukami to defend him.
"Don't give me that look, Hibiki." Her smile was mischievous. "We both know you're only vice-president because there was no other choice." Her comment was met with howls of laughter from the other members.
"Yeah, keep bullying me. Just because I courageously defend the best genre every week." Iwanaga pouted, crossing his arms in mock petulance.
"The weekly persecution you face has been duly noted, Hibiki." Fukami said pleasantly. "Now, does anyone else have genres they want to try out?"
"Historical? We never do historical." Mizutani volunteered shyly.
"Great idea," Fukami said, writing both suggestions on the whiteboard. "If that's all, let's think about our character – what archetypes do you want to write about?"
"Troubled bad boy, please!" Tomatsu laughed. "I'm in the mood for some angry, withdrawn characterisation. Bonus points if they're attractive."
"Throw in a wise, old mentor then – every Zuko needs their Uncle Iroh." Iwanaga chimed in excitedly. As Fukami noted down their ideas, the room fell into a thoughtful silence. Eru stared quietly at the table, resolutely avoiding eye contact with the other members.
"What about you, Nanase-chan?" Tomatsu's voice was kind. "Got any characters you'd want to write in your story?"
She supposed that Tomatsu only had good intentions to involve her like that, but she felt caught off-guard nonetheless.
"Uh… What about a supportive mother character?" She asked absentmindedly. "Oh, but if that's weird, then –"
"No, that's perfect!" Fukami smiled encouragingly.
Mizutani nodded her head in agreement. "Yeah, we've never done that before."
"Can we make sure that our female characters aren't damsels in distress too? We can take care of ourselves, you know!" Tomatsu called.
"Pushing your feminist ideals again? Enough about women's rights, let's talk about women's wrongs." Iwanaga's laughter was cut short when Tomatsu aimed a sly punch at his shoulder. "I'm just kidding, stop hurting me!"
"That sounds good, Yuki-chan! Now, if we have no further unnecessary comments," Fukami began, with a pointed stare at Iwanaga, "We can start writing!"
Once everyone had found a comfortable place to begin writing, the clubroom fell into a peaceful silence; the quiet was punctuated only by the soft tapping of keys and almost-imperceptible sound of pen scratching paper.
"Nanase-chan," Igarashi whispered, leaning over to peer at her work. "How's your progress?" She instinctively shifted her arms to cover the words she had penned in her notebook in the last half an hour.
"Hey, you don't have to be shy about your work," he said gently. "With the scores you get in lit class… there's no way you're a bad writer. Plus, we're all here because we love writing and want to learn from one another, so there's nothing to be ashamed of."
Oddly enough, she hadn't quite considered it that way before. She supposed Igarashi had just spelled out the subconscious reasons for her joining the writing club, but she had privately intended to pursue her writing by herself – not under the scrutiny of the other members. She forced herself to meet his eyes, "Thank you. And you're right, but maybe not now."
"Yeah, of course. You should only show me when you feel comfortable. But hey, could you let me know what you think about what I've written so far?" When she nodded, he shifted his laptop and his chair closer to her, evidently unbothered by her earlier rejection. As she read his work, she was struck by how smoothly his characters' conversations flowed, effortlessly signalling changes in setting and subject without the need for lengthy prose. Compared to her style of writing, it was like a whole different art form – all sharp wit and fast-paced scenes. When she conveyed this to him, his cheeks pinked, and his eyes brightened as he acknowledged her compliments.
He was all too eager to tell her all about his characters and the direction of his story; and as she listened attentively to his animated storytelling, her own writing was left abandoned on the table. It was only when their shared laughter reached the ears of the other members and curious glances were sent their way, that they realised how much time had gone.
"Sorry I know I talk a lot." Igarashi scratched his head sheepishly. "You should probably get back to your writing."
A warmth bubbled up in her chest at his unexpectedly abashed expression. She shook her head and smiled. "No, it's okay, it was nice talking to you." She didn't quite have the words to tell him that this was exactly what she dreamed the club would be like: a warm community that gave her a taste of home.
"Well, if you say so. But now that I've shared all my secrets with you, I think you owe me your writing, ace!"
The rest of the club session passed quickly. Her earlier tiredness had all but disappeared, as she found herself enjoying Igarashi's company. With him, everything felt so easy. She supposed this could be the effect of a fast-growing friendship – when instant connections with someone new inexplicably compelled you to be vulnerable to them, despite knowing them for a short time. But the way he was honest about his feelings, undeterred by others' opinions, and relaxed about everything, made his presence an extremely comforting one. And sometimes – and she hated herself for thinking this – she almost wished that Seijuro was a little more like him.
As they exited the club room, Eru noticed the blonde girl, who was always with Igarashi, leaning against the wall outside.
"See you soon!" Igarashi turned to her and waved, before he headed towards the girl. As Eru raised a hand in farewell, her eyes scanned the deserted hallway. She had expected Seijuro to be waiting for her as he usually did, but he was nowhere to be seen. Feeling slightly dejected, she put on her earphones and slowly made her way towards the shoe locker room. The soft melody playing in her ears felt soothing after a long day, and she found an unwitting smile touch her lips even as she bent down to remove her black school shoes.
Out of nowhere, a hand wrenched the earphones from her ears, while another shoved her backwards. She winced when her back slammed against the lockers, leaving her cornered on the floor.
"So, you're Akashi's girl?" Three unfamiliar figures loomed over her; their menacing smiles, the immense height difference, and her vulnerable position, filled her heart with terror. "What's up with him? Is he on drug enhancers or something?"
"I-I…" Her voice trembled with fear. "He's not."
"That's not possible. He's a first year, and he's in the first string of the strongest high school basketball team." The boy who spoke – who appeared to be their ringleader – reached for forearm and pulled her roughly to her feet.
"Let go of me!" She struggled to break free from his grasp, but his grip only tightened.
"Then tell us what we want to know," another one of them spat.
"T-there's nothing to tell," she tried, "Seijuro's just good."
"Then you reckon he'll be off his game if we hurt her?" The leader turned to his friends, a cruel smirk on his lips; his suggestion was met with derisive laughter. When he faced her again, he clenched his right fist, his eyes dark and merciless. She felt her blood run cold, and she squeezed her eyes shut to brace herself for impact. There was a resounding bang right by her head. She felt the lockers rattle from the force with which he drove his fist into it.
"Raise your fist at her again and I'll tear your arm off." Seijuro's voice was terrifyingly calm. The air seemed to still, and the sound of his decisive footsteps echoed throughout the empty locker room as he walked towards them. In his right hand was a bright red pair of scissors, its blades reflecting the light of the setting sun. "Move away from her."
Seeing the dangerous glint in his heterochromatic eyes, the two cronies took a hasty step away from Eru. The leader, however, looked reluctant to relinquish his upper hand. He took a step closer towards Eru.
"You want to take the three of us on at once?" His voice was taunting. "You think you're so special just because you made first string?"
In one smooth motion, Seijuro drew his hand back and launched the scissors with such deadly accuracy that it grazed the leader's cheek and embedded itself into the locker door behind him. The boy's bravado dissipated, his expression morphing into a mixture of shock and fear. Then, he cast a furious glare at Seijuro, before the three of them fled through the front entrance.
Seijuro was by her side immediately, his sharp eyes inspecting her form for any sign of injuries. When his right hand tenderly brushed against her cheek, it was as though a barrier was broken; she launched herself into his arms, a broken sob lodged in her throat. His arms instinctively encircled her frame, holding her tightly and tracing soothing circles on her back, even as she shivered from residual anxiety. She was not sure how long they stayed in that position – with her cheek pressed against his chest, and his chin resting on the crown of her head – but her breathing eventually steadied from the comfort of being enveloped by his familiar scent and warmth.
"I was late." His voice was so low that she almost did not catch it.
She shook her head resolutely, feeling a rush of frustration well up in her. Now she was nothing but a damsel in distress. "It wasn't your fault that this happened."
"They should have known better than to hurt you." Eru's heart constricted painfully upon hearing his words. When she looked up, she saw that his face had hardened into an expression that was painfully reminiscent of the one he wore when he had punished Haizaki back in Teiko.
"But Seijuro, maybe they didn't," she pleaded with him. The mistakes of others would never be worth him losing his self-control and erasing all the progress she had made over the last two years. Yet his eyes still contained the hardness she hadn't seen in quite some time, and she felt an involuntary shiver race down her spine. Slowly, uncertainly, she stretched out her arm towards him and gently pressed her palm against his knuckles. She felt his tension ebb away slowly until he unclenched his fist. When he met her gaze again, the cold cruelty was gone, leaving behind a burning anger on her behalf.
"Fine, but you must tell me if this happens again. There is nothing they will regret more."
Her eyes crinkled and a tiny smile spread across her face despite the lingering anxiety she was quelling inside. "Sure," she said sweetly, "Whatever you want."
He turned away then, but not before Eru caught a glimpse of a suppressed smile forming on his lips. "Shall we go home then?" he asked, his face resolutely angled away from hers.
"Yeah," she nodded, taking a few steps to close the distance between them. She slipped her arm around the crook of his elbow before looking up at him, "Let's go home."
A/N: shockingly, I am still alive. I've had this semi-written for months now, but I haven't had the time to finish it. I finished my exams last week, so it's summer now - (hopefully) that means I'll have more time to write. it's been a tough year for everyone, so I hope you guys are keeping safe and healthy!
glossary:
"a pair of eyes on a poster symbolised the judgement of America's meaningless consumerism in the 1920s": references the eyes of T.J. Eckleburg from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
"every Zuko needs their Uncle Iroh": references characters from Avatar: The Last Airbender. Zuko is your angry, hot bad boy; and, as you might have inferred, Uncle Iroh is his wise, older mentor. If you haven't watched this, I highly recommend it!
