A/N: FOR ALL THE PEOPLE WHO REVIEWED: Firstly, thank you so much. I really do reach each one carefully and with love, and adore all of them, and thank all of you for reading and leaving me feedback. Secondly: do not worry about a love triangle. It will not happen. At all. Even remotely. And, for the people speculating upon the final coupling of the story, please do not make premature assumptions, because it just might surprise you. Hehehehe.

On that note, please do review again, and tell me what you think of the story so far – the plot, the characterizations, Nanao, etc. Feedback is always important to me! 8D

Disclaimer: I do not own PoT.

Nanao was a mild-mannered girl by nature – everything about her, really, could be summed up with the word 'mild.' There was hardly ever a time when she felt or experienced anything harshly. Her emotions ranged from pleasantly content, to irritated, to slightly confused; she was never elated, or ungodly annoyed, or furious.

But today, today she was furious.

She'd started off this entire nonsense in a latch ditch attempt to save her flailing Greek grade. It wasn't all that strange, Nanao reasoned – sure, from the outside, the phrase 'fake girlfriend' might have landed her in the loony bin. But if one really sat down and thought about it, it wasn't all that crazy. The boy was Atobe Keigo after all, and she was Suzuki Nanao; as children of large business magnates attending Hyotei, it was expected for the two to be married off to a suitable partner of their parents' choosing, anyway.

So what was the big deal, pretending to date someone? It wasn't exactly as if she'd later marry someone she really did love, either, and this was just a smaller example of what was to come. In fact, Nanao could even say it was practice for the future.

It wasn't as though she'd been the one to practically threaten Keigo into entering a fake relationship with her; it was quite the contrary, actually. Keigo had been the one to threaten her into this whole borderline insane mess, and Keigo had been the one to push the lines, to always act as though he were better than her.

He was the only son and heir to the entire Atobe corporate empire – his father had always, always preened with pride about him at all the galas she'd ever seen him at, and as far as she knew, his father's attentions had always been focused on him. Of course, it was a terribly large burden on Keigo. But his father's expectations, hopes and pride all lay in him.

How could he understand how she felt?

Nanao had only ever existed in the staggering shadows of her older brother and sister. She didn't mind much, not really; her family doted on her as the youngest child, so it wasn't as though she were sore for attention. No, it was simply that-

Nanao was not the type of girl whose only goal in life was to stay pretty and do as little work as possible and to allow herself to marry a rich husband who would give her an easy life. Nanao wanted to work hard, she wanted to achieve things for herself – she wanted her own life, and her own identity, that could stand on its own.

But her family only laughed at her for such ideas. They said that Nanao didn't have to push herself so hard, not to worry, because they'd take care of her forever.

They didn't even consider the notion that perhaps Nanao could do something on her own, too.

It was lost beneath laughs and pats on her head and her father's soothing words to go and buy herself a pretty dress.

It was almost terrifying, how little they heard her words, how little they saw her efforts and achievements.

Keigo had almost everything she'd ever wanted from her own father. Of course, it was in harsh excess; it was weighing him down and almost crushing him. Of course she'd had to say something-

But who had ever given Keigo the right to criticize her so?

He didn't know a single thing about her.

It had been a while, really, since he'd felt so angry. Atobe Keigo did not get angry. The world swept to its knees before his presence – crowds parted, girls fainted, and even the sun seemed to gleam a little brighter when he looked towards the skies. When would he ever have the need to grow angry, then?

Sure, when that little first year brat dared to lay a hand on his precious head, Atobe had felt a strange instinctive urge to maul him (stopped only by the murderous intent swirling from none other than Fuji Shusuke himself, warning him that if he ever tried to touch his precious little brat-). But that had been a crippling intent for murder, not anger. They were entirely different.

Today was different.

Today, Atobe Keigo was furious – and hell hath no fury like a divine king (diva, Gakuto coughs) enraged.

He was a somebody. He was the one and only heir to the great Atobe corporations. Of course his father held him in high regard, as well as equally high expectations. What else had that stupid, stupid girl expected?

There was nothing he couldn't do, and no expectations he couldn't meet, including his father's. They got difficult often, and yes, as of late, Keigo had been experiencing harsher migraines than before. But it was only to be expected – he was graduating into college, soon, and right after, he'd be appointed into a high ranking position in the company, from where he'd take over upon his father's retirement. It was only expected that he'd be pushed harder, now.

He had always lived with this sense of duty and obligation to his family, his father and the company. Keigo had always been an overly high achiever, and there had never been a single instance in which he failed his father's expectations, whether they demanded of him his blood, his soul- or more.

Nanao had never experienced such crippling expectations.

Not when all her father could do was beam about his little darling princess simply for breathing, not when her father would sooner shave himself bald and prance around society than open his eyes and realize that perhaps his daughter wasn't the helpless pretty doll that he'd always wanted her to be.

Who was she to tell him that he could not possibly hope to meet the expectations, or that his father was too demanding? What did she know of his life, or his abilities?

She didn't know a single thing about him.

The following week spun around, and Atobe found his life, as always, continuing on. It was almost as though he'd simply gone back several months in time, before he'd ever even known of the existence so-named Suzuki Nanao. She was missing from his side, and he had yet to catch a glimpse of her around campus on her own, either.

It was exactly like the time before he'd ever known her at all.

It shouldn't have made itself known as much as it did, her absence. It was almost strange, and quite the converse effect it should have had. Atobe found himself noting her presence – or lack thereof – even more now that she wasn't around.

Kabaji, as usual, pulled up an extra chair to their lunch table for the person who would, ultimately, fail to show up.

A few times during practice matches, Atobe would glance up at the bleachers, the beginnings of a triumphant smirk on his lips – only to realize that Nanao was no longer there, sporting a resigned smile and a supportive clap of her hands.

He'd often reach forward on the table in the library for the cup of tea he presumed was there – he either grasped at empty air, or an empty cup. Atobe had long since stopped telling the household staff to refill his tea, after all, when Nanao had seemingly made it her own duty to refill his refreshment.

It was almost as though he'd grown entirely too used to her hanging around, that he felt her absence more than he'd felt her presence.

Perhaps it was a good thing, then, he reasoned, that she was gone.

It didn't make sense for her existence to have become such a common fixture in his life, and it wasn't something he welcomed.

Still.

Atobe had so completely enfolded her into his life, that now that she'd left, variables beyond his self noticed it, too. Oshitari, for one, had taken to giving him silent glances every once in a while, that let him know that the damned 'genius' didn't approve of the events that had transpired. And in those times, Atobe would level him a lofty glance of his own – he did not have anything he felt apologetic for, and nor had his words to her been unprovoked, either.

It wasn't his fault that she was forever obsessed with impressing a man who wouldn't deign to hold a candle in expectations for her. He'd only pointed it out, seeing as she'd almost succeeded in turning herself blind to her own pathetic ministrations.

How did that make him the bad person, anyhow? What right did she even have to be angry at him?

Nonetheless, the other regulars noted her absence, too, and it irked Atobe beyond belief whenever one of them found it prudent to remind him that his 'girlfriend' was gone.

When had he even thought it a clever idea to formulate a fake girlfriend, anyway, with Oshitari the only confidante who knew she was fake?

Fucking geniuses.

This wasn't fair, Nanao thinks, as she presses herself behind a row of books. Her eyes glance sideways, head tilted slightly forward, so she can catch another glimpse of Keigo as he sits down at one of the tables. Nanao almost groans.

Since when had the guy ever deigned to enter the school library, to begin with? He had a perfectly normal one sitting at home, didn't he?

Besides. Nanao didn't understand why she had to be the one to avoid him, instead of the other way around.

But then, she took a moment to ponder upon the very ridiculousness of what she'd just thought, and almost laughed. Keigo would never have to lower himself to avoiding anyone – who would he be averse enough to to avoid, anyway? The entire world worshipped the very ground he walked upon, and anyone who was idiotic enough to incur the dislike of Keigo to begin with would be running to the ends of the earth.

Between she and Keigo, it was only obvious who would do the running.

Nanao was always the weaker one, after all.

She adjusted the heavy volume in her arms, and sighed. Was it possible for her to sneak out of the library unnoticed-?

"Isn't that position rather uncomfortable, Suzuki-san?"

Nanao nearly screamed when the sudden voice blew into her ear, though she managed to choke it down. She did, however, drop the heavy book she'd been holding, and it thumped onto the floor with an echoing, thunderous clap.

Shuffles were heard as heads turned to try to find the source of the noise.

Nanao stood, frozen and heart thudding, for a few minutes, before she managed to shake the paralysis out of her limbs and look up-

-straight at Oshitari Yuushi.

She felt her heart thud faster, more painfully.

Nanao flushed a bright, bright red, and she swooped down to retrieve the book.

But Oshitari followed, and in that moment, the two squatted face to face on the floor – one terrified, and one smiling in pleasant amusement. Nanao attempted to speak. All she managed were the silent opening and closing of her lips, instead.

Finally: "Um- Hello, Oshitari-kun," she whispered.

Nanao dared another quick peek around the bookshelf at the table at which Keigo currently sat, beside a stone-still Kabaji and wriggling Gakuto, who couldn't seem to sit still on the small chair. He hadn't seemed to notice any strange presence nearby – like her own – and Nanao turned back around. Still squatting, she leaned her back against the shelf, and sighed in relief.

"Hiding from Keigo?"

Brown hues rose slowly, almost unwillingly, to meet a pair of amused, cobalt blue. Nanao almost blanched at the cheerful smile pulling at Oshitari's lips. Still, though, she couldn't help the excitement of actually speaking to the boy for the first time in almost a week. Ah, ah – she was terribly shameless, wasn't she?

"No," she replied.

She pursed her lips at the widening smile Oshitari gave her.

"I'm not," she insisted.

The two were so uncannily similar in their stubbornness, Oshitari swore.

"So your reading place of choice is pressed against a dusty shelf, with a twitch in your neck that causes you to turn around every few minutes?"

Nanao's pursed lips tightened.

Her silence made Oshitari laugh shortly.

Nanao's brows furrowed in a deep frown. "Keep the noise down!" she hushed, a finger pressed seriously to her lips, lines of disapproval etched into her features.

"So you are hiding from Keigo."

Nanao sighed deeply. "That wasn't even a question, Oshitari-kun."

His eyes twinkled with amusement. From what he could see, Suzuki wasn't very mad now – she had been, before, that day in the Atobe library. She'd surprised even Oshitari with her anger, all flushed cheeks and denial that was so painfully obvious that even she must have heard it in her words. Oshitari hadn't even known she was capable of anger. But she had, and she'd shown no signs of concealing it when she'd told Atobe everything she thought of his father, and of his pursuit of his father's ideals.

Oshitari, to be honest, had thought the very same things for years. He'd just known better than to jab Keigo so harshly where it hurt most, because-

-it wasn't as though saying any of those things had changed anything.

Keigo would always, always chase after the expectations his father held for him, regardless of how lofty, how impossible. He'd always look above at his father on the ridiculous pedestal he'd mounted him upon, and he'd always be blinded by what he called the 'Atobe duty.'

It came from nearly two decades of ritualistic ceremonies and upbringing that firmly implanted such ideas, such idealisms, into his head.

A word or two from his best friend, or Suzuki Nanao, couldn't hope to scratch a dent in it all.

That was what he'd wanted to tell Suzuki – that pointing fingers at Keigo and his father's twisted dynamics wouldn't change anything, would prove futile, and would result in nothing but an undesirable amount of unmitigated anger.

Unfortunately, she'd stormed past him before he could, and she'd burst open with all the things on her mind, the foolishly brave girl.

And now look at what happened.

Now the two were simply pointlessly irritated with one another, dancing around one another in careful circles, adamant about remaining angry when they didn't have an angry bone left. All that was left was resentment in the other for the fact that they'd pointed out things each other would rather have ignored – and in Atobe's case, resentment that he'd been quarreled with at all.

The two were just terribly stubborn in their own ways.

It was maddening to Oshitari, whom had worked so terribly hard so that the two could develop the friendship they had now.

He could practically see the stubbornness woven into the furrowed brows upon her head, and he could almost laugh at the hysterical similarities the two shared when being immature.

"He didn't mean those things, you know," Oshitari murmured, then. He rested his chin upon his arms, which were folded atop his bent knees; ah, even for an athlete such as he, squatting for so long was certainly uncomfortable.

Nanao regarded him with a wry expression. "Yes, well-" she paused, as though struggling for a response. "He ought to apologize, if he regrets saying the things he did."

"Oh, he doesn't regret it – since when had Keigo ever regretted a thing? Even when he'd made a bet that ended in him shaving his head, Keigo didn't regret it. He doesn't really do regret."

Nanao sighed.

She forced down the momentary piqued interest at the words 'bet' and 'shaving his head.' Instead, she realized the overwhelming accuracy of Oshitari's words – Keigo never regretted anything, really. He wasn't the type of person to make half-assed decisions, or even one to go through with actions not completely thought through.

If ever, he'd only said he made the wrong decision – not regret.

Never regret.

Nanao, however, did regret.

And she regretted it, a little, to be honest. Regretted bulldozing Keigo with all her disapproval at his attempts to meet his father's standards – perhaps it had been a bit of jealousy, and resentment that she'd never had so many expectations from her own family mixed in, too. But she did regret it.

She regretted the fact that she'd so brutally said the things – but she didn't regret her words, either, because she'd meant every syllable.

Perhaps Nanao would have caved and apologized, had it been any other time. Keigo always did tell her that she was too meek, too accommodating.

But not this time.

Keigo didn't know a thing about her own family dynamics – so how could he have been so quick to point a finger and make accusations about her own relationship with her father?

She wouldn't cave. She wouldn't. Not even with Oshitari's eyes regarding her with amusement, and reproach, and urging her to go make nice with Keigo.

He didn't have to say it for her to know why he'd approach her like this. She could practically see it bleeding out of his eyes.

"I won't apologize," she finally said, and tightened her lips.

Oshitari eyed her almost incredulously.

Nanao sighed again. "Fine," she amended. "I will. But after he does, first."

Oshitari almost rolled his eyes. What was it with these two and their incredible conversion into small, immature children when they fought with one another?

"Have you finally gone insane? Is it true, then, that all geniuses go mad at one point or another?"

Incredulity and offense bled from every word. Oshitari barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Ore-sama? Apologize? For what?"

It had been a while since he'd used 'Ore-sama' to him.

"It was that girl who dared to insult me, first – insolent wench."

Wench. Wench, he said. Oh, god, Suzuki wasn't even here, and Keigo was still trapped in his century-confused vocabulary.

"And the things I said had all been true – you know it, too. You've noticed it too, haven't you, YuushI? That girl drives herself half insane to try to impress her parents, and she hasn't even accepted the fact that no matter what she does, her father will never change his idea of his little girl being a helpless princess. It's almost pathetic."

Oshitari heard the pitying note seeping into Atobe's tone.

"One can't help but to feel bad for her, no? So what was I supposed to do? Pretend not to notice as she kills herself over expectations that don't even exist? It's hard enough when they exist; it's ridiculous to try to meet ones that don't."

A deep, dramatic sigh.

"Besides. Atobe's don't apologize. Because we're never wrong."

Oshitari almost bit his tongue in frustration.

If she were to be really, completely, truly, unabashedly honest, then yes, Nanao would admit: she missed Keigo.

It was strange.

They hadn't even been friends for that long, really. But he'd already made himself such a definite presence in her life, that gradually, everyday routines and chores had changed to include him in them.

Nanao hardly went a study session without instinctively reaching for her phone. She caught herself halfway through typing a text message to Atobe, asking him about Greek or mathematics questions she had difficulty with.

She felt a bit lonely in the council room, now, when she signed and stamped and reviewed papers on her own, without the familiar weight of Keigo leaning against her, the sound of his critiques on her penmanship or pointing out how she'd made an error in one of the documents.

At times, she found herself making two cups of coffee, or two cups of tea, and coming back to the desk – to realize that he wasn't there to consume the other one. In those times, she'd obstinately drink both of them, to prove to herself that both were for herself, and that she hadn't unconsciously made one for Atobe.

And whenever she heard that the boys tennis team had gone to a practice match with another school, Nanao found herself listening in, even without realizing it, and cheering a little when Hyotei won.

She'd never even understood how tennis game scores worked, before.

Nanao couldn't help it. She didn't like it, or even expect it, but she'd grown to become accustomed to, and even like, Atobe's constant companionship, even if it had started for a strange reason. It was a bit saddening, sometimes, but-

She couldn't apologize first.

She wouldn't be the meek Nanao who gave in, first.

Why was she always the one to give in, to be weak?

At first, she'd simply been angered at his words. When the anger at that died away, she'd pondered apologizing first, just to get things over with – but then, Oshitari-kun had approached her and silently urged her to make amends with Keigo.

And that had her thinking.

And thinking grew to resentment.

She didn't want to be 'silly Nanao,' who could be expected to apologize first.

No.

She wouldn't.

Nanao resumed writing her notes, then, seated by her lone self at a large table in the back of the library. A small sigh escaped her lips-

"God, sometimes, that Atobe pisses me off."

A thud on her table followed soon after.

A surreptitious glance revealed that two boys had seated themselves two chairs down from Nanao, at the same table – third years. She'd seen them around on the tennis courts, she realized, when she'd gone to wait for Keigo to finish practice.

But why would he dislike Keigo?

Who disliked Keigo, really?

"Yeah, seriously," his friend replied. "He thinks he's the shit or something, standing there and calling himself Ore-sama. Who the fuck does that?"

Nanao almost laughed out loud. The whole Ore-sama thing was weird, she had to admit.

"It's fucking annoying how everyone kisses his shoes – he's not a freaking celebrity, damn. He's just a kid running around with his daddy's checks-"

Nanao's laughter died in her throat, and her eyes widened, instead.

"I bet that's how he got captain in first year, too. There's no way a freshman could take over the club like that."

"What else is new? His daddy's money is always how he gets things."

"He can't do shit on his own-"

And at that moment, mild, meek Nanao stood up and made her presence very, very well known. The chair scraped along the floor loudly and caused the two boys to look up, startled.

"You are the ones who can't do anything, except whine and complain in jealousy," Nanao announced, loudly. She took a quick, momentarily unsure glance towards the librarian's desk, and inwardly sighed in relief that, as usual, the old librarian had gone to take a lunch break.

When she looked back at the boys, she found two pairs of furious eyes staring back at her.

But the normally meek Nanao had become lost, somewhere, replaced instead with an angry, affronted Nanao.

"Who are you to say he can't do anything but use his father's money? And what about you two? Even with all your parents' money, you couldn't make it onto the regulars on the tennis team."

One of them made an insulted sound, strangled in the back of his throat.

"And who the fuck are you?"

Nanao pursed her lips thinly. "I'm someone who was heavily disturbed by your profound lack of actual thinking, and rudely jolted out of my studying by obnoxious, brainless comments."

At the completely bewildered – and slowly turning to insulted – looks on the boys' faces, Nanao continued on, a superior gleam to her eyes.

"Atobe Keigo works harder every second of the day than you two ever have, combined, in a whole year. To claim that he bought his way into the captaincy is completely ridiculous, considering that he could wipe the floor of the tennis courts with you both in two seconds, and that he's almost always lead his team to victory – money doesn't buy you wins in tournaments, or the skill and discipline that he has."

To be quite honest, Nanao didn't know the exact specifics of the tennis team's victory streak. She barely held an interest for sports as it was, so how could she be expected to follow the team? She had, however, heard that the tennis team was very, very good, though, so-

It couldn't hurt to throw these things out there, right?

Nanao gathered up her books in her arms, then, and glared down at the boys haughtily (or, as haughty as she could muster an expression – as she'd learned from Keigo). "Clearly, if you two believe that success can so easily be bought, perhaps you should work on sharpening your own lacking mental abilities, before trying to criticize someone who has already made so much of himself."

And then, as an afterthought: "Jealousy is a terribly ugly color, especially on boys."

With a last triumphant look, Nanao humph'ed, and swept out of the library, nose held high and trying not to show her trembling arms at the weight of her books.

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