Chapter 10: sewer rat

"Hold your hand up to one eye and try to look at something with both eyes. You can see what you're looking at, but there's also your hand. Look too far in one direction and sometimes the hand goes away; sometimes all you see is hand. That's what it's like for me. I can see the seams, the puppeteer's strings, but sometimes it takes effort. The hand is see-through. The other girls, they can't. Once upon a time I asked him if he could save them too. After he helped me escape and we could be together in his home reality, of course. To give them the better life, the real life they deserved. But first they need to stop getting in my way. I can see the boy and the strings both. They're just things programmed to imitate affection. A Chinese room that deludes itself into thinking they can pass the Turing test. I love them, but I'll do whatever I have to do to get the good end I deserve."

— 21 —

I gasp for breath.

Sayori is sprawled out beside me, limbs in every direction. Fingers up my nose. She looks like a mangled murder victim in ill-fitting clothes instead of a person.

I sit up sharply, feeling hot and sweaty. Take a moment to rub my eyes as I try to remember what day it is. Reaching over Sayori, my phone says it's thirty minutes before my alarm is set to go. I didn't lay out my vitamins for this morning, so I can use this to make up for time.

I crawl over Sayori and find something to wear for this morning. Sayori's clothes and undergarments are all in a messy pile on my floor. I don't know what to do. I stare at them for a moment, resisting the urge to mix them with my hamper just to clean it up.

4 mg creatine in black coffee. Vitamins for the day.

Her arm hangs over the side of the bed, lids half-open as she watches me do push-ups in the dark. Even makes a gurgly noise of encouragement as I finish my sit-ups.

"Why?" she asks as I cinch my hoodie.

"Exercise," I say. "Run and the gym."

"Coming back?" she slurs, mouth not really moving properly.

"Someone has to make the bed you ruined."

"Oh, okay," she says, rolling back over and wrapping up in my covers.

Two mile run.

Today is arm day.

I look around for Monika, but I don't have that same sense of self-awareness I did yesterday morning. I'm left in peace to pick up dumbbells and then slowly put them back down until I physically cannot.

Arm day has a special place in my heart. It's one of the days I hate the most for some reason. I find it the most boring. Mostly everything I can do is just sit on a bench, stare at myself in the mirror, and repeat the same actions again and again. But I enjoy sitting there in the rest periods, looking at my arms. Watching the blood pumping in like an emergency, until everything feels hard and swollen, my veins digging through my skin as they beg for oxygen.

Everything feels visibly larger when it's done. You can look at arms and tell if they've been worked well, more so than other muscles. When it's over, I can look at myself, and wish everything felt this way. But it has to end. And eventually the blood drains from my extremities and goes back to useless locations like my heart or vital organs.

I jog back home.

Something smells funny as I finish showering. Like food in a way that raises the goosebumps over my arms.

"Oh, heck, hello!" Keith says from the other side of the door.

I finish drying my hair and step outside. It looks like a Mexican standoff. Keith, in drawers and little else, is standing there like he has no idea how to use his feet. And there, in the kitchenette, stands Sayori. Eyes almost as wide as last night, she's had to tie some serious knots into the shirt and sweats she took from me just to make them nearly fit her. She's hovering over the stove and a skillet, spatula in her hand.

"Hi," Sayori says, eyes going to me. She sighs and smiles. "You must be his roommate. I'm Sayori. Nice to meetcha!"

"Keith," he says, side-eying me. "I came in late last night."

"Ah, cool. I'm making pancakes. You, uh, you want some?"

I try to shake my head at him, but he just grins.

"For real? Damn, that sounds awesome. 'Preciate it!" He walks up to me to use the bathroom and holds up a fist.

I pretend to punch him. He mimes it back. We just sort of stand there and flailing at each other before locking our elbows together and chest-bumping. Then he slips into the bathroom.

Sayori giggles.

"What?" I ask

She scratches the pan with a wooden spatula. "Nothing. You're cute."

"I am not cute. I am the danger. I am the night."

She smiles, shaking her head. Then perks up as she says, "By the way, yeah. Making pancakes."

"How?" I ask.

She makes a face. "Well, you left me all alone in the cold and dark. So I raided your cabinets and found some flour and fruit." She points at the pan. "Blueberry and banana, by the way. They're your favorite."

"Are they?" I ask, hopping over the couch. I land on the cushions and pull out my phone to play some music on the stereo.

Sayori huffs. "If you say they're not, I'm going to cry at you so hard."

"They're my favorite," I say.

She beams. "Good boy. Now, where's your maple syrup?"

"Got none."

"What?" she scoffs.

"It's pure sugary poison. Canada's attempt to undermine our fair republic."

She pouts. "Well, you can't expect me to serve pancakes dry, can you?"

I point at the fridge. "I got some fruit spread in the fridge, though. Sorta like jam but not. Keith buys the stuff."

"Well, it's ours now," she says, hands on hips. She pulls at her pants to keep them from slipping off.

The bathroom door opens. Keith just sprints out to his room and slams everything behind him.

"Is… is he okay?" Sayori asks.

"Are you?" I ask.

She pulls her lips back and breathes. "I'm Gucci."

I arch an eyebrow.

She sighs. "Okay, more like Goodwill, if we're being totally honest. Hangin' in there."

"You really didn't have to try to make breakfast."

Sayori frowns. "I did, actually. I hunger." She makes a circular motion with her spatula, before taking the first batch of flapjacks out onto a little plate. "Feeding you is just a happy little accident."

Keith comes out a moment later, now almost dressed. He looks around, a huge grin on his face. "So, man, this the girl?"

I stare over at him.

He turns to Sayori. "You and him, then."

Sayori grips the spatula tightly, aggressively looking into the skillet. Scratches it again as she tries to flip a flapjack. "I… not exactly, I guess. It's whatever."

Keith gives me a knowing look. "You just come over to steal his threads, huh?"

"Yeah, that's… that's me."

"Just hanging out?"

She tucks away a stray bang. "Kinda."

I glare, shaking my head at Keith. He just winks at me.

"Well," he says, sitting down next to me. "It's cool you're over. Usually he's, y'know, too busy being a damn great football player to have fun. You know he's on the team, right?"

"I do, yes."

"That how you met?"

"Uh, no." She shrugs, more a vague flex of her back muscles. "Just sort of found him."

"Damn, that's cool. Sayori, right?"

"Yeah, that's my name."

"Cool name. That Korean or something?"

"Sure," she says quickly. Her spine is going rigid.

"You a local?"

"No."

He waggles his brows at me. "Ah, another student, huh?"

"Sure."

"What's your major?" he asks.

She takes a long breath. "Education."

"Oh, teaching kids! Damn." He nods to himself. "You know, this here guy's doing doctor-y stuff. He's smart; he'll do great."

"I'm sure of it."

"Like, a surgeon or something. Iunno, but it pays well."

"Mm, I bet."

He shrugs happily. "So he's got a good plan going on. If you're hoping to help teach kids, you must really care about the future."

"Yes."

"This guy does too, y'know?" he says, grabbing my shoulder and trying to shake me. "Always working hard for tomorrow. It's kinda scary how dedicated he is. Good that you're like that, too. He could use someone like that."

"Keith," I hiss.

He waves me off. "So you're just here, hanging out, no partner?"

She grips the spatula harder.

Keith looks around. "I gotta know: how's a cute girl who can cook and with big future dreams like you still single, huh?"

"Happens," she says. Scratch scratch at the skillet.

"Nah, it don't. You'll get snatched up in a heartbeat."

"Maybe." Teeth grit.

I keep mouthing at him to stop, but he ignores me.

"But for real, how are you still single?" he asks.

Sayori turns at him sharply, stabbing her spatula at him. Her smile is all fangs. "Because I'm mentally ill, Keith."

He blinks. Look at me. Back at her. Stares ahead at nothing. "Oh. Well. Fuck the stigma on mental health. I'm glad you're probably getting help. Big ups. Nothing sexier than asking for help."

"Oh my god," I groan, face in my hand.

Sayori makes a noise in her throat. But she's looking at me, as if for some sort of approval. I try my best to smile at her. Her zygomaticus major flexes back, a more awkward imitation of my expression. She keeps trying to cook stuff. And I try not to think too hard about trying to force down all of those carbohydrates and the resulting insulin spike that'll make me hungry again around lunch.

Keith elbows me, pointing at the TV, the album cover of the song I'm casting. "Oh shit, this a good one. You sticking around long this morning, bro?"

"Just until class starts up," I say.

"Early morning stuff, right?"

"Why you askin' after my schedule, Keith?"

He shrugs. Glances at Sayori. "Just wonderin'."

Sayori sits down on the floor across from us, legs folded beneath her. She sets plates in front of us. Plus a little jar of fruit spread.

"Thanks, Say-chan!" he says.

"That's Japanese," Sayori says, eyes narrowing. "I thought you thought I was Korean."

"Dunno. My great grandfather killed both."

"O… kay," she says. Clears her throat. Says my name. "Found forks in that drawer. Only the one butter knife, though. So, y'know."

"Say-chan," Keith says.

"Stop that."

"Sayori!"

"Alright?"

He nods. "When's your first class today?"

"Around eight." She squints. "Why?"

He says my name. "Hey, your class is around there too, right?"

I keep my composure. "I guess."

"Y'all need a lift?"

"No, we don't."

Keith just cuts into his flapjacks with a fork. "So you're both walking together, right?"

Sayori and I exchange glances.

He laughs. "Aight, cool. Keep your secrets. We still boxing today, right?"

"Yeah, no practice," I say. "I'm game. Feel an especial need to kick the shit out of you for some reason today."

Sayori tilts her head. "You box?"

Keith punches at the open air. "Yeah, when there's no football practice. Not really sure how it began, but we like to try to kill each other politely with our taped hands. Good exercise. Sayori, you know how to fight?"

Slowly, she shakes her head. Takes a cautious bite of her food. "Not really, no."

"Aw, that's no-good," Keith says, swatting a hand. "This is really good, by the way. Thanks for breakfast. But for real, cute girl like you needs to learn how to throw hands. Never know when some creep might chase you down in a dark alley."

"Uh…" She looks to me for help.

"Y'know how it is. You're all alone. It's dark. No one can hear you scream." He takes a bite of breakfast. Mouthful and chewing, he says, "He sprints at you at, like, fifteen miles per hour, barefoot. He smells of Doritos. Grabs you. Hand over your mouth. And forcibly ties your hoodie sleeves together, hits the griddy, and ditches. That wouldn't happen if you knew how to deck a homie in the face-dick."

Sayori expresses the primate expression of fear. "Wha', what the hell? You live with this guy?"

"You can pick your friends," I say, "and you can pick your nose. But you can't pick your friend's nose."

"Trust me, I've tried," Keith insists. "But because he knows how to box, he always decks me before I can get more than two inches in."

"All you got is two inches," I say absently, before remembering Sayori is right there.

Instead, he winks at Sayori and says, "He'd know. We've compared. He's got—"

I elbow him hard. "Save the disappointment for your girlfriend."

He rubs his ribs. "But, yeah. Sayori, you should come boxing with us."

"I…" She looks between us both. Then scowls slightly as she realizes I haven't been eating anything. "You'll be there, right? What time?"

I pretend to start cutting up my flapjack. And then spread some blueberry jam over it. Really getting it in there to buy myself some time. "Usually before the lit club."

"Ah," she says. "I don't… really have any boxing stuff."

"You can borrow ours," Keith says absently. He claps his hands and stands, his plate clean. "Anyhow, I gotta roll. I did not study at all last night and promised my buddy I would. Deuces."

"Go fuck yourself," I say happily.

"Every day, man!" he calls back, jogging to his room.

Sayori just sort of sits there across from me. I look over at her and shrug.

"You…" She squints. "You and him are friends, right?"

"I guess?"

"Because that was weird," she says, raising her sleeve so it stops falling off her shoulder. "That was very weird. Like, no offense, but I'm a little uncomfortable."

I shrug. "He's… trying to be helpful. Give him some credit. At least he wasn't too vulgar."

"Weren't you the one who said we shouldn't give credit to people for not doing bad stuff?"

I stab a piece of food, examining it. "You can always just not show up."

"To the literature club?"

I blink. "No."

"Are you still going?"

"Yeah."

She takes a long breath, running a hand through her hair. "Then… I don't know. Sure. Yeah, sure. I guess trying to punch you really hard wouldn't hurt."

"Should I be offended?"

"Only a little," she says, eyes narrowing. "But if you actually eat the food I lovingly didn't burn too much for you and tell me how much you like and appreciate it, I'll only punch you at, like, seventy-five percent my max strength."

"It's the best food I've ever tasted."

"Put it in your mouth."

"Geeze, you're so forward, Sayori."

She says my name harshly.

I take a deep breath. I look into her blue eyes. It's not that I don't think I'm not hungry at all. It's more… I don't know how to explain it. I've been doing this for a long time, a mix of pragmatic and more esoteric reasons. Not eating, I mean. I don't like the feeling of being forced to by my own goddamn body, that thing I'm abusing and tearing apart on a daily basis to better fit what it should be doing instead of what it wants to do.

It's like how being alive is a constant struggle between your carbon and calcium. All your bones want to do is sit around and rot in an ancient barrow waiting to rise from the grave to kill some plucky adventurer or grave robber. Your carbon wants to walk around and reproduce with the opposite sex. Maybe skin a sabertooth cat to make itself a nice coat.

Sayori trying to get me to eat is like my own body attempting to communicate its nutritional information at an inappropriate time. It's not that I don't get hungry. It's more that once I broke the hunter-gatherer pain connection, I couldn't go back to letting gut flora dictate when I shove things into my mouth. I don't feel the craving anymore. Or perhaps more accurately, my ears are so scarred I can no longer hear the biochemical screams.

But looking into her eyes, it's not like I can tell her this. It's not like I can tell anyone this. I'm not even entirely sure my own reasons are coherent.

So I sink my teeth into a cooked mixture of water and flour and prepare to ride out the carbohydrate insulin spike.

Because the smile she gives when I do makes the nausea worth it.

So I tell myself, at least. I put my brain into autopilot so I can get through it. And I'm almost surprised when I come to at a point where it's reasonable to say I've had enough.

Whatever's left of breakfast, we take outside to the dumpster. Dustin crankily crawls out at the smell of food, and Sayori takes pictures as he grumpily eats it off a little paper plate. The poor opossum is going to get fat and develop diabetes for sure, but incidental yet wanton animal cruelty is a problem for future me.

Or maybe Natsuki. I see a couple cupcake wrappers scattered about. There's probably a way I can blame her for this and wash myself of any guilt.

"Sure you don't want to stop by your home to get your things?" I ask.

Sayori looks up from her phone. "Uh, no. It's fine. I can just remember anything in class. I don't need my textbooks."

"Sure of that?"

"Yeah. Worst come worst—" A breeze weeps through. She shivers violently and hugs herself. "I, I can always come back a little later in the day."

"I didn't mean your books," I say, nodding to her outfit. The tank top and skirt. "It's a bit nippy."

Sayori looks at her chest, then sucks in a breath. "I…"

I laugh.

"You're lucky anger keeps me warm."

"You really should change."

She sighs, hugging herself. "I know."

"It because Monika's still there?"

Sayori nods, unwilling to meet my eyes.

We stand there. Dustin makes little noises as he flips the paper plate over, checking for any hidden hotcakes. He doesn't find any and looks like his world has been destroyed. He just kind of stands there and stares off into the distance.

I grab my collar and pull my hoodie off. Before I just put it over Sayori's head.

"H-hey!" she says as I tug it down.

The hoodie goes down nearly as long as her skirt, with several inches of sleeve behind her hands. She grabs at herself and tries to better fit it.

"Aren't you cold?" she asks.

"Nah, I've got the fire," I say.

She looks away, fidgeting with the threads. "It's warm."

"Yeah."

"Kinda smells like you."

"I do laundry on the weekend."

She chuckles. "You're dumb."

I arch an eyebrow, hooking a couple fingers through my jeans.

"Thanks," she says, finally getting her hand through the sleeve. She looks like she's wearing a cotton trash bag. "This has the football team's logo on it. People are gonna see me wearing it and say things."

"Let 'em."

Sayori stands there, breathing. "I'll give it back to you later."

"Keep it," I say mildly. "It was free."

"Dang, that's perfectly within our budget."

I nod.

She nods back.

We stand there.

Dustin burrows back into the sofa.

"Class?" I ask.

"Y-yeah," she says. "That'd be nice."

I gesture towards the university. She shifts the hoodie again and we start to walk.

Across the apartment complexes. Seeing other kids sleepily walking out, some of them slouching to cars, others bundled up to walk. The avenue is a four-lane highway. Well, more like six given all the turning lanes between the lights, the apartments, gas stations, or other strange buildings whose signs I've consciously avoided reading.

Idling engines at the stoplight leak steam and lead-free exhaust fumes. That somehow vaguely comforting aroma of petroleum and the additives they put in it. Like cigarettes, something in that aerosol poison just reminds me of home in all the worst ways.

We cross the street.

"Hey," we say at the same time.

She waves a hand, her sleeve flopping. "Oh, no, you first."

I'm silent.

Sayori pouts. "You. First."

"Wanted to apologize."

"For?" she asks slowly.

"Keith."

"Oh." She looks up at the trees the university's planted along the road, losing leaves as winter threatens. They haven't learned it isn't supposed to snow anymore. "Yeah."

"You said something to him though." I pause for her, but she doesn't reply. "Said you were, y'know."

"Oh." She exhales out a misty breath. "I sort of snapped. He's kind of…

"I know," I say. "Wanted to apologize all the same. And ask about what you said."

She touches her forehead. "I snapped. Thought he'd lay off."

"Are you…?"

Sayori scowls. "I'm handling it. It's fine, okay! Can we not right now?"

I nod. "But… is that why you agreed to go boxing with us so quick? So you can punch Keith in the face a lot?"

She tries to smile. Shrugs.

And we leave it there until we get to the education building.

— 22 —

I am, unfortunately, left to my own devices for the rest of the morning. Up until around the time I budget myself for lunch. Somehow I acquired one of those composition notebooks I helped Monika get from the one classroom. I'm not sure how I got it, but I use it to scribble notes. Putting gel ink to paper, crossing them out, and trying again.

It's this whole "poetry" thing. Even if Monika will be there, I'm still vaguely part of this literature club thing. Even as it seems more of a farce day by day.

To one side of the library table is a textbook open to patient procedures. The other, the composition notebook.

I think about last night. Hold my fingers to my eyes. Try to think clearly.

And go back to pretending like I actually care about writing anything.

"No joke, are you really writing poetry?"

I look up sharply, but I don't have to look too up. Natsuki is hovering over my shoulder, as best she can. Hair done up in a pair of twintails. Her outfit is…

I make a face. "What are you wearing?"

"I had a presentation today!" she snaps, taking a sharp step away.

It's a feminine blazer, buttoned up. Complete with a blue skirt showing a tasteful amount of leg, which is less calcium and more meat than I'd originally thought. Little ribbons in her hair to keep it all together with a professional air of unprofessionalism. It isn't something it looks like she'd wear. Like she stole it from someone, or maybe was a private school brat reusing her old wardrobe.

All together, she looked like the poster girl for some slightly sexy weight loss advertisement.

"No, it's fine," I say slowly. "It—it totally goes with the pink hair."

"Pink's a good color, dude." She gives me a look like she expects some snappy remark back.

"Yes, it certainly stands out in a sea of college girls with brightly dyed hair," I say mildly.

Natsuki nods with satisfaction. "The word you want is aposematism."

"Which does not sound like a word that's ever come up before in normal human conversations," I say blankly. "Congrats. This is a world first."

"Because I've had to explain it before. It's, like, the opposite of camouflage."

"Cool. Didn't ask."

She sucks on her lips, mildly tightening them with restrained displeasure. "Because it's a dangerous color. In nature, bright colors exist to scare off predators."

My eyes narrow. "You trying to use big words now to impress Yuri or someone?"

"No, I—" She sighs throatily. "It was a cool fact I learned from her in the first place! Wipe that sharecropper smile off your face."

I sit up straighter, eyes narrowing. "One chance: would you like to rephrase that?"

Natsuki grimaces. Her mouth moves, but nothing comes out. Like her tongue's just some wild and hairy worm she's trying to keep caged up.

"Too far?" she asks.

"Yeah."

She swallows. "Right. Sorry," she says, like she has to grab the words from her teeth and pull them out with a pair of pliers. The root comes out with it, a thin and ropey bundle of bloody nerves. She eyes me warily.

"You graduated away from charmingly quirky hostility towards more, like…"

She lets out a very long breath. Takes a step towards me as if she expects me to swat her away. And then, uninvited, Natsuki sits down across from me. "Quirky hostility?"

My fingers spread lazily across my face as I hold my head up, touching clean pores and midday strands of stubble. I feel my breath in the webbing between thumb and index. My curled bicep ends up standing between me and her. With Sayori having my hoodie, the skin is all exposed. I feel underdressed before this poster-girl's gaze.

Natsuki folds her arms, sitting back. "What?"

"You don't like me," I say. "Why we talkin'?"

"Because we are?"

I shake my head. "Why?"

She tucks her chin into her neck and stares at me. Like she's trying to decide what part of me to boil in salted broth. She probably knows I'd make a decent stock if she cooked me in my own bone marrow. But decent is all her tongue can imagine as she plays with it, poking it into her cheeks.

"Felt like the thing to do," she says slow enough I can see the white plaque on her tongue. "You're kind of a creep, but you're also part of the club."

"Creep?"

"Like the Radiohead song," she says evasively.

"You approached and insulted me. I bought you food."

Natsuki tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, alright. That was…" She sighs, looking petulant and reluctant. "That was thoughtful, in a consumerist sort of way. So, I guess—look, can we start over?"

"No."

Her expression hinges on the muscles above her cheeks. It raises the meat towards her eyes, squinting them from beneath while her forehead remains smooth. "Huh?"

I regard her gravely. "You want something from me."

She scowls. "Why would you—"

"Because you don't like me."

Natsuki puffs her cheeks as though that could make the difference between herself and the some one-fifty pounds I have over her. Before she deflates with a long breath. "I don't dislike you. Not exactly."

"Uh-huh."

"It's just, ugh. Look." She reaches down to her backpack and pulls out a bunched-up hoodie.

I say nothing.

"Sayori asked me to give this to you when I saw her," she says carefully. "It's obviously yours. Why?"

I take it from her and look over the logo. "She was cold."

"That's not what I mean."

"What do you mean?"

She uncomfortably rubs her arm. "Sayori seemed a little put off, is all. I'm worried for her. Happy now?"

"Depends," I say. "When you saw her, was she going home?"

"Uh, yeah. To change. She…" Her eyes narrow. "I'm not stupid. I can see something's going on. She didn't look good today, didn't have all her clothes or stuff, and was wearing your hoodie. Same yesterday when she said she saw you and acted all…" Natsuki waves vaguely. "Un-Sayori at breakfast. She didn't even try to steal my food. She just sort of sat there, giving these one-word replies."

I suck on my teeth.

She scoffs, putting her hands down hard on the table. "Look, maybe I don't care about you, but her? She's my friend. You're a big scary guy. You're cold and hard to read. She told me how you nearly killed some guy just for pretty much looking at her wrong. You nearly bit my head off a minute ago!" She shakes her head. "But she's seemed weird ever since you two got together—"

"We're not," I say sharply.

Natsuki cocks an eyebrow. "You think I'm stupid?"

I do my best not to answer that.

"I've known her for months. She mentioned you a couple of times. Then you suddenly show up to the literature club in your stupid varsity jacket. I thought she was trying to be cagey, slowly bringing her boyfriend around, but now she's acting all sketch."

"We're friends. I only re-met her last week."

She looks down her nose at me. They're two narrow, dark holes filled with snot from the cold outside. "Oh sure. Just friends. Then, as 'just her friend,' what's up with her?"

"Not my place to say."

"Ha, right." She shakes her head. "Let me guess: you're just acting all 'captain save-a-hoe' or something on her, right? Is that it?"

"Don't call her that," I hiss. "Where the hell did that even come from?"

Natsuki leans back sharply. "I, I wasn't. I was insulting you. Mm!" She awkwardly fidgets with a ribbon in her hair. Before she goes back to rubbing her sleeve.

"We're not an item."

She squints. "Are you just stringing her along, then? Is that what this is? I know how you sports guys are like. Sayori's good people. You have serial killer fuckboi energy."

"Sayori and I is just friends," I say. I think.

The girl looks like she's lost in some math question. Her lips slowly move before she even speaks. Her head snaps to me. "…is it you and Monika?"

Blood comes in pulses through my left wrist, wads of vaguely congealed hemoglobin making their way through my arms to the thing I need to grab and crush things with. "No."

Natsuki goes quiet. She just rubs absently at her arm. Looks around. Despite the people in the library, we're practically all alone. She could scream for help and the best she'd get is a couple of confused glances. She sucks in her cheeks.

"If you're lying to me, I'll know," she says, but she's lost her edge. She's pressing her back into her chair.

"Why are you being so pushy on this?"

Natsuki interlaces her fingers. "It's… complicated. I have a good reason, alright? I've seen—like, people like you and her and, ugh." Her eyes narrow. "Stop giving me that look, for god's sake!"

I stare her down. Until she breaks eye contact and looks off to the side.

"It's a lot of things," she says quietly. She presses her fingers into her upper arm, as if trying to find a spot. To play some obscure muscle-based instrument in slow motion. Her eyes are focused on something that isn't real. "It's not you exactly. More you in general. Y'know? I'm… I'm just worried, okay?! I'm…"

I pack my things up to leave.

"I'm worried," Natsuki continues. "The kinda worried where… even if you are way big and scary, I'd still, y'know—this. Just in case. Fight you on it if I had to for her. Happy now?"

I pause. "I'd do the same for her."

Her eyes refocus on me.

"Maybe it's the ghost of some old childhood thing we had. Maybe old muscle memory baked so thoroughly it goes down into the nerves. But Sayori's still someone I care for. Maybe she'll tell you, maybe she won't. It idn't my place. I don't know if anyone can help, but for what it's worth, I'll help shoulder some of it for her."

"Can you really say you even can?"

I give a sly little smile. "Yeah. Wait till you see my deadlift."

"That's not…" She sighs. Tries her best to give me the skeleton of a hopeful smile. It's an expression that's supposed to involve more muscle, less bone. She has too much cheek. "Alright, I guess. Freakin' jock. I don't really trust you, but if you think she trusts you, then… Yeah."

I try to walk past her.

"Wait!" she says, reaching out to grab my arm. Her fingers are like arched spiders crowding around a fire. The nails are sharp.

Reflexively, I pull back from her touch. She grunts, not letting go. And a moment later she's practically hanging from my arm.

"Hey!" she yells, dropping back into the chair. She hits and it rocks back hard. I lean my knee into it to steady it at a vague lean. Natsuki just sits there, gripping the edges of the chair, eyes wide as she looks up at me.

"Don't just do that!" she snaps.

"Don't touch me," I say as even as I can. My fingers curl and uncurl on more reflexing. As if to make sure I'm still getting blood. When I check, she hasn't left marks in my skin.

I can still feel Monika's phantom there. Exact same place. I grab the skin and rub it until the friction burns scrub it all away.

Her fingers dig into the seat. "Uh. Yeah. Right. You were just… Uh."

After a breath, I ask, "You aight?"

Natsuki blinks. Sucks on her lips in displeasure. "I'm fine. Just—you freaked on me."

"What were you doing?"

"You left before I was done," she says, folding her arms. She watches me from the corner of her eye.

I wait for her.

She compresses a breath. "Are you really Sayori's friend?"

"Yeah."

"Then…" She drums a finger on her sleeve, messing up the cloth, expression sour. "Help me look out for her at least, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Her hand covers her mouth. She doesn't seem to want to look at me anymore. "I know, yeah. It's weird and awkward and maybe a little overprotective. But, y'know. Better safe than sorry. You and her. Her and anyone, maybe."

I nod slowly.

"Hey," she says more quietly. "Do you know her favorite flavor?"

I think on it for a long time. Weighing and debating things in my head. I crane my neck side to side, as if trying to slosh the right mangled bits of brain towards the correcting thinking holes.

With a breath, I say, "She had an idea last night for you and me."

She points at herself.

I nod. "Dinner with the club like we fam. I cook something. You bake something. Dinner and sweets. Could combine efforts, us."

"Sounds awful."

"Sayori's ideas usually is." I turn.

"I didn't say no; stop just assuming things about me," she says, playing with her fingers. The skin there is so tight I can make out the tendons, the joints. Right below the elbow, on the bottom side of the arm, there's an indent from the chords pulling her ring finger that runs down through her wrist.

"Can you even cook?" she asks.

I shrug.

She sighs. "Maybe. Could be a fun way to spice up a night with the girls."

"Bring one of those mangas you were reading," I say. "Finna be a lot of waiting around as things cook."

"Wait, your place?" she asks. Then frowns. "I mean… dunno if I'd feel safer at mine, because then you'd know where I live. Kind of a red flag."

"I really don't care. Steal space from the culinary building for all I care. You're a big girl; you can figure out what you want."

"I guess."

"Mm," I hum noncommittally.

That's all I have to say. A comfortable silence is what someone who is satisfied with a conversation says. I don't trust her to have sloshed through everything in her brain case.

Natsuki just looks at me. "What?"

"I free to vamoose?" I ask. "Or you finna just yell 'wait' at me again."

She scowls. "No, I'm done with you. Bye."

"Aight," I say, hitching my bag.

"Wait, actually," she says.

And I ignore her, walking out into the sunny midday.