Chapter Six

"Hanamura, make sure to keep your stuff contained to your workspace," said a second year, a girl with a smooth plait running down her neck. She was holding a jar of paintbrushes, eyeing the refuse strewn across the table with pursed lips. "The rest of us require space to work too, you know."

Hanamura emerged from her closet, sheepish.

"Sorry, Tashima. I was letting them dry." She quickly moved to gather the rinsed milk cartons into a plastic bin, sweeping them off the table with her arm. They made a soft, hollow noise as they clustered together like eggshells. "I'm going to try a new pouring technique with these," she explained, noticing that Tashima was still watching her with interest.

The girl frowned.

"Another one?" She crossed her arms, still holding the jar. "Just how many techniques do you need?"

She posited the question lightly, but there was a noticeable sharpness to her voice that caused several members of the art club to glance up from their work, cautious.

"Tsubomi," Fukuhara said in a low voice, hovering over her woodblock with chisel and mallet in hand. She was peering at Tashima, her dark eyes sharp beneath her bangs. "What did we discuss last week? I believe it had something to do with accommodating our new members, did it not?" She said, sounding like a mother scolding her child.

Tashima tensed, her nostrils flaring. "Noriko, you know I can't handle clutter in my area!"

The president held her gaze.

"Fine," she said resentfully. "Sharing is caring."

"And?"

"Giving is living."

"And?"

"Kindness is mindfulness!" Tashima snapped, looking very uncomfortable. Her blue eyes were everywhere but on Fukuhara as she smoothed her white apron.

"No harm done, Hanamura," she said, trying to sound courteous, "but if you could keep your things organized, I would appreciate it."

Tashima didn't wait for her to respond. Instead, she returned to her easel where the beginnings of a tumultuous seascape were well underway. The canvas was the size of a chalkboard, stained a cold dark blue. Her palette was festooned with dollops of gray, cobalt, and burnt umber. Hanamura thought they suited her cool disposition.

"Don't worry about Tsubomi," said Yamada, another second year who sat nearby at the table. She had a kind round face and held her stick of charcoal like a delicate instrument, her hands covered in black gloves. She glanced briefly at Tashima before saying, "She's just particular about things, that's all. She gives all of us grief if we don't keep our area tidy."

Hanamura considered Tashima with a troubled look. Until now, she hadn't realized there was an issue. She had simply assumed Tashima had a mean way of being kind. She was the type of person Hanamura could trust to point out that her shirt was wrinkled, or that she had a blemish that needed covering, or that she needed to borrow a pen as the one she purchased from the drug store wasn't quite good enough. Tashima always spoke with an air of goodwill, but it left Hanamura feeling slightly irked.

She made a mental note to be more careful of the second year.

"Thanks," she said, smiling at Yamada.

Returning to the closet, she placed the milk cartons onto the shelf that lined the back wall. The closet was roughly the size of her dorm room. Plenty enough space for large-scale projects, but it was already bursting to the brim with supplies – her sticks, buckets, plastic bags, and old bric-a-brac she found while going through boxes of old festival decorations. Tashima couldn't know this, but it reminded Hanamura of her father's workshop back home.

One man's trash is another man's treasure, he would often say as he brought home salvaged kitchen tiles or a mossy garden gnome. He would then argue with her mother about where the stuff was going to be stored – space was already sparse as it was – but her father would win her over with one of his dazzling smiles. The kind that dimpled one cheek.

The memory eased Hanamura. She liked to think that she was following in his footsteps.

As she proudly admired her hoard, the lights flickered in the studio, causing everyone to groan.

"Really? I thought we had this issue fixed," Tashima said to Fukuhara from her easel. "Did you forget to submit the work order again?"

"No, building maintenance was here yesterday. Something must be tripping the power grid," said Fukuhara with a sigh. She had been struggling with it all week. "Don't worry. The technician showed me how to reset the breaker box. If we go dark again, I can restore the lights."

"Well, I'm sure the chess club doesn't have to deal with this," grumbled Tashima. She took a large paintbrush and began to scour her canvas raw.

Everyone else pressed on with their projects, eager to have fresh work for their next critique. Removing her painting smock, Hanamura hung it on the hook and closed the curtains to her closet before searching for Asano who was busy knitting something in pink yarn by the windows. Voices blared from her earbuds – another scary podcast, no doubt.

"Reiko, can you do me a favor?"

Asano jumped violently, her face turning white. "Suzume, don't ever do that again!" She wailed.

Hanamura offered her a dark grin.

"Could you make sure my painting doesn't dry while I run down to the infirmary?" She asked, holding aloft a squirt bottle. "I promised Nurse Hino I'd stop by this afternoon."

Asano took it, blinking her eyes rapidly.

"I still get this one, right?" She asked, setting down her knitting.

"Yep, for your embroidery," Hanamura nodded. "I shouldn't be gone long. I just need some alcohol."

Izakaya scoffed over his wedge of clay. "Don't we all? What makes you so special?"

Hanamura made a face. "Not that kind, Takashi. I'll be back in two minutes."

"Aye, captain!" Asano saluted, standing alert at the closet.

. . . . . . . . .

Hanamura sped down the hall, mindful that her acrylic paint dried faster than sunlight on a dewy patch of grass. She took careful strides past the teacher's lounge, hoping that Mrs. Osakabe was not lurking somewhere inside. Hanamura had an important essay due next week that she barely started, but she wanted to put homework out of her mind until her experiment was complete.

The air was stuffy inside the school and she wished she had peeled off her sweater, but the allure of the cherry-red canvas was too powerful. She shoved her sleeves up as best she could and knocked on the door to the infirmary.

"Hi Mrs. Hino," she called out, lengthening her name into a song.

"Ah, Miss Hanamura," the nurse greeted, "I was wondering if you were still planning to stop by this afternoon."

"Sorry, I'm late. I had to prep and–," Hanamura read the room, catching sight of Mrs. Hino holding hands with a winded and wild-looking Tendou. The player perked up from his stool, cutting his gaze over his shoulder to peer at her curiously. She recalled the last time she had been at the receiving end of such a look.

Do I know you?

Her stomach did a somersault and she immediately backpedaled.

"Oh! You're busy! I'll just...I can come back later," she garbled in a rush, turning to flee from the room.

"There's no need, dear. I'm nearly finished."

Caught, Hanamura slowly turned from the door, twisting on the balls of her feet. When she lifted her gaze, she found Tendou scrutinizing her with an odd expression.

"Another emergency?" She asked, offering him a wry grin. Did he find the situation ironic as well? The last time they spoke to each other, he had been in a similar bind, the linchpin – Mrs. Hino.

Tendou tilted his chin slightly, his eyes narrow. There was a touch of satire to his mouth too, but it was faint. She had the distinct impression he was amused by something other than their inside joke. Maybe he didn't remember her after all.

"Just a minor finger strain. He'll live," said Mrs. Hino, squeezing his injured hand.

Tendou winced.

"Alright, you know the drill. I'm prescribing you–"

"–Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation," he interrupted, nodding his head. "I know the drill."

"And no more practice for today," she added. "I'm sending you with a note for Coach Washijo."

"But–!"

"–No buts! Your hand needs to ice for a few hours."

Tendou stared at the nurse contemptuously, but when it was clear that she was not going to change her prognosis on the grounds of a single nasty look, he dropped his shoulders into a pout.

"What are you on the hunt for today?" Mrs. Hino asked as she scrawled a note.

Hanamura blinked.

"Rubbing alcohol," she replied, grateful for the reminder for her purpose in coming there. "Fukuhara suggested you might have some that I could borrow. That is if you have any to spare?"

The nurse drew back, removing her glasses with a frown.

"I keep the near-empty bottles in the cabinet there," She pointed to the wall opposite her desk. "Help yourself to whatever you need."

"Thank you."

Hanamura tore away from the door, intent on collecting her bottles of isopropyl alcohol and vacating the office as quickly as possible. She could still feel Tendou's eyes on her back, no doubt waiting for her to leave so that he could resume his standoff with the school nurse. He was agitated. Probably eager to return to his teammates or practice or whatever it was that he did in the afternoons outside school. His breathing was still labored and his hair windswept as if he had sprinted across campus.

She pried the cabinets open and quickly gathered the bottles with the most liquid. Her sock slipped and she yanked at it, frustrated that she was becoming so flustered.

Pull yourself together, Suzume!

"There's also a box of things I've been meaning to clear out that you might be interested in," said Mrs. Hino in a strangely cunning voice. "Satori, why don't you be a good chap and help Miss Hanamura with the box, hmm?"

Hanamura was mortified. Helping her was the last thing he wanted to do. Why would Nurse Hino suggest such a thing? Couldn't she see he was eyeing her with the sole purpose of getting her out of the room as quickly as possible?

"There's no need," she quickly refused, "I should be able–"

"I'll help."

The change in demeanor was instant. Tendou was no longer brooding on the stool but retrieving the box from the desk with a curious zeal. In fact, he had returned to his feet in one fluid motion, approaching her with an inviting light in his eyes. He braced the box against his hip while holding out his other hand. It took her a moment to realize he was gesturing for the bottles.

Hanamura was confused. He had agreed to help her, but – why?

"Consider this a debt repaid," he said smoothly.

There was a cold rush, an electric zap in her fingers and toes. He did remember her. Of all the people he interacted with throughout the day, all the friends he kept close, he still managed to remember her, a small speck in the solar system that was Shiratorizawa. His powers of perception were more intimidating than she originally thought. It left her stunned.

He was grinning softly, waiting.

"Thank you," she said, handing him the bottles.

. . . . . . . .

Moments later, they were walking side-by-side down the hall. She had forgotten how tall he was, even with his shoulders relaxed into a slouch. The corners of his mouth were pointed like a crescent moon, and he had dark circles under his eyes the color of rose matter. From afar, he looked languid and casual, but up close, Hanamura began to see the things that made him human.

Her eyes drifted to the floor, taking in his feet. She was certain they were the size of hubcaps. Hanamura could fit both of her feet into one of his slippers and still have room. The thought fascinated her. She could see equally impressive ankles and calves sprout from his socks but quickly steered her interest elsewhere.

She trailed her hand against the bulletin board, troubled.

I'm curious to see where you store all your treasures, Magpie Girl.

Treasures?

All your bits and bobbles. The whole school is dying to know.

Hanamura was raw like an exposed wire. If she had known that her actions over the past few weeks had garnered the attention of the entire school, she would have endeavored to conduct herself more tactfully. Her mind cataloged all the things she had been carting back to the studio as of late, and she proceeded to cringe.

"I suppose going through the trash was a bit much," she said, squinting her eyes.

But as she considered it more, she was a little hurt that no one thought to approach her or ask her what she was working on. Their lack of interest had led her to believe that she was quite invisible, a minor character messing around backstage. But if what Tendou said was true, then she had been milling around at center spotlight like a buffoon.

"No one goes out of their way to ask, so I never explain," she said to him, slightly vexed.

Perhaps she could salvage this attention into something meaningful.

"Magpie Girl…that could make a good moniker," she said, pinching her chin.

Tendou considered her with a rare crease in his brow, the muscles in his jaw moving as if he wanted to say something. His intense vigor from earlier had cooled into an openness that put her a little more at ease. She was grateful Nurse Hino had intervened, if only so that she could have the chance to speak with him without seeming too forward. She would have never had the gumption to invite him to the studio herself.

Excitement coiled in the pit of her stomach.

"Come on," she said, beckoning him to follow, "I'll show you what I do with all my treasures."

. . . . . . . .

It was surreal. The infamous volleyball player, the one who had captured her attention all those weeks ago, was standing in the studio at her workspace. Tendou was flipping through the sheets of canvas she had hung up to dry, his mouth lifting into a smirk.

"I wondered what you had planned with the pitchfork!" He laughed boyishly, gesturing to the painting she had completed only a day ago.

Hanamura rubbed her neck. He knew about that? Had Tendou also been observing her? Her face flushed with sudden heat. She felt silly for not being more self-aware. Shiratorizawa was way more observant than she gave it credit. What else had he caught her doing around campus?

"They were going to throw it away, so...I asked if I could have it," she explained. "I call this one Fork."

Tendou broke into more laughter.

"So clever, Suzume. What will you think of next?" Izakaya remarked from his place at the throwing wheel. He had witnessed her pry it out of the hands of an unsuspecting student who planned to pitch it into the dumpster.

"Go back to your throwing," ordered Asano, pointing the squirt bottle at him.

Izakaya sputtered in outrage before resuming his pedaling. The tabletop squeaked, making him sound like a hamster at the wheel.

Hanamura sensed the inquisitive gazes of her clubmates. Though it wasn't unusual to have visitors in the studio – Yamada's boyfriend joined them regularly before hitting the stacks in the library – it was unusual for a Shiratorizawa athlete to stray so far away from the sports annex. And an infamous one at that. The art club was at the opposite end of the spectrum, their dealings with high-profile players virtually nonexistent. This was a rare and momentous occasion, indeed, and they were all watching Tendou with intense curiosity as he examined her work. Tashima had stopped painting altogether, the look on her face suggesting a dangerous pariah had wandered into their midst.

Hanamura ignored their scrutiny. If the school's Guess Monster wanted to peek inside the studio, then who was she to deny him?

What concerned her most at this moment was his reaction to her artwork. It was both thrilling and nerve-wracking to have someone evaluate her paintings. It produced in her the same uncomfortable twinge as having her personal diary read aloud. Hanamura chewed her cheek in suspense. His eyes were keen, and she noticed for the first time that they were a shade slightly darker, but no less vibrant, than her cherry-red canvas. They glistered as he consumed her work with quiet concentration.

When Tendou retracted from the closet, he tilted his head in her direction.

"Why do you refuse to use a paintbrush?" He asked, zoning in on the one thing she still struggled to put into words. "I thought that was part and parcel of being a painter."

Hanamura closed the cap on her now-empty bottle, staring at the label as she formed her answer.

There were many peculiar things she found difficult to explain. She liked the smell of rotten wood, the taste of copper in her mouth, the dull pain of a bruise on her shin. She loved the ice cream sandwiches coated in freezer burn from last year's festival, the color red – oxidized and powdery like smoked paprika. She loved sitting in patches of sunlight and seeing the delicate lace of her eyelids. These were all strange, personal preferences she could not articulate into words.

Her art was equally ambiguous.

"It's not that I refuse to, it's just...," she paused, settling on the truth. "I like to experiment."

Tendou was quiet, peering at her in a way that suggested he knew there was more to the story. He had examined her cover and was now ready to sink his teeth into the pages. He looked her up and down, unabashed as he did so, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile.

"How interesting," he said.

He sounded pleased.

A/N: Same scene, but totally different experience, huh? What is a love story without a healthy dose of dramatic irony?

Lots of fun music inspiration behind this chapter:

"Harriet Smith" - Isobel Waller-Bridge & David Schweitzer

"Harriet Smith and Robert Martin Meet on the Road" - Isobel Waller-Bridge & David Schweitzer

"Woodland" - The Paper Kites

"Fixin'" - Walk the Moon

Thank you for reading and for such wonderful feedback. This is the end of Act I. Now onto Act II!

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