Chapter 1, Part 3
sober white
A number of misshapen tables

[ [ March 14
[ [ 15:38

The bell had gone almost twenty minutes ago. Teachers were calling into the staff room as students finished pouring out through the shoe lockers. Most of them had already left. A pair of boys had decided to head out to try a new cake shop, and a quartet of girls had made their way straight to a fast food place downtown in Miyama.

Of course, not everyone had left school yet. In the dojo, someone in the Archery Club botched their first shot of the day thanks to a light breeze blowing dust into their eyes. Someone in the Track Club fell flat on their face. The discordant brassy sound of a half-tuned trumpet echoed faintly from the Music Room. And down the hall from the Art Club, past the Computer Science Club, and opposite the room occupied by the Literature Club was the disaster known as the Culture Club.
Whispered to be one of the legendary Four Great Calamities of Homurahara Academy, nobody really knew what it was they actually did beyond their broad claim of 'modernology'. The cabinet below the windows was topped with all kinds of exotic plants, mostly of the Cactaceae family. In the far corner was a half-finished Piccasso forgery that nobody seemed to know the origin of. The room was filled with a strong aroma of burnt toast, likely due to the unwieldily tall stack of it set atop the coffee table - which was a distinct entity from the taller and rounder tea table, as well as the kotatsu in the center of a four-and-a-half tatami mat, and naturally from the PC desk without a PC on it. Indeed, it seemed as though the culture in question was somewhere between 'whatever ended up in this room' and 'whatever came out of those sketchy cardboard boxes at the back'. Any queries and complaints were directed in writing to the penguin-shaped postbox in front of the door, but the last time anyone had written anything was around a year ago.

"I'm coming in," yawned a voice over the rattling of the opening door.
"You're late!" came the enthused response.
"For what?"
"Nothing."
This exchange was roughly the same every day, and as a result, it was something of an unspoken rule that Jikan Ren occupied himself for around ten minutes before he was allowed into the club room.
"Actually, you're later than usual…" observed his partner in this gag. Yamamoto Hibiki pulled a somewhat puzzled frown, looking him up and down.
"I honestly don't know what you're hoping for," said Jikan.
It was a poor choice of words. Five eager pairs of eyes immediately set on him with such speed and purpose that, for a brief instant, his survival instincts lit up.
───"Oh, right."
That was what they were after. It was, of course, that time of the year.
The six of them gathered around the kotatsu, and Jikan unzipped his bag, gradually assembling a small banquet of various confectionery - chocolate, marshmallows, cake, and so forth.
"Kinda amazing how much you can fit in there," Shinjirou Kotone quietly commented, adjusting her off-kilter glasses slightly.
Fujou Eri gave a wry grin, biting down on the pocky in her mouth as she did so. "You don't know the half of it."
"You would say that, you smuggler. Can you even eat more sweets?" Yamamoto raised an eyebrow.
"Always and constantly. I appreciate Jii-Jii going above and beyond for a change."
Sato Mayu, however, was looking somewhat intimidated by the ever-growing empire of treats. "Senpai, just because they say that boys should give triple the return, that doesn't mean you have to go this far…"
"I'm fine with it," Meichi Kazue shrugged. "It's not often we get to gang up on Jii-pai anyway."
Jikan narrowed his eyes. "You people gang up on me every day."
"And White Day is no exception!" Yamamoto declared, grabbing a cookie with aplomb. "I'm digging in!"
"Thank you for the food, Senpai," Sato gave an uneasy smile. "It looks like it was hard."
Fujou scoffed, cracking open plastic packaging on some cupcakes. "Hard? It's just a bunch of store-bought stuff. Talk about a cheapskate."
"Sorry I don't have an industrial-grade kitchen," Jikan said dryly.
"Industrial-grade?" Shinjirou echoed skeptically. "Pretty sure everyone else manages just fine."
Despite his tone, Jikan really did regret not having the time or resources to cook anything himself. His cooking was mediocre at best, but this was a return for a bunch of handmade chocolate. Obligatory or not, he had been presented with a veritable mountain this time last month the moment he'd walked into the clubroom, so it had been on him to come up with at least this much.
Well, I guess I don't feel too bad about it, since…
"Hey!" Fujou cried defensively as the other cake in the same packet was plucked free by nimble fingers. "The heck are you doing, taking your own tribute?"
Jikan shrugged. "Well, since you guys ended up eating about eighty percent of the Valentine's chocolate you gave me, it's only fair if I reap what you sowed."
"There's six of us in total," Yamamoto pointed out. "One fifth is more than your fair share, Jii-chan."
"No matter how you slice it, wasn't my fair share the entire thing?"
"You said 'I don't know how I'm going to eat all of this', so it's your own fault," Meichi replied.
"Only got yourself to blame!" Fujou agreed heartily.
Yamamoto nodded. "You could've gotten something-something poisoning. You know, the thing that does in dogs."
"Theobromine," Meichi said.
"Nerd."
"Am I a dog?" Jikan sighed.
"I think Senpai would make a cute puppy," Sato perked up. "You can be a pomeranian."
"Th-thank you, Sato-san. I appreciate it," he forced a conflicted smile.
"He's soft and fluffy," nodded Meichi in agreement. "And also small. We could totally kill him with enough chocolate."
"Why are you trying to poison me?! A normal amount of chocolate is fine!"
"No can do, Jii-pai. All things are poison, and nothing is without poison; the dosage alone makes it so a thing is not a poison," recited Meichi.
"Apologise to Paracelsus right now," said Jikan. "He doesn't deserve to be dug up for a conversation this stupid."
"Oh, snap!" Yamamoto cackled. "Is that yet another encyclopedia moment from Jii-chan?"
"Shut up, Pres."
"Wow! I can't believe you'd be so mean to me," she said, taking a bite out of her cookie.
"Speaking of fluffy," Sato said, "who's on brushing duty this week?"
Meichi raised a finger, like a portent of doom, and set it on the bespectacled girl in the track jacket. "Shinko."
Shinjirou almost leapt to her feet, but instead just nodded silently. "O-okay."
"Ah, the brush is on the bookshelf," Sato added. "It's a little worn out though. Juu-nii is coming home next week, so maybe I'll ask him for a new one."
"New would be good," Meichi nodded.
"Mecchin, what kind of animal would you say you are?" she asked. "He's a pet hairdresser, so… Actually, let me feel."
Fujou and Yamamoto both quietly snorted as Sato crawled around Shinjirou's back, running her fingers through the blonde locks. It was a bright enough colour that she definitely would have been scolded already if it weren't undeniably natural, but she seemed to have gotten away with not having to dye it black for this long at least. Not that Yamamoto's strange pinkish mop had gotten much pushback either, and she'd insisted that was natural too.
"Long-haired cat. Definitely," Sato confirmed.
"Then if Jii-chan is a puppy and Mecchin is a kitty," Fujou grinned, "Shinko has gotta be a rat."
"That's mean!" spluttered Sato.
"Shinko is a mouse," nodded Jikan, taking a piece of chocolate. "You're the rat here, Fujou."
Meichi, meanwhile, simply leaned to one side, laying her head against Shinjirou's shoulder. "I'll eat you both."
"Then, I think Sato should be a bunny," Shinjirou said.
A forbidden image struck Jikan like a cannonball to the face, and he choked.
"You doing good there, Jii-Jii?" Fujou pursed her lips.
"Rabbit. Say rabbit. 'Bunny' is totally different," he insisted.
"I know," Shinjirou nodded. "You were just the only one who fell for it."
"As punishment, Jii-chan goes in the bunnysuit," Yamamoto declared authoritatively.
"We have one?" he asked incredulously.
"Hey, you already look alright in a skirt. I'll see what I can get from the Drama Club," she nodded.
"Jii-pai in a skirt… I wanna see," Meichi murmured.
"Hey, so what animal am I?" Yamamoto asked eagerly before Jikan could protest any further.
"Godzilla," he shot back.
"Huh?!"
"It was that or an oni," Fujou agreed.
"Et tu?!"
"Tiny kaiju," nodded Sato.
"Even Sato-chan. Fine! Godzilla demands tribute!" she slammed her fist on the table. "I'll vaporise you all, so hand it over!"
"Tribute?" Shinjirou echoed.
"It's Yama, so ramune is the only option," Meichi replied.
"Geh," Jikan spluttered. "I knew I was missing something. I was gonna get some, I completely forgot."
"Go get some!" Yamamoto ordered. "Actually, I'll come with."
"Be quick," Fujou said. "Apparently, the club supervisors are making surprise inspections recently after Computer Science built that robot."
With an acquiescent shrug from Jikan, the two got to their feet, leaving their bags by the foot of the table. They didn't need to say anything to agree that they weren't leaving through the front door. It was simply a matter of convenience. After all, the clubroom was at ground level.
Yamamoto slid the window open, hiking up her uniform's knee-length skirt slightly to get both legs through the frame one at a time. Jikan followed suit, sitting backwards and swivelling himself around before hopping down.
"Every time you move, I worry that I'm not feminine enough," sighed Yamamoto.
"If you want to be more feminine, then don't act so boyish all the time," Jikan shot back. "Well, not that I can really imagine you being super feminine anyway."
He wouldn't have wanted to see that. Not because it sounded particularly horrifying or anything, but it just seemed so antithetical to who she was. If a little boyishness made her happier, it had its place, and it was what allowed her to brighten up the room like she did in the first place.
And you'd just blend in with Sato if you were too girly anyway.
"Yeah, fair enough," she shrugged, leading the way toward the front gate. "You could stand to get a little more manly yourself though."
"No thank you," he frowned.
Taller was one thing, but the boisterous image of masculinity in his head seemed too much like hard work, and it wouldn't have fit his pint-sized body and soft features anyway. Picturing himself that way just seemed stupid.

Nonetheless, the ribbing continued all the way to the intersection, and had gradually morphed into random chatter by the time the pair reached the shopping district. The sky was clear today, and the weather was perfect for a walk. It would be around a week at minimum until the sakura blossoms were in full bloom, but it already felt like the throes of springtime. The topic shifted to the idea of taking a trip to the park one of these days as a club.
The advantage of something as vague as a Culture Club was that almost anything could be written off as a club activity. On top of that, Yamamoto had given a mission statement to their supervisor that the discipline they were engaging in was 'modernology', a study of modern society.
To be sure, it was a legitimate field of sociology from the early 20th century, developed originally to study the effects of metropolisation on Tokyo, but their ever-reliable club president had successfully warped a highly scientific methodology into 'doing whatever we want as long as we can dress it up enough in the report afterwards'. Of course, that did occasionally necessitate finding something to do, but there was no problem with that - it was hardly difficult for any of the six eccentrics to cook up a harebrained scheme now and again. On this particular occasion, they were without doubt engaging in an analysis of the aesthetics of edible White Day gifts.
Only once the two actually arrived at their destination did their conversation take a turn for the here and now.
"Whoa, holy crap, what's going on here?" Yamamoto cried, eyes gleaming eagerly as she hopped along to see the doors.
The glass had been completely removed, replaced with tall sheets of beige paper, and the handles had been warped so out of shape that they resembled some kind of foreign alphabet. On another building, Jikan would have mistaken it for some kind of artistic decision, but it was horrendously out-of-place on the entrance to a chain convenience store.
"What is this… avant-garde neo-traditionalist architecture?" Jikan pondered dryly.
"Only one way to find out," she replied, pulling open the door and leading inside. "Where's Kamiya-kun?"
Poking her head down one aisle, two aisles, four aisles, she eventually locked eyes with a young man in a green polo shirt who was halfway through stacking shelves. Kamiya Ryou was a classmate of Yamamoto's, but looked more like an artist's impression of one. It wasn't hard to be taller than Jikan, but standing head and shoulders above him as Kamiya did wasn't anything to scoff at either, cutting an imposing figure that didn't match his amicable, fiery aura at all.
"Yamamoto. Good afternoon," he greeted. "Jikan is with you too, huh?"
Jikan, trailing behind, gave a beaming wave. "Hey, Kamiyan."
"'Kamiyan' is a new one," he said.
"I'll come up with a good one for you eventually. Bear with it."
He gave a resigned but contented shrug. "What can I do for you guys?"
"We're just here for ramune," Yamamoto waved a hand, "but what's the deal with the doors?"
"Oh, that. We had a break-in last night. From what I can tell, they busted the door down completely, then made some kinda half-assed attempt at putting it back on its hinges. I guess it still opens and closes just fine, so they didn't do a bad job, but I called the manager and got the go-ahead to put some paper up as a patch job until the broken glass can be replaced."
"Busybody as usual, huh," Jikan observed.
"That's Kamiya-kun for you," agreed Yamamoto. "Don't underestimate the dedication of a guy whose job is also his hobby."
"It sounds a little sad when you put it like that, Yamamoto…" Kamiya muttered.

"Yamamoto?"
A fourth unfamiliar voice cut in, a rich accent that Jikan couldn't place colouring the name. From around the corner came a person he didn't know, but looked familiar eno─
───It was a sight like lightning.
Unmistakable between what bronzed skin she was showing and where her clothes hugged what she wasn't, a toned, athletic figure like a sculpture instantly redefined the word 'bombshell' in his mind. A dark sports bra and a yellow-pink jacket were the only things covering her upper body, and her below her exposed abdomen was─
No. Don't even look. Eye contact, eye contact.
Pink hair, adorned with a streak of teal, flowed down one side of her head, and he instantly saw the resemblance between her and Yamamoto. Maybe it really was natural, then… Except for the teal, of course.
At the same time, a second figure stepped into view with her - this one clad in a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt and faded jeans, making striking contrast with her white skin and golden ponytail. She was the very picture of a glamorous foreigner, immediately attaching herself to the part of Jikan's brain that stored the idea of a 'cool beauty' and digging right in.
The moment that his gaze set on the two of them, he saw something far removed from his everyday. Perhaps nobody else noticed it, but to him, they had an air about them that seemed almost beyond human.
No, he was certain that nobody else noticed it, because…
"Yamamoto Hibiki?" the first woman asked.
"Hey there," Yamamoto greeted. "I guess you must be…"
She grinned. "You've gotten so much bigger since I last saw you! How've you been?"
"It's been, like, a decade. That's kind of a big question."
"Did you find what you were looking for, Miss?" Kamiya asked.
"Oh, just fine, thank you. I guess my Japanese literacy was just rustier than I remembered after all," she said. "Nothing but Thai, Burmese, and Lao for half your life will do that to ya, I suppose!"
"Ah, Kamiya-kun, Jii-chan, this is my aunt, Musubi," Yamamoto introduced.
"Ugh, don't. I'm too young to be anyone's aunt. 'Onee-chan' will do just fine, Hibiki-chan."
"You need to stop lying to yourself, Auntie."
"All your cuteness really just evaporated in the past ten years, huh?" she sighed. "Good to meet you guys, anyway. The name's Momiji Musubi, I'll be staying at Hibiki's place for the next two weeks or so. You can call me whatever you want."
"Except Auntie?" Jikan replied.
"Except that. Don't look so disappointed," she said.
"Not disappointed at all, Momiji-san," he insisted.
"And this," she gestured to the woman besides her, "is my friend and associate, Lancer."
"How's it hanging?" she gave a brief wave.
"It's good to meet you. I'm Jikan Ren. Yamamoto-san is the president of our club."
"You're being too polite, it's freaking me out," Yamamoto frowned.
"I don't know what you're talking about, President. It's important to be polite so you make a good first impression on others."
Yamamoto firmly clapped her hands together. "Exorcising you right now," she declared. "Kappa begone!"
"Kappa?!"
Momiji smiled. "You pair have a lot of energy, huh? Dating or something?"
"Eh?"
"What?"
"Not at all," Jikan denied.
"Zero chance," Yamamoto refuted.
"Zero? That just makes me feel bad," he said.
"What, are you coming onto me?"
"Point taken," he conceded. "I'm out of your league in the first place."
"What?" she scoffed. "Are you kidding me?"
"I'll prove it," he said, turning his gaze. "You'd go out with me, right Kamiyan?"
Kamiya, suddenly dragged back into the conversation with force enough to snap his spine, simply stared, dumbfounded. His hands, still holding two cans of corned beef, froze in motion as he mustered a response.
"…Jikan, you do remember we're both guys, don't you?"
"Oh wow, you're a guy?" chuckled Momiji. "No wonder that was your reaction."
"I am," Jikan confirmed, leaning forward with that girlish grace that Yamamoto had made fun of him for, "but that's not what I asked, Ka~mi~yan."
Kamiya's face was like a stone mask, complete with discolouration. "I am… on the clock right now, so…"
Jikan looked to Yamamoto, unable to hold back a cattish smirk.
"Okay, fine," she admitted, "but only when it comes to other guys."
"That's alright, I wouldn't make you unconditionally surrender in front of your big sister anyway."
"Come on, you two," Lancer cut in. "Man's trying to do a job. Leave him alone."
Jikan laughed sheepishly. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, Kamiya-san."
"We do need to get our ramune and get back to club," Yamamoto nodded. "I'll see you when I get home, Musubi, Lancer."
"You two have fun," Momiji bid, and the pairs parted ways.
Yamamoto made quick work of selecting every ramune bottle that caught her eye, and paid ¥2466 in total for the whole haul.

Of course, so many glass bottles weren't easy on the arms, even in bags, and both of them lived to regret it.
"Delete hills. I don't think there's a single person in the world who likes walking uphill," she complained a few minutes later, dragging herself back up the path to school. "Flat ground all the way. When I'm God-Emperor of Earth, I will assemble an army of road rollers the likes of which you've never seen. Do us all a favour and move the mountains to outer space if your faith is so damn strong."
"I prefer uphill to downhill at least," Jikan said. "It's easier to slip downhill because you're walking too fast."
"You would say that, you slowpoke. You'd walk to Tokyo if you thought it'd take a second longer. Sure you don't wanna just sit down and wait for tectonic plates to ferry you back to club?"
"Your sarcasm would land better if you took less time to get to the punchline. Work on snappier phrasing," he retorted. "Still, uh… Thanks for helping me with this."
"No sweat. Well, some sweat, but I barely trust your noodle arms with even that much," she glanced over to the two bags in his hands, as she raised the three in hers, "let alone the rest."
"I could make it if I tried," he insisted.
"And you'd take two hours," she replied, which he couldn't really refute. "By the way, were you seriously checking out my aunt back there?"
The question hit like a truck, almost enough to knock him back to the bottom of the hill. "N-no!"
"Preeeeetty sure you were."
"Be less sure! You weren't even looking at me!"
"I wasn't," she agreed, "but I thought you might've been, and if that's your reaction…"
He frowned. "This feels like bullying."
"Don't worry. I'll give you a little of my share when we get back to make up for you totally being weird about my family. I'm basically paying you off."
"I'm not sure how I'm feeling about that many sweets all at once now that we have soda too," he protested. "Maybe you killed my appetite, but I somehow get the impression I'm just gonna be sick."
"Wow, you really are a dog," smirked Yamamoto.
"Please don't make this into a whole thing," he begged.
"Relax, I'm just messing with you," she giggled. "Speaking of which, do I seriously come off as Godzilla?"
"You're kind of a tyrant," Jikan admitted. "But…"
"But?"
He waved his hands wildly, as if protesting against himself. "Ah, no, it's just… I guess if you wanted a serious answer, it'd be a bird of some kind. You… feel like if freedom was a person, you know? Like we can go anywhere as long as you're leading the way. That sort of thing."
His eyes settled on the bright blue up above as he thought out loud, flecks and puffs of clear white like a map in itself, and he imagined the shapes of the stars that lay even beyond the daylight.
"…Pfft. What's up with that corny fuckin' answer, huh?" she grinned, jabbing him with her elbow. "Did you read so much shoujo manga that you became one?"
"It's not corny! I was being serious for once!"
"Nope, too late! I brand thee with the irons of cringe, never to fade!"
"I'm never answering you seriously again."
He probably would, of course, and he knew it, but there were some things worth dangling over the heads of others when they were being unreasonable.
"Ehhh? Come on, man! Your serious answers are the funniest ones!"
"Congratulations! You've identified exactly the problem!"
Even if Yamamoto was kind of a jerk sometimes, Jikan got the impression that she was just getting overexcited, so he could bear with it. He really had been serious in what he'd said, after all. If she didn't go nuts every once in a while, there would be no way that his daily life would be like this in the first place.
He supposed that made her his best friend.

As the higher in rank of the two, Yamamoto naturally stepped through the window again first when getting back, giving a victory cheer to the four who had stayed behind as she raised the bags, and a wave of mild applause came in response.
"Pres, I can't get back in if you're standing there."
"Ah, sorry," she said, taking a few steps forward as Jikan stuck a leg into the room. "Hey, hand me your bags. I don't wanna see you break your neck or something."
Nodding, he passed them through, and the sudden shift in weight as he let go almost made him fall backward, reflexively grabbing the window frame to keep his balance.
It was that exact moment that the club door swung wide open without so much as a knock.
"Alright, it's about time I actually supervised you kids, so jus–"
A declaration came, but immediately cut itself short.
Sweets of all sorts - along with their packaging - were scattered around the tables.
Plastic carrier bags of soda bottles were in the president's hands.
On top of all that, one of the members was in the middle of climbing into the room through the window.
It was an ordinary scene of youth that everyone figured happened at some point, not even open breaking any explicit rules. Yet, simultaneously, it was a flagrantly hedonistic scene that had no place on school grounds no matter how one sliced it.
Jikan's eyes were met by a dark yet sharp glaring blue. The scales of judgement had fallen. The room froze, sealing itself in silence, as if hoping not to disturb the volatile connection that had been made. Both teacher and student knew that they didn't have to say anything, but…
"Good afternoon, Matou-sensei."
"Are you having fun, Jikan?" Matou glared.
He thought for a moment. "If I lie and say no," he replied, "will we get in more or less trouble?"