Izumi yawns as she wanders back through their front door, absently pinching and pulling at the air with her thumb and middle finger. The laces of her high top sneakers levitated up with each tug, slowly loosening as she used her other arm to take off her raincoat and hang it up.

The kitchen isn't empty when she pops in to grab a snack. Off to the side, a familiar face leans in an unfamiliar place—back against the counter and lips tucked into a persimmon. She wears a short, pink, silk robe like she was born to it. The oranges and reds of the fruit complimented the pale blue of the girl's hair brilliantly, making her seem almost higher than human. Yet, she lacks all grace and decorum, with more juice running down her chin than could be comfortable. It has to itch, Izumi knows it just has to, yet Nejire makes no attempt to wipe it away.

It would be rude to comment on it, Izumi thinks, so she toes around her. The pantry is in the back of the kitchen, located just before the entry into the washroom. It's small. Too small, really. But they each have a shelf for themselves and another for excess goods, and it's enough.

"Ohayou," she greets as she passes.

Nejire jumps and, like an old beater car, makes an absolute racket as she tries to make herself look alive. She manages to simultaneously choke on her bite, throw an earbud across the kitchen and into the sink (scoring three points, in Izumi's mind), and clock herself in the chin in a desperate attempt to hide her sloppiness. It's as impressive as it is disturbing, and Izumi has a hard time deciding between helping or laughing.

Her mind wages a brutal holy war, one in which the hero within her battles the bitter young girl standing opposite, and nothing is off limits, no holds are barred. Each one so desperately fighting for their desired outcome: to help and to hurt. They pull the other's hair and they claw at their skin and, if they were men, they would hit below the belt, too. It was an ugly fight and it was a real one. And when it comes time to call a victor neither fighter has the strength to stand, so it's ruled a tie.

Izumi's mouth did a strange thing at that time, and her genuine request of 'try not to die' mixed with something short of a snort, a sound not quite a laugh, yet empirically more than a chuckle. The end result is her tripping, tumbling, and face planting over her words—observable through the way she choked on her own spit and fell into a harsh fit of coughs and tears.

So there they stood (or hunched), two young women in their country's most prestigious university—two promising hero candidates with impressive resumes to boot—and neither could seem to best nor even get an upper hand upon their greatest nemesis: themselves.

Nejire is the first to recover. "You're back early." She rubs her jaw and begins her search for the errant earbud.

Though her vision is blurry and though her throat still lay in open rebellion following the loss of its hero, Izumi gestures vaguely in the direction of the sink and grunts something similar to an affirmation. It's nothing more than a sloppy wave of her arm, but Nejire stills follows it to her prey. Only once the earbud is back in her hand does she really take the chance to look at Izumi. "You didn't go to the gym," she observes with a tilt of her head.

"Mm," she rasps, pounding her chest, "That's right."

Nejire frowns and gives her a once over. The clock reads a quarter till eight and Izumi stands there fully dressed in cargo pants and a hoodie. It's hardly unusual for herself, but they had not lived together long. It probably seemed weird to somebody like Nejire who, if permitted, would sleep till world's end.

"Where did you go?"

"Where did I—?" Izumi mutters before blinking. "What are you? My mother?"

"No," Nejire shakes her head quickly, "I didn't mean. I just—"

"Hey." She raises her hands and lowers her voice in a way she hopes is placating. She's not entirely certain what happened, but Nejire looks genuinely upset by her reply. Not truly angry, nor fully sad. It's partly frustration, she thinks, or maybe disappointment. Bitter, even. As much as they were sworn enemies, she didn't fancy starting something this early in the morning. "I'm only kidding. I was at the honden by Ground Omega."

Nejire presses her lips together so fiercely that they turn thin and white, and it continues like that until she can't hold in her question any longer. "The shrine? Why?"

Izumi averts her eyes and opens the pantry door, finding a protein bar and a banana. The reality of Nejire's question is that it was a compromise she'd reached with her mother in order to transfer departments. That was the truth of the matter, but only one of many. "Next week's my first as an official student in the hero department," she shrugs, "I asked the kami to watch over me and help to make it a good one." Another truth, though the first factored in more.

"Ah." Her expression is dubious at best. Evidently, Izumi did not appear particularly pious to others. She can't say it bothers her much.

A moment passes and the air conditioner kicks on in the other room, humming to life. Izumi takes the chance to peel her banana and steal a bite. "This has been nice," she says after swallowing, even offering the other girl a smile of unsurmisable sincerity. It had been, even if she was feeling excruciatingly awkward the longer this silence spanned. "But I've got a date with Crunchyroll, so." She finger guns the other girl as best she can with two full hands—not well at all—then turns away and cringes at herself in secret.

The best option available to her is cowardice. She flees, or makes to, but their kitchen is narrow and Nejire is no longer leaning against the counter. There is only a slight gap to travel through, a tile and a half wide, and she was simply going to have to make it work. It required side stepping like some stupid crustacean, but by golly would she do it if it meant escape and solace.

Nejire, for some god-forsaken reason, decided to wait until they were essentially chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, and nose-to-nose to say anything more. So, there they stood like two cocksure men trying to act tough as she asked, "What're you going to watch?"

And her eyes were, like, right there. Izumi discovers they were a different color from her hair. While the latter is closer to a periwinkle or mauve, purply by all accounts, the former is more royal in appearance. A deep and vivid blue. "One Piece," she answers after a moment. "Probably."

The other girl's nose crinkles in likely disgust as she groans, "You're such a boy."

A gasp leaves Izumi that's equal parts offended and surprised. On the wall behind her, the display that tracks their scoring makes a sad little boo-bloop! as it deducts another point from their tally. They were already well into the negatives by now, and unlikely to ever see the light of day again if they didn't manage to start acting like a married couple and soon.

"The Diet didn't appreciate that comment," Izumi notes as she looks at it.

"Yeah, well, I don't appreciate watching an anime with easily over four-thousand episodes—" Izumi would like the record to show that some of that is filler. And there's over five-thousand, actually. So, hah. "—can't we find something easier to watch?"

And—just, Izumi can't help but wonder, since when did this become a 'we' activity? Her actions were being watched and her decisions scored, however, so she couldn't say that. She had to save their points when she could; it was only a matter of time before they pissed the other off and went on a tirade. So, she can't ask Nejire where her RSVP is, much less her invitation. She can't even deny her as she so desperately wishes she could. "What would you like to watch?" is all she can ask, and it feels awful.

Nejire shrugs. "Dunno." She explains how she's never really seen much which Izumi thought was simply deranged coming from the girl asking to join her. "Something good?"

"Hm." Izumi takes one last bite of the banana, tossing the peel, and nods her head as if that wasn't a completely useless and aggravating suggestion, before shuffling the rest of the way out of the kitchen and disappearing into her room. She called back to her, asking, "Action or romance?"

Nejire's answer is clear despite their distance. "Romance."

Izumi withholds a sigh easily, having expected the answer, but still finds herself deeply disappointed. "Fantasy or sci-fi?"

"Um. Historical?"

Less easy to hold in this time. Decisively so. The blanket she's stealing from her bed did a good job muffling it, at least. She trades her pants out for sweats and pulls her braid over her shoulder before flipping her hood up and leaving.

Nejire sits on the ground with her legs beneath the kotatsu and her back against the couch. Izumi finds a place over her shoulder and drapes herself across the arm rest as she uses her phone to connect to their TV. "Your taste in anime stinks." The wall boo-bloops! again for another point deduction but Izumi can't bring herself to care. The difference between -46 and -47 is as large as it is recoverable. (Not.) "Subtitles?"

"Obviously."

The selection for shows both romantic and historical is remarkably small. Too large to count on her own fingers and toes, but gather a half dozen people in a room and they could make it work. Nothing jumps out to her as immediately enjoyable, something made even worse by that word pinging around her brain like a ball in pong: obviously. What an annoying way to answer a—

As she rips the foil around the protein bar, she goes to online forums to spare herself the decision and selects the first one suggested.

"What's this one?"

"Some pre-quirk show. It was recommended online."

Nejire hums. "What's it about?"

The upside of sitting on the couch is that it would be embarrassingly easy to strangle her roommate. The downside is that it was probably illegal to do so. "You usually figure that out by watching."

She can hear her wife's scowl when she replies. "So you decide on a book to read without checking the summary?"

A muscle in Izumi's jaw twitches. Their peace from the night before was always going to be temporary, but she'd had hope that it would have lasted longer than this. "Remind me again why you want to watch something with me?"

"Because," Nejire groans as she tilts her head back, peering up at Izumi through the fringe of her bangs, "unlike some people, I want to succeed as a hero, and that means getting a good grade on this practical, and that means getting along with you. So, even if you're beyond frustrating, I have to play nice and—Hey!" She reaches up and snaps her fingers in front of Izumi's eyes, but they are clenched shut so she only hears it. "Pay attention when I'm speaking to you!"

Through the sound of their rapidly decreasing score, Izumi makes a request. "Could you, um, maybe fix your—er … your robe?" The neckline was a lot looser than she realized when she first chose her spot on the sofa.

"Seriously? Seriously? We're both girls, what does it even matter? Are you seriously that much of a prude?" Izumi refuses to so much as breathe until she hears the sound of silk shifting over itself. "This is ridiculous; you're being seriously ridiculous."

She said 'seriously' a lot there, but her chest was covered, so Izumi counted it as a win even if her cheeks felt hotter than the Gobi. "I want to do well on the practical, too." A moment passes. "Also," and this was very important to her, so do take note, "I am not a prude."

"You are," Nejire dissents as she turns around to face Izumi in full, sitting back on her feet. She has to abandon the building warmth of the kotatsu to do so, but she hardly seems to notice. Not that Izumi ever expected a demon from the depths of hell to covet much the warmth. "You are a prude."

"I'm respectful!"

"Sure you are, Queen Victoria." She shakes her head and her hair naturally follows, swaying this way then the next. The curtains to their patio are spread and Nejire turns to look outside. Her pupils constrict and her skin seems to unfairly glow in the sun's grace. Through her lashes, she peers back at where Izumi sits in her periphery before inspiration seems to strike. A cruel smirk stretches her lips as she shifts to the side and raises her foot. "Tell me do you find my ankles alluring? Do they make you swoon? Tremble? Quake?"

"What?" Izumi squints. "No." Also, 'quake' sounds more like something that should accompany the runs.

"No? Pity." Someway, somehow, Nejire is able to force her lips into a pout without laughing. A miracle in and of itself. "Then, maybe … my knees?" She draws a finger up the belly of her calf then higher, tracing the bony ridge on the side of her knee and toying with the hem of her robe. "Higher?" She gives Izumi her best approximation of bedroom eyes but instead of the quakes she's promised it feels more like she has a hairball.

"Yeah, still no."

Her wife lets loose a low and rasped hum, drawing it out long beyond its means, and rises to her knees. They're eye-level now and Izumi is not a fan. The couch dips on either side as Nejire's hands find a place beside her hips. "Not a leg girl then? No Miruko posters in your room this darling wife of yours should be jealous of?"

Darling? She scratches behind her ear. "I actually have four."

Nejire ignores her. "Perhaps you're more daring than that?" Again, her hands rise. This time she brushes aside a curtain of hair to reveal her shoulder before painting a line across her clavicle. She hooks a nail beneath the neckline of her gown and pulls it up, then away. "Perhaps you prefer some more—"

A cough of surprise leaves Izumi's throat. "Dude!" She'd been pulling the blanket up higher until it reached her chin, but now she's forced to abandon it in a desperate bid to stop whatever it is that was happening from happening. She tosses it to the side and rushes to stop the robe from slipping.

Unfortunately for her head and her heart, opposite herself in this tilt of wills was not some random nancy unfamiliar with combat. Nejire dodges out of the way of Izumi's reaching hand as if it were poison, but without anything to balance herself against, the fall that follows is catastrophic. The couch cushion compresses and tips with her, comically flipping in the air to a height even above the sofa's backrest like some kind of cartoon. All the while, her nose makes itself at home in the hollow of her wife's neck as they rock backward in a tangle of limbs.

"Ow, ow, ow," Nejire whines as she tries to shimmy away from the source of her pain. Her shoulder must have struck the edge of the table in the fall, because she'd jerked so suddenly and violently that the crown of Izumi's head had nowhere to go but into her jaw. "You daft—" A grunt leaves her next as she tries to shove Izumi's body off of her own to little success. "Why are you so fucking heavy?"

Izumi shoos away the butterflies flying above her head with a waved hand and pushes herself up from the ground, distancing herself from the flush of her ill-begotten wife's neck. "Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry," she tries, but Nejire's not having any of it.

"Just get off of me already!"

She pauses. It takes her a moment to truly triangulate the position of each of her limbs. Her eyes find her left leg first followed by her right arm—don't ask her how they ended up together, she's really not sure either—and there's a smarting in her left forearm down where Nejire's hip is digging into it.

Her wife's face is painted in a deep and angry flush with a deeper and angrier scowl spanning it. Izumi quickly takes both of their positions in and can't help but snicker. "Who's the prude now?" That scowl of hers grows and an unseen clock starts ticking, bearing down upon Izumi's neck like the headsman's ax. As subtly as she can, she makes a swipe with her pinky and grabs hold of the distant lock to their patio's sliding door, flicking it up. "You sure had a lot to say about me for somebody who's blushing like a maiden now."

Nejire's nostrils flare. "You're going to want to run."

"I thought we were going to watch anime together?"

Golden light spirals to life around Nejire's hand and that was Izumi's que to make a break for it. "See you later, wifey," she yelps as she makes a mad dash for the back door, squealing when a blast shoots past her shoulder. It slams into where the couch's cushion had landed, protecting the wall behind it but scarring its belly in sacrifice. Just above, their score tracker lets out another sad, little boo-bloop, but only the open door remains to hear it.

Later that night, when both girls had returned to their shared home exhausted and covered in sweat, they would sit in opposite corners of the room as they hold frozen food to their faces, one to a cheek, the other to a lip. And their glares would be so unerring that neither would notice that, despite everything, they'd managed to vault their score halfway clear to zero.

"I hate you," she will call as her wife stands to leave. Nejire will say nothing, partly courtesy of the bag of frozen taiyaki she holds to her lip, but she does give her door a tectonic slam in retaliation. Izumi smiles sadly in the face of it and drops her own bag of chicken to her lap, taking the chance to rub at the bruise quickly taking shape on her cheek. "Sorry, Mirio, doesn't look like it will be today either," she whispers to no one but the cameras in the walls.