cross-posted from ao3 :)
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Xiaoyu stares down at the small pink box in her hands—stares hard at it—so maybe as long as she keeps it up, something might actually happen. A wish. A miracle. But the pastel hue and satin ribbon feel heavier than they should, more like a burden than a gift.
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Because of course, making a box of chocolates is exactly what her home economics teacher has assigned the class today.
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This isn't how she imagined she'd be spending Valentine's Day. Not that she has any grand plans, but still—this is just a little sad. (She handed zero chocolates to anyone last Valentine's Day too. So how is today any different?)
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(That's a rhetorical question. She knows why.)
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"Xiao—" Miharu's voice stretches out as she suddenly pops up beside her, drawing out the "o" in a way that melts into the air. The scent of fresh roses follows, and when Xiaoyu glances over, she sees a small bouquet resting in Miharu's right hand. A card dangles from the stems, From Makoto scribbled across it in familiar yet messy handwriting, complete with a small heart next to it drawn just a little lopsided. "Did you finish your chocolates? They look adorable!"
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"Yours is already the best in the class," Xiaoyu huffs with a light nudge on the shoulder. "Besides," she adds and keeps her tone steady, tossing a little bounce into her steps. She doesn't want Miharu to worry—not today of all days. "They were more of a distraction than anything."
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Then, Miharu doesn't say anything, doesn't smile or nod, only eyes her wordlessly, as if assessing her. Although it is brief, the moment passes as quickly as it came. Whatever she had been about to say, she swallowed it back, burying it beneath an easy grin. Xiaoyu is grateful, but at the same time, she wonders, just for a second, if Miharu learned how to do that from her.
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"Well, are you heading home now?"
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Xiaoyu simply nods. "Don't keep Makoto-san waiting."
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Miharu hesitates, like she has something more to say. (She always does.) Suddenly, a voice calling her name rings from a distance. Xiaoyu doesn't need to look to know who it is—the sender of the bouquet she refuses to let go of from her grasp. After all, she has been gushing about her after-school date since morning.
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"I'll call you later, okay?" The excitement is clear in her tone, face bright with anticipation.
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Xiaoyu nods again, smiling this time. "Sure."
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She watches as Miharu spins on her heel, ready to go, but just before she steps away, she pauses. Without a word, she turns back and reaches out, giving Xiaoyu's shoulder a gentle squeeze—warm, familiar, meant to be reassuring. And it is. If only for a moment.
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Miharu departs as soon as she promises a karaoke session this weekend, the bouquet bobbing up and down in the air while she eagerly approaches her beckoning admirer. Xiaoyu's smile lingers, despite herself. She lets the moment stretch until she finally turns in the opposite direction and takes her leave.
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"Huh, your shoe locker is empty."
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"Yes, it's empty," Jin fixed her a look, unamused, slipping off his indoor shoes and returning them neatly into his locker. The click of the metal closing together sounded louder than it should, having used a little more force than necessary.
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Xiaoyu couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Did you get anything at all?"
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He didn't hesitate to answer with a flat, "No."
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She considers her options, tapping her fingers lightly against the small pink box in front of her. Who should she give her chocolates to?
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The house staff? That would probably be too forward.
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Grandpa Heihachi? That would be weird. Not to mention he's on a different continent right now.
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Kuma? …Yeah, no. Bears shouldn't eat chocolate.
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She tucks the box in her school bag again. Her homework sits nearly forgotten on her study desk, scattered across its polished surface are papers filled with half-finished equations that she stopped caring about an hour ago. Sighing, she spares a glance at the glowing numbers on her digital clock—too late to start training, but still too early to sleep.
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Panda yawns lazily from her spot on the floor.
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There is a heavy sensation in her chest every time she is left alone with her thoughts, the kind that feels like an inexplicable weight is being pressed down against her ribcage. And tonight, it feels particularly suffocating. She can't tell if she is tired or restless right now. Maybe both. Maybe neither. A small part of her still hopes for him to boldly burst open the door and tell her it's time for dinner. Maybe then she would feel a little better.
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Instead, she hears three soft knocks outside her room. "Dinner is ready, Xiaoyu-sama."
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"So you've never received a Valentine's chocolate," she gasped, her school bag clutched dramatically to her chest. "Like ever?"
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"That's fine by me," he replied, shrugging.
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"Not even once? Not even when you were a kid?"
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"No." His expression remained unchanged, but his eyes flickered with something.
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She pouted at that, an exaggerated gesture that always managed to draw a smile if it were anybody else. However, he was not anybody else. He was already painfully familiar with her habits, much to her dismay (or perhaps delight, depending on the day). "That's pretty sad, you know. Everyone should have at least one."
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A tiny scoff escaped him. "I'll live."
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Dinner is simple—boring, to put it differently. She has grown accustomed to eating alone in the dining hall, and while she is now also used to the accompanying silence, it doesn't make it any less lonely. Forlorn.
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She helps herself with a piece of rolled omelet, chewing almost mindlessly, mechanically, her movements on auto-pilot. As usual, she avoids looking at the vacant seat across her at the table. It's much easier to keep her eyes trained on the food when it's laid out for her. That way, it's easier to pretend. That way, she wouldn't be so sick of the reminder staring at her in the face again and again and again.
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Her grip tightens slightly around the chopsticks, but she forces herself to keep eating.
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"If chocolate-flavored takoyaki was a thing, would you try it?"
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Amidst the buzz of the city streets, he shot her another look. "You need to stop asking me this."
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Her expectant smile widened. "Why?"
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You know why, was what his narrowed eyes seemed to impart. He chose to voice it out anyway. "It's making me lose my appetite."
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"Oh, it wouldn't hurt to try imagining it," she said, leaning in a little too close for comfort. If it were anybody else, he would have stepped away, maintained his distance. But of course, she was not just anybody else. "The gooey and piping hot chocolate pancake with—"
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"Stop right there." He lifted his hand as if to physically shield himself from the mental image. "You're ruining both takoyaki and chocolate for me. I didn't think that was possible."
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"How about—"
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"No."
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"Then what if—"
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"Xiao."
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Her nickname was simultaneously a plea and a warning, and it only caused her burst of laughter to fill the space between them, drawing a few pairs of eyes to dart in their direction. She didn't care about that though. Never did.
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Once she had calmed down, she exhaled through her nose, her laughter dying into soft giggles that bubbled on her lips. Eventually, the crunch of their leather shoes against the concrete ground replaced her voice as they walked side by side. So she opted to sneak a glance at him, just a quick one, from the mere corner of her eye.
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"If I gave you chocolates—normal ones, I mean," she asked, quieter now, curiosity getting the best of her. "Would you accept them?"
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She didn't hear a response right away, and the silence that followed stretched rather awkwardly to twenty seconds, thirty, into a full minute. The delay wasn't long enough to be alarming, but it was enough to make her shift her grip on the strap of her school bag, her palms growing clammy. She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or worried because the lack of an immediate answer meant he was contemplating her question. Conversely, what was there to even contemplate in the first place?
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Just as she debated brushing it off, pretending it was a joke, or changing the subject entirely—anything to cut through the tension that had no right to be here in the first place, he finally spoke.
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"You shouldn't feel obligated to give me any just because it's Valentine's." His gaze was locked on the path ahead, like he was consciously avoiding her eyes.
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She blinked at him, undecided between amusement and exasperation. That was such a Jin answer. "Except I wouldn't be," she clicked her tongue, tilting her head to the side. "And a simple yes or no would suffice."
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His features contorted into what appeared to be mild unease, and she could practically see the gears turning in his head. It was kind of funny.
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Another long pause. Then, softly, "… Yes."
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She almost missed it. It was quiet enough to be swallowed by the distant noise of traffic, the rustling leaves, the chatter of passing pedestrians. He let out a sigh, readjusting the way he held his school bag, and added, "I'd feel bad if I didn't."
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She pointedly ignored the last statement.
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"That settles it," she hummed, rocking back on her heels before slowing down her pace, since she had already overtaken him by several steps. "Chocolates are officially reserved for next year's Valentine's."
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Puzzled, he walked up to her in a few strides. "Not today?"
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"Nope." She popped the p for emphasis. "You took too long to answer."
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His lips pressed into a line, but he didn't argue. Not that he seemed particularly disappointed. She had other plans anyway.
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… Or, well, just one.
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Without warning, she pivoted sharply at the next street corner, veering off their regular route to the Mishima estate. The sudden shift in direction caught him off guard. One second, she was walking alongside him, and the next, she was advancing again. He nearly overshot the turn entirely, forced to pause mid-step as his head swiveled to her retreating figure.
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She heard his confused "What—?" from behind, which only spurred her forward.
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Her gaze locked onto something in the distance, her eyes zeroing in with the same focus she usually reserved for a fight. But right now, she wasn't looking for an opponent. She was looking for something warm, something familiar—something that would make this afternoon feel like more than just another day draped in the ordinary.
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The unmistakable scent of sizzling batter combined with a touch of dashi wafted in the air, and she could already feel her mouth water. Even before she fully spotted it, she knew precisely where she was going.
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There, her destination lay ahead: an unassuming little food stall tucked beneath the shade of a tall, ancient tree. A hand-painted sign hung just above the counter, its bold letters declaring what it did best: takoyaki.
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Next to her, Jin finally caught on. His exhale was quiet but telling, the kind that spoke of resignation rather than genuine annoyance. He should have seen this coming, really. "Of course," he muttered dryly, loud enough for her to hear.
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"Think of it as my Valentine's present." She glanced at him sideways. "My treat."
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That sparked a reaction. His brows rose, and when he turned to her, his incredulity was as plain as day. "Your treat?"
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Alright, she understood the idea was almost laughable considering their allowances came directly from his family. Technically, she would just be spending his grandfather's money on him.
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Except technicalities had never deterred her before, so, "Yep." She smiled. Then, to drive the point home, she continued, "But I expect something in return on White Day."
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Her shamelessness earned a scoff again. It wasn't dismissive, not really. If anything, it was an attempt to cover up the expression already creeping onto his face. She recognized that look very well. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the faintest hint of a smile he was trying—and failing—to curb.
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"That's assuming I even accept your offer," he said after clearing his throat, shifting his hands into his pockets as if he was still pretending to ponder. Unfortunately for him, she knew better; he had already lost. (He would never pass up on free takoyaki.)
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A glint in her eye, she fished out her wallet. "Too late. I'm already ordering."
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"Thank you for the meal," she murmurs under her breath, hands clasped together in a quiet gesture of gratitude. The words slip out without thought, dissolving into the heavy stillness of the room. No voice emerges to respond.
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A servant approaches her to clear the table. Without lifting her head, she offers a polite nod, her voice gentler than it needs to be as she passes a soft thank you. It's muscle memory by now. One more motion in a series of countless others. Routine. Predictable. And like everything else, it ends the same way. All that is left now is to finish her homework. (Unlikely.)
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Normally, she should have already left. There is nothing keeping her here. Nothing—no one—worth staying for. But her feet remain still. Something holds her in place.
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Her gaze drifts—drawn by a force she never quite manages to resist—to the seat across from her. And there it is, like always. Empty. Silent. Waiting.
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Mocking.
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She tells herself that she shouldn't look. It's futile. Yet her eyes linger, caught in that ache she never fully lets herself feel. The longer she stares, the heavier it becomes.
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Things used to be so different. The atmosphere used to be warmer around this very table. Back then, the silence was filled with small, mundane conversations that never really seemed important until they were gone. Silly, inconsequential things. Pointless debates that frequently stretched on for too long. It could get noisy, but it was alive.
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Now? It is all too quiet now. She always hates it when it gets quiet.
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Her fingers curl slightly against the hem of her skirt, and she wonders what it would be like if, by some impossible stroke of fate, she could look up and see him there again. Brows furrowed, wearing that same semi-perpetual frown. Mumbling a hearable glutton because of how much food she piles onto her plate. Tossing another blunt remark that would make her roll her eyes and stick out her tongue.
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The thought lingers too long, too much, and she perishes it before it can take shape. Like clockwork.
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Her throat tightens, so she swallows the feeling down to stop it from rising any further. The servant has already disappeared through the kitchen doors, to which she takes as her cue to finally move, rising to her feet in a swift, almost too-sharp motion. The legs of her chair scrape against the polished floor, the sound loud and harsh in the oppressive air. It cuts through the silence like the reminder that she is, once again, the only one left.
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Wordlessly, she steps away from the table, her exit as muted as her arrival. The dining hall stays behind her, still and empty, as if no one had been there at all.
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More often than not, she wonders if she had done something wrong. If there was something she missed. Would things have turned out differently if she had just… known?
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She shakes her head internally. The answer never really comes regardless of how many times she replays it.
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His last words to her (and god, she hates referring to it like that) cling to her more than she'd like to admit, as though holding on to them hard enough might bring him back. It's improbable, maybe. Still, they're all she has left.
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Her footsteps slow as she reaches the door to her room, fingers brushing against the brass handle. She should go inside. Shut the world out. Pretend everything is fine. She's good at that—has had plenty of practice.
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Again. She doesn't move.
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Instead, despite her better judgment, she looks back toward the door across the hall. His room.
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It looks the same as it always has. If anybody else walked by, they wouldn't think anything of it. (She is not anybody else.)
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No one has touched it since the tournament. Not the staff, not even his grandfather. Not after she had practically begged them to leave it alone. Grandpa Heihachi had suggested something about "tidying up"; about clearing out what no longer seemed of importance. Perhaps, he hadn't meant anything by it, not really, but the words barely left his mouth as she vehemently protested. Please! Just let it stay!
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She still doesn't know why she was so adamant. Maybe she thought leaving the room untouched would somehow keep a part of him here. That as long as his things stayed as they were—his books scattered on the desk, the worn-out training gloves tucked haphazardly by the door—he couldn't be entirely gone.
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She bites her lower lip, then proceeds to shut herself in her room.
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The last time she saw him was during the tournament. She had barely been conscious, her whole body aching from the match she had lost. The infirmary was cold and sterile, the fluorescent lights overhead burned too brightly against her closed eyelids. She had expected to wake up alone.
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She did not.
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When she finally opened her eyes, his face was the first thing she sighted. Calm, unreadable, but unmistakably him. He had been sitting beside her bed, his posture rigid in the way it always was when he had too much on his mind. For a second, she thought she might be imagining it. That was, until he spoke, the sound of his voice cutting through the mist in her head.
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"You fought well." Simple words. No embellishment. Although coming from him, they meant more than he probably realized.
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At the time, she had scoffed because no, she didn't. She had lost. There was no "well" about it. She told him as much in the haze of her frustration. Truthfully, her anger wasn't just about the match. It had been brewing since their argument in the dojo. It wasn't the usual back-and-forth banter that always fizzled out after a while. No, that one hurt. That one had stayed with her even after he had apologized for it.
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Some stubborn, aching part of her still wanted to prove him wrong, yet she couldn't. The first thing she did was snap at him.
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And to no one's surprise, he didn't argue back.
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Rather, he said a few more things along the lines of, "That doesn't mean you failed," and, after a pause heavy enough to make her heart twist, "At least… not to me."
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She sinks down onto the edge of her bed, causing the mattress to sag slightly under her weight. Her hands move on reflex, reaching for her phone buried under her stuffed plushies. Maybe Miharu called while she was having dinner downstairs. Maybe there's a message waiting.
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Except the screen lights up empty. No missed calls. Not even a text.
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Blowing a sharp breath through her lips, she tosses the phone aside, the screen going dark as it lands softly against the blanket.
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Miharu can be a bit of a liar sometimes. The harmless kind, but still. Because one, she hasn't called at all. And two, what she said about falling in love couldn't be farther from the truth.
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According to her, it's supposed to be obvious. Overwhelming. A grand, undeniable reveal. There would be a moment—a dramatic, earth-shattering epiphany where everything just clicks. Fireworks exploding behind your ribs. Confetti bursting in your chest. Some flashing neon sign screaming This is it—this is how you feel.
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But for her, it's nothing like that. She wishes it were, though. It would have made everything easier.
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If anything, it feels… quiet. Too familiar. So subtle it almost feels unfair, because there was never a single moment to point to and say, There. That's when it happened. No blinding revelation or sudden rush of clarity. Just a stubborn, slow-growing pain that persists no matter how hard she tries to suppress it.
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Moreover, if she's really being honest with herself, it might be because a small part of her has always known. The truth had been there, biding its time. Now, there is no point in pretending otherwise when the truth has wrapped its tendrils around her heart and squeezed until breathing becomes impossible.
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What good is acknowledging her feelings now, when he is not around anymore?
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The irony of it all pulls a dry, sardonic laugh out of her. Genuinely, what else is there to do? Crying didn't change anything. Wishing didn't bring him back. Many of her questions are left unanswered. Why did he leave? Why didn't he say something? Was she not worth a proper farewell?
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One thing is certain, though.
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If—no, when he comes back, she swears she is going to give him a piece of her mind.
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She had spent an entire month on sick leave, and not just because of the injuries. Those healed quickly enough. It was everything else—the nights spent staring at the ceiling, crying her eyes out until she simply couldn't anymore. The countless times she pleaded with his grandfather if there was any news, only to be met with silence, or worse, a solemn shake of his head. He doesn't get to leave like that. Not without paying for it.
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Her hands ball into fists at her sides, the faintest tremor betraying how much it still hurts. How much he still hurts. The worst part? No matter how furious she feels, no matter how much she tells herself she is ready to yell at him. She knows exactly what will happen the moment she sees him again.
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She will just be elated that he's alive.
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Hoping is dangerous, she thinks. That's what makes it so infuriating.
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Five minutes later, she pushes herself off the bed and trudges across the room. Her study desk is in its usual state of disarray, but her attention lands on her school bag tucked underneath. She crouches down, pulling it onto her lap to unzip the main compartment.
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And there it is.
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The box of chocolates.
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She had nearly forgotten about them. The neat wrapping is still perfectly intact, as if the presentation somehow matters when there's no one to actually give them to.
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She huffs quietly to herself. Well, it's not like he's here to eat them anyway. That's his loss.
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So, without giving herself time to think about it any further, she steps to the cushioned window sill before perching herself on it, one leg dangling over the edge. She pulls at the ribbon until it unravels, then tears open the wrapping. The scent of cocoa hits her nose as she lifts the lid, revealing the neatly arranged heart-shaped pieces inside. (To her surprise, they haven't melted at all.)
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She shifts her eyes to the garden outside the window, watching the moon cast a glow over the flowers and trees, almost deep in thought. It's been too long since the tournament, she muses. Too long since that conversation in the infirmary—since he vanished without so much as a warning. Not a single explanation or a goodbye.
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Yet his presence continues to linger in this estate. There is a memory of him wherever she goes, whether she likes it or not.
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She plucks the centerpiece chocolate from the box and pops it into her mouth, letting the taste unfold on her tongue. It's good, better than she expected, but it doesn't quite fill that asinine hollowness sitting beneath her ribs. Nothing really does.
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As she reaches for a second piece, she imagines his reaction if he ever received these chocolates she made. He would likely say they're too sweet.
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