Chương 376: 165.Second Semester Begins 2

Sitting in the auditorium for the opening ceremony is supposed to be normal. Provided that before it ends, you're not treated as a limited-time landmark by a swarm of first-years — and afterward, you're not treated as a walking bonus prize and physically intercepted along the exit route. Unlucky me. I hit both. The Student Council MC's closing remarks dropped; applause came down like a uniform artificial rainstorm, rattling across the hall.

Then chair-legs scraped back in a mass chorus — row after row, like some huge metal insect colony waking up. Everyone stood, turned, folded programs, straightened collars. From a distance it looked orderly. Up close it was just hundreds of students cramming as much chaos as possible into the narrow window the school allowed for dignified exit. I'd barely gotten to my feet when I knew it was coming. The group of girls behind me who'd been whispering about me the whole time — their breathing sped up.

Not exaggerating. Actually sped up. I didn't even have to turn around. Just from the small, collective intake of breath, I could tell: oh, good. These ones aren't leaving. They're hunting. Hedwig rose first. She moved exactly the way you'd expect from someone raised with lessons on how to stand up under scrutiny.

When the crowd is watching, where you set your weight, how much you let your awareness of it show — it was all so precise that the people who'd already been staring at her refocused like they were being pulled on strings. In theory, that should've helped. With the spotlight back on the princess, I ought to have been able to fade into the moving crowd. In theory. Reality had other ideas.

Just as I started to ease my way into the flow, I heard, urgent and low, from my right-rear:"Now, now, go now—" The back of my neck prickled. Now what? Raiding the snack stand? Before I could turn, two, three, four first-years had wriggled through the gaps between seats, ducking under armrests with all the grace of semi-trained puppies on a scent, homing straight toward my row.

"S-Senpai!" The first girl practically tripped over the word, face red enough to ascend on the spot. Her voice drew the others in. The aisle shrank by half as they closed in from both sides. To my left, people. To my right, people. In front, the wave of bodies moving out from Hedwig's row. Behind, more first-years pressing forward. I stood there, not so much a student as a fragile item accidentally caught in a warehouse conveyor.

"What." I gave them my best dead stare. Not to be dramatic. It was the only expression that still preserved any dignity. The first girl drew a sharp breath under it.

"E-even closer up—""Don't say that first!" one of the others hissed, elbowing her. Then she looked up at me herself and froze for a beat. Great. I could apparently stun people now. The Federation's talent program was really delivering.

"Senpai," a third girl — the bravest — leaned in.

"Um, are you really… I mean, are you actually a girl?" I looked at her. She looked at me. One beat of silence.

"If you'd like to verify that on the spot, I'll hand you over to Disciplinary first," I said. Her face flamed. Laughter leaked out from somewhere behind them, badly suppressed.

"That's not what I meant!" she flailed.

"I just meant — because everyone thought—""Thought I was a guy?" She whispered, "…Kind of."

"Kind of."

"A lot," she amended. I closed my eyes. Honesty, weaponized. Another girl rushed in with a second cut.

"But Senpai doesn't just look like a guy." I opened my eyes.

"What the hell kind of category is that." She actually paused to think about it.

"I mean — not the rough type. The… clean, cold, really cool type."

"You're describing a knife."

"Knives can be cool," she said without thinking. Someone behind her gasped.

"You just backtalked her—" I nearly laughed and swallowed it. Laughing now would get me canonized by this pack, and the last thing my life needed was an organized fan club. The side-effect, unfortunately, was that other people were now staring. The boys who'd been glaring earlier, in particular, were upgrading from unhappy to something more like a homeland-defense crisis. One of them deliberately shouldered in, putting on a very practiced annoyed face.

"Move. You're clogging the aisle." The words were for the group. The eyes were on me. Right. This type I'd seen too many times. What he wanted to say was why you, but the only thing he ever actually says is the safest, least original line on the board. I'd intended to let it pass. Then the girls wobbled under the shove, one nearly tripping on a chair leg. I stepped sideways, grabbed the nearest one before she went down, and let that motion push the boy to a stop.

"You have eyes," I said.

"Use them. Go around." His face flickered. He'd clearly not expected me to push back.

"You—""And," I added, looking him over, then the boys bunched up behind him, "the aisle's for moving people. Not for performing your wounded pride." A smothered snort came from somewhere behind us. Not a first-year this time. Someone farther back who'd overheard. His face went an excellent shade — red with a wash of green, like he'd upended a paint box inside his collar.

I half-expected him to throw something else back and only the setting saved me — we were still in the auditorium, and even he had enough sense left to manage nothing more than a jaw clench and a glare as he took his friends around the other side. He gave me a look on the way past. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. I sighed internally. See? I wasn't attending an opening ceremony.

I was running a combined-stress test on gender perception, aesthetic drift, and fragile male egos for the Academy. The girls, meanwhile, had absorbed nothing from the incident. If anything, their courage had gone up.

"Senpai was so cool…"

"That go around line—""Told you so."

"Are you here to study, or crash a fan meet?" I kept my voice low.

"A Senpai meet-and-greet," someone corrected instantly.

"That's not a thing."

"It can be."

"The tuition here is already enough of a waste. We don't need to tack this on." One girl with a program in her hands hesitated, then thrust it toward me.

"Senpai, can we get your autograph?" I stared at the program. Then at her. Then at the program again.

"…Are you all sick?"

"A little," she said, honest.

"At least they're self-aware," someone said from in front of me. Hedwig had paused, turned just enough to look back. The flow of bodies parted around her like a cold, polished rock in a river. She took in the scene — me blocked in by first-years — and the hint of amusement in her eyes said very clearly: I told you this would happen. I gritted my teeth.

"Stop standing there and enjoying the show."

"Unfortunately," she said, "that is all I currently can do. You're the one under siege." The girls sucked in another collective breath. Great. Now the princess had been added to the witness list.

"Senpai," the girl with the program tried again, "we just want—""No," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because the second I sign, tomorrow's forum fills up with silver-haired cool Senpai autograph for sale." Their faces went ah, shit in sync. I breathed in slowly. The Federation's future really wasn't inspiring confidence. Just as I was about to force a breakout, the crowd on the far side of the aisle shifted — parting, this time, not out of panic, but out of reflex. No one called. No one ordered. Some people in this school, when they walk through a hallway, make others move without having to say a word.

I looked up. Maki had come down. She made her way along the side aisle from the front, uniform perfect, expression composed, the Student Council badge flashing once under the lights. She wasn't walking particularly fast — it just felt like the line belonged to her. The first thing that flashed through my mind wasn't thank god. It was shit. Because she was the President now. And I was the one being mobbed for signatures at the first official event of term one.

Even from a distance, this looked exactly like the sort of mess the Student Council was supposed to clean up.

"President!" the first-years snapped upright at once, as if the homeroom teacher had just walked in. Maki stopped beside me and took in the scene. She looked at the girls. At the program. At me. Her gaze paused for a fraction of a second on the program hovering near my hand. So short you'd miss it if you didn't know her. I did. Which was how I knew that, right now, she was chewing back a laugh. She really is impossible.

"Don't block the exit," she said, voice the exact, regulation calm of a student-body PSA.

"If you have questions, wait until you're outside the hall." The first-years nodded like dashboard toys.

"Sorry, President!"

"Won't happen again!"

"We just, um, just—""Just ambushed by my face." I added, dry. She finally looked at me.

"Hoshino."

"What."

"Don't outsource your problems to other people's eyesight." The first-years visibly fought not to laugh. My temple jumped. See what I mean. Anyone else you owe a debt to, you can fake it. When Maki pulls you out of a hole, she still finds time to plant a knife. A neat one, slotted exactly where you can't lash back in public. She took the program from the girl's hands.

"No autographs," she said. The disappointment was immediate. Then she added, "If you just want names, the student directory is public."

"Kushima!" I snapped. Selling me out, really? She ignored me smoothly and handed the program back.

"And," she added, "if you insist on cornering someone, pick a spot that doesn't choke the exit. Not in the auditorium." …Hold on. Was that permission? The girls clearly chose to hear it that way. They froze for a second, then all lit up.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"We'll remember!"

"Thank you, President!" I wanted to hit my head on the nearest pillar. That wasn't damage control. That was a procedural guide for future offenses.

"Come on." Maki closed a hand around my wrist and pulled. Small movement. Nothing dramatic. To everyone else, it could have read as President escorting a problematic student away from a blocked aisle. Only I knew exactly how familiar that grip was. Familiar enough that I didn't even have to look — I knew exactly how much pressure she used, knew that my body would move before my brain caught up, falling into step with the pull. That's the worst part. There are too many motions between us that no longer need words.

As she walked me out of the little knot of chaos, we passed Hedwig. Hedwig gave me a quick, faintly amused look.

"Very lively," she said.

"Shut up."

"I am sincerely sympathetic."

"From you that sounds like gloating." Her mouth might have twitched. If it did, she kept the rest of it inside and turned away, merging into the flow on the other side. We made it to the side doors, where the crowd thinned and the noise broke into fragments against the walls. Only then did Maki let go of my wrist. I immediately rounded on her.

"What was that supposed to mean."

"Which part.""'Pick a spot that doesn't block the exit.'""The literal part."

"You really said that."

"What else was I supposed to say?" She tilted her head at me, a hint of real amusement finally leaking through.

"Announce to a bunch of new students that they're not allowed anywhere near my girlfriend?" I stopped dead. …Okay. Low blow.

"Could you maybe give a girl some warning," I managed.

"We've done far less with far less warm-up," she said, unruffled. I choked on my own breath.

"This is the side door of the auditorium."

"And I only said it out loud." She looked at me, tone almost innocent.

"Hoshino. Where did your mind just go?" I glared. She looked back. And that was it. I'd lost. This was deliberate. On the surface, she was standing there like a model cadet. Underneath, she knew exactly which sentence would scramble my nerves. And the worst part was she always delivered it in that I'm just stating a fact tone. I turned away and muttered, "President's doing a great job."

"Not bad," she said.

"At least the hall didn't fall apart today."

"Selling me to the first-years counts as maintaining order now?"

"You weren't sold." Her eyes flicked over my face — light, but exact.

"You're just very noticeable."

"How is that my fault."

"It isn't." She paused.

"But that face, that hair, and that uniform, all on you — something was going to happen." I opened my mouth to snap back. The way she said it, though — too matter-of-fact — knocked me off my motion. Not as praise. Just a clean reading. And having your partner label you like that in public did uncomfortable things to your heart rate. She lifted a hand, straightened the white trim at my collar, and smoothed it down. Two fingers along the edge. Brief contact. Exact. My spine snapped taut.

"What are you doing."

"Tidying up," she said, as if it were obvious.

"Otherwise someone else will be back with a program in five minutes."

"These two things are not causally linked."

"They are." She drew her hand back, that small smile still not fully gone.

"At least this way, the cause stays inside my line of sight." I froze. On the surface: uniform. Underneath: not just uniform. Annoying. Because she is not the type to say jealous outright. She translates it. Says it as management, or tidying, or just checking. And it lands harder than if she'd spelled it. I leaned back into the wall, voice dropping.

"So you were pissed."

"I wasn't."

"Liar."

"I just think," she said slowly, "getting mobbed by first-years calling you hot on day one is… noisy." We stared at each other. Two seconds later, I cracked. Laughed. Not because anything about this was funny. Because after all that circling, she'd finally let the feeling leak. Barely. Thin as paper. Exactly why it stood out.

"You're a lot of work," I said.

"You're just realizing that now?"

"I've known the whole time."

"Good." Outside, the crowd kept streaming past. Voices, footsteps, names called across the corridor, the shouts of student officers trying to keep a lane open — the whole school like a machine just switching on, gears biting, loud and disciplined and exhausting and very much alive. Maki checked the time and looked back at me.

"More on the schedule," she said.

"I know." I straightened.

"President has the nation's teenagers to save."

"Hoshino."

"What now."

"If you get cornered again," she said, mildly, "at least don't let them touch your belt." I froze. That one was too much. Too much because she hadn't added a single explicit detail — and we both knew exactly what lived under that line. Heat shot up my neck. I glared.

"You're doing this on purpose."

"Not entirely," she said.

"Call it a reminder."

"These reminders are going to get us killed."

"It's still better than you standing there and letting them surround you." I clenched my jaw, then managed, "Go do your job." She held my gaze for a second, confirming I hadn't actually blown up, then answered softly.

"Mm." She turned away, took two steps, then looked back again.

"One more thing." I went on immediate alert.

"What now."

"If anyone asks again whether you're a guy," she said, "you can just give them my name." I blinked.

"Meaning what." Her face stayed steady. Her tone was practically matter-of-fact.

"Meaning," she said, "let them know you're taken. Save everyone the queue." Then she left. Cleanly, like she really had just come down to resolve a minor clog in the exit and, incidentally, knock my entire system sideways. I stood there, needing a full three seconds to haul my soul back into place. Fuck. Did she just use the Student Council President's face to talk the most private bullshit imaginable? And what bothered me most was that my heartbeat really had gone off-beat for it. Embarrassing.

I raked a hand over my face, breathing in. I'd barely pushed off the wall toward the door when I heard:"Um… Senpai." I froze, turned. One of the girls from earlier had somehow looped down to the side exit, clutching her program to her chest like a shield, looking like she'd signed up for a suicide mission.

"What now."

"I'm not here for an autograph," she blurted.

"Then you're here for your last rites?"

"No!" She was blushing hard enough to smoke.

"I — I just wanted to check one thing." I squinted. She swallowed.

"So… was that earlier — was that President's, um… declaration of territory?" I stared at her. She stared at me. Down the hall, other students walked past in clumps, the air still sticky with the heat and fabric-scrape of a recently emptied hall. Any of a dozen answers tumbled to mind — which eye saw that, or cut down on whatever you're reading, it's damaging your brain. What I actually did was take her program, turn it around, and push it back into her arms.

"Go to class," I said.

"So it is," she said.

"You have a lot of questions."

"So that's a little yes—" I looked at her bright, way-too-thrilled eyes and realized that, in their own way, first-years are harder to handle than tactical drills. All I could do was throw one last line over my shoulder:"If you don't start walking right now, you won't get even a little answer." She froze, went beet-red all the way to the ears, then bolted, nearly clipping the doorframe on her way out, fleeing into the flow outside like a small animal that was both spooked and absurdly pleased with itself.

I watched her go and muttered, low:"… Unwell." Not sure if I meant her. Or Maki. Or both. Anyway, that was the end of the opening ceremony. The President had given a perfect speech. The princess had anchored the front-row gaze. I'd been surrounded, glared at, rescued, then publicly claimed, my pulse wrecked by one throwaway line. Good. That was more like UIMA. Even the most normal opening ceremony can be run like a live-fire exercise in dignity, gender perception, and romantic tolerance.

I straightened my collar and headed out through the side door.