act i
this shouldn't be happening.
( oh but it is. )
chapter twelve
❛he was checking you out the entire game❜
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"How's your friend? The boy?"
She pauses before touching the brush to the canvas. The half-shaded eyes of Stamp peer back at her curiously.
"He is . . . okay," she says slowly, glancing over her shoulder. The class is empty — Fukai had an emergency meeting with the other teachers and he left her here, since she'd already settled into a good pace with the oil painting.
"Okay? Is that all?" Eiko asks, voice pleasant but clearly trying to hint at something.
After adjusting the mic of her earbuds, Amara sighs quietly and resumes painting. The smell of oil paint is thick but the air conditioner chugs along, cold air touching the nape of her neck, circulating the air in the room safely. Following Fukai's advice, after school she put her hair into a bun then changed into a ratty white t-shirt she's had since middle school and a pair of equally ratty sweats — clothes she wouldn't mind getting dirty. By this point, her t-shirt has flecks and spots of oil paint on it, along with her sweats.
"There's not much else to tell," she says at last, not lying exactly but not telling the full truth. "He took everything you got."
She hums softly. "That's good. I'm glad he's feeling better," she pauses and Amara squints at the canvas, feeling like she's about to say something she's not going to like. "I guess I won't try to walk around it — are you, by any chance, talking to him? In a less platonic manner?"
She chews at the inside of her cheek. You have no idea.
It's been two days since his . . . confession. She's about three quarters of the way done with the oil painting — a replica of the sketch she did of his cat, except with proper colors — and it's done well to keep her mind off him.
Amara is not avoiding it. Him. Making a decision.
She already made a decision. She thinks she made one that Wednesday, agreed to a tentative foray into a relationship with him — the words sends shivers down her spine — but the extra time helped her settle with what exactly she wants.
She wants to know him.
Maybe that was already going to be a part of their relationship process but laying it all out there like groundwork, the terms and conditions to the agreement, it helps her keep her head on straight.
Which is a rare occurrence when it comes to him.
That's another thing. She wants to keep her footing. She doesn't want to feel like she's drifting out to sea, lost forever, or like she's drowning — no matter how pleasant he makes those experiences. Maybe her lack of steadiness makes for some novelty in the beginning, but she would hate for this to turn bad if he gets a different idea.
Though the idea seems far-fetched, because it's Chris.
The only problem she faces now is Eiko.
"He actually told me he liked me on Wednesday," she reveals.
Eiko gasps loudly and she winces. "Really? That's wonderful, Amara. That is good news, right?"
She smiles despite herself. "Yeah, that's — that's good news. I didn't — I kinda panicked on him. Just because I wasn't expecting it. But we're gonna talk tomorrow after the Sports Festival."
"Is he . . . intimidating or something?" Eiko sounds confused.
"No, he's just —" her smile fades and she purses her lips. "I couldn't have ever imagined he would like me. So, I was — I don't know. Caught off guard."
"You're pretty, smart, talented, how could anyone not like you?"
"Well —"
"That was a rhetorical question." She clears her throat and continues briskly. "In any case . . . he'd be lucky to have you. You sound excited. It's nice to hear."
Her lips quirk. "I was kind of expecting you to ward me off from dating."
"Oh, I thought about it, but I tried to warn you last year and you didn't listen, so I figured I wouldn't waste my breath."
She snorts, recalling the conversation. It was a half-hearted warning, one of obligation rather than real feeling, which made it all the easier to ignore.
"What's his name?"
"Chris."
"Hm, foreign?"
"Mixed," she corrects.
"That's nice. Does he know English?"
They talk about him for a little while longer and she likes it. Just talking about him. What he's like. Not talking about her own feelings or inner doubts or anything of the sort. Nothing to worry about here as Eiko eagerly takes in every little piece of information Amara tells her about Chris. She's curious, of course, and it'll only be a little while longer until she makes a request to meet him.
She's just finished telling her about his cat and how she's painting him when Eiko says, "Sounds like you really like him."
Warmth spreads in her chest.
"I do." She ducks her head, even though there's no one else to witness her embarrassment.
"Is he cute?"
She composes herself, clearing her throat. "Yeah . . ."
"Cuter than Hase?"
"By a long shot."
Eiko's laugh tinkers pleasantly in her ears. "That's good to hear. Well. You know. Be careful. And safe."
Amara figures Eiko is about to edge into sex talk territory so she clears her throat noisily and says, "Yeah, of course. Are you gonna be able to come to the game tomorrow?"
The distraction works. "Oh, no, I have a few surgeries scheduled tomorrow . . ." she sounds disappointed. "I'm sorry, I wish I could."
"It's okay, Mom, I understand. Aiko does, too." She starts winding down on the painting, putting in her final touches for this evening when she hears voices down the hallway, likely the teachers just released from their meeting. "I have to go now but have a good evening."
"You, too."
The call ends with a click and her music resumes playing. She hums along to it for a few minutes before she hears Mr. Fukai enter.
"Didn't expect the meeting to go on that long, Amara, my apologies — it looks good so far, though." He stands beside her, crossing his arms, looking over it with a critical eye. "See? Nothing to worry about. Outlining isn't totally necessary."
She pauses her music, pulling an earbud out. "I guess. I think it'd look better if I'd outlined it . . ."
"Of course it would."
Amara makes a face. "Thank you for that, sir."
He laughs. "Of course it would look better because that is what you're used to. But it looks just as fine even without outlining. There is certainly room for improvement but it's still great. See? This wasn't so bad."
No, she admits silently, nodding her assent to him. It doesn't look so bad. She squints. Though it really would look better if I'd outlined the canvas beforehand . . .
It's just a preference. She is used to pencil art but Fukai basically banned any and all forms of pencil near the canvas on Wednesday when she started, saying she had to start off outside of her comfort zone entirely — for whatever reason.
"Well, finish it up for today and I'll put it away. Can you make time to come tomorrow and finish it?"
"I think so." Chiyo and Hiro's games are at nine and eleven respectively, while hers is at two. "Can I come at seven-thirty?"
Fukai goes over to his desk while she picks up a rag to begin cleaning the brushes. "Sure. The first game is at nine, right? Will that be enough time to finish?"
"It should be enough," she says, mostly certain of that.
Fukai nods and picks up a book, going back to his reading while she wipes the hairs and handle of the paintbrush with the rag, then swishes it in citrus thinner to clean off the rest of the paint. She does that one-by-one with three other brushes then carries them to the sink by the windows, washing them thoroughly with soap and water.
"I don't suppose you really were serious about entering the competition, though?" He asks after a couple minutes. When she glances at him, he still has his nose buried in his book. "The one in December?"
Her lips flatten into a line and she looks back to the sink. "Would I be restricted to acrylics and oils?"
"It's whatever you want," he pauses. "You know, I'm just trying to get you out there. You have no obligation to do anything."
There is that, of course, but agreeing to think about entering a competition had just been a heat-of-the-moment thing, her impulse control all out of wack after Chris' confession.
"Probably not. Sorry."
He gives her an understanding smile when she risks another glance at him. "Nothing to apologize for."
And it wouldn't work because one, she would have to ask Chris for permission to include her sketches of him and that's embarrassing and two . . . she has to consider what it means expectation-wise. She doesn't want to do this and have people make assumptions.
If she does it, she just wants to do it because she can and she actually wants to, not as a way to get a leg-up on admissions into art school like others will think.
But is that even unavoidable? If I continue to fall deeper into this whole, painting and doing more than I should . . . people will assume things.
Briefly, she thinks about Chris asking if art is something serious, after he'd seen her work.
She sighs.
Who knows at this point?
❖
The gym is hot. And loud.
They're drawing near the end of the volleyball game, Amara and the retired third years set against the soccer team's current starting lineup — a motley crew of second and first years. The score is four to two and while her team is winning, she can feel the strain of it on her body, especially as they come into the final stretch of the game.
Her face is too hot, forearms sore and achy from the repeated impact of the volleyball, her once-neat ponytail in a messy state, the humidity in the gym making her baby hairs curl and frizz. Sweating so much has her thighs chafing painfully, the already too-short black uniform bottoms tight around her thighs and riding up uncomfortably.
She prefers the loose shorts they had for their soccer uniform, though when Chiyo and Hiro had seen her practicing a couple days ago, they said her legs looked great in them. By this point, that's the only thing keeping her going.
And as her luck would have it, she woke up with a crick in her neck, too, (presumably from stressing over the past few days). Numerous attempts to soothe it during the day did not end well, so she's left rubbing the spot with a frown during breaks. She's relieved that their game is the last scheduled; having already finished the painting this morning, she has nothing else to do today and going back to her dorm to sleep sounds far too tempting.
The game is called to an end, with the retired third years prevailing, and the cheers are loud as they retreat to the locker rooms.
There's a little more rough-play going on between the upper and underclassmen and Amara indulges it only for a couple minutes before ducking to the showers.
She grows increasingly sleepy while she rinses her body and hair, trying to soothe her sore and irritated forearms in the cool stream of water as well before she steps out. Shrieks of laughter and talking echo in the locker room as she wraps her towel around her body, squeezing out excess water from her hair then going to where she left her duffle bag.
Aiko is there, tugging on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt when Amara collapses onto the bench, slouching tiredly.
"Too much?"
"Don't antagonize her," Hane, the ex-captain, chastises gently, following suit with her own clothes.
"I'm not antagonizing her," Aiko mutters mulishly. "Just sayin' it like it is."
"And when have I ever appreciated that?" Amara asks, lifting her head.
Aiko rolls her eyes but doesn't respond.
"Anyways," Hane clears her throat and peers at Amara curiously. "I wanted to ask — are you and one of the guys from Seido dating or something?"
The mention of Chris sends tickles of electricity down her spine and she straightens up, turning to dig through her duffle bag and pull out a brush and hair tie.
"Why do you ask?" She asks coolly, doing her best to keep her voice mild and not let anything slip through her façade.
"He was checking you out the entire game," Aiko says before Hane can reply.
Now she's awake.
Hane nods. "He was. I'm just curious."
"How did you even notice —"
"Some of us don't completely focus on the game," Aiko says glibly.
"Don't say that like it's a bad thing," Amara grumbles, yanking her brush through the tangles in her hair. She's more than relieved she hadn't noticed; it's generally difficult for her to pay attention to both the crowd and the game but she knew Chris would be here today and there was no way she wanted to let that tidbit of information distract her. That would be embarrassing. So, she tried extra hard to focus her energy on the game and not, you know, the possibility that he would be looking at her.
Not to mention she has to talk to him today and she's done her best not to think about that, too.
She shakes her head. In any case, he should still do a better job of being discreet because she doesn't want people to be curious. She'd hate to make a big deal about this. She knows his reputation among the masses and she'd love to say the girls here are level-headed and won't start disliking her because they're . . . talking or whatever, but that is not the reality they live in.
"He's just a friend," she ends up telling Hane, lying straight through her teeth, and Aiko knows it, too, if the look of pure disbelief she shoots her behind Hane's back is anything to go by.
Hane nods, not looking too convinced, but evidently knowing better than to ask. "Alright, then. Good game. I'll see you guys around."
She and Aiko bid her goodbye and she twists her hair into a braid before standing and pulling out her bra and underwear.
"You're such a liar," Aiko remarks when the remaining girls by the lockers leave. "What's so bad about other people knowing?"
"Everything," she grumbles, avoiding Aiko's accusing brown eyes and smoothing lotion over her legs and arms. "You better not say anything, either."
"Mom told me not to give you a hard time," Aiko huffs, probably crossing her arms. "Ordinarily I wouldn't listen but I think you'll cause enough problems by yourself for me to be entertained."
"Wow, thanks," Amara replies with a heavy dose of sarcasm, rolling her eyes.
"Anytime." She grins prettily and saunters off without another word.
Amara shakes her head and starts pulling on her jeans. Chiyo and Hiro amble around the corner, the locker room progressively growing quieter as more girls leave.
"You played a good game," Chiyo says mildly, taking a seat on the bench. Her light brown hair is loose, falling over her shoulders, light makeup applied. She's dressed in white cable-knit sweater and a black tennis skirt, immaculately clean light blue Converse on her feet. Hiro is dressed in a white t-shirt and a yellow cardigan pulled over it, with light wash jeans and black slip-on Vans on her feet, her black hair pulled into a ponytail and no makeup on her face.
"Thanks," she says, yawning, pulling on a grey t-shirt next, then taking a seat to put on her socks and shoes. "You guys look cute."
"As always," Hiro nods.
Amara snorts. She wishes she had the energy to put more effort in her appearance but the most she can do right now are these denim jeans, grey t-shirt, and scuffed white Converse.
"What's going on outside?"
"The usual. Booths, food, games, all that stuff. By the way, Takigawa is waiting for you at the bleachers." Chiyo raises her eyebrows. "Are you guys going to hang around?"
Her heart jumps to her throat but she tries to feign confidence, shrugging at her question and spraying a few spritzes of perfume over her body before packing the rest of her stuff into her duffle bag.
"Are you going to show him the painting you did of his cat?" Hiro asks.
Amara frowns. "It's not that good."
They look doubtful about that but evidently know better than to try and contest it.
Chiyo stands. "Alright. We'll see you two around, then."
"Have fun," Hiro adds, grinning suggestively. "Tell us about it later."
She rolls her eyes and follows them out.
The gym is empty by now, save for Chris' lone figure sitting a couple rows up in the yellow bleachers. While Chiyo and Hiro head for the double doors, she takes the stairs to where he is.
He's dressed in dark wash jeans and a forest green long-sleeved t-shirt, still looking unfairly handsome. The loose chestnut brown hair curling over his forehead softens it, though, adding an aspect of boyishness that she's grown increasingly fond of. With his head bowed, his attention appears to be on his phone as he types something. She's certain he has heard her by now, though — the metal stairs of the bleachers are loud and creaky under her feet.
She takes a seat beside him, dropping her duffle bag at her feet, and stares at the volleyball court and its shiny flooring. It reeks of sweat, the air tepid and warm even with the valiant efforts of the air conditioner.
She picks at a hangnail on her thumb. Do I say something? Or do I wait for him to start?
He pockets his phone eventually and the silence is tense, but it feels loud, like he can hear her racing thoughts.
She has an idea of what she wants to say but she doesn't know how to say it.
. . . Maybe I'll just wait for him to start talking.
But that doesn't happen. He remains resolutely silent, taking in the structure and facilities of the gym without a care in the world.
She stares harder at the shiny wood flooring, starting to fiddle with a loose thread on her jeans. Her braid is heavy and damp against the back of her t-shirt.
The longer the silence stretches on, the more restless she feels, like spiders crawling under her skin.
Okay, this isn't going like I thought it would.
"Sorry."
He looks at her, clearly puzzled, and she stares ahead. She doesn't think she can meet his eyes. Not for this part.
"For flaking out on you," she clarifies, cheeks hot. "I . . . panicked."
Should get that out of the way, even if it is embarrassing as hell.
"I could tell."
Amara shoots him an unimpressed look but it's effectively mellowed by the affectionate fondness in his hazel eyes and she's reminded of why she wasn't supposed to look him in the eye.
She looks away.
"What were you planning to do for the rest of the year?" He asks softly. "If I hadn't said anything."
She shrugs and then winces at the stiffness in her neck, reaching up to rub the spot absently, her eyes training on the orange plastic of the bleachers.
"I wasn't going to do anything," she mutters. "I was . . . am . . . fine with being your friend."
She didn't have the guts to demand answers to the riddles that sometimes fell from his lips. Even if it annoyed her to hell and back.
(The pessimistic part of her says that she would've gotten tired of it eventually, unable to decipher the proper meaning, and she wouldn't have tolerated it for much longer.)
A few seconds pass, then he scoffs quietly and says, "You're such a masochist."
Then, there is a brush of warm fingers against her neck before she flinches away from him. What is he doing —
"Relax," he mutters and he sounds a little indignant, though for the life of her, she can't figure out why.
"What —" she manages to squeeze out that one word before he applies pressure, fingers slowly kneading the tense muscles of her neck, and she dissolves into a puddle of goo, slumping under his ministrations.
Holy shit, she thinks, suppressing a groan and closing her eyes as he loosens a knot of tension.
"Why is it so hard to believe that I could like you?" He asks, sounding confused at the sheer idea of him not liking her. "I was . . . trying to drop hints. I mean, when you were dropping me off in San Antonio —"
"I . . . I know," she says heavily, breathless as his fingers slip across her skin. "I know," she repeats, trying — failing — to sound steady. "But I — you can't talk to me in riddles, Chris. I think I might've known what you meant but I also didn't. The suspense wasn't exactly pleasant and . . . and it was easier for me to look the other way if you weren't being totally direct and spelling it out for me."
"I guess that's also true . . ." he shifts. "Turn around, could you?"
She swallows and moves accordingly, so that her back is to him and his hands settle on her shoulders, kneading the muscles there and in her neck firmly. She swears as he presses down on the crick in her neck and he makes a disapproving noise.
"You're too tense," he murmurs. "You shouldn't have played if your neck was hurting."
"Shut up," she says half-heartedly, enjoying his ministrations too much to properly tell him to stop micromanaging her.
He makes a soft noise in response to that, half amused and half exasperated.
A minute passes by and she's feeling a little more than drowsy, meaning she'll have to put a stop to this sooner or later, but she enjoys it while she can.
Looks like his hands aren't just nice to look at, she thinks, mildly delirious by the boneless feelings he's working into the muscles of her neck and shoulders.
Talk to him, a voice murmurs in her head, sounding suspiciously like Chiyo as it breaks through the haze settled over her brain. Tell him how you feel.
Her tongue is heavy in her mouth when she says, "I like you, too, you know. I like you a lot. More than I thought I would."
That's almost an understatement. He came out of seemingly nowhere; she never thought she would feel like this — feel this much for him. It's like a burden now — realizing the depth of her feelings and the potential for them to bloom in a relationship — a burden almost too heavy to carry and utterly terrifying in its absoluteness. Not only that, it's foolish, reckless, incredibly short-sighted of her to enter a relationship now, when she is set to leave in six months, but right now, she can't bring herself to care. He is offering himself to her, wholly and unapologetically, and how can she say no?
She won't say no.
Inhaling quickly, she remembers one of her personal oaths in agreeing to this — confidence — and reaches up to lay a hand over his. He stills at that. The heaviness in the air increases, suddenly and sharply, and her stomach flips violently.
She works hard to keep her breathing steady, but her heart starts to pound.
His hand is still on her shoulder, the heat of his palm bleeding through the thin material of her t-shirt. His thumb is too close to her pulse for her liking, shifting suddenly as though he's going to try and feel how fast her heart is beating but she stops him before he can, closing her eyes and taking another deep breath.
"How exactly do you think we should go about this?" She forces herself to ask, opening her eyes again, too aware of him threading their fingers, rubbing the rough pads of his fingers against her own, almost lazily. "Because if it wasn't obvious . . . we have to take this slow. And I know . . . I know that I know a reasonable amount of you but I still feel so . . . far away sometimes. From you." Her arm slackens slightly and his grip tightens around her hand in response. "It's stupid. I know."
He resumes his ministrations with his free hand, but it's more of a comforting knead on her shoulder and neck than anything else.
"Stop doing that," he admonishes.
She bristles. "I told you that it's hard to just change these things —"
He presses a particular spot on her neck and she stops in her tracks as a groan slips from her lips.
She feels the smug, satisfied energy coming from him and glares down at the bleachers. "You're a jerk."
He glosses over that. "Your feelings are valid. I know, sometimes, these things feel irrational and it's okay to voice as much. I just don't like when you put yourself down," he pauses and his voice is softer when he picks up again, "I understand what you're saying. And I know it might not be my own fault, but I'm still sorry about it. So, then, how would you like to go about this?"
She runs her tongue over her teeth, stomach grumbling just then, but quiet enough to not disturb the moment.
"Slowly."
"I figured as much," he replies dryly. "But — where should we start?"
"I think they're called dates. Have you heard of them?"
"It does ring a bell."
She grins to herself. "That's where we can start, then."
No more words need to be shed on the topic and he senses as much, humming a quiet affirmative before they lapse into a pleasant silence.
He releases her hand in favor of starting his massage again and she absently runs her fingers over the spots on her hand where his warmth seems imprinted.
She closes her eyes again, focusing on the way he's unwinding all the right muscles, idly thinking that this is going to haunt her until the end of her days.
"You're still too tense for my liking," he says quietly at one point.
She huffs. "Well, this was a tense conversation, cut me some slack."
"Consider the slack cut," he teases and she rolls her eyes, unable to stop herself from smiling again.
Her stomach growls again, much louder this time, and her eyes snap open, a grimace replacing the smile on her lips when his hands pause.
"Hungry?" A touch of fondness can be found underneath the amusement in his voice. Her face grows warm.
"Yeah," she reluctantly admits. "I only had a granola bar this morning."
It might be the wrong thing to say because his hands disappear from her shoulders and he's downright chastising when he says, "Amara."
She groans. "Stop, it was early and I had to do something for Fukai, then go to Chiyo and Hiro's games right after. I didn't have time."
"Let's go and get you some food, then."
Amara sighs, turning and watching as he stands and picks up her duffle bag. Her neck feels better, less stiff and achy, and the rest of her tense muscles were greatly enjoying his attention. She hopes they'll breach that particular territory again at one point, but for now, she lets him take her hand and pull her to her feet.
His hand lingers in hers for a moment, long enough to make her curl her fingers to her palm once he lets go, skin tingling pleasantly from his touch. She smiles, arch, as she asks, "Is this a date?"
He laughs softly as they take the stairs down, their footsteps impossibly loud in the empty gym. "Not in this situation. This is just a nice coincidence. A date is a preconceived event."
While her stomach flutters pleasantly at him considering this a nice coincidence, his words ramp her nerves up.
"Don't wait too long on that."
"I won't."
And that evening, after a long day of exploring the games set up and the delicious foods offered, when she's settled in bed, ready to knock out and sleep in late the next day, he texts her.
chris
About that date.
yes ?
chris
How about next weekend? I was thinking we could go to the botanical gardens in Minato.
chris
And if you're up for it, we could head to the mall afterward and scout out some stuff for our costumes and grab a bite.
chris
What do you think? Too much?
i think that sounds perfect
She puts her phone back on the nightstand, smiling like a fool at the ceiling.
There are endless amounts of negatives to this new arrangement. But as they say, well, ignorance really is bliss.
━━━━━━━━━━ author's note
yeah u heard it here first folks chris triple texts... king
i also have some!!! exciting stuff to show u guys... first off... LazuliQuetzal on ao3 (lazuliquetzalart on tumblr) made some awesome sketches of amara!!! they're so good!!!! this is the link to the post on her tumblr https://lazuliquetzalart.tumblr.com/post/641618521503285248/some-sketches-of-cometchris-s-oc-amara-de-la
ahhh easily the highlight of this week :')
we also have a final confirmation for chris and amaras relationship :D next weeks chapter is going to be great u guys will love it!!!!
i hope u have enjoyed this weeks chapter pls show support to lazuliquetzalart for her wonderful sketches of amara!!!!
until next week!!