Chapter 6: The Flower, in the Eye of the Beholder

The changing room always smells like sweat and cheap deodorant after a grueling P.E session.

Not just that, the tile floor was wet with sweat and steam, the kind of sticky warmth that clung to your skin even after you’ve wiped yourself down. I usually take my time—wait until most of the guys have left. Less noise. Less chance of anyone remembering I exist.

Knowing that I'm the only person left in the lockers, I peeled my shirt off slowly, my body aching from too little sleep and too many jobs.

I can't say that I am slim. I remembered playing tennis in primary school with the guidance of my mother. But heck, I nearly got hospitalized after severe palpitations. I never touched the racket after that.

I wasn't built for sports, that's the summary.

But I'm no slouch either, I had worked out before. I just don't belong in things that require severe muscle endurance.

“Yo, did you see Kousaka again during the warm-ups?”

The phrase echoed in the lockers as I was about to head to the exit. Looks like I wasn't alone all of this time.

“Same as always, acting like she’s too good to join in. The bitch just sat on the bleachers sketching.”

“Probably drawing voodoo crap.”

My hands tightened around my towel.

"Chick's got a real attitude, huh? Does she even talk to anyone?"

“Nah. Just glares. I heard she got expelled from her old school in Tokyo and moved to Kobe.”

“She’s hot, though. Like, that's something out of magazine. Did you see her cleavage on her unbuttoned uniform? I think that's an E-cup.”

“Dude, she's half-French. That alone explains the size.”

Laughter came from the guys behind the rows of lockers. I can recognize their voices, but not the names. One thing is for sure though, they were my classmates.

Yuuya's lackeys, specifically.

Someone with a nasty low-pitch voice chuckled. “Think she’d let me 'model' for her sketchbook?”

“Only if you come with a leash, man.”

"Can't even touch her. Did you see what happened to Yuuya-san? Dude almost died at the hospital. If not only Kousaka's father shouldered the expenses. The girl's a real freak and a dirty bitch."

I wanted to ignore their off-hand remarks and their excruciatingly loud chuckles that awakened the attitude hiding in me.

But hearing her name—again and again—like it was some free-to-use joke, did twist something to me.

And then, without thinking—I followed their voices and stepped in.

“You guys always talk this much when she’s not around?”

It cut through the room like glass cracking.

Their laughter stopped. Three of them slowly turned to me with eyes narrowing, as if I was some kind of uninvited guest to their meeting.

“What was that, Shimizu?” Morita, the biggest one, brushed his long hair backwards with a predatory grin.

I calmly put down my bag and towel.

“I said, you talk big when she’s not here. Is it some kind of performance, or are you just bored?”

The second guy, the bleached hair Hirose, snorted. “Ohhh, look at dango boy growing a spine.”

“Didn’t know you had a thing for busty rich delinquents,” said the third. “Or maybe you’re just into girls who ignore you?”

“She's not ignoring him now,” Morita sneered. “Maybe he sold her a stick and got a little bold.”

“Or she gave him the sticks,” Hirose added with a laugh.

Heat prickled at the back of my neck.

“She’s not what you think,” I argued, voice low. “You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

Hirose stepped forward.

“Neither do you. Is that heroism or you're just overly attached?”

“Maybe. But I don’t talk about people like I own them.”

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was thick with hostility.

“Our dango boy thinks he has a chance on that bitch. You don't even have a chance against us.”

Punks like them don’t wait for permission to attack.

Meanwhile, I looked down at my fist and realized I wasn't holding my ground tight enough.

Morita stepped closer now, a full head taller than me. His thick and chiseled forearms possibly honed by a thousand towel pull ups were exposed to the light.

“Are you trying to act tough now?” he spat with venom.

"At least I cuss at people right in their faces."

His expression tightened, and his gritted teeth flashed from his parted lips.

“Stick to selling sweets.”

Then the first hit came fast, a brighter white flash.

His palm slammed into my face, sending me backward into the lockers with a bell-like clang.

Pain flared like a grenade to my nose and lips. Just like that, my vision was terribly swimming.

I reached and hobbled onto the lockers just to prevent myself from collapsing. Clinging to a metal, tongue tasting like iron.

“Say that again,” he growled.

I wiped my mouth and looked up.

“I said—”

And then he swung again, this time, his fist clipped my cheeks, knocking my head to the side.

Hirose kicked me straight to the chest, leaving my white shirt a mud footprint and pinning me to the wall.

I crumpled.

They didn’t stop. Another kick—stomach this time. A punch to the arm. I tried to curl in, to protect my face, but everything spun.

Voices blurred together.

“Should’ve stayed quiet!”

“You asked for this, right?!”

“You wanna be her knight? Fine! Take the hits too!”

This wasn't a fight out of action movies. There was no slow-mo, no dramatic dodge, or lengthy flashbacks and monologues.

It was just me asking myself if this fight was even fair, knowing the chasm between our strengths and numbers.

Not even my own survival mechanisms could spare me from this one-sided beatdown.

I don't know why I'm still capable of standing up despite the critical hits. Maybe I was too proud of this stupidity. Maybe too angry to let them single out Kousaka-san unpunished.

“Are you satisfied now?” I taunted them.

“You…how the hell are you still standing?!”

And just like that, another round of punishment fell upon me.

And despite their punches falling like meteors to my skin, all I could think about was Kousaka-san and my own selfishness.

Would she be angry seeing me get beaten up like this? Guess not. She might even join them in curing my arrogance.

She treats rumors like these with a cold shoulder.

I saw it as poison.

It's ridiculous, isn't it? To want something so stupid to satisfy my own ego? To feel entitled to the attention of another human being that ignored everyone?

That porcupine didn't need saving. I'm probably just way too obsessed with her acknowledgement.

Me, who sat behind silence in my dango empire, wanted to get decked for somebody I always stumbled across sitting across a bench?

This kind of behavior is inhuman. It's perverse.

And feeling good because I'm doing this for Kousaka-san?

It's masochistic.

I can't describe these feelings. I haven't felt this way before. No matter what kind of existing philosophy I looked at, I can't understand it.

I didn't know I was capable of such feelings until this moment.

“HEY! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”

The coach’s voice boomed through the doorway like thunder.

The beating stopped. The pain remained.

I blinked up through blurry vision to see sneakers stomping in.

They were yelling words I barely recognized and barked names that felt too heavy.

Finally, arms were being yanked away.

It was an unexpected peck of salvation. But I'm glad my penance ended when the coach stood between us.

"I know Shimizu-kun more than you fools! He will not start a fight like this!"

I always won't. I just don't know what kind of thoughts made my act this stupid.

“The four of you will be brought to the guidance counselor, got it?!”

He glared at each of us. We all stared back in silence.

Morita tried to explain. So did Hirose. But our coach wasn’t listening.

I was already slumped against the lockers, blood and bruises everywhere in my face, and a faint ringing in my ears.

“Itsuki-kun, what happened?!”

Our former class rep, Tsurugi-san, knelt down to me and caressed my face.

I can see that worry in her eyes, the one that I never saw in years.

Funny. We haven’t spoken in years, and she still looked at me like that—like nothing ever changed.

“A little misunderstanding between me and delinquents. I'm fine.”

She already had a first aid ready and tended to me with utmost care.

“Who told you to…ah! Just stay still! You look like a rotten peanut!”

I wanted to waive her off, feeling too small and weak right now to be gawked at.

But my will didn't reflect in my actions.

“...Thanks.”

A small talk, but it crossed forgotten bridges.

“Don't expect me to be gentle with morons like you!”

“As you like it.”

My shoulder throbbed. My lips stung. My chest ached with every breath.

But weirdly, none of it felt as sharp as it should’ve. I laughed internally, bitter and short.

Heroic? I don't think so.

I wasn’t trying to be her savior.

I just didn’t want her to feel what I felt—that no one would ever step in.

Even if it meant losing.