Chapter 24: Actions Warm Enough to Melt Winter (II)

[E/D: Long-ass chapters ahead!]

***

My feet took me to my forgotten paradise, more on actual desire than muscle memory.

The rooftop was technically off-limits, but no one ever enforced that rule. Invisible people like me don't get in trouble with trivial school rules.

I collapsed beneath the rusted water tank, back to cold concrete, and let the sky carry my thoughts into sleep.

***

I woke to the sound of people arguing. It wasn't as loud as the ones I had encountered in the neighborhood, yet the tension it reeked were no different.

An argument is still an argument, no matter how peaceful it may seem.

My eyes fluttered open to find the rooftop washed in afternoon dark clouds. The sun peeked on the smallest of gaps between them, drawing long shadows from the water tank and turning the cracked concrete orange briefly. I blinked, trying to recollect how many hours I’d been asleep under the metallic shadow. My neck ached, my fingers were cold, and for a second, I forgot where I was.

I pushed myself up slowly, stiff from the unprecedented long nap, and crouched behind the rooftop storage shed. The voices were coming from the far side.

“C’mon, just one karaoke session. It’s your birthday, ain’t it?” a smug male voice floated up, laughter following it.

“No thanks."

A female voice.

Cold as sleet.

Defiant as rain on a hot day.

As familiar as a music note I composed.

"Kousaka-san?"

I lost track of the days by my continual drifting and I forgot that it's already December 18th already, her birthday.

I peered from behind the storage shed, my eyes falling on the scene at the far end of the rooftop. Kousaka-san stood her ground, back to the fence, one hand gripping tightly on her sketchpad, the other was just clenched defensively.

Facing her were three cockroaches I knew all too well—Morita, Hirose, and Yuuya, the latter still nursing a barely-healed neck from the injury she gave him months ago.

Of course it had to be them.

Kousaka-san's gaze didn’t waver, but the tension in her shoulders was clear.

Yuuya, as usual, took the lead—hands in pockets, voice smug. "Can't you just spare me a few hours of your time? Damn, we took hours just to look for that golden light crowning my Frenchie princess."

She rifled back with that sharp steel. "I don't remember asking the three of you to find me."

“Why not? It’s just a casual hangout,” he grinned. “We even booked a hotel after. It’ll be a birthday to remember.”

"You three barely qualify as insects. Why would I waste my birthday breathing the same air?”

“Ouch,” Morita laughed, nudging Hirose. “This ice queen’s colder than ever.”

“She’s just playing hard to get,” Hirose added. “Girls like her always want to be chased.”

Yuuya stepped forward, hand twitching slightly as if remembering the injury she gave him. “You should be nicer. You’ve already broken one part of me.”

She smirked. “Pity it wasn’t your spine.”

“Still feisty, huh? Don’t think your little surprise attack from last time’s gonna work again.”

"As if you're something to waste my energy upon."

She stepped forward, brushing past Morita and Hirose with a shoulder check that screamed ‘get out of my way'.

That should have been the end.

But Yuuya reached out and grabbed her wrist.

“No one’s leaving until we celebrate.”

Kousaka-san’s mouth gaped in surprise.

And that’s when he did it.

He snatched her sketchbook out of her hands and held it high like it was some trophy from a game Kousaka-san didn’t agree to play. The pages of her private world started fluttering in the breeze, drawing their attention before she could yank it away.

"Yo, this is actually good." as Yuuya examined each page. "Who thought that the ice queen has her own feelings?"

Hirose chimed in next, leaning in with a sardonic grin. "Woah, I thought it was voodoo crap before."

And the devilish grimace formed in Yuuya's lips.

“So...is this what you care about?” he teased. “Your little diary? Aw, look at that, that's so cute coming from you.”

“Return it, you dimwit!” she hissed.

“If you don’t want to come with us, we’ll tear this up right now,” Yuuya shot back, thumbing through the sketchbook. “Bet it’s just drawings anyway.”

I didn't even notice that Kousaka-san was already frozen in place. There was something in her expression I hadn’t seen before—and none of those stiffness, teasing and smirks I relished before could cover it.

Fear.

Pure and unadulterated terror—hoping the world would rewind itself in a few seconds.

“Give it back!” she snarled, shoving Yuuya. He tossed the sketchbook to the waiting hands of Morita.

“Or what?” Morita challenged, mockingly. “You're gonna break another guy’s neck? Go ahead.”

I didn’t even think. My body moved before my brain could stop it.

By the time I stepped out from behind the shed, they had already threatened to rip it.

“Don’t do it,” I rasped. “...please.”

Three heads turned.

Kousaka-san's eyes widened the slightest bit. Like seeing a ghost.

Which, to them, I probably was.

“Shimizu?” Morita laughed. “Still breathing after last time?”

“What’s a dango seller like you doing here again?” Hirose added.

I ignored them and turned to Kousaka-san.

Then the sketchbook.

Then back at the three pests.

“I’ll take the beating,” I said. “If that’s what you want. Just let her go and kindly return the sketchpad.”

Yuuya stepped forward. “Are you serious?”

“I am,” I replied, voice even. “If someone’s gonna bleed today, let it be me.”

Silence hung for a moment.

And then they broke down into a loud cackle.

“The hell? You really have a hero complex or what?” Morita barked. “You didn’t even throw a punch last time we wrecked you.”

“Man’s out of his mind,” Yuuya added. “Acting like some manga protagonist worthy of protecting her. Get a clue. You’re not.”

They didn’t understand.

So today, I'll give them a reason to.

“You’re right. Maybe she doesn’t care about me. But she cares about that sketchpad.”

“Man, this is just a piece of paper. Ripping it won't really hurt—”

I cut Yuuya off.

“Like your neck? I bet it still hurts.”

That earned me an ominous glare from him, but I turned to his henchman Morita.

“Still got that failing grade in math? Wonder what’ll happen if you get suspended.”

And to Hirose: “Your girlfriend goes to a different school, right? Wonder what she’d say if she saw you up here trying to hit up on another.”

Their expressions soured. And then twisted—Hirose, especially.

“What did you say?” he growled.

I smiled. “Come on. You're gonna cry?”

He snapped first, swinging his arm directly to my ribs.

I leaned away reflexively and spotted the opening.

I can see the surprise on their faces, unaware that unlike before, I'm hitting back.

The return swing from mine would've caught him in the jaw, but Morita was there to intercept my attack with his thick bare hands.

I am outnumbered, I know. For there are three of them...

But I got four limbs to do the work.

Morita didn't anticipate my counterattack until my knee hit him square in the chin. He doubled over on the concrete, completely knocked out.

This time, I didn’t take the beating, I delivered it.

Hirose lunged next, and I ducked, my fists driven by weeks of suppressed emotions, the silent stares across benches, and the loneliness I thought I buried.

“Next time, try not to lose.”

I still remember those words that came from Kousaka-san as she greeted me outside the guidance council room.

I'm not trying to. I never wanted to lose.

There’s a strange calm that overtakes you when you’re not afraid of losing at all. Kentaro's philosophy told me that this world was never equal, and there will be people that would be in the pursuit of superiority and I had to outpace them.

Art told me to seek warmth and see the world with life and colors.

Literature told me that everything in this world is decided by power.

The soft, freeflowing adaptability of painting, and the sharp, precise edges of philosophy.

I can be as warm as sunset reds, and as cold as cloudy gray.

And when I saw their faces twisting in each strike of my fists, I felt nothing.

None of their pleas moved me. This wasn't about their pain.

It was for the warmth Kousaka-san gave me on days when I couldn’t stand on my own.

It was for the moment she took care of me on that rainy day.

It was for the drawings I saw in her sketchbook—the details, colors, quiet love in every line and the memories she molded around it.

Because when someone’s soul is etched into paper, the last thing you’d want is to see that soul torn apart.

Was it stupid?

Probably.

Was it reckless?

Definitely.

But love doesn’t always wear a ribbon and arrive with gentle hands.

Sometimes, it looks like this.

Fists bloodied. Honor shattered. Rules broken.

All for a girl who once called me a 'dirty bug' in the proximity of her personal space.

I didn't fight because I was a hero.

I fought because someone tried to destroy the one thing she made with her hands.

And I couldn’t let that happen.

There wasn’t a plan. Only instinct. And this time, instinct didn’t tell me to run—it told me to protect.

I didn’t know how long it lasted. Only that my knuckles were raw and painted with their blood.

And that Kousaka-san was still here, watching closely with her lips parted and eyes widened in surprise.

When the last punch landed and the final grunt hit the air, it was over.

The three of them were motionlessly folded on the cold rooftop floor.

I wiped my bloodied hands with my handkerchief and picked up her sketchbook. It was still whole, and she slowly reached out and held it in the most protective posture she showed.

And I turned to leave.

But then, she reached out and gripped my arm with those cold and trembling fingers.

“...Shimizu.”

I paused. Her voice was quiet and smaller than I’d ever heard it.

“...Can you…stay for a bit?”

I turned just enough to glance at her.

Her blue eyes stared back, glassy and wet— wide open. They weren’t looking away.

And in them, I saw the wreckage of myself, the one who stood tall in front of three bastards and putting himself on the line.

A boy with busted knuckles and a heart that never stopped trembling, no matter how strong his fists had become.

“I’m…” I stammered, words retreating before they could even be expressed.

I couldn’t stay in her gaze. I'm like a candle melting instantly and threatening to buckle and break.

I was so close to staying.

To leaning in.

To close the space between us the way I’d always dreamed—when she sat on the bench just ten meters across. When she looked at me from behind that sketchbook like I was something worth remembering.

“I can't…I'm sorry.” it finally came out.

Love is cruel like that.

And fear, even more so.

Because even now—I didn’t know where we stood.

She hadn’t said a word about that night.

About the confession I poured from the marrow of my bones.

She didn’t reject me.

But she didn’t return it either.

She just walked away with that echo of 'I'll see you tomorrow'.

And so, I had to assume the silence was the answer.

That she was keeping her distance on purpose.

So I couldn’t be selfish. I couldn’t beg to stay near her when she was already pulling away.

Even if every part of me was screaming to reach for her now.

Even if the warmth of her hand was the only thing anchoring me to this cold rooftop.

I finally felt what Tsurugi-san felt the night I rejected her. She handled it, but I don't think I can.

“…I’m going to clean up,” I muttered, voice frayed at the edges like an old sketch left in the rain.

I gently peeled her fingers from my arm.

And I walked away, the sound of my shoes echoing across the empty rooftop, each one heavier than the last.

Each one asking the same question: What if she wanted me to stay?

I couldn’t afford to. I didn’t think I’d recover from that.

I hate to admit it, but…

I could still feel her touch burning against the cold ache of my bruised skin.

I can picture her there, standing silently.

Alone.

Sketchpad pressed tightly to her chest.

Hopefully…

Not waiting for me.