Epilogue

The room didn’t smell like dust anymore.

No more peeling paint. No more stacked boxes of things I didn’t have the courage to throw away. No more rust on the sink tap or stains on the walls like they were haunted by silence. Floorboards replaced the molding cement. Newer and more modern furniture replaced the rotting ones.

My trusty kotatsu for eight years? Spared, of course.

The walls were painted in light pink, the color of hope. Paintings from both Amélie Fontaine and mine adorned it in an art gallery-like fashion.

In the middle of it all, the masterpiece—“Il Fiore D'oro Che Ho Rubato Sotto Quella Pioggia.”, “The Golden Flower I Stole In That Rain”, Kousaka-san’s portrait made by my own hands.

She was in a summer dress, afternoon sunlight bathing her angelic face, a flower field around her, and in her hand, a calendula flower as golden as her hair.

It took me a month to finish it, and her reaction when she first saw it? That, I cannot paint.

I was just happy that she received it really well.

“So much has changed since then, huh?”

Apartment renovated? Yes.

An art studio? Check.

And a half-French angel girlfriend? Perfect.

Tea leaves and acrylic paint wafted in the surroundings.

But I had dango syrup simmering on a small clay pot to combat the sharpness of its odor.

The first thing that came to mind this afternoon was to sell dango with the new and bigger stall donated by Kousaka Hayato-san, Akari-san’s father in front of Shonan High but today is a me-time.

Me-time with the golden flower I stole in that rain.

Kousaka Akari-san.

I switched the stove off and turned.

The curtains fluttered in the spring wind. A small easel stood by the window now—sunlight pouring in like a spotlight, catching the wisps of golden hair falling from her loosely tied bun.

“C’est une catastrophe…”

Akari-san was standing with a palette in one hand and her other hand on her hip, frowning so hard at the canvas that I thought it might burst into flames.

“Merde, tu vas brûler cette toile.” I replied.

She turned to me with a glare.

“Are you trying to learn French just to cuss other people?”

“Much like it.” I smirked.

The Eiffel Tower on her canvas looked more like a melting coat rack. She stared at it like it had personally offended her lineage.

I snorted. “It’s abstract. Post-post-post-modern. You’re just ahead of your time. 2050 is 25 years later, okay?”

She gave me a look that probably meant idiot in every language.

“Je déteste ça. Why can’t I paint it like you do?” she pouted.

“It’s because you don’t even try to understand how lighting works,” I said, walking over with a rag in hand and wiping a little of the gray smudge she’d muddied the sky with.

“You’re just…naturally good at it,” she mumbled, almost sulking. “You always make it look easy.”

I dipped my brush, mixed a subtle blue-grey for the sky, and made a few gentle strokes across the top of her canvas. Then the steel of the tower—sharp and clean—began to emerge beneath my hand. She watched in silence.

“You can say that natural talent contributes around 30% of the overall product. But the remaining 70% came from practice.”

She just sighed at understanding.

“I practiced a lot for years,” I said softly. “You think that makes it a gift. But it was just…progress.”

Akari-san didn’t speak. Her hand tightened slightly on the palette.

“Talent’s overrated,” I added, after a beat. “It’s just an obsession shaped into something people like looking at.”

“Then I want to obsess, too.”

I looked at her.

She was biting her lip, her cheeks smudged with paint, eyes shining with quiet frustration and longing.

“I want to be good at something. Like how you’re good at this. How you just…bring color out of everything.” She glanced at me. “You brought color back into me.”

My chest tightened. “You’re cheesy. You’re a sketching savant, you know that? If you sketch with subjects in front of you instead of memory, people will believe it came out from a printer.”

I reached out and dabbed her nose with the tip of the paintbrush. A tiny dot of sky blue bloomed there.

She blinked, confused. Then glared. “Seriously?”

“You look better with color,” I said with a grin. “And that complicated but beautiful form of sketching, that's what makes Kousaka Akari-san Aurélie Fontaine."

Silence settled between us, and Akari-san...

...her face bloomed red.

"I'm sorry. Did that offend you?"

"No," as she hid her face further. "I just...ugh, don't call me by my French name."

"Did I pronounce it wrong?"

She shook her head. 

"Only my mother can call me that...and..."

Her face flushed further, and her voice...was higher and sweeter than she'd ever been able to sound.

"...and my husband..."

I leaned closer, still holding the brush. I won't be painting—I'll watch her squirm.

"A husband, huh?" I murmured.

Her shoulders tensed. I tapped my chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "If you say so, that means you’re not denying I could be a candidate."

“Stop talking.” Her voice was a sharp whisper, muffled behind her sleeve.

“No no, let’s think this through.” I scooted around the canvas just enough to catch her eyes. She turned the other way.

Too late—I’d seen them. They were antagonistic but at the same time, expectant.

"Auré⁠lie Fontaine," I tried again, slower this time, drawing out the syllables like a spell. “It does have a nice ring. I could get used to it.”

She groaned, but didn’t move.

“And if that’s what I get to call you after marrying you...” I shrugged. “Then maybe I should start preparing.”

That got her to look up.

“…Preparing what?”

I smirked.

“My proposal.”

She threw a rolled-up rag at me. Missed.

“ITSUKI—!”

I laughed, ducking behind the easel like it was some makeshift barricade between me and her justified wrath.

“Merde ça! You're distracting me!”

She kept chasing me around the apartment with her bubbly anger, and I retreated in kind.

Everything dialed down eventually, but I'm glad that we both enjoyed our playfulness.

It's just the two of us in this small and secluded apartment yet I feel like I had every precious thing in the world and I couldn't wish for more.

This is more than enough.

And will forever be.

“Non, teach me something else.”

“Like what?”

“Teach me how to make dango.”

I blinked. “That’s a whole art form too, you know.”

She stepped closer and poked my chest. “If I make something and it ends up as sticky glue on a stick, will you still eat it?”

“I’m your boyfriend. I don’t have a choice.”

“You’re my test subject,” she declared. “And if you make me cry, I’ll curse your ancestors in French.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That escalated.”

“Fair trade I suppose,” she said, folding her arms. “You teach me how to cook. I will teach you how to curse.”

“In French?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what kind of curses we’re talking about?”

She leaned in, lips barely brushing my ear.

And whispered something in sultry, scandalous French that made my ears turn red.

I definitely understood that. Half a year of learning French was enough for me to detect war crimes.

I pulled away, eyes wide. “You are absolutely not teaching me that.”

She smirked. “I’ll consider dango lessons a success if you faint while eating them.”

***

Later that night, the hum of the desk lamp cast a gentle cone of light across the small room. My knees were stiff from sitting too long on the futon, a thick stack of practice exam papers spread out in front of me like the map to a future I wasn’t sure I deserved.

Outside, the wind had stilled. Spring was almost here, but the room still clung to the final threads of winter’s chill.

Across the room, Akari-san was curled into the worn armchair like a moody cat.

Legs crossed.

Arms folded.

Expression unreadable—except for the part where she was clearly not happy.

I peeked at her above the edge of my chemistry printout.

She was glaring.

Like, actual murder-eyes glaring.

“…Did I do something?” I muttered.

No answer. Just a slow blink, like she was waiting.

I glanced back down at the paper, trying not to lose track of the problem I was solving. Something about atomic radii. Something about distances—though right now the only distance I was worried about was the emotional gulf brewing across the room.

She let out an exaggerated groan and stood.

The chair creaked behind her.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, padding toward me in her socks.

I blinked up at her as she loomed over my futon, arms now resting on her hips in full disappointed girlfriend stance.

“You’re seriously not gonna take a hint?”

“…Huh?”

She scoffed, then pointed to herself. “Do you think I visit you at night just to watch you become a nerd?”

“I mean…I thought you liked nerds.”

“Not that kind of nerd.”

I stared, still holding my pen.

“…Wait, are you on your period or something? A walking bloody mary in blue pajamas?”

Silence.

Her eyebrow twitched.

Bad answer.

“Okay. Nope. Wrong thing to say. Sorry.”

Too late. She shoved me onto the futon.

Before I could react, she climbed over me—not forcefully, not playfully either.

She was definitely full of fury and intensity.

Her hair brushed my cheeks as she settled on top, straddling my hips. Her hands pressed into the futon beside my shoulders.

She wasn’t even looking at me at first.

When she finally did, her eyes were strangely soft—vulnerable in that sharp, blue-glass way.

“…I’m not just some tsundere you pat on the head and brush off, you know,” she murmured, voice low. “I’m also a woman—and definitely a woman that men sometimes drool upon while watching TV.”

I froze.

She leaned in, closer.

Her breath was warm against my lips.

“I want to be seen like that too…by you.”

I swallowed, eyes flicking between hers. “…I do see you.”

“God, we’re already adults, Itsuki.” she said, cheeks now tinged with a frustrated red. “I mean, after all you did for me last year, it's only fair for you to experience this. You always say you see me, but I want to be known. Every inch, every feeling, and the fact that I want to show you everything, not just the parts I show when I’m strong.”

“Everything? Can you emphasize your point?”

Instead of words, there came actions.

She kissed me.

A deep, needy kiss that caught me by surprise, sent a spark like static running down my spine. Her hands crept up beneath my shirt, trembling slightly against my skin. I responded instinctively, fingers finding the curves of her back, pulling her closer.

Our breaths tangled. The papers scattered.

If this was her way of emphasizing her point, at least she can make me emotionally ready, right?

The room warmed.

Everything slowed, melted, narrowed to just her and me and the thundering sound of my own heart.

I felt it.

That pull somewhere below me.

And the click of something being unstrapped.

An unraveling.

I was ready to fall.

RIIING. RIIING.

The phone buzzed loudly on the nearby desk.

We both froze.

Akari-san let out a huff that sounded like a boiling kettle and pulled away, grabbing the phone with a glare that could’ve ignited it on the spot.

“Merde! Ces imbéciles ne sont-ils pas au milieu de quelque chose de romantique?!” she hissed before tapping the green button.

She answered with such volume that it would make crows flee. “What?!”

A pause.

Her expression softened a bit as she scratched her golden hair.

“Ah…eh…sorry. I thought it was my father.”

She fell silent, the words from the other line starting to sink into her.

Her eyes widened.

“…Really?” she said softly.

I sat up slowly, shirt wrinkled, lips still tingling.

She turned to me, still holding the phone.

“I got in,” she said, her voice breathless. “Ueno campus just called. I got accepted into the Applied Arts program.”

For a second, I forgot what breathing was.

Then a grin broke across my face.

“That’s amazing,” I said. “They said Tokyo Geidai was one of the world’s best.”

“Obviously.”

And then—

“—So which college are you even applying to again?” she asked, plopping down beside me, already flipping into smug mode.

“I’m still deciding between three. One of them has a strong humanities department as my mother recommended—”

“Ugh, each of them has entrance exams. You’re willingly suffering.”

“Hey, at least my school isn’t letting just anyone in based on vibes and brushstrokes.”

“It’s called creative vision, you uncultured dango vendor.”

“Says the person who drew a stick-figure Eiffel Tower this morning.”

Her eyes narrowed down again into dangerous slits, and she pushed me again back to the futon.

Her pajama blouse was already partially unbuttoned earlier, exposing something that only my eyes can see. At this point, the view was dangerously capable of killing every shred of my prudence.

We kept arguing while laying down.

Art schools versus Education schools.

Entrance exams versus those who have not.

Talent versus skills.

It was trivial and worthless.

At one point, the lights went off when she muttered something suspicious about ‘just wanting to cuddle’.

Well, I know her.

She’s the one who says things without sugarcoating or a tinge of lies.

But tonight, I was wrong.

Oh, right, she was talking about ‘wanting me to see everything in her’.

She let me, and I let myself too.

First timers always encounter problems at some point, but it looks like we overjoyed that thing.

Were we nervous? Bad? Like those adjectives even mattered.

I just love Akari-san, and I’m willing to give whatever things in the world she wants.

And it looks like I’m that only thing she needed.

That night, we didn’t sleep a wink.

We kept ourselves busy planning what to cook tomorrow.

Too busy bickering over if she’s going to transfer to my school or I’ll transfer to hers.

You know what? She said that I was just considering Waseda University because Tsurugi-san (she’s so jealous about her) will study there even though she will be at Keio.

And it looks like I just shot myself in the foot.

Why the hell did I even know where Tsurugi-san’s going to college? I basically handed her the knife.

She kicked me out of the apartment, told me that I would sleep outside the night’s cold, and I was scared shitless.

In the end, I surrendered. I’ll be going to Tokyo Geidai with my hot, brilliant, terrifying delinquent half-french girlfriend.

She forgave me of course.

At one point, we even told ourselves jokes that wouldn’t be funny to anyone else.

Then designed the margins of our books with different ornamental elements.

In that small room—once a gray, lonely cave—I learned something more important than any entrance exam answer.

I learned how it felt…to be chosen and to choose back.

And oh, people think I chose this life.

The loudness.

The closeness.

The way I always talk before someone speaks first.

Let them believe what they want.

I wouldn’t change perceptions, I wouldn’t change my image.

That is my only luxury, and I don’t need any more effort looking for something in order to survive another day.

Because the golden flower I stole in that rain is already here.

And I stayed.

And so did she.