The President's Perfect Routine

"Good morning, Aizawa-senpai!"

"Morning, President!"

I smiled, radiating a high-output energy usually reserved for commercial-grade generators. "Morning, everyone! Chiba-kun, your shoelace is untied. Don't want a repeat of the Great Staircase Incident of last Tuesday, right?."

There was a specific kind of satisfaction that came from arriving at school early and finding that you had already solved problems before you'd stepped foot inside the building.

I'm not bragging. I'm just saying.

"Aizawa-senpai!"

A first-year nearly took me out at the shoe lockers. She was clutching her bag to her chest, eyes pink at the edges, and she was already talking before she'd fully stopped moving.

"Senpai, it's Hayashi-kun, he took my notebook… he just took it and now he's saying it's his, but it's mine, it has cute strawberries on its cover, and my name is written on it in pink–"

I handed her a tissue from one of the small packets I kept as spares before she started properly crying. "I'll have a word with Hayashi-kun. Alright?"

She nodded, already calming down. The way people settled when they felt like someone was handling it. Like pressure releasing from a valve. I lived for those moments.

Hayashi-kun was not hard to find. He was currently pretending to be very interested in the vending machine near the east stairwell while clearly waiting to see if anyone came looking. When he spotted me, he made a face, clearly revising his plans.

The notebook was tucked under his arm. Pink handwriting, top right corner. Hasegawa. Definitely not his.

"Hayashi-kun."

"Senpai." He straightened up. There was a beat where I thought he might actually try to argue. Then his shoulders dropped. "...Hasegawa-san didn't remember my name."

I waited.

"It's been a month," he said, and he sounded genuinely wounded about it. "We're in the same class. I sit two seats away. A month, senpai."

I looked at the notebook.

"So you took her property."

"I just… I wanted her to notice–" He stopped, apparently considering it for the first time. "That's stupid, isn't it."

"A little," I said, kindly.

He handed over the notebook. "I will apologise."

I walked back to Hasegawa-san with her strawberry cover notebook. She took it with both hands, with an embarrassed smile. "Thank you, mama-san."

I paused. That ridiculous nickname had been spreading too much lately. Apparently, doing my job qualified me as the school's resident mother. I was a seventeen-year-old guy, people seemed to forget that little detail.

"I'm your Student Council President," I said, pleasantly. "Please remember that."

She bowed and ran off. I watched her go.

Did liking someone really make people act stupid?

I couldn't picture it. The idea of wanting someone to notice me so badly I'd annoy them.

I filed it away and kept walking.

"Mama-saaaan~"

I winced.

"President," I said, without turning around. "The word you're looking for is President."

Kohei Tanaka, a generally good natured second-year student, jogged up beside me with a watering can in hand.

"Mama-san, you have to help."

"I am not–" I stopped myself. It wasn't worth it. "What is it?"

"The Art Club… they're claiming the lighting is 'essential for their soul' or something! But my petunias need that sun! If they don't get the morning rays, they'll wither, and then the festival display will be ruined, and–"

Ah. Territorial dispute.

I changed course to the corner in question. Gardening Club's flowers. Art Club's easels. One patch of sun.

Nine minutes of diplomacy later, the corner was divided. Both clubs left convinced they had won. That was the only acceptable outcome.

I should have been tired. I'd been awake since five-forty-five and I'd already done more administrative thinking than most people did before lunch.

I felt great.

That was what a good day looked like.

I headed to the student council wing, humming a little.

I paused. Someone was watching me.

I glanced back. The courtyard was just the courtyard, a few students, someone eating an onigiri on the steps, the Gardening Club filing away in triumph.

Nothing. Just a faint prickling at the back of my neck, like a pulled thread.

A shy student, probably. Someone who wanted to ask something and hadn't worked up to it yet. They'd find me eventually.

I pushed open the student council office door and exhaled.

Neat folders. Properly-labelled shelves. Warm tea.

"You look disgustingly happy," said Hikari, giving me a brief glance through her long dark bangs.

"Good morning to you too."

"How many on the way in?"

"Five."

"New record?"

"Not quite." I sat down and began going through the papers on my desk. "The very well loved corner of the yard is now shared between the Art and Gardening Club, if you were concerned."

"I wasn't."

"And Hasegawa-san got her notebook back."

"Shun." Hikari set down her folder and looked at me with a flat expression. "You know you could just... walk to school."

"I was just walking."

"Without solving anything."

"That'd be a waste."

"Why."

I opened my mouth then closed it. That felt like a trap.

"Because people sometimes need help," I said.

Hikari sighed, and went back to her folder. "You should pay this much attention to yourself sometime. Just a thought. Ignore me as usual."

I was going to ignore her, but fondly, because that was how we worked. Hikari had been my vice president and my friend for long enough that I knew exactly when she was performing exasperation and when she was actually worried, and that was a performance. Mostly.

The door opened.

"Aizawa!" Mr. Takeda, the homeroom teacher, poked his head in. "Run and grab the AV equipment from storage for the class presentation, would you? I completely forgot to–"

"It's already set up, Takeda-sensei," I said.

"...What?"

"Set up already. Conference room B. Spare HDMI cable's there too."

He made the face. The 'what would we do without you' face, warm and slightly guilty. "Aizawa, really–"

"Anytime, sensei."

He left.

Hikari looked at me disgusted. "You answered before he finished his sentence."

"I knew what he was going to ask."

"That's very sad."

"I call it being efficient."

She hummed, unconvinced.

I ignored this and picked up the budget forms.

The room was sunny. The forms made sense. Everything was where it was supposed to be. In thirty minutes I'd go to class, and after that there'd be the first-year orientation materials, and if I could get the festival budget approved before Wednesday then–

BAM.

The door hit the wall in an explosion. A few sheets of paper on my desk went airborne at once.

Framed in the doorway was a silhouette that seemed to swallow the hallway light.

Koga Sudō.

The "Crimson Fang." The guy who allegedly hospitalized a dozen seniors during his first week.

He prowled inside, his uniform jacket was wide open, revealing a black graphic t-shirt underneath that definitely wasn't school-regulated. His hair was a shock of unruly, vibrant red that screamed trouble. His eyes, cold as steel, were currently pointed at me.

Hikari's pen snapped out of fear. Our junior secretary, who had been filing papers in the corner, jumped behind a filing cabinet.

My heart hammered fast.

Yesterday, I'd reported one of his gang members for smoking behind the bike sheds. He was here for revenge. He was going to flip this desk, probably break it over my head.

Koga stopped at the edge of my desk, and slammed a massive hand onto the center of it.

He leaned down, his face inches from mine.

He was so tall.

I had to crane my neck just to maintain eye contact.

Up close, I registered, absurdly, that his lower lashes were longer than most people's. It was a weirdly delicate detail on a man who looked like he ate gravel for breakfast.

I could smell faint traces of motor oil and... peppermint as he growled at my face, "Oi. Prez,"

President. Close enough.

"Sudō-kun," My voice was steady. Good start.

"If you're here about Yamamoto-kun," I continued, because I needed to control the shape of this conversation before it got away from me, "I'm willing to hear your concerns, but I want to be clear that my decision isn't going to–"

"Shut up for a second."

His tone wasn't aggressive. That was what threw me off. The way he said it sounded like a 'Hold on.'

He stared at me with an intense focus.

He looked at my hair, my eyes, my face and whatever part he could see of me behind the desk.

The back of my neck did the pulled-thread thing again, worse now.

I felt thoroughly inspected. Like a bug under a microscope.

"You," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

"are exactly my type."