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The first letter comes on December 8th. It’s brief. ‘It happened a month ago. I saw you, really saw you, and I have not stopped seeing you since.’
He’s hesitant to call it a love letter, at first, except that something about it feels so intensely personal the idea of sharing it with someone else bothers him.
Not that it stops Leon from reading it over his shoulder when he takes it out to reread it. For the fourth time.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asks. Mondo jumps, almost trashing the paper in his hands. “Dude, you’re not gonna send that to someone, are you? It sounds dumb as hell. ‘Haven’t stopped seeing you since’? Duh! We’re all in the same school!”
“That’s not what it means, ya idiot,” he snaps, folding it back up to stick in his pocket. Leon could get grabby. Having him know was enough of a pain in the ass.
“Oh, god, your face, dude. You are sending it out!” He wonders, at the look of unmitigated glee, why he’s even friends with this guy. “Dude. Please. Let me help you write something better –“
“I’m not sending anything. Got this shoved in my locker.” Oh, god, why did he say that? Panic? That wasn’t going to make Leon back off. If anything, his interest redoubled, trying to reach into Mondo’s pocket and grab it. It almost turns into a physical fight, but –
“Kuwata. Cease harassing Oowada, or you’ll get another detention slip.” Thank fuck. And he’d never thought the threat of detention would be something he’s grateful for. Except that Ishimaru only cares about enforcing the rules, and isn’t the least bit amused by Leon’s attempts at justification.
It gives Leon something else to focus on, too.
The second letter comes three days later. Mondo has not forgotten about the first, but somehow, the follow-up catches him off guard.
‘I have never been adept at poetry. But I’m willing to learn.’
That’s all. His heart stammers in his stomach. So next time, a poem?
He rushes to shove the letter in a folder. God forbid Leon see it again, although so far he’d suppressed his humor enough to not share it with the rest of the class, though he did sometimes look over at Mondo with curiosity, as if he expected Mondo to share any updates with him.
…oh, god, what if he was there when the poem came in?
He finds the poem on Saturday the following week. The whole class is supposed to be having a study session he doesn’t want to go to. His locker hasn’t been organized and all the papers are a mess from shoving exam week notes in haphazardly, but he knows the letter by its fresh clean paper, probably printed in the computer lab.
It’s formatted so that three important lines are dead-center on the page.
‘I’m an animal.
I cannot move in your sight;
I am captured prey.’
That was…well, Mondo doesn’t know what to think of it. He’s never received poetry before. His own attempts hadn’t been successful, so he hadn’t gone in with any expectations.
It catches his eye at the last minute, but the bottom of the page says, ‘It isn’t great, I know. It isn’t even half of what you deserve.’
Well. He doesn’t like to think of himself as particularly swayed by flattery – it isn’t a good quality in a leader – but this is different. And he has an idea. He pulls a notebook from under the avalanche of garbage in his locker and rips off a strip of paper, writing, ‘I thought it was fine,’ and pins it to the bulletin board in the corner.
By Monday, everyone has seen Mondo’s reply.
No one has come forward.
He gets letter four on the twenty-second. ‘I’m glad,’ the first line says. Then, ‘Merry Christmas. I wish I had something worthwhile to offer you. I have only my feelings.’
Oh.
Mondo can’t stop looking at it, and is startled again by Leon. “So you are still getting messages,” he says, snatching the letter from Mondo’s hand. Mondo’s tempted to put him in a headlock to get it back, but Ishimaru is standing right next to them and he wouldn’t put it past the guy to give them detention this close to Christmas.
Leon’s eyes are scanning the document almost comically. ‘”I’m glad’ – wait, what? You’ve been communicating with this creep? Who is it?”
He pulls a face when Leon says ‘creep.’ The situation wasn’t that weird. “I just put a reply on the bulletin board,” he grumbles.
Whoops. Too much information. But Leon’s already distracted, rereading what he has in his hands. “Man, whoever this chick is, she’s got it bad.”
(Behind him, he hears Makoto say, “Happy holidays, Taka,” and Ishimaru replies, Merry Christmas, Makoto.”)
Letters five, six, seven, and eight flutter down on him January fourth. They’re not dated, but he thinks he knows the order:
Five – ‘I had to wait to type these up at the computer lab, but I spent all break drafting them out. Please forgive my lateness.’
Six – ‘The thought of leaving for winter break is almost agonizing. Though I have nothing to give, and you do not know who I am (or so I hope), it would be enough just to see you. I will spend the travel home replaying every time I have heard you laugh in my head.’
Seven – ‘There was some kind of song on the radio, and to hear it, I thought of you, and could not help but smile. My family asked what was on my mind, but it stayed a secret.’
Eight, which he had not noticed before, was pinned under his shoe on the floor, and blocked almost completely by Hina. He stumbles back and she’s able to move it, cheeks pink and hand on her chest. She looks flustered.
“Sorry,” she starts, “I meant to grab it for you, but the words really caught my attention!” She shoves it at him. “Sorry!” she says again. “I didn’t mean to read the letter from your – uh, girlfriend?”
Mondo’s eyes skim over the last page. ‘It took me so long to write this, but… The last night of break, I dreamt of you. You came to my door, calling for me. When I came out, you said you had been looking for me, that you had something to tell me. I had never seen you smile in such a way before. When I woke, it made missing you ten times worse.
I knew it was impossible, I knew it was selfish, but I wished it had happened. At least I will be back to you soon.’
Hina is staring, waiting for him to finish, and he mutters “I don’t know who it is.”
“So…a secret admirer?” she asks. “That’s so cool! Do you have any ideas?”
He looks at her, feeling blank. He’s only been able to think of who it isn’t.
He knows for certain that it isn’t Fukawa. She is all over Togami at all times of the day, much to everyone’s chagrin. Especially Togami’s.
And he is reasonably sure it isn’t Chihiro. He’d asked them out once, back in September, and they’d cried as they said they weren’t interested.
And then they said, almost terrified, “I’m not really a girl.”
“That’s okay,” Mondo said. “Doesn’t change anything.”
That seemed to calm them down. “I’m not really a boy, either.”
“That’s okay too.”
The first note Mondo had left was taken down with the rest of the flyers and notices from before winter break.
Not that it matters. He knows that whoever it is, they have seen it already. But he still feels a spike of adrenaline, that maybe they had been the one to take the note down.
He has another to put in its place, again on lined notebook paper.
‘You don’t need to get me anything. These letters are better than anything else I’ve ever gotten.
I don’t know who you are, but I’m sure as hell gonna find out. I stapled your that one to the wall in my room. I think about it all the time.’
He turns from pinning his response and comes almost face-to-face with Ishimaru, looking over his shoulder at the note he’s posted.
“The fuck,” Mondo hisses, startled.
Ishimaru’s brows are knit in concentration. “Stapled to the wall…? They’ll probably charge you for that.”
Mondo scowls. “I just think you don’t get romance.”
Ishimaru turns to face him, giving him a look that is oddly unreadable. He turns again and walks off, leaving Mondo to wonder what it means when someone usually transparent suddenly becomes murky.
Nine does not come until the thirteenth, and Mondo cannot sit still. He’s been anxious since the sixth, felt almost sick since the tenth. Almost everyone knows now that Mondo has some kind of secret admirer, and everyone suspects each other.
Except for Togami, who suggested he was writing the letters to himself.
“Nah, man, I’ve seen ‘em,” Leon had said. “Nothing Mondo writes is that…well written.”
“You’ve seen them?” Makoto asked, surprised.
“Well, I’ve seen two,” he said, rubbing the back of his head.
Hina looked restless, but she signaled to Mondo that her lips were sealed.
He waited until class had started to take the note from his pocket.
‘I’m sure if you look, it will be obvious. I have never been good at keeping big secrets. It’s a miracle I haven’t signed my own name to these letters.’
That gives him something to go on.
Mondo spends the next two days staring at each of his classmates in what he thinks is probably patterned and measured turns, trying to see what he hasn’t been able to before.
He gets plenty of odd and nervous looks from classmates who don’t appreciate his stares (save Kirigiri, who ignores him, and Ishimaru, who does not seem to notice). They all probably know what he’s attempting to do. It wouldn’t be hard now for his admirer to mask it, no matter how obvious they think they are. Mondo has simply started too late in his search to notice if someone is staring more than is normal.
And with that, class is more boring than usual. It’s rare that Mondo feels any kind of connection to the work he’s asked to do, or sees how it could relate to life after school; but it’s impossible now that he has something more interesting on his mind.
What was it that his letter-writer had said? That they’d drafted the letters out to him? Maybe he could do something like that. He tears out a piece of scrap paper, but then remembers he doesn’t know who it is and can’t really think of something to say with no basis. It would be easier if he knew who it was, or had any suspicions that weren’t eliminations of obvious non-suspects.
And he’d say something totally different if it was Leon than if it were, say, Ishimaru.
Hm. Could it be Leon? He’d been hanging out around him a lot. They were friends, of course, but it wasn’t unusual, right, for friends to fall for each other? Or Hina, who’d read one of the letters before handing it back. It wasn’t impossible that whoever was writing them would stick around to see his first reaction to them. It’s the kind of thing he’d do – make sure that the replies weren’t some kind of cruel joke.
He taps the eraser end of his pencil against the paper, against the desk, chewing on his lip. He can’t make a declaration without some kind of evidence to back it up. And even though he’s itching to write something back, he has no idea where to start.
Ten comes two days after that. He’s been distracted, and hasn’t been really able to look. (Actually, he has been keeping himself distracted, because trying to look has been driving him crazy.) Letter ten says, ‘I wish you would look at me. Really look at me, how I look at you. I don’t think you’ve found me staring, and for that, I am grateful. But all the same…It hurts, that you never notice me. And I am a fool, for never knowing how to approach.’
“Well, I think it’s probably someone socially awkward, if they’re writing you letters instead of just telling you themselves…”
He hadn’t told Chihiro anything before, but it all comes spilling out at lunch. He can’t focus, even on eating.
He gives them a look that hopefully says something. “That could describe anyone here, Chi,” he says. “Even you.” And he has – despite all appearances – put some thought into it, and the idea has crossed his mind. So many of his classmates’ talents rely on secrecy and lying (Celes, whatever the hell Kirigiri did), have no use for social skills (Hifumi, Chihiro) or almost require a lack of tact (Ishimaru).
Chihiro frowns at him, clearly upset. And he cares, he does, but… “It’s not me, Mondo,” they say.
“Yeah,” he says, “I know.” And he’s gotten over that a while ago. “Pretty sure it’s not Fukawa or Leon, either.”
Chihiro hums around the thumbnail they’re chewing on, looking back over the letters again. Mondo gets a weird feeling like they have an idea of who it is, but he’s afraid to ask.
Maybe he’s not as ready to find out as he thought.
Two days before letter eleven comes, it pours rain in the middle of PE. They are out running laps when a storm rolls in with record time, drenching everyone. Their teacher (and Coach Nekomaru) insist that they keep on running, claiming that the experience will build up stamina, or something like that.
It doesn’t bother Hina, of course, who almost seems faster. She is, Mondo thinks to himself, in her element. None of the other girls are as amused, nor are the boys or Chihiro, who trails in the back sandwiched between Hifumi and Yasuhiro.
Leon keeps pace with Mondo. Mostly so that he can laugh the more his hair deflates, falling wetly in tangles across his face. “You look fucking ridiculous,” Leon tells him.
“My hair ain’t suited to this weather, what’s your excuse?” he snaps. The one good thing about his ruined curls is that they hide the heat and shame from the student running next to him.
“Don’t take it out on me that your stupid hair can’t take a little moisture!” Leon laughs, and flips his hair back dramatically.
Obviously, Mondo objects to anyone calling his hair stupid, even if it is a friend. And he’s tempted to pummel him into the ground, smacking a hand against his shoulder to throw him off track. But he hears, as he so often does when he’s about to do something reckless, Ishimaru shouting at him. “Quit horsing around. The sooner we finish out here, the quicker we can all get back inside!”
It doesn’t take much for him to pass the both of them, leaving Leon to gripe in his wake, “What the fuck? Fucker wasn’t even looking at us!”
When he gets it, letter eleven reads, ‘I could never have imagined how beautiful you would look with your hair down. It suits you, to wear it up; I don’t find it stupid at all. But down… I could hardly concentrate on anything else. I could not take my eyes off of you, trying to commit the image to memory, terrified though I was that you would catch me.
Even if you had, it would have been worth it.’
Mondo tries a different exercise as he waits for letter twelve. He sits in the library, fingers resting on the keys, and tries to imagine what frame of mind he’d have to be in to write letters like that. Did whoever it was come in right after gym class to type it up? Did they put off sending it to him for a couple of days, so he wouldn’t be able to connect the contents to any strange behavior?
Not…that he noticed. He didn’t like to be seen with his hair out of order, and at the time it didn’t even occur to him that his would-be suitor might have different feelings on it.
Beautiful? His cheeks heat up. He’d always thought his hair looked dumb when it was down, top half bleached and curly and the underneath part dark brown and flat against the back of his neck.
His fingers tap against the plastic. If he was desperate, he could always try leaving his hair down again, on purpose. Take note of which classmates fixate on him.
But that would kind of be useless, wouldn’t it? Lots of people were sure to stare, if he did something so drastically different from the norm. And it wouldn’t be worth the teasing from the people who didn’t think it looked all that attractive. Honestly, people would just distract him to the point where he wouldn’t notice if his letter-writer was making themselves obvious.
Man, this whole trip was a bust. Most of the students use the computer lab anyway, so it’s not like the location itself will give him any clues. In fact, at the moment, he’s seated across from Ishimaru, diagonally from Tanaka, and next to Makoto. Fukawa sees them all, and picks the first available computer farthest away from them all.
Mondo doesn’t realize he’s watching this reaction in tandem with Makoto and Ishimaru, until he hears them sigh in unison.
When Mondo catches his attention, Makoto rolls his eyes and shrugs. Across from him, he watches Ishimaru shake his head, eyebrows relaxed for half a second before he’s back to his intent stare on the screen in front of him, chewing his bottom lip.
Since he’s already in here, Mondo should actually do some homework.
Twelve has come folded into a piece big enough to hold, small enough to shove in his pocket. It’s a good thing, too; he catches it when all of his classmates are going through their lockers at once, getting ready for morning classes.
He’s tempted to read it where he is, but four different people are staring at him and he knows at least two of them are not the sender.
Something about the folds makes him nervous, and the pads of his fingers feel filled with the kind of static he gets from toying with balls of cotton. He doesn’t want to wait to open it, and he shouldn’t have to – it’s his, goddammit, not for anyone else’s eyes – but he’s sure the letter-writer had their own reasons for folding it up. It could contain something more personal. It would be rude to embarrass them by making it public.
He’s practically running to get back to his room, but it’s subdued enough that the hall monitor doesn’t have any complaints and turns instead to scold Fukawa for stalking Togami while the latter uses the distraction to make his escape. Which, he guesses, makes Ishimaru not so bad. Maybe enough to even call him by his first name.
He’ll think about it.
Twelve is lengthier. ‘I had another dream. A wonderful one. You figured it out two letters ago, and came to my room to tell me. I couldn’t hear everything that you said, from how loud everyone else in the hallway was talking. But you were smiling, again, the way you had in the last dream. And when I awoke, I remembered where I had seen you smile like that before.
…I think that if I say, I will give away too much. I have been tying to find a way to explain it, ever since that morning, but every draft I compose sounds weak.
But I need to say something! So I can say this: since we have met, you have changed so much about the way I think. You have challenged my world view in ways I didn’t think possible. And there is no way to explain how, or to say thanks, without giving away more than I am ready to.’
Mondo can hardly feel himself breathe. Could he really have had that kind of an effect on someone? It doesn’t seem possible. He feels uneasy at the positivity behind the sentiment. Maybe this is all some kind of elaborate joke, just meant to embarrass him in the end when it turns out to be Leon messing with his head, or one of the older students hazing him.
He doesn’t carry letter twelve around like he had with the others, shoving it in a drawer and trying not to think about its contents. He doesn’t look for any reactions in his classmates, and over a week that he tried not to think about what was going on, thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen appear in his locker.
‘You seem downtrodden, and I can’t help but think that it’s something that I wrote to you that’s got you upset. But I can’t seem to think of anything that might have offended you.
Part of me dreads that, though I tried to remain inconspicuous, you have been able to work out who I am. And that your reaction is a result of disappointment.
I can hope it isn’t true. But if it were…how could I blame you? You deserve much better.’
‘I see how unfocused you are in class. I wish there was something I could say to raise your spirits. That I am rooting for you, perhaps? But if it is my letter that has pushed you away, surely you would not want to hear from me in person, either.
But I still ache to reach out to you. I hope my feelings, if nothing else, go to you.’
I have come halfway
In a garden of shadows
To reach your sunlight
It’s letter fifteen that makes Mondo decide that this probably isn’t a joke. Fifteen letters, two of them poems, none of them plagiarized from what he could tell. (Ishimaru would be proud, he thinks smugly, to know that he actually used one of those websites he lectured their class on.) And he should probably write back, to tell them he was still listening.
…but he’s struck again by how difficult it is, sharing such personal information on such a public space. There’s no way to get his message to them privately. What is he supposed to do – just out himself in front of his whole class, say that he thought he was being lead into catastrophe, that he isn’t used to people being so complimentary, that he’s struggled to see the good things in himself that the sender has? There’s no good way to be vague about his absence.
So something simple will have to do. ‘Don’t worry,’ he scratches out. ‘Wasn’t you. I’m back now.’
People are abuzz (he thinks that’s a word) when they see his response. It’s short, but it’s to the point and his classmates have apparently been following this like some kind of soap opera. Even Toko, Togami and Ishi – Taka, he has made himself start saying – are glancing at the thing piece of paper.
Although Togami, for his part, is trying hard to look like he doesn’t really care.
Letter sixteen comes in so quickly that Mondo is surprised he didn’t manage to see them slip it in his locker. It comes in the very same day as he pins his own words, though he wouldn’t have known it if he hadn’t run back to his locker for his math textbook.
Is he just imagining that the paper is still warm?
‘I am happy to hear that you have returned!’ it says, and his heart is beating like moth’s wings. ‘And, of course, I am happy to know that I have not turned you away. I was about to lose hope, and give up before I had reached my goal. But as always, you have inspired me to go on. I cannot tell you what it means to me, that you have filled me with such determination.’
There were a couple of spaces before it went on, ending with:
‘Well, I could. But I don’t think that I’m ready.’
I was about to lose hope, and give up before I had reached my goal. That line had stuck with Mondo more than either piece of poetry had. Not that it wasn’t nice to receive something created especially for him, but they hadn’t really raised any questions. They were pretty declarations of affection. This was closer to a clue.
If only he knew what the hell it meant.
And if only he had someone he felt comfortable showing it to. Sharing it with Chihiro felt…weird. Even if his feelings for them were no longer romantic, he couldn’t help picturing their worried face when they went through the letters he had shown them. They’d probably be better at determining the possible meanings of ‘goal’ as the sender had meant them, but as long as this goal wasn’t timed – fuck it. Mondo could work it out for himself. He’s gotta do something during study hall, anyway.
He could, as he is sure the hall monitor in front of him would say, do his homework. This was a good place to ask for help if he needed it, but it’s not like he’d be able to focus with this on his mind. Better to get this out of the way while he was surrounded by people who either wouldn’t care what he was doing or would judge him for being a little preoccupied.
Goal, he writes down. And then, after a minute of chewing on his eraser, not confessing. Because they would have just said that, wouldn’t they, if that was what they meant? It seemed like they already intended to come clean sooner or later, so their goal must be something else.
Something to do with the letters? Or maybe talking to Mondo in person?
He doesn’t even realize the study block is over until Makoto taps his shoulder, smiling apologetically. “I almost didn’t want to stop you, you looked lost in thought. But I think another class needs this room, so…”
Mondo makes some inconsequential noises at him and gathers his stuff together. Makoto’s pretty observant, he thinks to himself, and more empathetic than many of his other classmates. It wouldn’t feel weird to ask him – and even if he’s the one sending them, well, it doesn’t hurt to ask anyway, right? “To be honest, I was just kinda tryin’ to figure out who’s been sending me notes in my locker.”
Makoto looks up at him, eyes bright. “Really? Yeah, I guess that’d be what I would do too!” he turns his attention to the hallway, hugging his books close to his chest. “I hope it’s okay if I ask this, but do you think you know who it might be, yet?”
He can’t tell if Makoto is asking that because he knows and wants to know if Mondo knows, or if he doesn’t know and wants to know if Mondo does. “Not a clue,” he says, which isn’t entirely a lie. “I was actually hopin’ you’d have some kinda insight. You’re real good at readin’ people and shit.”
Makoto shrugs, embarrassed. “I- I don’t know that I’d say I’m good at reading people. I think Kyouko’s probably better at that than me. Whatever her talent is, I’m guessing that plays a pretty big role.” Well, that was definitely true, but damn. “I’m – I’m pretty sure it’s not Toko, though, or Celes.”
“Toko I figured,” Mondo says. He hadn’t even really considered Celes as an option – she seemed too straightforward to be someone to send anonymous love letters, even on a bet. “Almost feel bad for Togami, the way she sticks around him.”
Makoto laughs softly, cheeks faintly pink.
Mondo wants to post something really daring. Something like, whatever your goals are, let me help you reach them. And at the first snow, he’s so elated that he nearly does. It doesn’t matter who’s sending the letters – he’s feeling affectionate enough with the time off to say he’d die for his classmates, although he knows that’s something of an exaggeration.
He has to say something. Those words have been sort of a defining phrase for the last – how long has it been? Almost two months. He has to say something, this sender has to say something. It’s like having a long-distance relationship, but only from one side.
He kind of wonders what they’re up to right now.
Not all of his classmates have opted to go and dick around in the snow. Toko and Togami both choose to stay in, not to anyone’s surprise. Kirigiri declines, but politely; something related to her talent that she has to look into. Junko yawns and says she has better things to do, and drags her sister off with her, though it’s hard to tell what the latter is thinking.
Makoto asks Taka if he’ll join them, and he looks embarrassed. “I don’t really have shoes suited to playing out in the cold weather,” he says, and there’s not a single thing about the way he says it that doesn’t sound fucking ridiculous.
Mondo isn’t the only one who thinks so. Makoto stares at his boots, rubbing the back of his head. “But, your boots –“ Ishimaru answers without words; he lifts one foot up, and pulls at the fabric. Mondo thinks he can see socks right beneath it. “Oh,” Makoto says softly. “Alright, then. Well, have fun in here!”
Mondo kind of expects that he will, but he doesn’t really look much like it. His face doesn’t tend to change much between emotions, but something about him looks sad.
“Why doesn’t he just buy new ones?” Leon grumbles.
Makoto answers, but even Mondo knows why. “He probably can’t afford them.”
For some reason, Makoto looks embarrassed.
There’s another kind of weird moment where it seems like his response and the next letter (seventeen, how many will there be?) seem to come in at the same time. He’s decided to throw caution to the wind, and post exactly what his gut instinct told him to. A sort of way to say that he’s interested, whoever it is. ‘Whatever your goals are, let me help you reach them.’
He tries to remember if he’s ever written something that soft before, for so wide an audience. A part of him feels naked; another part feels exhilarated. Unless the letter-sender is sharing their drafts with everyone else in their class – and Mondo doesn’t think that’s likely – it’s a message only they will understand.
He almost feels the person behind him, but he doesn’t quite have Sakura’s perception. So he doesn’t turn around in time to catch them.
Unless the letter-writer is Kirigiri, which he’s also pretty sure is not the case. She’d be much more stealthy, he thinks, if she were going to confess her feelings to someone.
She is, nonetheless, reading his response. And she hums at it, with a little smirk, before walking away.
Seventeen – ‘I’ve written much more poetry now than I ever thought that I would, voluntarily. It’s…not good. Even if were to my reveal myself, and that went well – even if you accepted me as a friend, or more, I don’t think I’d be able to show you half of it.
At least I have settled on haiku as a format. Trying to find words that rhyme but that don’t sound childish is exhausting.’
Mondo almost wishes they were doing a poetry unit in class.
Almost. It would give him a leg up on his investigation, so to speak, but god, at what cost? They’d done one at the beginning of the last year, each of them having to write three poems for each style they’d learned, and then had to present them to the class. Togami had been hypercritical of everyone in the class, none of Makoto’s poems had a full rhyme, Celes’ had terrified everyone, and Toko had gone off for nearly two hours about the merits of Sylvia someone over TS someone else, and by the end of it all even Ishi- Taka and Hifumi looked bored.
They were threatened with the prospect of yet another poetry unit at the start of next year. If nothing else, Mondo guessed he could wait until then and see who’d gotten better at their poetry.
(Though by then, it was possible his admirer would have moved on. The thought kind of made his stomach hurt.)
Eighteen and nineteen come on the same day, separated by a matter of hours. Nineteen is a response to his bulletin, but eighteen is another kicker, leaving him winded.
‘Your care and compassion toward animals is unparalleled. The first time I heard you talk about them, was the first time that I knew… That I knew I had misjudged you –‘
Mondo shoves the paper into the front of his textbook and slams the cover down loudly, covering his mouth as he goes. He feels like he could scream. Misjudged him? That definitely conjures a certain image to mind, but calling it like that feels like jumping the gun. Lots of people misjudged him: Asahina had admitted last week that she felt she’d been unfair when they first met, assuming he was scary when he wasn’t. But that hadn’t felt like any kind of deeper confession. Why say it out loud before writing it down? That wasn’t sneaky, just stupid.
It takes him a good thirty minutes to calm down and collect himself enough to keep reading.
‘That I knew I had misjudged you and your place here. You belong here just as much as any of us, make no room for doubt!’
That seemed…like an odd place to leave it off. And it was a hell of an assumption to make, one Mondo almost balked at. He’d never thought he didn’t belong here –
Or, well, he certainly would never have admitted it to anyone. To himself, alone, the doubt had crossed his mind. But either the sender was confessing that they’d thought he didn’t at some point in time (and it could he reminded himself again and again be anyone who thought that), or Mondo hadn’t been as close-guarded with his emotions as he thought he was.
…no, that couldn’t be it.
Nineteen: ‘I should be doing something more constructive with my time right now, but I could not wait. When I saw your message…I wanted to take it down, so no one else could see it. I have never received such words of support from anyone, let alone someone so wonderful. It is no wonder you are able to lead the way you are.’
By 7:00 AM the next day, Mondo’s reply is, indeed, gone.
Nineteen is stuck in his head uncomfortably. He’s glad he was able to give some of that happiness he’s been feeling back, maybe give his secret admirer a taste of the thrill he gets when letters show up in his locker. But that one line, the one about never having gotten unconditional support – that bothers at him. It nags all through math, where he toys with his pencil and makes stupid mistakes when working out equations.
It’s just – no one? Really? Not their own friends, or their family? Hell, Mondo might be alone now, but he had his gang to back him up. There’d been a few dissenters when he took charge over from Daiya, but after that one time they’d all been fiercely loyal. And his bro, of course – Daiya had never been anything short of a cheerleader for him.
So the idea that one of his classmates was struggling like that. Man, that sucked. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could go about asking anyone, even if it was kind of a clue. He didn’t think he could even go up to Chihiro or Leon and ask them, “Hey, your family and other friends are behind you 100%, right?”
Once again, he’s frustrated, and starts scrawling his way across a paper to figure out a good response to his love interest.
(Who is, of course, staring at him as he works, biting their nails in anxiety. Mondo was too distracted by the message to focus on the words; but these things like hindsight are all, as they say, 20/20. As such, the sender is worried that the turn of phrase “more constructive with my time” was a dead give-away.
Luckily, at least in this case, Mondo’ determination outweighed his perception.)
Mondo is so distracted by his letters and his gang getting restless and studying for a cruel upcoming history test that he almost completely forgets Friday is Valentine’s Day. And that, just on top of everything, puts him in a fowl mood.
Makoto gets an absolute fuckload of chocolates. Way more than he can even carry. Some are crammed into his locker, but most are shoved into his arms, added onto occasionally by girls Mondo thinks must be in the reserve course. How the hell does Makoto even know them?
The look he gives Mondo is almost apologetic, like he knows Mondo didn’t get anything for Valentine’s Day. This year or any year.
“There’s one like ‘em in every class,” Leon says, although Mondo’s not sure if it’s meant to make him feel better or if Leon’s talking to himself. He got something from someone, but it’s obvious he’s still envious, grumbling about Hinata in the grade above getting chocolate from everyone in class except Pekoyama. But if Mondo looks at him and his cartoonishly heart-shaped box, lame though it is, he will punch something, and punching something will injure his hand and get himself written up and he’s been trying to work on reigning in his anger.
So he looks in the opposite direction in just the right time to lock eyes with Taka, who also seems pretty dumbfounded by the amount of crap Makoto had gotten.
It doesn’t escape his notice that his other classmate is empty-handed too.
“Some guys have all the luck,” Mondo mutters.
And he’s just trying to make conversation, though he doesn’t know why, because Taka has absolutely no concept of social skills and does some sort of weird shrug when he says “I never understood the point” and sticks his head back in his locker.
“Of what? Giving or receiving?”
“Either.” And yeah, he says that, but his neck is bright pink.
What a liar. “So, what, you’ve never gotten Valentine’s chocolates? Now there’s a shocker,” Leon says sarcastically.
Mondo thinks about belting him in the stomach.
“It would be inappropriate anyway,” Taka huffs back, but the upset color is just making its way to his face. “It distracts from the rest of the day. What is it even for?”
Leon opens his mouth but god, he can’t listen to any more of this. “It’s just nice to know someone thinks about you,” Mondo says, keeping his eyes resolutely on the floor.
He’s getting stares on both sides and he feels stupid for saying anything. Dammit. There’s value in never letting anyone see you weak, and this is where it is, because now it feels like there are hundreds of eyes on him and when he takes off it feels like he’s pushing the whole school out of his way to get down the damn hallway.
Whatever. He has a history test to get to.
Mondo receives an A on Friday’s history test, returned on Monday. His teacher is absolutely stunned, and he’s not the only one. From the front of the classroom, where he makes Mondo stand as he congratulates him (god, this is so fucking embarrassing, someone please kill him now), he can see a good half of his classmates are staring at him slack-jawed.
Letter twenty comes in the form of a post-it note stuck to his locker. In letters so neat and clear it’s almost creepy it says, “Congratulations! I’m proud of you!”
There’s not even a point in looking to see who writes like this, because no one does. It’s the kind of fancy handwriting people on pull out for special projects. It’d be easier to ask to see the sides of peoples’ hands to check for smudging, but it’s the end of the day when he gets the note.
He catches Makoto leaving and smirking as he goes. There’s no doubt in his mind that tiny bastard has figured out who Mondo’s secret admirer is.
Twenty-one: ‘Writing that last note by hand was risky, but I think it was worth it. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you blush. Is that the first time anyone has commended you on your work? There’s no need to be embarrassed! You deserved it.
I heard you didn’t get anything for Valentine’s. I am sorry. I should have gotten you something, and I wish that I could have. But if I did, how would I get it to you? I couldn’t very well just go up to you, hand it to you. Or, I could, if I was a braver person. Instead, I am just watching, and wishing I could ask if you would be mine.’
These letters are going to give him a god-damned panic attack. He hasn’t even figured out a way to write back to nineteen, and now this? The thought of this person watching him from afar, lonely like this – well, it should creep him out, but it doesn’t. Because he’s kinda felt like that before too. Like reaching right out was too overwhelming, but the feelings too urgent to just wait on a build up of confidence. Mondo doesn’t know if he’d ever say he’s brave. All he really is, is reckless.
So he’s just doing his thing, like he has been for a while now: getting out lined paper, coming up with a draft. It’s time that he says something back, no matter how bumbling it might come out.
‘Jesus shit Okay, sorry about how late this response is. I couldn’t keep my mind off of nineteen. And I just wanted to say…’
Say what? Say that he’s really not as brave as he makes out to be? That putting himself in this person’s shoes has made him feel vulnerable in ways he hadn’t thought of before? Almost uncomfortable?
Why don’t I just try being honest? He doesn’t know how he hasn’t had that epiphany before. It doesn’t have to be explicit (or, well, you know – you know the kind of explicit!) but it can at least be truthful to what he’s feeling.
‘I don’t think what you’re doing is exactly taking the coward’s way out. It’s just smart, y’know? You didn’t know how I was gonna react, hell I probably wouldn’t have said anything at all, let myself go to the grave with my feelings. And I wish I could tell you that I wish I could talk to you in person. Get to know ya, be your support, and you could be mine. ‘Cause there’s things I just can’t say in a letter everyone’s gonna read. And I know everyone’s gonna be reading this. Hell, if you can be kinda brave, I can be kinda brave too.’
Main topic of the morning, while Taka talks about god-knows-what at one of their monthly class gatherings, is who in this class is afraid enough to even send letters instead of just confessing to him in person.
Someone who isn’t Fukawa. He’s said that a lot, hasn’t he? She’s got her own shit going on. He doesn’t think he’s her type, anyway. Her set’s more prettyboys, which means if she ever stops fawning all over Togami that Makoto will be in trouble.
And it’s not Makoto. He’s fairly certain of that. So not Leon or Chihiro or Fukawa or Makoto and he only knows a handful of upperclassman, and absolutely no one from the reserve course. So who, exactly, of the students he knows who aren’t definitively off the list, is most likely to have sent him love letters in comparison of just telling him their feelings right off the bat?
Sakura was the first to come to mind. Which feels weird, because he’d think given her talent she’d be more interested in confrontation. But he’d been given to understand she could actually be quite sensitive. That didn’t explain away the rumor that she had a boyfriend already, or the kind of closeness she expresses with Hina. Sayaka’s almost a definite no. Given how peppy she is, there’s no way she’d choose love letters over just being honest about her feelings.
So who, then? Togami? That did resemble an odd but not unfathomable combination. A rich know-it-all and a juvenile delinquent. Stranger things had happened, and Togami was so ruled by his need to always feel or look like the most important and aloof person in the room had led him to a lot of altercations with other students. Mostly with the older students who did not know him as well or know when to ignore him. And really, that was all Togami’s fault anyway.
Who else, who else? God, it feels like he can’t remember half of his class. Kyouko, Ikusaba – Enoshima is completely out. And then there’s –
He almost turns around and slugs the person who taps his shoulder. Not out of aggression, but being caught unaware. The room is mostly empty now, and instead of making painful contact his fist is caught in Taka’s hand.
His first thought is, Damn, he’s stronger than he looks. And his second thought never comes, because he’s just gone blank.
Taka looks like he’s struggling with something, like he’s biting back on words. Probably trying to stop himself from scolding Mondo for his hit-first-ask-questions-later plan (not that it would be the first time). “The next class will be starting soon. You should get to it.”
Mondo has to bite back on his own words, too. Because he has half a mind to ask Taka why he even cares. That’s kind of a dumb question – it’s his job, that’s part of his title, Moral Committees Member o Hall Monitor or some shit like that. Something that wasn’t quite a talent as much as it was a goal he’d actively worked towards, and even if Mondo didn’t care about classes he could sure as hell respect that.
Not that it mattered.
“Yeah, thanks,” he grumbles, pulling his hand back.
And then Taka puts himself to work cleaning up all the crap people left behind. Mondo would, kinda, maybe, suggest that he could help, but feels all of a sudden like the guy’s just forgotten he’s even still in the room, and that just makes his stomach hurt.
It takes letter twenty-two a week and a half to reach him. And Mondo, for his part, has been losing his fucking shit. In fact he’s almost certain the letters have stopped, that his romancer has moved on to someone better. But there’s no real way to check that, or to ask if they meant to send something out, and he’s thisclose to going out on a limb and just posting a little page that asks ‘Are you still there?’ except that he doesn’t want to come across desperate.
…alright, okay, maybe he’s already crossed that desperate line. He might’ve been checking up and down the hallways to see if whoever his letter-sender is just dropped the letter, or if it had slipped out of his locker, nearly cleaning out the damn thing just to see if he’d missed something. He doesn’t care at that point that the rest of his class is in the locker room with him, giving him curious looks as he tosses papers on the floor next to him, flips through all his books and reorganizes the contents.
Behind him, Togami makes a snide comment about him looking for spare change. The only one who laughs is Fukawa, who will laugh at anything Togami has to say. And it sparks off Hina nearly losing her patience until Sakura steps between them and Taka escorts them all out.
All, except for Makoto, who kneels down in silence, helping him shuffle his things around. “Are you looking for something?” he asks, quiet enough so that only Mondo can hear him.
Mondo feels himself going red, and keeps telling himself that its stupid, to be so attached to something that doesn’t even have a name, a series of letters no one will admit to sending. He wants to snap at Makoto, assert himself as someone who simply doesn’t care, but he knows Makoto wouldn’t buy it and there’s no one else around to judge him. So he just nods, and knows Makoto can tell what he’s thinking.
“You know, don’t you?” he says. He’s been thinking it, but hasn’t been saying it, because he knows Makoto won’t tell him who it is. And Makoto does move slower, beet red, nodding. “I know you ain’t gonna snitch, but it’s – it’s not a joke, right?”
Why’s he gotta look at him like that? Like, sad and shit? “No. It’s not a joke,” he says, and he hands Mondo’s papers back to him and then looks between him and the door a half a dozen times before Mondo decides he can’t keep looking at him and just goes back to the same manic rustling he’s been doing for almost twenty minutes now.
Twenty-two: ‘My apologies. I kept attempting to just…talk to you. And every time I tried, I failed. I thought about stopping the letters entirely until I could think of something worthwhile to say. But someone said that you were upset by my absence, and I don’t think I could stand to be the source of your pain.
So here I am again. For whatever you need.’
It rules out Ishimaru. He has no clue how to carry on a normal conversation, but it’s never stopped him from talking.
Having a shorter list shouldn’t bother Mondo as much as it does.
Twenty-three: ‘I keep thinking about it. I keep practicing. I should stop isolating myself one day. Even if I never tell you that it’s me, I should at least make some kind of effort to know you in real life.
But nothing ever seems good enough.’
Mondo writes a reply back in handwriting so messy even he can barely read it. ‘I know I can be kinda intimidating, but I promise I’m not.’ Was that even true? ‘I can be easy to talk to, when you get to know me. It’s just that hardly anyone makes the effort.’
The last sentence is bitter enough that he shreds the paper under his pen.
If people are giving him guilty looks for the rest of the day, he pretends not to notice.
On March 7th, Hiro claps him on the back and says, “Thirty-one.” Then he gives Mondo a thumbs up, and walks away.
Hiro doesn’t really know anything. Anything, anything. At all. Ever. He’s doing worse in his classes than Leon and worse even than Mondo had been doing at the start of the year, when he barely showed up to classes at all. His predictions have a less than fifty percent accuracy rating. The idea that he’s the one sending the letters is outright laughable, and yet –
Thirty-one. It’s – whaddaya callit – kismet? That twenty-four is dropped in his locker on the same day. ‘I can’t imagine that,’ they say. ‘Who wouldn’t want to know you better?’
“You, apparently,” Mondo says to himself.
And on March 9th, they read his mind. Twenty-five says, ‘I know that must sound very hypocritical. If I like you so much, why don’t I just ask? Why don’t I just befriend you in a normal way?
You’d know. I’d say one thing, and you’d know. I can’t even give you a proper explanation without you knowing right away who I am. And all the things that might fall apart if I’m not careful in my execution.
But I need you to know that I think about it. I think about it all the time. About what it might be like, if we were friends, even if that’s all it ever was. How much happier I would be.
I guess you could say that’s the goal that I’m working towards, slowly.’
Ikusaba, Enoshima, Yamada, Fukawa, Togami, Kirigiri. Those are the people he flat-out does not consider friends in any capacity including general friendliness, as illustrated by his continued use of their last name. And then there’s Celes, who he does not call by last name, but who he’s also not exactly on friendly terms with and who he’s pretty sure is not the writer.
And he can’t narrow it down by a list of Makoto’s friends, because Makoto is friends with everyone, even Ikusaba, who is arguably the most reclusive member of their class. She seems most likely at this point in time, and she is pretty cute, but he can’t exactly say he’s interested. She’s not his type, although he’s not sure he can really pinpoint anymore who is.
(Or he could, but he really doesn’t want to.)
Twenty-six must come in while he’s in the goddamn room. Whoever it is, they’re a crafty bastard, because he grabs his shit and he leaves and he tries to go back in because he forgot his math workbook and it’s just there. And the only people in the room when he comes back in are Komaeda from the year above and a distressed Kirigiri, who appears to be questioning him.
He opens his mouth to ask if she needs help, and she snaps at him to get out before he can even offer.
Although since a smoke bomb goes off in the room about five minutes later, it’s probably less of Kirigiri being bitchy and more for his own good. It kinda makes him wonder if ‘spy’ is a viable talent, or maybe something less fantastical like ‘detective’.
He’s gotten used to it now, just waiting to read his letters until he’s back in his room, in part because he’s tired of having to share the potential fallout of his feelings with the rest of the class and in part because there’s too much of a possibility of a teacher confiscating whatever’s distracting him. Which is a whole new breed of asshole, because not even Taka does that.
‘I had a dream that made no sense, and I don’t know why I’m telling you, when there’s nothing you can do about it. It was just a nightmare, something that I know could never happen, but the world was falling into chaos and the building was crumbling around us, blocking off the exits and keeping us trapped inside.
And then one by one, everyone started to lose their memories.
It was so different from how things were now. It must have been, because you kept coming at me with urgency, asking me who I was and why you couldn’t remember me. And I couldn’t answer. All I could do was cry.
I woke up crying, too.
I don’t really know where I was planning on going with this.’
Mondo doesn’t really know what to say back to it. He writes, ‘Damn, that sucks’ on a piece of paper and pins it to the bulletin board.
Leon sees it, and he snorts. He catches Mondo’s eye and shakes his head. “Ishimaru’s gonna take that down for foul language, dude,” he says.
It is gone within the next day, but he doesn’t see who took it.
Twenty-seventh: ‘I know that as I am writing this, I will be giving it to you on White Day. Another holiday it would be so nice to participate in, with you. I have watched the rest of my class prepare, listened to them discuss what they will be doing, and been asked a few times if I will be doing anything special myself.
There are two people who know I am your secret admirer. They both urged me to use today to confess, but I am stubborn. I have a plan, and I am sticking to it.
Things are starting to wind down. So of course it’s now that I think, there are probably things I can tell you about myself that would not make my identity so obvious, but that would offer something to you nonetheless.
First, I have never owned a pet before. I have always thought it would be nice to have a dog, but I’ve never been sure where to start and my parents weren’t interested in having one. My father did say once that he might be willing to get a cat, but it’s not the same.
Second, I have a preferred type of pen. I know something like that shouldn’t matter and I’m perfectly willing to work with whatever I can get! But it seems like so many brands of pen run out of ink just when you need them to work the most. It’s small, but it’s irritating.
Third, I know several types of formal dances. I’ve never had occasion to try any of them out, but I can do them adequately, as a lead or a partner. Sometimes, when I practice in my room, I pretend I’m dancing with you.’
He doesn’t get what they mean by ‘things are winding down.’ It’s only March, they have plenty of time left before summer holiday starts. Unless, of course, Hiro’s prediction of “Thirty-one” was not just a garbled mess but an actual honest-to-god tip on something.
Does that mean Mondo only has until the end of March to figure out who’s sending him this stuff? That isn’t a lot of time to work with. He should narrow it down fast. Will Kirigiri kill him if he asks her to use her talent on his date search?
Speaking of, he almost barrels her over on his way to his locker. It’s not like her to be obstructive – if anything they usually have a hard time getting a hold of her. She even manages to disappear during meeting times that were supposed to be mandatory for the whole class, irritating the hell out of Taka. And now here she is, just loitering around the locker room and making Mondo almost trip.
And from there it just gets weirder. He tries side-stepping her, but she keeps getting in his way. She tries to play it off like an accident, but there’s almost so much of this “accident” bullshit he can take before he starts getting mad. She even manages to get him turned around before he drops his bag to the ground. He’s getting himself up to tell her off, but she’s sashaying down the hallway like the whole goddamn thing never happened.
What the fuck.
He picks his bag up again and loops it over his shoulder, growling a little under his breath as he stomps up to his locker to grab his shit. And there twenty-eight is, creases sharp where it’s folded to look like a diamond. ‘It’s a shape to represent the strength of your character, your luster, the bonds that you form.’
At the bottom of the page, it continues, ‘And, of course, the strength of my feelings for you.’
Oh, god, it’s been a while since he’s gotten one of the sappier letters, and it’s hard to do anything but blush ridiculously at it. He wishes he knew origami; now that he’s got the paper all undone, he doesn’t know how to get it back in right order again.
And that’s…overwhelming. Overwhelmingly upsetting. Someone worked hard on getting this into the perfect shape and he’s screwed it up, so he stands there staring at the thing with his hands trembling – or he guesses he’s walking down the hall like that because he almost runs into yet another person and tears the bottom of the note. And that almost kinda tears him.
“Oowada, are you alright?”
Taka. What the hell’s he doing in the hallway? Hasn’t class already started? Mondo looks up at him and when they match eyes like that, man, he thinks there’s things going on that he hasn’t even seen. And even though he’s never actually really thought about it before, he thinks maybe he finds Taka kind of attractive.
Wild. Now that he’s thought it he can’t un-think it.
He doesn’t know why he’s letting Taka handle this letter, but he’s being gentle with it, chewing on his lip. “If you need to keep this, I have tape,” he mutters.
Well, he doesn’t really need to keep it, but he wants to, and he nods instead of saying yes because there’s too much going on in his head for any words that come out of his mouth to sound real. Taka moves back over to his own locker and pulls out a small dispense of tape, closing the door with the toe of his boot as he applies it smoothly.
Mondo wishes he could do anything with that much delicacy. “I was just tryn’a fold it back up.” He doesn’t mention that his hands were shaking. Taka better not mention it either.
Right now he’s inspecting the lines, looking like he’s moved from his lip to his cheek now. “What shape was it in before?”
Mondo can feel his heart beating at the top of his throat, vibrating his mouth. “A diamond.” Taka nods, and starts to fold it up again, looking closely at the lines already bent from before, moving it back into a diamond shape. Mondo watches his fingers as they move across the creases, feeling uncomfortable. Because this is, like, some kind of weird three-way unintentional feelings shitshow going on, between whoever’s sending the letters symbolically watching Mondo develop feelings for someone else.
Not that Taka notices, or that anyone else would, and before he can say anything Mondo cuts off his air supply huffing out “Yeah, yeah, I should get to class. Thanks, man.” He walks away, and either feels or thinks he feels Taka watching him.
Twenty-nine comes two days later. It’s either the best time for it to come, or the worst. It’s a poem, and Mondo can see that from the formatting, but he doesn’t get a chance to actually check the contents because Leon and Chihiro are sucking face against a locker and he can’t just unsee a thing like that.
They’re too wrapped up in each other to notice Mondo, and his anger and his bitterness tell him to slam his fist down on a locker and make them notice, make them jump up and feel embarrassed and explain to him that this is why they’ve both been avoiding spending time with him recently. But there is a mature part of his brain, surprisingly, and it’s telling him to just let them be. They’re not hurting anyone, even if the display is kinda gross and almost certainly against school rules.
Where’s that fuckin’ hall monitor when you need him?
He opts to leave without being noticed, though he’s not exactly quiet either. He can’t help it if he stomps around.
He reads twenty-nine sitting up on a brick wall just outside the school, where he and Leon used to smoke before smoking became to expensive and too much of a hassle and Chihiro mentioned offhand that they didn’t like the smell of it. And then, it just kinda sucked to smoke alone.
‘A fire burns bright
In a hall of dark corners
You, lighting my heart’
Yeah, right. God, damn. At least he didn’t have long to wait before they told him who they were, right? 31st of March. He could probably hold out until then.
Oh, wait, but there’s more:
‘This was the only other semi-decent poem I managed to write. It was a lot harder than I expected! I guess if nothing else, I’ll be prepared for next year’s poetry unit.’
Well, whoever they are, they seem like a nerd, and he guesses that’s just his type now. And he could do worse than Ikusaba or Kirigiri, but now he doesn’t really know what to say. He just doesn’t really want to date girls –
Woah. What? He doesn’t…want to date girls?
He folds the letter up and just…stares. Out into the distance. At nothing in particular.
He’d spent most of the past three months assuming that a guy was writing the letters, and didn’t actually analyze why he thought or assumed or truth-be-told hoped it was a guy sending him love letters. Because that didn’t really make any sense, right, that a guy would do that? He didn’t think there was a single guy in their class who was shy enough to revert to that, and the sender had never specified that they were a guy, so why had he just jumped to that conclusion? Why had he even entertained the idea that it was Togami or Makoto or Taka or Leon?
It’s a kind of a late discovery to come to. And he could read back through his letters again, all folded in his desk drawer, and see if there was any kind of indication one way or the other, but now he feels…
Stupid. You know what they say about assuming. God damn. He’s been an idiot. And now he’s not looking forward to March 31st at all because whenever his secret admirer turns up he’s gonna have to turn her down and explain that he’d only been interested because he was a fucking moron. And maybe on the more-interested-in-guys line of bi.
He wasn’t even out yet.
“You’re in here late.” Mondo thinks he’s starting to get used to Taka’s speech patterns. It sounded like a criticism, and he could easily shoot back so are you, but he thinks this is just his version of a conversation starter. Ideally, in his head, this is where Mondo tells him what he’s up to.
Kinda makes Mondo wonder what the guy’s parents are like. “Yeah, I’m still working on that damn graphing assignment.” He looks up, trying to indicate through facial expression that I’s Taka’s turn now to tell him what he’s doing in the computer lab at 11:32PM on a Sunday.
He doesn’t take the hint. One day, they should all just – show him. Like sit him down and teach him how to have a conversation normally. There’s nothing wrong with what he says next, he just never stops being in student mode for like five goddamn minutes and he stands up straighter like he’s excited and says “Oh, do you need help with that?”
God. He wants to say yes. He really fucking wants to say yes and have Taka sit down next to him because he wants that kind of proximity but also because he is way beyond lost at this point and Taka is nothing if not a thorough tutor.
…but he did kinda promise Chihiro that work on this one alone. They were convinced by now that their direction meant he wasn’t actually learning anything. “Nah. Thanks, though. Gotta figure this shit out on my own one day, don’t I?”
He wonders if Taka’s going to argue the point with him, and in a really weird way he hopes that he does, so he can get this assignment over with and spend time with him. But he nods curtly instead and points to a computer a few rows down. “I will be – there – if you need anything!”
“Yeah, okay. Same.” As if the honor student would need any of his help on an assignment.
So he goes back to whatever the fuck this is, the computer graph jumping around the page frustratingly as it gives him every result except the one he actually needs. It’s getting close to midnight and he’s getting antsy and he’s thought it through, he really has, and still can’t work out what he’s doing wrong. He really should just ask Taka for help – he’s been in here with him almost half an hour and if Chi’s really gonna be picky he knows Taka will vouch for him here, but –
He looks. Huh. Relaxed, almost. He’s not quite glaring at the screen he’s working on. He’s lost in thought, but it’s more than that. He wonders what it is he’s studying that he looks so…infatuated.
Mondo feels guilty for staring. And he’d feel worse if he interrupted Taka now to ask for help.
It’s getting late. He might as well give up.
It’s when he goes to shove his math textbook back in his locker that he finds letter thirty. Which means pretty definitively that it’s not Taka, who’s been in the same room as him for the past half hour, and why is he still stuck on that possibility, of course it isn’t, he isn’t interested in romance and he has no issues starting awkward as hell conversations and he’d already determined that the letter-writer is probably a girl. Probably Ikusaba. And she’s cool and all but –
‘- getting more and more scared as I come up on my last letter. I haven’t been able to think of a good way to phase out. But I know that if I procrastinate on this, I’ll never finish. And you said that you thought I was brave. But it’s so hard to think of a way to prove that to myself, to say that you were right. Because you must be right – no one knows more about it than you.
…I used to think of you as a coward. That you hid behind violence and tough talk to cover up some inadequacies. But then the first time I heard you argue in class, I was…stunned. I wouldn’t have expected you to be so passionate, to share yourself so openly. And I thought that was admirable, but I couldn’t get the words out. I just sat there, day after day, trying to think of what I could say to get your attention, never actually understanding why it was I couldn’t just make myself talk.
And I realized, that I am the one who was scared. I am the one who is hiding.
And I’m doing it, even now.’
Mondo wants to scream.
He has to wait a week for thirty-one.
Thirty-one comes on the thirtieth. So Hiro was right, in an odd way, but Mondo doesn’t tell him because he knows that asshole will want money. He doesn’t know if the stoner even knows what the number was in reference to, but he could argue with a brick wall and Mondo isn’t about to bring it up.
He's having a hard enough time even unfolding it. Thirty had said that they she was coming up on their her last letter, and so this was probably it.
‘Mondo,’ Ohgodohjesusohfuck. ‘This is the last letter I will send to you.’ Yeah. Okay. This is happening. ‘I hope it’s not the last time we talk.’ Please. ‘This has been the letter I have been dreading writing the most. I have written my name down several times, and erased it letter by letter. I kept saying to myself, “I should at least sign it,” and then backing down. I told you in thirty that I was a coward, and that I didn’t want to be.
But I do have a confession to make. And it will probably tell you everything you need to know.
I am a boy. And that’s why I haven’t just told you who I am.’
Oh. Oh my god.
‘I know that it’s…not bad, to be gay. That I shouldn’t assume you would react poorly. But I am surrounded by people that I know will, even if you don’t. And I have been scared. What if you reject me? There is no way for me to be subtle, for no one else to know. Everyone will find out and everything will change for me.
I’m sorry, but I don’t think…that I can ever tell you that it’s me. But I have left a clue, and if you find out, you find out.
I will let you decide from there.’
A clue. They have she has He has left a clue.
So then…what the fuck was it?
Mondo’s never really had patience for puzzles. They skyrocket his anxiety and he just feels worthless when he can’t figure them out at the same speed as everyone else. He looks back through the letters, reads them all in sequence, tries to determine which of the boys in their class that isn’t Leon – or oh, no, wait, what if they’ve just been lying? What if they’ve been masking their behavior better than he’d thought they were?
This is impossible. This is impossible and he is impatient.
It only takes him a week of trying to work it out – diligently, he has been trying, goddamit, and he will not give up on it – before he decides it’s time for him to take action.
Not, like, harassing people action, but leaving another note kind of action. Putting himself out there kind of action. If his would-be-potential-boyfriend thinks he’s brave, the should show up to that.
‘Hey. I know that you’re scared. So I’m gonna go right out there and say it. You were willing to trust me with something like that, and I wanna say I’m not gonna judge you. So I’m gonna put it out here where anyone can see it.
I’m bi. And I ain’t gonna take any shit from anyone, I don’t care who it is. If people don’t like it, they can get bent.
And I wanna know who you are. Even if it don’t work out the way you want, I wanna know you. I wanna at least give you that.’
It’s not the best letter he’s ever written. It’s not romantic.
But it is a start.
After a week, there is still nothing. So he posts another note. ‘At least give me another hint. I ain’t good at this kinda thing.’
Another week goes by. Nothing. Neither one of his letters has been moved.
He writes, ‘I still reread your letters every day.’
And he does.
Mondo is ready to give up. He’s not sleeping well, because he’s just going over ever letter again and again, trying to visualize each of his classmates in turn writing them. But it’s hard, when he doesn’t want to get his hopes up about one person or the other.
He’s still got a piece of paper with chicken scratch, drafting out what to say next.
It’s been three weeks, to the day, since he has gotten his final letter. He’s stopped expecting to find notes in his locker.
But today, he finds something on his locker. Taped to the door of it. A gold button, like one from a gakuran.
It’s hard not to demand everyone show him their jackets. He knows what the fuck this means, who this came from, and it’s the only thing he’s going to think about all day.
Except for that fucking science test.
Their teacher takes it upon himself to come and get them all himself and Mondo has been so goddamn distracted for the past three weeks that he’s totally forgotten they had a test. Which is the worst possible timing, for everything.
He’s so gonna fail this thing. His vision is blurry and his eyes can’t focus and he is so, so goddamn screwed. He keeps looking everywhere except at his paper and he can’t even make it past writing his name on his paper before his pencil snaps under his hand, holding it too tight.
Jesus.
He turns to his neighbor, tapping on the desk softly to get Taka’s attention, hissing, “Hey, man, you got a pencil I can borrow? Mine just sn-“
And there it is, or there it isn’t. In front of his face, where it should be. It’s missing. The second button down on his jacket, otherwise perfectly ordered, a straight line of gold buttons with one blank space.
Taka is putting a pen in his hand (a nice pen a very specific brand, one that doesn’t smudge or crap out in the middle of writing holy shit) and his face is bright red and Mondo can’t look away from his chest and the missing button.
“Fuck.”
“Eyes on your own paper, Oowada,” the teacher calls.
Mondo does kinda snap to attention at that, has a hard time not just snapping in general (like his pencil, like his temper, like his fragile hold on breathing in and out calmly), but Taka’s already gone back to his test even if his face is still redder than his eyes and Mondo can’t stop looking at him.
Of all the ways he expected this final confrontation to go, he did not consider “finishing a science test early so I can chase him down steps of the school like the last scene in Cinderella.”
For someone who puts an emphasis on not running, Kiyotaka Ishimaru is ridiculously fast.
Mondo wants to shout, just as a general assessment of the whole situation. In fact, he thinks he will.
“HEY, SLOW DOWN!”
Force of habit, Taka stops and whips around and snaps, “No yelling!”
All according to keikaku. Gives him just enough time to catch up and grab him around the arm.
Taka’s not weak, but Mondo has a couple inches on him and doesn’t struggle too much getting him to a shaded corner where no one is staring at them and those who had been have given up interest.
He should be saying something like, “Let go of me,” but his teeth are digging into his bottom lip and it’s like, really cute.
Neither one of them says anything for a couple minutes, just staring at each other.
And then it pops into Mondo’s head. “Thirty one,” he says. “’S your birthday, right?”
“Eight.” Taka says. “Eight, thirty-one.” He breaks eye contact and stares at the ground. “August thirty-first. No one every remembers it.”
“Shit.”
“Language.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Make me.”
Taka seems to realize too late that saying that, no matter why, is an invitation, and makes a stupid adorable squeaking noise when Mondo does just that, slamming him against the wall to press their lips together.
He didn’t even close his eyes. What a goddamn nerd. And his lips are still kind of pursed and his face is still bright red and he’s stuttering something that might be “what” or “why”.
“I was hopin’ it was you,” Mondo says.
“Oh.”
“And then I felt kinda dumb, just assuming it was a guy.”
“Oh.”
“And I just got kinda disappointed when it seemed like you weren’t even an option.”
“Oh.”
“And that was – smooth as hell. Damn.”
“Oh.”
He isn’t sure if he should laugh or be pissed. “You gonna say anything else?”
“Uh- Ah! Hm.” Mondo watches him smile and thinks about biting his neck. He’s got his hands on Taka’s waist and god that feels so good. “I thought you – didn’t like me very much. So even when I tried talking to you, I never really knew what to say. Hrmm…”
He takes a deep breath, and finally looks back up at Mondo, face still flushed, looking like he’s gonna cry. “I don’t even know what it is you would like about me.”
“Oh, y’know.” Mondo says, leaning in so close that their lips are almost touching. “’Cause yer brave.”
“Oh.”
“And passionate.”
“Oh.”
“And you made me think about things in ways I hadn’t before.”
“Oh.”
He laughs. Taka’s breath hitches against his chest. His eyes flutter shut. “I’m gonna shut you up now.”
“Okay.”
And he does.