Perhaps because of the shrine surrounded by nature nearby, the outside is enveloped in the clamor of cicadas’ cries and the voices of children on summer break.
Meanwhile, the only sounds echoing inside the room are those of a flute and bells.
From the boy dancing vigorously, hardly any extraneous noises like footsteps or the rustle of clothes can be heard.
Each movement is imbued with grace and allure, with attention paid even to the sway of his hair flowing from his fingertips.
As the flute’s sound ceases, the boy concludes his dance with smooth motions.
I let out a slow breath and picked up the plastic bottle at my feet.
The room is so well air-conditioned that I feel a slight chill when I’m not doing anything.
While moistening my lips with room-temperature tea, I gazed at a boy reflected in the wall’s continuous mirrors.
“So hot…”
His underwear, soaked to the point of changing color, is roughly stripped off, and the contrast with the beautiful dance from moments ago makes my heart race with a jolt.
“…I’m practically cold.”
“That’s what you get for sitting right under the air conditioner.”
Muttering this, he swept back his sweat-dripping bangs and turned to face me.
When his lifeless eyes, set in a face with an ennui-laden air, meet mine, I can’t help but be captivated.
His slender frame is by no means large, with narrow shoulders and a thin chest. His waist is particularly slim, and the curves around his hips could be called feminine.
Though I know he must maintain this “feminine figure” due to the costumes he wears, I can’t help but wonder where in that body he stores such stamina.
When we were younger, he told me himself that it’s “pretty much the same as how female gymnasts are thin and light but move so well.”
But performing for over two hours with an energy level comparable to a three-minute gymnastics routine makes that explanation seem inadequate.
He doesn’t do strength training, but around this time of year, he always slims down, and touching him reveals a body far more muscular than it appears.
Despite such athletic ability, he’s neither particularly fast nor excels at sports, which is quite peculiar.
Staring endlessly at his beautiful physique isn’t a bad feeling, but I’m here to support him.
I drape a large towel over his shoulders and pour the homemade sports drink I prepared at home into a glass from a thermos, handing it to him.
“Hey, Himura, want a peach?”
The thought suddenly striking me, I ask, and he freezes mid-motion with the glass in hand.
“…A peach? Wait, you brought some?”
“My mom said to share a box with the Himura family.”
“…A whole box as a ‘share’ isn’t something you hear often.”
“She said Grandma sent them from her hometown.”
“Huh, really? Well, maybe I’ll cut one…”
“Got it.”
I take a good peach from the box left by the entrance and deftly peel it.
Since I also brought some honey-lemon preserves, a staple for club activities, I plate those in the kitchen as well.
“Mmm, delicious… what’s this, plum?”
Wiping sweat and coming to the kitchen, Himura asks while looking at the sports drink I handed him.
“I made the sports drink with plum vinegar.”
“What, does Hino Hana’s family make pickled plums or something?”
“My dad makes them every year. Along with plum wine.”
“Oh, right, your family comes from a line of chefs…”
My grandparents were chefs too, but now they grow fields and orchards, sending us literally “enough vegetables and fruits to rot” every month.
It’s the classic doting-grandparent thing, but it seems they love my sister, who aims to be a chef, more than me.
Suddenly, as I’m cutting, Himura reaches over and pops a slice of peach into his mouth.
“Mmm.”
“!?”
Coming close so suddenly, I strongly sense Himura’s unique body odor mixed with sweat.
But there’s no discomfort—rather, it stirs a dizzying allure, and I have to suppress the urge to glare at him.
This guy’s obliviousness, showing me sides of himself he doesn’t reveal to anyone else, is truly exasperating.
I’m even more fed up with myself for not being able to confess my feelings, but still, he could at least notice a little.
I say I’m just here to help with practice, but before I knew it, I was fussing over him like a caretaker.
When did “practice” become an excuse to see him?
Himura peers into my face and tilts his head slightly.
The person I like, without any particular intention, is standing so close our noses could touch, half-naked in this situation.
Even though I’m panicking inside, he seems perfectly calm.
“Don’t come near when I’m using a knife; it’s dangerous.”
“…Never thought I’d hear something so sensible from you.”
“What do you take me for, Himura…”
Honestly, this boy is hopeless.
And so am I, for falling for him…
“Really, you’re hopeless.”
I take a freshly cut peach slice and bite into it.
Juicy and fragrant, its strong sweetness and faint acidity fill my mouth.
☆Afterword──────────────────
※At the end of Chapter 1, after Episode 24, I included a character list. I’d appreciate it if comments on that are limited to typo or omission reports.
This time, for the 100,000-character milestone, it’s an episode featuring first-years Toki and Aoi.
(Truth is, due to the character list, I almost couldn’t post Episode 28 on time, so I rewrote a scrapped heroine-perspective scene as a past episode…)
It has no particular relevance to the main story (this is very important).
