Chapter Text
An innocent email throws uncharted amounts of Kaoru’s life into chaos.
To Sakurayashiki Kaoru, it begins, deceivingly normal.
Hiya! Name’s Umemiya Hajime, and my buddy says that you're the best of the best in the art and calligraphy world. It's an unconventional school, but Furin High is my home and we've been through the wringer recently.
I'll spare you the sob story, Sakurayashiki-sensei, and get down to business. I’m a third year, the leader of Bofurin, and my team does all of the administrative work for the school. We don't exactly have teachers, but I'd like you to come and give some laid-back classes to let everyone let their creative side free as a treat for their hard work!! ^.^ All compensated accordingly, of course, but I'll direct you to my right hand for those boring conversations—speaking of, if he asks, these are all handwriting lessons, kay? :D
Bye-bye,
Umemiya Hajime
Kaoru stares blankly at the wall of text and emoticons. Who the fuck uses “bye-bye” as an email sign off? He looks up the high school and is met with an overgrown and graffiti-covered mess of a building. Looking further, the surrounding area is actually quite pretty, and reviews are stellar.
Never let it be said that Sakurayashiki Kaoru isn't curious to a fault.
Good evening, he pecks out, because it's dark outside by the time he's done researching this odd little town. Every result made him more and more confused, but he has a direct contact to someone who could hold answers.
You'll have to come to my studio to schedule what would likely be a multi-week commitment, and to talk through all of those “boring conversations” as you call them.
I expect to be treated as a professional, and not a substitute teacher to be bullied. If your school is uncouth or disrespectful to me, I will reserve the full right to depart that very second.
Regards,
Sakurayashiki Kaoru
Honestly, the likelihood this whole thing is a prank or scam is not lost on him. Still, it is better to be safe than sorry.
And the town looks fun to skate around in. But who's asking about that? Certainly not composed Sakurayashiki.
The correspondence does continue, to his surprise, over the next several days. He is sent enough verified information and paperwork that he becomes rather certain it's not a scam.
Still, it's better to have gorillas around for these kinds of meetings, just in case things go south. He shows up to Sia la Luce—where the rowdy group of teens has agreed to meet him—thirty minutes early, bickers with Kojiro when he can spare a moment between bussing tables, and watches the door like a hawk.
The clock hits three, and he frowns. He has half an idea to leave if they won't be punctual, but Kojiro would make fun of him and call him a stick in the mud…ugh, and his food isn't out yet. Damn.
The bell chimes as he deliberates.
“Yo, I'm Umemiya!” calls the first, a boy with striking white hair and stern features. He's got a breezy smile on, but there's presence in his stance that you can't fake. Kaoru stands and shakes his hand.
“It's a pleasure to meet you and to reassure myself that this is not a drawn out attempt to steal my social security number or other such malicious plots.”
He hears a distinct cackle from the kitchen.
The next strides forwards to meet him, and Jesus he's tall. “Omigosh, your hair is absolutely gorgeous! Call me Tsubaki, please, and I'm super happy to meet you! Ume's always got the best ideas, so I'm excited to work with you!”
“Bright…” he mumbles to himself, reminded of a giant dog who believes itself to fit in a lap.
Mizuki introduces himself plainly, with no nonsense and a curt bow.
Hiragi speaks casually, but groans in the manner of a long-suffering man as Umemiya bounces around and Tsubaki enables him. He thumps into his seat like it's the first time he's sat down in fifty years. Quite honestly, Kaoru relates.
The last member of Umemiya's crew shifts from side to side, avoiding eye contact. Probably? The hood makes it hard to tell where he's looking.
“Momose, c'mon! You mentioned Sakurayashiki-sensei in the first place, say hey!” Umemiya says, fists balled up by his face.
Finally, the fabric of the hood points at him. “I'm Momose, and um, ah…I'm a huge fan! I love your art, I’m an artist myself and I work with spray paint and that giant calligraphy piece was so inspired and—” The shyness bursts like a bubble, leaving an animated figure in front of Kaoru.
“It's great to meet another artist, then, and thank you for the recommendation to Umemiya. You'll have to show me some of your work, later,” he says, composed as ever, and settles at last at the table with them all. The hefty swig of his drink after is unrelated to how much energy there suddenly is in the room.
Kojiro materializes, service smile on, and “accidentally” elbows Kaoru in the back of the head as he takes drink orders. Bastard. He keeps a perfectly serene expression as he feigns dropping a pen to untie Kojiro's shoe.
Kaoru is very grateful that S is planned for tonight. It's the closest he can legally get to beating the shit out of Kojiro. It's also the closest he gets to him, period, but those are thoughts not conducive to productivity.
“So, you wish to commission me? It's a unique circumstance, certainly. Tell me more about your Furin.”
Umemiya smiles even wider, somehow. It's clearly a point of pride. “Course! As you may have heard, Furin used to be dog-eat-dog, with the strongest fighting for the top spot. Me and my guys grouped up, though, and united the school under the name Bofurin! now we protect the town, and act as Makochi’s wind breaker.”
Kaoru nods, very seriously, and tries not to burst out in the kind of questions he was once pestered with.
Such being: where are these children's parents? Why do they have no teachers? Staff? Who let this town fall to such ruin? No seriously, do these teens have guardians?
He reminds himself what it felt like to be a teenage rebel, and regards Umemiya's free speech as a sign of trust. Hovering would only make him into another condescending adult.
“You must be quite the leader, to get an entire school to follow you.”
“Ume's the best!” Tsubaki is quick to cut in. And he thought Reki was obvious about his feelings. Wow.
Hiragi steps into the leading role once they begin to talk business and numbers. Umemiya is busy befriending Kojiro; two rays of incredibly strong sunshine, great. It doesn't seem like he'd be all that helpful in the discussion, anyways.
Kaoru walks out of Sia la Luce with a full stomach, an official contract, and a month’s worth of scheduling to clear. He collapses for several hours when he gets home, only waking up to the alarm he sets for S. It takes him at least half an hour to prepare his appearance, of course.
He calls out orders to Carla as he dresses in each layer, dictating emails and rescheduling clients and throwing his schedule in complete disarray for the sake of a handful of highschoolers.
Hm. Where has he heard that one before?
One night of thoroughly beating Kojiro later, he feels much more relaxed. They're both busy adults, and he may not get to race him again before he has to leave for Makochi. Not that he'd miss the seaweed loser.
Less than three days later, he's packing up the bare essentials in a compact duffel bag and waving sarcastic goodbyes to Kojiro. He chose not to inform the younger boys lest he deal with tagalongs.
Kaoru thinks nothing of riding his bike to make the drive, but being surrounded by very intimidating schoolboys the second he crosses into town makes him think he should've just stolen Shadow’s van.
“Who the hell d'ya think you are, rollin’ up like that? You tryin’ to start fights?” one barks, glaring at him with mismatched eyes and split hair. Kaoru would reach for his stun gun, but the jackets match the deep green of Umemiya's own.
“Thanks for telling your underclassmen I was coming, Umemiya,” he grumbles under his breath, muted by his helmet. He pulls it off, sets it on the floor, and lifts his hands in the air, one leg kicked out to steady his motorcycle. “My name is Sakurayashiki Kaoru, and Umemiya Hajime requested I come here. Do you greet every newcomer with such warmth?”
They at least look abashed at that, but don't relax.
“Here,” he says, pressing a button on his bike and dialing the boy’s number. Carla is wonderful, and he is a genius for installing her on his bike. The click of the speakerphone button is as sassy as one man can make it.
“Sakurayashiki-sensei! Are you here yet? Say hi if you run into my first years, they're real spitfires!” Umemiya's voice is unmistakable.
“I picked up on that much,” he replies dryly. “Would you care to reign in your strays? This duffel bag is heavy, to be quite frank.”
Umemiya's voice is loud and tinny as it comes out of the speakers. “Sakura, Sugishita, everyone, you better treat him well! He's a guest.”
“Oi, why'd you single us out?” shouts one.
“Um, Sakura, you were the one who yelled at him.”
Kaoru decides he likes the yellow one. He seems to hold the lone brain cell.
“Right, I'm glad we've sorted this out. Where are you, though?” he asks, pointedly ignoring the curious stares of the kids in front of him.
Booming laughter intersperses Umemiya's story. One of his tomato plants fell off their trellis, you see, and he had to get another one, but he didn't want to leave it alone so he had to wait for Hiragi, but—
Kaoru hangs up when it becomes clear the boy is going nowhere.
“Honestly, I'm exhausted. It's lovely to meet you all now that you aren't seconds from punching my teeth in, but could I get directions? I've rented a temporary apartment and need to get settled.”
Thankfully, they agree. He barely pays attention as they lead him down the peaceful streets. He focuses only on walking his motorcycle and himself in a straight line.
“Oh Sakura, this is near your place, right?”
Shit, which one was Sakura? That'll be confusing later, but right now he doesn't even know which is which. One of them introduced himself as Jack Black, for fuck’s sake.
Except Nirei. Nirei is a godsend and seems to be the only one who both understands that he is wiped and is not bothering him. Most of the gaggle don't notice, but he swears the alleged celebrity knows and is doing it all on purpose.
The motions between him being on the street and him being in bed are honestly blurry. He's more focused on passing the fuck out than wondering how he squared away his bike.
—
Stepping into the 1-1 classroom the next day greets Kaoru with a wall of noise.
“Ahem,” he clears his throat in what Miya dubbed the Mom Voice, and stares down the classroom. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sakurayashiki Kaoru, a calligrapher and artist. Hiragi hired me to improve Furin's handwriting.” He hears rampant groans break out, and grins to himself. “Umemiya, however, hired me to let you all have fun with art and creation for your bravery and hard work at protecting the town. I will hand out the occasional worksheet on neatness in handwriting, but I am not a teacher and do not wish to spend my free time grading. Interpret this as you will.”
The complaints die down, and he knows he has their attention. His sharp voice softens at the edges. “I truly love the act of creating art. It is an escape from stress for me, and if you'll allow me to, then I would like to share it with you. I won't ask you to love what I love or abandon your duties to the town, all I ask is respect for me and my supplies.”
The silence persists. Everyone, for some reason, is looking to Sakura.
“Yeah, sounds kinda cool or whatever,” he grumbles. After that shining review, other agreements pour in.
Ah, Kaoru’s found the ringleader. Good to know.
He stands, carrying a stack of lined paper and various writing utensils into the middle of the room. There seems to be no eagerness to sit in neat desk rows, so he won't fight that. “To get a general assessment, I'd like for you all to write me something. Anything at all, even a grocery list or how much you want to go home. Just show me what your natural handwriting looks like so I know how to help you, if you wish it.”
Kaoru is far more used to instructing brushwork than regular script, but as boys begin to sheepishly hand him papers and introductions, his path forward becomes alarmingly simple.
Some, like Tsugeura, write big and proud, generally ignoring the presence of the lines. Nirei, bless his heart, squishes his words so close together they're impossible to differentiate. Suo hands over a neatly folded sheet of perfect English cursive with a grin too wide to be polite. Kaoru skims it and asks very kindly about the rabbit in Suo’s story, earning a tight laugh and a slight nod of approval.
Anzai and his friends approach with one sheet held in hand, covered in tic-tac-toe games and doodles as well as a running conversation between pen colors off on one side. Thankfully, they've left him a key for who is who. He looks up after a quick scan, eyebrows raised over his glasses. “Anzai, was it? You've got very neat handwriting, I'm impressed.”
Kaoru figured they might be lacking adult role models given the way the school has exactly zero other people who aren't teenagers in it, but the way Anzai brightens up at the simple compliment makes it achingly clear to him.
“Thanks, Sakurayashiki-sensei! Nagato always helped me, and Tsuchiya smacked me with her pencils if I slipped her a note in class that she couldn't read,” he says, trailing off as his friends poke at his blushing cheeks and tease him about his childhood friends.
His rambling causes an earlier problem to resurface. Midway through Anzai’s sentence, a certain grade captain perks up and looks over. “D'you say my name, Anzai?” he asks, head perked to the side.
“Hm, that may get confusing. Very well, how about you all call me Cherry instead? It's, ah, a nickname from an old friend,” Kaoru offers, and works extremely hard to keep a dopey smile off his face.
“Sakura? Why'd you—oh!” Nirei pokes at his bright red friend, looks to Kaoru, and then writes something down in his little notebook. Kaoru furrows his brow and tries to observe, only to be blocked by a blur of pink. Kiryu offers his name and paper with an entirely flat smile that doesn't begin to reach his eyes.
In glitter pen on pink cardstock are the words “I don't trust you. Hurt any of my class and see what happens.” with an innocent little smiley face.
In the second it takes Kaoru to read this iridescent threat, Kiryu has drifted over to Sakura with a sleepy grin and his arms outstretched. “Sakuraaa,” he hears, “my hands hurt after all that writing.”
Well. Kaoru didn't expect immediate trust anyways, but the glitter getting all over his hands is adding insult to injury.
“Why would I care? You shouldn't have written that much, then!” Sakura squawks, still lasered in on his own sheet. He's one of the few left in the classroom, with most already gone for patrols or on their way home.
Kaoru has an idea of what may be coming before the paper even falls into his hands. Sakura grips his pencil like a spear, attacking his page with straightforward strokes. The shockingly polite note Kaoru is thrown has the telltale wobbling script of someone who was never given a lesson on how to even hold their pencil. It leaves a heavy pit in his stomach at the implications.
“I know my writing’s shit, ‘kay? Don't really see how that matters to being a grade captain, though, so I don't care.”
Kaoru beckons him closer anyways, gaining suspicious eyes from Suo and Nirei. “Of course, I did promise not to force anything. May I ask if your hand hurts, though? I would be responsible if you caused damage to yourself while completing my exercise.”
“Hah? You're not responsible, I am. But now that you mention it, duh. Everyone's fingers hurt when they write.”
There is a pointed silence.
“...Does that not happen for you?” The shyness is in full force now, as it always seems to be when Sakura is made aware of his missing experiences.
“If you bend your hand around the pencil like this instead, it won't strain that joint. Would you like to try?” He demonstrates, carefully tilting his wrist to show the grip someone should have taught this boy years ago.
Sakura reaches out, pauses, and shakes himself. “I'm not a baby, I can hold a damn pencil!” He storms off, vice captains hot on his heels.
Rome wasn't built in a day. Kaoru would swear, though, that he saw Sakura mimicking his hold as he ran away.
He faces the classroom again, and finds himself eye level with a crumpled ball in one giant hand.
The boy makes no move to introduce himself, so Kaoru leans back on his haunches and waits.
All he does is dump the paper ball and walk away. Kaoru unfolds it, pressing the page flat again. “Sugishita. Umemiya likes you, so I do too. Not a talker,” is penciled down in an amazingly tiny line, graphite thick and even.
“Sugishita!” he calls to the retreating back, “It's good to meet you. Umemiya mentioned you in our exchanges.”
Sugishita's face at that is somewhere between murderous and constipated. He slams the classroom door behind him.
Looking down at the mess across the tables and the pile of scribbles on his own desk, Kaoru feels a little flame of pride bouncing about in his chest. He leaves the school with a distinct hum of hope to the air around him.
Kaoru walks into Pothos, and nearly loses it when he finds Kojiro's mop of green hair moving around in the background of Kotoha's kitchen.
“I'm going to choke you to death at midnight tonight,” he threatens.
“Huh?” Kotoha pales, the poor thing.
“Agh, not you. Him. What are you doing here, you gorilla?”
Kojiro looks over his shoulder with a blindingly bright grin. “Mincing garlic,” he replies.
“Not what I meant!”
Kotoha looks back and forth. “Ohh, I see,” she smirks to herself, and Kaoru figures she's drawing some very incorrect conclusions. “And here I thought you had an honest interest in being my sous chef, Joe.”
“Hey, I do! There just happens to be important business for me in town. Like bullying a snooty princess.”
Kotoha fakes a retch. “Be for real. I saw your resume. You own a restaurant of your own back in Okinawa!"
Kojiro scratches the back of his neck. “I…wanted a vacation?”
“Maybe his staff wanted a vacation from him,” Kaoru very graciously offers.
“Oh, maybe Cherry doesn't want his food then?” he harps right back. Kotoha looks surprised, as most people are when they learn Kojiro has fangs just as much as Kaoru does.
“Kotoha’s cooking has certainly been lovely so far. I would take no issue,” he replies, tucking his napkin into his lap and arranging his cutlery, staring expectantly at Kojiro.
Kotoha watches on with a muted kind of horror as Kojiro lays down a fragrant plate of carbonara despite his threats, produces a white wine bottle from seemingly nowhere, and pours two glasses.
“...Hmph. took you long enough,” is all Kaoru says as he tings his glass lightly against Kojiro's.
At roughly this time, Sakura peeks his head into the window of Pothos, intent on dinner, and is surprised to see Cherry sitting at the bar, head leaning heavily onto a palm while his fork twirls around a plate of pasta.
He shuffles in, choosing to sit one seat apart from Cherry. Not because he wants to be near him. He's just going for his regular seat.
There is a man who isn't Kotoha behind the counter. Kotoha is gleefully handing him dirty dishes. Cherry rolls his eyes and says something in an insulting tone around a mouthful of noodle.
Huh. That’s.
Cherry seemed so serious in the classroom, so put together, but the sun is setting and his hair is loose and long down his back, and his glasses are in the green-haired man's shirt pocket for some reason? He looks like a completely different person.
Kaoru looks over, and jumps in his seat when he notices Sakura sitting there. “Hello, Sakura. You were so quiet coming in I didn't hear you,” he offers once he's done chewing, suddenly full of poise and elegance again.
“Uh, hey…Cherry.”
Kotoha giggles. “Aww, you’re so polite to your teacher! Did you know I had to fight to get him to use my name? He was so skittish!”
“S-shut up! I’ll go over to Cactus for dinner instead, how ‘bout that?”
Hook, line, and sinker. Kotoha lifts up a plate of visibly steaming pork skewers and grins at him. “You sure?”
“Oh, well, can't waste food,” he says around half a stick's worth of grilled meat. Kaoru didn't even see his hand move.
Kojiro looks closely at Kotoha's scheming grin and gives her a crisp high-five. She's clearly experienced in getting prickly idiots to eat well.
“So, Cherry,” Kojiro begins, pointed and teasing, “are you having fun playing teacher? Ready to retire to the countryside and raise the next generation to be snobs and robot lovers? Oh, I'm Joe by the way! Sakura, was it?”
Kaoru often questions his own taste in men. “Furin is well organized, and I respect the work that has gone into making it flourish. A gorilla like you couldn't comprehend something that complicated, don't worry,” he coos.
Sakura, having chosen that moment to sip at his water, sends it choking out onto the counter as he goes red right to his ears. “W-what the hell,” he sputters weakly.
Ah, whoops. Their fighting could certainly come off the wrong way to new people.
“We've known each other a long time, Sakura. That's hardly the worst thing I’ve called him, so if Joe hasn't run away by now it's his own fault.”
Kojiro just shrugs.
“Ngh, that wasn’t—” Kotoha shoves a dish towel against Sakura's mouth, cutting him off. She offers naught but a serene smile.
“Anyways, Sakura, Joe is helping at the restaurant while he’s in town. So be nice!” Kotoha says. He grunts something that may be affirmative around his last skewer. Yes, last. Kojiro shares a terrified look with him as they realize they haven’t escaped the ceaseless appetite of teenage boyhood.
Since it isn’t Kojiro’s place, Kaoru does actually pay. He has some manners, thank you very much.
“Good night, Kotoha and Sakura. See you tomorrow,” he says while he gathers his things, ignoring petty protests from muscle-brained chefs.
He laughs behind a hand, casting a wave with his other over his shoulder. Low pitched and warm under his breath, Kaoru whispers, “Good night, Kojiro,” and shuts the door, missing the way Sakura gapes at him.
—
Kaoru lasts all of two days before the itch hits. Carla has sat very bravely in her charging port the whole time, and his usual S costume is hanging behind his work clothes in the mildly dusty closet, but he expected not to reach for it for a week, at least.
It's late at night, sleep is eluding him, and Sakurayashiki Kaoru wants to skate. Damn it.
The mask slips over his face neatly, his hair is tied in perfect form, and his glasses are swapped for contacts. He sighs and grabs Carla. For secrecy's sake, he slips out onto the balcony and scales down the wall one-handed. As you do. He's been sneaking out to Kojiro's for years, this is easier than his usual route. The grass is soft and quiet when the pads of his feet hit the ground.
The fresh air does wonders for him, making his hair whip in the breeze. It's not the breakneck speed of the Crazy Rock track, but it's soothing. Like coming home after a long day, if home whispered to him in pavement and purple LEDs.
The flash of a light turning on and shutters opening on the second story of some cafe spooks him out of his thoughts. He's not eager to have his somewhat illegal second identity spilled in this town, so he ducks into an alley and scampers up the wall. The sleepy elders of this town have nothing on the cops he's used to evading. Ha.
He waits, back flat on a smooth roof and chest heaving. Carla hums against his arms, casting an underglow on his biceps.
The sound of a window creaking back shut rings out. The street goes quiet.
That's enough skating on the ground level for the night, he decides. It would be a signal to quit entirely to a smarter man.
He stands, reboards Carla, and takes off right where he is, quietly rattling the roof tiles. Now, here's something truly exhilarating. He looks straight down every time he hops between buildings, intensely aware of the concrete waiting for him should he falter. It is pure defiance in his veins with every safe landing.
When he has his fill of adrenaline and his eyelids begin to tug downwards, he returns to his temporary home pleasantly exhausted. He stumbles through his night routine, barely setting alarms and knocking out his bedside light before he himself is knocked out.
The next day begins with much annoyance, at himself and the world as a whole. He makes his way to Pothos as a zombie, and finds himself close to tears when Kojiro has his coffee prepared exactly the way he likes it, waiting in a thermos covered in old stickers.
“Trust me, I'm doing this for myself and the town. You are not an angel in the mornings, Kaoru," Kojiro chirps, evil and chipper as he usually is in the early hours.
He grumbles a death threat into the steam of his perfect coffee, letting the caffeine melt away his cagey attitude.
Kotoha is taking advantage of her extra staff and stocking up at the market, so she walks back in just as Kaoru is finishing his breakfast. Lord, he's going to be spoiled rotten if he's getting multiple meals from Kojiro per day. Not that he'd care to admit that.
The town is bright and alive despite the early hour, shops half set up and ovens wafting delicious smells across the street. It's still something of a shock to turn the corner and find Furin, covered in vines and graffiti, but it does make sense. Momose mentioned working with spray paint, and Umemiya is violently prone to gushing about his plants without any prompting. The whole building is a collaborative art piece, in a manner. He pauses by the entrance to the grounds, pleased with the way the sun hits the brickwork and paint. He takes a photo after several minutes of fussing with his phone’s settings and sends it first to Kojiro, then to the rest of their group back home after a moment’s deliberation.
Miya: mommy and daddy abandoned us wtf!!
Kojiro: Language, or I'll send your mom after you.
Langa: my fathers left me again? Im 0 for 3
The storm of concerned messages that pour in after that particular text makes Kaoru snort. He pockets his phone in the fold of his yukata—one of much less silk than usual, because he fully expects this one to get dirtied at some point today—and strides into the school. According to the contract he is working under, Umemiya's exact words are that Kaoru can do “whatever he wants” when he isn't teaching. He climbs each flight of stairs with a skip in his step and a hum, and eventually creaks open the door to the roof. He's surprised to see several people already milling about.
“Oh, Cherry!” Tsubaki calls. Clearly word spreads like fire here, for his nickname to have burned right to the top.
“You're up early, Tsubaki.”
“I could say the same to you! Sugi ‘n I are usually the only ones up here before school actually starts. I guess he slept in today, though.” Tsubaki has his hair pulled back by a fluffy headband, and has what seems like an entire vanity's contents spilled across the picnic table.
Kaoru pulls his bag of supplies off his shoulder. “Don’t let me interrupt you then, I'll just be doing some work.”
He spreads his paper across the unused half of the table, takes a seat, and dips his brush. It's easy to lose himself in the intricate motions of creation after so many years of practice. The characters take shape in swirling masses, painting a grander picture. He sweats under the midmorning sun, but finishes a piece to his standards.
“Morning everyone! Oh, good morning Cherry! Isn't the roof garden great?” calls a cheery voice, making him look up and subsequently wince at the twinge in his neck.
A clump of something blurs in the corner of his eye. He turns, and is met with no less than ten students staring over his shoulder. Momose is on someone's shoulders for a better view.
“I hadn't realized I had an audience,” he says, tone dry. He honestly didn't expect so many delinquents to take interest.
Aside from Momose, he spies a few other familiar faces. That boy with the bun—Takanashi?—typing something out on his phone, as well as Sakura and his vice captains.
With his work done and the spectacle over, the crowd mostly disperses. “Uh. We weren't here to watch," Sakura grumbles, with his eyes firmly planted on the art piece drying on the table.
“I was!” Nirei adds. He has his nose buried in his notebook, scribbling something down. Kaoru decides not to ask.
“What were you here for, then?”
“It's about when ya came by yesterday, didn't know if you were gonna teach today.” Sakura shoves his hands in his pockets trying to act calm, but he's bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Kaoru checks his phone. Indeed, it's later than he expected. “Yes, I've got something planned. Is that alright with you, grade captain?”
“Eh? Do what you want, why would I care?” he darts off, ears pink.
Well, I can't argue with that. Kaoru digs around in his bag, pleased to find the ziploc bag of cheap acrylic paints still at the bottom.
He strides into the 1-1 classroom with coffee-powered bravado, presenting his sturdiest paper along with the paints and cheap palettes to the class.
“Wait, don't we need paintbrushes?” comes a doubtful voice.
Kaoru rolls up and pins his sleeves back, then he wrangles his braid into a sleek bun. “Not today, no. How long has it been since any of you fingerpainted?”
It's not the most sophisticated way to make art, no, but that's not what Umemiya came to him for.
Across the blur of time, one childhood memory stands out proud from the rest. Kaoru had been short for his age, sleeves brushing his elbows despite wearing a t-shirt, and trying very earnestly to make his green smudges look more like a tree without smearing the paint onto himself.
He remembers a mop of green not unlike his painted foliage appearing before him, shyly explaining that his name was Nanjo, he liked motorcycle magazines, and he painted Kaoru because his hair was pretty.
Unbeknownst to anyone, a stick figure with a cloud of pink around it still sits behind a more dignified photo in a frame inside his studio.
Bah, he was getting awfully sappy. There was a point to his musings. “It's childish, messy, and fun. The paint's all washable, but I have some smocks if you're wearing something nice.”
Yes, the important part was how deeply that memory was intertwined with fun and warmth to Kaoru. And indeed, as the boys dive into the paint and begin to paint themselves and their canvases in equal amounts, there is an air of innocent joy in the room. With their precious Bofurin jackets safely folded in a corner, these are just highschool boys covered in paint. Not warriors, not heroes, not figures with the world on their shoulders.
He takes out a sheet for himself and surveys the scene. Switching mediums is a favored exercise of his when his usual methods are betraying him. There is a certain freedom in the pursuit of something which people do not expect you to be good at yet.
His hands and cheap overshirt are messy, and he knows he's smiling wider than the public usually sees. Under the whorls of his fingerprints the scene of neon freedom takes loose shape, a snapshot of the moment he witnesses. Suo is judging a portrait contest between Nirei and Tsugeura. Only one painting is recognizably a person, and Suo seems to hold favoritism for one already. His tasselled earrings are a swipe of Kaoru’s pinkie nail on coarse paper.
“Dude, is that a person or a ghost?” Anzai wheezes, slapping a blue hand on Tsugeura's back.
Tsugeura groans. “It's Sugishita, dude! Can't you tell from the hair?”
“Oh? I was under the impression it was a spirit not unlike the kind under my eyepatch.”
Pleased with the state of his own work, Kaoru is wiping off his hands and sending a picture of his messy teacher's desk and art to Kojiro when the words across the classroom begin to hit him.
“Oh, speaking of ghosts! Ah, one second. Gotta get Sakura's eyes right.” Nirei tucks in close to his paper for a minute, then perks back up. “Like I was saying, the folks near the butcher shop are saying they saw a ghost on the rooftops last night!”
Tsugeura looks pale. Maybe Nirei is doing this on purpose to distract his opponent? Kaoru certainly would, if he found out about such a potent phobia. Then again, Kaoru is rarely known for his tact or restraint.
More importantly: shit.
“The ghost was floating—no one could see legs running! And it had purple glowing eyes, according to the granny I asked on the way here this morning.”
Double shit.
“Woah, did Tsugeura just faint?”
Triple shit.
He bites his lip and opens Kojiro's contact.
Kaoru: I'm a town cryptid now. Help.