Stealth update because it's not my fav thing ever and I don't want the fics to show up out of order. But it's done.

This is kind of not really edited too well, but still thanks go to tb [Tkb4 at ffn / minimum-holder at tumblr] for all their help beta'ing! All mistakes are my own.

Rarepair Valentines 2015
[ Wednesday, February 11th ; Fic 2 of 5 ]

One day, Ratio received a phone call.

Birthday was lounging around at Ratio's apartment at the time. Without either needing to ask, Birthday grabbed the phone from where it sat trilling atop a counter.

He glanced at the caller ID. "Murasaki again?" asked Birthday, eyebrows quirking, unplugging the charger and then tossing the phone over.

Ratio caught the phone with the ease of someone accustomed to Birthday's lazy throws. Murasaki indeed. Ratio answered the call.

Five minutes later, Ratio grabbed his coat from where it was draped over a chair. His car keys jingled when they were picked up, sounding like the trilling of tiny bells. It was testimony to Birthday's boredom when he proceeded to hook himself around one of Ratio's arms rather than excusing himself upon cue.

"What'd he want?" said Birthday. "Is he making bell peppers? I loved it when Murasaki made bell peppers that time after I collapsed at the mall."

Birthday'd been cured, but it had still taken weeks before Ratio ceased flinching. Now, Ratio simply blinked as if to say, yes, I remember.

"No, Murasaki is not," Ratio replied. "Somebody needs to look after Nice when he's gone."

When they arrived, Birthday found it fit to trumpet fanfare. If Nice and Murasaki's apartment was a castle, then the battered green couch Nice was lying across would be the throne, and the reason for Murasaki's request was obvious immediately.

Birthday whistled.

"Hoo, look at you!"

From his position on the couch, left leg encased in a cast, right arm bound in a sling, and crutches lying atop the low coffee table, Nice scowled. "What do you want?"

"Nice, Nice, Nice," cooed Birthday, "we're here to look after you!"

Nice shot a look toward Murasaki; Traitor, said his glare, annoyed but most unmalicious. Murasaki returned the look with one of his own. Several seconds passed, and Ratio felt as if he was being privy to a conversation he was no longer able to hear.

"What happened?" asked Ratio, who couldn't imagine any long-lasting injury happening to a person of Nice's calibre. The match set up by Momoka had proven that more than sufficiently.

A wry smile settled over Murasaki's features and his eyes gleamed darkly, reading Ratio's mind through the shifting body language marking apprehension. "He tripped."

Not only tripped! Hamatora'd been out of town, their job to investigate strange happenings at a hilltop shrine. Nice had been walking backwards when they approached the steps at the top of the mountain, when overconfidence led him to step incorrectly and a loose shingle slid away and away. He'd slipped, rolled; Murasaki'd reached out but only hooked fingers around loose headphones; Nice continued his descent without any chance of activating his Minimum, falling too quickly for even enhanced speed Murasaki to reach him, tumbling, engulfed by useless feels.

Were it not for the inflatable ship, en-route to a nearby parade, present to cushion his blow, Nice would have sustained far more than simply a dislocated kneecap and fractured arm. An arm and a leg he'd paid for such foolishness. A few thousand yen Murasaki'd paid to replace Nice's headphones after crushing them in his pursuit.

"So that's why you guys vanished for a month," commented Birthday, in the midst of hysterical laughter. Not even Art had managed to injure Nice as greatly as Nice's own ego.

Ratio rightly presumed that Nice would not be detailing the event in his next letter to the imprisoned felon.

Nice eloquently gave Birthday the finger.

"Make sure he doesn't move," requested Murasaki, to Ratio's confusion – until Ratio activated his Minimum and saw countless additional strains atop Nice's existing injuries, speaking of overconfidence and tomfoolery. Nice's headphones were nowhere to be seen, no doubt to prevent further harm. Murasaki continued. "His punishment for his recklessness is that he can't leave the couch. I'll be back in about four hours."

Birthday leant forward like a pigeon offered food. "Can you make bell peppers when you get back?"

There was a pause; Murasaki hovered, catching himself before exiting the doorway. "Nice hates bell peppers," he replied.

"All the more reason to make it then!"

Murasaki claimed he'd think about it. Nice folded an arm and grumbled morosely about people who wanted the world to burn.

Murasaki didn't make bell peppers, but he did treat both Birthday and Ratio to dinner. It wasn't a feast by any veritable standards, but, despite the state of Hamatora's finances, the portions were still greater than what Ratio and Birthday would host for one another upon the odd occasion they chose to do so.

As Birthday stuffed his face and sang his praises, Ratio walked over to Murasaki, who was trying to stop Nice from spilling all his food everywhere over the table and everywhere over the floor.

"Go and finish eating," Ratio offered to Murasaki. He indicated Nice, and Nice's ability to only use one arm. "I'll hold his bowl for him."

"But ish hot," protested Nice, despite the noodles trying to escape his mouth and the soup dribbling down his chin.

Ratio allowed a small smirk to play around his lips, raised a metallic arm. "Heat is not something that scares me."

What did scare Ratio was how much mess Nice made even after he'd volunteered to assist. Ratio considered that he should have wrapped his arm in a plastic bag before assisting. Fortunately, his arms could be disassembled to ensure a thorough cleaning.

Once Murasaki'd relocated to the kitchen and Birthday'd trotted away, Nice apologised.

If muttering about the cast and the confinement for another two weeks – sure, he'd done stuff, but he didn't mean to make his injuries worse – and offering Ratio a tissue, while refusing to meet his gaze, counted as an apology.

"Could I ask you for another favour?" asked Murasaki, calling Ratio a few days later. His voice was strained, sometimes barely perceptible; he'd been left with no choice but to balance his phone between one shoulder and one ear, both hands busy.

Ratio thought of all the meals Murasaki'd made for him – and by extension, Birthday – when Birthday still had his illness. When the hospital replaced Ratio's apartment as Birthday's second home, and when Ratio worked tirelessly as if he could exchange their health with each other. Ratio only learnt much later that the first bento box had been intended for a client, that someone in the long-term wards had gone and hired Murasaki in a long string of fake boyfriends, and punctual Murasaki'd been late after needing to buy another.

Murasaki informed Ratio afterwards that he'd looked like a corpse. It would be a long time before Ratio made up what he owed.

"No, you can't," replied Ratio. "You don't have to ask."

Murasaki made a small huff, which Ratio presumed was his equivalent of a laugh. Perhaps the humour was directed at their friendship? Ratio didn't know.

"I'm going to be busy," said Murasaki. "Mind watching over Nice again?"

Ratio's nod didn't transmit through the phone line. "I'll be there when you need me."

Ratio decided not to inform Birthday of his visit the second time. Upon seeing Nice's narrowed eyes vanish after it was evident nobody else was following Ratio upon entry, Ratio decided that had been the best course of action.

Apparently, Nice still didn't forgive Birthday for fooling around with his crutches, orchestrating the clatter of jewel cases, sending dozens of CDs scattered and broken everywhere across the floor.

After Murasaki left, Ratio positioned a chair beside the couch to keep Nice company, pulled out his tablet and proceeded to continue what work he had left to do. Nice continued pretending irritability for all of ten minutes, the game on his smartphone barely entertained him for five, and it was when Ratio'd sent away an email that Nice tossed his phone aside and leant closer.

"What'cha up to?" asked Nice, question slurred, syllables peeling themselves off his tongue with all the inflections of the uncaring.

"Business things," responded Ratio. The same reply he usually gave to Birthday, whenever Birthday stuck his face between Ratio and the screen.

Nice tucked his working arm behind his head. "Huh. 'Kay."

Unlike what Ratio would have expected from Birthday, Nice didn't look away. A few minutes later, when Ratio's eyes flickered up from the tablet, he first sensed something changed – but Ratio, after a brief, cursory scan, unable to discern the difference, dropped his gaze back to the screen and continued working.

Nice was still staring, given nothing better to do.

The suspicion that something had changed remained pinned to Ratio's mind; not long passed before blue eyes flickered upwards to meet blue eyes again. Nice glanced away. Ratio did the same.

It wasn't until Ratio looked up, upon hearing the shifting of fabric, that he finally noticed the distance between himself and Nice had increased, and Nice had very subtly been creeping towards the couch's edge.

"Stay," ordered Ratio, because that's what Murasaki'd tasked him to do.

Given Nice's rebelliousness, Ratio'd expected a sullen glare, annoyed muttering; instead, Nice simply sighed and repositioned himself back in the centre. It's an acquiescence that Ratio would have expected from Birthday.

"Bathroom?" offered Nice.

Ratio lifted his eyepatch and inspected the glowing oscillations of the Minimum. "Nice. The only muscle contractions you are sustaining are in your chest."

"Lame," and the pulsation around Nice's chest dimmed in similar protest, "cheat codes aren't fair."

Cheat codes? thought Ratio, re-adjusting the eyepatch, once Nice reached for his phone and loaded up a tile matching game. He didn't know whether the humming which wished to escape his throat was the result of a laugh or of curious consideration; the description was one he'd never heard before.

When Nice tried to creep away the second time, Ratio noticed the tensing of wiry shoulders beneath the blue-cotton shirt before Nice had even started moving.

It became a game, two children playing tag: how far could Nice go before Ratio ceased concentrating on his work, until Ratio'd become the daruma doll watching for any activity? But not once did Ratio have to say anything beyond a simple "Nice", and not once did Nice refuse to return to the position marked as his jail.

By the time Murasaki returned, Ratio'd given up accomplishing anything beyond refreshing his inbox, deeply contemplating the most ideal moment to spring his attention.

Murasaki blinked, scanned the room and its occupants for any change; sharp eyes lingering on the crutches, untouched; and understood instantly with the wisdom of one responsible for all housekeeping that Nice had not once moved from atop the couch and Ratio had not moved beyond pulling up his chair.

The stiffened surprise was quickly replaced by a sideways smile, a silent thanks to Ratio, and an offer for Ratio to stay for dinner.

Ratio took another look at Nice, who once again began to creep millimetre by millimetre.

"I... have to return," said Ratio. It wasn't good manners which kept him from agreeing, or the reluctance to pressure Murasaki any more, but the realisation that he'd lost track of time; not even when humouring Birthday did he fail to do so. Ratio'd spent too long fooling around, when work was a commander that fooled with nobody. But even though his lips were moving, he found the words difficult to form. "Birthday will be waiting. Thank you for the offer."

The third time Murasaki called in a favour, Ratio finally asked where Murasaki was going.

"Hajime's taken up mixed martial arts," Murasaki informed him, "I've been escorting her to the venue and filming the rounds when Master isn't available."

"Why not bring Nice with you?" asked Ratio curiously. He remembers an analysis he'd made using his Minimum, and the agitation which consistently lay at the root of Nice's temper. "He shouldn't need any more rest, having healed so far."

The answer, it turned out, was that the Incident which caused Murasaki to confine Nice to the couch had occurred during exactly one such outing. Upon hearing the details of what Nice had done and tried to accomplish despite healing from injuries, especially given that he'd been surrounded by experienced martial artists, Ratio winced in a combination of sympathy for his friend and his disbelief as a professional.

"He loses all of his senses whenever he's around Hajime," Murasaki confided.

"Doesn't he have a crush on her?"

"I've been watching him since Moral," and Murasaki sighed, a rattling across the phone line; in his mind, Ratio saw Murasaki rubbing at the bridge of his nose, trying to rid himself of a growing migraine. Ratio understood the frustration, remembering both Chiyu's injuries and the possibility of Birthday's death; he'd been more useless than ever with both Art and Momoka pushing him toward the edge, relentlessly honing in.

It'd been far too easy to break the ground beneath his feet. Ratio remembered red skies and cracked glass and the burning dust rising from shattered rubble, thick clouds of destruction penetrating his lungs where there'd once been stale air. To save two, Ratio'd been prepared to kill one.

Desperation had driven Murasaki to attempt the same.

"He's consistently showing the same signals toward Hajime as he was showing toward Art, where he's convinced he's being helpful," continued Murasaki. "Therefore I don't think it's love in any romantic sense. I suspect he wants to make sure she stays happy."

"That's admirable."

Murasaki snorted. "Complimenting yourself now?"

"Oh," slipped from Ratio's lips in realisation. Ratio chuckled, thinking about his dedication to Birthday. "Yes. I suppose I am. What time do you need me?"

"From nine, on Saturday. Although..." A strange note entered Murasaki's tone.

"Although?" prompted Ratio, after a pause.

The strain didn't disappear when Murasaki spoke again: "Although, I'll... have to ask for another favour."

"There's no need to ask—"

"I don't think we have enough funds left." The words dropped out in a rush, gritted through teeth, and Ratio could hear Murasaki's pride being dissolved by his weakness – reluctant and oozing. "With Nice's condition, our rent, and everything else..."

Ratio'd heard enough. "What do you need?"

"You aren't—"

"What do you need?" repeated Ratio, cutting Murasaki off. "I know you would have considered all the possible simulations before you informed me. What can I do for you?"

The silence returned, tense and waiting.

"Take over as Nice's physician," said Murasaki, finally. "The rest is... manageable. It's the medical care that's been complicating our situation."

"Alright," confirmed Ratio without a moment of hesitation. He reached for his tablet, checked his schedule, started assessing all the possible means by which he could at once help and keep Murasaki's cost as low as possible – even if it meant going to more effort so that he could cover them in a way to prevent Murasaki from knowing. Searching for Birthday's cure had left him with more than enough contacts, enough networking. "Could you give me his physician's details? And his physical therapist, if he has one."

Murasaki recited. Ratio wrote the information down with long, deft strokes. Murasaki's voice eased back from a clenched jaw to relaxed vocal chords; multifold strength and multifold weakness. Ratio allowed himself to be proud, privately, learning that Murasaki respected him enough to entrust his own duality.

Ratio changed the topic, and Murasaki allowed him to cloak the exchange behind an illusion of normality. They exchanged words about meaningless happenings: Birthday's latest exploits now death no longer loomed in every corner; how Hajime'd been fairing through her tournament; and then Ratio was first to apologise for running out of time, as usual, since Hamatora had much more flexible working hours.

Before locating the Healing Minimum, most of Ratio's calls would have been to Birthday. But now that he no longer needed to obsessively worry over Birthday's health, and Murasaki no longer had to worry over Nice's agitation over Art, perhaps such a level of contact between himself and Murasaki to replace the time should not have been surprising.

"Sorry," said Murasaki, as soon as they'd swapped goodbyes.

"Don't apologise," Ratio told him. "If you have to say that, let it mean 'thank you'."

On Saturday, when Ratio arrived at the apartment that Murasaki and Nice shared, all of Ratio's arrangements had been completed and Ratio'd arrived with an offer.

"I can ditch the sling?" echoed Nice.

Ratio lowered his eyepatch, satisfied with how the bone was healing. He took a seat in the chair beside Nice's couch. It was the same chair that he'd pulled up on his last visit, left unreturned.

"Provided that nothing is agitated, yes," said Ratio. "If you can prove that you're capable of good sense, I'm willing to let you remove it in three days."

"When did you become my physician?"

In the room next to them, the clattering of coat-hangers paused, momentarily, as Murasaki stopped searching through his closet in order to hear Ratio's response. Nice didn't turn toward Murasaki, but there was a slight inclination of his head that indicated that yes, despite the fact that Nice seemed to be focusing all his attention on Ratio, Nice was also taking note of Murasaki's hesitation.

Ratio pretended he noticed neither. "Since I requested it after my last visit."

"Why?" asked Nice, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"To make up for Birthday's damage to your CDs."

Murasaki started to move again, fished out his jacket in a flash of vibrant red, and pulled it on. Casually, Nice leant back against his pillow; for all intents his expression appeared satisfied, but Ratio couldn't shake the sensation that Nice knew the real reason.

"Okay," agreed Nice. "Then I'll drop pestering him to replace them. Except the Torao ones."

"Weren't they all Torao?" was Murasaki's parting shot before he left.

"Yeah," said Nice. "They were."

To Ratio's surprise, the first hour passed without incident. Not once did Nice wave about, or act distracting, or even make any attempt to leave the couch, and Ratio'd managed to attend to all his work in less than two hours rather than the three hours it usually required.

And so, after Ratio'd asked Nice about Torao, the rest of the morning was taken care of as well.

"—Torao is so cool!" gushed Nice, for at least the dozenth time. Though his eyes sparkled and he was beaming and he occasionally gestured with wild intensity, no effort was exerted on his healing limbs; Ratio realised he'd indeed taken the request for good behaviour to heart. Nice went on, continued talking about rhythms and beats and melodies; Ratio simply nodded, more interested in the light shining from Nice's eyes, watching how passion and inspiration could transform the young man from the impudent Nice he was familiar with to a Nice that possessed no cares in the world.

What a shame for Murasaki to confine such vibrancy to a too-small room within a too-bleak apartment. But Ratio understood the thought processes, because he'd considered them for Birthday: I can't let him destroy his chances at recovery. Nice can't be taken down by such a series of silly errors.

It wasn't until a loud clatter that Ratio realised he'd been staring. Ratio looked down, and found his hands empty. His tablet had slipped from his grasp, and fallen to the floor.

Nice's eyes were on him in an instant. "Something wrong?" he asked, brows dropped, seriousness in his gaze.

"Nothing," reassured Ratio. He shook his head to dislodge the remaining cobwebs. "How long... When was the last time you were out?"

Visibly, Nice began scratching a bandage; it was a question which actually required thinking. "The second? Yeah, since the second."

Since the second? Did Murasaki even realise how long he'd kept Nice imprisoned?

"And you didn't leave?" asked Ratio.

Nice looked at Ratio like he'd said the dumbest thing in the world. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to go anywhere with a dead arm and a crutch?"

Ratio didn't. But annoyance had returned to Nice, to protect the enthusiasm that had grown shy. Birthday's mask of silliness to prevent Ratio growing concerned. Fake, fake. That was all Ratio needed to consider.

"Let's go," commanded Ratio.

"What?"

"Outside. Can you make it in and out of the apartment with your crutches?"

Nice's eyes were wide. They shouldn't have been as wide as they were. "Sure, but Murasaki—"

"I'll talk to Murasaki," said Ratio.

Nice blinked once. Blinked twice. Ratio saw the flickering eyelids that meant his brain was no doubt cycling through near-infinite possibilities. It took eight seconds before Nice's expression changed; Ratio would have expected a beaming smile and an arm around his shoulders from Birthday – in contrast, Nice easily leant to one side, he smiled, and his eyes narrowed. Ratio imagined the look would have been a challenging one had Nice been staring at Murasaki, accompanied by a brow mirroring Murasaki's most haughty.

The look Ratio received snatched the breath from his veins, replaced oxygen with adrenaline but not with fear. Nice's smile settled as a line of confidence, his eyes not narrowed but half-lidded in intrigued curiosity. The Nice before Ratio was a knight in black armour, one who served no apparent liege, and free to act as himself.

Beneath Birthday's silliness was sunlight still, warmth overbearing; beneath Nice's idiocy, there was only alertness and apathy.

—And Ratio thought: Nice is no Birthday.

"If those are the doctor's orders, how can I say no?" posed Nice, rhetorically; and then he glanced away to look around the room. "Murasaki's not gonna be happy, though."

When their eyes met again, Nice's face was unintelligent and lazy.

Ratio couldn't remember if Nice had ever shown consideration for Murasaki's happiness before.

It turned out Nice hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said it was hard to move. At least ten minutes passed before Nice was stable, ready, had found all the belongings he'd need – sans his headphones, which were still hidden – and then it took at least double that time for Nice to make it up the stairs and to the roof, not helped by his tendency to grow bored and then playful and then overconfident. Foolishly so.

After the third time he stumbled, and Ratio was there to brace him, Nice simply grew so fed up he handed Ratio the crutch and used him as a support instead.

Eventually, the two of them stepped out and into the open air. A small breeze licked their skin in greeting and the clouds waved on their slow journey across the distant blue sky. Nice released the arm holding onto Ratio and stretched it upwards as if waving back.

Ratio found himself watching Nice again. How Nice began to relax; how the moving air drew Nice's tension away; how the frown lines on his face vanished and disappeared. Perhaps it was the intensity of his focus that allowed Ratio to notice how Nice's lips formed a word, and for him to be paying attention when the wind carried the sounds toward him.

"Ego."

"Sorry?" said Ratio.

"Huh?" and Nice blinked after turning around, his shoulders shifted, and he returned to his dim-witted demeanour once again. "I didn't say nothing."

"No," Ratio denied. "You said something. 'E...'" A jolt lanced through his chest before he could finish. He moved to clutch his heart, but the shock was already gone. Ratio brought the arm up to cover it as a cough instead.

"Ah," said Nice – and the idiot slid off his features to be replaced by that black knight again. "You heard that, then. Ego."

The lightning bolt returned; Ratio's heart spasmed, sparked aflame. His brains beat staccatos, flattened and pulled taut across his skull as a skin drum. Ego; it was that word's fault; listening to Nice talk was like trying to listen to a chorus of voices speaking in unison. The words harmonised, shrill bursts of sonic energy received by Ratio's tuning-fork limbs. Metal vibrating and metal humming and metal that would not stop shrieking.

"E..." Ratio refused to let it win. "Eg—"

"Desire, or identity," corrected the black knight, unaffected. "Ego is that which lies at the root of all Minimum. But not just Minimum, other things too, like Murasaki's determination is his. Or my desire being the way I feel toward Hajime."

"Desire..."

Ratio rolled the word on his tongue. It fit very poorly. He took a breath to continue; it was becoming easier to speak. The change in vocabulary either dampened the oscillations, or Ratio was growing more accustomed to them. "So – when you called for Princess Kaguya to stay in the play, you really..."

Nice looked away. "Yeah. I... I like her."

—and the vibrations stopped.

In their place, a pool of still nothingness took over. Still. Still.

The clouds waved as they passed overhead. Nice watched them, joined them, blue shirt blending into the sky.

Still.

All until Murasaki's vehicle appeared at the end of the street. The tiny inkspot grew and grew, then its indicators flashed, and then it made to park. Nice sighed, then looked to Ratio before extending a hand for the crutch. It was handed across. Ratio noted the slight slouch. Nice was the lazy idiot again.

"You better not tell anyone," warned Nice.

It took a moment for Ratio to remember that Nice had confessed to liking Hajime.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Ratio answered. (Still.) "Shall we make our way inside?"

Murasaki returned, but not alone.

Hajime was with him.

Ratio simply watched when both Nice and Hajime spotted one another, smiled simultaneously, how Nice had already begun shuffling toward her before toeing his shoes off and entering the room. Hajime easily reached him first, reached bandage-wrapped fingers toward him, and a shiny gold disc glinted from within her palm.

"You won?" enthused Nice.

Hajime nodded, then looked to Ratio when he neared. Her eyes were as wide as headlamps, expressing suspicion – as if she knew everything that had occurred out on the roof – but Ratio blinked and recalculated her expression as confusion, and the desire for knowledge to be from curiosity. Hajime may have been growing more emotive under Nice's influence, but she wasn't capable of changing her mood in the span of a blink. Suspicion would not arise without reason.

Ratio told himself that Nice didn't need him to defend him.

"Let me help him to the couch," Ratio said to her. Nice shot him an accusatory look. It reminded Ratio too much of Birthday's overdramatic faux-betrayals. "If you injure yourself, it's going to push back your recovery time."

"I'm fine," grumbled Nice, and it was the idiot in front of Ratio, "didn't you think I was good enough to leave—"

For some reason, Ratio was not surprised when Nice somehow forgot there was a threshold that not only his leg needed to pass but his crutch as well.

Ratio managed to catch him before he fell over. "That was then," he informed. "This is now."

"...I'll help you," volunteered Hajime quietly.

Something stirred. Ratio ignored it. Ratio nodded.

"Thank you."

Hajime was small, Ratio thought. Only when interacting with her so closely did he realise she barely reached his chest. It wasn't to say she was immature, or weak, but she was compact where Nice was long and thin and stretched at head and feet. Then again, didn't both maximally stretched and maximally compressed springs possess the greatest potential energy? Hajime was a fifteen-year-old, but also a mixed martial arts champion.

She may have been young, but wasn't Nice simply seventeen?

You're growing old, now, the imaginary Birthday in Ratio's head said. Hee, Ratio's finally twenty-three!

Ratio forced himself to leave the two alone and headed toward Murasaki, who'd been observing from his seat at the table. A small notepad was open before him, filled with numbers and diagrams, and he had his phone in his hands. On the phone was a calculator app; Ratio presumed Murasaki was calculating their money.

"I took him up to the roof," said Ratio.

Murasaki wrote something on the pad. "So I noticed. He did need it, but his carelessness with his injuries... Nice is calmer around you."

Automatically, Ratio looked up. He looked past Hajime, who'd taken the seat he used to occupy, to see Nice lazily languishing on the couch. Nice was holding Hajime's gold medal in the air above him, where it hung like a ripened fruit glistening in the light. A vibrating energy manifested in the air as Nice chattered to Hajime at the speed of sound. It wasn't quite agitation, nor restlessness, but—

"Schoolboy crush," came Murasaki's voice.

Ratio'd evidently been letting his thoughts leak loud and clear. It amazed him how accurately Murasaki could read his mind just from body language and an interest in analysing peoples' behaviour.

Their friendship contributed, perhaps, or—

Ratio decided to ask. "What was it this time?"

"Your eye, particularly. It's very open with its gaze," Murasaki explained. "And I also had the same thoughts a while ago."

"The same interaction as with Art..." said Ratio, remembering his earlier words. "...Schoolboy crush?" With Art?

Murasaki inclined his head toward them. "Listen to how they're talking."

Ratio obeyed, despite his reluctance to listen in on what was a private conversation. Hajime'd taken over, in the middle of recounting one of her matches; she stood in powerful lines, demonstrated her moves with such control over her qì that she could part water. Her voice was subdued, if slightly uplifted, but Ratio could sense Murasaki's intense stare pushing him, instructing him to process all his sensory inputs, to connect together a conclusion...

Schoolboy crush, thought Ratio, trying to remember Nice's interaction toward her and hoping it would be a hint usable.

By some gravitational force, the pieces drew together.

"It's excitement," Ratio answered. "Passion. They're pulled together by that attraction."

Murasaki smiled. It was his signature sideways smile, but rather than amusement, Ratio detected satisfaction. "And their eyes," Murasaki added, "Nice can't stop watching her. Hajime's gaze shifts more often."

"That could equally be because she's moving."

"True," conceded Murasaki. "Now would be a poor example."

"The evidence you gave could be more convincing, too," said Ratio. "If Art was here..." He trailed off. The three-month mark may have been approaching over the horizon, but it was still too soon to be talking about him directly.

Not too soon for Nice, apparently, because he suddenly shot up.

"Did you say Art?" he asked, then rattled off questions before either Ratio or Murasaki could answer. "What about him? Did you hear from him? Has he gotten all the stuff I sent—"

Murasaki cut him off. "No."

"Don't be a spoilsport, Murasaki," Nice grouched. "That thing was hard to track down—"

A loud cracking sound came from Murasaki's hand; he was clutching the pen so tightly that the plastic started to warp. Fortunately, the ink reservoir remained unharmed.

"You shouldn't have bought it," Murasaki hissed.

Nice glowered. "You're just bitter I didn't get you one—"

"You spent half our grocery fund," was the returning growl. Another crack. Murasaki put the pen down before he snapped it into two. "And instead of working on what I sent to your phone, you went and bought this giant pancake online."

"But you buy food with a grocery fund."

Murasaki shook, and so did each of his muscles. They grew, even if those shiny red glasses were still on Murasaki's face and activating his Minimum should have technically been impossible. Ratio tensed, preparing to grab him if need be. Hajime looked between the three of them, uncertain, but equally as prepared in case it came to blows. Somehow, Murasaki's self-restraint held, even if the leash couldn't restrain the vein pulsing in his temple and the stormcloud glare.

Ratio risked a glance toward Nice and saw the idiot's incongruously innocent chewing on the inside of a lip.

"Also," added the idiot, casually, "it was a crêpe."

"I don't care what it is—"

"...Nice," said Ratio, in the same tone he used whenever he'd caught Nice creeping.

Nice met Ratio's gaze. For the briefest instant, the idiot slid off, and the black knight returned; his first appearance since they'd left the roof. Nice's eyes flickered, and then the black knight vanished. If Ratio were not so used to the whims of Birthday's ice-fire illness, the duality would have been unnerving.

Ratio wondered why the black knight had taken so long to arrive.

Nice averted his eyes.

"Hey, Murasaki," he said. "Have you recalculated the grocery fund?"

Murasaki stilled. "You..."

"The bank wouldn't let me get to my savings fast enough, alright? So I asked Hajime to take the money and... yeah. I guess that wasn't funny." Nice paused. "Sorry."

Slowly, very slowly, Murasaki took a deep breath. He swiped at some screens on his phone, tapped some keys. Ratio was sure he wasn't the only one who didn't dare to move while waiting for the result.

It took an eternity and a day until Murasaki put the phone down.

"Okay, Nice," said Murasaki, and that was all.

Nice flashed a grin to Murasaki, gave a thumbs-up to Ratio, then flopped back onto the couch once again.

Murasaki took his seat. Two fingers rubbed at his temple. "I still haven't moved beyond biting his bait," he breathed, somewhat contemptuously.

"Yet the Murasaki I first met would have punched him," stated Ratio.

"That is true. I'm glad I'm not as hot-blooded any more. I can't let him keep winning if I'm going to surpass him someday." Murasaki started tapping the table's surface. "Did you know he can do it intuitively? When he wants to, he can understand exactly what someone's motives are."

"A week should be enough—"

"Within a matter of hours." Murasaki sighed. "Of information gathered entirely second-hand, or just ten minutes of observation. A complete and accurate psychological profile." Ratio didn't respond. He received a glance, which became casual scrutiny, and Murasaki raised a brow. "Apprehension? Uncertainty. A desire to help because you're my friend, and wondering if you should activate your Minimum."

"Considering my Minimum is correct," confirmed Ratio. "Yet..."

Murasaki didn't blink. "I'm wrong."

"No," Ratio told him, "I was thinking that you did win."

"He was acting stupid on purpose."

"But Nice apologised."

Murasaki's hand formed a fist. "He's been trying, when he remembers to. I suppose dying taught him something after all."

"He died?" asked Ratio, sceptically.

"That's what triggered Hajime to take everyone's Minimums."

"But..." Ratio snapped his head up, looked at Nice. He's alive. Nice noticed the gaze and wiggled his fingers back. Ratio turned back to Murasaki; it was the first time he'd heard of such a thing. "That's... what happened at Landmark Tower?"

Murasaki huffed. "He met a god, learnt about Ego, and said he'd try start washing the dishes at least once a week. Which he hasn't done."

"What?"

"He decided to use his injury to avoid washing—"

"He met a god?" clarified Ratio.

"Or so he said." Murasaki looked toward Nice and Hajime. "They talk about him, some kid called 'Skill'."

Ratio must have flinched because Murasaki's hawk-eyes were instantly on him.

"You know something?" said Murasaki.

"Skill..." Ratio remembered a grave in the shade under a tree in a lonely cemetery. "Skill is... was Art's younger brother."

Every year, Birthday would leave a gift for him, and he always asked Ratio to drive him there, but Ratio never complained. Ratio'd asked him, once, what Skill was like. Birthday'd simply shrugged cluelessly, and said, I don't know him. But I feel like I should? Like when you meet a hot chick and it's all déjà vu.

Neither Ratio nor Birthday had spoken of Skill again.

Murasaki adjusted his glasses. "From what I've gathered, Skill was responsible for restoring all Minimum."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Ratio confessed. "I don't know anything else about him—"

Thump.

"Fuck!"

Upon hearing Nice's shout, without a moment's pause, Ratio found himself on his feet and hurrying over in great strides. His eyepatch was flipped upwards without hesitation. Nice was curled on one side, almost in the foetal position, and the glowing of Ratio's Minimum dripped with poison.

"What happened?" Ratio demanded. Hajime'd been about to help, but hovered uncertainly when Ratio reached Nice's side.

"I... don't know," she said.

Ratio shook his head. It wasn't the time. "It doesn't matter. Nice, I'm going to run some checks. Tell me if anything hurts."

There was a nod. Ratio began. He sensed Nice's gaze on his face, the idiot's gaze. Nice stiffened every time Ratio touched him; Ratio forced himself to ignore any reaction he may have had, and concentrated on the lights and the whispering of his Minimum. At some point, Murasaki's watchtower aura joined them with the pulsing light of hidden injuries. Ratio made a note to take a closer look later, and since he'd looked at two of the three in the room, he then glanced at Hajime while his Minimum was still activated.

Despite participating in a martial arts tournament some hours prior, Hajime revealed nothing. No fatigue, no stresses, only—

Hajime's stomach growled.

She placed two hands over it and – was that a flush? Ratio looked at her with his normal eye. It was, and accompanied by a nervous pout. Ratio'd thought her mouth was incapable of showing expression. Hajime resembled a child trying to learn about themselves, and only one event could have sparked the change.

Nice and Hajime met a god at Landmark Tower.

Checks complete, the eyepatch was dropped back, and the world started receding. Nice and Murasaki exchanged barbs, with Hajime occasionally interjecting, but they were simply people behind a screen of secret moments which Ratio would never be privy to.

"—atio? Hey, Ratio, you copy?"

Ratio blinked to find the black knight staring.

"My apologies," said Ratio. Nice frowned, and Ratio realised he'd accidentally used formalities. Nice wasn't a normal patient. Nice was a friend in his social sphere. "Roger," Ratio corrected, "Black Knight, I copy."

"Black Knight?" echoed Murasaki. His brows were up again. There was no doubt he noticed Ratio's startled jerk; had Ratio really said it aloud?

"Oi, lay off," said Nice.

Hajime peered closer, brimming with curiosity. "Nice...?"

"You too," Nice grumbled. The black knight vanished. "It's a totally cool nickname."

"Black Knight..." said Hajime, slowly.

Ratio was sure he was sinking into the ground.

"Noooo," Nice interrupted, "that's so weird. If you're not going to say it in a deep, dark and dramatically cool voice, you can't call me that, got it?"

Had it been Birthday there, Ratio would have been more than certain that he'd noticed his distress and thrown him a rope single-handedly.

"Hey, Ratio," said Nice in his direction, "demonstrate, yeah? Say it again."

For a moment, Ratio could still believe he was up on the roof, still talking with Nice as the black knight. But then he looked closer, and realised the black knight hadn't returned.

Ratio hesitated. Murasaki was watching him again. Ratio wondered – was his reluctance embarrassment? Unlikely; not after all the times Birthday'd pulled him along to do something or other. Shame, then. For letting unwanted thoughts run wild. Ratio was keenly aware of his uncertainty, churning and churning.

"I don't see why I should have to," Ratio said, instead. He frowned. "Moreover, Nice, you injured yourself."

Nice deflated. "So it's not three days any more? How long now?"

"Seven."

"Whaaaaaaaat?"

"I'll drop by in five days to check on your condition," said Ratio, tone implying no negotiations. "You might get a chance to remove it then, provided that you don't cause additional strain."

Before Nice could reply, Hajime's stomach growled again.

"Really hungry," she murmured. "Hamburgers...?"

Nice shot up on the couch and nearly took Ratio's nose with him. "Great idea, Hajime! Murasaki," and he spun around, "we're having a hamburger party to celebrate Hajime's victory!"

"No."

"You can't just shoot it down like that! Hajime, what do you think?"

"...hungry."

"See, Murasaki?"

"No."

"C'mon—"

And Nice continued, but Ratio stopped listening. The planets aligned and everything clicked into place: Ratio's curtain of confusion opened to reveal a podium three-tiered. When Nice spoke to Hajime, he spoke upwards; when his words reached Hajime, she'd gaze to one side to look at nothing, or glance upwards to Ratio and to Murasaki as if seeking their reactions before dropping her eyes down to Nice's level. Nice and Murasaki shared their ideas to each other in the same way, by stubbornly fighting for the same position and constantly shooting the other down; always a victor, always a loser.

Then, Nice thought for a moment, scratched his cheek and said to Murasaki, if somewhat aggressively, "Look, I'm trying to talk to you about this."

There was a long pause until Murasaki finally grit his teeth and nodded.

"Fine," conceded Murasaki – and in Ratio's vision, taught to look for signals by Murasaki himself, Murasaki allowed Nice to take the position ahead in the lead. "What is it?"

"We're having a hamburger party," said Nice. "But," he added, interrupting a Murasaki who was in the process of denying, "we don't have to do it now, we can do it later."

"...After you've healed, you mean."

"Exactly."

Murasaki crossed his arms. "I see," he yielded. "In that case, you'll be cleaning up."

"Heh, sure," said Nice, laughing to himself and tapping his chest. "Look, Skill. We finally agreed on something. Meanwhile, Murasaki..."

Hajime's stomach growled.

"...Hajime's still hungry."

Ratio'd stayed behind to leave Murasaki some instructions, but didn't expect it when Murasaki prevented his departure.

"You saw it, didn't you?" he asked.

Ratio wanted to make sure what he was referring to. "Saw what?"

"Their dynamic."

"I... did, yes."

"Then you would have noticed the level with which Nice looked at you."

It was not voluntarily that Ratio's fingers tightened around the side of his tablet.

"I'm not sure what you're referring to," he answered. Ratio thought of the black knight, Nice blending into the distant sky, stillness and an apathetic gaze. Of course Ratio was fourth place, of course it was disdain.

"Think about it," said Murasaki, cryptically.

Ratio changed the topic and joked, "Think about Nice and Hajime and if they ever got into a fight."

Murasaki didn't chuckle. He didn't even smile. His face went straight from confident to chalky white. Stoic Murasaki actually shuddered like a man possessed, and the sight sent faint chills tapdancing up and down Ratio's spine.

"That would be hell on Earth," stated Murasaki, as if it were documented fact.

Ratio realised that he didn't know the degree of Hajime's self-control, her ability to concede, or her ability to diffuse a situation. The scariest of creatures lived in the darkest unknowns.

Ratio looked one in the eye and thought: Yes, it would be.

Twice more, Ratio visited, and Nice's sling was removed and his leg switched to a walking cast. Both times, Hajime'd been there in Ratio's chair, having taken over the role of looking after him; she listened to Ratio's explanations with hungry eyes and determined nods, and Ratio found her an eager learner – if a little lacking in the fundamentals.

Still, each time Ratio left, he'd glance toward Nice hoping to meet the black knight again but only found Hajime standing in the way.

Ratio returned to his apartment, hung up his coat, loosened his tie. He grabbed a drink and took a seat surrounded by shiny surfaces and copies of his reflection. Ratio leant back; the dozens of other Ratios leant back with him; and Ratio stared at the ceiling and wondered if he believed in fairytales.

That was how Birthday found him two hours later.

"Geez," said Birthday, once he'd checked Ratio's vitals after letting himself in. He still had Ratio's spare apartment key, and Ratio never once thought of asking it back from him. "At least answer your phone if you weren't going to the door! I thought you were unconscious, or overworking again."

You fucking scared me, went unsaid, but Ratio could hear it in Birthday's strained words, in Birthday's scuffling footsteps, and after the blur of gold vanished from the edge of his vision; Birthday, no longer craning his head above Ratio, shuffling noisily back to the entryway. Ratio heard him removing his shoes, slide open the shoe cabinet in search of slippers, and then heard the crumple of fabric when he threw his jacket off and onto Ratio's counter.

"What a sorry sight I must be," commented Ratio, more to himself.

"Damn right you are." Birthday's reply was muffled through walls; he'd gone and entered another room. "Is this what I was like, you know, before?"

Ratio didn't want to think about the time when Birthday still had his illness, and so he chose not to answer. "It's good to see you're doing well," he remarked instead.

"Don't give me that crap, Ratio."

And then Birthday was looking after him, asking where he'd gone and put the dustpan; Ratio thought for a moment before remarking that it might have been in the bathroom, and heard Birthday's trudging footsteps as he wandered over. Then Birthday's voice, humming to himself as he began to dust something Ratio could not see because Ratio was still lying in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. It was such a role-reversal, but Ratio supposed he should have expected it: Birthday, free to pick up the life he wanted to live, while Ratio'd gone and rotted after realising he had nothing but his work and Birthday to fuel him. Calls to Murasaki helped, certainly, but Murasaki was busy on his own. Birthday's determination to visit at least once a day was all Ratio had left, but even those were decreasing as Birthday's own life began to move forward and he could start taking relationships seriously without fear of relapsing.

"How is Misty?" asked Ratio. Chiyu'd introduced them properly once things had calmed down. To Ratio's surprise, especially given the whole kidnapping scenario, they'd hit it off very well.

"Misty's doing alright," came Birthday's reply. "She's out on tour in Tokyo, then she's got a deadline as soon as she gets back."

There was the sound of running water. Birthday was the only reason why Ratio's place was so clean; the only reason Ratio's mysophobiahadn't flared up since the Art Incident, not once. Ratio would never have pinned Birthday as the type to be obsessive about cleanliness given the state of his own apartment. Perhaps the responsibilities of being in a steady relationship had changed him.

"But I know you don't care about what she's up to, Mr. Lonely Bachelor," Birthday added, in a different tone.

"I do—" began Ratio.

"Because it's me, right?" Birthday turned the spigot off. He sighed. There was the echoing of footsteps, the sliding of a chair, and then Birthday was sitting next to him and Ratio could see golden hair and worried eyes in his vision again. "I'm sorry, Ratiocchi."

Ratio glanced away. "What are you sorry for?" he asked.

"Running around with a girlfriend while you're all alone, duh."

"I'm not," replied Ratio, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears. "I'm fine. I..."

He was cut off when Birthday decided to pretend he was a table, leaning forward and resting an elbow against his chest. He tucked that arm beneath his chin in a thoughtful manner. Then, he spat out an overdramatically long sigh, rumbling, trilling from the back of his throat, vibrating like the engine of Ratio's sports car.

"Doctor, doctor," Birthday mock-remarked. "You know what it is you have here? It looks like you're suffering from an incredibly acute case of bachelor syndrome, and I'm afraid it's terminal to your social life." He mimed writing a prescription on an invisible notepad. "Do you know what the cure is?"

"...What?"

The prescription was ripped off, and Birthday carried the momentum to fling it backwards and toss it away. "What you need is a party."

Ratio remembered a conversation.

"...Nice is having a party soon," said Ratio absently.

"Nice?" echoed Birthday. "Oh, are you still doing that thing for Murasaki?" Silently, Ratio nodded. "How's that going?" added Birthday.

"Nice will be fully recovered likely next week," answered Ratio. It's an easy reply; he'd said the exact words recently. "But I'll have him keep the cast for longer... he keeps threatening his chances at recovery."

Birthday's face was suddenly very, very close to Ratio's, and his eyes were narrowed. "But you're saying that like it's a bad thing."

"What are you talking about?"

Ratio watched Birthday draw away, then hop to his feet. He began pacing circles in Ratio's living room. "Wait, you haven't even talked about Murasaki yet, even though you guys are super close..." he mumbled to himself, hands tucked behind his back, before he "hmmed", and "hrmmmmed", and it all made Ratio rather confused. Ratio decided that, since he'd had to lift his head to look at Birthday's pacing, he may as well sit up; so he reached aside and pulled the lever which controlled the back of his chair, and then he was sitting up straight again.

By then, Birthday'd reached whatever conclusion he'd been attempting to reach. He announced it by walking back around to Ratio, thumping his hand on Ratio's back, and leaning inwards with an incredibly large and devilish grin.

"Ratio," said Birthday.

Ratio started to wonder what Birthday was up to. "Yes...?"

"You are going to invite Nice over for that party," informed Birthday. Ratio had no doubt that, if he didn't do it, Birthday would do it himself. "And Murasaki," added Birthday, "he can cook."

"What about Hajime?"

When Birthday stared at him like he'd said the dumbest thing in the world, Ratio saw Nice with the same expression instead.

"...Fine," said Birthday. The image of Nice vanished. "You can invite Hajime, but only do that if not inviting her would make you look like an ass."

Ratio stared. "And Misty?"

"No, no, Ratio," and then Birthday's face was in his face, so close their cheeks touched. Ratio'd been attracted to him, once, and his heart would have leapt had that not faded. By now, Birthday's physical contact was more sibling than romantic in any way. "Misty doesn't need to be a part of this. She'll understand. This is a bro thing."

Idly, Ratio noted that Birthday'd taken to snacking on mints again, if his breath was any indication. "I have no idea what you're—"

"You'll see," Birthday promised mysteriously. He slung an arm around Ratio's shoulders. "Just let Birthday know when it is and Birthday will be here running the show. Say, have you changed your pin number?"

When Ratio invited them, his agreements had been varied. Murasaki'd been slightly reluctant, until Ratio reassured him (according to Birthday's script) that it was an opportunity to experiment to his heart's content without having to do any of the cleaning up. By contrast, Nice immediately jumped on board; and then Nice told Hajime, and Hajime would be going along also.

That was on Wednesday.

But by the time Sunday rolled around, and Ratio opened the door to his apartment in order to meet them, Nice and Hajime were divided by a wall of crackling electricity – and for an instant, Ratio thought that Birthday'd snuck up with them. Then a chin draped itself over Ratio's shoulder from behind and no: Birthday was with him.

Ratio met Murasaki's gaze and almost regretted the action. A dozen stress lines and dark shadows beneath both eyes greeted him back.

Birthday saw the pool of tension and cannonballed right in.

"Welcome to Ratio's fancy apartment!" he called, sliding aside and then gesturing as if he were an announcer and it was all a game show. "Shoes off! This way, please, if you would."

And then Birthday smoothly ushered both Nice and Hajime inside without any fuss at all. "Trouble in paradise?" Ratio heard, moments before Birthday escorted them around the corner and into the living room. Any further conversation was muted by his walls.

That effectively left Ratio and Murasaki as the only two left in the doorway.

"What...?" Ratio began.

"They got into a fight before we left," was Murasaki's disgruntled reply.

Ratio decided that yes, his attempt at a joke had been in bad taste after all.

"I wasn't expecting I'd actually curse you," he commented, as he handed a pair of slippers across. "That said, you could have simply cancelled."

Murasaki glanced sideways, tiredly. "Nice insisted we couldn't." Then he raised his brows. "Will you be showing me to your kitchen or will I need to find it on my own?"

"Right. This way."

In no time at all, the door was closed and locked. Then, dutifully, in the manner of one who was long resigned to accomplishing tasks for others, Murasaki followed Ratio. The two of them passed the living room on the way to the kitchen, and Ratio saw Birthday acting as an MC to facilitate discussion between Nice and Hajime. He was at home in the electric field, directing the two most skilfully, juggling their snappishness with such ease that Nice and Hajime looked like two puppies uncertain whether to snap at one another or brood in silence. Birthday even had time to give Ratio and Murasaki a wave and a grin, and gestured to Ratio that he should go off and help with the food because whatever he was planning could wait for later.

Ratio noticed Murasaki's intent gaze on Birthday. But then they arrived at the kitchen before Ratio managed to form any thoughts, and Murasaki looked around at the polished countertops and surfaces covered in stainless steel.

"This is fancy," he commented.

Ratio ducked his head. "Feel free to use what you'd like. Birthday stocked the fridge a little... enthusiastically." Well, he thought, Murasaki would see. "What did they fight about?"

"Hajime decided to help Nice clean, and put back the chair you'd pulled up," was Murasaki's reply. He opened the fridge and gave Ratio an exasperated expression. "Nice wouldn't explain why he was upset, and the two of them ended up screaming 'I don't know' at each other."

Then Murasaki turned to look inside the fridge, as Ratio digested the words, and Ratio saw him freeze and blink. Perhaps it would have been more accurate if Ratio had said that Birthday stocked his fridge over-enthusiastically; it was spilling vegetables and raw ingredients on every level and from every corner. A very healthy selection of chillis and bell peppers sat nested in the centre. Proteins, too, were covered, with copious beef and pork and chicken and seafood. It wasn't anything Ratio himself expected when he'd given Birthday full reign.

"Are you ever going to finish this?" said Murasaki.

Ratio, too, wondered that same question. "That possibility might exist if you're willing to contribute to its consumption."

"Then we have no choice but to take some, it seems." The fridge was closed.

Ratio'd reached the same conclusion. He didn't mind that Birthday would be forcing Hamatora to accept charity. It hadn't taken long for money to lose all meaning to Ratio, given that it couldn't cure Birthday and that his own spending was often limited to his rent and car alone. He earned his wages with ease. Cheat codes, Nice had called his Minimum. Supernatural Minimums really were.

He took Murasaki's jacket, hung it against a wall, and allowed him to explore his new work area. Murasaki began rifling through cupboards, familiarising himself, pulling out salt, asking Ratio if he had an apron. By the time Ratio returned with aprons and a pair of long gloves for himself, Murasaki's exploration had been completed and he'd already decided on what he wanted to make, if the pile of ingredients on the counter was any indication.

In the collection, there was a lot of chilli.

"Planning to burn us alive?" asked Ratio.

"That was what Birthday appeared to be suggesting," said Murasaki. He tied his apron efficiently. "How are you with your spices?"

"...Sensitive."

Murasaki huffed, disappointed. Shame. "Nice is the same way. And Birthday?"

"As much as you see fit," and Ratio tried not to think about how frighteningly red Birthday's favourite level of chilli in his noodles happened to be. "His stomach is iron – he'll finish it all."

Briefly, Ratio wondered if the glint reflected off Murasaki's glasses when he adjusted them was a figment of his imagination.

Murasaki grabbed the bell peppers and began to prepare them. Ratio offered his help; "Pick whatever you want," Murasaki informed him, inclining his head toward the pile of ingredients; Ratio selected the carrots, stopped to confirm how Murasaki required them, then started washing.

Some time passed.

"Did you think about Nice like I asked?" said Murasaki, suddenly.

"I did," replied Ratio. "But I did not reach any new conclusion."

Murasaki made a thoughtful noise. The two of them continued preparations; Ratio had no idea just how many plates and bowls he owned, and how large his kitchen was until he moved on to the onions – and by then, they'd cleaned, washed, diced and sliced raw ingredients faster than Murasaki had time to cook them. When Murasaki moved to the stove, Hajime's voice started shouting about explaining things, though the walls and the sounds in the kitchen meant her exact words could not be discerned.

"I'm surprised," remarked Ratio.

There was a tapping as Murasaki played with the settings. "About?"

"Her decision to take up mixed martial arts." Ratio stopped, briefly, to throw some scraps away. "She certainly is suited for it, but the only inclination I gathered from her was an interest in food."

Murasaki paused for a moment and gave Ratio a curious look. Ratio didn't doubt he was being picked apart, but he didn't mind.

"She wants to pay Master back for everything he's done for her," answered Murasaki.

"I see." So even Hajime, unadjusted to the world, had found her Ego. Her desire to repay joined Murasaki's desire to surpass, Birthday's desire to live, and Nice's desire to be with her; Ratio was alone in that he had no desires left at all. "So that's her duality."

"...No wonder my words made no sense to you," said Murasaki, abruptly. "You think in dualities. Black or white, something or nothing."

Ratio blinked. "Sorry?"

Before Murasaki was able to reply, Nice wandered into the kitchen, hands in his pockets and scowling irritably. Birthday followed after him.

"Running away, Nice?" asked Birthday.

"Trying to avoid you," Nice shot back, then turned to Murasaki and Ratio. "What are you guys maki—" He broke off when he spotted the bell peppers, and the mound of chilli. "Murasaki, you better be making things that aren't trying to kill people."

"Aww," said Birthday. "Is little Nice scared of a little spice?"

Nice pushed Birthday off when he tried to lean on his shoulder. "Consider that there are people in this world who like having tastebuds before you come up with these things."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Isn't it obvious? Especially after you went and pointed me toward Ratio's bedroom when I was looking for the bathroom—"

"What?" snapped Ratio. Any thoughts of Nice's scarily accurate conclusions were gone, replaced by growing horror. Not because it was a mess; it was never a mess, especially not when Birthday'd been doing a lot of the cleaning for him; but because Ratio himself had been spending so little time in his room that he couldn't remember what it looked like himself. "Birthday, you...?"

Birthday took two steps and twirled around so that he could lean into Ratio's personal space. Something about Birthday being so close to him was unnerving, now, even though they weren't touching one another. Perhaps it was Nice's slowly-darkening glare, or Murasaki's presence next to him.

Ratio's kitchen had never felt so small.

"Sorry, Ratiocchi," said Birthday, looking up imploringly. "But Nice's expression was priceless. I won't ever do it again." He winked. "Not when I have photos."

Nice tensed, expression a thunderstorm, and coiled up in preparation for a punch. "You—"

He was interrupted by a loud crash as Murasaki slammed a pan onto the stove with more force than necessary.

"Do you want to eat?" threatened Murasaki.

Simultaneously, Nice and Birthday froze, then nodded rapidly.

Murasaki scowled. "Then get out and don't make a mess. No fighting in the kitchen."

Demurely, Nice and Birthday nodded again, then turned to one another.

"Truce?" Birthday offered, extending a hand.

Nice folded his arms instead of accepting the handshake. "Only if you delete those photos. For the glory of Murasaki's cooking."

Birthday sighed dramatically, pulled out his phone, and made sure to delete them in a way that Nice could confirm.

"For the glory of Murasaki's cooking," he agreed.

They shook hands most solemnly.

"Now, Nice," Birthday began, swinging an arm around Nice's shoulders and steering him away, "let Birthday boy here give you some advice for a second..."

And they left.

Ratio decided not to mention that he felt his phone vibrate with the arrival of several new messages, no doubt from Birthday.

Murasaki sighed like a man carrying the weight of the entire world.

"Did the stove...?" asked Ratio.

"The stove?" repeated Murasaki, in the manner of someone who'd forgotten. He quickly checked. "It's fine. The force was dispersed. I doubt anything is broken."

Ratio reflexively reached up to touch his eyepatch, only to pause when he remembered he was wearing long gloves. "But are you alright, Murasaki?"

"It's simply fatigue and a blinding headache," Murasaki replied. He laughed, bitterly. "He's mocking me. The only time I can win against him is when I threaten him with my cooking. Even when he's crippled by a pathetic love life, he's still stronger."

"Why?"

Ratio didn't mean to let the question drop. By the way Murasaki turned to him sharply, he didn't expect it either.

"Why what?" said Murasaki.

It was too late to retry.

"Why are you so obsessed with being stronger than him?" Ratio posed. "Nobody is threatening you, you do not owe anything, there aren't any lives on the line..."

Murasaki stared as if the possibility had never occurred. "Why not?" He put a hand over his heart, and gripped his chest. "As far as this heart of mine is concerned, it is my own life that is on the line. I owe myself to prove that I am the strongest. I don't want to live in a world where I'm aware of my own mediocrity."

"I don't think you are a mediocre man," stated Ratio.

"Tell that to the person who looks back at me in the mirror," was Murasaki's reply.

Ratio's first thought was: He reminds me of myself before I met Birthday.

His second thought was: What would Birthday do?

The strangest feeling washed over Ratio, like a jigsaw puzzle taking shape. Except his jigsaw puzzle was the colour gold, bits of pieces of Birthday's personality, and the wildest imaginings of childish fantasy to make up for Birthday's natural creativity.

And then Ratio saw the answer.

"I apologise," said Murasaki. The silence had stretched too long. He adjusted his glasses and returned to the stove again. "My headache must be worse than I realised. Forget what—"

"Murasaki." Ratio interrupted.

The seriousness in his words made Murasaki stop. "Excuse me...?"

"That's your Ego?" Ratio asked. "To surpass him?"

"...Yes. If you must put it that way, although," Murasaki paused, turned back to Ratio. "I doubt he understands the meaning of ego."

"Then why do you keep ignoring it when you do happen to win?"

Murasaki frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Ratio, "you need to qualify your Ego. If you have no cure for a disease, then you may only attempt to prescribe for each individual symptom. Instead of the goal of surpassing him, take scope of every factor. And that is where you will benefit in this analogy; where symptoms are alleviated via medicine, not all medicine is compatible with each other. But to surpass a person, what you require is knowledge, and knowledge may be gathered infinitely."

Murasaki adjusted his glasses once more.

"Break my goal into smaller tasks, you mean?" Murasaki said.

Ratio nodded. "It is impossible to do anything all at once. Sometimes luck will let that occur, as it did with Birthday and the Healing Minimum. But until then, I, too, could only assist those attempting to determine the cause of Birthday's illness one possibility at a time. Do not discount that your cooking is better."

"Only cooking?" echoed Murasaki. His eyes narrowed. "Have you seen that miserable attempt at what he calls 'laundry'? And on our last case, when he tried to charm—"

"You have practical intelligence."

"...Yes," said Murasaki. "Practical skills. But they mean nothing when—"

"What I meant," Ratio said, "is that your talents create results. Your actions are grounded in reality. In comparison, Nice is... a theorist. He is intelligent, but he has never done any work. The only times his observations have meant anything are when he talks to those wanting to hear them. You... create results," he said, then realised he was repeating himself. "And... I would rather have had you by my side when searching for Birthday's cure than Nice. You haven't really left Facultas."

Suddenly, Murasaki started to laugh. When he did, Ratio could not stop the spike of concern, but Murasaki simply kept shaking his head to himself and chuckling softly.

"Stick to your day job," Murasaki told him. "That's one of the worst explanations I've heard in my life."

A slow smile began to spread on Ratio's face. "I never claimed to excel in the field." With his Minimum, so precise, the fact that there were only so many different cases he would handle as a physician, and Birthday doing most of the talking when he was not at work, explaining was not a skill he'd ever needed to learn.

"Look into it, at least," suggested Murasaki. "Reduce the over complication. Analogies are not necessary unless explaining specialities. Focus the duality here as simple sense or complex mess. I should break my goal into smaller and more realistic objectives, and take what victories I can. Is that right?"

"It is," said Ratio.

"The next point..." and Murasaki paused.

Ratio opted to try. "Nice is brilliant but lazy. Practically, someone who is purely a critic is ultimately useless. In the long term, Facultas's rankings do not matter in the real world where only results do." Ratio, too, paused. Somehow, with Murasaki's advice in mind, it worked. "Murasaki, ever consider going into teaching?"

"That's much better," Murasaki commented. "And I've been a teacher. Having to deal with all the obnoxiousness... It's a dreadful profession."

"But you deal with a lot worse by being with Nice."

"There is a difference," stated Murasaki. He turned away rather than going into details; so swiftly, it was difficult to tell if the edge of contemplation in his expression was real or a figment of Ratio's imagination. "But I should return to making this meal," he said, changing the subject. "We have delayed long enough. And you should confess to Nice."

Ratio's brain ground to a halt. "...what?"

"Ask him out, Ratio. He likes you back, even if he hasn't realised. His relationship with Hajime isn't going to last once I stop helping him. Could I ask you to pass me the—"

Murasaki cut himself off when he noticed that Ratio was staring, and Ratio's stunned expression. Then Murasaki took a deep breath before releasing it as a sigh.

"...Don't tell me," he muttered. "You didn't realise you liked him either."

Ratio hadn't.

Despite the fact that Nice and Hajime arrived whilst shooting death glares, nothing exploded and nothing combusted. Furthermore, nothing was damaged, aside from Ratio's ability to eat without being choosy. Murasaki's cooking was so deliciously surreal that standards and expectations materialised without even asking. Whatever Birthday'd been doing, it had worked; Hajime was smiling even before the food made its way to the table, and even Nice couldn't sustain a frown during the course of the entire meal.

After they'd left and Ratio and Birthday were cleaning up, Birthday said, "You are so into him."

"Nice?" asked Ratio, though he didn't need to.

"Nice," confirmed Birthday. "You couldn't tear your eyes off for a second. Were you just playing dumb when you wanted to invite everyone else too?"

No, Ratio told him, because he hadn't realised he did like Nice to some degree until Murasaki suggested it. Birthday proceeded to make a huge fuss about how he was supposed to be Ratio's wingman, splashing soapy water from the sink all over the place, which really did nothing but extend the cleaning process further. Ratio suspected he wasn't so much upset but having fun splashing.

A thought occurred to Ratio as Birthday was about to leave. "What were you doing?"

"Well..." and Birthday hitched his arms behind his head. "Entertaining Hajime."

"Hajime?"

"See... since she was coming along, I had to keep her out of the way so you and Nice could have some bonding time..."

But, since Nice and Hajime had been extremely angry at one another, all of Birthday's plans had flown out the window after the first magic trick he'd performed to try and distract them. Vanishing coins with sleight of hand had captivated her, cutting decks of shuffled cards to reveal a secret card he should not have known had entranced; and Nice, added Birthday, with a faint grumble, rudely explained every trick as soon as he'd completed them.

"Hajime's the best kind of audience, she just likes watching the tricks." Birthday sighed. "I could do the same trick ten times and she'd be as amazed the tenth as she was the first. Did you hear her shouting at Nice to stop explaining them? That's the best. Even Misty gets bored after the third."

"Doesn't that mean you should learn new tricks?" said Ratio.

Birthday waved a hand. "I like these ones." Which meant: I don't want to. "Ratio," he said, then pulled out a deck. He shuffled it before fanning it out into the shape of a disc using nothing but his palms, "want to pick a card?"

Ratio did so. He knew the trick, knew which deck that Birthday was using. It was the one with the subtle directional marker in the centre; when Ratio would be looking at his card, Birthday would distract him so that he could flip the deck upside-down. No matter how much Birthday shuffled, no matter how much he hmmmmed or haaaaahed in deep thought, only Ratio's card would have its marker pointing in the opposite direction, and finding that card would be easy for him.

What Ratio didn't expect was Birthday to flourish the deck while shuffling: the cards danced between his fingers, leapt into the air from hand to hand; and rather than simply finding the card which Ratio memorised, he fished it out with half a finger. It spun before being caught, and Birthday presented the fanned deck face-down with Ratio's card face-up between two edges.

Obligingly, Ratio clapped. Birthday put the deck away and bowed; thank you, thank you.

"That was new," Ratio commented. "Suitably flashy."

Birthday grinned. "Right? One of Misty's friends introduced me to this pretty nice cardistry thing." He paused, then made a face. "What is it you like about Nice, anyway? He's rude and dumb if you ignore him too much, and has a stick even bigger up his ass than Murasaki does up his."

Rude and dumb. That was the idiot. Ratio thought of the black knight, the peaceful calm, the harmonics which had plagued him up on that roof – the harmonics he now understood as some mystical charisma interacting with his sense of attraction. The attraction was a need to be with him; being enveloped in Nice's presence consumed his stress, brought peace even in turmoil, made him feel younger and free.

But that was not what Birthday was asking for.

"There's no need to pretend around him," answered Ratio.

Birthday stared. "Haah? He literally pretends to be a moron 24/7."

"Not when he's—" the black knight. Pause; think for one moment, the black knight only appeared when... "Not when he's around me." Ratio stopped. His metallic limbs vibrated at the implication, and he almost laughed. No wonder why Murasaki'd considered him blind. "Nice has... this aura that believes in humanity."

"Sorry, Ratio," said Birthday. He scratched his head. "I don't get you. But I never really understood your standards, anyway."

Then Birthday blinked.

"No, no!" he exclaimed. "I do! He acts just like I did when I met you!"

"...Does he?"

"Yeah! Doing what he wants while not caring about other people's feelings..." Birthday snickered. He snorted. And then he giggled, bubbly laughter leaving his mouth, and he doubled over. "You liked me enough that you stuck with me, and—"

It was getting difficult to understand Birthday's words. "And?" demanded Ratio.

"And," Birthday wheezed, "Ratio, you like the bad boy type, don't you?"

Birthday collapsed.

Ratio leapt forward with a cry on his lips and his heart in his throat, until he remembered that Birthday no longer has his illness, and saw the grin so large it could not have been formed with a human jaw. Birthday collapsed from tears, and giggles, laughing so hard he'd forgotten to breathe.

And then, as quickly as the laughter started, it stopped.

Solemnly, Birthday rose to his feet, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and then clapped Ratio on the shoulder with his other. He leaned in closely. Ratio couldn't remember the last time Birthday'd looked so serious in his life. But in his expression there was no worry there.

"Ratio," said Birthday. "You have great preferences because they're yours. I didn't mean to laugh... I was amazed it took me so long. Go chase after Nice if that's who you love, just promise me one thing."

"I'll hear it first," Ratio replied.

Birthday's eyes shone iridescent. "Look after yourself. Love isn't love if it ends up using someone and hurting them."

"...Is that why you rejected me?" asked Ratio.

It had taken everything Ratio had to confess to Birthday, years ago. He still remembered how Birthday's eyes had flashed fearfully for an instant, how Birthday'd slumped lifelessly and fallen silent, then the disgusting smile he'd forced onto his features before he'd said: "Sorry, Ratio~ I'm straight. Couldn't you tell?"

And any relationship had ended before it had a chance to begin.

(Birthday's skirt-chasing had only intensified after that, as if he had a point to prove.)

Ratio watched Birthday pause, and blink, not expecting the change in subject. Then he smiled. It was almost a genuine smile, carrying a hint of something too well-cloaked to discern; Ratio would have taken it as genuine if their faces were not so close together.

"Who knows~?" sung Birthday. He released Ratio, and hopped away. Birthday craned his head back to look at Ratio's ceiling. "Maybe it's all a timing thing, huh? Stuff might have turned out differently if I knew I'd have so long."

Ratio knew what he was talking about. Ratio'd gotten over his attraction toward Birthday more than a year before Birthday's life and freedom had finally begun.

"It's going well with Misty, isn't it?"

When Birthday looked back to Ratio, his smile was real. "It really is. Hey, you know, she's a bit like you."

"Really?" said Ratio, raising his eyebrows; as if he hadn't felt a connection when both Chiyu and Birthday were kidnapped; as if he hadn't been spurned to tell her how Birthday'd killed his former self, despite knowing her for less than a day, and because he hadn't known any better way to explain his beliefs to her.

"Yeah, really," insisted Birthday, nodding. The nodding stopped. "Don't think you can get me to leave without agreeing to that promise, by the way. Will you look after yourself?"

There was a silence.

I don't want you devoting your entire life and everything ever again, said Birthday.

And Ratio...

Ratio steeled himself. Then he walked forward and hugged him.

Birthday's aroma consisted of cut grass and syrupy honey; Ratio would never tell Birthday how many times he'd bought candles with those scents to waft around his empty, lonely apartment. Memories returned, unbidden; Birthday, walking into his apartment, commenting on how warm everything was with the candles and asking if Ratio was trying to take up alternative medicine; the candles left in one of his cupboards, untouched for months – until Birthday's last attack and Birthday's subsequent return to hospital. Ratio'd lit two, and seven candles were left. It was a moment of weakness that Ratio would never repeat again.

Slowly, Birthday lifted his arms and hugged him back. The two of them felt company in the rise and fall of each other's chest.

Something told Ratio that it would be the last time.

"I promise," swore Ratio. "Make sure you do the same."

Ratio sent Murasaki a text, later. Anything to get his mind off the candles he'd thrown into the bin. The spare apartment key which had belonged to Birthday sat next to his phone.

You mentioned I thought in dualities. I put further thought into it. It was most likely developed as a coping mechanism whilst Birthday still possessed his illness, due to my own weakness. Without blind faith that a cure existed, I would not have had the strength to continue going without once resigning.

The last time Ratio'd done any cleaning was months ago. He discovered the hard way that Birthday hadn't cleaned his curtains once. The sight had been so horrifying that Ratio'd needed a long moment to himself in the shower, scrubbed his bathroom twice, and opened two bottles of bleach before he was calm enough to tackle the monster.

When his phone alerted him to a new message, he was covered from head to toe in rubber and protective plastic. Ratio peered at the alert. Then, he slowly set about peeling off the layers so he could use the touchscreen.

It's not your weakness, Murasaki replied. You managed to find the Healing Minimum because of it. So long as you are aware of it, it is not bad to blindly believe in something if that is where one's strength must be drawn.

Ratio wondered if the advice had been drawn from his studies of others or if it was something he believed himself. Such impersonal communication made it hard to tell.

And then he realised something.

You distracted me that day, so I didn't manage to ask. Ratio sent back. Have you considered what I said about accepting what you already have?

Ratio received another text a few hours later:

Nice looks at peoples' hands before peoples' eyes. Six years is not so bad – you will be good for him.

More than a week passed, but Murasaki still didn't answer the question.

Ratio met Nice again.

It was a late morning at Café Nowhere, and aside from the constants of Master and Koneko, Ratio was the only person in the store. Such an occurrence wasn't particularly odd, as everyone often came and went as they pleased. Misty'd returned to Yokohama, so Birthday was with her. Hamatora were probably on a job, Honey and Three likely at the orphanage. There could be many reasons why Ratio was alone.

He was in his usual seat in one of the padded chairs, Koneko having just collected the remains of his lunch, and idly waiting for the food to settle within his stomach when Nice walked into the building. It had been long enough since the accident that Nice had healed entirely, though he still lacked some of the muscle mass he used to own.

Nice looked around, stared for a moment at the sign proclaiming one of the tables was his office, and then spotted Ratio.

Nice walked past his office and took a seat to Ratio's right.

"Good afternoon, Nice," said Ratio.

"Yo."

There was silence. Ratio checked his email, and wondered if Nice was sulking. He glanced across briefly, wondering if it was the idiot or the black knight there; but as soon as he turned so that he could get a good look in his blind spot, he found Nice staring back at him. Ratio quickly diverted his gaze back to his tablet.

Nice was close. Very close. The two of them had never been less than an arm's length away, and now that Ratio knew he was attracted to him, the unexpected closeness was slightly unnerving.

Silence returned again.

Nice broke it. "Hey, Ratio?"

"Hmm?" said Ratio.

"Do you know what one plus one equals?"

Ratio glanced up from his tablet. The tone of the question reminded him of a joke by Birthday. "Eleven, isn't it?"

There was a pause. Nice shifted.

"Ohh, that works too," he muttered to himself. "String concatenation."

"What do you say one plus one equals?" asked Ratio, looking to him.

Nice grinned. "Window."

Ratio took a moment to write the characters in his mind.

"Ah, of course," he said, and chuckled. "Take the plus sign as window stiles and construct a frame around it with both '1's and the equals sign. That's clever."

"Right?" Nice's grin vanished. He sighed and slid down the seat slightly. "Too bad Hajime didn't get it and Murasaki doesn't think it's funny."

For some reason, Ratio expected that conclusion. "That's a shame."

The two of them fell quiet again. Nice was still. Ratio looked back to his tablet.

Moments passed. The café was filled with the sound of the faucet running at the other end of the room, as either Master or Koneko began to wash something behind the counter. It wasn't an awkward lull, but a silence of a companionable sort. Ratio thought that it did not matter if he liked Nice or Nice liked him back; he just wished he could remain in such company forever.

"I've been thinking about it lately," said Nice, suddenly.

Ratio glanced across again. "About?" he prompted.

"Mine and Hajime's relationship." Ratio didn't respond. Nice continued. "I know I told you that was my Ego, but... Murasaki told me he didn't think we were a good match. And then there was that fight we had before going to your place – uh, thanks for inviting us, by the way."

"No thanks required," replied Ratio automatically, thinking that soon enough he wouldn't begin to think twice whenever Nice verbally thanked or apologised.

He wasn't sure what to say next. Was it wise to tell Nice that he and Murasaki had been discussing the matter of relationships behind his back?

There was a movement in his blind spot. Spurned, Ratio turned around again, and found their eyes meeting once more. Ratio expected the closeness, so he did not recoil, but neither did he find he could pull away. Nice's eyes were illuminated with the light of the sky through Nowhere's windows, gaze aloof, slightly narrowed; not Murasaki's sharp, hawk-eyed scrutiny but a reptilian one, both alert and sleeping quietly.

Ratio's pulse raced. Nice had the black knight's stare and the idiot's carefree smile, framed by soft-tousled hair. Blood moved around Ratio's face; he could feel it shifting, sliding around, mercurial. In that moment, he wasn't looking at either the black knight or the idiot.

It was Nice.

Ratio at once wanted to touch him, convince himself that the Nice sitting next to him was real; that those entrancing features did exist and Ratio wasn't dreaming, and Ratio could stare at him with his normal eye and his Minimum eye and see a person there; but Ratio didn't want to move. Moving was a confession. And a confession was something which could destroy the companionship he held too dear.

In response to Ratio's reluctance, Ratio imagined Murasaki simply spilling over.

"I resign," Murasaki'd say, burying his head in his hands. Then, he'd give up on Nice and promptly take a holiday.

...Somewhere with a beach. So he could wear a loud, floral t-shirt, sip icy cold drinks to cool off after boiling, and lounge around. He'd force himself to relax, which would have the adverse effect, and by the time he returned to Japan he would be lobster-tanned and angrier than he'd ever been. "Just get together with Nice already!" he'd say to Ratio, veins popping from his forehead, holding his arms apart like he was gesturing the length of a monster fish. "I am this mad—"

"You're smiling with your teeth," Nice observed, cutting into his thoughts. "Did anyone ever tell you that you look your age when you do that?"

Ratio blinked and the images of Murasaki vanished.

"I... ah?" Ratio's mouth closed.

Nice's mouth curved into the idiot's dramatic moping. "Now you look twenty-three again," he said.

"I am twenty-three," stated Ratio.

"Not really," said Nice, and he drew his legs up so that he could sit cross-legged atop the seat. It didn't match the black knight's composure. "You always seemed more like a thirty year old middle-schooler." He started scratching a bandage. "Although after Birthday was cured, you've been de-aging. Twenty-five, maybe. With all the middle-schooler's style. So chuuni."

"Chuuni?" repeated Ratio. Did he really act like a middle-school child?

"Yeah, but..." Nice broke the gaze when his eyes flickered aside contemplatively. "That's been growing up, maybe."

And so the duality Nice was seeing in Ratio was evening out as well. Perhaps it was to be expected. Ratio thought of the lightness he had around Nice and how he was allowed to be carefree.

"I think I'm having fun now," said Ratio.

"Fun's good," Nice enthused. He sighed again. "Too bad it hasn't really been as fun being with Hajime."

"Aside from that fight, you seemed to be enjoying yourselves—"

"When she laughs, she laughs with me." Nice stretched out an arm and stared at his hand. "Not at the jokes I'm telling her."

Ratio locked the screen of his tablet and placed it on the table.

"I see," he remarked. "She doesn't get them."

"Nope," confirmed Nice, tucking both hands in his pockets. "I've gotten too used to Murasaki's acuity – speaking of," he added, finally making eye-contact with Ratio again, "what do you think? I know you and Murasaki keep talking about the two of us."

The concerns Ratio had earlier vanished. Nice was already aware that Ratio and Murasaki gossiped to pass the time. Ratio found he wasn't really surprised; maybe he should have been upset that Nice realised so easily, but he didn't mind. He kept very few secrets to his heart. Nice recognising things did nothing but relieve him, because then he wouldn't have to worry about it any longer.

"I think..." Ratio began, and then thought about it. Discounting his attraction for Nice, and any jealousy that would arise from it, and contemplating his and Hajime's relationship... who was he to tell Nice what to do?

Nice watched him think, rocking back and forth expectantly. A mint had materialised in his hands at some point; Nice popped it into his mouth and started snacking lazily.

"I think you should follow your heart," said Ratio.

A hand snaked up to Nice's cheek, and he began scratching a bandage contemplatively once more. "But you're still hiding something, aren't you?" he asked.

Ratio started. "How did you..."

"When you have something to contribute, you have a habit of tensing your thumb around your index finger," Nice informed. "Your hands are pretty expressive. I'm pretty sure Murasaki noticed it weeks ago."

Ratio thought of Murasaki again. But there was no tropical holiday Murasaki now: he remembered Murasaki's seriousness, repeating words which Ratio had replayed to himself at least a dozen times. Ask him out, Ratio. He likes you back.

If Ratio was more inclined toward hesitating, he might have remembered his reluctance to confess earlier. Ratio was proud of the fact that he was not. There was no room for hesitation in the world he lived in most predominantly, one of dualities. Clean or dirty. Effort or none. Yes or no. He remembered the duality which Murasaki'd impressed upon him: simple sense or complex mess. Hesitation, with all its rationalisations, fell in the latter. He'd lost himself for a moment, or perhaps lost himself in Nice's sky.

(But that was another duality of his own.)

"You are correct," said Ratio. "I'm hiding something."

Nice gave him a cheeky smile. Behind his lips, the mint rolled around on his tongue. "And that is...?"

"...I love you."

Whatever Nice had been expecting, it was not that. He leapt to his feet so quickly he nearly flew into a nearby chair. Nice stared, eyes wide and mouth slack-jawed, and Ratio stared back. Nice blinked, and Ratio did not. Ratio supposed there was some humour to be found since Nice, for all his intelligence, did not consider the possibility of love, but there was no Birthday to make the comment and so Ratio discarded it easily.

What will you do? Ratio wanted to ask, but his lips and his throat would not move. He wanted to look at Nice with his Minimum, gather clues by observing the changes in physiology, but he didn't. All he did was sit and wait. Patiently and patiently.

Nice's mouth closed. His fingers scrambled for the headphones around his neck; finding them, they were clumsily slipped on. Without another look, he snapped his fingers and vanished.

Koneko started shouting at the doorway, but Ratio wasn't listening. Ratio was trying to stand up, but his arms were lead and too heavy to move. The hope clinging to Nice's shadow left his heart slapped against the floor, pooling in its own blood; by the time Ratio gathered the strength to reel it back in and reach for his tablet so he could go back to work, Ratio had already resolved to move on again.

Until he finished his drink and tasted a hint of foreign mint on his lips, saw the image of a grinning Nice flash before him, and realised: Things would be alright.

He wouldn't need to move on from Nice if he wanted to move on with his life again.

Birthday crowed.

"YES!" he roared, pumping a fist in the air.

Or so Ratio imagined he did, at least. When he'd called Birthday, knowing that Birthday would spend at least a week pretending to mope if Ratio did not call him immediately, Birthday'd been out with Misty. So Ratio's imagination allowed him to see Birthday making a fool of himself in the middle of a crowd, hopping left and right and up and down, amidst hundreds of people either ignoring him resolutely or staring as if he was a madman.

"YES!" shouted Birthday again, so identically it must have been an echo. "Ratio's finally gonna get—"

His voice devolved into muffled gibberish. Ratio heard Misty saying something, amidst the distorted noise of people shopping and the sounds of the shopping district around them. Ratio presumed Birthday'd gotten a hand over his mouth so he wouldn't say something embarrassing.

Knowing Birthday, Ratio suspected he'd momentarily forgotten Misty's fame in his quest to get Ratio out of lonely bachelorhood.

"I'm so proud of you, Ratiocchi," sniffled Birthday dramatically, a few moments later. The noise in the background was mostly gone; he'd moved to somewhere out of the way. "You're gonna be a man."

More immediately, Ratio was going to be late for work.

He told him.

"Okay," Birthday conceded. "You go to work, Ratio. I'll see you in the evening... uhm, tomorrow evening. My bad, Misty." The last bit was tacked on, distant. "Until then," Birthday added to Ratio, "Don't you go calling him!"

"Who?" asked Ratio.

Birthday made a strange snorting noise. "Nice, duh!"

"But—"

"No buts!" said Birthday. "Until he goes and confesses back at you, you're going to be playing hard to get! It's foolproof—"

There was static over the line. Ratio imagined that Birthday'd walked into something, or dropped his phone. Or perhaps Misty'd grabbed it. Ratio didn't know her very well.

Birthday returned. "Elephant," he excused, in a tone that suggested it really did explain everything. Ratio idly wondered where Birthday was. "No, Ratio, that kiss doesn't count as a confession." Of course Birthday anticipated Ratio's reply. "With someone like Nice, you gotta hear it from their mouth! As words. Trust me, man."

That was the magic phrase.

Ratio did so.

Ratio decided it was a very, very bad idea.

In theory, it wasn't. Ratio understood the effect which Birthday was going for; he hadn't been around Birthday long enough that he didn't. Unfortunately, there was one problem.

After Nice's phantom kiss, Ratio could no longer stop thinking about him.

It had opened some floodgates unbidden; started when Ratio arrived home, when he'd remembered Nice standing in the kitchen and fending off Birthday, whilst Ratio was fixing himself that night's meal; continued when he was eating, seeing Nice sitting at the table opposite to him; and even his usual trip to Café Nowhere worked against him despite not bumping into Nice again. Ratio had a faint reprieve in the form of work, and so ended up spending many more hours there. But, by the time the second week rolled around, even the blue of his monitors reminded him of Nice's eyes, and then Ratio could not even look at the sky.

But because he'd promised Birthday, he didn't go seeking.

Birthday noticed. It wasn't long until Ratio became incapable of holding a conversation that had nothing to do with Nice at all. Birthday sobbed that Nice had replaced him, and Ratio didn't even laugh because it was the truth: Nice had replaced Birthday in his thoughts. Ratio'd been so accustomed to thinking about Birthday all the time that such concentration shouldn't have been surprising.

The third week was easier than the second. Ratio spent the weekend before it scouring his apartment clean, and managed to take scope of how ridiculous he was being.

In the fourth week, he upturned Birthday's apartment because he couldn't stop thinking about how it had been a month already.

"Just—just go find him already," ordered Birthday, hands clenched together, casting reprieve. "Ratio, your moping is depressing me."

Then Birthday proceeded to shoo him out and away.

When Ratio returned to his car, he called Murasaki for the first time in a very long time.

"Ratio?" said Murasaki distractedly. "What is it?"

"Do you know where Nice is?" asked Ratio.

"I think—" Murasaki's voice faded slightly, before returning. "—on a job with Hajime."

Ratio told the jealousy beginning to fester that Nice had admitted he was beginning to think twice about being in a relationship with her.

"I see," Ratio said. "Could I get his number?" Then he realised how rude he was being, interrupting Murasaki to talk about Nice alone, and added: "Murasaki, we haven't talked for a while either, want to talk sometime?"

Murasaki said something to somebody away from the phone. He returned to the receiver. "It would have to be later. It's... busy now. I shouldn't be taking this call – I'll ask Nice to call you when I see him again. Bye."

"Bye," replied Ratio, but Murasaki had hung up already.

Ratio looked at his car, wondered how long it would be until Murasaki did manage to see Nice again, then drove to Café Nowhere.

"Ah?" said Koneko after Ratio'd asked. She thumped a fist into a dishcloth. "Nice is on a job with Hajime. It's Hamatora Mark III!"

It'd been a long time since he took a seat at the counter instead of at one of the tables. The surface was higher than he was accustomed to, and he'd never seen the far brick wall with all its faint imperfections in such clear definition. Koneko was in the middle of drying some plates when Ratio arrived, tail swishing to the faint jazz playing in the store. Ratio approved of the music. Judging by how Master nodded slowly to the melodies with a smile on his face, whilst tidying up some coffee-making equipment to the side, it had been Master's choice to play that particular tune.

The fragrance of coffee beans entwined within smooth melodies? Everything a person needed. All the sensations Ratio associated with Café Nowhere.

"...Mark III?" echoed Ratio.

"Yes!" exclaimed Koneko. "He's been working a lot, taking big jobs worth big money!" And she clapped her hands. "What a change compared to before. It's so wonderful~"

Ratio thought: Yes, it is a change. "Is he saving up for something?"

"Who knows?" Koneko remarked. "He never tells me anything, and Hajime never says anything like that unless you ask. Would you like a coffee? At the usual discount, of course."

"Tempting," commented Ratio. It'd been a long time since he'd had Café Nowhere's divine blend. "But I'm afraid I must pass. My objective is to search for Nice at the moment."

"Do you need him for a job?" asked Koneko.

Ratio paused. After the Art Incident and then his preoccupation with Nice, he hadn't realised that Birthday hadn't contacted him about Odd Jobs' business for a while. Ratio frowned. A month was a typical break between tasks, but nearly four?

"No," said Ratio, "I simply want to ask him a question."

"Okay. Let me see if I can find his phone number..." Koneko reached below the counter and hefted out a large book tagged with dozens of index tabs. Expertly, she ran a hand down the side before flipping it open, and skimmed across several pages. "Hmm... no, it's not here. Master?"

"Do you need something?" said Master.

Koneko closed the book, and there was a thump. "Know what Nice's number is?"

Master shook his head. "Sorry. I never needed it."

"Would you have any idea of when Nice will be back?" Ratio asked. Idly, he wondered if it was worthwhile waiting at his apartment in that case. The imaginary Birthday accompanying Ratio commented that, Wow, Ratio, when you say you do everything with a hundred percent effort, you really meant it. "If it isn't too long, I could—"

"Ahh, waiting for him would be a bad idea," and Koneko tilted her head in thought, "I'm pretty certain that he's stalking someone. Erm, doing overnight surveillance."

"...I see."

Koneko's tail drooped when she picked up on his disappointment. "You could leave your phone number with us, though," she offered. "We'll be sure to get it to him."

"I may have to do just that," Ratio conceded.

He did. None of Koneko or Master's goodbyes registered when he blandly left the store.

The phone sat by Ratio's side for the rest of the day. Not once did it ring.

The next morning, before the sun was up, an unknown number called.

Ratio refused to let his hopes rise.

"Hello?" he asked, cautiously.

"Hey, uh, Ratio."

It was Nice. Ratio's hopes leapt out of his chest, breached the ceiling, and entered the stratosphere.

And then fatigue set in when he saw the time.

"Nice," he greeted. "This is early."

"...Yeah," Nice agreed. It was nearly five. "See... can you take a day off today? There's someplace I want you to visit."

Ratio blinked rapidly and pushed himself upright so that he was no longer sleeping. He shook his head to wake up faster. "That would not be a problem." He'd had more practice than he may have wanted, making arrangements to go off work at the last moment, with Birthday.

"Okay," said Nice. "Be ready to leave in thirty minutes, I'll meet you at your place."

And Nice hung up before Ratio managed to get in a reply.

Thirty minutes later, Ratio and Nice took a taxi to the train station. Over four hours after that, they'd gone through gates and crossed thousands of kilometres before stepping off the plane.

By the time they arrived at Okinawa, it was mid-morning.

Ratio'd been more than surprised, and faintly drowsy, but he had a settling suspicion that their trip was why Nice had been so furiously saving.

Nice was not done. At a second taxi, he had a conversation with the driver so softly that Ratio could not hear. Ratio found watching Nice more interesting than his surroundings; he felt the black knight's cadence read off notes from a piece of paper, and saw the the idiot's demeanour wave about, grumbling why and how and geez morosely. More than that, Nice's hair was tousled haphazardly, and its edges bobbed up and down in the faint breeze. The movement was entrancing... hypnotising... Ratio started growing drowsy...

"Come on, Ratio," said Nice, from within the taxi.

Ratio shook himself awake and entered behind him.

It was not Ratio who fell asleep during the ride, but Nice. The taxi took a sudden turn and Nice's head fell against Ratio's shoulder. It shifted, making itself comfortable; Ratio turned to look at him, saw a face so blank and serene without any of the black knight's cynicism or the idiot's forced humour; and then Ratio spent the rest of the hour simply watching Nice's chest softly rise and softly fall, and how every breath would make his bandages twitch and the hair over his nose flutter.

The taxi crossed streets, houses, bridges; the view went from buildings to a streak of water and then to water on all sides as they went from the airport and onto an island's smaller roads.

Nice woke when the taxi began to slow. After it stopped, he waved off Ratio's attempts to pay the fare. They stepped out; the taxi drove away. Nice searched in his pockets and pulled out the piece of paper he'd been consulting for the entire journey. He looked around.

Then Nice led Ratio, and the two of them were walking.

"You've been pretty quiet," commented Nice.

"There is no need to ask where we are going when I will find out in due course," Ratio replied.

"That's pretty convenient."

Ratio looked at him, and saw only curiousness rather than sarcasm. "A carry-over from being around Birthday," he explained. "Birthday would not have given me a chance to begin talking."

Nice drew his hands behind his head. "What's on your mind?"

"Okinawa is famous for its beaches," said Ratio. "Some of which have star sand, which is sand made of star-shaped granules instead of being round."

Nice glanced across. "I've heard of that. Want to see some? It's not where we're going, but..."

"It isn't?"

"Well, we aren't here to search for stars. I mean, how can you even catch one anyway? They're so far."

"They aren't far because everything in the world is made from stars," Ratio remarked. "Any element greater than hydrogen and helium could only be created in one."

"And we're carbon-based lifeforms so star-stuff is basically everywhere," agreed Nice. "That's a cute definition, if you say what comes out of a star is still the star itself. I didn't think you were interested in astronomy."

Ratio thought of nights where he would sit out on the porch, cold air batting at his face, accompanied by the warmth cocooned within his blankets and the infinite paintings of his imagination. There were no friends with him. Nobody wanted to be friends with a walking curse.

Ratio touched his eyepatch absently.

"I used to stargaze as a child," said Ratio. "I wondered if what they said was true, that everyone who died became a star in the sky."

"Huh."

Nice was watching him. Ratio realised he didn't know when Nice had started doing so.

Eventually, the road became a dirt track, and then a lane bordered by thick trees. Stepping through, two pairs of feet met rough sand the colour of rich straw, littered with shells and coral and stones fallen from the cliffs to either side. Rather than the shoreline sitting parallel to the waves, the cliffs curved the beach into the round shape of a bay, cupping waters crystal cerulean and copper carbonate green. They were greeted by the sea, where the ocean met the sky like watercolours streaked. A sharp breeze carried from rocks that rose off either edge of the horizon far in the distance; rocks tipped with green jutting like crooked teeth from the sea.

Ratio looked around, and they were the only people there.

"This..." he began.

Nice turned to look at him. "Different, isn't it?"

"Very different," Ratio agreed. "Nothing like the beach we were at for the triathlon. How did you know this place was here?"

"I asked Seo who asked his friend. The one with the Regent hair," said Nice, raising his hands and miming a block of hair in front of his forehead.

"The one who hired Birthday and myself to pose as his school's representatives?"

"Yeah. That guy."

Nice started walking. Ratio followed, and then there was silence save for the susurrant waves and the crunching of sand beneath moulded soles. It was low tide in the secluded beach. Nice followed the line of debris halfway up the sand, footsteps circling twigs and plastic and small bits of dried seaweed tracing the level of the water when the tide would be high.

"Where were you, anyway?" Nice asked, abruptly.

Ratio glanced toward him. "Sorry?"

"In the triathlon," Nice elaborated. "I never saw you at the bitter melon death match."

It took a moment before Ratio was able to recall because it had been so long ago.

"I withdrew. One of the participants was not particularly careful with his limits," Ratio said. "He over-exerted during the swimming stage, and then continued to sprain himself whilst cycling even though I warned him of his injuries."

Nice's eyebrows went up. "Did you know him?"

"I did not." Ratio turned away from watching the faint rippling across the surface of the water, met Nice's gaze. "I'm surprised you remembered my absence."

"Well sure. I remember everyone."

"Where was Birthday?"

There was a pause. It did nothing but grow ever longer.

"Okay," admitted Nice, looking out to the sea. "Maybe I only remembered you." Suddenly, Ratio was very glad that Nice had turned away. Nice never noticed Ratio's sharp intake of breath, simply continuing. "I was just... cautious about fighting against you, in close-combat."

"Cautious?" said Ratio.

Nice tilted his head back slightly to look at the sky. It was blue, like his shirt. But unlike their meeting on the rooftop, there were no clouds before them. The breeze played with the fine strands of hair tucked towards his cheek, licking the edge of his bandage softly.

"You're really strong, strength-wise," Nice replied. "And you're kinda unpredictable when you're fighting, unlike Murasaki. Murasaki's got these really obvious triggers, but I wouldn't be able to pin you down until we've actually started." Nice started scratching his nose; his eyes trailed to Ratio beside him. "Say, what were you thinking? When you were determined enough to kill me?"

Ratio looked back to the sea to break the gaze and watched how the sunlight played off the surface.

"Strengths," Ratio responded. Remembering took no time because he still dreamed of the day Momoka forced his hand. "Weaknesses. How best to create a situation where I could take you down. Art proved you were weak without reliable sight, and I have the sight of my Minimum."

Ratio heard fabric shift. Nice drew his hands out of his pockets so that he may stare at them. A small smile rose to his face, and he closed his eyes.

"So even then, you didn't care that I'm the strongest," Nice murmured.

"Only according to Facultas," corrected Ratio. "And I find it hard to care about the standards of an institution which rejected Birthday."

"Right. You quit. I forgot you did, too..." Nice paused, looked at nothing. "I guess that's what makes you different from Murasaki."

"How is Murasaki? I called him, and he seemed... busy."

Nice laughed. "Heh," he said, "He is. He's never home, always out on some job or other."

"Hamatora Mark III?" asked Ratio, remembering Koneko's words.

"Nah, Mark III is just me and Hajime," explained Nice. "Murasaki quit. He's some private tutor now."

Ratio blinked.

"Yeah," said Nice, in the silence, agreeing to nothing in particular. "It's been pretty lucrative. Being from Facultas gives him plus points, and since everyone he tutors has been getting top marks he charges tons."

Nice wasn't talking about himself, Ratio observed. "But how are you in his absence?"

"I don't need him," said Nice. "...though having him does make stuff easier."

"Hajime isn't...?"

"We both rush into things. Hamatora started with just me and her, but, so s'no big deal. Come on," and Nice changed the subject, "want to go into the water?"

"In—"

There was no time to finish his response; Nice had already slid off his shoes and pulled off his socks before rolling up the hem of his jeans. When Nice hopped across the sand, left imprints of his toes on the shore, then walked into the waves, it was not the idiot nor the black knight; Nice looked back to Ratio, the seventeen-year-old young man, eyes alight and radiant. While Ratio stared and watched every movement as if they would be the last, the most beautiful person on Earth waved to Ratio and held out a hand.

Ratio, who was proud of his ability to not hesitate, ignored the need pushing him forward and was suddenly very aware of the breath caught in his lungs.

"Nice," stated Ratio. His tone was so serious that Nice's eyelids flickered, and those blue eyes which reflected the sky changed shades in the shadow. Ratio did not allow himself a moment of pause, simply continued. "Why Okinawa?"

There was a silence and the waves breathed.

Then, equally as seriously, Nice replied: "Because it reminds me of you."

"...Okinawa?"

"No, you know, the ocean. Like, you're always there, even if you don't do anything, and sometimes you don't see it, too, but knowing you're around is really reassuring. It's got its calm days and then its stormy ones, it can be dangerous if it really wants to be, and water is what keeps everything alive too, so—" Nice's expression phased through several degrees of frustration as he spoke, and he cut himself off by breaking eye-contact and rubbing a hand at his nose. "Man, this is so stupidly sappy..."

Ratio was no longer listening. He'd stopped listening quickly, but only now did he begin to stop paying attention. Knowing that Nice had saved up for no purpose but to show Ratio the ocean was less flattering and more humbling.

"Thank you," said Ratio.

"...all Koneko's idea! Hajime suggested a banquet, and I should have listened—" Nice stopped when Ratio's thanks registered in his brain. "Uh. No big deal."

And then, there was silence.

"So, uh," began Nice, water up to his ankles, shifting his weight in the sand, "are you going to just keep standing there, or—"

Nice cut himself off and scratched at his neck, the very image of someone who'd started talking without having thought their words through. A faint flush sat atop Nice's cheeks; as soon as Ratio observed it, he felt his own heart begin to swell and beat ever more rapidly against the bars of his ribcage. They were separated by twenty metres of silence and the transition from sand to sea. A sea where Nice was an island.

A sea filled with microorganisms aplenty.

Ratio reminded himself to breathe. He tore his gaze away from the water, looked up to Nice instead. Nice's mouth moved, but no words crossed the channel.

Nice broke eye-contact first. It was very intently that Ratio saw Nice lick his lips and tilt his head back. Ratio wondered if it was nervousness or embarrassment, having half a mind to remove his eyepatch so he could see Nice's vital signs. If the internal physiology matched the external body language, Ratio would—

Would what?

Ratio knelt down so that he could run the tips of his fingers through the sand, and the rough granules parted effortlessly before his leather gloves, leaving faint grooves like streamers in their wake. He felt more than saw how the movement had caught Nice's attention, and how Nice was undoubtedly watching his actions with that aloof-but-comforting gaze.

Ratio toed off his socks and shoes, rolled up the hem of his pants, and made his decision.

He shed his doctor's coat before walking across the sand, and then he was in the water.

The cold hit him first. It pulled down his feet and attacked his ankles, while the microorganisms circled around and around, undoubtedly examining him as their prey. Ratio held his breath; tried to force himself to calm.

He looked up and saw Nice. The world careened a little less.

Ratio released his breath and took another breath again. Then, Ratio tried to lift his foot so he could walk closer, only to find it wouldn't move. Elation became terror and all the rocks rising from the ocean became the headstones in a cemetery. Ratio could feel the pressure in his chest that meant he was beginning to hyperventilate; a crushing from all sides; opened his mouth to take in air but could not breathe—

A firm grip wrapped around one arm, and Nice was there.

"I didn't think," said Nice.

Nice was close. They were well within each other's personal space. His eyes were too blue for Ratio at the moment, but Ratio could see his eyelashes.

Ratio focused on them. Slowly, the horizon untangled its knots and then obediently lay flat again. Ratio's breathing wasn't without its shakes, but he was much calmer than he'd been. His sanity had returned to him.

"You—" began Ratio, when he deemed himself ready to speak again. He cleared his throat. "You couldn't have known—"

"I knew," Nice cut in.

Ratio's excuses died before he could form them.

Nice lifted a hand and raised it as if to ask, how many fingers am I holding up. "Are you alright?"

"I'm—"

Ratio broke off. Nice had blinked, those eyelashes had moved, and Ratio finally registered how close they really were. Ratio froze. The microorganisms looked on, curiously from below.

"Should we get out?" asked Nice, seeing the panic rising before Ratio knew it was there. Ratio must not have answered fast enough, because Nice started moving towards the shore and those eyelashes disappeared from Ratio's vision.

"W—wait," said Ratio.

Nice stopped. "What?"

Ratio didn't have an answer beyond fading gratitude mixed with adrenaline. At once, he thought that Nice was holding him, saw the green of the sea, and remembered mint on his lips. The sky behind Nice reeled in Ratio's attraction –

– and Ratio kissed him.

Ratio realised what he'd done as soon as he felt Nice stiffen. Nice automatically clenched his grip, and a flash of pain went through Ratio's arm even through layers of metal and cushioning. It was a mistake.

("Sorry, Ratio~ I'm straight," said Birthday, years ago.)

Ratio'd made a mistake.

But as soon as Ratio began to draw back, Nice dove forward. Nice's eyes were open, and even though their lips were still locked together, the intensity in the gaze drove Ratio's breath to hitch. Nice shivered at Ratio's reaction, his eyes slipped closed, then he tugged Ratio closer; Ratio stretched out, replied, snatched the sky by its wings and cradled Nice's back against his chest.

Ratio didn't know which of them moved their legs first, but he did know when his intoxication began to make way for a sobering fact: Nice's weight meant that Ratio was on the verge of losing his balance.

Reluctantly, Ratio dropped his arms. Nice stilled, then slowly pulled away.

Ratio opened his eyes to bright blue eyes and a crooked, self-satisfied smirk.

(Nice was not Birthday.)

By the time he recovered his balance, Ratio could still feel the sensual traces of of fingers drawing lines down his back, and wondered if his lips mirrored the faint traces of bite marks showing up on Nice's own.

Ratio promptly recalled that he was standing in a body of unclean water.

Nice must have noticed, because he was the one who first headed back to shore.

The tension in Ratio's shoulders finally vanished once his shoes were back on, though he knew the slimy feeling in the back of his mind wouldn't disappear until after a thorough shower. Nice had his shoes on and was watching him when Ratio shook out the sand in his coat. The staring might have been uncomfortable.

Ratio didn't mind.

Then Nice moved to sit on a rock, and Ratio, having been dragged from his bed before six in the morning and shuttled across a whirlwind all the way to Okinawa, followed suit and sat beside. Nice absently leant into him. Ratio couldn't prevent his chest giving an adolescent flutter.

Nice spoke first. "Is it the water that triggers you?" he asked.

"The microbes," corrected Ratio. "More accurately, concentrations of dust or contaminated food or drink. Anything with a slight possibility to enter the body."

"Right, but the water..."

"The microbes were waiting for me to fall down and swallow them."

"Huh." The thoughtful look on Nice's face didn't disappear, though; if anything, it intensified. "Then how'd you get through the triathlon?"

Ratio paused. "That was... wasn't the same."

"How wasn't it?"

Ratio didn't answer.

Nice's eyes flickered across. "You can't wear those in water, can you?"

"Wear...?"

"The metal arms," he said, as if it was obvious. "They're too heavy and you'd drown. That's it, right? That's the difference. Your mysophobia isn't because of the microbes but what they could lead to."

A part of Ratio was glad that Nice was so sharp. It saved him the trouble of explaining. The relief was not enough for Ratio to avoid starting. Nice's instantaneous conclusions still surprised him.

"Are you scared of death?" asked Nice.

"Are you?" Ratio returned.

"Death..." Nice tapped absently at his heart. "I dunno. I've technically died twice."

"I see," said Ratio.

Ratio'd looked away. Perhaps Nice could hear the lie, because then Ratio was being nudged in the side.

"Oi," groused Nice, "your eyepatch is on, right?"

"It is."

A hand waved in Ratio's face. "Gimme here."

"My eyepatch?"

"Yeah. Pass it over."

Though he was confused, Ratio obliged, reaching up to his head. He removed the strap and the stiff fabric tugged at his face before departing. Ratio expected the brightness that took its place, as he always experienced with two eyes open at the same time.

Ratio didn't expect Nice to hop off the rock and spin around. Nor did he expect the two sharp eyes staring directly back at him.

"You look... different," commented Nice. "Good different," he enthused, smile slowly drawing across his features, accompanying his increasing heart rate and the blood beginning to pool.

Ratio blinked, and Nice blinked too. Ratio wanted to lick his lips, but wondered if Nice would mirror him, and ended up holding his breath to prevent himself from moving instead. Nice's eyes darted away and Ratio remembered to breathe again.

"When do we need to leave?" asked Ratio.

Nice shrugged, letting the change in topic slide. He started twirling the eyepatch around one finger. Ratio decided it wasn't necessary to ask for it back, not when he could continue admiring the view.

"Soon," said Nice. "Hope you don't mind lunch at the airport."

The fluttering in Ratio's stomach bubbled into rich chuckles.

Nice backed off and glared. "What?" he muttered.

"Very romantic for a first date," commented Ratio.

"A first— eh— haah—?"

Nice broke off.

A wave broke against one of the rocks in distant laughter.

"Fuck," Nice announced, finally.

The sun was feathering the edges of Nice's hair, illuminating a halo of fire against the sky. Ratio quashed the urge to lean in, to run his fingers through it, and started chuckling again.

"I suppose this is why you need Murasaki," joked Ratio.

Perhaps Ratio wasn't good at comedic timing, because when Nice glanced away and fell silent, he was reminded of how he'd tried (and failed) to lighten the mood with Murasaki. Ratio was just wondering how to break the silence when Nice turned back, eyes ablaze with determination that left Ratio breathless, and faced him again.

"It's not Murasaki," Nice declared. "Ratio, I—"

For the second time in five minutes, Nice choked off.

Ratio remembered Birthday's words, and waited.

Nice gave Ratio a despairing look that said, do I have to say it?

Ratio hoped Nice would never realise how much Ratio wanted to kiss the look away. He could see the currents in Nice's physiology pulse, pearlescent. Ratio forced himself not to move.

"I-like-you," said Nice, and it was a tumble of words; thrown out, discarded, tiny little pieces falling so fast they shattered against the floor. Nice blinked as if he hadn't expected that the world wouldn't collapse around him, then gathered the pieces and corrected: "It's not Murasaki I... Ratio, I really like you too."

Ratio gave in and kissed him.

He'll forget to put his eyepatch back on until they step off the train in Yokohama.

/FIN/