Chapter 27 – Festival Hours
The courtyard had transformed.
What was once a field of nerves and tension had become noise, movement, and color. Streamers fluttered between booths. Cardboard signs advertised yakisoba, ring tosses, fortune readings, and student-run maid cafes. Music blared from someone's speaker, barely in sync with the rhythm of the crowd.
Kotarō walked beside Haruka through the chaos. Their uniforms stood out against the costumes and food-stained smocks. They didn't say anything at first.
And somehow, that was okay.
"It's strange. Yesterday, silence felt like shame.
Today it feels... earned. Like we bought a moment of stillness with everything we had."
They passed a takoyaki booth. A second-year boy in a chef hat waved enthusiastically.
"First one's free for debate warriors!" he shouted.
Haruka took one without hesitation and held the second stick out to Kotarō.
He bit it. Steam exploded across his tongue.
He winced.
Haruka tilted her head, chewing slowly. "You okay?"
Kotarō didn't answer. His face was frozen.
"You swallowed that like it owed you money," she said.
"This is what recovery tastes like.
Scalding. Immediate. Real."
They stopped at the fortune-telling booth next. A third-year girl in a cloak and plastic crown waved them in.
"For rivals of fate!" she declared.
Haruka dragged Kotarō by the sleeve.
They each drew a slip.
Haruka read hers first:
"Your voice will shape others, but beware the one who mirrors it too well."
She raised an eyebrow and looked at Kotarō.
"That... sounds a bit too real," she muttered.
Kotarō opened his.
"You will walk through defeat, then through doubt, and still stand where your rivals fall.
But only if you learn to speak for yourself."
He stared at it. Haruka didn't say anything. Just stared at him.
"Ridiculous. Meaningless. And still... too accurate."
Next was a target-shooting booth. The fake cork rifle jammed twice, and Haruka hit a soda can on her second try.
Kotarō missed every shot.
Haruka tried to hand him the tiny plush keychain she won.
He refused. She tied it to the button loop of his blazer anyway.
"I didn't earn this," he said.
"Neither did most politicians. But here we are."
They entered the haunted classroom next. It was pitch black, lined with cheap plastic skeletons and scream sound effects.
Haruka flinched at a jump scare. Kotarō didn't even react.
"You're literally built for horror movies," she muttered, brushing cobwebs off her shoulder.
"Emotionally dead inside," he replied dryly.
"No," she said, glancing at him. "You're just well-practiced at being still. That's different."
They stopped to watch a student performance in the gym—a dance routine choreographed to some overly dramatic anime theme.
Kotarō thought it was silly. Haruka was completely focused.
When the lead dancer fell, then got back up to finish the routine, the audience clapped twice as hard.
Haruka whispered, not really to him: "She kept going anyway. That's the part people remember."
As the sky dimmed into a soft orange, they found a quiet stairwell behind the gym. Kotarō leaned back on the railing, and Haruka sat beside him on the concrete step.
Somewhere above, fireworks were being prepped. Below, students still laughed, chased each other with festival prizes, and bought overpriced crepes.
They didn't speak right away.
Finally, Haruka said: "You're not the same guy from the first meeting."
Kotarō shrugged. "Still hiding. Just… standing up while I do it now."
She smiled. Barely.
"You were never hiding. Just waiting."
After a while, she leaned back, hands behind her.
"I might try nationals next year," she said. "If Takeda lets us. And if you're serious about Ayumu..."
She looked sideways at him.
"You'll have to beat me first."
Kotarō looked at her. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
"I already am," he said. "Just quietly."
She elbowed him. Not hard.
They sat there for a long time. The sounds of the festival faded into a comfortable hum.
Chapter End